#i should know better than to look at replies

[ellecdc]

pause to breathe

combination of two anon prompts: yapper reader who seeks out any of the boys and starts talking and then wonders if they find her terribly annoying and she thinks they must hate her combined with part two for Regulus x yapper!reader with the mooncalves

Regulus Black x fem!reader who updates him on the mooncalves [681 words]

p1 | p2

CW: yapper reader, longwinded speech and spiralling thoughts, run-on sentences, reader feels embarrassed

Pandora and Barty were currently busy procuring ingredients to brew truth potions for tonight’s veritaserum-or-dare, which meant that Regulus, Evan, and Dorcas were enjoying a rare quiet moment in the library. 

“All I’m saying is that out of all the poltergeists I’ve summoned, Peeves really is the least of our worries.” Evan mentioned boredly, earning him a snort of laughter from Dorcas.

“Remember Mammon?” She asked in a hushed tone.

“How could we forget?” Regulus responded. “He had first years strung up by their feet from the ceiling trying to get the galleons to fall out of their pockets.” 

“I’m so glad Barty knows how to obliviate; that would have been a nightmare.”

“We would have been expelled.” Dorcas pressed with a laugh, Evan simply nodded at her.

“Like I said, a nightmare.”

Regulus was saved from having to reply when he heard his name being called, albeit softly - this was the library, afterall.

“Regulus! Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.” You chanted your whole way over before sitting down heavily on the bench beside Regulus, breathless and nearly blowing the parchment right off the table from the speed at which you approached.

“It worked! The beast treats from Brood & Peck worked!”

It took Regulus’ brain a few moments to work out what it was that you were talking about when he remembered his trip to Brood & Peck last week. He wondered then if he should ask you how it went, but you carried on before he could.

“I’m sure that maybe, perhaps, the apples were a help, seeing as they’ve grown somewhat accustomed to my presence. But they came right up to me last night! I even got to scritch the space between one’s eyes! Have you ever pet a mooncalf, Regulus? They’re way softer than they look. It’s almost like a cat except the fur is a touch longer and silkier. Have you ever pet a bunny? Sort of like a bunny, but with thinner and longer hair…like a long-and-thin haired bunny. Oh! And! Last night among the mooncalves was one tiny kitten! Real little, too. I wonder if he got separated from his mama when I was feeding them tuna a few nights ago? None of the other cats were there again last night, just the little bubs. But it seems as though the mooncalves have adopted him! Oh, it was so cute! One was even grooming him! But I was so busy being excited about finally petting them and getting them to approach me that I forgot to take pictures. Maybe I can get pictures tonight? Hopefully the kitten is still there. Well, I guess it would actually be better if the kitten was with its mum, yeah? Maybe just one more night, just so I can get a picture, then hopefully he finds his mum again.” 

You paused, likely to breathe, and seemed only then to register the fact that Regulus hadn’t been sitting at this table alone.

“Oh.” You murmured quietly, moving your horrified gaze from Evan and Dorcas towards Regulus beside you, another “oh” escaping you when you seemed to realise how long you just spent shouting about mooncalves to Regulus Black in front of his friends. 

“Oh my gods.” You nearly whispered. “I’m so sorry. Merlin, this is so embarrassing; I am so embarrassing. I’m so sorry!” 

Nearly as quick as you came did you stand and leave, fleeing from the library without even sparing a backwards glance at your potions partner. 

“I’d be worried she doesn’t get enough air to her head. Merlin.” Evan commented as he finally turned back towards the table from where he’d been watching you leave. “Do you think her brain works that quickly when she reads? She must finish books so fast.” 

Regulus simply smiled to himself as he packed up his notes and books. 

“I’ll catch up with you later, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Black.” Dorcas drawled teasingly as Regulus shouldered his book bag and exited the library, venturing off in the direction you had just moments before in hopes of finding out more about last night’s mooncalves and their little kitten friend.

[pandapetals]

Sexting

Logan's been gone on a mission for days now. You miss him terribly and one little text spirals into sexting.

logan howlett x fem!reader - inspired by a tiktok i saw, teasing banter, sexting, flirting, established relationship, smut, phone sex, masturbation, orgasms, dirty talk, cocky logan, dominant/possessive logan, pet names used, good girl praising

a/n: horny era entered.

divider credit: @enchanthings

The day had dragged on, each hour stretching longer than the last. Between the endless grind at work, the knot of stress coiling tighter in your chest, and nearly everyone testing the limits of your patience, you felt utterly wrung out. By the time the sun sank below the horizon, all you wanted was to melt into Logan’s arms—strong, steady, and always warm, like they were built to shield you from the rest of the world.

But Logan wasn’t here. He’d been sent off on a mission three days ago with no clear answer to the question that gnawed at you the most: When would he come home? Three days felt like three weeks, and the ache of missing him was a dull, constant hum beneath your skin.

You had done everything you could to fill the space he left behind. His pillow now wore one of his shirts, the fabric soft and faintly infused with his scent. You’d sprayed it with his cologne—too much, honestly, but the sharp, musky notes helped. At night, you’d curl around it, imagining his arms around you instead, but it was never the same. You missed the rough timbre of his voice, the way he’d smirk and toss out some gruff remark that made you laugh. You even missed how his scruff would scrape against your cheek when he kissed you.

Now, you were sprawled across the bed, Logan’s stand-in pillow hugged close as your thumb aimlessly scrolled through your phone. A familiar pang of longing twisted your stomach as you stumbled across a photo of a couple kissing under twinkling lights. You sighed and were about to toss your phone aside when it buzzed in your hand, a new message lighting up the screen.

Logan: I miss you so much, gorgeous.

Your heart clenched, a smile tugging at your lips before you could help it. You quickly typed back:

You: Miss you too, handsome.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the ache of missing him pressing harder than ever. A mischievous thought sparked in your mind, and before you could second-guess yourself, you typed it out.

You: You should send me a photo of your bicep for being gone so long.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, and you could practically hear Logan’s low chuckle in your head.

Logan: That so?

Before you could reply, your phone buzzed, and a new image loaded on the screen. The photo made your breath hitch. Logan was sprawled out on what looked like a worn motel bed, his shirt pushed up to his chest, exposing the hard ridges of his abs. But the star of the show was his arm, flexed in a way that showed off every curve of his bicep. The dim lighting cast shadows that deepened the definition of his muscles, and the veins stood out just enough to make your mouth dry.

You swallowed, your face heating as you bit your lip. His usual teasing smirk wasn’t visible in the photo, but you could feel it like it was carved into the very pixels of the screen.

Another message buzzed in.

Logan: Feel better, honey?

You groaned, the grin tugging at your lips both frustrated and helplessly smitten.

You: No. Now I just really want to bite your bicep.

His reply came faster than you expected.

Logan: You’ll have to be patient, sweetheart. But don’t worry, I’ll let you.

Your stomach flipped, heat pooling low in your belly as you stared at his words. God, you could hear his voice so clearly, that deep, teasing rasp that always made your pulse skip.

You: You’re cruel, you know that?

Logan: Cruel would be reminding you how good my hands feel on you. But I won’t do that. Not while I’m stuck in this dump, thinking about what I’d do if I were there instead.

Your breath caught, and your thumb hovered uncertainly over the screen. You could feel the shift in his tone, that familiar heat creeping into his words even through text.

You: What would you do, Logan?

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, like he was taking his time to think—or maybe to make you squirm. When his reply finally came, it hit you like a jolt of lightning.

Logan: First, I’d pin you to the bed. Then I’d take my time—slow, deliberate—just to hear you beg. You’d look so good under me, darlin’. I can practically see it.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, heat rolling through you in waves.

You: You’re not playing fair.

Logan: I never do. 

You couldn’t argue with that. Every word, every teasing reply, every memory of his hands on you was like a match to dry kindling, leaving you aching for him in almost unbearable ways. You leaned back against the pillows, closing your eyes as your fingers hovered over your phone, your imagination already running wild.

Before you could think of a reply, your phone buzzed again.

Logan: I miss your body, but you know what I miss more? The way you look at me after. That soft, sleepy, satisfied look, like I’m the only man in the world who can make you feel that way.

Your heart clenched, warmth blooming in your chest and mingling with the heat already simmering there. God, you wanted him so badly it was a physical ache.

You: You’re going to kill me, Logan.

Logan: Nah, honey. Just keeping you hungry for me. Trust me, I’m starving over here too.

His words wrapped around you like a warm, possessive embrace, filling the void he’d left behind. Though hundreds of miles separated you, for a moment, it almost felt like he was there—his rough hands sliding over your skin, his lips grazing that sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, the weight of his body. The ache of missing him was unbearable, pressing hard and heavy in your chest. You buried your face in his pillow, inhaling the faint remnants of his scent, but it only made the longing sharper.

Your thumb hovered over the screen as you finally typed back, giving in to your own need to feel closer to him:

You: I’ve been sleeping with your pillow... making it wear your shirt.

The reply came almost immediately, his words brimming with that familiar mix of teasing and heat that sent a thrill rushing through you.

Logan: Bet you’ve been doing naughty things to it too.

Your breath caught, your face flushing as you stared at the screen. Damn him. How did he always know? He had an almost supernatural ability to read you, even from miles away. You bit your lip, the memory of those late, lonely nights flashing vividly in your mind—the way you’d pressed his pillow between your thighs, imagining it was him, imagining his weight, his heat, his voice in your ear telling you to let go. You knew when he got home, he’d take one deep inhale and know exactly what you’d done.

Your fingers trembled as you typed back, heart pounding.

You: Maybe I have. What are you gonna do about it?

The three little dots of his reply appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared, drawing out the tension until you wanted to scream. When the message finally popped up, it was pure Logan.

Logan: Oh, sweetheart, you know what I’ll do. First, I’ll ask you to tell me exactly what you did. Then I’d make you show me. And I wouldn’t let you stop until you were begging.

Heat shot through your body, pooling low in your belly as you shifted restlessly on the bed. Your lips parted, a soft breath escaping as your imagination ran wild, conjuring the image of him above you, his rough hands and deep voice taking you apart piece by piece.

You glanced at your phone’s camera, a bold idea sparking in your mind. If Logan wanted to play, you’d show him you could hold your own. Slowly, you sat up, slipping the strap of your tank top down one shoulder. The fabric slid lower, exposing more of your skin, and your pulse raced as you positioned the camera just right. The click of the shutter sounded louder than it should have, your heart hammering as you looked at the result—a sultry shot of your bare shoulder, collarbone, and the faintest hint of cleavage.

You attached the photo to the message and typed, fingers trembling slightly:

You: Think you can handle this when you get home?

The response came almost instantly, and it was clear you’d hit your mark.

Logan: Jesus Christ, darlin’!

A second message followed:

Logan: You trying to kill me?

You smirked, a wave of confidence washing over you as you typed back.

You: Just keeping you on your toes. You’re the one who said you’d pin me down, remember?

His reply was a voice note this time, and when you pressed play, the low, gravelly sound of his voice sent a shiver straight through you.

Logan (voice note): Oh, I remember. And trust me when I get back, you won’t be walking straight for days. You keep teasing me like this, and I’m gonna make sure you pay for every second of it.

Your thighs clenched as you listened to the raw hunger in his tone, heat blooming across your skin. But you weren’t done teasing him yet.

You adjusted your tank top a little lower, this time snapping a photo that showed more—the curve of your chest, the line of your neck, the look in your eyes that you knew would drive him wild. You sent it without a caption, letting the image speak for itself.

The reply came in seconds.

Logan: You better not be touching yourself right now. That’s mine.

A thrill ran through you at the possessiveness in his words.

You: What if I am?

Another voice note came through, this one darker. His voice dropped an octave, sending goosebumps racing down your arms.

Logan (voice note): Don’t you dare finish without me, sweetheart. When I get home, you’re going to come on my fingers, my tongue, and then my—

You couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped out as you hit pause, your whole body burning with need.

You: Logan...

Logan: You started this, gorgeous. Don’t get shy on me now.

You sighed, biting your lip as your fingers tightened around your phone. Heat simmered low in your belly, and your heart raced as you debated your next move. Logan was right—you had started this, and now there was no turning back. Your thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, your nerves threatening to get the better of you, but the longing for him—his touch, his voice, the way he looked at you—overpowered everything else.

With a deep breath, you hit the video call button. The screen flickered for a moment, your reflection briefly staring back at you before the call connected. And then there he was.

Logan appeared on your screen, lying back against the headboard of some cheap motel bed. The light in the room was dim, but it did nothing to dull the sharp angles of his jaw or the piercing heat in his eyes. He had one arm tucked lazily behind his head, the other holding the phone, but there was nothing casual about how he looked at you—like he could devour you through the screen.

A slow, almost predatory smirk curved his lips. “There’s my pretty girl. For a second, I thought you’d chickened out.”

You swallowed hard, the sound of his voice making your pulse race. “You’ve got me all flustered,” you admitted, your voice softer than you intended.

Logan’s chuckle was low and rough like gravel sliding over honey. “Sweetheart, you’re the one teasing me,” he said, his gaze raking over you through the screen. “All I did was tell you what I wanted to do when I get home. But if I’m being honest…” His smirk widened, his tongue sliding briefly over his bottom lip. “I don’t think either one of us can wait that long.”

A shiver ran down your spine at his words. He shifted slightly, and the movement made his shirt pull tight across his chest and shoulders, the fabric doing little to hide the hard lines of muscle underneath. You let out a breath.

“Logan…” you whispered, but it came out more like a plea than you intended.

His voice softened, the teasing giving way to something more intimate. “Yeah, darlin’?”

Your fingers gripped the phone tighter as you adjusted the angle, letting the camera catch the way your tank top clung to your body, how the strap had slipped off one shoulder. His eyes darkened instantly, the air between you thickening even through the distance.

“Show me,” he murmured, his tone low and commanding. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night. Now I want to see you, pretty girl. Let me see what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched, heat flooding your cheeks, but how he was looking at you made it impossible to resist. Slowly, your free hand trailed down your neck and over your collarbone, lingering at the edge of your top. His gaze tracked every movement, his jaw clenching as he exhaled heavily.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his voice like a caress. “Keep going.”

You couldn’t help the small, breathy sound that escaped your lips as you let the fabric slide lower, revealing just enough to leave him wanting more. His hand moved slightly on his end of the screen, and you had a pretty good idea of what he was doing.

“Logan,” you breathed, your voice trembling with nervousness and excitement.

“Don’t stop,” he urged, his tone rougher now, filled with a hunger that sent a rush of heat straight through you. “You’re so fucking beautiful. God, I can’t wait to get my hands on you again.”

Your fingers trembled as you slid your tank top down, the cool air brushing over your bare skin, making your breath hitch. Logan’s eyes burned into you through the screen, the teasing smirk on his lips softening into something darker, more primal. His gaze wasn’t just hungry—it was devouring like he wanted to memorize every inch of you even from miles away.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers racing down your spine. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat blooming under his praise, but it only fueled the fire building inside you. Biting your lip, you whispered, “Show me what you’re doing.”

The words came out so soft you weren’t sure he’d heard you, but then his lips curved into a wicked grin that made your stomach flip. “You sure about that, sweetheart?” he asked, his tone rough and teasing.

You nodded, unable to find your voice, your pulse thundering in your ears.

Logan shifted slightly, the phone shaking just enough to make your anticipation climb. He adjusted the angle, tilting the camera lower until the frame revealed the sharp lines of his abs disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Your breath caught as he pulled the fabric down just enough to show you the outline of his arousal, his hand wrapped around himself, moving slowly, deliberately.

“See what you do to me?” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. His hand stroked lazily, his movements unhurried, like he wanted you to feel every second of it. “Every damn time, darlin’. I can’t even think straight when it comes to you.”

Your heart stuttered, your thighs pressing together instinctively as heat pooled low in your belly. The sight of him, the way his body tensed with every stroke, the way his breath hitched as he watched you—it was almost too much.

“Logan…” you breathed, your voice trembling with need.

“Keep going,” he rasped, his eyes flickering back up to meet yours. They were dark and intense, filled with raw hunger. “I want to see all of you, gorgeous. Don’t hold back on me now.” 

Your free hand drifted down your body with deliberate slowness, tracing the curves of your waist and the soft plane of your stomach, until your fingertips brushed the waistband of your underwear. The fabric felt impossibly delicate under your touch, and your breath hitched as you let your fingers linger there, teasing both yourself and him.

Logan’s eyes burned through the screen, dark and hungry, following every movement of your hand. His jaw tightened, and you saw the flex of his arm as his strokes grew just a bit faster, his breath hitching in rhythm. The tension between you was unbearable, a crackling heat that made the distance between you feel almost cruel.

“Don’t stop,” Logan rasped, his voice rough and uneven. “I need to see you. All of you.”

The raw need in his voice sent a shiver racing through you, your pulse pounding as you slowly tilted the phone. The angle shifted, and the screen filled with the sight of your bare skin, the way your hand dipped beneath the fabric of your underwear, teasing at the heat there. A soft, breathless sound slipped from your lips as your fingers began to move, exploring yourself with slow, deliberate strokes.

Logan groaned a low, guttural sound that sent a wave of heat washing over you. “Fuck, darlin’,” he muttered, his voice thick with need. His phone shifted slightly, and your eyes flicked to the screen to see his hand moving more urgently now, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. Look at you… so wet for me.”

The heat of his words made your thighs tremble as your body arched instinctively, your hand moving in sync with the rising tension in his voice. The soft, wet sounds of your fingers moving against your slick heat filled the air between you, and you bit your lip, trying—and failing—to muffle the needy whimper that escaped.

“That’s it, good girl,” Logan growled, his tone both commanding and reverent. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you. I want to see what I do to you.”

Your phone slipped slightly in your trembling hand, but you steadied it, angling it just enough to give him the view he craved. His reaction was instant—a sharp intake of breath, followed by a string of curses muttered under his breath.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, his hand faltering for a moment as he dragged his free hand through his hair, his head falling back against the headboard. “I can’t fucking wait to get my hands on you.

Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips. “What would you do, Logan?” you asked in a shaky whisper.

His eyes darkened further, his expression turning almost feral. “I’d start by kissing you everywhere,” he growled. “Slow, soft, until you’re trembling for me. Then I’d pin your wrists above your head, hold you still so you’d have to feel every second of it while screaming my name.”

Your head fell back against the pillows as his words washed over you, the heat in his voice lighting up every nerve in your body.

“Keep touching yourself, sweetheart,” he urged, his tone both commanding and coaxing. “Such a good girl for me.”

His words pushed you closer to the edge, the ache in your body growing unbearable as your fingers moved faster, your breaths coming in soft, uneven gasps. “Logan,” you whimpered, his name a broken plea on your lips.

“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice low and rough like he could feel your tension through the screen. “I want to see it. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”

“You’re killing me,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

His lips curved into a crooked, breathless smile. “You started it, gorgeous,” he said, his voice rough and uneven now. “And when I get home, I’m gonna finish it. Properly.”

The promise in his tone sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body aching for him in ways that words couldn’t begin to describe. But for now, this was all you had—his voice, his eyes on you, the sound of his breath growing heavier as the two of you shared this moment across the distance.

“Logan…” you whimpered again, your body arching as you felt yourself reaching the edge.

“Let go for me. Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

The heat in his tone, the intensity of his gaze, the way his hand was moving on himself—it all pushed you over the edge. Your body tensed, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips as the wave of release crashed over you, your hand faltering as you rode it out. Logan groaned deeply, his own release following seconds after, his head falling back as his chest heaved.

For a few moments, the two of you were silent, your breaths filling the space between you. Logan was the first to speak, his voice softer now, tinged with satisfaction and lingering desire. “Goddammit,” he muttered, his voice husky and low. “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

You laughed breathlessly, your body still buzzing, your heart full. “I could say the same about you, handsome,” you teased, though your voice was still shaky.

He shook his head, his eyes softening as they locked onto yours through the screen. “You better be ready,” he said, his tone playful but underlined with a seriousness that made your stomach flip. “Because when I get back, I’m not letting you out of my sight—or my bed—for a very, very long time.”

“Promise?” you asked, your lips curving into a lazy, satisfied smile.

Logan’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, it’s not a promise. It’s a guarantee.”

[fumiscripts]

✦ DEDICATED TO YOU

✦ one shot ,, rin itoshi x gn!reader

content:: you're a famous idol. and you're dating a professional player. of course you'll be making headlines when your relationship was made public.

for @yui2aku ,, fluff ,, 822 words

additional:: swearing, they're both whipped for eachother, might be ooc

Itoshi Rin is a rising star in the football industry. And you were in the peak of your idol career.

Obviously, the media would freak if they find out that the two of you were dating.

So you kept the relationship a secret, doing your best to not give out any hints. From making sure not to mention each other too much in interviews, to carefully crafting social media posts to ensure that fans won't be able to tell that you were going to a place together. Both of you and your management carefully concealed it from the public view.

But, of course, not everything goes to plan.

PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE ITOSHI RIN AND SOLO IDOL [L/N] [NAME] SEEN HOLDING HANDS AT HANEDA AIRPORT.

This was the headline of one of the many, many articles that flooded all across the internet. Your heart stopped, then slammed back at full force. You stood up straighter, brows furrowing together. The first time you opened your phone for the day, and you find posts about this everywhere.

Oh fuck. You fucked up, didn't you?

“Shit. What the hell,” you curse under your breath, reading more into the article.

Meanwhile, Rin looks up from your lap, opening an eye, disturbed from resting on your thighs when you suddenly stopped running your hands through his black locks. Your eyes flicked towards his,and he gave you a look, as if to ask what suddenly bothered you to halt playing with his hair.

You blink at him, before sheepishly turning your phone around, showing him what's been blowing up all over the media. “So… maybe we weren't discreet enough with the clothes I wore to greet you.”

His face instantly dropped, turning into something more serious as his teal eyes skimmed through the overview of the post. Rin sighed, grumbling something under his breath before burying his face onto your stomach. “...I told you to just stay at home and wait for me,” he murmured after a while, draping his arms around your waist.

“C’mon… you know I had to greet you right away. It was after a big overseas game I couldn't come to— it was the same time I had a concert,” you scoffed, reasoning with him. “The least I could do was pick you up at the airport.”

Rin didn't look up. He was touched by your little gesture to try and make up for not attending a vital match, so he didn't use that argument further. “Tch. Should've at least covered up more of your features,” he lightheartedly remarked. Though he really liked the uniqueness you had with the way you dressed up, so he can't hate on that. “Well, what do we do now?” he asked, moving the topic along from the problem to finding a solution.

You stared down your phone, anxiousness coming back to loom over you. “I should contact my manager,” you remark, watching as he finally lets go of you and sits up properly. “We could schedule a meeting with our PR teams?”

He nodded. “Right. So go do that,” he replied, though he already had a vague idea what they might propose for you two to do. It was a guess.

That guess was right.

The day after those rumors about the two of you having a secret blew up, you hard launched your relationship to the public.

They decided that coming out clean about this would be the most logical way to proceed— way better than the media speculating that the two of you were just a fling and start tarnishing both of you’s reputation. A proper relationship sounded way better than a one-night stand to the public.

After confirming on each official account, the masses began to be a little more welcoming to it. Hell, the ship tag between you and Rin seemed to blow up with positive posts, even. So that fix was successful.

Once the news calmed down through weeks, everything was back to normal. Well, as normal as it could be with being an idol with a soccer player for a boyfriend. Majority of fans seemed to love the two of you, often making fan media dedicated to your relationship. And in all honesty, it was cute. Plus, you had more material to tease Rin with.

Now, you couldn't help it. You personally asked for your next album to be something special, convincing management it's for the sake of the publication of your relationship. Though, it was dedication for someone special.

An album dedicated to him.

Rin knew those songs were dedicated to him. If those vibrant eyes of yours while you performed on stage— looking straight at him who sat by the vip seats— said anything, it was all about how much you loved him.

Oh, and with the way he looked at you with pure adoration, it was obvious he loved you, too.

Rin was utterly, hopelessly dedicated to you.

(a/n):: Grrrhsjua not my proudest work since I barely write nonchalant asf characters

taglist:: @shrii-kk, @tired-xyra-urstruly, @fishii28, @yui2aku

@lakeside-paradise

© fumiscripts 2024. don't steal, repost, translate or modify my works without my permission.

[psychoticallykind]

Prompt: Name

"Name" - Jegulus Microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 555 words

Warning, sort of: Vague Death Threat

--------------------------------------------------------------

"Regulus."

"No."

"Darling."

"No."

"Love."

"No."

"Reg."

"Not happening."

"Regulus."

"James, I don't care how many times you say my name, it's not happening."

Everything went quiet for a moment, and Regulus thought maybe James had given up.

"I really love the shirt you're wearing today."

James's tone - soft and quiet, just loud enough to reach Regulus through the door - made his cheeks burn, and he scowled at the closed door.

"Green is a beautiful color on you. Sometimes I see you in green, and I think it might be my new favorite color. You make everything look so pretty, Reg. I don't think I really understood how a color should look before I saw it on you."

Regulus closed his eyes, trying not to melt at the words.

"You're just - Merlin, you're everything, do you know that? You're everything to me. And I've never seen you as anything less than breathtakingly radiant."

"If I keep the door closed, then you'll never have to," Regulus replied.

"If you keep the door closed, I can't perform the counter-charm."

"It'll wear off on its own."

"In ten hours, Reg. You have to eat something."

"I'll be fine."

"Regulus, darling, love of my life. Please."

"No."

There was a quiet sigh. "Do I get a reason?"

Regulus considered. "You'll laugh at me."

"I promise you I won't."

"You will."

"Regulus."

"No."

"Okay," James said. "Alright. We can sit here for nine more hours."

Regulus frowned. "You don't have to stay."

"Love, I'm staying."

Regulus was sure he'd leave eventually. "You'll get bored."

"Probably, yeah."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "And what, you'll still sit there?"

"Yes. I'll be right here when you do come out."

Regulus huffed. Then he unlocked the door. "If you laugh at me, I'm breaking up with you."

"I'll never, I promise."

Regulus didn't believe it for a second. "It's unlocked."

"May I come in?"

Regulus rolled his eyes. "I said it's unlocked, didn't I?"

"I still need your permission, love."

Warmth spilled through Regulus's veins, and he grinned involuntarily. "You have my permission. Come in."

"Thank you." The door swung gently inward, and James stepped into the bathroom. He visibly bit down on his smile when he saw Regulus.

"You said you wouldn't laugh," Regulus reminded him, crossing his arms.

"And I'm not," James replied, visibly amused. "It's just - well. You know."

"I know." Regulus glared. "Fix it?"

"Of course." James murmured the spell, and Regulus's bright yellow skin returned to its normal shade. "There, all better."

"Hmph." Regulus fell forward, letting James catch his weight. "That was an awful spell."

"Yes, Sirius and Barty were dealing with Snape when I left," James replied, smoothing his hands down Regulus's back. "And I think Pandora was about to help."

"Hope she kills him," Regulus muttered.

James hummed. "Usually I'd try to curb the violence, but this time I kind of agree."

"I was yellow," Regulus whispered in horror. "Yellow, James."

There was a muffled sound, and Regulus bit down on James's shoulder.

"Ow." James ruffled his hair. "Sorry. Yes, it was awful. I'm so sorry that he turned you - um, that he -" James dissolved into laughter. "-yellow. Such a bright shade of yellow."

Regulus scowled, holding James closer. "I'm breaking up with you."

James broke down laughing again.

Against his will, Regulus felt himself smile.

[vibelladonna]

Hi!!! I love your stories, they really make my day better!! I have an idea about Crow×Y/N, if this order is not interesting to you, sorry for the disturbance!!

Is it possible to react to the fact that Y/N began to avoid Crow because of fear of unrequited love and rejection, but in the end Crow catches up with us and interrogates us why we behave so strangely and confess our feelings to him

Sorry if this order is very boring but in any case good luck to you!!

❛ 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓃 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

· ─────── ⋆⋅ 🝣 ⋅⋆ ─────── · 

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You've been avoiding Crow lately, too afraid to face your growing feelings for him. But when he finally catches up with you, he demands to know why you've been acting so strangely, forcing you to confront the truth.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Anonymous asked! I really like the idea of fear of unrequited love and rejection—definitely something I’d feel in that kind of situation. Also, for some reason, the ask box isn’t showing up on my phone, but it’s working fine on my laptop! I’ll be posting a few fics this week—probably no more than three. 

Sorry for the absence; I’ve been taking a mental break, catching up on sleep, and getting ready to head back to campus for the spring semester next week. But don’t worry, I’ll still be working on fics during the weekends or whenever I have free time!

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: Angst, Unrequited Love, Emotional Tension, Hurt/Comfort, Confession, Avoidance, Self-Doubt, Internal Struggle, Miscommunication, and Fluff (towards the end—I’m not heartless)! Also, some spicy moments to add in!

It had been two weeks since you mentioned the research options for your major—the ones you promised would keep you busy, even distracted. You’d told Crowe that your time would be consumed with textbooks and endless articles, diving into opportunities related to your major. But as the days passed, something felt off. The absence of your usual messages, your familiar presence in the hallways, and the sound of your voice in class slowly began to gnaw at him. 

Crowe had reached out several times. Texts, DMs, and even a couple of voicemails. Yet, there was nothing. No replies. 

It wasn’t like you to shut him out.

You were always upfront—maybe too upfront at times—but that brutal honesty was something Crowe genuinely admired about you. And now? Silence. Complete, unnerving silence.

His mind kept returning to the same question: What happened?

"Have you heard from them?" Crowe asked his voice tight with concern. Brittney Claire—better known as Brit—had been the first to ask about you, her tall, tan figure framed against the backdrop of the student lounge one evening when she approached him. Her usually narrowed, indifferent eyes were now clouded with worry.

"No," Brit replied, her brow furrowing as she gave him a puzzled look. "Not since they said they were diving into research. You sure you’ve been trying to reach them?"

Crowe’s grip on the strap of his bag tightened, his fingers digging into the material as he suppressed his frustration. "Of course I have. More than once. They haven’t even texted me back, and you know that’s not like them."

Brit raised an eyebrow, her gaze scanning him for a beat before her face morphed into something unreadable. "Weird," she muttered, her voice laced with suspicion. "I thought you were always the one in the know, Crowe. You two are closer than anyone else. You should know where they are."

The comment hit harder than he expected. It wasn’t about being in the loop, or being ‘close’—it was about making sure you were okay.

Brit took a step back, her expression softening as she saw the tension in Crowe’s shoulders. She sighed, exhaling deeply as if weighing the situation in her mind. "I can tell you're worried," she said, her tone gentler now. "Want me to help you track them down?"

Crowe shook his head immediately, a quiet, unspoken tension hanging in the space between them. "No. I’ll find them myself."

And he would. Crowe was never one to back down, especially when it came to you. He knew better than anyone that you didn’t just vanish without a reason, without something pulling you away.

Something was wrong.

And he was going to find out what it was—no matter what it took.

Crowe didn’t waste any time before setting out for your usual spots—those places where he knew you’d be if you weren’t anywhere else. First, he hit the quiet corner in the library where you both spent hours lost in books, your heads bent low over pages in comfortable silence. 

Then, he headed to the small café where late-night study sessions were more the norm than the exception, the place where caffeine-fueled discussions lingered well past midnight. 

Lastly, he checked the campus bench you’d both claimed as your own, the one that had become a quiet sanctuary, a place for shared moments and unspoken understanding. But after hours of searching, there was no sign of you. No flicker of movement, no trace of your presence. 

The sky was darkening as Crowe made his way back to his dorm, his steps slow and deliberate, each one echoing the frustration he couldn’t shake. His mind replayed every moment, every conversation, trying to find something, anything, that could explain where you were. He pulled his phone from his pocket, a small distraction from the weight of his thoughts. It buzzed in his hand, and he glanced down at the new message from Brittney.

Britt: Still no word from them, huh?

Crowe: Nope. Can’t find them anywhere on campus. It’s like they vanished.

Britt: Wow. I can't help but feel like they're avoiding us.

Crowe’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the phone. He froze in his tracks. The thought of you avoiding him felt wrong, so foreign it stung. The words on the screen replayed in his head, each one sinking deeper into his chest.

Avoiding them? Avoiding him? Was that really what was happening? Was that what this was about?

He wasn’t blind. He could feel it too—the subtle yet undeniable shift between you and him. Maybe it had been slow, so gradual that it had escaped his notice at first, creeping in like a shadow until it had grown large enough to demand attention. Or maybe it had always been there, lingering just beneath the surface, like an undercurrent quietly pulling at the edges of everything. 

But whatever it was, it had become a wall. A barrier neither of you could ignore. And the more he thought about it, the more it became clear that it wasn’t some external force—it was a wall *you* had built. It was as if you had crafted it with your own hands, piece by piece, and now it loomed between you two, tall and impenetrable. 

He couldn’t understand why it was there, or why you hadn’t said anything about it. The silence only deepened his confusion, turning it into something more tangible, something he couldn’t shake off. Every attempt to breach it seemed futile, like reaching for something just out of his grasp. 

With each passing day, the weight of the uncertainty pressed down on him, a burden that grew heavier with every thought, every glance exchanged in passing, every conversation that no longer felt like it used to. It gnawed at him relentlessly, demanding answers he didn’t have. He couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine, that nothing had changed. 

Something had to happend. 

Something had to give. He felt it in his bones, knew it with a certainty he couldn’t ignore. And as much as he tried to deny it, he knew it had to happen the last time he had seen you.

Two weeks ago. The night had started like any other. You and Crowe had settled into your usual study spot in the back corner of the library—your quiet sanctuary, where the world outside felt distant, far away. It was familiar. Comfortable. The soft hum of overhead lights was the only sound, broken only by the occasional rustling of pages as you both worked in your own quiet spaces. 

The books were scattered across the table, the glow of your laptop screen illuminating your face as you juggled between tabs. Crowe sat across from you, flipping through his notes with the same casual air he always had, the same easygoing demeanor he had perfected over the years. 

But there was something different that night. 

Even though everything looked the same, and felt the same, there was a tension in the air—a subtle crackling energy, just beneath the surface. It had been there for a while now, but on that night, it had reached a breaking point.

You were buried in your research, absorbing every detail of your thesis like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. 

You hadn’t realized how much time had passed when Crowe’s voice broke through your concentration, sounding unusually thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the future recently,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet intensity that was different from his usual playful tone.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his for a brief second before you quickly looked away. “Oh?” you murmured, distracted as you tried to focus on the data in front of you. You weren’t expecting this turn in the conversation. Crowe didn’t usually get into those heavy ‘future’ talks unless he was in a reflective mood, and even then, it was usually all about abstract goals or vague aspirations. 

Nothing serious. 

“Yeah,” Crowe continued, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as though bracing himself for something weightier. His voice softened, carrying an introspective tone that felt rare for him. “You know, we’re already in our third year, right? Time’s flying faster than I ever expected. And… I’ve been thinking, by the time I graduate, I want to have things a bit more figured out. Like, I want to be in a solid relationship. Someone to share things with, someone who’s… there.” 

His words hit you like an unexpected gust of cold air, leaving you momentarily stunned. You blinked, once, twice, the weight of his admission sinking in slowly but steadily. 

A relationship? 

Crowe—the same Crowe who treated most connections with a kind of playful fun—is talking about settling down? The concept felt alien, foreign, and yet it lodged itself uncomfortably in your chest. 

You cleared your throat, more to buy time than anything else, carefully composing your response. “That’s… ambitious,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, though there was a sharpness to your words that you couldn’t quite dull. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen in front of you, a half-hearted barrier between the two of you. The flickering light cast an impassive glow over your face, but inside, your emotions churned in a quiet storm of confusion and irritation.  

Crowe didn’t seem fazed—or maybe he was just good at masking it. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, searching for something unsaid. Then he shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though his expression stayed contemplative. “I don’t know if it’s ambitious,” he said after a pause, his tone lighter but no less sincere.

“I mean, it just feels… right. We spend so much time trying to figure out majors, careers, all the practical stuff, but at the end of the day, I want someone to share the milestones with, you know? Graduating, finding a job, moving somewhere new… I don’t want to do all that alone.”

His words pulled at something deep and unwelcome inside you, a stirring that you couldn’t quite name.

Irritation, yes—but mixed with something softer, more vulnerable, something that whispered of fear and longing.

The idea of Crowe sharing those moments, those significant pieces of his life, with someone else clawed at the carefully constructed walls you’d built around your thoughts.  

“Isn’t that kind of distracting?” you asked, keeping your tone deliberately neutral, though there was an edge to your voice you couldn’t fully mask. “I mean, wouldn’t you rather focus on making sure you’ve got everything in place first before worrying about… all that?”

Crowe tilted his head, his expression thoughtful now, as though weighing your words. “Maybe,” he admitted, his gaze softening as he spoke. “But I don’t think it’s about having everything perfect. Life’s always messy, you know? I just think it’d be nice to have someone who gets it, who’s there to celebrate the wins and help carry the weight when things aren’t so great.”

He said it so earnestly, so casually, that it made your chest ache. Crowe—so confident, so carefree—talking about sharing his life with someone as if it was the simplest thing in the world. 

And yet, for you, the very idea felt impossible, like a weight pressing down on something fragile inside you. 

You forced a small, humorless laugh, hoping it masked the way your pulse quickened. “You make it sound so simple,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “Like finding the right person is just another thing to check off the list.”

Crowe raised an eyebrow at your tone, but his smile didn’t waver. If anything, it softened. “It’s not simple,” he said quietly. “But I think it’s worth it. Don’t you?” 

The question hung between you, heavy and unspoken, as if he were asking something far deeper than his words implied. And for the briefest moment, you wondered if he already knew your answer.

It was like you were looking at something through a window that you couldn’t reach—this whole world of connections, of intimacy, of people who could be close to you in ways that didn’t make sense to you. Maybe that was the problem. 

You didn’t really get it. 

You didn’t need it.

You let out a breath, trying to steady yourself, and forced your attention back to the work in front of you. “I don’t know about that,” you said, your voice a little sharper than you intended. “I think I’d rather focus on things that I can actually control.”

There was a brief pause as Crowe looked at you, his gaze shifting. You could see the curiosity flicker across his face, but he didn’t press. Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat. “Like your thesis?” he asked, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

You nodded quickly, relieved that the conversation was shifting to familiar ground. “Yeah,” you said, a little more briskly than you meant to. “I’m thinking about neuropsychology—studying the effects of plants on the brain. There’s so much to dive into. I’ll be swamped for a while.”

Crowe raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the shift in topic. “Sounds intense. You sure you’re okay with taking on that much work?” He was leaning forward now, his tone lighter but with an edge of concern.

You offered a quick smile, trying to hide the irritation that lingered beneath the surface. “Yeah. I can handle it. Besides, it’s something to keep me occupied, right?” The words came out a little too dismissive, a little too defensive. 

But you weren’t about to admit that you were irritated—especially not to him.

Crowe nodded, but there was something unreadable in his expression as he pulled back, falling into a more relaxed posture. He didn’t seem to press the issue further, and the silence between you grew. 

It wasn’t the comfortable silence that usually settled over the two of you; instead, it was filled with strange tension. That was the last conversation you’d had. Since then, the silence had stretched on, thick and unyielding.

Crowe stared down at his phone screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He'd sent you another message—another question, another attempt to bridge the gap. The usual routine had gone on for two weeks now: he'd reach out, you’d read it, and leave him on read. No replies. Nothing.

Crowe: We need to talk.

He stared at the text, as the three little dots appeared and disappeared, signaling that you'd seen it but hadn’t bothered to respond.

This time, something felt different.

The pit in his stomach had grown heavier, gnawing at him with each unread message that followed. We need to talk was simple enough. He wasn’t expecting an essay, just a sign of life. He’d gotten used to the silence, but now it was starting to feel like something was seriously wrong.

Each message, each time he saw you’d opened it but not replied, made him worry more. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. What happened? Why weren’t you talking to him?

Crowe: Please, just let me know you’re okay.

That message had been sent hours ago. And yet, still nothing. He stared at his phone in disbelief as his frustration built, a mixture of concern and something else he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was fear. Fear of whatever was keeping you away from him.

He had tried everything. Texts. Calls. Even showing up at your usual spots: the library, the cafe, your dorm. Every time, nothing. Your absence was unsettling, but the worst part? The silence that surrounded him, like you were intentionally shutting him out.

Crowe sat in the student council room, reviewing papers, His phone buzzed again, but it wasn’t from you. It was from Brittney.

Britt: Still nothing? You’ve been trying for days. You okay?

He rubbed his temples, rereading the message. No. I’m not okay. I need to figure this out.

Crowe’s mind raced as he trudged across campus, his pace uneven, his steps quick and deliberate. The cool evening air bit at his skin, but the sting was nothing compared to the ache of frustration twisting in his chest. 

For two weeks now, his messages had gone unanswered—a deafening silence where there used to be light and warmth. Each time he saw that familiar “read” receipt pop up without a reply, it hit him like a sucker punch, leaving him reeling in confusion and hurt.  

He couldn’t piece together what had gone wrong. What had he said? What had he done? It felt like you’d vanished behind an invisible wall, one he didn’t know how to break down. He clenched his fists as he replayed the situation over and over, searching for clues he might have missed.  

Crowe: I’m worried about you. Please respond.

His messages were a litany of concern, a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to his growing desperation. The most recent ones hadn’t even been opened. That unread status haunted him, the silence stretching out between you like a thick fog, impenetrable and cold.  

He left the campus library, his latest attempt to find you failing. His bag felt unnaturally heavy, burdened by more than just books. Instead of heading straight to the bus stop, his feet carried him toward the campus greenhouse—a detour he often took when his mind felt too crowded. 

The greenhouse was typically locked this late, reserved only for students with keys. Yet when he tested the handle, it gave way. His pulse quickened as he slipped inside, pausing just long enough to turn the lock behind him.

The quiet click echoed in the humid, earthy air as if sealing him in with the weight of his thoughts.

The rich scent of soil and greenery enveloped him, mingling with the faint sweetness of blooming flowers. Rows of plants stretched before him, neatly arranged under the muted glow of hanging grow lights. Dew clung to leaves, sparkling faintly in the dim light, while vines traced languid patterns along wooden trellises. The indoor greenhouse was alive in its quiet way, untouched by the busy outside world.

He moved cautiously down the tiled paths, the soft rhythm of his footsteps blending with the distant hum of machinery and the occasional drip of water. The tranquility should have been soothing, but tonight it felt oppressive, amplifying the ache that had settled in his chest. 

This had been your sanctuary once. He could still picture you here—curled up on a bench, book in hand, the golden light casting a soft glow over your features. You had always seemed at home among the plants, as though the gentle stillness of the greenhouse mirrored something deep within you. 

But it had been two weeks now. 

Two weeks of searching, of hoping, of finding only emptiness where you used to be. Each familiar corner he passed seemed to taunt him with your absence, the memory of you lingering like the faint, fading scent of flowers.

Crowe sighed, ready to turn back, when a soft sound broke through the stillness. Footsteps. Light, deliberate, almost hesitant.  

His heart jumped, a flicker of hope sparking as he turned—and there you were.  

You stood near the far wall, surrounded by rows of delicate plants, their green tendrils climbing along lattices like silent witnesses. Your back was to him, your posture slightly hunched as you scribbled something in a small notebook. The sight of you, after weeks of absence, stopped him in his tracks.  

You weren’t the picture of confidence he was used to—sharp-eyed and self-assured, quick with a remark or an unshakable glance. Instead, there was a fragility in the way you stood, as if the weight of something unseen pressed heavily on your shoulders. Your usual energy seemed dimmed, your movements slower, your presence quieter.  

He froze, his throat tightening. The relief of seeing you mingled with an ache he couldn’t name. He’d imagined this moment so many times, playing out conversations in his mind, planning what he’d say. But now that you were here, just a few steps away, he felt unmoored.  

The silence stretched between you, thick and uncertain. He wanted to call out to you, to say your name, but the words lodged in his throat. He wanted to reach out, but something in your demeanor held him back—something almost sacred in your solitude.  

Then, as if sensing his gaze, you turned your head slightly, just enough for your eyes to meet his. For a moment, the world stopped.  

Your expression was unreadable, but your eyes told him everything. They looked tired, shadowed with a weight you hadn’t shared, a depth of exhaustion that even your usual composure couldn’t mask. There was an emptiness there, a hollow ache that mirrored the one in his chest.  

Crowe opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He could only stand there, caught in the stillness of the moment, hoping you wouldn’t disappear again.  

Here’s the revised version:  

“Crowe…” You called out, your voice tinged with surprise and a hint of weariness. Your widened eyes betrayed a subtle attempt to mask the dark circles beneath them. “Hey! I haven’t seen you in forever…” Your words tapered off as your attention shifted to a nearby potted plant. Lifting it delicately, you turned it in your hands, inspecting its leaves. “I’ve been busy—almost done with my bio project,” you added, a faint glimmer of pride flickering in your tone.  

Crowe stepped closer, his gaze narrowing with concern. “What? I thought you were focusing on stuff for your major,” he said, crossing his arms as he watched you.  

“I am,” you replied matter-of-factly, not looking at him as you set the plant down and moved to the next one. “If I can show the professor my research and notes, I might have a shot at getting into the advanced program.”  

Crowe’s frown deepened as he trailed behind you through the rows of greenery. “So this is what you’ve been up to? Holing yourself up in the greenhouse since the last time we hung out?”  

“Pretty much,” you said without missing a beat, brushing your fingers over the delicate leaves of another plant. “It’s amazing in here. Did you know some plants can grow perfectly well without direct sunlight?” The question left your lips effortlessly, your voice infused with an enthusiasm Crowe hadn’t heard in a while.  

The greenhouse air was thick and humid, imbued with the earthy scent of soil and vegetation. Rows of plants, thriving in various stages of growth, surrounded you both, their shadows shifting under the soft glow of artificial grow lights. The hum of machinery underscored the space, a quiet reminder of the technology keeping this verdant haven alive.  

As you wandered deeper, Crowe’s eyes scanned the surroundings until something caught his attention—a small corner transformed into a makeshift workstation. Papers were strewn across the desk, dense with notes and diagrams. A microscope occupied one corner, and a row of glass beakers filled with vibrant liquids gleamed under the lights.  

Nearby, a neatly folded blanket rested and pillow on a couch alongside a half-empty thermos and an open textbook. Crowe stopped in his tracks, realization hitting him. “Wait… have you been sleeping here?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.  

You paused for a moment, glancing back at him. “Only when I need to finish something urgent, it’s only been one night,” you said defensively, turning back to your work.  

Crowe was filled with concern as he watched you move with quiet determination. His voice softened, almost pleading. “You need to take a break, you know. You can’t keep running on fumes like this.”

You didn’t look up, your focus fixed on a delicate orchid in need of pruning. “I’m fine, Crowe,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with the back of your hand. Your voice was calm, but the tightness in your posture betrayed you. “I just need to finish this. The professor trusted me with the key while she was on vacation. She wanted me to keep an eye on the plants, so I need to take advantage of the time.”

Crowe raised an eyebrow, glancing around the space. “Really? This room?”  

“It’s an indoor greenhouse,” you corrected, leaning over the desk to jot something in a notebook. Your tone was matter-of-fact, but Crowe’s sigh carried the weight of words unsaid.  

“What did I do wrong?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You froze mid-sentence, pen hovering over the page. Slowly, you turned to face him, guilt flickering in your eyes like the max-out lamp on the desk beside you. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

Crowe stepped closer, the wooden floor creaking faintly beneath his shoes. “Then why does it feel like I did? Did I offend you somehow?”  

“No,” you said quickly, your gaze darting away.  

He pressed on, his voice firm but not unkind. “Then what is it? What’s going on with you?”

“I told you, nothing,” you snapped, irritation creeping into your tone as you turned back to your open notebook, pretending to be absorbed in its pages.

Crowe’s frown deepened. “Nothing?” he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Right now, it feels like you’d rather talk to these plants than me.”

You straightened, finally meeting his gaze with a sharp look. “I didn’t say that—”

He cut you off, his frustration spilling over. “You’ve been locked away in this room—”

“Indoor greenhouse,” you interrupted a touch of defensiveness in your voice.

“Fine. Indoor greenhouse,” he shot back. “While I’ve been searching for you all over campus, worried out of my mind. Do you have any idea what went through my head? I thought something had happened to you. I was this close to filing a missing person report—hell, I almost called the police.”

His words landed heavily, the rawness in his voice stopping you in your tracks.  

“Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper.  

“What do you mean why?” he countered, his confusion evident.

“Why do you care?” Your voice cracked slightly, though you tried to mask it with a pointed edge. “I’m perfectly fine, Crowe. Or should I say Jericho Ichabod—known for being a pain in the ass who doesn’t know when to leave me alone…”

You trailed off, avoiding his gaze as silence settled between you like a heavy fog. For a moment, all that filled the room was the rhythmic drip of condensation falling onto a metal tray, a haunting reminder of the tension lingering between you both.

Crowe’s jaw tightened, his silhouette imposing against the faint glow of the lamp. Yet his eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, softened with an intensity that made your heartache. “I care,” he said quietly, each word deliberate and weighted with emotion. “Because you matter to me. More than you seem to realize.”

The words hit you like a jolt, your hand instinctively seeking the edge of the desk for support. The rhythm of your hands tending to the plants—the careful snip of pruning shears, the gentle brushing of leaves—had always been your refuge, your shield. Now, it felt paper-thin against the storm of emotions his words unleashed. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, not yet.

 Instead, you turned back to the orchid in front of you, its delicate white petals trembling faintly in the stagnant air. Perhaps its quiet, fragile beauty could offer you the clarity you desperately needed.

"Okay. You found me. Now you can leave. Satisfied?" Your voice was firm, but the undercurrent of vulnerability was unmistakable.

Crowe didn’t flinch at your sharpness. Instead, he took a measured step closer, his gaze never wavering. He could see through you—through the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers gripped the desk’s edge as if it could anchor you, and the faint tremor in your voice. Every detail told him more than your words ever could.

“Don’t push me away,” he said, his tone resolute as he closed the distance between you. There was no room for argument in his voice, no hesitation in his movements.

You let out an exasperated sigh, your free hand rising to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” you muttered, exhaustion creeping into your voice. 

“Why do you always have to be so stubborn?” you snapped, the frustration breaking through as your body trembled faintly from a volatile mix of fear, fatigue, and something you didn’t want to name. Your gaze locked on him, irritation sparking in your eyes, but only for a moment. Something softened—just enough for him to catch it.

Crowe’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the change, no matter how subtle. He was used to your fiery tone, your biting words, and the walls you built so meticulously. But this? This was different. There was a crack in your armor, a vulnerability he hadn’t seen before—or maybe hadn’t allowed himself to see.

A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I’ve always been good at reading you. I was just too stubborn to notice.”

A scoff escaped your lips, and you tried to glare at him, but the sight of his infuriatingly smug smirk only fueled your irritation. “Oh, spare me that look,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you turned back to the potted plant. “You sound so cocky right now. It’s irritating, you know that, right?”

Crowe let out a deep sigh, his shoulders relaxing just slightly though the tension lingered in his stance. Despite the sharpness of your words, his expression softened, a flicker of vulnerability betraying his resolve. His gaze held yours, unwavering and searching. “What’s irritating,” he began, his voice low and threaded with something almost pleading, “is how you bury yourself in these plants and shut everyone out.” 

His eyes flicked toward the sprawling greenery that surrounded you as if accusing them of stealing your attention. “You’d rather lose yourself in them than face what’s right in front of you.” 

The weight of his words hung in the air, but you refused to let them settle. Your instinct was to flee, to escape the tightening web of emotions he was weaving. Turning slightly, you made a move to step away, your eyes darting toward the shelves of plants that lined the room, hoping for some distraction to anchor you. 

But Crowe was quicker. 

With a sudden, fluid motion, he shifted into your path, his body a deliberate barrier, solid and immovable. The swiftness of his actions left you no room to maneuver. You took a reflexive step back, only to feel the cold edge of the desk press into your lower back. 

Crowe loomed closer, his presence suffocating in its intensity. His hands came down on either side of you, palms flat against the desk, framing you with an authority that made escape impossible. The subtle tension in his arms betrayed his restraint, his effort to control the storm beneath his calm exterior. His proximity brought the faint scent of rain and earth, grounding and disarming all at once. His breath was steady, but the fire in his eyes made your pulse quicken.

“Stop walking away from me,” he said, his voice quiet but unyielding. His proximity was overwhelming, the heat of his presence wrapping around you like a vice. 

Your heart pounded as you met his gaze, the storm in his eyes mirroring your own. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” you whispered, though the words lacked conviction. 

“Because you matter,” he said again, softer this time but no less intense. "And I'm not going anywhere until you believe it."

“I do not want you.” Your voice was sharp, trembling with restrained anger. “Just leave, please.” 

You stood firm, glaring at Crowe, yet your body betrayed your nerves—hands clenched into fists, nails biting into your palms. He remained rooted in place, his tall frame looming over you, the dim light casting sharp angles across his face. His presence was suffocating, an immovable barrier that trapped you against the desk behind you. 

“No. I will not. Please, just talk to me,” Crowe’s voice was low but resolute, carrying the weight of someone who wasn’t going to let this moment slip away. His tone was steady, like a calm storm brewing beneath the surface. “Whatever it is… you don’t have to hide it from me. I’m here for you.”

The sincerity in his words made your breath hitch, your carefully built walls trembling under the force of his presence. You took a shaky breath, your resolve faltering. “Jericho—”

He cut you off, moving closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You can’t just force me away,” he said firmly, his tone unwavering. The distance between you seemed to vanish in an instant, and his proximity felt suffocating, but not in the way you expected. It wasn’t fear or frustration—it was the sharp, overwhelming realization that he saw through you. 

Your lips parted, searching for words that refused to come. “Please, Jericho,” you murmured, your voice breaking as the tension between you coiled tighter, threatening to snap. 

He leaned in slowly, his movements deliberate and careful, as though he knew he was treading on fragile ground. His head dipped until his face was only inches from yours. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and his gaze burned with a fierce determination that left you feeling utterly exposed, as though every unspoken thought and hidden feeling you harbored was now laid bare before him. 

“I won’t let you push me away,” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with steel. His hand rose, hesitating for a moment before brushing against your cheek, his touch featherlight. His fingers trailed along your jawline with a gentleness that sent a shiver through you. It wasn’t just his touch—it was the way he looked at you like he was piecing together something he had only just started to understand.

Your instinct was to retreat, to shut him out like you always had, but you couldn’t move. You were caught, your body betraying you as your heart raced and your mind screamed at you to say something. 

“I’m far too busy for this—” you stammered, grasping at the only excuse you could find. But even as the words left your lips, you knew how weak they sounded, how unconvincing. They were a shield made of glass, and Crowe saw straight through it.  

His expression softened, but his determination remained unshaken. “Do you love me?” he asked suddenly, his voice quiet but cutting through the air like a knife. The question left you frozen, your chest tightening as if the world had stopped spinning.  

You stared at him, your mind racing, but there was nowhere to hide. His gaze held yours, unyielding, and in that moment, you knew he had already figured it out. 

He wasn’t asking because he didn’t know—he was asking because he wanted you to say it.  

“Jericho…” you whispered, his name barely audible as it escaped your lips. You tried to look away, but his hand cupped your cheek gently, guiding you back to face him. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said softly, his tone impossibly tender, but there was a gravity to his words that made your throat tighten. “I need to hear it. From you.” 

Your heart pounded in your chest, the weight of his question suffocating yet electrifying. And as you stared into his eyes, so full of quiet intensity, you realized there was no way out—only through.

He was so close, too close.

The warmth of his touch sent an involuntary shiver coursing through your body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His voice, low and edged with a weight you couldn’t quite place, wrapped around you, constricting your thoughts. The question hung in the air like a thunderclap, reverberating in the space between you and him, stealing the breath from your lungs.  

The indoor greenhouse seemed to shrink, the walls pressing inward as the gravity of his words settled over you. Your heart stuttered, then raced, pounding against your ribs with a force that made your chest ache. The air grew dense, thick with the kind of tension that threatened to pull you under, to drown you in its unrelenting grasp.  

"That's—why would—How—" The words stumbled out of you, clumsy and fractured, like they were trying to claw their way past the rising storm inside your mind. But they faltered, leaving you grasping at nothing, caught in a silence that felt deafening.  

You stared up at him, eyes wide and searching, your mind blank and racing all at once. You were frozen, caught like a deer in headlights, powerless under the weight of his gaze.  

“Jericho—” you started, but your voice faltered, barely a whisper, your plea cut short as his own words sliced through the air.  

“Do you love me?” he asked again, this time softer, yet somehow more insistent, like he was peeling back a layer of armor you didn’t realize you were wearing.  

The world seemed to tilt, the ground beneath you unsteady as his question echoed in your ears. Your breath hitched, catching somewhere in your throat as the air in your lungs grew impossibly thin. Your heart hammered wildly, a chaotic rhythm that you were certain he could feel in the charged space between you.  

You wanted to look away, to break free from the intensity of his gaze, but you couldn’t. His eyes held you captive, locking you in place, stripping you bare of pretense, and leaving you exposed. The words trembled on the edge of your lips, aching to escape, but you pressed them back, swallowing them down with a trembling resolve.  

Not yet. Not now. 

Not when you weren’t even sure yourself.  

"Jericho, please stop." The words fell from your lips, fragile and unsteady, betraying the vulnerability you’d fought so hard to keep hidden. You hated how your voice trembled, how it quaked under the weight of your emotions.  

His expression shifted, the faintest flicker of hurt flashing across his features before his voice came, steady yet raw, cutting through the silence like a blade.  

“Is it because you don’t believe I can love you?” Crowe asked, his tone carrying quiet desperation, as though the question itself cost him something to voice.  The words hit you like a blow, unraveling the fragile threads of composure you’d clung to. His presence was suffocating, his question heavy with a truth you weren’t ready to confront.  

“Because I love you,” Crowe began, his voice trembling slightly, raw with sincerity. “I love you so much that I’ll do as you wish. If you don’t love me, all you have to do is say it. Say the words, and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll go home and pretend this never happened—for your sake, not mine. I will do that for you.” His voice cracked, but he pressed on, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “But first, you have to say it. You have to tell me you don’t love me.”  

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, pressing against your chest like an unbearable burden.  

“You have to tell me I’m a horrible friend,” Crowe continued, his tone growing more desperate. “Call me out of my name, say anything to show you don’t love me. Please—just say it.”  

His plea echoed in the silence, raw and unfiltered. The two of you stood frozen, your eyes locked in an exchange that said more than words ever could.  

For a mere second, your gaze locked onto Crowe’s, your mind spiraling into chaos. Thoughts crashed and tangled in your head, an unrelenting storm you couldn’t silence. Your heart clenched, each agonizing beat echoing through your chest like a dull, relentless ache. Tears brimmed in your eyes, threatening to spill, blurring your vision. But they couldn’t obscure the pain carved into his face—the rawness, the unguarded ache that mirrored your own.  

Your throat tightened as emotions warred within you. You wanted to shout at him—to scream that he was a fool, reckless and naïve for loving you, for entrusting his heart so willingly into hands you weren’t sure could hold it. A bitter part of you itched to turn and walk away, to put an insurmountable distance between you, to bury this moment so deeply in your memory that it would never have the power to resurface.  

And yet... his face. That look.  

It stopped you cold.  

His dark skin seemed to glow under the dim light, his deep blue eyes shimmering with an unspoken plea. The loose braid draped over his right shoulder swayed slightly as he shifted, and a few wayward strands framed his face, carelessly tucked behind his ear but now slipping free to shadow his gaze. He stood just inches from you, head tilted downward, his presence overwhelming in its intimacy.  

It shattered you.  

The vulnerability in his expression, the quiet desperation painted across his features, and the faint tremor in his breath pulled at you, unraveling every thought of escape. His hope, fragile yet unyielding, clung to you like a lifeline, binding your feet to the ground.  

Your hand rose instinctively, trembling as it hovered in the space between you. Hesitation held you captive for a moment longer before you closed the gap, your palm pressing gently against his chest.  

Beneath your touch, you felt it—his heart.  

It beat unevenly, a raw and unsteady rhythm, a testament to the weight of the moment. That rhythm echoed the truth of what he had laid bare before you, fragile and precious as if daring you to break it.  

And you, stood there, caught in a fragile silence, suspended between everything you wanted to say and everything you feared to admit. Your voice, when it came, was soft, fractured, barely more than a whisper. “...I can’t.”  

The words slipped from your lips, fragile and small, but they carried the weight of everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say.  

Crowe’s breath hitched, his entire frame trembling under your touch. The silence between you deepened, heavy with the unspoken truth, and the tears that finally spilled down your cheeks mirrored the storm raging inside you.

He took your trembling hand in his, his thumb brushing delicately over your knuckles in slow, comforting circles. The warmth of his touch was steady, but his heart hammered in his chest, betraying the calm façade he was trying to maintain. The words you had spoken hung heavy in the air, their weight pressing down on him.  

“…you can’t?” His voice was soft, and gentle, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment between you. Yet, there was a quiet desperation in his tone, an unspoken plea for clarity, for something to hold on to amidst the confusion.  

Your eyes fluttered shut, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. It burned with a mixture of pain, hope, and an emotion you couldn’t name—something you couldn’t allow yourself to name. Your entire body trembled, caught in a storm of emotions too overwhelming to contain.  

A shaky breath slipped past your lips, your chest rising and falling unevenly. Your free hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, clutching it as though it were the only thing anchoring you to reality. The weight of your unsaid words felt unbearable, pressing against your throat, yet when you finally spoke, your voice was no more than a whisper.  

“I’m not what you want,” you admitted, each word laced with anguish. “You don’t wish for a life with me. I see it in the way you look past me... in the things you don’t say.”  

His brows furrowed, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. The silence stretched between you, broken only by the unsteady rhythm of your breathing.  

“I didn’t care to tell you,” you continued, your voice trembling with raw emotion. “Where we were... what we’ve shared... it’s enough to show. Isn’t it?”  

Your grip on his shirt tightened as if holding on might keep your heart from breaking apart. “I don’t...” The words caught in your throat, suffocating you with their weight. You faltered, unable to finish. Tears welled in your eyes, threatening to fall, as the vulnerability you’d fought so hard to suppress came pouring through the cracks in your resolve.  

Crowe’s heart clenched painfully with every word you spoke, each syllable carving deep into his soul. The sight of you so conflicted, so hurt, was unbearable. It was as if the weight of your pain had reached out and wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing tightly until he could scarcely breathe. 

“That’s not true…” he said, his voice soft but unyielding. The gentle firmness of his tone carried a quiet desperation, a plea hidden beneath his words. His fingers reached out, trembling ever so slightly, as he cupped your chin. His touch was tender like he feared you might shatter under his hand. Slowly, he guided your gaze to meet his, needing you to see the depth of his sincerity. His own eyes, usually so steady, now brimmed with a mixture of determination and vulnerability.

“I do want a future with you,” he said, his voice cracking ever so faintly, betraying the storm of emotions swirling just beneath his carefully composed exterior. His hands trembled slightly, fingers curling into fists at his sides as if bracing himself against an unseen force. “I don’t care where we are, as long as it’s with you.”  

His gaze faltered for a heartbeat, his lashes lowering as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. The weight of the words he was about to utter seemed to press down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into the vulnerability he had tried so hard to avoid. Lifting his eyes again, he locked onto yours with a piercing intensity, the oceanic blue depths searching your face for a flicker of reassurance, of hope, anything that might ease the ache of uncertainty in his chest.  

“But I need to know…” His voice cracked, trembling as if it might break under the weight of the question. “Do you want a future with me?”  

The air between you thickened, heavy with the tension of unspoken fears and fragile truths. For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Even the faint rustle of the wind outside stilled, as though the universe itself held its breath, waiting for your answer. His eyes—vulnerable, pleading—bore into yours, searching desperately for something he couldn’t bring himself to articulate. His jaw tightened as he swallowed hard, a muscle feathering in his cheek, betraying the storm within.  

And then it broke.

“I do! I love you!” The words tore from you, raw and unrestrained, your voice shaking with the force of emotions you could no longer contain. Your hands flew to your face, trembling as tears spilled over your cheeks in hot, stinging rivers. Each tear carried the weight of all you had suppressed—the love too overwhelming to admit, the fear of losing him, the doubts you had wrestled with in the quiet hours of the night.  

Your chest heaved with each breath, a desperate attempt to steady yourself as you took a trembling step closer. “I’ve always wanted to be with���” you sobbed, your voice cracking with the vulnerability you had fought so hard to keep hidden. The admission felt like tearing down walls you had spent years building, leaving you exposed, bare, and utterly honest.  

Crowe’s breath caught, his chest tightening at the sight of you unraveling. He gently cradled your face, his thumb brushing away the hot tears as they fell, his heart torn between elation and heartbreak. He’d longed to hear those words, but seeing you like this—so broken, so unsure—left him feeling utterly helpless.

Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, enveloping you in a fierce embrace. His arms wrapped around you like a shield, as if he could hold you together with sheer will alone. His lips pressed softly against your hair as he murmured, “I’m yours,” his voice steady now, “Always.”  

But your body stiffened against him, and you pushed him away, your touch hesitant, almost apologetic. The distance you forced between you felt like a knife twisting in his chest. 

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. The word was small and quiet, but it carried the weight of a storm. “I don’t want you here with me.” Your voice wavered, each word like glass splintering in your throat. “I… I’m not worth it, Jericho. I never was, and I never will be.”

You looked away, your hands trembling as you struggled to explain. “You and I… we’re too different. Your life—it’s so full of light. And me? I’m just… I’m a shadow. A burden. Every day, you’re so kind, and so patient, and I don’t know why. What do you even see in me? What do you want from me?”

Crowe’s heart broke into pieces at your words, the cracks spreading like ice on a frozen lake. His hands shot out to grip your arms firmly but gently, grounding you as he fought to steady his voice. 

“How can you say that?!” he exclaimed, his tone carrying a sharp edge of pain. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he searched your face, desperate to make you see what he saw. “You are worth everything to me! Everything.”

His grip tightened, not to restrain, but to hold you steady, as if he feared you might slip away entirely. “I don’t want anything from you. I never have. I just want you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

His voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath, trying to push down the swell of frustration and sadness that threatened to consume him. “Why do you think you’re a burden to me? Don’t you see? You’re not. You never were. You’re my world. And if I have to spend every single day proving that to you, I will. But please…” His voice softened, his forehead resting against yours. “Please don’t push me away.” 

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by his words, by the intensity of his gaze, by the unwavering devotion in his voice. 

For the first time, you let yourself feel the enormity of his love—a love that terrified you as much as it comforted you. "Stop it," you whispered, but your voice trembled, barely a breath against the thick air that seemed to surround you both. 

The tears came fast, hot, and uncontrollable, burning as they streaked down your face. You tried to pull away, to escape the overwhelming rush of emotions flooding you—emotions you couldn’t bear to face. 

Why was this happening? Why couldn't he just leave you alone?

You didn’t want to look at him anymore. The pain in your chest tightened, a suffocating weight that threatened to drown you. You didn't want to hear him confess how he felt, didn't want to let yourself believe for even a second that it could be real. You couldn’t afford to give yourself any false hope, not now. 

“It’s... I—” Your voice cracked, faltering as the words tangled in your throat. It was as if everything inside you was shattering, and no matter how hard you tried to hold it together, it all slipped through your fingers. 

You couldn’t think. 

You couldn’t breathe. 

And you couldn’t say what needed to be said, not when every part of you screamed to get away from him, to make him leave. Make him stop looking at you like that, as if you mattered as if you weren't just a burden.

He could see it in your eyes—the desperation, the fear, the overwhelming need to push him away. And yet, despite every effort you made, he didn’t understand. 

Why couldn’t you see?

He refused to let go of your arms, his grip tightening with a gentle yet unyielding force that pulled you closer until your bodies were pressed together in the most intimate way possible. He refused to let you turn away, refusing to let you hide from him.

“No,” he murmured, his voice soft but unwavering, searching your face, his eyes piercing through the walls you’d built around yourself. “Tell me, why do you think you’re a burden to me...?” His voice softened, yet there was a quiet strength in it as if he needed you to hear this, to understand that this wasn’t just about him—this was about you, too.

You fought desperately to keep the sobs from breaking free, but with each word he spoke, your resolve unraveled, crumbling into a thousand fragile pieces. It felt unfair—the rawness of what he was making you confront, the painful truths he was forcing you to voice, truths you’d hidden deep inside, locked away where no one could see them.

The weight of everything pressing down on you became too much, and the tears finally fell, unbidden and unchecked. They streaked down your face, each one like a silent confession, and the words that followed were sharp, jagged, and full of the hurt you’d buried for so long. 

"I...I’m always too much. I’m...I’m not enough... That’s all I’ve ever been."

He couldn’t understand why you believed it—why you thought you were too much when all he saw was someone who was everything. But the anguish in your voice told him this was no simple admission; this was a revelation, raw and real. Without hesitation, he pulled you closer, his arms unyielding, encircling you in a protective embrace. His chest pressed against your trembling body, his warmth a stark contrast to the coldness you felt inside.

"You’re never too much," he said, his voice thick with conviction, with a fire that burned through the pain. "You’re always more than enough."

He rested his chin on your head, the words settling between you both like a fragile promise, as he felt the weight of your tears soaking into his shirt, your body shaking with the intensity of your emotions. 

In his arms, you felt exposed, your vulnerability laid bare in a way that terrified you. Every tremor in your body was a reminder of how small and helpless you felt, and it made you want to pull away. But Crowe held you tight, his embrace a lifeline that both soothed and shattered your heart.

You buried your face against his chest, unable to stop the flood of emotion, your voice barely a whisper as you spoke through your tears.

"You’re an idiot," you choked out, your words soaked in sorrow, self-doubt, and shame. 

Crowe let out a soft, almost tender chuckle, his fingers gently threading through your hair as he held you even closer. "Maybe I am an idiot," he murmured, the weight of your pain heavy in his words. "But I’m an idiot in love with you."

His confession hung in the air, and your heart skipped, the words reverberating in your mind like a distant echo, soft and haunting. 

In love with you...

It was a truth that seemed too unreal to accept, but your heart fluttered painfully in your chest, trapped by the weight of it. It felt as though it were desperately trying to break free, like a bird clawing at the bars of its cage, yearning to take flight but held back by everything you’d ever believed about yourself.

And yet, in his arms, something shifted. The ache didn’t vanish, but it softened, mingling with a strange, bittersweet warmth—hope and despair tangled together, impossible to untangle.

With a shuddering breath, you clung to Crowe, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for some tangible connection that would ground you, that would prove the words he spoke were more than just fleeting assurances. You needed to believe them, to feel the truth in them like a lifeline, even if every part of you doubted your worth.

"Why…?" you whispered, your voice barely audible as the vulnerability in your tone betrayed the fortress you’d built around your emotions. It quivered, heavy with a question you had long tried to suppress. "Why are you even in love with me...?"  

The air seemed to hold its breath.  

He didn’t hesitate, not for a second. His response wasn’t in words—at least, not at first. Instead, it was in the way his hands slid with unspoken reverence along your thighs, warm and deliberate, his touch leaving a trail of electricity that ignited every nerve in its path. His fingers curled slightly, anchoring you to him, as if you might disappear if he let go.  

He leaned in closer—closer than you thought possible, his movements smooth and deliberate, as though every inch he bridged between you had been planned in his mind a thousand times before. The faintest brush of his breath ghosted against your cheek, and then your lips, leaving you breathless before he even touched you.  

With a soft but insistent motion, he lifted you onto the edge of the desk, the cool surface grounding you amidst the rising storm inside. His hands remained steady, one firm at the curve of your waist, the other lingering on your thigh, his thumb tracing gentle circles that felt almost reverent. The act wasn’t rushed, nor hesitant—it was as though he were grounding himself, tethering both of you in this shared moment.  

Your faces aligned, the closeness so profound you could see every detail in his expression—the way his eyes held yours, unwavering, filled with something raw and consuming. That intensity rooted you in place, stealing the air from your lungs and replacing it with the weight of his longing.  

"Because," he finally murmured, his voice low and full of conviction, "loving you isn’t a choice. It’s like breathing—unconscious, instinctual, something I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to."  

The words hit you like a tidal wave, and as his lips hovered millimeters from yours, “There are so many reasons I love you..." His voice was soft, a low murmur that seemed to echo in the silence between you. 

His sincerity cut through the space, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. "You're so kind, so gentle... even the parts of you try to hide from everyone else."

Your chest tightened, every word he spoke seemed to reach deeper, stripping away the layers of doubt and fear you had built up over the years. But there was more—there was so much more that you weren’t prepared to hear.

He paused, his breath catching, and for a moment, it seemed like the weight of his emotions almost took him off guard. He exhaled slowly, his words coming out, "You're beautiful, smart, strong... and," he hesitated for a beat, the vulnerability in his eyes making your heartache. "From the moment I saw you trying to protect yourself, even when it looked like everything was going against you... when those guys tried to hurt you, and I ran in, only to get beat up myself—but the way you smiled after... after you had avoided me for so long... I realized then that I had fallen for you. Desperately. I love you more than I can say."

His confession knocked the breath from your lungs. Your heart stuttered in your chest, your mind reeling with the intensity of his words. He had seen that moment—the one you thought you could bury forever. The moment when you’d been cornered, vulnerable, and yet, somehow, you found the courage to stand your ground. 

He had seen it all, no matter how long you avoid him, and still, he loves you. 

Tears welled in your eyes, but they fell freely now, no longer hidden behind the walls you’d spent so long building. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, the emotional tidal wave crashing through you, leaving you breathless. Your hands remained clutching his shirt as if letting go would mean losing this feeling, this unspoken truth you didn’t know you needed.

"And my heart calls for your name. Every day…" you mumbled, your voice trembling under the weight of emotions you’d tried to suppress for what felt like forever. "No matter how many times I tried to stop it, it didn’t listen to me."

Crowe tilted his head slightly, his gaze softening as it met yours, though worry flickered at the edges. His lips curled into that familiar, dumb smile, the one that always seemed to deflect his deeper emotions. But his voice betrayed him, low and tinged with a concern that sent your stomach into knots. "If that's true, then why have you been avoiding me?"

The space between you was electric, the kind of silence that pulled at your chest, threatening to unravel you completely. You bit your lip, hesitating as your fingers brushed against the leaves of a nearby plant—something to ground you amidst the chaos inside. When you finally spoke, the words barely rose above the suffocating warmth of the greenhouse. "I didn’t know what to say."

His brows drew together, his smile faltering into something more genuine, more raw. "What do you mean? You’ve never had trouble talking to me before," he said, his voice tinged with a vulnerability that made your chest ache.

You shook your head slowly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze this time, even though it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. "It’s different now," you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

Crowe’s eyes searched yours, desperate to understand. "What’s different?" 

You took a shaky breath, the humid air thick in your lungs as though the weight of the moment mirrored the dense foliage surrounding you. His presence was overwhelming—the faint scent of his cologne, the way his fingers fidgeted as if resisting the urge to reach out to you. 

It all only made it harder to speak, but you forced the words out anyway, your voice fragile, each syllable trembling with the weight of unspoken truths.

"Because I…" you began, swallowing hard. "I don’t want to put you in a position where you feel like you owe me something. You’ve always been so… you. Full of ambition, full of drive, building these milestones for yourself that are so much bigger than anything I could ever imagine for me. I don’t want to… I don’t want to be something you’re burdened by." The confession tumbled out like rocks, sharp and heavy, scraping against your throat.

Crowe’s eyes softened, his dumb smile fading into something far more sincere. "A burden?" he echoed, as though the very thought was absurd. Slowly, he reached out, his hand hovering for just a moment before brushing against yours. "You think… that’s what you are to me?"

You shook your head quickly, even as your eyes burned with the threat of tears. "I’m scared, Crowe. Scared that one day, you’ll look at me and realize you deserve someone who doesn’t second-guess everything. Someone who can keep up with you."

He leaned even closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. "You don’t get it, do you?" he murmured, his voice low and earnest. "Every time I look at you, I don’t see a burden. I see someone I want to protect, someone I want to be around. Even when you overwork yourself, even when you’re too hard on yourself—hell, especially then."

His words made your chest tighten, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "But why? Why do you care so much? I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve that."

Crowe chuckled softly, shaking his head in disbelief, and that dumb, lopsided smile returned. "You don’t have to do anything to deserve it. It’s just you. And you’re worth every second of it."

You swallowed hard, his words sinking into your chest like a stone dropped into deep water. His gaze never wavered, holding you captive in its intensity. Slowly, he stepped closer, each movement deliberate, as if he were drawn by an unseen force he could no longer resist. His hand, strong and steady, found yours, his fingers curling fully around your own in a gesture so simple yet so profound. 

“And for the record,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the very air between you, “you’re the reason I’ve been able to keep going. So stop thinking I’m looking out for you because I feel like I have to. I’m looking out for you because…” His words trailed off for a heartbeat, his breath brushing your skin, before he finished with a raw vulnerability that left no room for doubt. “...you’re my reason.”

The world seemed to pause, the weight of his confession pressing against you like the tide before it crashed to shore. 

You barely had time to process it before he closed the remaining distance. His lips met yours in a rush of fervent need and quiet tenderness, a perfect contradiction that stole the breath from your lungs. The kiss was a confession in itself, fierce in its certainty yet impossibly gentle, as though he feared you might slip away if he wasn’t careful. 

His hands moved, one sliding up to cup the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, the other resting firmly at the small of your back, pulling you closer still. His touch was unyielding yet reverent like a vow made flesh. In that instant, all the doubts and fears you’d carried crumbled, falling away like ash in the wind. 

His kiss whispered truths your heart had longed to believe: that you were wanted, needed—not out of duty or pity, but for exactly who you were.

When the kiss finally broke, it wasn’t an ending but a breath—a moment to steady the hurricane of emotions swirling between you. Your lips tingled, your skin alight with the memory of his touch, and your heart felt as if it might burst from the sheer intensity of it all. A laugh bubbled up unbidden, light, and full of wonder, even as tears clung to your lashes, threatening to spill. This time, they weren’t born of sadness but of something brighter, fuller, more beautiful than words could hold.

Crowe’s forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the intimate space you now shared. His eyes searched yours, unguarded, their depths brimming with affection so profound it made your chest ache. 

You closed your eyes, allowing the warmth of his presence to wash over you, grounding you, anchoring you. “I wanted to tell you that I was afraid... afraid of being rejected,” you whispered, barely audible, your voice shaky but full of truth. “But I still wanted you to know." The words felt like a release, as though admitting them was finally freeing you from the weight that had been so familiar. 

“This... this burden, of never feeling perfect enough... it’s been with me my whole life.” The words escaped in a near whisper, barely audible, but Crowe caught them. He stood so close that his presence felt like a storm, powerful and inescapable, the intensity in his gaze pinning you in place.

His hand lifted with deliberate slowness as if savoring the space between you before his fingers brushed against your cheek. The warmth of his touch was gentle but firm, commanding your attention in a way that made your heart stutter. 

He tilted your chin upward, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw as his eyes locked with yours.  

“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, vibrating with an emotion that reached into your very core. You couldn’t look away, trapped by the sincerity and hunger that burned in his deep blue eyes. “You’re perfect to me. All of you—the fears, the flaws, the cracks you think make you weak. They’re everything I want. Everything I need.”

Your lips parted, the protest forming on your tongue—words meant to warn him, to remind him of the risks of being with you—but they never found the air. He leaned in, his forehead just brushing yours, his breath warm and intoxicating as his lips hovered over yours.  

“…The door’s locked,” he whispered, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “and there aren’t any cameras in here. No one’s going to interrupt us.”  

The promise in his words hung heavy, a shield against the world outside. But his nearness, his unrelenting presence, stole the air from your lungs. His lips found your neck with an aching tenderness, trailing a line of fire across your skin that left you trembling. His hands slid to your waist, unyielding, guiding you backward until the desk’s edge pressed against the backs of your thighs.  

“Crowe,” you breathed, your hands resting against his chest, trembling in the heat of the moment, a last, fragile barrier against the pull between you. “We can’t—”

He cut you off with a kiss, gentle at first, teasing, as if tasting the hesitation in your words. His lips were soft, coaxing, but with a hunger that grew the instant your resistance faltered. The kiss deepened, and the world seemed to tilt, the gravity of him drawing you in with an undeniable force. 

When he finally pulled back, his lips brushing against yours with each word, his voice was a low, quiet storm, vibrating through your senses.

“We can,” he whispered, his breath warm and intoxicating against your skin. His hands moved to your hips, firm and confident, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. His movements were fluid, a control that felt almost predatory, but also purposeful, as if he knew exactly what you needed before you did. 

"Just this once, please—let me show you," he murmured, his words a promise, a challenge. His tone was unwavering, leaving no room for doubt. 

He carried you, each step deliberate, each movement smooth and unhurried, like a predator securing its prey—except this felt different. This wasn’t a conquest; it was an invitation, of surrender and longing. As he set you down on the couch, the soft cushion beneath you was a stark contrast to the heat of his body, the tension that radiated off him like an electric charge.

You leaned back into the plush fabric, the weight of his presence pressing against your senses, his fingers moving with practiced precision, undoing the buttons of his vest one by one, each motion slow, deliberate. He let the clothing fall to the floor, the sound of it landing barely audible over the pounding of your heart. 

The air between you thickened with anticipation, the pull between you undeniable, each movement a promise, a slow unraveling of everything you had thought was impossible. And yet, here you were, caught in the storm of him, your breath quickening, the crowd of your desires finally, relentlessly, yearning for his touch.

The sound of his long-sleeved shirt buttons coming undone echoed in the stillness of the greenhouse, each one a deliberate step toward vulnerability. His shirt hung open, revealing the faint lines of muscle and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He stood before you, unguarded, his raw vulnerability on display.

His gaze bore into yours, dark and intense, as if every unspoken word between you had finally come to life. "You don't know how long I've dreamed of this," Crowe murmured, his voice thick with yearning, each syllable laced with a deep hunger for the moment that had been building between you both. "To be here with you, to love you without restraint—no games, no walls, just this, just us."

The weight of his words washed over you, the raw emotion in his voice striking a chord deep within. You could feel the air crackling with something undeniable, something that had been brewing for longer than either of you had admitted. His proximity, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, made it hard to breathe. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, every beat erratic, every second stretching between the two of you.

His lips crashed against yours once more, but this time it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a release. Each movement, every brush of his lips against yours, was a confession, a surrender of everything he had kept locked away. His mouth moved with a fervor that left you breathless, as though he was desperate to pour out everything he had been holding inside. 

His hand slid slowly up your thigh, warm and sure, sending an electric shock through your body. The touch was both possessive and gentle as if he was claiming you yet cherishing you all at once. He shifted slightly, tilting you back with an ease that made your pulse spike, deepening the kiss further, and pushing you to the edge of your control.

A sharp breath left your lips, your hands trembling as you placed them against his chest, trying to regain some semblance of space. "Crowe, we can't do this here," you whispered urgently, voice barely audible, but filled with a tension that threatened to break. You attempted to pull his hand away, but his grip only tightened, firm and unwavering, pulling you closer.

His eyes locked onto yours darkened with desire, yet there was something else there—a rawness, a vulnerability that you hadn't seen before. 

"Don’t move," he commanded softly, yet there was a quiet power in his voice that made your heart race even more. His touch never faltered, never wavered. "Not now. Not when I’ve waited so long for you to say the truth.”

The weight of his words, coupled with the heat of his body against yours, held you in place—trapped, but not unwilling. Every inch of you ached with the yearning he had revealed, the long-suppressed need to be close to you, to love you, to finally let go of everything that had kept him distant.

His forehead rested softly against yours, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine as it brushed against your lips. Your senses were overwhelmed by the moment, your gaze drifting downward as the dim, ethereal light of the indoor greenhouse wrapped around him like a cloak. 

Shadows danced across his dark brown skin, accentuating the depth of his features, and his deep blue eyes held you in an almost hypnotic gaze. His hair had come loose from its braid, falling around his face with a carefree messiness that made his presence feel all the more magnetic. 

The undone buttons of his shirt revealed just enough of his toned chest, the closeness between you thick with an unspoken intensity.

His eyes briefly flicked down to your legs, lingering for a moment before he returned to meet your gaze. Without a word, he moved closer, gently parting your legs with a subtle gesture that spoke volumes of his intention. 

"For you to not feel like a burden," he whispered, his voice a soft blend of desire and reassurance, "I need to show you, don't I?"

The words lingered between you, charged with emotion as he moved even closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that made your heart race. 

"After tonight," he continued, his voice steady yet tender, "you'll never feel like that again." His words, though simple, held a weight that made your breath catch, a quiet vow to erase every doubt and every insecurity that had ever haunted you.

· ─────── ⋆⋅ 🝣 ⋅⋆ ─────── ·

[gor3-hound]

KISS AND MAKE UP — NAOYA + TOJI

a/n: another commission for my faveeee @nexysworld. MWAH. just a heads up, naoya is referred to as reader n toji’s cousin just cause second cousin sounded weird in writing idk.

cw: 18+ content. daddy-daughter incest (toji), cousin incest (toji/naoya-ish. naoya/reader). threats + slapping (directed at naoya). misogyny. kinda maybe brief dub-con. p in v. oral (f + m receiving). fem!reader. slapping. hair pulling. creampie.

2.8k words

Your dad has been gone for the better part of a week when he decides to wander into the house one morning — surprisingly early giving his typical track record of showing up well past midnight. You’re nursing a cup of coffee, nodding in greeting as his gaze lands on you.

“My cousin is coming over later.” Toji huffs as soon as he steps into the kitchen, lazily leaning against the doorway. Irritation is written all over his features. “Play nice, y'hear? I don't need gramps bitchin’ at me. Y'know what Naoya is like with his daddy.”

Naoya. The mention of his name alone is enough to have you scowling, your expression twisting in a similar manner to Toji’s. That only seems to annoy your father further, an exasperated sigh spilling past his lips. “N’ don’t give me that look, kid. Or him, for that matter. I ain’t dealin’ with another one of his rants about how I raised my daughter with a shitty attitude.”

“He thinks any woman who breathes too loud isn’t raised right.” You counter, huffing as you set your coffee down on your counter.

“Ain’t my problem,” your dad replies easily, shrugging his shoulders. “You only have to see him once or twice a year. Suck it up.”

“How long is he even staying?”

Toji is an asshole, but he isn’t evil. He feels a little bad, considering how much you and your cousin tend to butt heads. His lips thin at your question, pressing together as he walks over to ruffle your hair and pull you against his side. “Couple ‘a days. Sorry, kid.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Naoya’s gotten at least a hundred times worse since you last saw him. It’d been a year or so since you were forced to be in his presence for more than an hour at a time, and now that he’s hit his twenties and has been getting more duties in the clan, he seems to think he’s God’s greatest gift. He’s not even a full-year older than you, and yet he loves giving you the whole ‘respect your elders, girl’ spiel everytime you so much as frown in his presence.

He’s been here for a day, and you’re already counting down the minutes until he leaves. Your dad said an important job came up — an excuse to escape Naoya, you’re certain — so you don’t even have him to try and attempt to get Naoya to ease up.

You might genuinely go insane before your dad decides to show up again. If you hear him say that you ‘missed a spot’ while making you clean up his mess one more goddamn time, you’re going to end up in a cell.

“If I’m going to cook for you,” you say in a low tone, swallowing thickly to attempt not to snap. If only to save the lecture you’d inevitably get from Naoya, then your father, and then the head of the clan when Naoya eventually went whining to his dad. “You can at least take the plate to the kitchen after.” “And why should I?” He scoffs, that insufferable grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he regards you with an icy stare. “You’re here. Isn’t this kind of thing the purpose of your… species?”

The muscle of your jaw ticks at his words. You can’t even muster up the strength to force a polite smile on your face, your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. Better to act like a proper lady than retaliate and have him being even more insufferable than usual. Your silence almost seems to piss him off more — you’re starting to think he gets a rise out of seeing you act out.

“You know, the women of this family are disgraceful.” He continues. “Not one of you was raised with proper manners. My father is too soft on all of you. When I am head of this clan, I plan to—”

“Please. Your own dad thinks you’re an asshole. He’s just waiting for an excuse to pass it onto someone else. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” You bite out, unable to hold your tongue any longer.

Silence fills the room for a few tense seconds. Naoya just… blinks at you, shock written over his features. Shock quickly turns to disbelief, as if the thought of you talking back to him was completely out of his realm of possibility. “Pathetic. You can’t even hear simple facts without growing emotional. The audacity you have to speak to me in such a way is…”

He trails off, lips curling into a sneer as he looks at you. “You should consider yourself lucky I even allow you to speak in my presence, you insolent little—”

“One more fuckin’ word.” The cold voice that cuts through Naoya’s words aren’t your own, but it is a voice you immediately recognise. Your head turns to face your father, the man standing in the doorway with a stony expression.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Naoya replies, though you don’t miss the slight waver in his voice.”I was simply correcting the behaviour you refuse to address. My father wouldn’t stand for this treatment of the heir of the—”

“Apologise to my fuckin’ daughter, or I’ll send you back to your daddy in a body bag, kid.” The words aren’t an empty threat — something you and Naoya seem to realise at the exact same time. You watch closely as your cousin swallows his pride, gaze falling to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, words barely audible. It’s a pathetic attempt, really. One your own father isn’t nearly satisfied with.

“Oh, now you wanna keep quiet, huh? Known you since you were a fuckin’ infant, and I’ve never known you to to know when to shut the fuck up. Say sorry properly.” Toji snaps. Naoya opens his mouth to give another half-hearted apology, but Toji is faster as he speaks up again. “Better be a good one.”

Your dad pauses briefly to think, then he’s stepping closer. “Y’know what? I think you should show you’re really sincere. Get on your knees, and say sorry to my kid.”

Naoya does an exceptionally good impression of a fish — mouth opening and closing multiple times as he stares blankly up at Toji. “You… You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t fuckin’ try me today. I’ve had shitty luck with the races, and I’d love to blow off some steam. I’m sick of you and that old man treatin’ us like shit.”

Naoya swallows hard, slowly rising from your battered sofa. He shifts slightly towards you, refusing to meet your gaze as he sinks down to his knees on the floor. “I apologise.”

“Better,” Toji hums, moving to stand behind you, guiding you to the spot Naoya was just sitting. He’s practically kneeling at your feet now, expression indecipherable. “Sit down, baby. Let’s get him to make it up to you, yeah?”

The tone of voice makes you shiver, eyes flicking up to your dad’s face. Between his soft coo and the way he’s looking at you, you feel your cheeks heat. It’s a familiar expression, but never one you’ve received when in the company of others. “Spread your legs for me, good girl.”

Naoya’s head snaps up then, eyes wide as he looks at Toji. You’re unable to school your own expression as you gaze down at Naoya, taking in the way he’s acting. You can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment, finally having him knocked down a few pegs. You swallow the lump forming in your throat, your heart fluttering nervously as you follow your dad’s command. 

“Show her how sorry you really are, hmm?” Toji purrs, all low as he takes a handful of Naoya’s dyed hair, forcing his face against your clothed cunt. He stiffens, but then he’s quickly melting against you, nuzzling closer to your heat. 

“Not so talkative now.” Toji scoffs, squatting down as he uses his grip as leverage to make Naoya rub against you more. The action draws a soft whine from the back of your throat, your head falling back against the sofa. “Got you actin’ like a well-trained dog, just from the scent of some pussy? You really have that much trouble gettin’ girls in bed, huh?”

Naoya bristles at his words, but he’s visibly more docile than usual as he allows Toji to guide him against you. You’re getting impatient yourself now, squirming against the cushions. 

“You want a taste, cousin?” And Naoya nods within seconds, eagerly opening his mouth and exhaling harshly. The hot air fans against the damp fabric of your panties in a way that instantly has heat shooting to your core. “Always bein’ a fuckin’ brat, think you even deserve it?”

Toji pulls Naoya back, and you find satisfaction in the pathetic little whine he lets out, even if you find yourself immediately missing his presence between your legs. 

“Daddy, please.” You breathe, voice a mix of needy and pleading. You instantly see the way he softens — something you only ever really get the luxury of seeing — before he lets go of Naoya’s hair. 

“Go on, then.” Toji murmurs, and Naoya doesn’t even blink before his fingers are desperately grasping at your skirt, bunching up the fabric at your waist and tugging your panties to the side before he dives in. 

A low, breathless ‘fuck’ spills past his lips as his tongue licks a long, wet stripe along your dripping cunt, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. He groans against you, nose nudging at your clit as he tongue-fucks you in earnest. His lashes flutter as he gazes up at you, the taste of you making him feel a little light-headed. 

You’ve never seen him so invested in anything. He has a lazy sort of arrogance that follows his every action, but he looks like nothing more than an over-excited puppy as he laps at you with an almost feverish intensity. His eyes are heavy lidded, fingers gripping onto your legs with a harshness that makes you think you’ll be left with bruises as a reminder of what happened. 

“Make her cum, and I might even let you have a treat,” Toji teases. Your peak is rapidly approaching by the time his voice takes your attention away from Naoya. You’d almost forgotten your dad was only feet away, watching the both of you closely. He’s clearly enjoying this — if the tent stretching his pants obscenely was anything to go by. 

Naoya is only spurred on by his words, dragging his mouth upwards until his lips suction around your clit. He sucks eagerly, tongue flicking against the swollen bud until you’re writhing and crying out beneath him. The way Toji sees it, the two of you have never gotten on so well. 

“Nao, please… need… just a little more.” You babble, hand reaching down to tug at his hair. He moans against you, tongue pressing flat against your clit. Your thighs clench around his head, body tensing as you gush all over his tongue. He keeps licking until he’s tugged away, hazy-eyed and hard as a rock. 

“My… treat?” Naoya mutters hoarsely. He’s never one to miss out on… anything that benefits him, really. He’s twitching in his trousers, leaking pre-cum steadily, and he’s just about ready to accept anything that’ll let him get off.

“Always an impatient brat.” Toji says under his breath, large hands coming down to position you on the sofa — hands and knees against the cushions — before stripping off his pants and boxers. “Think Naoya’s sorry, baby. Wanna return the favour while daddy has a turn on your pretty little pussy?”

You’re still panting from your previous orgasm, but the idea of being stuffed from both ends has your cunt pulsing. You flinch a little as your dad slides into you, whimpering softly as your walls flutter around him. You’re still sensitive, biting down on your lower lip to stifle your moans. 

“Aww, cute. Tryna be quiet, baby?” Toji coos, thrusting forward hard, just once, to make you squeal. “Naoya can help with that, yeah? Gonna let him fill that mouth?”

You nod, and Naoya considers that permission. You’ve never seen someone move so fast, his hands hastily pulling at his clothes. He slides onto the couch, kneeling in front of you. 

The only issue with his mouth no longer being preoccupied is he’s now capable of speaking again, and he makes that known to the entire room. He slowly slides his length past your lips, head titling back as the tight, wet heat of your mouth engulfs him. 

“Fuck, that’s good. I knew there had to be a reason my cousin kept you around, considering how useless you are at everything else.” As soon as the words leave his lips, the sharp, harsh sound of skin of skin fills the room. You don’t realise what happened at first, but Toji hips stutter at the exact moment Naoya lets out a sharp hiss of pain. 

Your dad hit him. Hard enough to have his cheek glowing red, his head cocked to the side from the force of the smack. You expect a tantrum, another speech. You get neither. 

His hips buck so violently his cock lodges itself deep in your throat, making you gag. Your eyes water at you look up at him, his pupils blown as a smug smile stretches across his face. 

“Weird little freak.” Your dad grunts, still fucking into you with further. His hands find your hips, pulling you back against his thrusts as you drool eagerly all over Naoya’s cock. 

“Guilty,” Naoya purrs in reply, words cocky and self-assured as he threads his hands in your hair to hold you steady, giving him the leverage he needs to fuck your face. 

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth when you’re talkin’ to my daughter, or I’ll make you sit in the corner and watch me play with her instead.” Toji growls. 

At least that seems to quieten him down, if only so he doesn’t have to give up the pleasure your mouth is bringing him. Naoya’s thighs begin to twitch at the same time his grip in your hair tightens. You work harder at licking along his length, sucking eagerly as he fucks your throat. 

“Come… coming, fuck.” Naoya hisses, forces the entirety of his length down your throat. You choke as his seed fills your throat, unable to do anything but swallow with your nose pressed firmly against his pelvis. You cough and splutter when he finally pulls out, a mix of cum and spit coating your lips and chin as he collapses in the corner of the couch. 

He watches lazily as your dad fucks you. Toji takes the opportunity to push your chest into the couch, nuzzling the nape of your neck to let you hear the quiet grunts he lets out against your skin as his chest presses against your back. His grip on your hips is tight, yanking you back to meet each of his thrusts. 

His cock hits that spongy spot inside of you that has you positively mewling with each jolt of his hips, his lips hot and hungry as he trails kisses along your skin. “Fuck, baby. So pretty. Such a good girl for me, so good… go on, cum for me, sweetheart. Show Naoya how good you are for daddy.”

His words are your undoing, a broken cry leaving you as you cream around his cock, slick coating his length and dripping down his balls. He thrusts lazily a few more times, biting down on your shoulder as he cums deep inside your trembling cunt. 

You flop down almost immediately, falling boneless against the couch. Your head falls against Naoya’s thigh, chest heaving with each panting breath you let out. 

“Might as well come up here,” Naoya hums with surprising softness, arm falling away from his side languidly. It’s about as open as an invitation to snuggle as you’re going to get. 

You shift up against his body, dropping down against his chest with a tired sigh. Toji just laughs, leaning back in his heels. “Christ. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Naoya glares at him, wrapping his arm around your waist. Your eyes are already shut, and Naoya’s close a moment later. Only moments later, you’re both passed out. 

“Brats.” Toji grumbles under his breath as he pulls a throw blanket around your sleeping forms, an unmistakable fondness to his tone. 

[jifloulette]

heads up . . ! not proofread.. 0.7k wrds!

you should be used to these midnight break-ins of shidou by now. he was your boyfriend after all and you didn't really tell him that he wasn't allowed to do it, you just gave him a reminder to text you if he were to do so. but him texting you meant giving you a heads up at least an hour before he was going to break in! though this attitude of your lover was something you were already familiar with..

now here he was, knocking on your bedroom window ever so quietly as to not wake up anyone else inside the house. you had just read the message he sent you three minutes ago and now he was already here, you knew he was fast in terms of running but to have walked that long from his place to yours in that small amount of time and without sweating seemed absolutely impossible??

"heyyyy baby!", shidou said in a low yet excited tone. he gives you a quick peck on the lip before going inside your bedroom. you looked obviously annoyed and he doesn't know why, he did give you a message before climbing up to the second floor of the house... "why'd you come here in such a short notice? you could've at least given me a bit of time to clean up and look good, you know!" you scold him to which he laughs and responds by giving you another quick peck on your forehead. "what were you doing here anyways? yer room's so messy..", he asks to which you just scoff and go back to your laptop, working on finishing this project of yours that was supposed to be due during christmas break, who even gives projects during christmas anyway??

it didn't even reach his usual three minute mark of bothering you before he pulled you out of your chair to a tight embrace on your bed, he seemed much more needy than last time but who you were to worry about that now? you were already working on something and here was your big baby of a boyfriend holding you in his arms as if it was a lifeline of his. "shidou! i'm literally working on the same project that i was doing when you barged here the last few times this week!", you remind him as you try to get off of him but really, your strength couldn't compare to his so it was useless. "okay okay, but do you reaaally need to be working on that now? ya could just do it the second i leave which would be in another hour or so!"

this was like a regular thing for him now, to give you a message five minutes before knocking on your window, then pulling you aside whatever you were working on after waiting at least three minutes, and then you'll just stay in his embrace the whole time he was there. that's how frequently these midnight break-ins occurred, you had memorized how long shidou took to send you a chat and to climb up to your bedroom. "how'd you even get here so quickly anyways.. it's at least a few kilometers from here to yours and you sent that message 3 minutes before already knocking at my window?" you ask, "well, i was already in front of your house when i sent it, just waited a bit before getting up here" he replied before giving you a kiss on your forehead. and before you knew it, you were already fast asleep on his chest, your project being long forgotten once again. even if shidou really wanted to hold you in his arms for as long as the night lasted, he was bound to be caught by your parents if he did. so once he knew that you were deep in your slumber, he laid you on your bed and put a blanket on top of you. but before he left, he needed to do one last thing.

when you woke up, you could've swore your bedroom did not look this.. clean? or unorganized? it looked like your boyfriend did a semi-good job of tidying it up, it still looked better than what it originally looked last night. you check your phone before seeing a message sent of 2:04 am — "heh.. cleaned ur room because im such a good boyfriend arent i??? make sure to gimme a kiss latr as a thank you gift ;)"

©🇯​​🇮​​🇫​​🇱​​🇴​​🇺​​🇱​​🇪​​🇹​​🇹​​🇪​, do not steal, translate, or repost any of my writings anywhere else. ౨ৎ

[the-witty-pen-name]

The Love Triangle From Hell (3)

Steve Harrington x F!Reader / Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Synopsis: Following PART TWO, Steve feels even more distant from his friends- especially you; Eddie reflects on memories he has of you two; Nancy and Jonathan work together for the paper; Robin does her best to navigate what being friends with you and Steve looks like; you seek comfort in one of the only ways you know how- calling Eddie

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: messy messy feelings; unrequited love; cursing; arguments; crying; angst angst angsty angst; allusions to violence; miscommunication; jealousy; kissing; implications of smut; horniness

A/N: You guys are literally the absolute best. I am having the best time writing this- I'm so inspired by all of you. The love you have shown this fic so far has me overwhelmed. Thank you for your kind words, you have helped me work through some serious writer's block. Your comments and reblogs are keeping me going fr

This is unedited; please let me know what you think and if I missed anything I should include as a warning.

This series with be 18+ in later chapters MINORS DNI

His hands are tangled in your hair and he’s pulling you in close for another searing kiss. He can’t catch his breath, but he’s just so desperate to stay close to you like this. Your lips are so soft against his and your mouth is so inviting as you yank him closer. You whimper against his lips and it makes him shiver. He feels weak in the knees as you feel so pliable to his touch. You melt into his embrace and sigh happily as his lips trail down your neck. 

“Want you,” you moan softly, tugging his hair. He groans at the sensation. “Need you so bad.” 

“‘M gonna take care of you,” he promises, bringing his lips back to yours. 

“Love you,” you moan.

Before he finds out  if he says it back, his alarm goes off and he’s brought back to his reality. He groans disappointedly, covering his ears with his pillow- desperate for a couple more minutes with dream you. There’s a bang at his door. 

“Steve! Turn that shit off!” Eddie calls from the other side of the door. He’s yelling but his tone is playful. Steve hits his alarm off and drudges out of bed finally. Eddie has coffee made and Steve forgets anything is wrong at the moment. 

“Did she say anything last night?” Steve asks groggily as he pours himself a cup. 

“Um, not really,” Eddie replies, taking a moment to think about it. “I mean, yes but not about anything that we don’t know already. She’s conflicted, she doesn’t know what to think or feel. She just wants time.” 

“Okay,” Steve replies, leaning up against the counter. He takes a sip of his coffee. He needs to get to work. He can talk about this with Robin when he gets there. 

When you called Eddie, you didn’t expect Steve to answer. You thought maybe he’d say something- you wanted him too. But he didn’t. You couldn’t read him anymore.

Eddie was thrilled to hear your voice. He’d missed you, and he’d missed talking to you. He wanted that piece back as soon as he could get it. He reveled in the way his name sounded coming from you. 

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize, “I didn’t mean to upset Steve- I heard the way he dropped the phone down…” 

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he says compassionately. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He’s met with a sad feeling of silence. 

“I’m happy you called,” he says gently. He hopes the sentiment makes you feel better. 

“I’ve missed you,” you admit, and Eddie feels like his heart might swell out of his chest. 

“It’s hard when the two people who you talk about everything with are the people you want to talk about,” you joke, and he laughs with you. 

“You can talk shit about me,” he teases and he hears you groan. He bites his lip, holding back a smile. 

“How are you doing?” You ask, changing the subject. 

“Much better now,” he flirts. 

“How are you doing, really?” You ask again, your voice sounding more fragile. 

“I meant, honestly- not great. But not worse than anyone else is doing right now.” 

“Yeah…” 

“I miss you a lot too,” he admits. He runs a hand through his hair, and it reminds him of how amazing it felt the last time you played with his hair. He’s craving that touch so badly. 

When you both were in high school, Eddie went out of his way to make sure you always had a seat at the table. He’d notice as you stood with your cafeteria tray, waiting for Steve to realize there was no open seat for you at his table. He’d wave obnoxiously to catch your eye and he’d smile at the way you’d get shy from the attention. He’d point at the empty seat next to him, and he’d grin as your eyes light up in realization you had a spot. You’d shuffle through the crowd and take your seat next to him. You’d take a seat and ruffle his hair in your hands. 

Eddie was always a creature of habit. As much as he exudes chaos, he actually thrives in having a routine. Don’t get him wrong- it’s never been a good routine… but it’s routine nonetheless. In high school it was a lot of the same. Tuesdays, Corroded Coffin played at The Hideout. He would get home way too late and never get in bed until close to 3am. Wednesday mornings, he’d sleep through his alarm and stroll into first period consistently 10ish minutes late. Thursdays he prepped for Hellfire, and then of course, the piece the resistance was Friday. Hellfire. An epic campaign that would run several hours and ensure the most recent shit week had been worth it to make it to that moment. 

He remembers that he was paralyzed when the group proposed to postpone Hellfire one time his first senior year. It snaps him out of his thoughts, as he was so wrapped up in you- and how close you were sitting. Eddie knew that hypothetically, it shouldn’t matter if the date changes. However, he couldn’t wrap his head around change. He hated it- still does. A disruption from his status quo throws off his entire week and it will take him too long to mentally recover. He knew that he came off as a hard ass, but he prefers it than trying to explain his mind to his friends. He had felt  his jaw tighten as he tried to rationalize with himself that it can be okay to switch it up. He unclenched his fists once he realized that he was making his knuckles white unintentionally. 

“Uh yeah, no problem. Saturday’s fine,” he was able to manage through gritted teeth. He relaxed when he could look past himself and see his friends smile, thanking him and happily chatting about the campaign. He smiled when he observed that his decision made everyone happy. That for him outweighed the internal struggle. 

He didn’t really listen to the reason everyone wanted to reschedule, but he picked up on after the fact that everyone is talking about the Snow Ball. He couldn’t help but recoil back into himself as his friends talked about their plans to go- who they’re asking, what suit they’re getting, what songs would play, and whatever. He couldn’t have cared less. Unless… 

His eyes wandered to sneak a glance at you. He wondered if you had plans- maybe you're hoping someone asks you. Maybe, he’s lucky and you were hoping that someone would be him. He wondered if you had a date. Maybe you already had been asked. It’s not like you had been aware of the way Eddie’s felt about you- unrequited feelings that tugged on his focus constantly since he’s known you. You caught his eye and offered him a shy smile and he could crumble. 

Eddie immediately averted his gaze, and focused his attention back on his friends. He ignored the way his face suddenly became so warm and he ignored the butterflies that were swarming around in his stomach. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on these feelings- he knew that there’s no way you feel the same. Who could possibly like him? 

He felt a pressure when the freshman looked at him, one of them having asked Eddie about his own plans. Eddie sees the way the kids look up to him, they idolize him. He knows they think he’s cool. He can’t let that go just yet, he loved it too much. He needed it. He wanted to have them hang on to this version of him for as long as they’d believe in it. 

So, despite his usual distaste in school sanctioned functions, he did not want to allow the kids to think he couldn’t score a date. He could only blame society so much before they realized it’s actually his own fear of putting himself out there that cramped his dating life more than anything else. He then resolves that he needs a date to this dance. He tells himself that it’s for the freshman, to keep up the cool facade or whatever. But in actuality, he just wanted to ask you because he wants to ask you out. It’s his perfect window of opportunity. 

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it, honestly,” you said, when one of the freshmen asked you if you had plans. “I’d been so busy with the play, I haven’t had a chance.” Eddie watched as you glanced over to Steve’s table. “Steve and I usually would go to this kinda thing,” you said quickly, and Eddie could see your apprehension despite your best attempt to hide it. “We’ll probably go as friends again.” 

He said nothing. 

A few days later, you called Eddie and he could immediately tell you’re upset. You’re doing your best to hold it together but he can tell you’re almost at your breaking point. 

“Hey,” you say, your voice straining as you try not to cry. “I know this is totally not your thing, but I’m kind of in a bind.” 

“What can I do?” He asked, sitting up straight on his bed. He was getting ready to locate his shoes or his keys- thinking you’re in trouble somewhere. He’ddrop anything to come get you. 

“I know you’d probably rather do literally anything else, but um, I have two tickets to the Snow Ball and I already bought a dress…” 

“I thought you’d be going with Steve?” He asked. You sniffled. 

“Um, yeah I kind of just assumed he’d take me. I didn’t realize that he asked out Nancy Wheeler,” you choked back tears. “I mean it’s not like that,” you lied, maybe not to Eddie but more to yourself, “we’re just friends. But I still thought He and I would be going together like as friends again- you know? But, uh, yeah- he is taking like a real date.” 

“I know you’d hate it, and I will make it up to you. But, I already bought the tickets and I can’t get my money back. It’s like not a date or anything, just like a friend thing…” 

“I’d be happy to take you,” he replied, sincerely. He can tell you were expecting him to fight you on it. When would you catch on that he’s willing to do anything for you? 

“Eddie, thank you so much,” you sniffled, still trying your best to keep it cool. “I owe you one,” your voice cracks and you hang up quickly before he gets a chance to say anything. 

Eddie didn’t really understand back then why you were even friends with Steve to begin with. Eddie thought Steve, frankly, was a total douchebag. However, once he actually got to know Steve- it was a different story. He couldn’t resent Steve. He loved him like a brother now. And once Eddie got to know the Steve you’ve always known, your feelings for him made sense. But at the same time, Eddie held his tongue for all the things Steve did or didn’t do for so long. Steve was good guy at his core, Eddie understood. But his actions didn’t reflect that in Eddie’s eyes. But it wasn’t his place to tell you that. It didn’t seem right. You’d known Steve so much longer than him. 

Nancy and Jonathan invited you and Robin to go with them to watch Lucas’ basketball game. You were excited to get out of your little apartment and support Lucas. Jonathan was photographing it for The Hawkins Post. Jonathan paced up and down the court side to get photos, and you sat up in the bleachers with Nancy and Robin. You were never one to go to school things really, but it was Lucas’s senior year and it was a big game- of course you were going to be there. 

“It feels weird, Steve not being here,” Nancy whispers to you and you nod in agreement. 

“Yeah, everything just feels weird right now,” you agree. “You and Jonathan are okay?” 

“We’re good. We’re doing good, um, still working through stuff but we’re going to just work through it.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Robin?” Nancy asks, and Robin turns her head to pay attention. “How’s things with Vicky?” 

Robin’s face turns tomato red. “Fine,” she mumbles, happily. “I’m gonna hang out with her tomorrow.” You elbow her teasingly, making her blush redden. 

“How’s it feeling? Being the best at all of this out of us?” You tease. 

“I don’t know,” she’s so embarrassed, it’s so sweet. “We both just like each other- it’s not that complicated. She’s so great.” 

The three of you turn your attention back to the game at the sound of the whistle. You clapped and cheered the loudest whenever Lucas had the ball. He tried to plead with the lot of you to tone it down, casting weary looks in your direction. You couldn’t help yourselves. You felt so proud of him. 

You decide to take a walk to the concession stands and get some snacks for everyone. You order four sodas and two large popcorns- one for Jonathan and Nancy and one for you and Robin. You fish the cash out of the front pocket of your jeans, and hand it to the kid working the window. You thank him, and balance it all in your hands to navigate carefully back to the stands. 

You see a familiar face coming down the hallway, sprinting. For a moment, you can’t help the smile that forms across the expanse of your face until you remember what’s been going on. Your face falls, and you feel so stupid for being excited to see him when it hits you again all at once. 

You don’t think Steve knew you’d all be here, because he looks just as surprised to see you. He stops and his sneakers squeak across the polished gym floor. He looks at you with an expression of pure panic. He totally didn’t think you’d be here. And you’re surprised he came alone- but of course he did, he’s Steve. Of course, he’s going to show up to every game for Lucas. You shouldn’t expect any less. It still takes you back. 

“Can I help with those?” he asked, gesturing for you to pass some stuff to him. You nod, and tilt so he can take some of the things from your grasp. 

“Where are you sitting?” He asks, and you nod your head towards Robin and Nancy. His face deflates. “Ah, okay.” He walks over with you, and he passes the items in his hand off to Robin. He moves aside so you can walk back into your spot. 

“Thanks, Steve,” you offer him a soft smile, appreciating the effort despite the circumstances.

“Yeah of course,” he mutters, backing away, lingering for a moment because the seat that’s usually there for him between you and Robin isn’t there. He quickly pulls himself out of his thoughts and just heads over to the next row of bleachers, finding a seat next to a couple of his old basketball teammates that are here for their little brothers. 

Steve can’t even focus on the game,  he keeps trying to steal glances of you from his peripheral vision. He wants to know what Robin said that made you laugh like that, and he wished he could have heard your laugh- but you’re too far away from him. He watches as your jaw drops at something Nancy tells you, and he watches how you cheer so happily for Lucas. He wants to know if this is bothering you the way it’s bothering him. You look like you’re keeping it together and he wants to know if that could truly be the case. 

Even when you’re carrying so much hurt, you give off such a radiance that Steve and he’s sure everyone else is just drawn into. Your pretty smile and your bright eyes are all he can think about- he only knows when to cheer when he feels the people around him move. He smiles when you stand up and pose, pointing to Lucas- then Lucas matches it, giving it back to you. He watches as you both share that moment of just pure joy, and his heart aches. He doesn’t know if he could ever make you that happy. 

When the game was over, you looked to see if you could find Steve but there was no sign of him. You all invited Lucas to go out for celebratory pizza for his big win, but he wanted to go with his teammates. The plan fizzled pretty much after that. Robin wanted to get home so she could call Vicky and Jonathan and Nancy wanted to head home so Jonathan could start developing his photos. When you and Robin are walking out, you see a familiar van. 

“I’ll bum a ride from Nancy,” Robin assures you, pushing you in Eddie’s direction. She waves to Eddie from a distance and then jogs to catch up with Nancy and Jonathan. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask with a smile. He pushes himself off of the hood of his van and walks over to you, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. 

“I thought you might be here,” he quips. “Plus, I had to poke my head in- Sinclair is some big shot apparently?” he jokes, “I had to check out for a few minutes.”

“He’s really great,” you agree. 

“Was Steve here?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah I saw him. He didn’t really stay either- I mean he stayed for the game, but we didn’t talk really.” You shrug. 

“Well,” he says, trying to optimistically change the subject, “Do you wanna get out of here? I could give you a ride home or we could get food or something- or even just drive around and not talk. I’m not picky.” 

He looks so beautiful like this, you observe. The sky is pitch black but the lights in the parking lot illuminate him perfectly with a soft glow. His hair is wonderfully messy and his smile is making it hard for you to breathe. Has he always looked like this? You wonder, astonished as it hits you all at once. He’s gorgeous. Your eyes linger, taking in every little detail you’ve overlooked before. He waves his hand in front of your face to snap you out of your trance. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he tisks. 

“Looking at you like what?”

“Like you’re trying to jump my bones,” he chuckles. Your face warms, and suddenly you realize how long you must have been staring. 

“Ha, right,” you joke sarcastically, or at least, trying to joke sarcastically. You walk past him and get into the passenger side of the van and try your best to compose yourself in the few seconds it takes for him to follow suit. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says, turning over the ignition, “where to?”

“Can we just drive around like we used to?” you ask- the circumstances of tonight making you feel so nostalgic. 

“Of course we can,” he hums, passing you the case of his cassettes- a familiar and welcomed sight for your tired eyes. 

You watch Eddie as he drives, and observe the way the muscles in his arms flex ever so subtly as he turns the wheel. You watch his ringed fingers tap across the top of the steering wheel and you can’t help it the way your mind wanders. You’re so wrapped up in the way his hair sways so effortlessly and the movement of his jaw as he sings, you don’t even notice that Steve was leaving the gym just in time to see you both drive away. 

After a little while of aimless driving, and hitting up the drive thru, Eddie ends up parking at Lover’s Lake when neither of you are ready to go home just yet. 

“Eddie?” You ask absentmindedly, finishing off the milkshake he got you. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” he replies, also finishing his, but with an obnoxiously loud suck of his straw- determined to get every last sip. 

“Why do you like me?” you ask, cringing almost immediately. You think you sound like a middle schooler or something- you’re so embarrassed. His eyes widen for a brief second, contemplating his answer. He tosses the empty cup into the back. 

“First off,” he criticizes teasingly, “I did not say I liked you- I’m in love with you. Get your facts straight, ma’am.” 

“My apologies,” you giggle, holding your hands up in defeat.

“I mean- I love everything about you; always have,” he starts. “You’re sweet and kind. I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re incredible, and sometimes I can’t figure out why you wanted to ever be friends with me in the first place.”

“Eddie?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Would you kiss me?” 

Eddie’s a goner when you’re looking at him with those doe eyes. More than anything he wants to lunge across and close the space between you. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. It takes every fiber of his being to hold himself back..

“I don’t know if I can kiss you without knowing if I could ever kiss you again,” He whispers, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning in towards you. His hand lifts to hold your cheek and suddenly he’s so close. Closer than the two of you have ever been. His lips are tantalizingly close to yours when his forehead touches yours. A huge bang on the side of the van scares you both away from each other. 

“Give her time, my ass, Munson! Get the fuck out here! Get your fucking hands off my girl!”

Taglist:

@sunshinepeachx @downbear @fanlifeaamt @exploding-bonbon @losingmygrasponreality @skiddypiddy @andvys @djodirt @moonlightsolo @kyga01 @sheisjoeschateau @melaninjhs

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (sins)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: Be aware of time jumps and how some events may not match the canon or its timeline.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: the brave

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The cold bites harder now, even in the Riverlands. Autumn is creeping closer, and Jaime Lannister feels every inch of it in the damp, miserable confines of the Stark camp. He sits on the rough wooden bench of his prison tent, his armor stripped, his hands bound by iron chains that rattle with every movement. The once-golden lion is tarnished now, his pride battered by weeks of captivity.

But it isn’t the cold or the humiliation that gnaws at him the most.

It’s you.

The thought of you lingers, unbidden, no matter how hard he tries to banish it. You’ve haunted his dreams since Winterfell—the way you stood by Bran’s bedside, the sorrow etched into your face. He’d told himself that time and distance would fade those feelings, that the guilt and longing would wither away like a flame denied air. Instead, they’ve grown, consuming him from within.

And now, as he sits in the heart of his enemy’s camp, surrounded by wolves, he swears he saw you earlier. It was just a fleeting glimpse—someone passing by the edge of the campfires, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak—but his heart had leapt at the sight. His mind betrayed him, conjuring the image of your face beneath the hood. He told himself it couldn’t be you. You would be in Winterfell, or wherever the Starks had scattered in their grief. You wouldn’t be here, amidst soldiers and war.

Yet, he couldn’t shake the thought.

The tent flap rustles, and Jaime looks up to see Robb Stark stride in, Grey Wind at his side. The direwolf’s presence is a constant reminder of his vulnerability; the beast’s yellow eyes seem to pierce through him, a predator sizing up its prey.

“Kingslayer,” Robb greets coldly, his voice steady and sharp. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t offer even the pretense of civility. He stands tall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his youth masked by the steel resolve in his eyes.

Jaime leans back against the post, smirking despite himself. “Your Grace,” he replies, his tone mocking as he inclines his head slightly. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Robb ignores the jibe, his expression unyielding. “How many men does your father have? Where will he strike next?”

Jaime lets out a short, derisive laugh. “Straight to business, I see. I’d hoped for at least a proper interrogation—some chains, perhaps a few bruises.”

Robb doesn’t rise to the bait, his gaze steady. “I don’t need chains to make you talk, Lannister. The fact that you’re here, bound and defeated, is enough proof of that.”

Jaime’s smirk falters for a moment. He shifts, the chains rattling, before leaning forward slightly. “You’re wasting your time, boy. Do you think I’d betray my father? My family? You’re a Stark; you should know better than that.”

Robb steps closer, his jaw tightening. “You call yourself a knight, yet you killed your king. You’re no man of honor. You’re a coward hiding behind a lion’s shield.”

The words hit their mark, but Jaime doesn’t let it show. Instead, he tilts his head, studying Robb. “Honor’s overrated,” he says lightly, though the edge in his voice betrays his inner turmoil. “It won’t bring your father back, will it?”

The animosity in the air thickens, Grey Wind letting out a low growl at Jaime’s words. Robb’s hand grips the hilt of his sword tighter, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Careful, Lannister,” Robb warns, his voice a low growl of its own.

Jaime meets his gaze, unflinching, though his mind is already elsewhere. He debates for a moment whether to ask, whether it will make him seem weak, but the words slip out before he can stop them.

“I saw her,” he says quietly, his tone lacking the usual mockery.

Robb’s brows furrow. “Who?”

“Your sister,” Jaime replies, his voice tightening. “Y/N.”

The name feels foreign on his tongue, too precious for someone like him to speak aloud.

Robb stiffens, his blue eyes narrowing. “You dare speak her name?”

Jaime doesn’t back down. “Is she here?”

Robb doesn’t answer immediately, his silence speaking volumes. Jaime’s chest tightens, the faint flicker of hope igniting despite himself.

“I thought I saw her,” Jaime continues, his voice softer now, the chains clinking faintly as he shifts forward. “In the camp. Tell me—was it her?”

Robb’s expression hardens. “What business do you have with my sister?”

“None,” Jaime admits, though the lie is bitter in his mouth. “I just… wondered.”

Robb steps closer, his voice dropping. “You don’t have the right to wonder, Kingslayer. My sister is none of your concern. She stays far away from men like you.”

Jaime doesn’t flinch, though the words sting more than he cares to admit. He forces a smirk onto his face, leaning back against the post once more. “Good. She’s better off that way.”

Robb watches him for a long moment, as if searching for some hidden motive. Finally, he turns, calling Grey Wind to his side.

“You’ll rot in this cage, Lannister,” Robb says over his shoulder as he strides toward the tent’s entrance. “And when the time comes, you’ll answer for everything you’ve done.”

The tent flap falls closed behind him, leaving Jaime alone with his thoughts once more. He exhales slowly, the weight of the chains pressing into his wrists.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter if it was you or not. That he’s a fool for even caring.

But deep down, he knows the truth. Even in this cage, even in the shadow of death, his thoughts remain bound to you. A silent torment, far worse than the chains that bind him.

Jaime’s wrists ache from the constant pull of chains as he’s dragged along by Robb’s men. His boots sink into the damp earth with every step, the heavy mud clinging to him as if the North itself wants to swallow him whole. After weeks of captivity he feels more like a tethered dog than a lion, yanked along as the wolves move their camp to higher ground.

His head is lowered, his hair now dulled and dirtied, but a low growl makes him glance up. His heart stutters in his chest.

It’s him.

Winter, the pale direwolf, stands motionless at the edge of the camp, his silver-white coat shimmering in the faint sunlight. His icy blue eyes bore into him, unblinking, filled with a quiet menace. Jaime halts for a moment, his breath catching. He’d only seen him briefly at Winterfell, always at your side, a specter of your presence.

If Winter is here, then so are you.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a familiar figure emerges behind the wolf. His chest tightens at the sight of you—wrapped in a dark cloak, your hair loose, untouched by the grime of war that clings to everyone else. Your face is pale but calm, a stark contrast to the storm Jaime feels rising within himself.

And then Catelyn Stark appears.

She strides forward with purpose, her eyes blazing with fury as she spots him. You follow behind her, hesitant but present, and Jaime feels the weight of your gaze even if it doesn’t meet his directly.

The men dragging him stop as Lady Stark approaches, her voice sharp as the northern wind. “Hold him,” she orders, her tone brooking no argument. The guards immediately comply, gripping Jaime by the arms and halting his progress.

Catelyn steps closer, her jaw tight with barely-contained anger. “So,” she says, her voice low but seething, “this is where the Kingslayer finds himself. Dragged through the mud like the filth he is.”

Jaime lifts his head, forcing a smirk onto his face despite the anxiety coiling in his chest. “Lady Stark,” he greets, his tone mocking but hollow. “A pleasure, as always.”

Her hand twitches as if she’s tempted to strike him, but she holds back, her fury starting to resurfice. “You dare speak to me after all you’ve done?” she snaps. “After my son lies broken because of you?”

His smirk falters, the weight of her words settling over him like a shroud. He forces himself to hold her gaze, though his voice comes quieter this time. “I’ve already answered for that to your son. What more would you have me say?”

Catelyn takes another step forward, her expression hardening. “You could start by begging for your life, though even that wouldn’t be enough.”

Jaime shifts, the chains clinking faintly. “Begging doesn’t suit me. But if it would ease your grief, strike me down now.”

For a moment, her hand moves to her dagger, her knuckles white with tension. Jaime doesn’t flinch, meeting her glare with steady defiance. The silence between them stretches, thick and suffocating, until a soft voice breaks it.

“Mother.”

Your tone is quiet but firm, and it’s enough to make Catelyn pause. She turns her head slightly to look at you, her grip on her dagger loosening. Jaime’s eyes dart to you, his chest tightening as he takes in your expression—calm but guarded, your gaze flickering briefly to his before dropping away.

“He’s not worth it,” you say softly, though there’s an edge to your voice that Jaime doesn’t miss. “Let him rot in the cage he’s made for himself.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Jaime swallows hard, forcing his expression into something unreadable. He should be grateful for your intervention, but your dismissal stings in a way he can’t quite explain.

Catelyn hesitates, her fury tempered by your presence. Finally, she exhales sharply, stepping back. “You’re right,” she says, though her voice is still tight with anger. “He isn’t worth it.”

She turns to the guards, her tone curt. “Take him away. Make sure he’s secure.”

The men nod, yanking Jaime forward once more. As he’s dragged past you, he risks a glance in your direction. You’re watching him now, your expression unreadable, though there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—disdain, perhaps, or pity.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. What could he possibly say? That he thinks of you more than he should? That your wolf haunts his dreams as much as you do? That he still carries the weight of Bran’s fall, that the deed has begun to feel like a noose around his neck?

Instead, he says nothing, allowing himself to be pulled back into the camp, his chains rattling against the ground.

That night, as he sits alone in his makeshift cage, Jaime’s thoughts refuse to quiet. Your voice echoes in his mind, soft but cutting: Let him rot in the cage he’s made for himself.

And maybe you’re right.

He presses his hands to his face, the cool iron of the shackles biting into his skin. For all his arrogance, for all his bravado, Jaime Lannister feels the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.

And through it all, he can’t stop thinking about you. About the way you looked at him—not with fear, not with anger, but with something far worse. Indifference.

For the first time, Jaime wonders if the cage he’s trapped in isn’t one of iron and chains but one of his own making—woven from lies, guilt, and the ghosts of what might have been.

The week crawls by in the cold, damp cage Jaime Lannister has come to know as his new home. Each day feels heavier than the last, the chains at his wrists a constant reminder of how far he has fallen: a prisoner of war, kept alive for reasons he can only guess.

He leans back against the wooden post, his head tilted upward as he watches the stars through a small gap in the tent’s fabric. It’s one of the few comforts he has—staring at the sky and pretending, for a moment, that he isn’t shackled like an animal.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. They’re too quiet to belong to one of Robb’s guards. Jaime sits up straighter, his senses sharpening as the tent flap is pulled aside.

Lady Catelyn Stark steps inside, her face set in grim determination. The flickering torchlight casts shadows across her features, making her look even more formidable than usual. Behind her stands a tall, broad-shouldered woman clad in armor—her presence impossible to miss. Jaime recognizes her instantly: Brienne of Tarth.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Jaime says, his voice dry as he sits forward, his chains clinking faintly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night visit, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn doesn’t respond immediately. She steps closer, her piercing blue eyes locking onto his. Brienne remains just inside the entrance, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, watching him like a hawk.

“I’ve come to make a bargain,” Catelyn says finally, her tone low but firm.

Jaime raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “A bargain? How intriguing. And here I thought you only kept me alive so your son could parade me through the Riverlands like a prize stag.”

Catelyn’s lips tighten, but she doesn’t rise to his bait. Instead, she steps even closer, standing just out of his reach. “My daughters,” she says, her voice heavy with emotion. “Sansa and Arya. They’re in King’s Landing, held by your family.”

Jaime leans back slightly, his smirk faltering. “Ah, so this is about them. And here I thought you’d come to finally finish me off.”

“I’ll do what I must to protect my children,” Catelyn snaps, her voice cutting through the cold air. “Even if it means dealing with you.”

Jaime studies her for a moment, his gaze flicking to Brienne before returning to Catelyn. “And what exactly do you propose, my lady?”

Catelyn straightens, her expression hardening. “You will go to King’s Landing. Brienne will escort you there. In exchange, you will ensure the safe return of my daughters.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Then Jaime chuckles, the sound low and humorless. “You’re asking me to trust you? To believe that I’ll make it to King’s Landing in one piece with your she-knight as my escort?”

Brienne bristles at the insult, stepping forward, but Catelyn holds up a hand to stop her.

“I’m not asking,” Catelyn says coldly. “This is not a negotiation. I will not sit idly by while my daughters remain hostages to your family’s schemes. You’re going, Lannister—whether you like it or not.”

Jaime tilts his head, considering her words. “And what does your son, the King in the North, think of this… arrangement?”

Catelyn’s expression darkens. “Robb doesn’t know. And he won’t know.”

At that, Jaime’s smirk returns, though there’s a sharpness to it now. “Ah, so this is treason. How delightfully unexpected from the honorable Lady Stark.”

Catelyn steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “If you ever speak of this to anyone, I will have you hunted down and killed before you can utter a single word. Do you understand me, Lannister?”

Jaime meets her gaze, his smirk fading as the weight of her words sinks in. He can see the desperation in her eyes, the fierce determination of a mother willing to risk everything for her children. It’s a look he knows well—he’s seen it in Cersei’s eyes more times than he can count.

“Fine,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to play the dutiful knight. I’m not doing this for you, Lady Stark.”

“I don’t care why you do it,” Catelyn replies sharply. She turns to Brienne, nodding. “Release him.”

Brienne steps forward, her movements deliberate as she unlocks the chains binding Jaime’s wrists. He rubs them absently, the cool air biting at the raw skin beneath.

“Be warned, Lannister,” Brienne says, her voice steady but firm. “If you so much as think of trying to escape, I will kill you.”

Jaime smirks, his gaze flicking to her. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, my lady. I’ve heard you’re quite the swordswoman. It would be a shame to miss the opportunity to see that skill firsthand.”

Brienne doesn’t rise to his bait, stepping back as Catelyn moves toward the tent’s entrance. She glances back at Jaime, her expression unreadable.

“Pray that my daughters return safely,” she says quietly. “For your sake.”

With that, she leaves the tent, Brienne following close behind. Jaime watches them go, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The chains may be gone, but the weight of what lies ahead feels heavier than ever.

The night is dark, the moon hidden behind thick clouds as Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth slip through the edges of the Stark camp. The cold air bites at Jaime’s skin, but he keeps his discomfort to himself, his smirk firmly in place despite the ache in his muscles. The rattling of his chains has been replaced by the quiet shuffle of his boots on the damp earth, a small mercy he’s too proud to admit he appreciates.

Brienne leads the way, her broad shoulders hunched and her hand never far from the hilt of her sword. Jaime follows reluctantly, his steps slower than hers as if dragging his feet might somehow delay the inevitable.

“You’re remarkably quiet, Ser Brienne,” Jaime says after a while, his tone light but laced with mockery. “I’d almost forgotten you could speak. Do the Maiden herself guide your steps in this noble act of treason?”

Brienne doesn’t respond, her jaw tightening as she presses forward.

“Come now,” Jaime continues, his smirk widening. “We’re far enough from the camp. Surely you can share a word or two with your prisoner. Or do you fear the wolves might overhear us?”

She glances back at him briefly, her blue eyes cold. “You’d do well to keep your voice down, Kingslayer.”

“Oh, I see,” Jaime drawls, feigning understanding. “You’re brooding, aren’t you? Thinking of how your honor is tarnished, sneaking me away like a thief in the night. Do you think your dear Lady Stark would weep for you if she knew the shame you bear?”

“I’m doing this for her daughters,” Brienne snaps, her voice low but fierce. “Not for you. Don’t mistake my duty and oath for anything else.”

Jaime chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Duty. Oath. Such a fine excuse for treachery.”

Before Brienne can respond, a low growl pierces the air, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Jaime freezes, his smirk slipping as he looks ahead.

From the shadows, Winter emerges, his pale fur gleaming faintly in the moonlight. The massive direwolf stands rigid, his icy blue eyes locked on Jaime with unmistakable menace. Behind him, a figure steps into view, cloaked and armed—a bow drawn and an arrow pointed directly at Jaime’s chest.

It’s you.

Jaime’s heart stutters in his chest, though he forces his expression to remain neutral. The sight of you, standing there with unwavering determination, is both captivating and terrifying.

“What are you doing, Brienne?” you ask, your voice calm but firm, cutting through the air like a northern wind. Your gaze flicks briefly to Jaime before returning to the woman beside him.

Brienne hesitates, her hand instinctively moving to her sword. “Lady Y/N… this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh, it looks exactly as it is,” you say coldly, your bow steady. “You’re sneaking him out of the camp. You’re committing treason against Robb.”

Brienne’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “I’m following Lady Stark’s orders. She believes this man’s life can buy the safe return of your sisters.”

For a moment, the silence is deafening. Jaime shifts slightly, opening his mouth to speak, but Winter’s growl deepens, silencing him instantly.

“Stay silent,” you say sharply, your eyes locking onto his. The force of your words, the raw authority in your tone, sends a shiver down his spine.

Jaime swallows hard, his usual bravado slipping as he watches the scene unfold. Brienne steps forward slightly, her hands raised in a gesture of peace.

“I understand your loyalty to your brother,” Brienne says carefully. “But this is about Sansa and Arya. Lady Stark gave me her trust, and I intend to fulfill her wishes. Let me pass.”

You don’t lower your bow, your gaze unwavering. “And if you fail? If this man escapes? What then? Do you think Robb will forgive you for putting his sisters’ lives in the hands of a Kingslayer?”

“He won’t escape,” Brienne says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You’ll make sure of nothing,” you reply, your voice hard. “You might trust him to play along, but I don’t. I won’t risk it.”

The words sting more than Jaime expects, though he knows you’re right. If given the chance, he would run. He would escape this madness and return to his family, to the war he knows how to fight. But something about your gaze, the sheer intensity of it, roots him in place.

“I’m going with you,” you say finally, lowering your bow but keeping the arrow nocked. “It’s a long way to the capital, and I won’t trust a prisoner like him in the hands of one person. If he tries to escape, I’ll be there to stop him.”

Brienne hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Lady Y/N, you can’t—”

“I can,” you interrupt, your tone leaving no room for argument. “And I will. If my sisters’ lives depend on this, then I’ll see it through myself.”

Jaime exhales softly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “A family reunion on the road. How quaint.”

Winter growls again, silencing him once more. You glance at him, your expression colder than the northern winds.

“You’ll speak when spoken to, Lannister,” you say, your voice sharp. “If you even think of trying to escape, I’ll put an arrow through your knee and let the wolves finish the rest.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning faintly despite himself. “Charming.”

You don’t respond, turning to Brienne instead. “Lead the way. I’ll follow.”

Brienne hesitates for a moment longer before nodding, her expression grim. The three of you begin to move, the sound of boots crunching against the frozen ground breaking the silence. Winter pads silently at your side, his presence a constant reminder of the line Jaime dares not cross.

As they walk, Jaime glances at you from the corner of his eye, his thoughts a chaotic mess. You’re closer now than you’ve been in months, but the gulf between you feels wider than ever.

And yet, he can’t deny the spark of something he doesn’t fully understand—something that terrifies him more than chains or swords ever could.

The night air clings to Jaime’s skin as they travel under the faint light of the moon, their footsteps muffled by the soft crunch of the dirt road. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees and the steady padding of Winter, your ever-present shadow. Jaime walks between you and Brienne, his hands bound once more, though the chains are lighter than before.

He knows he should keep his mouth shut. Your warning earlier was clear enough, and Winter’s growls had been more than persuasive. But silence has never been Jaime’s strength, and the anxiety pressing down on him feels unbearable.

“So, Ser Brienne,” Jaime begins, his voice light, “how long have you been in Lady Stark’s service? Or are you simply a sword for hire with an impressive knack for loyalty?”

Brienne’s shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t answer.

“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?” Jaime presses, smirking faintly. “I suppose that’s fitting for a lady knight. Though I must admit, your… femininity is rather understated. Do the men in Tarth prefer their women to be more—what’s the word—formidable?”

Brienne halts abruptly, turning to face him. Her glare is as cutting as any blade, but before she can speak, you cut her off.

“Enough,” you say suddenly. You don’t look at him, your eyes fixed ahead, but the authority in your tone leaves no room for argument. “Keep walking, Lannister. And keep your mouth shut.”

Jaime raises his bound hands slightly in mock surrender. “As you wish, my lady,” he replies, though the grin tugging at his lips suggests otherwise.

The group resumes their journey, the silence settling in again like an unwelcome guest. Jaime bites his tongue for a few minutes, but the words bubbling inside him refuse to stay contained. He’s not even sure why he does it—whether it’s the need to distract himself, the desire to provoke a reaction from you, or some desperate attempt to find absolution for the weight he carries.

“So, Lady Y/N,” he begins, his tone softer now but still laced with mockery, “do you often accompany prisoners on secret midnight journeys? Or is this a special occasion?”

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed ahead as Winter moves silently at your side.

“I suppose it’s for your sisters,” Jaime continues, his smirk faltering slightly. “A noble cause, to be sure. Though I wonder, do you trust her?” He gestures toward Brienne with a tilt of his head. “Or are you here to make sure she doesn’t fail?”

Still, you remain silent, your steps steady and deliberate.

“I must admit,” Jaime says, his voice growing more pensive, “it’s strange, isn’t it? Traveling with someone like me after everything that’s happened. I wonder—do you think of him? Your brother? Of what happened to him?”

At that, you stop. Jaime nearly stumbles to a halt behind you, his breath catching as you turn to face him. Your eyes, so cold and unreadable, burn into him now with an intensity that makes even the lion feel small.

“Do I think of my brother?” you repeat, your voice low and steady, though there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “Every single day, Lannister. I think of how he fell, of how he might never wake because of you.”

Jaime swallows hard, his smirk finally slipping entirely.

“And do you know what I think of you?” you continue, stepping closer, your voice cutting through the night like a blade. “I think of how pathetic you are. A man who threw a child from a window to cover up his sins. A man so desperate to hide what he is that he nearly destroyed my family to do it.”

Your words strike harder than any blow ever could, and for once, Jaime is left speechless.

“You disgust me,” you say coldly, your voice shaking slightly with restrained fury. “And if you speak again, I’ll make sure Winter tears out your tongue. Do you understand me?”

Jaime forces himself to nod, though the weight of your words presses down on him like a mountain.

“Good,” you say simply, turning away from him and resuming your pace.

Winter lingers for a moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto Jaime as if daring him to try something. Then the direwolf follows you, his steps silent and deliberate.

Jaime exhales shakily, his thoughts spiraling as he begins walking again. Your words echo in his mind, each one carving deeper into the guilt he’s tried so hard to bury. He doesn’t know why he provoked you, why he pushed you to the point of breaking. Perhaps it was to feel something—anything—other than the crushing weight of his own failures.

But now, as the silence stretches on and your words linger like a brand, Jaime wonders if he’ll ever be free of the choices that brought him here.

The small camp is quiet, save for the crackling of the fire Brienne has managed to coax to life. The days of travel have been grueling, and Jaime feels every ache in his body, though he’d never admit it aloud. He sits with his back against a tree, his hands still bound but resting in his lap, the chains digging faintly into his wrists. Brienne sits across from him, her eyes never leaving him for more than a moment.

The air smells of pine and damp earth, the kind of crispness that can only be found far from the corruption of cities. It would be almost peaceful if it weren’t for the weight of his own thoughts and the absence of you. You’d disappeared into the woods not long ago, your bow slung over your shoulder and Winter trotting at your side, leaving Jaime and Brienne behind to stew in the silence.

Jaime shifts slightly, his gaze flicking to the direction you’d gone, though the trees obscure any sign of you. He tells himself it’s simple curiosity, nothing more. Yet, even as he tries to convince himself, he knows it’s a lie. There’s something about you that pulls at him, an invisible tether he can’t sever no matter how much he tries.

“Stop it,” Brienne says abruptly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Jaime turns to her, raising an eyebrow. “Stop what?”

“You know what,” she replies, her tone firm but not unkind. She leans forward slightly, her hands resting on her knees as the firelight flickers across her face. “Stop watching her.”

Jaime smirks faintly, though there’s no real humor in it. “Am I not allowed to look at the person who’s been kind enough to threaten me with death every few hours?”

Brienne’s expression hardens. “It’s not just a look. You’ve been watching her since we left the Stark camp. Whatever you’re thinking—whatever you’re feeling—stop it. She deserves better than someone like you.”

The words sting, though Jaime doesn’t let it show. He tilts his head, his smirk deepening slightly. “Oh, I see. You’re her protector now, are you? The honorable Lady Brienne, guardian of Northern virtue.”

“I’m protecting her from you,” Brienne says, her voice low but cutting. “I’ve seen men like you before, Kingslayer. You think you can charm your way into anyone’s favor, but it won’t work here. Not with her.”

Jaime’s smirk falters, and for a moment, the weight of her words settles over him. He exhales softly, leaning his head back against the tree trunk.

“She hates me,” he says after a long pause, his voice quieter now.

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately, her gaze steady as she studies him. “She has every reason to,” she says finally.

“I know,” Jaime replies, his tone almost bitter. He looks at the fire, the flickering flames reflecting in his eyes. “But I can’t seem to stop myself. Every time I look at her, I see… I don’t know what I see. Something I’ll never have. Something I don’t deserve.”

Brienne’s expression softens slightly, though her resolve doesn’t waver. “Then leave her alone,” she says firmly. “She’s already lost enough because of you. Don’t make it worse.”

Jaime chuckles dryly, though the sound lacks any real mirth. “As if I could. She barely acknowledges my existence unless it’s to remind me of what I’ve done.”

“Good,” Brienne says simply. “Maybe that’s the only way you’ll understand the weight of your actions.”

The silence stretches between them again, heavy with unspoken truths. Jaime shifts uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to his bound hands.

“She reminds me of someone,” he says suddenly, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost in the crackling of the fire.

Brienne raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.

“My sister,” Jaime continues, his tone distant. “Not in looks, of course. They couldn’t be more different. But in… strength. That fire in her eyes, the way she carries herself. It’s maddening, really. It makes me want to—”

“To what?” Brienne presses, her voice sharp.

Jaime shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “To believe I could be better. But we both know that’s not true.”

Brienne watches him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You’re not better. Not yet.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire as your footsteps approach from the trees. Winter trots ahead of you, his silver coat gleaming in the firelight as he pads over to sit beside you. You carry two rabbits in one hand, your bow slung over your shoulder, your face unreadable as you step into the clearing.

“Talking about me?” you ask, your voice calm but with a curious undertone.

“Nothing flattering, I assure you,” Jaime replies, his smirk returning faintly.

You glance at him briefly, your expression as cold as ever, before turning to Brienne. “Let’s get these rabbits cooking. We’ll need the strength for tomorrow.”

As you and Brienne begin preparing the meal, Jaime leans back against the tree again, his thoughts a tangled mess. He knows he should stop. Stop watching you, stop thinking about you, stop searching for something he’ll never find.

But as the firelight dances across your face, illuminating the resolve in your eyes, Jaime knows he’s already lost that battle.

[measuredingold]

my soul is useless without you

author's note: part two to i'd walk through hell for you is finally here ! i'm not sure if i want to do a third part, but we’ll see lol but i'm currently working on something for folio 👀 as always, i hope you enjoy and feedback is appreciated ! also, if yall have any requests, send them my way :) i'm in the mood to write but inspiration is running thin lol

pairing: noah sebastian x reader

divider: @saradika-graphics

word count: 3.5k

cross posted on ao3 / part one

cw/tw: angst, hurt/comfort, Noah Sebastian Is Bad At Feelings But A Good Friend, reader is going through it, anxiety, hints/mentions of depression, noah is just a good guy and cares about reader a lot ( more than he realizes ), friends to lovers pining lol, 18+ minors do not interact

It's when Jolly asks Noah in-between takes if he'd heard from you recently that the anxiety finally settles in.

Because he doesn't know the last time he's heard from you. Which isn't normal.

He's a bad texter, notorious for looking at messages and making a note to reply to them later or replying in his mind, but he always makes sure to reply to you whenever the two of you aren't together. It's just always been a thing, to always have some form of communication with you when he wasn't over at yours or if you weren't at his, so it panics him when he can't remember the last time he'd spoken to you.

He goes through your messages and finds that it wasn't him this time who didn't respond, but instead it was you. Relief washes over him briefly, the guilt of forgetting to respond to his best friend vanishing, but then that anxiety comes back full force. 

You didn't respond.

You always responded.

He sends off a quick message to you, apologizing for being in studio mode and not leaving the house and asks if you're alright. He waits. They go through another take, he somehow doesn't fuck it up even though his mind isn't all the way there. You still haven't responded by the fifth take and that's when he starts to feel sick, stomach twisting with the worry of what could be wrong. 

He tries to think back to if you've ever gone this long without speaking and he can't think of a time when that has happened. 

"Earth to Noah." Jolly's voice pulls him away from his thoughts.

"Oh. Uh, sorry." 

"All good, man." His bandmate eyes him for a second before his eyes flicker towards his phone. "She respond?"

"Um. No." His brows furrowed as he stared at his phone, the black screen mocking him. "Kind of worried."

"Yeah... I am, too." Jolly murmurs. He clicks around on the screen a few times before twisting his chair around to fully face Noah, arms crossing over his chest. "You should go over there. Check and make sure she's alright."

Noah raises a brow at him. "We're in the middle of recording?"

"And?" Jolly shrugs, waving him off. "We got a lot done today, we can wrap it up. Something's obviously wrong and she might need you. That's more important than some song."

He blinks at his friend, letting his words settle in. Jolly's right, he thinks. You are more important than whatever song they're working on. That confirmation makes him feel funny, something tightening beneath his chest but he ignores it, nodding slowly. 

"Okay. You wanna come?"

Jolly shakes his head. "Nah. The both of us might be overwhelming. If you do need me then call, if not..." He shrugs again before lifting himself up out of his chair, groaning softly to himself, "...might be best for just you to go. She'd probably feel better if it's just you, anyways. You know how she is."

Noah isn't quite sure what he means, but nods along anyways. He checks his phone again and still no text, but he notices that you read the message. He should feel relieved at the sign of life but it only makes his anxiety worse, stomach twisting violently. 

"Okay. I'll text you when I get there." 

He's practically running out of the studio after that, the only thing on his mind was you. He needed to make sure you were okay. Deep down he knew that if this was him, you would've already been here, and he feels guilty all over again. He should've paid more attention, shouldn't have let this slip his mind so easily. He thinks back to your last messages together and how you were talking about your work day, overwhelmed and quite frankly, upset about it all. He should've paid closer attention.

He makes it to yours in record time, legs moving him to the door before he can even think about it. He sends up a quiet prayer to the universe that you had given him an extra key months ago and uses it to unlock the door, slowly pushing it open.

He calls out your name, but no answer.

His eyes sweep over your apartment as he enters, scanning the open space. Your kitchen looked untouched, minus the few dirty dishes that were in your sink. A few boxes of Chinese take-out and some bottles of water. He feels almost relieved. You'd been eating and as far as he can tell you'd been keeping yourself somewhat hydrated, so that was a plus. He knows how bad you can be when you get into this headspace - brain fog, forgetting to do basic things like eating and drinking water. But this... this is a step in the right direction.

His eyes move towards the living room and it's just about the same. A pile of blankets lay together at one end of the couch, pillows scattered along the length of the cushions. You'd been there quite a bit, he can tell, but other than that nothing was too bad.

Noah feels like he can breathe for just a second, eyes going straight to the cracked open door to your bedroom. He hears the faint hum of your television and hears the muffled voice of your favorite characters in your favorite comfort show. His chest tightens. You only ever watch it when things get bad inside your head, when things start to become too overwhelming and you need to cling onto something that you know. Something that won't throw any surprises at you and make things worse. 

He makes his way towards your room, ready to call out your name again as he pushes open your door but stops halfway. You're curled up in your bed, covered in a pile of blankets. He steps closer to get a better look at you and he doesn't think he's ever seen you look so peaceful. Lashes against the tops of your cheeks, lips parted. The crease between your brows is relaxed, which never happens. 

Noah takes a deep breath.

You're alright. He can see that you're safe and sound, at least for now, and that's enough for him. He shuts your door behind him and makes his way back into the main room, taking his shoes off by the door. He takes another deep breath to center himself as he looks around your space, hand finding its way to his hair. 

He decides he'll clean up your kitchen and living room. It isn't too bad, and it won't take him too long. He also just... doesn't want to leave yet. He'll wait until you wake up. Make you talk to him, ask what’s up. Probably make you eat something. Then he'll head home. 

Sounds like a good plan to him.

Even though your door is shut he still tries to be quiet, making sure to carefully wash and put away your dishes without making too much of a fuss. After the dishes, he throws away all the take-out boxes and water bottles. He even makes a note to take the trash out for you when he's all done, because he knows you would've done it for him. 

The constant reminder of you and knowing that you'd do something like this for him, and have, is the motivation he needs to continue. It makes him feel warm all over and he thinks how lucky he is to have someone like you as his best friend.

And he definitely ignores the bitter taste in his mouth at the word best friend. 

It's maybe an hour after he's finished, curled up on your couch that now has its pillows in place, and the pile of blankets are neatly folded and put away, that you finally emerge from your room. You rub the sleep out of your eyes, not noticing him on the couch at first, but when you do you make a noise of surprise that has Noah laughing.

"Hey."

He notices the slight flush of your cheeks but ignores it. "Hi?"

"I uh," He scratches the back of his neck, sending you a sheepish smile. "Hadn't talked to you in a few days. Got worried. So did Jolly. Told me to come over. Check on you. You were sleeping so I just," He throws his arms around, gesturing to the space around him, "cleaned up a little? Figured you would appreciate a clean house when you woke up so..." 

He's talking too much, he knows it, but he can't seem to stop the word vomit from coming out. Noah knows you wouldn't mind, but he was nervous, especially because all you do is stare at him without saying a word. Stare and stare and stare until you sniff, brows furrowing.

"...Thanks."

You're unusually quiet and it makes his stomach turn again. You sniff again and Noah swears you look like you're on the verge of tears, and he sits up on the couch. He watches you closely as you wring your hands together in front of you, mouth opening and closing as if you want to say something. You don't, and Noah catches the exact moment when your bottom lip trembles, and he's moving before he can even think about it.

"Hey. It's okay. You’re okay."

He tries to keep his voice soft and free of any panic, but his heart is beating so rapidly against his chest he swears you can hear it. You sniff again, head shaking as your lip continues to tremble and he does the only thing he can think of. He pulls you into his arms and presses you into his chest. You don't move for a second, but eventually your arms circle around his waist. You squeeze, tight, but he doesn't mind. He just squeezes you back. 

Your body begins to shake as the cries start to rack through you, the sound muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Noah swallows down the lump that was beginning to form, cheek resting on the top of your head. He's always hated when you cry. He himself wasn’t one for much display of emotions, but when it came to the people he cared about, he hated seeing them anything but happy. 

Especially you.

He's seen you cry a few times. Well, more than a few times. Sometimes it was over nothing, and then sometimes it was over an incredibly cute dog you'd seen scrolling on Twitter. He didn't mind those, but when it was over something serious, he fucking hated that. He never wanted you to be anything but happy, and whenever you weren’t, it’s like a piece of him breaks. 

“What’s wrong?” He whispers into your hair, trying to pull you even closer to him.

“Everything.” You eventually mumble against his chest, sucking in a deep breath as you try to control your tears. “Fucking everything is wrong.” 

He fucking hates the way that answer makes him feel. His chest feels like it's on fire, and he swears his heart just fucking broke at how sad you sounded, voice muffled by his shirt. He squeezes you to his chest again.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

He wants you to talk about it, to tell him what's wrong so he can make it better. Noah knows it'll probably be damn near impossible to even do that, but god, he'd try absolutely anything to make your tears stop. You take a long moment to respond, trying to control your breathing, before you eventually shake your head against his chest.

"Not right now." 

"Okay.” He mumbles, raising a hand to smooth down your hair. “That's okay, we don't have to."

"Thank you."

You stay like that for a moment, in the middle of your living room. Noah doesn't plan on letting go any time soon, thinking for a split second that he wished he could keep you in his arms forever. If you were there, he'd always know if you were okay. The thought fades before he could think too hard about it when you finally pull away from him, and Noah catches sight of your slight red and blotchy face. He frowns.

He doesn't remember the last time he's ever seen you so sad. So defeated. Whatever was going on really pained you, and he wishes you'd just tell him so he can fix it. Another passing, fleeting thought, but he thinks he'd do just about anything right now to see you smile again. 

"Have you eaten?" He breaks the silence between the two of you, not waiting to hear whatever you were planning on saying.

You blink up at him. "Um... no. Not since this morning. Had some fruit and coffee." 

"I figured." He guides you towards the couch, practically pushing you onto it. You snort when he grabs a throw blanket and dumps it onto you. "Pick something to watch." 

It's not a question, but more of a command, and Noah ignores the way his chest flutters at the small smile you give him. He turned away from you, pushing whatever feeling was brewing inside of him so far down and got his brain to focus. Food. You need food. To be honest, so does he. He’d been so worried about you for the last few hours that he didn’t even think of getting something to eat. 

It takes him a few minutes of rummaging around your kitchen to settle on making something easy - instant ramen. He’s surprised you hadn't eaten it all in the week you’ve been off-grid, but thankful nonetheless. Noah's way too impatient to wait any longer to actually cook something, especially knowing you hadn't eaten anything since this morning. Every so often he looked over his shoulder to watch you, wishing you'd say something, but would find you either staring blankly at the television or your phone.

A bitter taste settles in the back of his throat every time he turns back around to the stove. He hated this, and he fucking hated that he couldn't do a goddamn thing about it.

He brings your bowl to you once he's finished, already making a mental note to clean up the mess he had made while cooking. You blink up at him and reach for it, giving him a quiet, "Thank you."

Noah doesn't verbally say anything, just hums out a response as he ventures back into the kitchen to grab you something to drink. When he comes back he notices you had slowly begun to eat, and he feels his shoulders finally relax. Just knowing you ate something eases him, the tension in his body leaving him completely. You're already reaching out for the glass of water in his hand that he happily hands off to you, giving you a gentle smile.

"Need anything else?"

You shake your head, peering up at him. "No. Just want you to come sit with me." 

That same fluttery feeling beneath his chest returns and he wishes he could ignore it again, but it doesn't go away. No, it stays perched underneath his chest, as if it's decided that it's making a home there and never leaving. He doesn't say anything, just nods at your request before grabbing his own bowl and a Pepsi you had in the fridge before making his way back to you.

You wait until he's settled on the couch to scoot closer to him, legs pressed flushed together. You're already halfway through your ramen and for a split second he forgets that weird feeling in his chest, instead focusing on the intense pride filling him. He was able to get you to eat, he was able to help out in some way. Knowing you were alright for the most part and it was from his doing made him feel good.

The both of you eat in silence as whatever show you decided to put on plays in the background. He’s just now realized it was The Office, and he huffs out a small laugh at something Michael Scott said. Another one of your comfort shows, something easy. 

It isn't until you both are finished with your food and Noah's back in the kitchen cleaning up that you finally speak. He doesn't hear you come up behind him, focused on washing the dishes and making sure everything's clean and good to go, so he can't help but jump when he feels your arms slip around his waist and squeeze.

"Shit." He swears, followed by a breathy chuckle. "You scared me."

You don't say anything to that, just squeeze him harder and he feels you press your face against his back. Then ever so softly, he picks up the faintest, "Thank you," muffled against his back. His face flushes, eyes casting down to the soapy water his hands were currently submerged in. He's glad you can't see the blush on his cheeks, and he fucking hopes you can't hear the way his heart is pounding beneath his chest. Can probably feel it, though, and that makes his face burn even more. 

"For what?" He manages to mumble out, resuming his efforts. Your arms squeeze his waist again.

"For being here." You sound so small. "You don't have to be, but you are, and I can't thank you enough for that."

"You'd do it for me." His response comes easily, voice nonchalant because it's true. He knows you'd do the same for him, and the thought has his stomach flipping every which way. "And have done it for me. It's the least I can do."

You're silent after that but don't part from him, and Noah can't help the smile that spreads across his lips at the feeling of you rubbing your face against him. It makes him feel warm all over, and that damned fluttery feeling in his chest is back yet again. You stay like that until he's finished with the dishes, moving with him as he shuffles to the side to dry them off. You don't pick your head up even when he manages to turn in your arms, finally facing you. 

Noah's arms wrap around you, pulling you closer to him and now you can rub your face against his chest. He laughs softly, pressing his cheek against the top of your head.

"Still don't wanna talk about it?" He knows he's pressing but he can't help it, a part of him still needs to know what's wrong and how he can fix this for you.

You shake your head. "Not yet. Tomorrow, okay? I just... don't wanna think about it tonight."

"Okay." He thinks he can handle that. 

"Thank you." You say again and finally lift your head up from his chest, blinking up at him. There's still a sadness there, roaming around behind your eyes, but not as prevalent as it was earlier. He’s at least done something right. "I'm really fucking lucky to have you, you know that, right?"

The way you're looking up at him is overwhelming, Noah's throat tightening at the softness surrounding your tired eyes. You smile at him and this time it reaches your gaze, not faked but real, and his heart slams against his chest. A thought passes his mind again, something he hasn't thought of in years, and he pushes it back with a hard swallow.

"You're just saying that because you didn't have to do the dishes."

You roll your eyes but that smile never drops from your lips, and Noah thinks he'd like to keep you smiling like that for the rest of his life. 

"Shut up. I'm being serious." You're giggling now, eyes crinkling and he catches a glimpse of the real you for the first time in hours - probably days, weeks even. 

"So am I." Noah yelps when you pinch his side, your laughter growing louder. "Hey!"

"I'm trying to be nice here, asshole. You can at least try, too."

He softens at that, eyes meeting yours. He's well aware his face is on fire right now, cheeks pink.

"You already know I'm lucky to have you. Didn't realize I had to say it."

Even if he doesn't say it often, he is very lucky. So incredibly lucky to have you in his life, for sticking by him and for understanding him. For always being patient with him. Jolly reminds him occasionally how lucky he is to have you, how all of them are lucky to have someone like you in their lives. He doesn't know what the fuck he or anyone did to be so deserving of you, but dammit, he's fucking thankful for it everyday. 

You don't say anything, just continue to beam up at him and Noah can't seem to stop himself, tilting his head down to brush his lips against your forehead. He feels you press further into his chest, if it was even possible, and practically melt in his arms. 

He wishes he could keep you here forever, tucked away in his arms. He thinks there isn't much he wouldn't do to keep you safe, to make sure you were okay, and that thought alone scares him. He'd never admit it, at least not out loud, and he tucks that thought away for another time. Or to possibly be never thought of again, he doesn't know. He doesn't really care.

No, all he cares about right now is that you're okay, at least for now, and that you're nestled against his chest like it's the only place you want to be. 

And that's enough for him. 

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝟱 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗘𝗦, 𝗖𝗦𝟱𝟱 carlos sainz x fem! reader (fluff) “. . . using his five senses, these are his favourite things about you.”

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests )

Sight

Carlos has always loved how your emotions play out across your face

Whether it’s the way your eyes light up with excitement

The exaggerated scrunch of your nose when you’re annoyed,

Or the dramatic flair of your eye rolls during one of his jokes—it’s all mesmerizing to him.

He teases you often just to see those expressions.

But it’s your happiness that truly holds him captive.

His favorite moments are when you’re completely at ease,

like on vacation, soaking up the sun.

On a lazy afternoon by the pool, he couldn’t resist pulling out his phone. “Stay just like that,” he says, angling for the perfect shot. You give him a skeptical look but don’t move. “This one’s going on my phone background,” he announces triumphantly after snapping the picture. “Should I feel flattered or concerned?” you joke. “Both,” he replies with a wink, already setting it as his lock screen

Touch

Carlos is tactile by nature, and with you, it’s amplified

He loves how you seem to melt into his bear hugs, your arms winding around him as if you never want to let go

Those moments are his sanctuary, where words aren’t needed because the embrace says it all

When he’s feeling particularly playful, he’ll tug you onto his lap during movie nights.

“Carlos,” you protest, laughing as you try to balance the popcorn bowl. “You’re comfier than the couch,” he says with a grin, wrapping his arms securely around you. Even as the movie plays, his fingers absently trace patterns on your arm, a silent reminder of how much he loves having you close.

And then there’s his soft side—the way his hand cups your cheek while his thumb brushes against your skin

Those moments often catch you off guard

you’re mid-conversation, and he stops to look at you, his gaze tender. “What?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

Smell

Carlos has a keen sense of smell, and your perfume has practically become his favorite scent

It lingers on his shirts long after you’ve hugged him

he’ll catch himself smiling when the faintest trace of it wafts by

But it’s not just your perfume—he adores the cozy, mouthwatering aroma of your cooking

To him, it smells like home

He sneaks into the kitchen while you’re focused on dinner, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his nose against your shoulder. “Smells amazing, cariño,” he says, his voice soft but sincere. You chuckle, nudging him away so you can focus. “Let me guess, you’re here for a taste test?” He grins, already reaching for a spoon.

Hearing

Your laughter is Carlos’s favorite melody. It’s the kind of sound that can turn even the dullest days around

And when you’re laughing at one of his jokes—genuine, carefree—it’s a small victory for him every time

But nothing compares to the way you cheer for him

Hearing you shout encouragement in Spanish from the stands makes him feel invincible, like he could win every race just for you

“¡Vamos, mi campeón!” you yell as he jumps out of his car in par ferme, and even in the frenzy of celebration, he spots you, blowing a kiss in your direction. Later, after he’s he's handed the trophy, he finds you in the crowd and pulls you into a hug. “You’re my lucky charm,” he whispers in your ear.

Taste

Carlos has a habit of stealing bites from your plate, claiming your food always tastes better

It’s become a running joke between you two, especially when you catch him mid-theft.

“You have your own, you know,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, but this is special,” he replies, grinning as he pops the stolen bite into his mouth.

Then there are your post-dinner kisses

Particularly after you’ve had something spicy

He pretends to wince, his lips tingling.

“That’s got a kick,” he says, leaning back slightly. You smirk knowingly. “You’re welcome.” Despite his words, he leans in again, chasing the taste of you like it’s his favorite dish.

[aspenmissing]

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ: ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ

4362 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ/ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

Jayce Talis was fresh-faced and full of ambition when he first arrived in Piltover. Accepted into the academy (19) as a promising young inventor, he was determined to make a name for himself. But ambition wasn’t enough to build the dreams he had in his mind. The academy had resources, yes, but they were cautious, slow-moving—bound by tradition. Jayce’s ideas demanded materials and ingenuity that Piltover wasn’t ready to supply.

That’s how he found himself wandering into the Undercity one fateful evening.

The narrow streets of Zaun were a stark contrast to the polished halls of the academy. Steam hissed from broken pipes, and the air smelled of oil and metal. Jayce clutched a hastily scribbled map in his hand, given to him by a fellow student who claimed there was a workshop deep in Zaun where you could find anything—if you were brave enough to look.

He nearly missed the place entirely, tucked away in a crooked alley. A flickering sign above the door read: “Y/N’s Fixes & Finds.”

Pushing the door open, Jayce was greeted by the faint hum of machinery and the clatter of tools. The workshop was a chaotic haven of gears, wires, and half-finished devices. At the centre of it all stood a young woman, roughly about the same age as him, goggles perched on their head, a smudge of grease streaked across their cheek as they worked on a mechanical contraption.

The sound of the door creaking drew their attention. They turned, narrowing their eyes at the well-dressed stranger. “Lost, academy boy?” they asked, their tone sharp but not unkind.

Jayce hesitated, taken aback by the directness. “Not lost,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Looking for something I can’t find in Piltover.”

Y/N leaned against the workbench, crossing their arms. “You’ve got the wrong place if you’re looking for shiny toys and fancy gadgets.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” Jayce replied earnestly. “I’m working on an idea—something that could change everything. But I need better materials, better tools. Someone told me you could help.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite themselves. “Big words for someone who doesn’t look like they’ve built anything that’s actually worked.”

Jayce smirked, feeling a flicker of determination. “I can prove it.”

They tossed him a battered device from the workbench—a mangled mess of gears and wires. “Fix that. If you’re half as smart as you think you are, it shouldn’t take you long.”

Jayce took the challenge without hesitation, sitting down at the workbench. The device was poorly assembled but fixable. With a few careful adjustments, he realigned the gears and connected the wires properly. Within minutes, the device clicked and whirred to life, emitting a faint pulse of light.

Y/N was impressed but tried not to show it. “Not bad, academy boy. Maybe you’re worth my time after all. Names Y/N” She holds her hand out to him.

"Jayce." He responded, shaking her hand.

They spent the next few hours talking, trading ideas and challenges. Y/N’s resourcefulness fascinated Jayce—they solved problems with a practicality born from necessity, creating brilliance out of scraps. In turn, Y/N couldn’t help but admire Jayce’s vision and his almost reckless drive to push boundaries.

When it was finally time for Jayce to leave, Y/N handed him a small pouch filled with rare components. “Call it a loan,” they said with a sly smile. “Don’t screw it up.”

Jayce smiled back, his grip tightening on the pouch. “I won’t,” he promised.

As he walked back to Piltover, the weight of the pouch felt heavier than it should. It wasn’t just components—it was trust. And for the first time, Jayce felt like his dreams weren’t so far away. He didn’t know it yet, but this meeting was the start of something that would change not just his life, but the world.

VIKTOR

The halls of the academy were always bustling, students rushing between lectures, papers scattered across desks, and the constant hum of ambition hanging in the air. Y/N was no exception, constantly moving, juggling tasks, and brimming with ideas. It was her first semester, and she was already feeling the pressure of living up to the academy’s towering expectations.

Lost in her thoughts about an upcoming presentation, her arms full of papers and books, Y/N’s focus slipped for just a moment too long. Her foot caught on the corner of a rug, and the next thing she knew, her carefully organized notes and diagrams were flying out of her grasp, scattering like autumn leaves across the polished floor.

Before she could fully register what had happened, a soft but firm voice broke through her embarrassment. “Careful now. The floor may not be as forgiving as it looks.”

Startled, Y/N glanced up to see a young man crouched beside her, already gathering her scattered papers. His lean frame was accentuated by the slightly oversized academy uniform, his posture careful as he balanced against a sturdy cane. His unruly brown hair seemed perpetually at odds with the studious air he carried. Most striking, though, were his golden-brown eyes—intense and thoughtful, but not unkind.

“I—uh, thank you,” Y/N stammered, still flustered as she scrambled to pick up the rest of her notes.

“It happens,” the young man replied in a calm, measured tone, his Czech accent thick. He leaned slightly on his cane as he handed her a stack of neatly organized papers. “You’re not the first to underestimate how much these corridors demand your attention.”

She managed a sheepish smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah, I suppose balance isn’t my strong suit.”

“Balance,” he mused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he shifted his weight. “An elusive concept, especially here. The academy is good at keeping everyone on edge.”

Y/N accepted the papers, her initial embarrassment giving way to curiosity. “Thanks again. I guess I owe you one.”

He shook his head, his expression softening. “No debt incurred,” he said with a faint chuckle. “Just… perhaps slow down a little next time. Rushing rarely yields the best results.”

As the weight of her papers settled back in her arms, Y/N hesitated. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Viktor,” he said simply, his cane tapping softly as he adjusted his stance. He offered a slight nod, polite but reserved. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” she replied, finally feeling steady on her feet. “First semester, and clearly still figuring out how to survive the academy.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Viktor said, his tone thoughtful as he studied her. “Even those of us who’ve been here longer still stumble now and then—metaphorically, of course.” A faint flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

Y/N smiled, her initial awkwardness fading into warmth. “Well, Viktor, thanks for the save. I’ll try not to make this a habit.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “See that you don’t. But… if you do find yourself in need of assistance, you know where to find me.” With a slight dip of his head, Viktor turned and walked down the corridor, his cane tapping a quiet rhythm on the polished floor.

As Y/N watched him disappear into the crowd of students, she couldn’t help but feel that this brief encounter was the start of something far more meaningful than a simple rescue.

JAYVIK

The flickering fluorescent lights of the lab cast long shadows over the scattered blueprints, glowing crystals, and intricate machinery. It was late—most of the academy's halls were silent, the usual bustle of students and researchers replaced by an eerie stillness. Perfect timing for someone who didn’t belong.

Y/N moved carefully, her footsteps light as she navigated the sprawling lab. Her Zaunite instincts guided her, sharp and survival-driven. The tools and devices on the workbenches were unlike anything she had seen back home—polished, cutting-edge, and dripping with the wealth of Piltover’s privileged elite.

It wasn’t personal. She didn’t particularly want to steal from anyone. But things in Zaun had been dire lately, and every stolen blueprint or shard of hextech crystal could mean another week of food, another day of keeping her family afloat.

Her gloved hand reached for a shimmering blue crystal embedded in an ornate device when a sharp voice cut through the silence.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Y/N froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She turned slowly, her mind racing for an excuse. Behind her stood a tall man with broad shoulders, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. His piercing brown eyes bore into hers, his expression a mix of suspicion and annoyance.

“I—uh…” Y/N began, but another voice interrupted her.

“She doesn’t look like one of the academy staff,” Viktor said, stepping out from behind a stack of blueprints. He leaned on his cane, his golden-brown eyes sharp and calculating as they swept over her. “Too quiet. Too... resourceful.”

Y/N’s gaze darted between the two men. She was cornered. Jayce’s strong, commanding presence on one side, and Viktor’s sharp intellect on the other. Her hands instinctively tightened around the crystal, but she knew she wouldn’t get far if she tried to run.

“I can explain,” Y/N said quickly, raising her hands in mock surrender, the crystal still clutched in one fist. “I wasn’t going to take much, I swear. Just... borrowing.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “Borrowing? From our lab?” His tone was incredulous. “You know, breaking in and stealing aren’t exactly the best ways to ask for a favor.”

Viktor tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “You’re from Zaun, aren’t you?” he asked, his accent softening as he studied her.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

“Your tools,” Viktor interrupted, nodding toward the small pouch at her hip. “Zaunite make. Efficient but improvised. And your shoes—worn from the chemical streets.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’re observant,” she muttered, uneasy under his scrutiny.

Jayce glanced at Viktor, his frustration softening slightly. “So, what now?” he asked, clearly deferring to his partner.

Viktor considered Y/N for a long moment before speaking. “Running won’t help you. Security will catch you before you leave the building. And if they don’t, Piltover’s lawkeepers will. But…” His gaze flicked to the device she had tried to steal. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”

Y/N frowned, her suspicion evident. “An arrangement?”

“You’re resourceful,” Viktor said simply, his tone calm and measured. “And I assume you wouldn’t be risking your neck unless you truly needed to. If you’re willing to explain your situation, perhaps we can find a way to help each other.”

Jayce crossed his arms but nodded, his earlier irritation giving way to a grudging respect. “We’re not heartless. If there’s something you need, just tell us. Stealing isn’t the only way.”

Y/N hesitated, her eyes darting between the two of them. There was no malice in their words, only curiosity and... understanding? She wasn’t sure what she expected when she’d broken into this lab, but it definitely wasn’t this.

“Fine,” she said at last, lowering her hands and relinquishing the crystal. “I’ll talk. But don’t think for a second that I trust either of you.”

Jayce chuckled softly. “Fair enough. Trust takes time.”

Viktor gave a faint smile, his grip on his cane tightening as he gestured toward a nearby stool. “Then let’s start now. Sit. We’re listening.”

As Y/N sat down, her nerves still buzzing, she realized that she might have just stumbled into something far more complicated—and far more intriguing—than she’d anticipated.

VANDER

The Last Drop wasn’t much to look at back then. It wasn’t the thriving hub it would later become, but a small, rough-hewn bar tucked into the heart of Zaun’s chaos. The air inside carried a mix of sweat, cheap ale, and the faint metallic tang of machinery. It was a refuge for the weary and the desperate—a place where even the broken found a moment of peace.

Vander was behind the bar, as usual, wiping down the stained counter with a rag that had seen better days. He wasn’t much older than twenty, broad-shouldered and already carrying the weight of the Undercity on his back. Silco sat at a bar, drinking from a glass as he writes in a journal.

The door creaked open, and Vander glanced up out of habit. He expected another familiar face, maybe a regular, or some poor soul looking for a drink to drown their troubles. What he didn’t expect was her.

Felicia strode in first, her usual swagger in place, but behind her was someone new—a woman he’d never seen before. Y/N stepped into the dim light of the bar, and for a moment, Vander forgot how to breathe.

She didn’t belong here—not in the way most people did. Zaun had a way of dulling beauty, grinding it down with grime and despair, but she seemed untouched by it. Her eyes carried a spark of resilience, her posture a quiet defiance against the city that tried to break everyone. To Vander, she was a flower blooming in the middle of a wasteland.

“Oi, Vander!” Felicia’s voice snapped him out of his daze. “Quit staring and come over here.”

Silco smirked from his seat, clearly catching Vander’s momentary lapse. Vander muttered something under his breath and stepped around the bar, doing his best to play it cool as Felicia waved him over.

“This is Y/N,” Felicia said, gesturing toward her companion. “She’s new to this part of Zaun, figured I’d show her around. Thought it’d be good for her to meet the famous Vander.”

“Famous, huh?” Vander said, his voice gruff as he extended a hand.

Y/N smiled, and the warmth in it caught him off guard. She took his hand, her grip firm but gentle. “I’ve heard a bit about you,” she said. “Felicia talks like you’re some kind of legend.”

Vander chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Don’t believe everything she says. I’m just a guy with a bar.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Felicia chimed in, slapping Vander on the shoulder. “He’s got a heart as big as this place—and fists to match.”

Vander shot Felicia a warning look, but she only grinned. Y/N laughed softly, the sound light and melodic, and Vander felt something stir in his chest.

“Well,” Y/N said, her gaze meeting his, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Vander. This place has a charm to it.”

“Charm, huh?” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not a word I hear much around here.”

She shrugged. “It’s all in how you look at it.”

Vander nodded, his respect for her growing. It wasn’t often someone saw Zaun with anything other than disdain or despair. “Can I get you a drink?” he offered, his voice softening.

“Sure,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “But only if you join me for one.”

For the first time in a long while, Vander felt a flicker of something he’d thought Zaun had taken from him—hope. He poured two drinks and joined her at the bar, Felicia smirking knowingly as she goes to Silco’s side, the two watching with a smirk

As the night went on, Vander found himself captivated by Y/N’s stories, her laughter, and the way she seemed to light up the dim room. In a city that thrived on shadows, she was a rare glimpse of light, and Vander couldn’t help but wonder if meeting her was the beginning of something he’d been waiting for his whole life.

SILCO

The night Vander betrayed him was etched into Silco’s mind like a blade carving into flesh. The cold waters of the canal still burned in his lungs, and the searing pain from his infected eye was a constant reminder of the man who had once called him brother.

He’d managed to escape, his hands slick with blood, the knife he used to fend off Vander still trembling in his grasp. Every step felt heavier than the last as he stumbled through the labyrinthine streets of Zaun, his vision blurring from pain and exhaustion.

When he finally collapsed in a dark, narrow alleyway, Silco wasn’t sure if he’d ever rise again. The city around him was a blur of muffled sounds and shifting shadows before everything went black.

==

Silco awoke with a start, his instincts kicking in before his body could fully respond. He bolted upright, only to be met with a sharp, stabbing pain radiating from his face and ribs. His hand instinctively reached for his eye, but a firm, unfamiliar voice cut through the haze.

“Don’t touch that.”

His head snapped toward the source, his remaining eye narrowing. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a small basin of water and a cloth. She looked calm, her expression unreadable, but there was an undeniable edge to her tone—a warning.

“Who are you?” Silco demanded, his voice rough, his body tense despite the obvious strain it was under.

“Someone who just saved your life,” Y/N replied, stepping closer and setting the basin down on a small, rickety table. “You were half-dead when I found you. If you move too much, you’ll tear the stitches I just put in.”

Silco’s gaze flickered to his arm, now wrapped tightly in makeshift bandages. His mind raced, trying to piece together how he’d ended up here. “Why?” he asked, his tone sharp.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his hostility. “Why what? Why did I help you?” She shrugged. “Let’s just say I don’t like seeing people bleed out in the streets, even in a place like this.”

“Charity is rare in Zaun,” Silco said, his suspicion evident.

She let out a dry laugh. “You don’t say.” Her tone softened slightly as she sat on a stool beside him, wringing out the cloth. “I’m no saint, but I couldn’t just leave you there. Now, sit still. Your eye’s infected, and if you want to keep what’s left of it, you’ll let me help.”

Silco hesitated, every muscle in his body screaming at him to leave, to get away from this stranger. But the throbbing in his eye and the sharp pain in his side were undeniable. Reluctantly, he leaned back against the wall, his remaining eye watching her every move.

Y/N worked in silence for a while, dabbing gently at his swollen, reddened eye. Her hands were steady, her touch careful despite the obvious discomfort it caused him.

“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” she said after a moment. “Another hour out there, and you’d have been done for.”

“Lucky,” Silco repeated bitterly, his jaw tightening. “That’s one way to put it.”

She paused, meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But whatever it was, it left you in a bad way. You should rest.”

“I can’t stay here,” Silco said firmly, starting to rise again despite the pain.

Y/N placed a hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back down. “And go where? Back into the streets? You’ll be dead by morning.”

Her words hung in the air, and for the first time, Silco found himself unable to argue. He hated the vulnerability, hated relying on someone else, but something about Y/N’s unwavering composure kept him from pushing her away.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered, leaning back reluctantly.

She smirked, sitting back on her stool. “Takes one to know one.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Silco allowed himself to close his eye and let the tension in his body ease, if only slightly. The woman tending to him was a mystery, but as the night wore on, he couldn’t deny that her care was keeping him alive.

And in the shadows of Zaun, where trust was scarce and betrayal ran deep, that simple act of kindness was enough to plant the seed of something unexpected—something Silco would carry with him long after he left her care.

JINX/POWDER

Y/N once lived in Piltover with her mother, enjoying a modest but stable life. However, when her mother passed away unexpectedly, the weight of mounting bills and the high cost of living in the gilded city became too much for her to bear. With no other options, she made the difficult decision to move to Zaun, a place she had only heard about in whispers. The contrast was stark—Piltover's polished streets were replaced by Zaun's gritty alleys and thick, smoky air. Struggling to find her footing, she spent months navigating her new reality, unsure of where she belonged.

Fate intervened when Y/N stumbled across Silco in an alleyway, unconscious and wounded. Taking a risk, she helped him, unaware that this single act of compassion would alter the course of her life. (Silco's Part) After recovering, Silco saw something unique in Y/N—her resilience and resourcefulness—and offered her work. What began as a professional arrangement quickly deepened into a bond built on trust and mutual respect, a connection that only grew stronger over the years. Their dynamic shifted again one evening when Silco arrived at their base of operations with a new addition to their unnatural family.

Powder.

She was small, thin, with wild blue hair, and bruises marring her skin. But it wasn’t just the physical damage that caught your attention—it was the hurt in her eyes. The guilt. The grief. And something darker beneath the surface. You could see it clearly, even through the panic and shock she was clearly experiencing.

“She’s... she’s alive,” Silco muttered, almost to himself, as he carefully laid Powder down on a makeshift cot. His eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with soot and grime from the aftermath. “She needs care.”

You nodded silently, stepping forward with a calm that belied the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You were no stranger to pain, and you knew what needed to be done. You had seen plenty of broken souls, but something about this girl... something about her was different. She wasn’t just another casualty of Zaun’s brutality—she was a spark, a raw potential waiting to be shaped.

You crouched beside her, noting how tightly she was curled in on herself. She was trembling, hands clenched into fists at her sides as though bracing for something. Her wide eyes, still filled with fear, flickered to Silco’s figure, and you could see the tension in her shoulders, the uncertainty in her gaze.

“Powder,” you said gently, your voice soft but steady. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

She didn’t respond, but you saw her stiffen slightly at your words. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, and for a moment, the silence hung in the air between you both. You continued your work, not rushing, not pushing her to speak, only ensuring she was comfortable and that her injuries weren’t as severe as they seemed.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” You muttered, more to yourself than to her. “Zaun doesn’t make it easy for anyone.”

Silco stepped back, leaning against the wall. “She... doesn't talk. Hasn't since the explosion. Going to need a lot of patience with this one.”

“I can handle patience,” you said quietly, glancing at Silco with an understanding nod. There was something else there, though, that you could see behind his eyes—a recognition. Maybe even a kind of resignation. He had likely seen far too many broken people in his time, but for the first time, you saw a flicker of doubt in him. Whether it was for himself, for her, or both, you couldn’t be sure.

But the moment you looked back down at Powder, you knew she needed something more than just care. She needed someone who could see past the explosion, the destruction, and the chaos she had been a part of. She needed someone who could help her rebuild what had been torn apart—not just her body, but her heart.

“Hey,” you spoke again, this time more firmly. “You don’t have to carry this alone. I know it feels heavy right now, but you can’t carry it forever. It’s not all on you.”

The words didn’t seem to break through at first. Powder stayed silent, still as stone. But you could see the smallest tremor in her hands, the slight quiver in her lip.

The guilt was suffocating her.

"I'm a monster… A Jinx," Powder's voice was soft, barely a whisper, and laced with hesitation. "It's my fault."

You moved a little closer, sitting down beside her. You didn’t touch her, but you stayed there, just close enough for her to feel your presence, warm and steady. You understood what it was like to feel like the world was on your shoulders, to feel like you couldn’t make amends, but you knew one thing: she had to be given the chance to heal. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it would happen.

“You're not a monster,” you said softly, placing a gentle hand on the girl's knee. "And it's not your fault. You're just a very brave girl."

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the distant hum of Zaun’s underbelly and the faint sounds of Powder’s breath. Silco didn’t respond, but you saw the sharpness in his gaze soften, just a fraction. His stance relaxed, and his lips pressed into a thin line, contemplating your words.

Finally, Powder’s voice, quiet and small, cut through the stillness. “I... I didn’t mean to...”

“I know,” you said gently, offering her a small, comforting smile. “But it’s not about what happened. It’s about what you do next.”

The weight of her past might have been too heavy to erase, but there was still time for her to change. There was still time for healing. And in that moment, you knew: whatever happened next, you would be there to guide her through it.

A new chapter had begun for both you and Powder, one where she wouldn’t have to walk alone in the shadows of Zaun any longer.

[paigesbasketball]

Echos of the Fallen

Chapter 1: A ghost in plain sight Shadow the hedgehog x reader Warnings: cursing/slowburn

Failure. Ghosts. Revenge.

If you had asked me to describe my life, those three words would sum it all up. Three words that captured the entire meaning of my existence. I wasn’t alone; I had a trusty team. Sure, I didn’t tell them everything, but I didn’t need to. They trusted me, and I trusted them enough. They were the closest thing I had to family, even if my real family had disappeared. My life took a turn for the worse once they were killed. I was put into foster care, bouncing from home to home… No mobian wanted a sad, broken girl who watched her parents get killed. The last thing my mother told me was to run. I was frozen as I watched a G.U.N. agent take her life.

When I aged out of the system, an old lady took me in and taught me to fight. She said she was too old to have kids, but she was fine with having me. I was quiet, did what I was told, and in return, she taught me how to defend myself. She would always say, “I will never leave a child in a world where they don’t know how to defend themselves.” Years with her taught me a lot. And when she died, I knew much more. She claimed that nobody should know who I really was if I wanted a fresh start. So that’s what I did. I went to a black site and bought a fake name and identity. As far as anyone knew, the old girl was dead—she died in a car crash. My "end" was my beginning. That’s when I found the closest people to my heart today… or what was left of it.

Scar: She's a high-level fighter, not better than me, who was kicked out of the agency for "playing too rough." I loved her from the start. Unless she trusted you, she played by no rules. I saved her from being homeless, so I guess that earned me her trust. Zero: A top-tier hacker who used his talents for the wrong reasons—greed. I don’t blame him; he was in a bad place, and he thought it was his last resort. Too bad the state doesn’t take fraud lightly. He did time, but got out on good behavior after helping the FBI. Once he was out of jail, I took him in. He started seeing me like a mother, and I made a promise to protect him. He was only 17. Viper: She was our supplier. I didn’t know much about her, but she had been jailed, and she knew everyone, though nobody knew her. She helped me out of a tough spot, and I’ve never had a reason to doubt her since. She was like that cool party girl who always knew what to do. Nova: She was our chemist. The weird part was she never went to school. I grew up with her in foster care, and when she expressed how much she loved chemistry, we clicked instantly. But she never went to school... She learned everything on the dark web. Part of me wishes she went to real school to make something of her life, but I knew she didn’t want to be normal. She hated normal. Her mother threw her into foster care because she was "weird." She didn’t like typical girl things, and her mother couldn’t stand it. Good thing we loved her for it.

September 28th, 5:00 PM

“Guys, come on, we’ve got 30 minutes,” I say, irritated. We have a mission to kidnap a G.U.N. agent for information—Carson Palo. A mid-tier lieutenant working for one of the higher-ups at G.U.N. The timing couldn’t be better—during the annual fall ball. G.U.N. hosts this event once a year, desperately trying to gain more money for their corrupt ways.

“Yo, Zero, we on the list?” I ask the finger-typing boy on his computer. He dramatically rolls his eyes.

“An art like this takes time, ladies,” he says with sass.

I roll my eyes. “You know what else doesn’t take long? Getting arrested,” I reply, matching his sass.

“Viper, how are we with G.U.N.?” I ask, turning to the cool-headed supplier.

“Looking good, Capt,” she says immediately.

At the Event

Scar and I make our way further into the event, both using fake names thanks to Zero. We spot our target, but not before I catch the eye of Shadow the Hedgehog. He stares at me, as though he’s never seen me before, and starts questioning the nearest person about my appearance.

I speak into my earpiece. “Girl, I think it’s time to wrap it up. A red-and-black hedgehog won’t stop staring at me. I think he’s getting suspicious,” I say, trying to get out of his line of sight.

Scar responds immediately. “Did you ever think maybe he finds you attractive? Or is growing old with multiple Chaos your thing?” she teases.

I roll my eyes. “First of all, Chaos are adorable, and second, I am not interested in anyone at the moment,” I say, scatter-brained, trying to move out of his view.

“Yeah, um... you trying to run from him isn’t working like you think it is. Just trust me, he’s hot on your tail, and looking hot, dare I say—”

I cut her off, “Get to the damn point.”

“Stop responding and listen. He’ll hear you. Keep walking until I say so.”

I follow her instructions, trying my best to avoid Shadow’s gaze. After a few seconds, Scar continues. “Okay, he’s seriously not giving up. I need you to distract him for, like... hmm... five minutes. Trying to seduce our target is hard, but I think I almost have it. The area you’re in is good. Turn around in three seconds.”

“Get me his name,” I whisper quietly.

I stop, take a deep breath, and turn around to be met with a handsome hedgehog staring back at me. Scar wasn’t lying.

Okay, five minutes. Four minutes, fifty-nine seconds…

“Hi, how may I help you?” I say to the grim hedgehog.

“Who are you? This venue is for G.U.N. agents only, and I haven’t seen you… ever,” he says, staring deeply at me, waiting for me to crack. Sadly for him, he wasn’t going to get that satisfaction.

“Well, I think the reason you haven’t seen me is because I’m new to the office,” I say smoothly.

“Wrong,” Zero’s voice cuts through the earpiece. “You don’t even work at G.U.N. Your persona is Danny’s wife.”

Shit.

“Hmph,” he mutters, looking at my name tag, which conveniently rests near my chest.

Fuck. I’m making Scar buy me an apple pie for this later... Two minutes remaining.

I slap him and raise my voice to draw attention. “YOU PERVERT STARING AT MY BREASTS! WAIT UNTIL I TELL MY HUSBAND ABOUT THIS!” I yell, playing the damsel in distress.

A few men rush to my aid and confront Shadow without even questioning who I am. Idiots... Men always want to be heroes without thinking.

One of the many reasons I prefer Batman over Superman. I wink at Shadow playfully as I make my escape out the back entrance. But a woman stops me.

“Ms., are you okay? Do you need to talk to someone?” she says, concerned.

I quickly form tears in my eyes. “N-no, I just need to be alone right now... T-thank you though. I just feel so violated.”

I rush out the door. It's been five minutes.

“Scar, I just put on a fucking performance. You better be done,” I say with venom.

“Yeah, I’m done. Calm your tits,” she says, letting out a snicker.

As I walk toward the van, I ask, “What’s so funny?”

Zero intercepts. “I don’t know what was worse—watching that ‘performance’ or watching an unscripted telenovela.”

He and Scar burst into laughter as I get into the van.

“Just erase me from the camera footage and shut up,” I say, taking out my earpiece.

“Is he out?” I ask Scar, curious.

“Like a light, thanks to this stuff Nova gave us.”

“Alright, time to do my favorite part. Interrogate.”

Back at G.U.N. (Shadow’s POV)

“Wow, Shadow, when I told you to flirt with a girl, I didn’t mean to violate them,” Sonic says, and Shadow shakes his head, brooding.

“I wasn’t looking at her breasts. I was reading her name tag because something was off about her. Yes, I admit, I initially followed her because I thought she was attractive, but I would never treat a woman like that,” he says, spitting with venom.

Sonic adds, “Ah, I believe you, buddy, but who was she? I’ve never seen her.”

Shadow rolls his eyes while sipping his drink.

“She said she was Danny’s wife.”

Sonic looks at him, confused. “What?”

“I didn’t further pursue after that,” Shadow says.

Sonic’s voice takes on suspicion. “Well, I don’t think Danny would care, considering he doesn’t have a wife.”

I nearly spit out my drink.

“WHAT!? Then who the hell was she, and how did she get past security?” I ask, confused.

“Well, wanna find out, buddy?” Sonic says with a grin. “An adventure with my buddy Shadow the Hedgehog sounds fun.” I scoff at the blue blurs enthusiasm.

All I cared about was one thing: Who the hell was that girl?

[waywardangel-wilds]

I don't know why, but the ask you sent me @mollywog disappeared from my drafts??? Anyway, this is to answer that ask: I wish you would write bromance/friendship Peeta and Gale.

"Oh!" Gale throws his hands over his head. "And that's how it's done!"

Peeta watches on, unimpressed, as he absentmindedly texts his girlfriend back: Sorry gonna be home late. Something wrong with Gale.

Katniss's reply is immediate: 😞

"Are you in or you still too chicken shit?" Gale grins, dropping back into the booth across from him to take a long drink from his beer.

"I'm just a better gambler than you." He replies dryly. He looks back at the dartboard briefly while Finnick shoves his way out over Gale to take his turn.

"He's just chicken shit," Finnick adds in, shoving Gale's head out of the way when he doesn't let him out of the booth immediately.

"Thanks for that," Peeta picks up his beer and takes a drink. He turns back to Gale. "So?"

"What?" the other man replies.

"Why am I here?" he asks exasperatedly. "You know I have a job, right? Those things people do? For money? Yeah, not optional for me."

"Ugh, you're such a killjoy." Gale groans throwing his head back against the seat. He's a little drunk. "I don't know, I just wanna hang out, okay?"

"I'm leaving," Peeta stands and yanks his coat on. He's been here for the better part of the night and he still has no idea why Gale made it seem like he was in the middle of a crisis. He's never answering his texts again.

"Wait!" Gale calls after him with a stressed look to him. "Fine. Sit down."

"Madge," he drums his fingers against the table, "is leaving me."

Peeta blinks at him, shocked. Gale and Madge are high school sweethearts. They were going to get married by the end of the summer. Peeta already bought a suit.

"Oh shit," he sits back down. "Are you okay?"

Gale shrugs and takes another drink, his eyes taking on a troubled look. "I'm fine."

"Do you wanna come back to the house? You and Katniss should prob-"

"I'm not gonna talk to Katniss about this." Gale cuts him off, dropping the bottle back to the table with a thump. "She's on her side."

"There's no sides," Peeta shakes his head.

"There are." Gale rolls his eyes. "Girls side with each other."

"Women," Peeta corrects. Gale glares at him. "Sorry, too easy."

Gale groans, dropping his head to his hand.

"Uh, what happened?" Peeta asks. He's never seen Gale so, openly emotional? "Did you guys have a fight? or-"

"We had a fight." Gale interrupts again. "I'm a work-obsessed maniac who doesn't even want to have kids, I'm just marrying her because it's what we're supposed to do. Apparently."

Peeta raises his eyebrows, "that's rough."

"It isn't true!" Gale insists. "I want to get married. And yeah, I care about my job, but so what? I worked hard to get where I am, what am I supposed to do? Fucking-"

"What's going on?" Finnick asks, having returned to their table with another round of beers.

Peeta shoots him a look meanwhile Gale groans and drops his head to his hands again.

"Madge dumped him," Peeta hisses. Finnick's face pales.

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry man." Finnick puts the beers down slowly like he's worried they'll explode. "That's-- I'm sorry."

"My ma's gonna kill me," Gale moans miserably.

Peeta smiles involuntarily. "Listen, maybe it's nothing."

"She said she never wanted to see me again!" Gale argues, his eyes like an accusation.

"Yeah but, maybe it was just a fight? You both probably said stuff you didn't mean." Peeta says. "Maybe you both just need to cool off for a bit. Talk it out in the morning."

Gale scoffs, "yeah right."

"No! Come on, we all do it." He looks over at Finnick for some encouragement. Finnick looks at him like he just threw him a hot potato without any prompting. "Right? You and Annie argue all the time, don't you."

Finnick jumps as if physically struck. He looks at Gale's miserable face and blanches. "Uh, yeah. All the time."

"What could you and Annie possibly argue about?" Gale asks derisively.

"Stuff." Finnick shrugs. "You know, whose turn is it to do the laundry, why is Finn saying the f-word so much. Just stuff."

"Wow, tough." Gale rolls his eyes. "Mellark?"

"What?" Peeta looks at Finnick for a lifeline but he just shrugs at him. "Me and Katniss?"

"No, you and your mother. Obviously you and Katniss." Gale bites.

"Um, I don't remember anything specific." He fiddles with the label on his beer. "But yeah, mean stuff sometimes. Like..." he trails off. "Oh right! The other day she called me an idiot."

"Did she actually mean that or was she joking?" Gale asks with disinterest.

Peeta turns sheepish. "Okay, so she didn't mean it, but we really do fight all the time!" He insists. "It's just not that big of a deal! We cool off and move on, which is what you and Madge can do tomorrow."

"Tell me you and Katniss have actually had a real fight in the past year and I'll go." Gale challenges. "I dare you."

Peeta sighs, "Fine." He drums his fingers against the table while Gale's eyes bore into his skull. "We fight about money."

"Money?" Gale asks.

"Oh, that's a tough one." Finnick scratches at his beard. "Annie and I too, before I got the new job. That sucks."

"Yeah," Peeta agrees. "I don't know, we just move on. Katniss doesn't want to feel like she depends on me for anything, but I always tell her that she can, I'm not going anywhere or anything but she's-"

"A pain in the ass?" Gale offers.

"Stubborn,” he corrects. “And independent.”

“That’s married for pain in the ass,” Finnick intercepts.

“Yeah, she can be a pain in the ass,” Peeta admits. “But I love her. So, whatever.” He shrugs. “I just deal with it.”

“Oh, I see.” Gale turns to Finnick. “He just rolls over and takes it.”

“I don’t,” Peeta rolls his eyes.

“I think what Peeta’s trying to say,” Finnick interjects. “Is that sometimes you just gotta deal. Meet in the middle. It’s an argument not a war. At the end of the day you still gotta like each other.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t have the fucking patience, you know?” Gale rubs a hand through his hair. “I just- I get all defensive and… I guess I’d just rather hurt her before she hurts me?”

“That’s really unhealthy,” Finnick says. “Just so you know.”

“If you want to get married you have to stop thinking about her as someone who’s gonna up and leave,” Peeta adds.

“What are you talking about? You’re not even engaged.” Gale snaps.

“Well…” Peeta trails off, playing with the beer label. “I asked.”

“What?” Gale snaps.

“Congratulations!” Finnick exclaims at virtually the same time, slapping Peeta’s shoulder. “That’s huge!”

“She said no,” Gale reads his expression.

“She said she’d ‘think’ about it.” He corrects, still playing with the bottle. “She’s not ready.” He shrugs.

“Oh,” Finnick whispers awkwardly.

“What?” Gale frowns. “That’s stupid. Does she think she can do better? She can be such a fucking idiot-“

“Okay, don’t talk about her like that,” Peeta interrupts. “She’s allowed to say no, okay?”

“And you’re just okay with this?” Gale stares at him like he’s insane.

“We’re not going to break up over it, if that’s what you’re asking.” He snaps. “I knew what I was getting into when I got involved with Katniss Everdeen, alright?”

“Damn,” Gales leans back against the booth.

“So yeah,” Peeta’s voice calms. He lays his hands on the table. “Come on, you can sleep on my couch and call Madge in the morning.”

Finnick puts a hand on his shoulder, “it’ll all work out.” The older man smiles at him.

“Thanks,” Peeta says with some annoyance. He stands. “Gale?”

“Fine,” his friend grumbles, yanking on his coat upside down. “But I don’t wanna deal with your girlfriend, keep her away from me.”

“I’m sure your beloved cousin wants nothing to do with you either,” Peeta replies dryly.

[waywardxrhea]

Won't Give Up - Spencer Reid

Heart's Desire (pt 1) / Soon You'll Get Better (pt 2)

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!reader

word count: 7,584

Going to a routine follow-up appointment with Doctor Rubio lands you where you least expected it: back in the ER.

content: ANGST, lots of medical stuff (vomit mentioned as a warning for those who are queasy), canon typical themes - mentions of threats to safety and guns (it's a criminal minds fic, what can you really expect?), some inherently political topics (death row and guns - nothing to sway one way or another, they're just mentioned), fluff at the very end

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Spencer asked as he gathered up his belongings in order to head to Quantico for the morning. 

“I’m sure,” you replied before kissing his cheek and handing him a to-go cup of coffee, just the way he liked it, of course. “I’ve dragged you away from work and the team enough already over the last few months. It’s just a routine follow-up and test to clear me for field work again.”

“But, what if-”

“Ah, ah, ah!" you interrupted him with a quiet laugh following. A fond smile made its way onto your lips, and you ghosted your knuckles over Spencer's jawline as you told him, “I love you, and I appreciate your concern for my health more than I can ever express, but it’s okay for you to not be at every appointment.”

“I just worry…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled you in for a hug. 

“I know you do,” you mumbled into his chest. “I’ll call you when the appointment is done, though. Should take around three hours for everything.”

“I wish they would have just had you do an exercise stress test. You’re seeing if you’re cleared to go back into the field, so why not do it with something that would mimic that?” 

You shrugged as he released you from the hug, telling him, “I guess because of how volatile my case was, they don’t wanna risk me falling out at the appointment.”

“That’s fair…” Spencer relented with a sigh. 

“Now go, before you’re late to work!” you said with a quiet laugh, one last kiss for the road landing on his lips before he turned toward the door. “I love you!” you called after him.

“I love you too!” he replied, the boyish grin returning to his features. He never tired of hearing you say those three little words. He had heard you say them in a manner of different ways over your time spent together as a couple, and each one made him happier than the last. As he made his way to his car, he couldn’t help his mind from wandering back to daydreams of the, hopefully not so distant future, he had been having recently…

You looked up as your name was called by the receptionist, and the nurse who would be taking you back gave you a smile as you approached her. “You ready?” the bright young lady asked as she held the door open for you.

“As I’ll ever be,” you told her, now following her down the small hall and into a room. 

As you got settled onto the table, the nurse started up the machine to take your vitals. You sat quietly as she took them and told you, “When we’re done with this, I’ll hook you up to the cardiac monitor so that we can track what’s going on in there as Doc gives the meds.”

“Sounds good,” you told her.

After hooking you up to the monitor, she opened a cabinet nearby and grabbed an IV kit and got started on giving you an IV so the doctor had access to give you the medications. When she finished and made sure it was working, she exited the room, telling you that she was going to grab the medications for the doctor.

When you were alone in the room once more, you got comfortable on the table as you took some calming breaths when your anxiety began to spike. You told yourself that you were going to be fine, that you would pass the test and be cleared for field work by the end of the week! Your positive thoughts were interrupted, though, and you had to sit up as you felt a wave of nausea hit you out of nowhere, a dizzying feeling taking hold as you positioned yourself upright. 

You jumped at the sharp knock that the nurse gave before entering the room, your heart racing in your chest as she opened the door to reveal herself with some medications in hand. She looked you over and asked, “Everything all right? You’re looking a little queasy.”

“Just got really nauseous all of a sudden,” you replied, a slow breath being blown out of your pursed lips. 

“Oh! I’ll go ask if we can get you some Phenergan real quick!” she said, making a quick exit from the room. 

When she returned, it was with the doctor, and she gave you a dose of the nausea medication through your IV. As the doctor washed his hands, another wave of nausea hit you before promptly being knocked away by the medicine. “Better?” the nurse asked quietly, concern evident in her voice. Finally being able to take a deep breath, you leaned against the wall and closed your eyes, nodding while you did. 

There was a beat of silence that filled the air before Doctor Rubio cleared his throat and said, “Becca, I just got a message from the front desk saying that they need you to help with rooming other patients. The other nurse got stuck in a room. I can take it from here.”

“You got it,” she told him, taking off her gloves and heading out of the room. 

When the door clicked shut, Doctor Rubio turned toward you with a syringe in hand that was filled with a milky white substance, and said, “All right, this is the first medication that we give for the stress test. Are you ready?”

“Yes sir,” you replied, adjusting yourself on the bed so you were laying down. 

You felt a cool sensation as the doctor attached the syringe to your IV and began pushing the medication, and within moments your eyes were becoming heavy and your mind started to cloud. Before sleep could overtake your body, you heard his voice close to your ear as he said, “Sleep tight, Agent… Smile when you wake up, you’ll be on camera.” 

When you woke up what felt like seconds later, you squeezed your eyes closed when they registered the bright lights shining at you from above, a noise of discontent leaving your throat. There was a stinging pain in your arm that had the IV in it that you tried to ignore while you figured out what the hell was going on. In the brief seconds that you had your eyes open, you saw some of your surroundings. You were in a room that mostly empty other than some equipment that was still covered in plastic. You must have been in the new wing of the hospital… Not that knowing that helped you at all…

A few seconds later, you turned your head and tried opening your eyes again. What you saw when you opened them was Doctor Rubio sitting at a laptop as a camera was trained right at you. When your eyes made contact with the logo on the back of the laptop, things started to click together. The logo matched the tattoo you noticed on his arm before. It was the very same one that was the symbol of a gun running group you took down when you worked for Homeland…

“Ah, you’re finally awake!” Rubio said as he stood up from the laptop and began approaching you. While he did, you tried to sit up, but couldn’t when you realized that you were restrained to the hospital bed he had you on. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” he said in a dark tone, and you were sure he was giving you a sick smile under the mask he was wearing, judging by the crinkles by his eyes. He leaned in close and said quietly, “And I wouldn’t say anything either, if you knew what was good for you. Every time you do, your time is cut even shorter.”

“See this?” he asked as he stood back up to his full height and gestured to a bag of fluid that was currently flowing into the IV in your arm. “This is potassium chloride. The very drug that they use on Death Row to stop people’s hearts.” 

When he said this, your eyes widened, and he chuckled as he said, “I think you know where this is going, Agent.” There was a brief pause before he continued, saying, “Four years ago, before you worked for the FBI, before you joined the BAU, you worked on a special task force at Homeland Security. That task force was charged with taking down a group of people who worked under a man they called Schütze.” He flashed you the tattoo and added, “Schütze stood for our freedom. Our rights! And you got him sent to Death Row!” You had tried to ignore the part of your past, but you did remember that sometime within the last year, one of your old friends from Homeland had told you that Schütze had been given the injection...

Anger filled your chest when he said this and reminded you of the fear you faced during that takedown, and in a moment of rage, you bitterly told him, “Schütze didn’t stand for freedom, he stood for chaos and murder. The guns he smuggled into this country were responsible for hundreds, if not thousands of deaths!”

“He stood for the second amendment freedoms that this country is trying to take away from us!” Rubio shouted. He tsked as he made his way to the IV pole and rolled the dial on the clamp so that the fluid ran just a little faster into your bloodstream as he said, “He knew that the only way for us to keep our weapons was to make sure they couldn’t be traced. He knew that one day, they would come for us all. He knew that with his product, we would be able to raise an army of freedom fighters to protect our rights!”

“You’re delusional…” you muttered as you took in the wild look in the man’s eyes. 

“Tell that to the thousands of people watching the stream right now. They’re all here to watch you die,” he said while gesturing toward the camera. The roller on the potassium was opened up a little more as he told you, “When someone gets the lethal injection, they’re first given a large dose of a sedative so they’re unconscious. Then, they’re chemically paralyzed with just as large a dose of a paralytic. After that, they’re injected with potent potassium chloride, and their heart stops within a minute.” Rubio gestured toward the camera again as he said, “These people, though, want to see you suffer. I do too, if I’m honest. You see, ever since I brought you back here and you took a little propofol induced nap, I’ve been loading you up with potassium. As time passes, you’ll experience more symptoms of hyperkalemia, and we will all revel in the joy that comes with watching someone you hate slowly die.”

All throughout this time, you were struggling against the restraints holding you down, but as he neared the end of his monologue, you began to feel a staticy sensation in your arms and legs, as if they were falling asleep. To combat it, you opened and closed your hands to try and regain the feeling in them, and Rubio only chuckled as he said, “You’re already starting to feel it, aren’t you? That numbness you’re getting right now is one of the early signs.” 

He sat back down behind the laptop before saying, “While that infuses, let’s read some of these comments from other followers of Schütze, yeah?” A sick laugh left his throat as he read, “‘If I knew the bitch was practically in my backyard, I would have shot her in the head myself.’ I wonder how close that one lives to you and your lovely boyfriend, Agent.”

“Leave him out of this,” you told him in a dangerous tone.

“Ooh these ones are asking who the lucky man is. Where they can find him. I do know where you live. It would just take a few keystrokes and they would all know too…” Rubio said with a sneer. 

“You wouldn’t dare!” you snapped, which caused him to stand up and approach you with a dangerous look in his eye. He turned up the rate again, and this time you couldn’t even feel the sting in your arm as he did. Looking down at it, though, you saw how irritated it was becoming, and you knew that something was wrong if you could no longer feel the pain. 

“Oh, I would, though,” he told you as he stooped down and began undoing your restraints. “If you can get out of here, be my guest, but I have a feeling you won’t be able to.”

With your arms and legs free, you wanted to rip the IV out of your arm and get off of the bed so you could make a break for it, but as you willed your arm to reach for the IV line to rip it out, you couldn’t even move it more than an inch. Your legs were no different, and in your attempt to get off of the bed, you just managed to flip over onto your side, facing the camera fully as you gave in. There was no way you were getting off of this bed. There was no way you were getting that IV line out. It was likely you would be dying in this room, in front of that camera. 

As Rubio sat back behind his laptop and began reading more hateful and threatening comments to you, a wave of nausea far worse than before hit you. You tried to breathe through it, but couldn’t as the discomfort only increased as the seconds passed with no end in sight. You wished the medicine they had given you earlier was still in your system, but it seemed to be nowhere to be found as nausea took over and your stomach began to heave. You begged your body to hold on, but you couldn’t any longer, and it took all of your core strength to move yourself closer to the edge of the bed as you emptied your stomach onto the floor. 

Hot tears began to flow from your eyes when you finally stopped throwing up after nearly a minute, the nausea still ever-present as you closed your eyes and tried to keep yourself from completely going into a panic attack. You felt humiliated. Broken. Defeated. You wished that Rubio would just get on with it. Kill you himself with one of those ghost guns he was so proud to support. Make it quick. But that wasn’t what they wanted… They wanted you to suffer.

And suffer, you did. 

Another wave of nausea hit you, and you threw up again, but this time when you were finished, you could barely catch your breath. Your breathing was ragged as you tried to get oxygen into your lungs unsuccessfully, and the room began spinning around you the longer you kept on like that. 

Panic set in soon after, and you could just barely hear Rubio’s commentary over the ringing in your ears. Not a coherent thought ran through your mind, and everything began to blur together. What you were sure of though, was the sudden pain in your chest as you felt your heart kick into arrhythmia. This one you were unfamiliar with, though. It was different from the one you were diagnosed with.

Even as you continued to find yourself in the midst of a panic attack, you felt your heart rate begin to slow over the next few minutes, going even more sluggish than your normal rate as time passed. Soon, black started to dot your vision and everything started to slow down as consciousness began to slip away from you. Through your clouded thoughts, you forced yourself to picture Spencer. If these were to be your last moments on this planet, you would at least be thinking of him. A tear slipped out of your eye as you pictured him smiling at you, and you swore you heard his voice as your thoughts began to fade…

Earlier…

One o’clock rolled around, and while he was sitting down to eat his lunch, Spencer checked his phone to see if you had called with any updates. When he didn’t see anything, he decided that he would call you instead. Maybe you had been given some anxiety medication for the procedure and didn’t remember to update him… Three calls going unanswered over the next hour began to worry Spencer, so he spoke with Hotch and told him that he was going to the hospital to check on you. 

When Spencer arrived at the front desk of the cardiology center, he gave them your name and asked if you were done with your procedure yet. The clerk typed into her computer and told him, “It shows she hasn’t checked out or made her second follow-up appointment yet. The procedure should be done, though, so let’s go see how she’s doing.”

“Thank you,” Spencer said as he followed her toward the nurses’ station. 

When they arrived in the area, their presence was unnoticed as a nurse who looked distressed was being spoken to by two people who looked like administration. “I don’t know what to tell you, Becca! The machine records show that at nine forty-eight, you took out three bags of potassium and a vial of propofol!” 

“How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t do that? Check the cameras if you have to! What patient was it even for? No one I was rooming today had low potassium. If they were that critical, I would have sent them to the ED!” 

“All I know is that those meds were taken out under your name with an override by Doctor Rubio! I just need to know why! As for who it was for…” she said the last part as she ran her finger over the paper and stopped when she found what she was looking for.

Spencer felt like everything stopped when she read off your name. Had something happened? Why did you need that much potassium? Propofol was a potent sedative…why did you need that for the stress test? Before he could think, Spencer walked up to the small group and said, “Excuse me, I’m the medical POA for the patient you just mentioned. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Go ahead,” the stern woman told Becca.

“I got her to the room, took her vitals, and started her IV. When I came back with the meds for the stress test, she was super nauseated, so I got Doctor Rubio to order some Phenergan and grabbed that from the machine. I…” she paused for a moment as she thought through the story carefully. “I don’t remember hearing the exit tone for the computer… Doctor Rubio was right behind me and told me to wait for him to go back into the room. Maybe…”

“You better be damn sure of that story before accusing the doctor of something like that,” the other person said in a huff.

“Well, is she still in the room?” Spencer asked urgently as he started to piece things together. 

“Let’s go see,” the clerk said as she began leading Spencer toward the room you had been taken to earlier. 

When they got in, Spencer saw your purse on the chair in the corner, but no you in sight. Rage and fear gripped him tight, and his voice raised nearly to a shout as he asked, “Where is she?”

“I-I don’t know!” Becca said from behind Spencer. “They needed my help out here, and it got busy!”

“Where’s the doctor?” Spencer snapped as his mind raced a mile a minute. That was nearly four hours ago! Who knows what could have been done to you or where you even were!

“Sir, please don’t raise your voice or else we’re going to have to get security to remove you,” the administration worker told him as she approached, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she did so she could dial security. 

“Remove me?! My girlfriend is suddenly missing from the procedure room she was supposed to be in after a sedative was taken out under her name along with a lethal amount of potassium! You need to be working on getting security footage of where she was taken!” Spencer shouted. He fumbled for his badge in his pocket and flashed it to her as he said, “She’s a member of the FBI, and if you don’t start working on helping me find her, we will charge you with aiding and abetting the abduction of an FBI agent and, so help me if it came to this, murder!” 

“Agent, you need to calm down, you’re causing a scene!” the woman snapped at him, skepticism obvious in her eyes as she looked at Spencer's badge.

“It’s Doctor,” Spencer told her as he pulled out his phone and dialed Hotch. 

“Everything okay?” Hotch asked as he answered the phone. 

“She’s missing,” Spencer told him quickly. “The doctor took out a sedative and a lethal amount of potassium and she hasn’t been seen since. I need the team here to help me find her.”

“We’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

“Get Garcia to look into Doctor Jordan Rubio. He’s the one who might have taken her,” Spencer said before Hotch hung up and began briefing the team on what was going on at the hospital. 

The rest of the team showed up right as Spencer was arguing with security, telling them, “The longer this goes on, the less of a chance we have at finding her! Do you really want-”

“FBI, what’s going on here?” Hotch asked, flashing his badge as he approached the group still standing in the hallway. 

“You-you’re actually?” the administration lady said wearily as the team approached. 

“Yes, he’s actually FBI, and so is the agent that is missing from that room,” Hotch told her sternly. “Now, what you’re going to do is take me to where I can see the security footage of the last five hours, and we’re going to figure out where she was taken.”

“Y-yes sir,” she said timidly as her eyes turned down toward the floor. 

“JJ, Rossi, split up and start searching. Morgan, you’re with Reid. I’ll tell you if there are any updates from the security cameras,” Hotch directed, sending a look of concern Spencer’s way. 

“There’s a brand new wing being built, we’ll head that way,” Derek said before gesturing for Spencer to follow him as he hustled away. 

Spencer nodded and started to follow, worry evident in his voice as he began to say, “Derek, what if-”

“There’s no what if. We’re going to find her,” he told him firmly. “Now come on, we’ve got seven floors to search.”

Back in the security area, Hotch stood behind the person at the computer who was accessing the footage of the last few hours when his phone began to ring. “Talk to me, Garcia.”

“I was looking into the doctor and found some pages that he follows under a pseudonym on the dark web. They’re all in support of Schütze, the man she took down when she worked at Homeland, and-” 

She cut herself off abruptly, and Hotch heard the gasp of air that filled her lungs, so he asked sharply, “What is it, Garcia?”

“He’s live streaming right now… He…he’s… Oh, God, it’s awful, Hotch.” She swallowed hard before saying, “The stream is titled ‘Killing a Killer - Justice for Schütze’”

“Oh, God…” Hotch whispered, grabbing the back of the office chair in front of him. “Does it look like he has her in the hospital?”

“Yes, yes, there isn’t much in the room, but it looks like- Oh my God!”

“What?!” Hotch asked sharply.

“She’s-” Penelope had to turn away from the stream as she told Hotch, “She’s throwing up and it looks like she's having a hard time breathing! Oh, God…”

“Focus, Garcia! What’s the room look like?” 

“Right! There isn’t much in the room, it looks like it hasn’t been worked in. In the corner of the shot, there’s a cabinet that’s still got factory packaging covering it,” she replied after taking a few deep breaths to settle her own stomach. 

“Send me a picture of that video. I need to confirm with the staff that it’s here.”

“Sending it your way… Now,” she told him as she sent him the screenshot. 

Hotch’s phone rang with a notification, and he quickly looked at the photo. Sadness and rage began to pool in his chest as he shoved it under the security officer’s nose asking, “Is this here?”

“Oh, God…” the man whispered as he looked at the photo. He was quiet for a moment before he nodded and said, “That’s in the new wing. I couldn’t tell you which floor, though.”

Without a further word, Hotch turned and started running down the hall, pulling a walking off of his belt and radioing the others. “She’s in the new wing! JJ, Rossi, get there now! I’m heading there too. Morgan, Reid, what floor are you two on?”

“We cleared the first floor, she wasn’t there. Heading to the second now,” Derek responded. 

“Okay. JJ go to the third, Rossi to the fourth, and I’ll take the fifth. Work fast, there are still two floors above those,” Hotch ordered as he rounded a corner and pushed open the new wing’s stairwell door. 

“Three more doors, Reid, come on,” Derek said as he once again quietly closed a door so they wouldn’t give themselves away. 

“Wait!” Spencer exclaimed quietly, holding up a hand for Derek to stop what he was doing. “Do you hear that?”

Derek strained his ears to hear, and after a few seconds heard what Spencer was. Two doors down, they both heard a male’s voice speaking and then…laughing. White, hot rage filled Spencer’s entire being when he heard the laughter, but before he could make a move toward the door, Derek held out an arm in front of him as he said, “Look, I get that you want to get to her, but we need to be smart about this, man! Treat it like any other case. I’ll go for the unsub and you go to her. Got it?” 

“Got it,” Spencer said with a curt nod as Derek lowered his arm and raised the other to hold his firearm up as they approached the room. 

Spencer’s heart was racing as they approached the door, and as they got closer, the voice of Doctor Rubio was unmistakable. The things he was saying were vile… Of people wanting to hurt you. Stalk you. Kill you. It was all too much for Spencer to hear those things being said about you, and he almost missed Derek’s queue to bust into the room. He zoned in just in time though for Derek to swing the door open and announce, “FBI! Hands where I can see ‘em!”

“You hear that everyone? The FBI’s here to arrest me! If you see their faces, they’re targets too!” Rubio shouted as he stood up from the chair he was sitting in after hitting a few more buttons on his keyboard. 

“Jordan Rubio, you’re under arrest for the abduction and attempted murder of a federal agent. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law,” Derek started to say to Rubio as he shoved him against the wall to begin cuffing him. 

Spencer paid no mind to what Derek was saying, though. The second he was in that room and saw that you were there, he shouted your name as he darted toward you. Taking a quick glance at the scene, he saw the IV bag of potassium pouring into you and grabbed for it, disconnecting the fluid from the line as quickly as he could. He saw your eyes closed and your body motionless on the bed, with only shallow breaths moving your chest up and down. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” Spencer whispered as he stepped carefully to avoid the sick on the floor. He gently tapped your cheek to rouse you, and when you didn’t stir, he checked your pulse, shouting, “She isn’t responding and her pulse is 47! Morgan, radio Hotch and tell him we need the ER team here now!” 

“By now her potassium level is likely nearing seven at least. That’s lethal. If she isn’t already gone, she doesn’t have much time left,” Rubio said with a sick laugh. 

“Man, shut the hell up!” Derek told him as he pulled his radio off of his belt and informed Hotch of the situation. After he radioed Hotch and got confirmation that the ER team was on their way, he turned toward the computer and hit the mute button as he dialed Penelope. When she answered, he was quick to say, “Hey, Baby Girl. I’m sure you already found this stream, but before I shut it down, I wanted to make sure you don’t need anything from it for evidence.”

“Shut it down, I've already got everything I need,” she told him promptly. He did so, and after a few keystrokes, the thing was shut off. “Now get that sick son of a bitch away from her.”

“Already on it,” Derek said as he hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket, grabbing Rubio by the cuffs and nudging him out of the door. 

When he got into the hallway, he had to jump out of the way of the ER team with their stretcher, who were quickly followed by Hotch, Rossi, and JJ as they all converged on the scene. “Is she gonna be okay?” JJ asked, out of breath from the run she just went on up and down the stairs. 

“I hope so,” Derek said, shaking his head sadly as he watched you being stretchered out of the room. The team had a bag mask they were using to help you breathe, and a crash cart was on the bed just in case the worst happened as you were being transported. Spencer trailed behind, rattling off your medical history and what he knew about what happened as they went. 

By the time you were in the emergency room, you had a team of nurses, a respiratory therapist, and a doctor surrounding you. As much as Spencer wanted to be by your side and hold your hand through this, he knew he would just be in the way, so he stood in the corner, helpless. One nurse who had run out of the room came back in, telling the doctor, “Her potassium level is 6.8.”

“We gotta K wash her. Courtney, put in orders for 80 milligrams of furosemide IV, ten units of regular insulin IV push, D50 IV push, and calcium gluconate IV. Order to recheck labs in an hour. Get a couple new IVs in her, this one’s badly extravasated. We'll some procaine hydrochloride 1% and lidocaine on board as well. She also needs a foley to monitor her output.” 

“On it,” the nurse at the computer said before she began rapidly typing into the computer to get orders in. Other nurses began carrying out the other orders, working together to get everything done before the medications arrived. 

Spencer took solace in the fact that after they gave you the medications, your heart rate started to head toward a normal rate, although the rhythm was still funky. When everything that could be done for the time was finished, Spencer was able to move from the corner, pulling up a chair beside the bed and lacing his fingers in yours. He let out a shaky breath as he lifted your hand to kiss the back of it, tears beginning to fall from his eyes when you didn’t show any sign of a response to him. “I’m sorry… I’m so…so sorry,” he whispered, his voice broken with emotion. 

“It’s not your fault, you know,” came Hotch’s voice from behind him as he entered the room. 

“I should’ve pushed to go with her to the appointment,” Spencer said, not turning to look at his unit chief because of the shame that filled his body at the fact that something like this even happened. 

“How could you have known?” he asked softly. “That brain of yours is capable of many things, but telling the future isn’t one of them.”

There was a silence that filled the air for a few moments before Spencer said, “He has a tattoo. On his wrist. It’s the logo of the group Schütze ran. It was on the laptop he was streaming with.”

“Had you seen the tattoo before today?” 

“No…” Spencer admitted. “I think she had though. The day we went to Rubio to get her diagnosis, she was distracted when he came into the room and washed his hands. He…” Spencer’s breathing picked up as he talked through the story and anger started to build inside his chest once more, his voice raising slightly as he said, “He even acknowledged that she saw it!” He finally looked toward Hotch, and he saw the anger in Spencer’s eyes as he did, a pang of sympathy resonating in his chest as Spencer plowed forward, telling him, “But she never said anything about it. Maybe she didn’t fully recognize it. The human brain tends to block out certain things as part of a trauma response, especially in cases like hers where she was threatened by the group’s followers for a while during the court proceedings. They stopped after a while, so she stopped worrying about them. Filed it all away in the back of her mind...”

“So, do you blame her?”

“W-what?” Spencer asked, shocked at the question. “Of course not!”

“Then don’t blame yourself, either,” he told him, a light squeeze on Spencer’s shoulder as he did. Before he turned to go, Hotch added, “The bureau's got US Marshals on the way to keep watch over the two of you. With the threats that were coming from that stream, safety is a vital concern right now. Until then, Morgan is going to stay here with the two of you, and a thoroughly vetted police officer will be posted outside of the door.”

“Thank you,” Spencer said with a short nod. 

“I’ll be checking in, but for now I think you need to focus on someone else,” he said with a small smile on his lips as he nodded his head toward you. 

When Spencer turned back toward you, he saw your eyes fluttering open, and a wide smile made its way onto his lips as he whispered, “Hey.”

“Spencer?” you asked wearily. A quiet sob fell from your lips before you said, “You found me…”

“Not just me, Derek too,” Spencer said as he grabbed your hand once more, right as the door opened to reveal Derek walking in. He squeezed your hand as he told you with all the sincerity in the world, “I would never give up on finding you. Ever.”

A smile made its way onto Derek’s face when he saw your eyes open, and it was evident in his voice as he said, “Hey, Sunshine!”

“Did you get him? Doctor Rubio?” you asked. 

Spencer looked to Derek for the answer, and he nodded, telling you, “He’s in custody right now. Charged with the abduction and attempted murder of a federal agent. He should get 25 to life without the possibility of parole. We just gotta do the work to make sure he gets life.”

As you nodded, you suddenly cringed at the pain in your arm, a sharp breath being sucked in as everything hit you at once. “Well, I can feel my limbs again…” you muttered as you leaned your head back onto the pillow, squeezing your eyes closed for some sort of relief that didn’t come. 

You were quiet for a few moments before tears began to spill from your eyes as you said, “I’m sorry, Spence… I… I should’ve known, I just… I couldn’t remember where I had seen that tattoo before. I was feeling sick right before he came in, and it got worse when I saw the tattoo again, and I-I should have just left. I should’ve just gone home and-”

“Hey, hey, hey, this isn’t on you,” Spencer told you, remembering Hotch’s words to him only minutes before. 

“Yeah, you can’t blame yourself for someone else’s actions. Especially those of a sociopath,” Derek reminded you. 

You barely heard their words, though, as a wave of nausea hit you. It wasn’t as strong as before when you were in that room with Rubio, but you practically felt the color drain from your face as your stomach lurched a bit. “I need a nurse…” you managed to whisper as you covered your mouth. 

Frantically looking around the room, Spencer spotted a package of alcohol swabs and grabbed one after hitting the button to summon a nurse to the room. He ripped it open and put it under your nose as he said, “Just breathe for me. In through your nose.” 

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the scene in front of him. 

“Smelling isopropyl alcohol helps relieve nausea. There are a few theories as to why, one of which has to do with chemoreceptors in the brain, and another to do with the body naturally reacting to the strong smell by breathing in a way that helps reduce the nausea,” Spencer told him as the nurse entered the room. “Can she have anything for nausea?” he asked when she made their presence. 

“Yes, and I have to draw labs again to see what her potassium is, so I’ll do all that when I come back with that medicine,” she said, turning around and heading out the room. 

The results of the lab draw were still critical, so they transferred you to the ICU in order to receive aggressive treatment to bring the level down to normal. As the evening dragged on, your symptoms waxed and waned, with occasional heart palpitations and nausea being your biggest complaints. 

You were surprised that no one from the Bureau had come to question you about what happened. You were sure that it was heavily influenced by Hotch, who, you had no doubt was trying to give you time to heal before the barrage of questioning came. Your time to heal seemed to be up, though, when in the morning, there was a knock on the glass door and in came three people: Hotch, and two people who introduced themselves as agents from the Bureau and the US Marshal’s office respectively. 

Hotch sent you an apologetic look as they pulled up chairs and the bedside table so they could take notes and fill out forms as they talked with you. The hospital staff were informed that they were not allowed in the room unless there was an emergency, and the questioning began. 

During the line of questioning, you obviously had to inform the Bureau official taking your case about your relationship with Spencer, which earned a look of disapproval until Hotch pulled the papers you both signed out of a briefcase he had on the cabinet beside him. You took the agent through everything you felt was important to the case, telling him everything you could remember up until you blacked out. 

When he was done with his questions, the Marshal agent straightened up some papers on the table as she cleared her throat. “Now, I know that you recall some of the comments that Doctor Rubio read to you while he had you down there, but we went through all that Agent Garcia archived, and we have some concerns.”

“Concerns such as?” Spencer asked.

“Well, we’re concerned that, even after the case is tried, there will still be a threat to her safety,” she told him. She turned back to you and said, “There were numerous threats for stalking, killing, and even sexual assault. Even more so than during the trial for Schütze. And we've already stopped a few trying to get into the hospital. From now through the trial period, you’ll have the full protection of US Marshals 24/7, but we would like you to go into witness protection afterward. There are thousands who still practically worship Schütze, and now that Schütze's been given the injection, and the man who tried to hurt you because of it is in custody...”

“I’d never be safe again…” you whispered, your eyes closing as a soft sigh left your lungs and a few tears fell from your eyes. 

“Wait, wait, wait, you wanna put her into WitSec?” Hotch asked sharply, his hands going to his hips in a stern manner as he loomed over the agent. 

“Agent Hotchner, I know that you have your reservations about this, and what happened with your ex wife was a total failure on our part, but-”

“But nothing! She-”

“She needs to be protected! End of story, agent!” she said sternly. “There are thousands of people out there, claiming to have these ghost guns that Schütze brought into the country, threatening her life. Trying to get into the hospital! If she isn’t put under the protection of the US Marshal’s office, she is going to die. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that’s just how it is!”

“I’ll do it,” you told her, making a hush fall over the room.

Did you want to? No. Going into WitSec meant leaving everything behind. It meant leaving your family behind. But it also meant that you had a chance of living. And you couldn’t take that for granted. 

“I’m going with you,” Spencer said immediately after you gave your consent. 

“Woah, woah, woah, Spence! Think about this for a second. You’d be leaving everything you’ve made for yourself behind. What about your mom?”

“She’s immediate family, she’d be able to go into the program too,” he replied. 

The agent cleared her throat once more before saying, “The problem with that, though, Doctor Reid, is that you aren’t immediate family.”

Without missing a beat, Spencer grabbed your hand in between his and said something that completely shocked you. “Marry me. Before the trial’s over. We’ll have it in Rossi’s backyard. One last celebration as a team…as a family before we go. We’ll be legally married before you have to fully enter the program, and-”

“Spence-” you started to say, but were interrupted by him barreling forward with his thoughts. 

“And before you ask, no, this isn’t a rash decision. I’ve had a ring for months. When you had your first scare in Tennessee, I realized that I can’t live without you, so I went with Penelope to pick out a ring for you pretty soon after. Why do you think I freaked out the other day when you were using that step stool to find something in the kitchen cupboard?”

You laughed quietly before saying, “I just thought you were being overprotective again.” Shaking your head and getting back on topic, you couldn’t help the smile on your face as you told him, “But yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Really?!” Spencer asked, tears welling up in his eyes as a wide smile made its way onto his lips. 

“Yes, really,” you told him, leaning in for a quick kiss on his lips that he deepened for a moment before realizing that there were still three other people in the room. 

“Sorry…” he mumbled sheepishly as he sat back in his chair. 

“Well, I guess that settles it then. As long as the two of you are legally married before the court reaches a verdict, Doctor Reid and his mother will go into WitSec as well,” the agent said. “Since your face was on the stream too, you are also getting threats, Doctor Reid, but not to the same extent. There was going to be a separate conversation about that more privately, but…” She stood up and straightened out her blazer before saying, “Congratulations. Just tell the marshals when you plan on having the wedding, and we can get some extra protection for the night.”

“Thank you,” you and Spencer replied in unison as she and the bureau agent turned to leave the room. 

When the door closed once more, Spencer looked over and said, “Hotch, I’m sorry, I-”

Hotch put his hand up to stop Spencer, telling him, “Don’t be sorry. Agent Monroe was right. I should be apologizing for how I acted. It was selfish to project my past onto others. Especially when it comes to something like this.” A smile started to make its way onto his lips as he said, “Now, it’ll be hard to find replacements for the likes of you two, but I’m happy to see you engaged. It’s a hard job to keep a stable marriage in, so I’m glad that you two will get the chance to make things work. You deserve it.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, a smile on your lips, but mixed emotions running rampant through your mind. Happiness prevailed though, and you couldn’t help the giddy feeling you got at the thought of being married to Spencer. 

a/n: well that was a wild ride, now wasn't it? Spencer and Reader get to get married, but at the cost of losing their identities because of psychopaths who worship Schütze. the angst in this one was real, but so was the fluff when it was there! stay tuned for the fourth (and final) part of what's turned into a mini series! i'm gonna be so honest, i don't know when i'll have time to write it, but just know that it will happen!

also little disclaimer obviously all of this is made up. if there is a real person who goes by Schütze and runs a gun smuggling gang, that's a whole ass coincidence lmao

taglist: @reidmarieprentiss @i-live-in-spite @readingandbaking

dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

[multific]

Healing the Emperor's Heart

Emperor Caracalla x Reader

Summary: You were to care for him. Instead, you loved him.

From the first day, you were assigned to care for Caracalla.

When you met him, his appearance startled you. 

He appeared worn and weak, a shadow of the man others whispered about in the palace corridors. 

Your role was more than that of a servant. You were trusted to tend to his every need and ensure his comfort.

Your days became routines entwined with his. Each morning, you prepared herbal remedies and charmed him into eating. 

At first, Caracalla resisted your efforts, his pride bruised by your efforts. He barely acknowledged your presence. Because if he ignored you, you would go away.

But you didn't. Instead, you stayed.

Slowly, he began to change. His eyes lingered on you longer, his tone softened when he called your name, and his occasional questions about you became sincere and kind.

One quiet evening, he decided to speak up.

“Why do you bother with me?” His voice was low.

“Because I was tasked by your brother.”

“Many would refuse such a task."

"Not me, Emperor Caracalla. I believe everyone has some good in them."

“You’re either brave or a fool.” For a moment, his expression faltered, a flicker of vulnerability shining through. 

“Perhaps both, My Emperor” You offered a faint smile with an aching heart. "Please, drink your tea." you handed him the cup which he took.

It was the first time you gave him the medicine.

After that, you gave it to him daily. A little into his daily tea which was prepared by you, so he never failed to drink it.

The medicine gradually began to take effect. 

Day by day, Caracalla’s strength grew, and his eyes got clearer and clearer. 

The haze clouding his mind slowly lifted, and his thoughts sharpened. 

The transformation was impossible to ignore, and soon enough, his brother, Geta, took notice.

It was after a rather quiet afternoon that you were summoned to Emperor Geta’s chamber. 

You felt uneasy as he looked you up and down. 

“What have you given him?” he demanded, his voice cold and sharp.

“Tea to ease his suffering, nothing more, Your Majesty.” You chose your words carefully. 

“Do not take me for a fool. My brother’s sudden recovery defies explanation. What are you hiding?” His tone grew more vicious.

"I meant no harm. And he is a lot better." you tried defending yourself.

Geta punched his chair as his anger grew.

"I'm not going to ask any more, what did you give him?"

Before you could respond, the door swung open, and Caracalla stormed in. 

“Leave them, Brother” Caracalla ordered, his voice firm.

“You trust them so completely, yet you fail to see how—”

“Enough,” Caracalla interrupted. “You will not question their loyalty. They have done more for me than the doctors ever have.”

Geta’s lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm not angry because you helped him, I only wish to know how you did it when all doctors said we should give up." Geta's tone softened.

"Tea, My Lord I can assure you. Tea my grandmother taught me how to make." you replied.

Geta simply nodded before he left, closing the door behind himself.

Caracalla stepped closer, his expression was soft as his eyes met yours.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you murmured, your voice tinged with worry. “I could handle him.”

“I won’t stand by while my brother questions someone so important to me.”

Your breath caught, his words catching you off guard. “Important?” you echoed softly.

He reached for your hand, his touch warm and steady. “You’ve given me more than my health. You’ve given me hope. A second chance in life.”

“Caracalla…” you began, but he silenced you with a gentle look.

“There’s something I must say,” he continued, his voice low. “You’ve brought light to my life. You healed my illness and my heart. I wish to marry you.”

“Will you marry me?” Your heart raced as he knelt before you, his gaze filled with sincerity. An Emperor kneeling in front of a simple servant.

Tears blurred your vision as words failed you in the moment. 

"I would be a fool to say no to you. But I'm simply a servant. I am no Empress."

"Of course you are." He rose, pulling you close, and his lips met yours in a kiss that was tender yet full of promise. "You are my Empress."

In that moment, nothing else mattered.

Gladiator II Collection

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