#staring at a notebook and wondering why you thought writing it would be a good idea in the first place

[ghostjelliess]

Incurred/acquired dyslexia (i.e. from trauma/concussion) isn't just spelling words wonky when you're tired and not being able to process an uninterrupted string of numbers that surpasses three digits. It's also regularly, and without realizing it, calling ramekins as macrames because the consonant weight feels like the same word in your brain-mouth until one day you can't think of either word and you ask your fiance and then both go look it up, only to realize your fiance now calls the ramekin a macrame. Now you have to explain how that's your bad, the plants hanging in the window things are macrame, sorry for being mean about it that one time.

[nameless-ken]

Bucky Barnes x Reader

The Stranger That Knows Me Best is a heartfelt story about connection, vulnerability, and taking chances on the unexpected. Through letters and shared experiences, two introverts discover that sometimes, the person who understands you best is the one you’ve never met.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: none really, mostly fluff and some angst

Masterlist

The first letter arrives on a Monday, stuck between a credit card offer and a pizza coupon. You stare at the plain envelope for a moment, debating whether to open it right away or let it sit on top of the unopened pile stacked up on the kitchen table. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be holding it if Wanda hadn’t forced you to sign up for this pen pal thing.

“It’ll be fun!” she exclaimed as she leaned dramatically across your desk while you tried to study. “You need to talk to someone who’s not me for a change. And how exciting to meet someone across the country!”

You rolled your eyes at her and muttered something about spam emails and book characters being more your speed. But she was insistent. “Imagine it. Getting to know someone without all the noise of social media. Just words. Just paper. It’ll be good for you.”

Now, standing in the kitchen, envelope in hand, you weren’t sure if she’d done you a favor or set you up for the most awkward exchange of your life. The return address displays Brooklyn, New York, in handwriting so neat it almost looks printed.

On the other side of the country, Bucky sits at a worn, small kitchen table in his tiny Brooklyn apartment, mouth turned down at the envelope in his hands. His roommate and best friend, Sam, somehow roped him into this, using every trick in the book to sign him up.

“You’re too serious all the time,” Sam teased. “You need to lighten up, meet new people or at least, like, write to one person.”

“I meet people,” Bucky muttered, already regretting the argument.

Sam laughed. “Right. The way you avoid everyone at parties? Sure, bud.”

And now here he is, a couple of weeks later, holding a letter from some stranger in Oregon and wondering if Sam had a point. Bucky has never been good at opening up, not even with people he knew. The idea of putting his thoughts down on paper for some stranger to read made him uneasy. But at the same time there was a comfort in only writing–no faces, no judgments, just words.

The truth is, Bucky doesn’t have a clue what to say or where to start. He agreed to this so Sam would get off his back about meeting new people. Bucky is tired of the monotonous routine of the same frat parties every week. How is he supposed to get to know someone through blasting music and dozens of beers? He’s never been a fan of crowds or casual conversations. 

Maybe that’s why he’d said yes when Sam showed him the ‘Around The World’ pen pal website. To meet someone genuinely and in the most organic way his social anxiety will let him. 

You sit down at your kitchen table, coffee growing cold as you carefully peel open the envelope. The paper inside is simple, lined like the kind from a spiral notebook. Nothing fancy, just a letter. The words on the page surprisingly feel honest. 

Hey, I’m not sure how to start this. I guess an introduction is a good place? My name’s Bucky. Well, technically, it’s James, but no one calls me that. I signed up for this because a friend of mine said I should give it a shot. I don’t know if I’m good at writing letters, but I figure it can’t hurt to try. So, uh… hi.

Somehow Bucky’s awkward words bring a faint smile to your lips which makes you feel a little less self-conscious about your first letter.

Meanwhile, Bucky unfolds his letter in the quiet of his apartment, reading the loopy handwriting of his mystery pen pal.

Hi, I guess this is the part where I tell you about myself? My name’s Y/N, and I live in Oregon. Honestly, I signed up for this because my best friend wouldn’t let it go. She thought it would be fun, and I figured… why not? So here I am. I’m not sure what else to say yet, but I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, almost smiling. There’s something disarming about the tone, like you are just as uncertain about this as he is.

Neither of you expected much from those first letters, just a few introductory words sent across the miles. But as you sit at your table, thinking about what to write back, you start to feel something you haven’t felt in a long time: curiosity.

And across the country, Bucky feels the same.

Only a week later, the third letter arrives with something extra—a pressed flower, its petals delicate and pale blue. It slips out from the folded paper and lands softly in your lap.

I found this on a walk and thought it was too pretty to leave behind. Don’t ask me what kind it is, I’m terrible at flowers. But it made me think of something you might like.

You smile, gently picking up the flower and holding it up to the light. The sunlight streaming through your living room window turns the petals almost translucent. It feels strange, how something so small can carry so much meaning. In this moment, it wasn’t just a flower, it’s a glimpse into how Bucky sees beauty in the world. 

You tuck the flower carefully into the pages of your journal, pressing it between the lines of a half-finished poem you have been struggling to complete. Somehow, it seems to fit perfectly there, like it has been waiting for you to give it a new story.

You pick up a new blank page, finding yourself writing more freely than you had before. You practically spill out everything you’re thinking at the moment. You tell him about the books piled on your desk, the way your apartment smells like coffee and your favorite hazelnut candle, how the flower petal reminds you of a poem you read recently for class. You include a few lines of said poem on a piece of homemade paper you created a few days ago (a skill you learned from a YouTube video), a small gift in return for his. 

Evening light slants through Bucky’s half closed bedroom window as he opens your next letter. 

A muted tone bookmark slips out first. 

I thought you might need this for all your textbooks. Kinesiology sounds intense, so hopefully this will help keep your place when you’re too tired to keep going.

He turns the bookmark over in his hands, studying the intricate design—a swirl of blues and greens, almost like a wave frozen mid-motion. It’s sturdy, practical, and yet oddly personal in a way that catches him off guard. In both of your previous letters, you learned about each other's majors.

Bucky is studying Kinesiology and you, creative writing and English literature. 

He glances at his own textbooks scattered across his desk, a half-empty mug of tea sitting close to the edge. The long nights spent studying, the endless diagrams of muscles and tendons, the impending need to study for an upcoming test overwhelming his mind. 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but it feels nice to be thought of.

Bucky pulls out the old cigar box he keeps on his bookshelf, the one where he stashes little things that matter—ticket stubs, Polaroids, a dried four-leaf clover. Carefully, he places the bookmark inside, alongside the growing pile of letters.

Later, as he writes his reply, he mentions how the bookmark reminds him of summers at the beach when he was a kid. 

My mom used to drag me and my sister there every weekend. I pretended to hate it, but I think I loved it more than I let on. The waves were calming, you know? Kind of like the way your letter felt. Thanks for that.

He hesitates for a moment before folding the letter, then slips a small photo inside, an old snapshot of his hometown beach at sunset. He doesn’t remember exactly when he took it, but it felt like the right thing to share.

As he seals the envelope, his smile grows. A private gesture that no one else besides Sam usually sees. For the first time in a long time, the act of sharing doesn’t feel so hard.

Did you ever climb trees as a kid? There was this big oak in my backyard growing up. I used to climb all the way to the top, even though my mom always yelled at me for it. There was this one branch that stuck out just right, and I’d sit there for hours. It was the one place I felt like I could breathe.

When you read his words, something clicks in your memory. The reminder of your grandmother’s magnolia tree comes flooding back. Its branches were low and sturdy, perfect for climbing, and the flowers always smelled faintly sweet, even when they were just starting to bloom. That tree had been your secret world, a place where you could escape everything else and just… be.

You respond, telling about your afternoons of sitting in the tree with a journal, scribbling drawings and stories no one else has ever seen. 

It was the first place I felt like I could dream. Funny how trees do that for you too, huh?

Bucky leans back on his couch as he reads about your memory. He hasn’t thought about that tree in years, not since it was cut down after a bad storm. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the texture of the rough bark under his fingers and how the world seemed so small from up there. 

That night, instead of going straight to bed, Bucky finds himself sitting by the window, staring out at the sparse trees lining the streets below. The city doesn’t have the same kind of quiet his backyard had back then, but his memory of that oak tree now feels like it was something he could reach out and touch.

Your conversations about trees continues. In your next letter, you mention how you used to take a backpack filled with snacks and book up into the magnolia tree, like you were setting off for some great adventure. You confess how you fell asleep up there one afternoon and scared your grandmother half to death when she couldn’t find you. 

Bucky’s laughter fills his bedroom as he reads that part, trying to put a face to you as he imagines that scene play out. 

I used to stash stuff up there too. Snacks, comics, even a pair of binoculars I borrowed from my grandpa. It felt like my own little hideout, you know? Like the world couldn’t touch me when I was up there.

As the letters went on, the conversations turned into something deeper. You start talking about the feeling of having a place to escape, a space where the world feels manageable. For Bucky, it used to be the oak tree and now the gym, where he can lose himself in the rhythm of movement and focus. For you, it’s always been words—books, notebooks, even napkins when nothing else was around.

Do you ever feel like you’re still climbing? Like you’re still looking for a branch high enough to sit on, where you can finally just… breathe?

Bucky stares at that question for a long time. 

Yeah. But sometimes I wonder if I’m looking in the wrong places. Maybe the branch isn’t what I need anymore. Maybe it’s just knowing there’s someone out there who gets it.

When you read those words it’s like the miles between you two has gotten a little smaller.

You must write a lot for your classes. Creative writing sounds… intimidating, honestly. I don’t think I could do it. I’m better with structure, you know? I like knowing how things work, how muscles move, how the body functions. It feels concrete, there’s always an answer.

You giggle at his admission. It’s not the first time you’ve heard that writing seems almost impossible to accomplish but to you, it’s almost the easiest but scariest thing in the world. 

Concrete sounds nice.  Writing feels like a brewing storm you can see from hundreds of miles away but as it creeps closer the weight of what to do next has you frozen on the spot. It’s easy in the sense of how subjective it is and everyone always has something to say. The scary part is being brave enough to expel your own thoughts or imagination for the world to have an opinion on.  But I can’t imagine kinesiology being any easier. Do you ever feel like you’re carrying too much? Like the weight of learning all this stuff about the human body just… piles up?

Bucky nods to himself as he reads, his pen pausing above the paper. He hasn’t told anyone, but sometimes, the pressure of being in his program is overwhelming—the constant exams, the endless memorization, the unshakable feeling that one mistake could mean letting someone down in the future.

Yeah, it gets heavy sometimes. But I think about what it’s all for, and it makes it easier to keep going. What about you? What keeps you writing?

When you read his question, you stop to think. What keeps you inspired? The answer seems obvious–it was just something that came naturally to you, from a young age. But the longer you sit and dive deeper into his question, the harder it is to really put it into words. 

Because I don’t know who I am without it.

You didn’t expect those words to carry a weight you didn’t know you have been holding. 

It’s not always easy, though. Writer’s block isn’t some fantastical word people use as an excuse. It’s brutal. Trying to put the right words in the right order drives me crazy most of the time. But even when it’s hard, it’s the only thing that makes me feel like… me, if that makes sense.

Bucky thinks about how he feels when he is at the gym, or working with the human anatomy models in class. He doesn’t always love the grind of school, but there’s something about the act of moving, of learning how things worked, that makes him feel like he is on solid ground. He taps his pen against the table, thinking before continuing his next letter.

That makes a lot of sense, actually. I don’t know if I feel the same way about kinesiology, but I get what you mean about needing something to hold on to. For me, it’s movement. It sounds weird, but when I’m working out or studying how the body works, I don’t feel as… stuck, I guess. Like I’m figuring out the puzzle one piece at a time. And yeah, sometimes the puzzle sucks, but I think that’s just part of it.

He hesitates before adding:

Do you ever feel like writing is your way of figuring yourself out? Like it’s not just about telling a story, but about finding pieces of yourself you didn’t even know were missing?

His question lingers in your mind for days. It isn’t something you’d ever admitted to yourself, let alone anyone else, but he’s right. Writing isn’t just about creating, it’s about uncovering. 

You write back:

All the time. It’s like every time I write something, I leave a little piece of myself on the page, but I also find something new. It’s terrifying sometimes, to feel so exposed, but I think that’s why I can’t stop. It’s the only way I know how to make sense of the world and myself. What about you? Does movement ever feel like that for you? Like it’s not just physical, but… more?

Bucky’s next letter was slower this time, but when it arrives, it’s longer than usual.

Yeah, I think it does. I never thought about it like that before, but now that you mention it, maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to it. When I’m moving—running, lifting, even just walking—it’s like the noise in my head quiets down. I don’t have to think about everything all at once. It’s just me and my body, and for a little while, that’s enough.

He pauses, then adds:

I think that’s why I want to help people. I want to give them that same feeling, like they’re not trapped in their bodies, but free because of them. Maybe that’s the piece of myself I’m trying to figure out.

With his next letter, Bucky includes a small, fraying string bracelet. It’s clearly worn from age, some threads are thinner than others, and a few have almost completely unraveled. 

I used to wear this all the time as a kid. It’s nothing special just something a friend gave me back when life was simpler. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years, but I figured maybe it’s time it meant something to someone else.

You hold the delicate bracelet, running your fingers over the worn strings. The softness of the fibers and each fray holding a story Bucky hasn’t shared yet. There’s a weight to it, not in size, but in meaning. The way he decided to pass it down to you. It makes you think of the small tokens you’ve saved over the years–notes from old friends, concert tickets, friendship bracelets–those scraps are pieces of who you are, fragments of a past you’ll never be ready to let go of. 

You didn’t want to just thank him for the token. It deserves more than that. 

You decide to package a worn, dog-eared paperback book, edges wrinkled from the years of being opened and reread. It’s one of many copies of Pride & Prejudice you have. The first book that made you fall in love with writing. You can remember all the late nights you spent highlighting lines, making notes in the margins. 

This was the first book that made me want to be a writer. It’s been sitting on my shelf for years, and I think it’s time someone else enjoys it. Maybe it’ll mean something to you too.

You hesitate for a moment, a knot swirling in your stomach. It was something small, seemingly insignificant but also personal. The book was more than a vintage piece of writing. It’s a piece of your past, something that has shaped who you are. 

Bucky opens the package carefully, turning the book over in his hands. It looks like it’s been loved, its pages soft and curling at the corners. He can tell it’s been read over and over again.

He smiles genuinely. He’s never been a huge reader—always preferred the practicality of learning from textbooks or manuals—but this book makes him grateful to have a part of your world that you’re willing to share with him. 

Bucky flips to the first page, the ink of your handwriting spells out a note ‘I hope this means something to you’ 

With a sigh, Bucky carefully places the book beside his bed. He’ll start reading it soon, maybe later tonight. There’s something comforting about knowing that, through these letters and small tokens, you are building something real, something that isn’t defined by distance or time, but by the simple act of sharing.

I’ll start reading it tonight. I can’t promise I’ll be as into it as you are, but I think it already means something to me. That bracelet I sent you, it isn’t just a piece of string. It's a piece of me, one I wasn’t sure how to share until now. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years, but I’m glad you’re the one who has it now.

He folds the letter and slips it into the envelope, sealing it with the same quiet smile that has been creeping into his letters more often. 

Over the next few weeks, your letters became less about what you both do in a day and more about the things that have shaped you. Bucky told you about him joining his school's track team and local races all the kids in the neighborhood would have every summer. You told him stories about how you would write stories for your stuffed animals and act them out alone in your childhood room. 

With each letter, it’s become harder to imagine not knowing Bucky, who in so many ways, is still a stranger. But also the one person in the world you feel free enough to share parts of you that you can’t with the closest people you see daily. 

Your heart clenches at Bucky’s next admission:

It’s not that I don’t like people, but it’s like there’s this invisible wall between me and them. Like I’m always watching, but never quite part of it.

You couldn’t write that feeling any better. 

I guess I’ve always been more comfortable in other people’s worlds than my own. Books made sense when nothing else did. I could lose myself in them and forget everything else—even for just a little while.

One day, his letter comes with a sketch tucked between the pages. It’s rough, the kind of drawing someone might do absentmindedly, but it has this subtle energy to it. It’s a street corner in Brooklyn with buildings stacked close together, fire escapes twisting up their sides like veins.

You’d like Brooklyn. There’s something about it, almost restless but steady at the same time. The city’s always moving, but if you look close enough, there are these little pockets of stillness. I think you’d find it inspiring.

You could almost imagine it. The sounds of the city, how different the air might feel. You’ve never been to the east coast. Your finger traces over the sketch, admiring the little piece of Bucky’s city he offers you. 

That night, you feel inspired. You pull out an old journal and try to put words to his drawing. Imagining what Brooklyn must feel like, blending his description with your own ideas. You aren’t sure how cohesive your stream of thoughts are but you don’t take time to edit it. You rip the page out and fold in, slipping it in with your letter. 

When Bucky opens the envelope and finds your poem, he reads it twice, then a third time, trying to imagine his own city through your eyes. You make Brooklyn feel less gray and crowded. As he sits by his favorite coffee shop window, he draws another sketch of what’s in front of him, he even includes a sticker the shop sells. 

Your letters have become a map of sorts. A shared exploration of places neither of you have been to but can picture so vividly because of each other’s words. You print a picture of your favorite spot back home, a cliff overlooking the ocean where you’d sit for hours. 

Writing on the back of the photo: The kind of place that makes you feel small but full of light.

In his reply, Bucky describes a park in his neighborhood where he goes for runs when he needs to clear his head. 

There’s this one bench under an old sycamore tree. Sometimes I stop there and just sit for a while, watching people go by. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet. Peaceful.

With every letter, the walls between you seem to shrink. And yet, there’s still so much you don’t know about each other, so many questions left unspoken, fears left unsaid. Would the connection you’d built survive outside the pages of these letters? Or was it something that only made sense in this space you’d created?

You’re sprawled across the couch in your shared apartment, a blanket draped over your legs as Wanda flips through a magazine on the other end. The soft glow of fairy lights makes the room feel cozy, even as the stack of textbooks and your half-drunk coffee mug on the table scream anything but relaxation.

“You’ve been smiling at that piece of paper for ten minutes,” Wanda says, not even looking up.

You glance down at the letter in your hands, catching yourself before you grin again. “No, I haven’t.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. “You totally have. That’s a ‘someone special wrote me something adorable’ smile if I’ve ever seen one.”

“It’s not like that,” you mumble, though your cheeks are already heating up.

Wanda scoots closer, pulling the letter out of your hands before you can stop her. She scans it, her face softening as she reads. “‘You’d like Brooklyn. There’s something about it—restless but steady at the same time.’” She looks up, her expression a mix of curiosity and teasing. “Okay, first of all, swoon. Second, who is this guy, and why haven’t you told me everything about him yet?”

You groan, snatching the letter back and holding it to your chest. “He’s just my pen pal. You know, from that website you made me sign up for.”

“I strongly encouraged you,” Wanda says with a smirk. “And clearly, I was right. You like him.”

“It’s not like that,” you repeat, but even you don't seem to believe your words. “We just… get each other. Like, in a way no one else does. It’s hard to explain.”

Wanda grins, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Oh, it’s not hard at all. You’re totally falling for him.”

You roll your eyes but can’t deny it. Because maybe, she’s right.

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed, the photograph of the cliffside you sent him in his hands. His thumb traces the edges of the picture absently, his eyes fixed on the jagged rocks and the expanse of sky above them. Sam sprawls in the armchair across the room, one foot lazily rests over the armrest. The faint sounds of the video he’s watching on his phone fills the room. 

“Is that the photo your pen pal sent you?” Sam asks, nodding toward it.

Bucky glances up, startled slightly. “Uh, yeah.”

Sam smirks. “You’ve been staring at it for, like, twenty minutes, man. What’s up with that?”

Bucky shrugs, setting it carefully on the nightstand. “She said it’s her favorite spot near where she grew up. Told me she used to sit there when she needed to clear her head. I don’t know—it’s just… personal, you know?”

“Yeah, it sounds like it,” Sam sits up a little. “So, what? You’re into her now?”

“She’s just my pen pal,” Bucky sounds unconvinced by himself. 

Sam laughs, leaning back again. “Don’t even try it. I know that look. It’s the same one you had when you started watching that baking show and tried to convince me it was just for the ‘techniques.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not like that,” he mutters. “She’s just… easy to talk to. Like, I don’t have to explain everything, you know? She just gets it.”

“Yeah, you sound totally detached,” Sam’s grin widens.

Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a pillow at him. “Shut up, man.”

But as he picks the photo up again, studying the way the sunlight played across the rocks and the faint edge of the ocean in the distance, he knows Sam isn’t entirely wrong.

The next morning, you’re sitting at your desk, chewing on the end of a pen as Wanda brushes her hair in the mirror.

“So, what’s his name?” she asks casually.

“Bucky,” you say before you realize. 

Wanda freezes mid-brush. “Bucky? That’s his real name?”

You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “Technically James but he prefers Bucky.” 

“Okay, first of all, iconic. Second of all, why aren’t you, like, booking a flight to meet him?”

You look at her shocked. “Because that’s not how this works.”

Wanda frowns, turning to face you. “That’s so stupid. What if he’s your soulmate or something?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that deep.”

But later, as you reread his latest letter, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like to meet in person. 

Meanwhile, Bucky is walking to class with Sam, the book tucked under his arm.

“So what’s her deal?” Sam asks.

“She’s a writer,” Bucky says. “Creative writing and English lit major.”

Sam whistles. “Damn. She sounds deep. You sure you can keep up?”

Bucky smirks. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”

But as he heads into class, flipping open the book to one of your underlined passages, he knows he’s not fooling anyone—not even himself.

I know this pen pal, letter sending thing is supposed to hold some kind of anonymity but sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to meet you. Don’t worry—I’m not suggesting anything crazy. It’s just… you’re such a big part of my life now, and it’s weird to think I wouldn’t even recognize you if I passed you on the street. I’d probably walk right by and never know.

Bucky pauses as he writes his next letter, staring at the words he’s written, debating whether to cross them out. Instead, he adds more

Have you ever thought about it? What would it be like if this wasn’t just on paper?

When you read his words, something inside you shifts. Of course you’ve thought about it too—what his voice sounds like, what kind of expression he wears when he writes to you.

Sometimes, I imagine what it’d be like to meet you too. It feels strange to think about, like breaking some kind of rule we’ve been following for three months. But if I’m honest, yeah, I’ve thought about it. More than once.

You hesitate, chewing on the end of your pen before adding:

What if we start small? Like a phone call? It’s not the same as meeting, but maybe hearing your voice wouldn’t feel so strange. What do you think?

Bucky sits with your letter in his hands, rereading your suggestion. A phone call. He’s thought about hearing your voice before, but seeing it written makes it real in a way he hadn’t expected.

A phone call sounds… terrifying, if I’m honest. But also kind of exciting? I mean, I want to hear what you sound like. I want to know if the way you talk matches the way you write. If you’re sure, let’s do it. Just don’t laugh if I sound awkward—I’m not great at this kind of thing.

You’ve never been good with phone calls. Honestly, you surprised yourself when you offered the suggestion to Bucky along with your phone number. But, knowing that Bucky feels similar, eases some of the nerves. 

When the time comes, you sit on your bed with your phone clutched in your hand, nerves fluttering in your stomach. You exchanged numbers in the last letter, but staring at his name in your contacts feels surreal. After a few deep breaths, you hit the call button.

“Hello?” His voice was quiet, a little hesitant.

“Hi,” you respond, smiling even though he can’t see it. “It’s me.”

Bucky let out a small laugh. “Hey. This is… weird, right?”

“Yeah, but in a good way.” 

There’s a moment of quiet, the kind that might feel awkward with anyone else, but with Bucky, it’s comfortable. Like the pauses in his letters, deliberate and thoughtful, holding space for meaning.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually call,” Bucky admits. “Not that I thought you wouldn’t. I just… I don’t know. It’s different hearing someone’s voice after reading their words for so long.”

“I know what you mean,” you reply, tucking your legs under you. “It feels like meeting you all over again, in a way.”

He hums in agreement, and you try to picture what he looks like by his voice. “So… what’s new?”

You laugh at the simplicity of the question, but it’s grounding in a way. “Not much. I’m still fighting my way through this writing project for class. I swear, my professor has a personal vendetta against me.”

“Or they just know you’re good at it and want to push you,” Bucky offers, his tone lighter now. “You ever think about that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

“What’s the project about?”

“Character studies,” you reply, leaning back against the pillows. “Creating these detailed backstories for characters we’ve made up. It’s harder than I thought it’d be.”

“I bet you’re great at it,” the sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“Thanks,” you say softly, caught off guard by his compliment.

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed, phone balanced against his ear, a faint smile tugging at his lips as you tell him story of the stay cat you see everyday on your way home from class. “So, what’s the cat’s name?”

“I don’t know. He’s not mine—he just hangs out around my apartment building. But I’ve been calling him Poe.”

“Poe, like the writer?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course,” Bucky chuckles. “I should’ve guessed.”

“What about you? What’s new in your world?”

“Honestly? Not much. Sam tried to make lasagna last night. I’m pretty sure he invented a new species of food poisoning instead.”

You laugh loudly, the sound hitting a spot in his chest unexpectedly. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” he says, grinning. “I think the smoke alarm’s still traumatized.”

The conversation drifts, covering everything and nothing at once. You talk about your classes, your friends, your routines. He tells you more about his favorite places in Brooklyn, the way the city feels alive even when he feels anything but.

And soon, the nerves melt away completely, replaced by the same ease you’ve always feel through his letters.

“You know,” Bucky says after a long pause, “I think I like this. Talking to you.”

Your heart skips at his words, and you’re grateful he can’t see the flush creeping up your face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “It’s nice. Like… you’re real now. Not just words on a page.”

You smile, staring up at your bedroom ceiling. “I like it too.”

When your call ends two hours later, you sit for a moment, staring at your phone. The world feels quieter, smaller, like it doesn’t quite matter as much.

And on the other side of the country, Bucky feels the same, staring at your name in his recent calls and wonders how someone so many miles away feels closer than ever. 

What started as one phone call quickly became a routine. 

Some nights, you call Bucky while sitting at your desk, the sound of his voice filling the quiet as you work on an assignment. He talks about his latest lecture or the annoying guy in his study group, and you share stories about your professor’s dramatic poetry readings or the characters in the story you were writing.

“You have a nice laugh,” he compliments, during a late-night call. “It’s different than I imagined, but in a good way. I like it.”

“Thanks,” you say with a smile tugging at your lips. “I think you’re the first person to ever say that.”

“Well, I mean it. You have a good laugh. It makes everything sound less… heavy, you know?”

You sit back in your chair, glancing at the screen of your laptop, but your focus is entirely on the phone now. “I guess I could use a little less heaviness. Especially with my current assignment. I swear, my professor’s idea of ‘creativity’ is to make us write the most pretentious stuff imaginable.”

“I think every professor thinks they’re shaping the next great mind,” Bucky states. “Mine’s the same. My last one made us analyze a yoga position and turn it into a thesis. Like, what is this, ‘Kinesiology 101: Zen and the Art of Muscle Movement’?”

You giggle at the absurdity of it. “That’s both weird and kind of genius. Imagine doing that for one of my stories. The whole plot could be a yoga class, but with a secret mystery and forbidden love.”

“Now that’s a story I’d read,” Bucky jokes. “But seriously, I get it. It’s like they try to make everything sound deep and philosophical when sometimes… it’s just about getting through the day.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you agree, tapping your pen against the desk. “But hey, at least we’re doing something we enjoy, right? Writing, studying—whatever it is, it keeps us busy.”

“Yeah, but I think what really keeps me going is knowing that there’s more to it. I’m not just learning about muscles or how to help people move. It’s like a way of understanding how everything fits together—how the body moves, how it heals, and maybe even… why it breaks down in the first place.”

“I get that. For me, it’s the stories. I want to figure out why people do what they do, what drives them. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to find the puzzle pieces and just waiting to put them together.”

“And when you do?” Bucky wonders, tone softer now.

“When I do…” You trail off, unsure of how to explain the feeling. “I think that’s when everything clicks. Like, the world makes sense, even if just for a moment.”

“I think that’s the best part of what we’re doing,” he adds thoughtfully. “Trying to understand how we all fit together in this world. You know, why we’re here.”

Another comfortable pause stretches between you.

“You know, sometimes I wish I could just leave all the work behind and go somewhere. Take a break from everything, just for a little while. Do something completely different.”

“Yeah, I get that. I think I’d like to go somewhere quiet. Maybe a cabin in the woods, or… a secluded beach. Somewhere I could just… breathe.”

“That sounds perfect,” he agrees. “No expectations. Just… space. Maybe one day we’ll both get to do it.”

You smile at the thought, imagining the peace that comes with leaving everything behind, even if just for a few days. “Maybe one day.”

Even without the ability to see one another, to meet face-to-face, you’ve found a space where you belong, right here with Bucky, in this quiet corner of the world you’ve created together.

The phone calls haven’t replaced the letters; if anything, they made them more special. You still send small items tucked into the envelopes, like pressed flowers you found on a walk or the postcard from a local bookshop with a note scribbled on the back: ‘This place feels like it belongs to you.’

Bucky sends things, too—a tiny seashell he’d found on a rare trip to the beach with Sam, one of his favorite protein bars (“I’m convinced these are the only reason I survive exams”), or a handwritten note on the back of a kinesiology diagram he thought you’d find funny.

I’m glad we started talking on the phone. It’s weird, but I don’t think I realized how much I needed it.

The next time Bucky’s name appears on your phone, you find yourself talking for hours, the way you always do. Bucky tells you about a new project he’s working on for class and you share the struggles of keeping up with your creative writing assignments. You laugh together about how you’ve both procrastinated on something important, even though you know you’re going to pull through in the end.

“You know,” Bucky says, his voice a little softer now, “I never really realized how much I needed to hear from someone like you. It’s just… easy, you know? Talking to you.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I feel the same. I didn’t know I could talk to someone this much without feeling like I’m overdoing it.”

There’s a silence for a moment, and then Bucky’s voice comes through, more vulnerable. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like if we could meet in person? Like… I don’t know, maybe take a trip or something?”

Your heart skips a beat. You hadn’t expected the question, but it feels like it’s been lingering there for a while. “Yeah,” you reply slowly. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about what it’d be like to actually meet you. Maybe we could go to that bookshop you told me about, or that café you go to all the time.”

“I think that would be nice,” Bucky agrees, mentally curating a day for you both like it might happen.

You sit on the floor of your room, your textbook open in front of you, but your mind is far away. Wanda, sprawled across your bed, scrolls through her phone.

“So, you’ve been talking to Bucky on the phone a lot lately, huh?” Wanda says casually, glancing down at you.

You look up from your book, the words of your professor blurring in your mind. “Yeah, a lot. Why?”

She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Because it sounds like you two are practically a thing now. You’re sharing things that nobody else knows, stuff you haven’t even told me, and that’s… kinda big.”

You feel your cheeks warm, but you try to act nonchalant. “It’s just easier, you know? With him, it’s different.”

Wanda leans forward, setting her phone down, her expression turning serious. “So, when are you actually going to see him? I mean, for real, not just through letters and phone calls. You’re both in different states, and I get that it’s complicated, but... aren’t you curious? Don’t you think it’s time to see the real thing?”

There’s a knot in your stomach at the thought of meeting Bucky in person. “I don’t know. It feels so risky. We’ve got this thing, this connection, and I don’t want to mess it up by... meeting and finding out it’s not the same.”

Wanda sits up, her voice soft but insistent. “I get that, but listen to me, this thing you have, it’s real. I can hear it when you talk about him. You don’t have to know everything, but maybe it’s time to take that step. Meet him, see if what you feel is the same in person. If it’s worth it, you’ll know. And if not, you can go back to what you have now. But you won’t know until you try.”

You look down at your hands, the words swirling in your mind. “I don’t know if I can just... show up there, though. What if it’s too much?”

Wanda leans forward, giving you a meaningful look. “You’ll never know unless you do it. And what’s the worst that could happen? You go to Brooklyn, meet up with him, and find out if what you have is more than just letters. If it’s real. You deserve that, okay?”

You bite your lip, thoughts racing. Deep down, you know she’s right. But still, the idea of taking that leap is terrifying.

Bucky leans back against his chair as he closes the kinesiology textbook on the kitchen table. Sam is working on his own assignment, typing away across the table, though his eyes are trained on his friend, the expression on his face full of mischief.

“So, have you talked to her lately?” Sam asks, not looking up from the laptop.

Bucky shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, we’ve been texting. Calls, too. Same as always.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Cause every time you pick up that phone, you get this dopey grin on your face. Like, way too much of a dopey grin.”

Bucky shoots him a look, but it’s hard to keep the smile off his face. “Shut up, man. It’s just easier to talk to her than anyone else. She’s cool. It’s... nice.”

Sam stops typing and leans forward, his tone shifting. “Look, Bucky, we’ve been best friends for years, and I can tell there’s something more there. You’ve never talked about anyone like you talk about her. You’ve been sending stuff, taking time to connect with her, and now you’re talking on the phone like you’ve known each other forever. What’s holding you back from making it real?”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, clearly wrestling with the idea. “I don’t know. It feels too soon. I’ve only known her for like five months, and I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to be that guy who shows up, and then everything falls apart. What if it’s different in person?”

Sam leans back, crossing his arms. “What if it’s better in person? You’re both out there, being real with each other. But you’re still holding back. Maybe meeting her, seeing her face to face, will show you something you didn’t even realize you needed.”

Bucky looks down at the table, conflicted. “I don’t know, Sam. It’s a lot to ask of her. I don’t want to make things too complicated.”

Sam smirks. “Bucky, she’s probably thinking the same thing. You’ve built something real, and now it’s time to see if it stands up in person. If you really care about her, you should at least give it a shot.”

Sam’s words weigh on him, and he can feel the pull, the desire to take that next step, to finally know what it would be like to stand face to face with you.

“You’re right,” Bucky mutters after a pause, his resolve slowly hardening. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll make it happen.”

Sam grins. “That’s what I like to hear, man. Just don’t wait too long, alright?”

The fall air outside is crisp. You’re favorite time of the year. You sit on your porch swing, finishing up your morning coffee. You’ve been buried in finals for the past few days, and it feels like the weight of them is starting to catch up. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, but you ignore it for the moment, reaching instead for the stack of mail that you checked this morning.

You sift through the usual bills and flyers until something catches your eye—a familiar handwriting. Your heart does a little flip when you recognize Bucky’s name on the envelope. The anticipation surges as you rip it open, the paper inside feeling heavier than usual.

A ticket slips out. A plane ticket to be exact.

You freeze for a moment, not quite able to wrap your mind around what you’re holding. You unfold his letter quickly. 

Y/N, I’m not sure how to even begin this, so I’ll just say it plainly: I’m sending you a plane ticket. I know this is sudden, and I completely understand if you think this is too much or too soon. I don’t want to pressure you into anything, and if it’s not something you’re comfortable with, I won’t be offended in the slightest. It’s a refundable ticket, so no pressure, I promise. But if you’re open to it... I’d love for you to come visit me in Brooklyn. I remember you telling me your Fall break is coming up, and I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I want to show you everything here—the parks, the food spots, the places that always make me feel like I’m home. I’ve even made a little map of things I thought you’d enjoy. It’s not the grandest of plans, but I think it could be a good start. I’m giving you the time to decide, but if you do decide you want to take this leap... I’ll be waiting for you at the arrival gate, next Saturday. I’ll make sure I’m there early, just in case. And if not, I completely understand. You’ve been amazing, and I wouldn’t want to ruin what we’ve got, whatever it is. I hope to see you soon —Bucky

You blink, the words blurring together for a moment. The excitement is a bit overwhelming. He’s giving you space, no pressure, just an invitation. The ticket, the map—he’s really thought all of this through. And the idea of being in Brooklyn, of standing face-to-face with the person who’s been your constant for months now, feels... possible. 

You glance down at the ticket again, your fingers trembling slightly as you trace the flight details.  You take a deep breath, setting the ticket down beside you and run your fingers over the map he made, the carefully marked spots where he hopes to take you. You smile at his gesture. It’s simple, thoughtful... real.

You think of Wanda’s voice, urging you to take the leap.

Are you ready for this?

part two

Thank you so much reading <3 Please let me know what you think and reblogs always help!!

[cr4yolaas]

the weight of words — alhaitham x mute! reader

notes: based off of this tiktok i found a long while ago featuring a poem that serves as the base for this fic <3 i feel like this is very poorly written / rushed and it lacks a good flow but i wanted to get it out asap bc i didn’t have any more energy to write it LOL

tags: italics represent handwritten notes, reader is implied to be rlly smart / top of the class, implied depressive episode (reader), self deprecation (reader), fluff → angst → fluff, may or may not be an inaccurate rep. of mute individuals, ooc alhaitham, not proofread

this was a little more irksome than he wanted to admit.

at the very top of the akademiya, far away from prying eyes, sat a student bathed in sunlight. from a distance, he observed. you held a book in one hand and an apple in the other, while your legs dangled off of the ledge. he couldn’t discern much from your backside.

but what bothered him the most was that you were seated in “his” spot. the spot he always crept away to during lunch, mainly for its isolation and breathtaking view.

without hesitation, alhaitham approached you. he tapped on your shoulder and stared with an intensity akin to the blazing sun in june. “excuse me,” he began. “i normally sit here. i would greatly appreciate it if you moved to another place, as i’m most accustomed to this spot.”

a silence washed over as you stared up at him. your lack of response left him annoyed — did you find this funny?

however, as you set down your book and snack gently, alhaitham found himself surprised for the first time in a while.

a notebook sat on your lap as you wrote rapidly. the man watched quietly.

i’m afraid not. there are countless other spots up here, and i just happened to get to this one first.

a sigh slipped from his lips. while he wasn’t unfamiliar with stubborn personalities around campus, this particular interaction seemed to interest him more than it irritated him. alhaitham nodded and sat beside you, much to your surprise.

he listened as you flipped your page and began writing again, this time taking up less space on the paper.

why do you like sitting here? you passed the notebook to him.

he wrote much slower in comparison to you, however, his handwriting bore an elegance you had not seen before, as if each letter carried a song in the ink. you found it beautiful.

the lack of noise.

his short response made you smile — simple and straight to the point. another thing you deemed wonderful.

he did not hand the notebook back to you, but instead, continued to write. i dislike unnecessary sounds. they serve as useless interruptions. up here, i find that in comparison to the chatter of students, the ambience is soothing. alhaitham placed the notebook in your lap gingerly and looked into the distance, his gaze absent yet his thoughts reverberating.

you continued this back and forth with him for the entirety of the lunch break. the lines engraved on your palms spilled over with ink smears, and you found your dominant arm growing weary. you did not write your goodbyes on the paper, therefore leaving your conversation unfinished. you left with a smidge of warmth in your heart and a smile on your face in hopes of meeting him again the next day.

from afar, you could see the way he sat leaning slightly more towards one side, and the occasional tapping of his fingers against the table as he wrote. he drank from a small mug of what you presumed to be coffee, but rather than holding the handle, he gripped the cup from its mouth. another intricacy that piqued your interest.

he noticed your stare after a few seconds, eyes of jade and clementine meeting yours. without a word, he relocated to your table, sitting directly across from you. “hello,” he greeted softly. “i didn’t know you frequented this place either.” his gaze flickered over to your notebook peeking out of your schoolbag, and when you pulled it out to respond to him, he found himself getting uncharacteristically excited.

i don’t, actually. i wanted a change of pace, but i’m not sure how much i’m enjoying it. you pushed the book across the table to him.

is it too loud to study? that’s surprising.

you looked up at him questioningly for a moment before jotting down your reply. i’m not studying. i’m just here to read. his lips upturned noticeably at your words, an expression you wished to carve into the crevices of your memory for eternity. he was painstakingly beautiful.

alhaitham didn’t respond for a handful of seconds, instead opting to look outside the window to his left. strands of sunlight draped themselves onto his perfectly crafted face and fell between each strand of hair. a view that compared to the one at the top of the akademiya.

a conversation of short responses — ranging from questions about your darshan, to your favorite season, to the books you enjoyed reading — ensued, the evidence splayed onto the paper. you appreciated his company, for it was rare that anyone sought to talk with you.

he asked another question, his curiosity seeping out endlessly. why do you communicate like this?

a thin-lipped smile etched itself onto your lips. the ink of your pen ghosted atop the paper, your hesitation evident. i was born mute. i have no voice, therefore i cannot communicate in a normal manner.

you grew increasingly anxious as he looked at you with an expression that was terrifyingly unreadable. your hands rested atop the notebook, keeping it away from him for reasons you didn’t understand quite yet.

“that’s okay,” he spoke, the baritone of his voice cutting through your shared silence. “i don’t mind it. actually, i think i prefer it. over the grating voices of the other scholars i know, at least.” he went on about his senior, a friend in kshahrewar who apparently could never keep his mouth shut in his presence. you merely listened, soaking in his words and absorbing each syllable that spilled out of the cracks between his teeth. your confession rendered you utterly silent, but seemingly, he paid no mind.

again, your conversation ended without a proper goodbye. your notebook sat still on the table. moments after his departure, you stayed in your seat, contemplating the complications of this newfound acquaintance.

alhaitham’s life revolved around routine and quiet. he needed both to go about his day in an efficient and satisfying manner; otherwise, he would end up feeling rather unfulfilled and bothered.

perhaps that is why he found himself so drawn to you. in comparison to many of his classmates, who were incessantly obnoxious and needlessly talkative, you were quiet, not just vocally, but in every other aspect. your handwriting was consistent and each letter looked just as neat as the other. your responses were similar to his in that they were direct and honest. and, oddly, you radiated a warmth that he could not see in anyone else.

his next encounter with you wouldn’t be for a handful of days. he knew you were a student, thus resulting in his confusion — he had never seen you around campus until that day.

he ran into you during one of his lectures. you sat right beside him in a seat that wasn’t usually occupied. he began to question you with pen and paper, as usual.

since when were you enrolled in this class?

i always have been. this isn’t a necessary class for my darshan, it’s just an extra period for me to increase my credits. i don’t come to class very often.

he quirked a brow up. you fiddled with your pen.

interesting how i haven’t heard of you until now. alhaitham smiled softly at your muffled giggle, one that he had not heard until then. the noise swarmed his chest with a lightness he could not replicate.

you might have fallen too soon.

alhaitham was a simple man, yet alluring all the same. you had snuck away his perfections and imperfections in a different notebook. for instance:

3 - straightforward and direct

21 - prefers tea over coffee

44 - can’t sleep without a weighted blanket

your ever-growing infatuation for him began to blossom in the cavities of your stomach, and soon, it would infect everything above. you could not bear it — nights spent in solitude, where he would discuss his interests (which were minimal) until you fell asleep; afternoons spent in comfort, where you would share a slice of cake to celebrating a particularly difficult exam. he consumed your very being, the neurons that invoked muscular response and the veins that carried your blood here and there; all of it was him. and yet, you could not meaningfully share this with him, your silence embedding your heart in a crevice far away.

it seemed that he got to it first, anyways.

alhaitham asked you a simple question — if you were capable of speaking for a day, what would you say? he had begun carrying his own memo book to conversate — another addition to the list.

you sat in silence for a brief period before writing, every thought and feeling and idea that has ever encountered my mind would leave my lips.

he wrote, then i will give you just that, and more.

when you began dating alhaitham, you found that he was much more eager to “speak” to you consistently. he would write in his same font and present to you a variety of inquiries, ranging from plans for the day to what you wanted for dinner. he was the epitome of a loving man, a far cry from the tales of coldheartedness and brutality you’ve heard of him. and yet, something began to gnaw at your lungs as he did so.

alhaitham was your voice to speak through — he was the monotonous ramblings, the heavy whispers, the gentle laughs; he held all of those for you. seemingly, life became far more breathable.

but your love was just as restricting as it was kind. to speak is to suffer, but to not speak at all is beyond that — it is torture. nights were spent staring at alhaitham’s sleeping figure, questioning whether he truly felt the affection you expressed. gifts, contact, quality time; what good was it if you could not do something as simple as converse with him? it extended beyond him, as well — for reasons unknown, it grew increasingly difficult to communicate with your new professors and classmates, the downturns of their lips as you pulled out a notebook gut-wrenching. you questioned if alhaitham felt the same.

you began to spiral.

a rapid set of knocks arrived at your door at a questionable hour. the sun hung high in the sky, albeit obscured by your curtains. a soft buzz rung in your room.

“i know you’re inside,” a voice spoke from the other side of the wood. he knocked again.

you made no move to open the door, nor to approach it, nor to get up from your bed. in response, the hinges creaked and heavy footsteps neared.

“why have you locked yourself in here?” alhaitham asked, his tone indiscernible. you didn’t see it, but you heard him shuffling around your bedroom. “where is your notebook?”

it was silly. he spoke as if you could respond, and you weren’t sure if you were supposed to be sorrowful or upset.

he pulled the blanket from off of your head, his face indifferent as he witnessed your disheveled state. “i’m not sure what’s going on, but i can assure you i will wait until you’re well enough to speak to me again. i will always wait.” alhaitham set his own memo book and pen beside your pillow. a warm hand held yours, a signal of reassurance. “please get better as soon as you can.”

he turned around to leave, and you could not bring yourself to reach out for him. what would you do? would the words crawl out of your throat, akin to a miracle? or would you plead at him with desperate eyes in hopes he’d read your mind? you did not know. every instance would inconvenience him in some way — that you could not bear.

you did not step foot outside for another week. alhaitham (and kaveh, much to your surprise) had left meals and gifts next to your door, all of which remained untouched. you were in stasis.

each thought had been replaced by a fog so asphyxiating that it had drowned every word the moment it rose to the surface. a bubbling exhaustion boiled in you. you wished to speak, to express anything at all, to apologize for inconveniencing those around you, and to apologize to alhaitham for putting him through such an obstacle.

as if sensing this desire, he arrived at your dorm again, this time with a more gentle appearance and a large bag behind him.

you reached out for the notebook he placed beside you a week prior. why are you here?

he kneeled down beside you, paying no mind to your disheveled appearance, and spoke softly, “i’m sorry.” if it were fitting, he would have laughed at the instantaneous furrow of your brows. “i should’ve realized. and in failing to do so, i have failed you.” alhaitham took the notebook and pen from your grasp, and with an unrivaled delicacy, he held you.

“i would give up my own voice if it meant i could spend an eternity with you,” he began. “i do not care if you lack a voice of your own. you’re still embedded in my heart all the same.”

you had not written to him for days. and yet, he understood everything. he read the words displayed in your features with a familiarity no one had demonstrated.

758 - willing to help me heal.

alhaitham sat across from you, his back hunched over his work and his face framed with a mix of feather-gray hair and wispy sunlight. he wrote with an unmatched fluidity, as if time were escaping him.

he let out a sigh as he set down his pencil and sat up straight. “why must you sit with me if you’ve finished this assignment weeks ago? it’s as if you’re mocking me.”

it’s entertaining. he grabbed the notebook from your side of the table and wrote haphazardly, contrasting his smooth technique before.

it’s really not. i feel as if i’m being ridiculed and observed under a microscrope. it’s horrible, he teased.

you’re smart, anyways. you’ll survive.

afternoons in the akademiya’s library were once suffocating and exhausting. to be surrounded by peers who could only sneer and misjudge and question was unpleasant. now, as you sat with your lover in a soft silence, you felt at peace.

[illubean]

Nerd!Gojo x Goth!Reader

Characters: Satoru Gojo Type: College!AU, Oneshot, Gn!Reader

part of a mini series of oneshots :3 lmk if you want a p2

Warnings: none? reader wears makeup/dresses but is still gn

For someone with the hobbies and interests of the likes of Satoru Gojo, he was pretty popular around campus. Men and women alike often talked about his looks, or the fact his family owned a large corporation, but what they didn't care to talk about was that Satoru Gojo was a complete loser.

Despite how popular or known he is, he only has about four friends and is the captain of the varsity E sports team for crying out loud. Not only that, but he was a computer science major..

Let's just say they're not really...known for good things.

Despite how nerdy and awkward he is, he still managed to draw attention to himself, whereas you preferred to separate from the masses. There was no doubt your dark, elaborate outfits and heavy makeup turned some heads while you roamed the corridors and quads, but other than that you've kept a relatively low profile. Though most people never really paid much mind to you aside from an initial glance, you managed to catch the eye of the aforementioned varsity E sports player.

He thought you were stunning.

From your flowing black dress and large boots to your eyeliner sharp enough to cut a bitch, the white haired boy was completely and utterly enamored with you. And when a dopey smile forms on Gojo's face and his head gets all spacey, that's when Geto and Shoko realize he's spotted you somewhere across the field. Despite almost everyone preferring the weekend, Gojo's favourite days were Mondays and Wednesdays.

The days you sat in front of him in creative writing.

He spent most of the class periods staring at the back of your head, leaning against his palm with hearts in his eyes as he fantasized about what it would be like to be yours. He would watch as you scribbled away in your notebook, perfecting your story for next week, which he always looked foreword to reading during critique. Gojo has never once had the courage to approach you directly, though. Your ethereal beauty scared him; there was no way someone as perfect as you would even spare him a passing glance.

So, his friends got to listen to him sigh and daydream about you with no end.

"Did you see their outfit today? That lacey corset compliments them so well. And that dark lipstick. I wonder if it's flavored-"

"Holy shit can you shut up? We get it, you like the goth kid," Shoko complained, taking a drag from her cigarette.

Geto chuckled at her annoyance before making a remark of his own.

"Instead of spending all this time wondering, why don't you actually go talk to them."

'You know I can't do that! They're just...they're just so cool," Gojo whined, shrinking into himself and resting his head against the table they were sat at.

"Tough luck then," Shoko said, putting her cigarette out before gathering her belongings and standing from her spot.

"I have to get to my bio lab."

"I should head off too. I have civics in 10 minutes. See ya, Satoru."

And with that, Gojo was left alone having already finished the last of his classes for the day.

Damn it. What do I do now?

Gojo pouted while he continued to sulk for a moment, pondering what he could do with the rest of his day. After a while of sifting through his options, the snowy haired male picked up his bag and made his way to the library.

Maybe I can check out the new VR center.

Gojo's mind began to wander as he thought about all the things he could try on VR. He was lost in thought, feet taking him down the halls of the library before stumbling into someone, the sound of books thudding against the floor snapping him from his thoughts.

"Oh, sorry about that," a soft voice spoke.

Upon raising his head, his eyes came in contact with a pair of (color) ones, his cheeks heating up slightly upon realizing who he just bumped into.

After a beat of silence, his eyes widened as he scrambled to help pick up all of the books you dropped, noticing one in particular that he recognized.

“...'Mythology of Ancient Civilizations’?” Gojo asked before realizing how silly he must have sounded.

You raised an eyebrow. “You familiar?”

Gojo nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’ve read it like… five times. I mean, the whole concept of storytelling through myths is incredible. The gods and monsters… They’re like the first fantasy novels, you know?”

Your mouth twitched into a small smile, intrigued at his words.

“Huh. I didn’t take you for someone who’d read stuff like this.”

“Yeah, I guess I don’t look it,” Gojo chuckled, scratching the back of his head nervously. “I’m usually more into… y’know, video games and stuff.”

“I could tell,” You comment, motioning towards his street fighter T-shirt. He looked down towards what he was wearing before his face flushed with embarrassment, sinking into himself as you chuckled at him.

"Gojo, right? You're in my creative writing class. I assume you like story telling, huh?"

The male's face lit up at this, before going on a tirade about the topic.

"I love story telling! I'm a computer science major and I'm trying to be a game dev which is why I'm taking creative writing. My favorite types of games are RPGs, like the LOZ franchise or Final Fantasy. They're not just about shooting stuff or solving puzzles, but they're interactive worlds that should matter just as much as books or movies! I'm actually working on a game right now about-" he cut himself off, seeing you now had a sly smirk stretched across your face.

Feeling shy once again, he cast his gaze down before saying "Sorry. I kind of went on a rant there..."

You let out a small, melodic laugh at this.

"It's okay, you're passionate about something. I think that's cute."

His heart fluttered at your words while his blue eyes wandered everywhere but to meet yours. He realized he was still holding on to your books, and he rushed to hold them out to you.

"Uh- sorry again. Here."

You gently took the books from him, fingers slightly brushing past his, setting off the butterflies in his stomach.

Their skin is so soft...

"Well, I'd love to hear about your game sometime, but I gotta get going. You free friday?"

Gojo couldn't believe his ears. You were asking him to hang out!?

"Um- yeah! I have practice from 1-3 though..."

"And by practice, you mean playing League of Legends for 2 hours?" you teased.

He nodded, slightly embarrassed by this.

"Meet me at 4 then. See ya!"

You sauntered past him, waving as you made your way towards the exit.

No way.

I have a date!

[zwelcii]

do u right for luke castellan? if u do can u write some fluff for himmm? thank u, love ur writing

why | luke castellan

��if you want to stay as the counsellor of your cabin, you’re going to have to work harder,” mr. d said, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.

“i’m sorry,” you deadpanned, frustration creeping into your voice. “what?”

chiron rolled his eyes at dionysus. “it’s nothing personal,” he replied dismissively. “we appreciate your efforts—”

“we just know that you can do better,” mr. d interrupted.

luke stood just outside the door, waiting for you, when he overheard the conversation. he didn’t think much of it, except for how wrong both chiron and mr. d were.

what surprised him the most was the meek, tired “yes, sir,” that slipped from your lips on the other side of the door.

as your boyfriend, luke has had the opportunity to watch you up close as you hustle through camp, over-organising activities, making sure every camper is accounted for. you’re always on the move, practically running the place, and sometimes he wonders if you ever take a minute to breathe. your dedication is impressive, no doubt, but it hurts him to see you wear yourself down with every unnecessary list, every forced smile you give chiron, and each desperate attempt to hold everything together on your own.

today is no different, of course. the kids are out exploring, their laughter echoing in the distance, while you sit at one of the empty tables with a can of soda, sluggishly jotting down yet another mundane task for the afternoon.

“hey, camper,” you say, barely looking up from your notebook as you take a sip of your strawberry soda.

“come,” he says, but it’s not really a question.

“what?” you glance up, surprise flickering in your eyes as he gently places a hand on your arm, urging you to stand.

“you heard me.” with one hand, he closes your notebook and tucks it under his arm, then grabs your can of soda and takes a sip.

“but—the kids?” you protest, frowning.

“eh. they won’t miss you.” he flashes you a grin, and with a stifled chuckle escaping you, the two of you make your way over to the empty dock, settling down with your legs dangling over the edge.

“how are you?” luke questions, you watch the way his slim waist slumps as he stretched his hands out behind him. “and i mean really.”

“good. haven’t gotten the chance to talk to you in a while though,” you smile, watching your reflection in the water beneath you.

“why?” the boy asked. you paused. there was a look in your eye as you went over your answer, a look that luke would never forget. you never thought of why exactly you’ve been busy all summer. probably because the answer seemed obvious to you.

“i’m working, luke?” you say, though you sound unsure. “why do you ask?”

the wood is warm beneath you as you stare out into the lake. you could see a group of campers staggered around the edges of the lake, a few taking a moment to dip into the coolness of the water. luke was leaned back on his hands, a lazy smile on his face as he watches the way your lips curl up at the sight of your kids.

“mr. d wasn’t the best this morning during senior council…” luke started, carefully watching the way your face twisted for your reaction. “i don’t know, i guess i get surprised when you let things like that slide.”

“what’s this?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you turn to look at him. he looks almost unreal in the warm light of the setting sun, the golden rays casting a soft glow on the side of his face, making his eyes seem to shine just for you. he was a demigod for sure.

“an intervention,” he jokes, a hint of mischief in his tone. 

you roll your eyes, but he doesn’t miss how the sunlight catches in your hair, turning it a soft gold. it’s a moment, a second of reluctance that tells him to think twice before he continues this conversation with you.

“look,” he says, his tone shifting slightly. he sat up straighter, his eyes never leaving yours, “i’ve noticed you’ve been working your ass off lately; more than most of us. so why’d you just take that shit from mr. d?”

for a minute, all you could do was stare at him, and all he could do was stare at you. he took note of how the meat on your bones seemed to lessen over the course of the summer, how your tired eyes sunk into your rosy cheeks, and how your lips glossed over with the same lip gloss you had since the sixth grade.

“i know… what it sounds like—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“do you even like being a counsellor?”

“of course, i do,” you say with no hesitation, your eyes hardening as you sounded slightly offended.

his expression softens, concern flickering across his face. “look, baby, i know it’s none of my business how you choose to waste your time, but you barely even sleep anymore.”

you take so much shit from chiron and mr. d and you never even once go against their orders, we haven’t had time alone since before summer, and you give so much of your time to people who don’t deserve it… i know that nobody asked you this before,” 

“but do you ever wonder why?”

the question hangs between you, and for a moment, you’re silent, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. you look down at your hands, playing with the edges of your shorts. “why what?” you knew ‘why what.’

“why are you like this?” he prompts, holding eye contact.

“because…” you sigh, searching for the right words. “i don’t know… but chiron—”

“forget chiron,” he replies softly as he takes your hand in his. “you’re his best counsellor. he was probably just messing with you, sweetheart.”

you meet his gaze, and for the first time, you realise how much weight you’ve been holding. you sigh, looking at him; his eyes never leave yours. 

“maybe you’re right,” you say slowly.

“of course, i’m right,” he scoffs, a smirk creeping onto his face, but the warmth in his eyes makes you want to kiss the smug look right off of it.

“big talk for a hermes, castellan,” you challenge, leaning in closer with a playful grin.

luke smirks, quick to respond. “that’s not the only big thing, baby.”

you can’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out like music in the morning air. it’s the hardest you’ve laughed since before summer camp, and in that moment, you realised just how much you’ve missed this.

[ccupcakeyss]

Hi I dunno if you write Zayne, but my academic life is stretching my patience thin, and making me question why I put myself in this situation in the first place haha. The only juicy part of my day to day is seeing the top of our class with her very low key senior boyfriend. The dude reminds me of Zayne!!! Both are valedictorian, competitive introverts (like debate team, sports, etc.), both surprisingly good with people, and BOTH HOT AND INTIMIDATING AF. The World is unfair. 🥲

Can you perhaps write Zayne with an equally competent SO (can be MC or no), but insecure compared to his achievements?

Academic power couple x toxic competition x assurance is 👌 🔥

YES OFCOURSE this seems so fun okay LETSGET WRITING

(✿ ᴗ ᴗ） COMPETITIVE HEARTS♩  ᛝ

SUMMARY: in a high school AU, you’re in a relationship with Zayne, a perfect, talented guy. struggling with insecurity as graduation approaches, you feel overshadowed by his success. Zayne reassures you that you’re enough just as you are, deepening your connection and proving that love and mutual support matter more than perfection.

CW: female reader, insecurity, competition, emotional vulnerability, intimate relationships, intimate moments, some heavy kissing, suggestive situations, and adult situations, fluff.

WC: 1.3K!

NOTES: okay so this doesnt have much detailed smut in it, it's more fluff and angst for like academic rivals. btw, to the person who requested this - im so sorry if i misinterpreted this LMFAO i might've done something different to what you asked but this is what i thought you mean ! hope you enjoy!

You’ve always prided yourself on being driven. Even as a kid, you were the one who stayed up late, pouring over textbooks, making sure you understood every equation, every word in every essay. Excellence wasn’t just a goal — it was a lifestyle. You had big dreams, and nothing was going to stop you from achieving them.

But now, in the final year of high school, you’re starting to wonder if it’s all worth it.

Because he is here.

Zayne. The guy everyone else in your grade looks up to. The valedictorian. The one everyone whispers about when they see him in the hallway, standing near the windows, dark eyes scanning the world around him as if he were too much for anyone to keep up with. He doesn’t try to act intimidating; it’s just who he is. Top of the class, debate team champion, and a guy who somehow excels at everything — even sports — despite being the definition of “cool detachment.”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t have a thing for him. Hell, everyone had a thing for him. But there was one small problem: you were his girlfriend.

You were the one who’d caught his eye.

The days after graduation were a blur of parties, congratulations, and farewells. You could barely focus on any of it. All you could think about was Zayne. The way he looked at you. The way his hand felt wrapped around yours. He was going off to university soon, just like you were, but somehow, it felt like the time was slipping away too fast.

You hadn’t expected to feel so… insecure. Not now, not after everything you’d overcome together. But there it was, gnawing at the edges of your confidence.

Zayne was perfect. Always perfect.

You, on the other hand, were still trying to figure out how you were supposed to navigate this relationship — and your life — without falling short. Without feeling like you were constantly playing catch-up.

A week later, you were sitting on Zayne’s bed, your legs crossed, and a notebook open in front of you. You hadn’t touched it in hours, the pages were still blank, and you couldn’t focus on a single thing. Zayne had just come back from a long day of volunteering at a charity event for his future college. He looked so effortlessly put together, with his soft gray hoodie, his hair tousled just enough to look intentional.

“You’re staring at that notebook like it’s going to bite you,” he said, dropping his bag on the floor before sitting beside you.

You laughed softly, but it wasn’t genuine. “Just thinking,” you muttered, glancing at the pages again. You tried to focus but your thoughts kept drifting back to how much easier things seemed for him.

Zayne tilted his head, his eyes soft but piercing. “What’s really going on?"

You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “Nothing. Just… stress. I can’t concentrate.”

“You can’t focus on that because you’re trying to outrun me,” he said, his voice a little teasing but with a serious undertone. “That’s what this is, right? You think you need to beat me at something to be enough.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding a little faster. His eyes were steady, like he could read you like a book. “No. I don’t need to beat you. I just… feel like I’m never going to live up to your level. And it scares me.”

Zayne leaned closer, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing gesture. “Listen to me.” His voice dropped an octave, and you found yourself leaning in despite the nagging voice in your head. “I love you. All of you. And none of that—” he waved his hand vaguely toward your notebook “—none of that matters to me. Not as much as you do. You’re not my competition, and I don’t want you to ever think that. I want you beside me, not because you can keep up, but because you’re you. And that’s everything I need.”

You swallowed thickly, the warmth in his words flooding your chest. It was hard to admit it to him, but… you needed to hear this. You needed the reminder that you weren’t just the person constantly running behind him.

Your voice cracked slightly as you whispered, “But it’s hard. I’m not like you.”

Zayne’s lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. “I know you’re not. But that’s what I love about you.” His hand gently cupped your cheek, tilting your head up so your eyes met his. “You’re not like me. And I don’t want you to be. I don’t want you to be anyone else. You’re exactly what I need.”

The room seemed to grow quieter, the hum of the outside world fading as you stared into his eyes. The vulnerability in your chest began to loosen. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this, needed him, until now.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his. It started slow, tentative, but Zayne responded with a deep, needy kiss that made your heart race. His lips tasted like mint and something entirely him. You slid your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss.

Zayne’s hands drifted down to your waist, tugging you toward him until your chest was pressed against his. The heat between you two, the closeness, was enough to make your head spin.

“You’re all I need,” Zayne murmured between kisses. “You’re perfect to me.”

And that’s when you realized — maybe you didn’t need to be perfect in every way. Maybe the only thing that mattered was the way Zayne loved you, flaws and all.

Later that evening, after dinner and the usual quiet conversation, Zayne pulled you back into his bedroom, the door clicking softly behind you. The air between you was different now, more intimate. He’d taken a step back, both of you having processed the emotional weight that had been hanging between you for weeks.

But now, his touch was gentle, but insistent. He gently laid you on the bed, his body hovering over yours. There was nothing rushed about it, just a slow, patient exploration of one another. His lips trailed from your mouth down to your neck, leaving soft kisses that sent shivers down your spine.

“I’ve wanted you like this for a while,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear as his hands slipped under your shirt, the cool air on your bare skin sending another shiver through you.

You felt a knot form in your stomach, a mixture of desire and uncertainty. The tension that had been between you two earlier now manifested as a thick, intoxicating pull. You wanted this. You wanted him. But you still felt the weight of insecurity.

But Zayne’s soft kisses along your jawline seemed to quiet that voice in your head. “You don’t need to be anyone else,” he said, his breath hot against your skin as he slowly undid your shirt. “Not for me. Just be yourself.”

His words unraveled the last of your doubt, and you let yourself relax into his touch. His hands were soft but sure as they traced the curves of your body. His fingers slid along the waistband of your pants, and you gasped as he dipped lower, his touch teasing but gentle.

“You’re so beautiful,” Zayne murmured, his eyes dark with desire. He took his time, tracing every inch of your skin as if memorizing you. The tenderness of his touch made your heart race, the lingering insecurity melting away as you let yourself give in.

It was slow at first. His hands explored, and his kisses deepened as he undressed you. You could feel the tension in his body — he was holding himself back, waiting for you to tell him when it was too much.

But you didn’t want to stop. You needed this closeness. You needed to feel him, to know that it wasn’t just about accomplishments or accolades. It was about connection.

When he finally slid inside you, you gasped, your nails digging into his back. Zayne cursed softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

You shook your head, your breath coming in shallow bursts. “No… it’s perfect.”

He moved slowly, patiently, letting you adjust, his eyes constantly scanning your face to make sure you were okay. It was everything you needed — his presence, his care, his love. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about this. About him giving you the space to be exactly who you were.

“You’re more than enough,” he said again, his voice rough with desire. “More than I ever could have imagined.”

As the night went on, the love between you two grew, built on mutual understanding, trust, and the vulnerability you’d shared. You didn’t need to be better than him. You just needed to be with him.

Morning came, and as you woke, you found yourself wrapped in Zayne’s arms. His lips were softly pressed against your hair, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. No expectations. No competition. Just you two, together.

You looked up at him, his sleepy gaze meeting yours. “I love you,” you whispered.

He smiled, kissing your forehead softly. “And I love you. Don’t forget that. You’re perfect to me, just the way you are.”

And with that, the last of your insecurities melted away. You were enough. You had always been enough.

[slutforwoo]

☆5. for fucks sakes☆

previous| masterlist|next

☆ written part below!! ☆

Walking into the library, you scan around looking for the most empty space. Just wanting to be alone after what happened in class. people around you took in the way you slam ur bag onto the round and slouch in the comfortable beanbag in the corner. Pulling out your laptop and chemistry book. Taking your headphones from around your neck and turning them on. Scrolling through your playlist you ended up playing ‘The Summoning by Sleep Token’

You feel the way the tears prick at your eyes. this wasn’t the first time this had happened but this time professor jin just took it too far. god you didn’t wanna cry. it’s such a stupid reason to but with the way everything has been you just couldn’t help it as u start to sob silently into your arms. you recalled what happened in ur head.

“Y/n do you want to not have a future or what?” professor jin stated as he stopped mid lecture to stare at your tattoo on ur arm that was showing due to your sweater riding up.

“I’m sorry sir what?”you stated in confusion as you were just taking notes on the lecture.

“That ridiculous thing on your arm. Your parents must be so disappointed to have a child that would throw away their future like that” he snarled at you eyeing you up and down

“My parents know about my tattoos. They paid for my first one” you said calmly trying to not get upset.

“Well then they’re failures at parenting. Just look at you. I’d disown you if you were my child” he said

and that’s when you lost it. you knew better than to say what u wanted to. which was to tell him he was an egoistic prick who clearly needs to be laid to get the stick out his ass. so you packed your things and simply walked out hearing him snicker as u did.

you shake ur head as you force yourself to read the book, memorizing every word through your blurry gaze. humming along to the song, focusing on what u were reading. reminding yourself to review what you read every couple paragraphs and writing summaries in ur notebook. it was a study trick yunho had taught you that actually worked. getting lost in ur studying, you didn’t hear yunho when he sat next to you

he let his gaze wonder you, seeing how puffy and swollen your eyes were. you were crying? why did the thought of it upset him so much. finally after just a couple more seconds of admiring you, he tapped your shoulder. the sudden touch made you jump and hit his shoulder as a reflex. and when you look up to see it’s him your eyes go huge.

“Oh my god Yunho i’m sorry you just scared the shit out of me”you pant lightning taking your headphones off and turned to face him completely.

“I didn’t realize you were that lost in the book Y/n” he chuckled lightly

“Well I was believe it or not, I could definitely take a pop quiz on thermodynamics believe it or not”you smiled at him

“Have you been using my study tips?” he asked raising an eyebrow at you.

“I actually have, see” you say rolling your eyes, handing him your notebook. he smiles as he sees the color coded paragraphs and titles, along with page cited examples.

“You know maybe you don’t need me. You're definitely smarter then you lead on y/n” he says handing you back your notes

“No I need you or I will not be surviving the rest of this year after exams. I will actually hunt you down if you stop.” You said whisper-yelling at the brunette across from you. “I’ll pay you extra if I need to, you just actually are really good at explaining things to me without getting frustrated. and you don't make me feel stupid when I don't understand.” you state looking him dead in the eye offering a small smile

yunho was a bit stunned by the appreciation you have for him. he feels a heat rise to his cheeks, laughing it off he shakes his head.

“You don’t need to pay me extra y/n, truly you don’t need to pay me at all, i’m just helping a friend”He said before continuing “Now lets study stoichiometry, I over heard prof talking about a quiz on it tomorrow”

you take him in, yea you guys were definitely friends. I mean your friend groups all know each other, so it's obvious right?

“okay okay, lets get this over with”

p☆rnst☆r tag list:

@roxhanah @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18  @kookieswithjung   @kcharlyy  @bloomyroses  @jiminssluttyminx  @fairy-jojo  @oceanside-view97 @domfikeluva @mountquokka  @frecklypotato

[haikyu-mp4]

Workplace romance

word count; 941 – f!reader, fluff

“The Schweiden Adlers ball is next weekend, I assume you know that,” you mumble to start off, already used to how Kageyama’s knee bounces repeatedly in what you could only assume was restlessness. “I just need to know who you will bring as a date. There will be paparazzi and I just want to make sure I have everything under control.” As you were speaking, you didn’t really look up at the man, simultaneously finishing off the notes from your previous meeting with Hoshiumi.

“A date?” Kageyama repeated back to you and you chuckled softly at his confusion, sparing him a glance.

You’re one of Schweiden Adlers’ PR managers, recently tasked with handling the three younger members, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Hoshiumi Korai and Kageyama Tobio. They are all pretty sweet and you thanked the heavens every day that you didn’t end up as PR manager for the MSBY Black Jackals. “Yes, you get a plus one. You could also bring your mom or sister, that’s always good for your image. Alternatively, there’s no problem with going alone. Although that might call forth a different genre of headlines…” you rambled, doing your job and analysing the different options without even noticing how the young man was twiddling his thumbs in his lap nervously.

Kageyama was the one you spoke with the most from the team, as he was also the newest to this business. While the two of you would talk casually outside the four walls of your borrowed office all the time, you loved your job and preferred to stay stressed and professional while doing meetings. “But I could bring a date too? Someone I like?” he asked. For some annoying reason, his words made you stop writing and an icky feeling crept into your stomach.

“Of course, I just need to know who so that I can take the necessary precautions…” you answered, biting the inside of your cheek as if to force yourself to speak.

“Will you go with me?” he asked. Finally, ran through his mind as your eyes finally stilled where he could see them, staring right into his. Kageyama smiled nervously, hoping you would answer any second now. It’s a bit like the smile you finally coaxed out of him for those commercial photos. Oddly charming.

“You want to go with me?” you asked, wondering if you heard him correctly and straightening up in your seat. Hopefully, he couldn’t see your bright red ears.

“Yes,” he answered simply. No room for misunderstanding there, you suppose.

“That’s…” you couldn’t help the giddy chuckle you left in the air as you looked back down at all your messy notes. “Very unexpected.”

“Why? I thought I made it obvious that I like you,” he said, blunt as ever. Tobio felt like this should not be a surprise at all, as he made an effort to talk to you every time he saw you and even got you a box of milk on the days he knew you would be there in advance. Was his affection not obvious?

You’re full-on grinning like a madman now, burying your face in your hands to hide the blush on your cheeks. “I would love to go with you.” you finally declared, not responding to his blunt confession because you weren’t quite sure how to yet. “But I need to talk to some of our bosses and make sure it’s approved first. We wouldn’t want any scandals to plague your name,” you said, removing your hands from your face as you went halfway into work mode again. You flipped to a new page in your notebook and wrote down what information you needed. The smile was still stuck on your face and Tobio was happy to see it.

“Okay.” he agreed. There was still a sense of childish innocence to him that you really liked. “But I don’t want to go with anyone else,” he added as if that was just stuck in his mind.

“You should go back to practice, Tobio,” you said, using your softest voice to make sure he knew you weren’t trying to be dismissive. “If you stop by before you leave today, I will let you know how it’s looking after making some calls,” you told him, smiling as he got up.

“I will see you soon, then.” He bowed, about to leave when you spoke again.

“Tobio!” you called, pursing your lips and considering your next words before they just spilt from your lips. “I like you too.”

Kageyama walked back to practice with a happy smile, making Hoshiumi frown at him as if it was the creepiest thing he had ever seen. Meanwhile, you were in your office kicking your feet and punching the air in joy before taking a deep breath to start making those calls without giggling.

He stopped by after practice, like he promised, knocking on the door and walking in with a hopeful spark in his eyes. You told him how this might play out so he would be prepared for any potential consequences, but could still happily inform him that you would be going with him to the event.

And boy were your assumptions right. The headlines questioning whether or not this was appropriate were simply unavoidable. However, it only took one press conference to quiet it down.

“She’s very sweet, I really like her. It would make me sad if we could not be together just because she also works with keeping me and my teammates out of trouble,” he said softly, making the reporters coo and the headlines turn from Volleyball manager: Inappropriate moneygrabber to Living our fantasies: Kageyama’s workplace romance.

[scariusaquarius]

rehab. 38.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

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A/n: ugh this fuckin headache is relentless. i've eaten, i've had water, i've had caffeine, what else could it be other than my manbones trying to escape this meat prison rip. Not only that, but life keeps hitting snags. Why does god have to give his toughest battles to his silliest of gooses. Also, if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee! If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

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Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

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Author: ScariusAquarius

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rehab masterlist. / rehab masterlist 2. chapter 34 / chapter 35 / chapter 36 / chapter 37

"How are you feeling now?"

The room felt crowded; the walls starting to close in on her as she sat on the bed in front of her. Her legs were crossed, posture relaxed despite the professional gait she seemed to consistently carry; notebook in her lap. Her eyes were ever-observing, taking in every little thing about her.

Though, (Y/n) was doing the exact same. She was aware of what Raynor was trying to do: making herself look comfortable and laidback to make (Y/n) put her guard down, but (Y/n) wasn't one to fall for tricks so easily.

(Y/n) was sitting back in the chair at Steve's temporary desk, her crochet bag protectively behind her. Her eyes were staring down Raynor, taking in every detail and profiling her from her posture down to the way a piece of her hair was framing her face. She was tense; an uncomfortable feeling settling into her as (Y/n) and Raynor stared each other down.

Bucky was standing against the wall, his arms crossed as he quietly gazed between the two of them. On the outside, it seemed as though the two women were trying to size each other up despite that not being the case. Though, to Bucky, it was a bit funnier to think of it like that.

(Y/n) seemed to look uncomfortable, and Bucky wondered if it was because of Raynor's question or from being in her presence at all. His lips curled into a thin line, and he glanced at Raynor. She was paying the man no mind, her focus on (Y/n), and he almost rolled his eyes when Raynor clicked her pen and began to write. (Y/n) watched her with a furrowed brow, and she finally spoke up quietly.

"I feel...confused."

Raynor nodded, asking her further as she tilted her head to the side, pausing her writing as she regarded the woman with an inquisitive look on her face.

"Alright, that's a start. Why do you feel confused?"

(Y/n)'s lips curled into a thin line as her eyebrows furrowed deeply, the woman becoming silent for a pregnant pause before she murmured.

"The memories...and voices....I don't know if they are real or...what HYDRA...programmed...I was born into HYDRA."

Bucky felt his mood drop, a sense of melancholy and sympathy coming over him, and there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to tell (Y/n) the complete truth. However, the man stayed quiet, feeling equally horrible as he did. Raynor continued to write as she conducted the evaluation, (Y/n) watching as she wrote, and she murmured.

"Rebecca would write with me."

Raynor paused, and Bucky felt his heart jump a little in his chest. Raynor asked, raising her brow slightly.

"Rebecca? Who is Rebecca?"

(Y/n) glanced at Bucky, and Bucky nodded to her subtly. (Y/n) then looked back at Raynor and stated.

"My friend."

Raynor hummed, shaking her head a little bit.

"I'm going to need a bit more than that, (Y/n). In order me to help you, I need you to be as open and honest with me as possible. You don't have to tell me everything immediately, but remembering things is important and needs to be noted."

HYDRA does not tolerance defectiveness.

(Y/n) winced at the thought, and Raynor paused, squinting her eyes for a moment. She observed (Y/n) and the way she was fidgeting; her fingers rubbing and pulling at her other hand, her toes curling and uncurling, the way her eyes were darting to the floor and the wall as if she was looking for another escape route. She was worried; apprehensive and uncomfortable.

"It's okay if you don't want to tell me, nobody is going to force you to."

(Y/n) bit her lip before closing her eyes, and she shakily sputtered out.

"M-My friend...Rebecca...she...she was pretty in the sunlight. She was th....Bucky's Rebecca."

Bucky looked at Raynor when Raynor gave him a subtle look of surprise, and he explained.

"Her Aunt Mavis lived in Shelbyville, and when (Y/n) visited there for the summer, she met Rebecca. Rebecca and Mavis were churchgoers."

Raynor hummed, nodding, and she looked at (Y/n) again.

"Interesting, if not coincidental. (Y/n), do you remember your Aunt Mavis?"

(Y/n) shook her head, humming.

"No. I...think I remember her voice...but...I only know her through...through my picture."

Raynor nodded before she asked carefully.

"Would you be open to showing me these pictures?"

"Нет!" (no!)

Raynor and Bucky were both surprised by the hiss, (Y/n)'s fingers clenching as she turned towards the crochet bag and held it close. Raynor hummed softly, writing again, and she uncrossed her legs in order to sit much more comfortably.

"It's okay, (Y/n), nobody is going to take those from you. I just wanted you to tell me about them and what they meant to you."

(Y/n) shook her head, her eyes filled with tears as her lips curled back and bared her teeth.

"I...I don't know what they mean...but they're mine...I know it. I....I know they are."

The fact that she could acknowledge that the memories were hers was good progress, and Bucky began to feel much more hopeful. His shoulders relaxed, and he looked at Raynor for silent permission. Raynor nodded to him once, and Bucky carefully sat down next to (Y/n).

Although she didn't realize it, (Y/n) relaxed a bit, glancing at Bucky, and Bucky comforted her gently and placed his flesh hand against her arm softly.

"It's okay, (Y/n). You don't have to be afraid. If you don't want to talk about them, then you don't have to."

"I...don't want them to be taken again."

She looked sad and frightened, (Y/n)'s pupils constricted, and Bucky shook his head.

"Nobody is going to take them. They'd have to go through me first."

His lips twitched into a small and teasing smile, testing the waters, and (Y/n) asked him softly.

"You would...fight...for me?"

Bucky immediately nodded.

"Without question."

(Y/n) looked stupefied by his words, and Raynor quietly observed while writing as (Y/n) spoke softly.

"Even...even if I don't deserve it?"

Suddenly, Germany came into Bucky's mind, the Avengers all pitted against one another and how many of them had fought for him. Bucky took a deep breath, and he replied.

"It doesn't matter if you don't deserve it or not. You're a person at the end of the day, and what happened...it wasn't your fault. It was HYDRA. You were a victim...just like I was."

His words were short and to-the-point, but they were effective enough to have (Y/n) relaxing her hold on the crochet bag filled with snippets of her life. (Y/n) pulled back slightly, glancing down at the bag for a pregnant pause, and she slowly took out of the tin box. Rubbing her scarred fingers along the lid, (Y/n) murmured softly again.

"I...I don't want them to be taken."

"Nobody is ever going to take them from you again. I promise."

Bucky's voice was firm enough to make (Y/n) look at him, and she believed him. His conviction was easy to see, his blue eyes serious and facial expression contorted into one of determination. Bucky looked as though he was ready to fight at any moment, and it made (Y/n) surprised yet comforted at the fact that it was for her.

He was willing to fight for her. To protect her memories and keep her from HYDRA.

(Y/n) clenched her jaw, unable to look at him anymore, and she turned back around in her seat, holding onto the tin box tightly. She was trembling slightly, almost afraid to show them, and Raynor glanced down at the old, weathered tin.

It was a Huntley and Palmer biscuit tin with a printed picture of the painting of Truth Coming Out of Her Well to Shame Mankind by Jean-Léon Gérôme on the lid. There were gold accents that were tarnished all around the side, a yellowed piece of tape on the side that had (initials) etched on the side in beautiful calligraphy, and there were a few dents in the side.

(Y/n) was clutching the box with apprehension, and when she hesitated, Raynor shook her head slightly.

"You don't have to show me if you don't want to. These memories are extremely important to you, especially since HYDRA would take them away from you often. It's a pretty big deal that you have these, so I understand if you're not ready. You can show me whenever you are, (Y/n). There's no right or wrong answer to this."

(Y/n) looked down at the tin, thinking for a moment. The silence in the room was heavy, blanketing over the trio like weights upon their shoulders, and (Y/n) whispered.

"I...haven't seen all of them...but I know they're mine."

Raynor encouraged gently.

"That's good that you know that. It means that you're really starting to get a grasp on those memories and your identity."

(Y/n) swallowed thickly before she carefully opened the tin. She set aside the two pictures that her and Bucky had seen before, and Bucky leaned over a bit to look at the new one that had been hidden beneath.

It was a black and white photo, (Y/n) looking to be a toddler. She was wearing a cute sundress and sunhat, boots on her feet as she stood in the garden. She was pointing down at a flower that had a butterfly sitting upon the petals, and a look of awe was on her face. Doris was behind her, hands on her arms to steady (Y/n), a wide smile on her face.

(Y/n) frowned as she looked at the picture. There was no memory that was attached to it, no recognition nor any feeling or emotion that overcame her. To (Y/n), it was just another picture, and so she placed it to the side almost carelessly; immediately disinterested.

The next image was another black and white photo, but this time, it was of Doris, (Y/n), and Robert at the beach. (Y/n)'s eyes widened at the sight of Robert's face, and her body tensed up. Horror reflected within her eyes as she looked at the picture, and she stared deep into Robert's eyes.

Although there was a smile on his face, even (Y/n) could see the annoyance and indignation within his cruel eyes. His arm was not around Doris nor (Y/n) within the picture, and (Y/n) found it to be odd. Doris, however, looked happy to be there with (Y/n), holding the toddler on her hips with a large smile and pretty sunglasses on her face.

Despite this, however, (Y/n) couldn't take her eyes off of Robert. She whispered shakily, clutching the picture tightly.

"It's...it's him....my...my father....I remember."

The face filled in the last mannequin in her mind, and the memories began to come to complete life. His angry face when she scared him while in his office, the redness his skin adopted when he was yelling and throwing things around, and the shine of violence that always accompanied his cruel (e/c) eyes.

(Y/n)'s jaw clenched, and a strange feeling of anger began to fill her. White hot rage coursed through her boiling veins, her face darkening the more she began to remember his face. The anger coloring her face in a shadow of darkness made Bucky and Raynor become tense, and (Y/n) clenched her fists tightly.

She stood up, trembling almost violently, and her eyes filled with tears as she glared down at the picture. Her nostrils flared, and she hissed out.

"Я его ненавижу. Я его ненавижу!" (i hate him. i hate him!)

(Y/n) tore him from the picture, allowing the half with her and Doris to fall to the ground as she tore the half of Robert with her hands and teeth, spitting out the bitten pieces out before violently stomping on them as they fell to the ground. Cracks appeared beneath her stomped foot, and she clenched her fists tightly as (Y/n) tried to breathe.

Raynor nor Bucky didn't say anything, just watched with surprise and clinical interest as (Y/n) lashed out. Raynor was writing the whole time, taking her notes, but Bucky was just in awe as he watched (Y/n). She was leaning over now, her eyes squeezed shut as she remembered; hands on her head, and Raynor's voice made her eyes snap open.

"(Y/n), why do you hate him?"

(Y/n) stood up, spinning around and raising her voice, pointing her finger at Raynor.

"I...I hate him! He was...unkind...he would...hurt me and Momma! He would come into my room at night...when Momma was in bed. He would lock the door...and tell me to be good and what I was doing was for a good cause."

(Y/n)'s eyes were wild, and she squeezed her eyes shut again as the tears came down her dampening cheeks. The memories were hitting her hard, shooting fast and hard like bullets, and she was unable to keep the images of the abuse out of her mind.

Why? Why does she have to remember this? Why are they making her?

"I don't want to remember this."

(Y/n) shook her head, clutching at her temples, and when Bucky tried to get up to comfort her, Raynor held her hand out to Bucky with a frown.

"James, what did I say?"

Bucky frowned heavily, giving Raynor a dirty look before slowly sitting back down. Raynor was writing again, and she looked up at (Y/n), who was swaying in place; hands still clutching her temples and eyes squeezed shut.

"(Y/n), can you tell me what you see?"

Hands on her, those horrible eyes, that sneer on his lips, the forbidden sensations of cruelty and twisted hatred as he would stick the needles into her arm while forcing her to stay quiet. (Y/n) whimpered softly.

"He would...use needles...take my blood, inject me with things that...that made me tired. Drugs...I don't know why. I...I don't remember what would happen after...but the needles..."

Her voice trailed off, and an image of Robert forcefully stabbing a needle into her when she was crying too loudly came to her mind, and (Y/n) shook her head furiously. The memory went away, and (Y/n) stood up, holding her arms to her chest as she scrunched her face up into an expression of discomfort. Raynor nodded along as she spoke, and then she hummed.

"Alright, let's move on then. (Y/n), have you ever had coffee before?"

(Y/n) was taken back by the question, not having expected it, and Bucky glanced at Raynor, knowing exactly what she was doing.

Distract them from the situation and the panic. Ask them a question that will force them to think of something else.

"Coffee? I...I don't know."

Raynor glanced at Bucky, asking him.

"James, would you be so kind as to get some coffee?"

Bucky nodded, and (Y/n) looked at him with a slightly worried look on her face. Bucky murmured comfortingly.

"I'll be back in a little while."

(Y/n) slowly nodded as she stood awkwardly, and when Bucky left the room, Raynor gestured for (Y/n) to sit down. After some hesitation, (Y/n) sat down and placed her hands into her lap; trepidation causing her fingers to tremble.

Now that Raynor and (Y/n) were alone, Raynor could see just how uncomfortable and...confused...(Y/n) seemed. To Raynor, it seemed as though (Y/n) didn't know a single thing about life outside of HYDRA despite the programming being gone, and she clicked her pen once and twice.

"(Y/n), do you remember things often?"

(Y/n) pursed her lips, frowning slightly as she took a moment to think.

"Sometimes...I dream about...things. Other times, I remember...when hearing music, or the pictures."

Raynor nodded and she asked, sitting back in her seat while tilting her head.

"Earlier, you mentioned your Aunt Mavis. Do you remember your uncle?"

The memory of Christmas came up, and the man that had been in the memory, Uncle Bobby, came to mind.

"I think I had an uncle named Bobby."

Raynor nodded as she jotted it down in her book before (Y/n) continued to speak.

"The picture...of Christmas. It's the only thing I remember of him. Bucky said that the feeling I had when I was looking at it was me missing them."

Raynor looked at (Y/n) for a moment, simply listening as (Y/n) described the memory to her, and when (Y/n) was finished, Raynor closed her book and said.

"I think that it's good that you're making such good progress, (Y/n). I want to ask you a question, and it's okay if you don't know the answer just yet, but what are your goals for us working together? What do you want me to do for you as a therapist?"

(Y/n) pursed her lips into a thin line, frowning deeply. She hadn't really considered what the goal for therapy was. The conversation with Steve and Bucky came to her mind, and she murmured.

"I...want to make amends...and...make things right."

"What do you mean by 'make things right'?"

(Y/n) swallowed, but before she could answer, Bucky came back into the room with a tray of cups and a pair of big pitchers. The smell of coffee began to fill the room, and Bucky set the tray down on the table beside (Y/n). Pouring three cups, Bucky asked Raynor.

"Coffee as black as your soul, or are you not that evil?"

Raynor rolled her eyes before stating.

"One cream, two sugars."

Bucky nodded, making her cup before handing it to her. Raynor thanked him, and Bucky looked at (Y/n) with a slight smile.

"Do you want one?"

(Y/n) looked apprehensive before asking.

"Am I allowed to?"

Bucky looked taken back and he reassured her.

"Yes, you don't have to have permission to have coffee. Here, I'll make one for you. You seem like a 'coffee with your milk' kind of gal."

He poured a bunch of creamer into one of the cups before handing it to her, and (Y/n) gingerly took the cup. Allowing the warmth of the cup to spread through her palms, her back subconsciously relaxed.

Sniffing it slightly, (Y/n) took an experimental sip before glancing at Bucky and Raynor. Bucky sat down, his coffee completely black, and Raynor took a large sip of her coffee.

"Let's circle back. What do you mean by 'make things right,' (Y/n)?"

Bucky immediately glanced at (Y/n) as the woman stared into her coffee. Rubbing the rim of the cup quietly, (Y/n) murmured.

"I...I hurt a lot of people...and I remember the pain, the blood...the girl."

Her eyes became glassy, nostrils flaring, and she swallowed thickly.

"I...don't want to do that again. I want...I want to....do good."

Raynor nodded slightly, clarifying gently.

"So, from what you're telling me, you want to 'make things right' because you're feeling guilty about what you've done."

Guilty? Is that what this heavy sensation in her chest was? (Y/n) looked perturbed for a moment, tilting her head slightly before she whispered.

"Is that what this feeling is? Every...every time I think about them...about the things that I did...there's this heavy feeling that sits on me. It...It makes me feel bad."

Raynor nodded before explaining.

"Guilt can manifest in many different ways, and for someone that wasn't allowed to feel emotions, it can be pretty heavy and scary. I think that one thing that would help you to understand these emotions that you are feeling is to write them down. Every emotion that you feel, write it down and describe it."

(Y/n) was listening closely, nodding along as she listened to Raynor's instructions. Raynor reached into her bag and handed (Y/n) a blank notebook, stating.

"So, what I want you to do for right now is to journal everything. Any time you feel a new emotion that you're having a hard time understanding, any new memories, or even just about what's going on: write it down, and I'll read what you've written next week."

(Y/n) frowned, asking as she looked up at the woman.

"You...won't stay?"

Raynor shook her head, looking genuinely upset by the notion as she replied.

"I can't. I have other clients that I need to see as well, but King T'Challa has been very generous and stated that for our visits, one of the members of the Dora Milaje will retrieve me so that we can make the most out of our time together."

(Y/n) nodded, and Raynor stood after finishing her coffee. Clutching her bag close, she glanced at Bucky with a harder expression.

"Your turn. Let's go, Barnes."

Bucky looked ready to protest, and Raynor frowned deeply, cutting him off with a finger in the air.

"I don't want to hear it. Conference room, James."

Bucky grumbled to himself before he gave (Y/n) an exasperated look.

"She's such an opportunist."

(Y/n) winced out an awkward smile before taking a sip of her coffee, and Bucky sighed, standing as Raynor began to tap her foot against the ground. When they left the room, (Y/n) turned around and set the notebook onto the table. Spying one of Steve's pens that he had left out, she slowly grabbed it.

The feeling of the pen in her hand was strange and almost foreign, but there was a comforting feeling that began to settle in her chest as she opened the notebook. Writing into the first page, (Y/n) pursed her lips. After a moment of hesitation, (Y/n) began to write.

'Journal Entry #1,

My name is (Y/n) (L/n).'

-

STORY NOTES: The scene opens up to Raynor, (Y/n), and Bucky all together as Raynor conducts her evaluation once more. Raynor begins to investigate (Y/n)'s feelings and the way that she feels, and (Y/n) tells Raynor that Rebecca would write with her. When Raynor inquires about Rebecca, Bucky reveals that (Y/n) Aunt Mavis knew Rebecca through church back in the day. When Raynor asks if (Y/n) remembers her Aunt Mavis, (Y/n) responds that she only remembers her voice and the picture that she has of Mavis. Raynor asks if (Y/n) would be open to showing her these pictures, and (Y/n) lashes out protectively. Raynor comforts (Y/n) by telling her that nobody was going to take the pictures and journals from her, but that she just wanted her to tell about them and what they meant to (Y/n). (Y/n) tells Raynor that she doesn't know what they mean to her, but she knows that the memories are hers. When (Y/n) reveals that she is afraid that her memories will be taken again, Bucky reassures her that nobody will ever take them from her again. (Y/n) is surprised by this, and when she asks if Bucky would really fight for her like that, Bucky confirms without hesitation.

(Y/n) inquires if he still would even if she didn't deserve it, and Bucky begins to reminisce about Germany (Captain America: Civil War), and he replies that it didn't matter if she deserved it or not because she was a victim, just like he had been. When (Y/n) repeats that she doesn't want her memories to be taken again, Bucky is firm as he tells her that nobody will ever wipe her mind again. (Y/n) then begins to contemplate showing some of the pictures to Raynor, and Raynor reassures her that she doesn't have to show them if she doesn't want to because Raynor understands how important they are to (Y/n). Opening the tin, she sets aside the first two pictures that her and Bucky have already seen, and the new picture is of (Y/n) as a toddler while in the garden with Doris. When no memory surfaces because of this picture, (Y/n) moves on. The next picture is of Doris, (Y/n), and Robert while at the beach. When (Y/n) sees Robert's face, she begins to have a panic attack as the memories of the male mannequin finally comes to life. She begins to tear the picture up with rage as she begins to cry, and she begins to repeat how she hates him.

When Raynor inquires about why, (Y/n) reveals that she remembers how Robert would hurt her and Doris. She also reveals that Robert would come into her room at night to conduct experiments; drugging her to make her sleep as Robert experimented. (Y/n) then says that she doesn't want to remember, and when Bucky tries to comfort her, Raynor immediately reprimands him. Bucky reluctantly listens, and Raynor asks (Y/n) to tell her what she sees. (Y/n) describes that she can see him taking her blood and injecting her with things, and she remembers an incident where Robert abused her with the needle for being too loud. In order to distract her from the memory, Raynor asks (Y/n) if she's ever had coffee before.

The tactic works, and Raynor asks Bucky to go get some coffee when (Y/n) responds that she isn't sure. When Bucky leaves, Raynor begins to fully evaluate (Y/n). She notices how uncomfortable and confused the woman seemed, and makes note that she doesn't seem to know a single thing about life outside of HYDRA. She asks (Y/n) if she remembers things often, and (Y/n) replies that she sometimes dreams, but will also remember while listening to music or looking at the pictures. Raynor then asks (Y/n) about her uncle, and (Y/n) tells her that she doesn't remember much of her Uncle Bobby, but tells Raynor that Bucky told her that the feeling she had while looking at the picture was the feeling of 'missing' someone or something. Raynor notes this before asking (Y/n) what her goals for therapy are, and (Y/n) tells her that she wants to 'make things right'. Although Raynor asks for clarification, Bucky comes back with the coffee and interrupts the moment.

After Bucky gives everyone coffee, Raynor circles back to her question, and (Y/n) answers that she remembers how she hurt a lot of people, and remembers the little girl that she had to kill to ensure complete secrecy for HYDRA. She states that she doesn't want to do that again and that she wants to be good. Raynor then clarifies that the reason she wants to do good is because she feels guilty, and (Y/n) becomes surprised that the feeling has a name. (Y/n) reveals that every time she thinks of the people she hurt, she feels that sensation, and Raynor instructs (Y/n) to write down these feelings as she feels them to help her get an understanding of them. She further instructs that she wants (Y/n) to journal everything that she experiences: new feelings, new memories, or anything that happens. She tells (Y/n) that she would read them next week, and (Y/n) is surprised to hear that Raynor will not be staying in Wakanda. When (Y/n) inquires about this, Raynor tells (Y/n) that she has other clients that she has to help, but that T'Challa would assist in her journey to Wakanda so they can have as much time together as possible.

The session with (Y/n) closes, and Raynor takes this opportunity to spring a session onto Bucky, and though Bucky tries to protest, Raynor does not give him an opportunity to. When the two of them leave the room, (Y/n) immediately begins to write, a feeling of familiar comfort coming over her as she writes. End Scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

Я его ненавижу. Я его ненавижу - I hate him. I hate him.

TAGLIST: @mggslefttit @softpia @thebl00dwyrm @buckvoidsyy @chonkybonky @seemsxsketchy @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @mgchaser @aash3 @samfunko @seventeen-x @valckenaux @babybeeelle @sc4rrc @cjand10 @bane-y-zane @notsostrangerthing @thenameswinter99 @bumblebeebutter @torntaltos @highhopes1008

[ozzgin]

Hello again, are requests still open? If they are, can I request headcanons for Izuku, Shoto, and Tamaki with an artist reader? They stumble upon the reader's book full of art. The book also has drawings of them and the reader together.

Yes! I even have your previous ask halfway written in my drafts, which I might just conveniently incorporate it here haha. I'm just very slow to write everything. I do mark the request section as closed when it's the case., so no worries.

BNHA Characters x Artist! Reader Headcanons

Featuring Midoriya Izuku, Todoroki Shoto, Amajiki Tamaki and a reader whose doodles are rather obvious in meaning. More fluff!

Midoriya Izuku

Deku is not really one to pry. So it was absolutely not his intention to snoop. He'd just assumed that your notebook has generic scribbles made of class notes, facts and observations, similar to his. He didn't expect to find intricate sketches, and of such quality too!

Really, he's mesmerized. He has an eye for detail and will carefully scan every line and every brush stroke. Is this a portrait of your teacher? Fantastic angle you've chosen! The crosshatching adds a lot of depth. He slowly flips through the pages, wondering why you've never mentioned your hobby. He's even a little dejected, fearing you might not consider him as close a friend.

Then he reaches the doodles of him and you together. Oh. Ooooh. He has to look away for a moment, trying to contain his blush. Well, it certainly makes sense you'd keep it from him. He'd like to return the sketchbook and pretend he never saw anything, but...As much as he doesn't want to embarrass you, he can't get the idea out of his mind. To think you like him, too...Can he really hide how happy that makes him?

Todoroki Shoto

Opening your personal belongings was completely unintentional. Todoroki had accidentally included one of your notebooks among his own and swiftly left for his dorm room. As he clumsily dumped out the contents of his bag, he finally spotted the foreign item sprawled out on his desk.

Drawings? He can't think of anyone in class to ever mention such interest. Then he remembers he sat next to you, so it must be yours. He blushes slightly at the idea. It would be most terrible of him to snoop further, but he can't help his curiosity. He'd love to know more about you and a perfect opportunity is shining brightly before him. Just a quick peek...nothing more.

To think you were this skilled and he never noticed. He stumbles upon a portrait of himself. Unexpected. When did you even have the time to observe him so carefully? His lips purse in embarrassment. By the time he reaches the lovely couple doodles, his ears are bright red. Was his crush that obvious? He can hardly believe the coincidence of you liking him back and expressing it so clearly. Returning the sketchbook will certainly be interesting. It is the duty of a Prince, after all (If he is to refer to your little sketches).

Amajiki Tamaki

Tamaki has noticed how you often sneak away from the crowds and assumed you, too, are struggling with anxiety and awkwardness. Upon further inspection, however, it seems you just enjoy sketching by yourself. He feels a little ridiculous, hiding behind the wall and spying on an innocent hobby like this.

Then again, why the secrecy? He always thought you're good friends, yet you never mentioned anything about it. Combined with the fact you frequently praise him or gaze at him uncomfortably long...Are you planning on pranking him or something? No, no, that's just his paranoia talking. He reassures himself as he holds the little book you conveniently forgot behind. This is the perfect opportunity to prove to himself he's overthinking as usual.

Seeing the doodles of you and him together turns him into a fumbling, red-faced mess. His hands are trembling. The polite thing to do right now would be to close the notebook and promptly return it. Still, he's stuck in place, staring at the pages. Is this a joke? You can't possibly like him back. Someone like him. As much as he denies it, the longing won't leave his flustered heart. A man can dream...

[reccyls]

Victor's Main Route: Chapter 17

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It was the day after my declaration of war.

Victor: Um… Kate…?

I was tailing Victor.

Kate: Good morning, Victor.

Victor: Good morning… And that notebook is…?

His gaze landed on the notebook I was carrying with me.

Kate: I told you that until my time at Crown is up, I need to learn about you. Kate: In order to make that happen, I’ve decided on this.

I had filled every bit of blank space in the pages with records of every trivial moment of my life with Victor. But I made sure not to write down his name anywhere, or describe what he looked like. It would be difficult for anyone who didn’t spend as much time with Victor that I did to identify him from what I’ve written. After spending some time wondering how I would know Victor, I decided to go back to the beginning.

(To learn about Victor in my capacity as Fairytale Keeper, I began assisting him with his work.)

I had gotten to know him as a person, how he thought, and his secrets. But it wasn’t enough to write a report yet.

(So that’s why I have to be closer to him than anyone else.)

No matter how many records I scoured, the only name I could find was that of Queen Victoria. There was no trace of “Victor”, the man that I loved. So until the promised day came, I would watch him and learn all I could about him from his side, and leave what records of him that I could. And that’s why I was following Victor around everywhere with a notebook in hand.

…

Liam: Good morning, Victor, Kate… Um…?

William: Looks like another interesting development has occurred.

Elbert: …

Harrison: …Did you suddenly take up stalking as a hobby?

As we entered the dining hall, the members of Crown who had already gathered for breakfast simultaneously turned to look our way. Liam looked confused, while Elbert simply stared silently. William was laughing, and Harrison settled on looking dubious.

Kate: No, this is for work!

Paying no mind to how confused Victor seemed, I sat down next to him.

Liam: …I’ve never seen Victor look like that before.

William simply smiled as he overheard Liam’s furtive whispers. I had expected Victor to be at a loss.

(If he’d still tried to push me away even after all that, I would probably have given up. But…)

It seems that making it a matter of my life or death worked, and his behavior had changed.

Victor: You’re going to write about this too?

Kate: Of course.

He used a knife to cut the top off a soft-boiled egg on an egg stand and sprinkled in a bit of salt. He added clotted cream heavily to his scones, while leaving the jam on the side of the plate. As I diligently recorded Victor’s eating habits from my seat next to him, I also reached for some food. He was hopelessly confused, but I was entirely serious.

William: What a diligent observer you are, robin.

…

Victor: …

I kept my eyes on Victor as I assisted him with his work. His quill flowed gracefully across the paper as he worked. Sometimes, he’d pause to tuck his hair behind his ear while thinking hard about something. Warm sunlight poured into the office, silent except for the sound of turning pages and scratching quills. The sight of him was like something out of a painting.

Victor: …Kate.

Kate: What is it?

As I continued to watch him, he smiled wryly and his gaze darted away.

Victor: It’s a little hard to concentrate when you’re staring so intently…

I covered my mouth in embarrassment and immediately looked away.

Kate: Sorry, that was too much.

Victor: I don’t dislike it. It’s just rather embarrassing.

When I snuck a glance back towards him, I noticed a slight blush on his cheeks. Somehow I started feeling embarrassed too, and ducked my head.

(I know I started watching him to learn more about him.) (But the reason I can’t stop is because I’m in love with him.)

His large hands, elegant fingers, the way his black hair flows around his handsome features, his jewel-like eyes. And even the mole on his lip too. I couldn’t help but fall for him. His scent, like that of a silent night, became something that made me feel safe.

(But since I can’t write any of this down, I’ll just have to remember every bit.)

I turned back towards my notebook and began writing again. When I heard the sound of a throat clearing, I looked up.

Victor: You really don’t have any intention of staying away from me?

Kate: None at all.

Victor: Alright. Then, could you assist with the parade?

(That’s the event tomorrow where the queen will be going around the city.)

It was a very large event, with all of Crown acting as security. I hadn’t been told anything specific about what I should do tomorrow, and was told to just stay with William. Victor stood and took some papers and a map.

Victor: From now on, I’ll pretty much be running around the palace to prepare for tomorrow. Victor: People there likely wouldn’t take too well to your presence there, since they’ll think you’re not involved at all.

He looked very serious, and I drew in a sharp breath. He unfolded the map.

Victor: But if I say that you’ll be assisting me by acting as a messenger in case anything happens during the parade, then there won’t be a problem.

There were notes on the map, and when I squinted, I could make out the writing and realized they were guard rotations. And the stack of papers he was holding contained guest lists along with the approximate time they would be arriving.

Victor: So if you want to stay by my side tomorrow, you’ll need to memorize everything here. Victor: Use it to create a schedule for the rest of Crown to follow tomorrow. Victor: Do you think you can do it?

I’ll do it! (+2/+4)

Of course!

Just who do you think I am?

Kate: I’ll do it!

My hands curled into fists, showcasing my determination.

Victor: How dependable.

As I eagerly took the papers and map from Victor, he stood.

Victor: The final security review will be done in half an hour, and after that I’ll need to confirm the queen’s attire. Victor: After that, I’ll brief the council members, and in the evening I’ll be welcoming the first of the arriving guests. Victor: If you tag along, you’re not going to get a moment of rest. Still coming?

His mischievous grin was full of amusement. It had been so long since I’d seen Victor like this. My heart full of happiness, I vigorously nodded.

Kate: Of course I am!

-----

Guard Captain: We’ve been waiting for you, sir.

Victor: Reconfirm the assignments for tomorrow, Kate.

I hastily unfolded the map and scanned the guards’ positions. 

Kate: R-right. The First Division will guard Her Majesty’s carriage. Kate: The Second Division will…

…

Royal Family’s Exclusive Designer: What do you think about lining Her Majesty’s veil with gemstones? I have some beautiful large ones to use.

Victor: She isn’t very fond of such ostentatious styles. In the older outfit, it was… Kate?

I shuffled through the papers I was holding, searching for the one with the design in question.

Kate: If gemstones were to be attached, only use small ones, it says. Kate: And as for the colors–

…

Council Head: About tomorrow…

Victor: You mean the guest list for the post-parade banquet? Kate.

I instantly pulled out the right documents.

Kate: This one is for domestic guests, this one is for foreign ones. Kate: And here is the list of interpreters for the foreign guests…

…

Foreign Noble: Thank you, I’m very honored to be invited.

Victor: Not at all, we should be the ones thanking you for making such a long journey. Victor: If there’s anything that troubles you during your stay at the palace–

Kate: We’ve prepared some information that may be helpful, please feel free to take it with you.

Before he could call my name, I pulled out the specially-prepared guides for foreign visitors, written in multiple languages. Finding the one written in the correct language, I passed it to Victor.

Foreign Noble: My, how convenient! Thank you kindly.

Victor looked at me in surprise for a moment, before turning his smile towards the foreign guest.

Victor: Have a pleasant evening.

-----

(It just doesn’t end…!)

I put my head in my hands as I stared at the papers spread out all across the table. I’d been running around this way and that to help Victor prepare for tomorrow’s parade. Before I knew it, night had fallen. But I was still sat down facing a mountain of documents and the still-blank schedules for tomorrow.

(I didn’t have time to take any notes.)

I wanted to stay beside him to get to know him better. But I was so busy that I didn’t have the time to write down even a single sentence. All I had the time for was to get the right documents for Victor when he needed them.

(I only memorized half of the guests, and the guard rotations are a complete blank…)

And since there were so many foreign guests, I also needed to remember the names of all the interpreters. Which I didn’t. And on top of that, I needed to make guard schedules for everyone in Crown keeping in mind where they’d be on the day of the parade.

(William is one of the banquet guests, so someone else will need to be stationed there. And William’s going to need time to prepare, so the timing of the swap…) (Oh, Harrison and Liam would be better here.) (Lord Elbert should be placed where there’s less people around, preferably with Alfons.) (Maybe it’d be better for Roger to be with Jude and Ellis…)

I tried putting together a schedule for tomorrow as I scribbled down names one after another.

(Nope, I can’t, my head’s spinning.)

I’d been running around all day with my brain working overtime to try to memorize everything, and fatigue was beginning to set in. I tried to stretch to alleviate it. I had decided to work in the common room instead of my bedroom because I was worried that I’d end up falling asleep.

(This was the right choice.)

If I had chosen to return to my room, I was sure that I’d immediately collapse into bed. I gave myself a pat on the back for thinking ahead.

(Anyway, I was the one who said I’d do this, so I need to finish it.)

Mustering up my resolve, I decided to start with the memorization first and reached for the documents.

Victor: So this is where you’re working?

Victor appeared in front of me, setting a tea set onto the table.

Kate: You haven’t gone to sleep yet?

Tomorrow, Victor would have a long day of official business as the queen. I didn’t think he’d be in the common room at this hour.

Victor: I thought you’d still be up, so I wanted to bring you some tea. Victor: I went to your room first, but it was empty…

He took a seat.

Kate: Sorry to make you look for me. I know you must be busy.

Victor: Don’t apologize. I’m very happy to do this, so you don’t have to mind at all.

He touched the side of the teapot, tossing a wink my way.

Victor: It was piping hot earlier, so it should be at a comfortable temperature to drink now. Victor: Lucky you, you won’t have to wait for it to cool down.

(He really is kind.)

He saw the bright side in everything, even playing the fool, just so others wouldn’t feel bad. It was something I noticed as I spent more time with him.

Victor: Here you go.

Kate: Thank you.

I took the teacup from him and took a sip. Warmth filled me as I savored the tea’s rich flavor and aroma.

Kate: It’s delicious.

Victor: Wonderful! I’ll have a cup too.

As he set down his own teacup after taking a sip, he looked towards the blank schedules.

Victor: Since you might not manage in time, I’ll help.

His offer was generous, but I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t want to admit to him I couldn’t do it.

Kate: I’ll finish everything before your duties tomorrow begin. Kate: Tomorrow morning, can you review the schedules?

Victor: Alright. But don’t push yourself too hard.

As I picked up my pen again, he closed his eyes.

Kate: Are you going to stay here?

Victor: I know I should head to bed early, but I don’t seem to be very sleepy.

This wasn’t very different to the idle conversations we used to have while working in his office together, or at least it shouldn’t have been. But the knowledge that this was all coming to an end in a few days filled me with loneliness.

Kate: So you also have trouble sleeping before a big day?

I tried to continue the conversation, as if that would prolong the time we had together.

Kate: When I was a kid, I never slept properly before going on trips.

Victor: I’m sorry, I can’t help but imagine what you were like as an excited child unable to sleep. It’s too cute.

He laughed gently.

Kate: And not just before trips too. I’d also have trouble sleeping the night before going ice skating on the Thames in winter. Kate: But because of that I ended up getting sick the day of. I was so disappointed…

Victor: Haha, how tragically adorable.

He laughed again. My heart swelled with joy to hear it. The conversation drifted to a close, and silence filled the air. As I wracked my brain for something else to talk about, Victor suddenly took one of the papers.

Victor: I really don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep, so let me help you.

He flipped through the documents, turning a smile my way.

Kate: Okay.

And thus a warm night passed.

(If only we could stay like this forever…)

I wished silently that this night would never end.

[charliedawn]

A Children’s Book

Joel Miller x Reader

One-Shot

Warning: Explicit and mention of sex

The air in the small cabin was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wood and the distant sounds of the wilderness. You sat at the table, a notebook open in front of you, a pencil held loosely in your hand as you scribbled down thoughts and ideas. The flickering light of a nearby lantern cast a soft glow across your page, making the room feel cozy despite the harsh world outside.

Joel, sitting in the corner with his back to you, tinkered with his gear, the familiar sound of leather and metal filling the air. His mind wasn’t entirely on the task at hand, though. He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder every now and then, his curiosity piqued by the unusual sound of your writing. He’d seen you do it before, but today, there was something different about the way you were absorbed in your work.

He fidgeted with the strap of his gun, trying to keep his attention focused. But it was hard to ignore you when you were so…intent.

The quiet scrape of your pencil across the paper seemed louder than usual, and Joel found his eyes drifting toward you again, this time more deliberately. He couldn’t help himself; his gaze softened as he watched the way you chewed the end of your pencil, as if considering the next line carefully. He had no idea what you were writing, but the concentration on your face made him wonder.

He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust something on his pack, but his eyes darted back toward you once more. This time, you caught him.

"Got a problem, Joel ?" you asked, looking up momentarily from your notebook.

He froze for a moment, caught in the act, before he looked away. "Nah, just…didn’t know you were into writing," he muttered, turning back to his task, though his curiosity was still clear in his tone.

You raised an eyebrow. "I’m writing a children’s book. Thought it’d be nice to share some survival tips with the next generation."

Joel blinked, processing that. "A book…for kids ?" He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping. "What, you gonna teach ‘em how to use a knife to gut a rabbit or something ?"

You grinned at the thought. "Maybe. It’s a lot of basic stuff, really. How to make a fire, what to do when you’re lost, how to find food…the things that matter." You shrugged, your eyes shifting to the pages, as if you were still thinking about the content. "I figured it could help someone someday."

Joel studied you for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly. He wasn’t sure why, but the idea of you writing something for children made his heart tug. He cleared his throat, pushing the strange feeling aside. "Sounds…real useful."

You paused, meeting his gaze, before smirking. "I’m just trying to make sure we leave something behind, Joel. Something good."

For a moment, Joel didn’t say anything, just letting your words hang in the air between you. Then, he finally nodded, his voice quieter this time. "Well, if you need any…survival tips, you know where to find me."

You chuckled softly, a playful glint in your eye. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Joel sat back, still trying to keep his usual gruff exterior, but there was something soft in the way he looked at you now. Something like pride mixed with a bit of wonder, as though, for all the destruction the world had seen, there were still people like you, trying to bring a little light to it.

As the days passed, Joel became increasingly curious about your project. At first, it was just the occasional glance—his eyes would flicker toward your work as you sat at the table, absorbed in your notebook. But over time, that curiosity turned into something more. The subtle glances turned into longer stares, and he found himself edging closer when you weren’t paying attention.

You didn’t mind. In fact, you kind of liked the idea that he was invested in something you were doing, even if he was trying to hide it.

One evening, as you wrote about how to track animals through the forest, Joel slipped into the room, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all you. You glanced up at him, the corner of your lips twitching into a smile. "Need something, Miller ?"

He grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nah, just—just looking over your shoulder."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "You sure,? Because you’ve been doing that for the past five minutes."

Joel’s lips twitched, and he tried to cover it up with a huff. "I was just wondering if you got the details right. A track’s gotta be fresh, you know ? You don’t wanna confuse it with an old one."

You leaned back in your chair, your smile widening. "Alright, alright. You want to add some tips,? I could use some insight from a seasoned tracker like yourself."

Joel’s eyes flickered, clearly surprised, before he shrugged, trying to seem unaffected. "Yeah, well, if you’re gonna tell ‘em to find tracks, you should probably mention how to tell if the animal’s been spooked. Look for the way the soil’s disturbed—if it’s all torn up, it means they’re anxious, moving too fast. Probably running from something."

You jotted down the note, glancing at him. "Good one. Anything else ?"

He cleared his throat, looking a little sheepish. "When you’re building a shelter, make sure it’s got a little space between you and the ground, so you don’t freeze your ass off overnight. And always, always, build a fire upwind."

You leaned forward, looking up at him with a smile that bordered on playful. "You’ve got quite a bit to say for someone who claims he is not interested."

Joel’s face flushed slightly, but he looked away quickly. "Just don’t want you to leave out the important stuff. Kids need to know how to survive, even if they don’t realize it right away."

You nodded, writing down his suggestions. "I’ll make sure to add that. Anything else from the expert ?"

He paused, staring at the ground for a moment, his voice softer now. "Tell ’em about how important it is to trust your instincts. It’s not always about the rules. The world doesn’t work that way anymore." He cleared his throat, as if uncomfortable with the emotion in his voice. "Sometimes, you just gotta do what feels right."

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the rawness in his words. "I’ll add that too."

For the next few days, Joel would come by, sometimes just to sit quietly and offer suggestions, other times giving you his thoughts on what you’d written. You noticed a pattern in the way he’d slip his advice into your process—always indirect, like he didn’t want to admit he cared, but you could see it in the way he leaned over your shoulder, in the softness of his voice when he spoke.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, as you added the last few touches to a chapter about fishing techniques, that Joel spoke up again.

"You know," he started, looking over your shoulder again, "you’re gonna do more than just teach kids how to survive. You’re gonna show ’em how to keep going, no matter what. That’s something worth passing on."

You smiled, meeting his gaze for a moment. "I think you’ve been writing a little bit of this book, too."

Joel looked away, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Nah, just giving you a few pointers. It’s your book."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I couldn’t have done it without you."

Joel didn’t respond right away, but the small, proud glint in his eyes was all the answer you needed.

You then signed the notebook and handed it to him. "Here. For the next generation. So that they don’t forget our old bones."

Joel paused, his hand hovering over the notebook you offered. He wasn’t the sentimental type—he never had been. But something about the way you spoke, so earnestly, made his chest tighten. Your words weren’t just a simple gesture. They were a reminder that, despite the weight of the world around you, there was something worth remembering. Something worth preserving.

He looked at the notebook for a long moment, the leather cover worn and the pages filled with your careful handwriting. He could almost see the children flipping through it, learning how to light a fire, how to make a shelter, how to survive when the world had forgotten how to be kind. He could see it.

Joel finally met your eyes, his grumpy expression softened. He took the notebook from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours just for a second, and held it carefully as if it might break. "You really think they’ll remember us ?" His voice was low, almost to himself, as if the idea itself made him uneasy.

You nodded, your gaze steady and unwavering. "I do. People forget the details, sure, but the lessons stick. And you…you’ve got a lot of ‘em to pass on, Joel."

He didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t used to being the one who taught or the one who left something behind for others. He was just trying to make it through the day, trying to keep the people he cared about safe. But looking at the notebook in his hands, feeling the weight of it, something in him stirred—a quiet sense of purpose that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

He sighed, trying to brush off the emotion that was creeping up on him. "Well, I’m not great with kids. I don’t know how much good I’ll do."

"You’d be surprised," you said with a small smile. "You’re already doing more than you think."

Joel chuckled softly, though it was more out of discomfort than anything else. “Guess I’ll add it to the list of things to teach.”

You laughed lightly, leaning back in your chair. "Maybe we should start with going over the hunting tips, so they don’t starve."

Joel nodded, his thumb grazing the edges of the notebook. "Yeah, that sounds like a good place to start."

He looked at you one more time, his face unreadable, before finally tucking the notebook into his pack. He might not be the sentimental type, but this was something he was keeping. Something worth holding onto. For the next generation, like you said. Maybe, just maybe, it’d make a difference.

That night, as it is only the two of you, you tell him. "Joel. I think…I am gonna add another chapter."

He looked at you quizzically. "Yeah ? What about ?"

You smiled and looked at him. "…About having people to count on."

He didn’t reply but—that didn’t mean he didn’t agree.

….

A few years later…

You sat on the front steps of your little house, a worn leather satchel at your side, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the strap. It had taken years—years of gathering scraps of paper, stitching them together by hand, carving out moments between survival and rebuilding to write, edit, and craft the book you had once dreamed of.

And now, it was finished.

Almost.

You needed one more thing.

You needed Joel.

The door creaked open behind you, and there he was—older, a little grayer at the temples, but still Joel. Still steady as a mountain, still the man who had once leaned over your shoulder and given you survival tips without asking for a word of thanks. His gaze softened when he saw you, sitting there looking all kinds of anxious.

"What’s got you twisted up ?" he asked, stepping down to join you, the wood steps groaning faintly under his boots.

You swallowed, heart thumping a little harder, and reached into your satchel. From it, you pulled out a thick, hand-bound copy of your book, the leather cover neatly tooled with simple, strong designs. You held it out to him with both hands, like you were offering something sacred.

"I was wondering…" you started, voice catching a little before you pushed on, "if you’d proof it for me. Look it over. Tell me if it looks alright."

Joel blinked, surprised, but he didn’t hesitate long. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing yours as he took the book carefully. He thumbed over the leather, tracing the stitching, the work you had put into it. You could see it in his eyes—he knew how much this meant to you.

"You did this yourself ?" he asked—impressed.

You nodded, feeling a little bashful. "Took a long time. I—I just want it to be right, Joel. I just want it to be as clear and useful as possible."

Joel was quiet for a long moment, turning the book over in his hands. He opened it slowly, careful not to crease the pages, and read the first few lines.

You twisted your hands in your lap, nerves eating you alive. "I know you’re busy. It’s just—you’re the only one I trust to really get it, to give me fair and useful feedback. Tell me if I missed anything."

Joel closed the book gently, thumb still hooked on the page he had been reading.

"I’ll do it," he replied. Joel gave you a faint, crooked smile—one of the rare ones that actually reached his eyes—and tucked the book carefully under his arm.

"I’ll take my time with it," he added, "Make sure it’s just right."

You nodded quickly. "Thank you, Joel. Really."

He tipped his head, eyes twinkling just a little. "Ain’t doin’ you a favor. Just makin’ sure the next generation knows the right way to do things. Like you said."

As he turned to leave, book clutched carefully in his hand, you watched him go with a warmth blooming in your chest. You had trusted him with your words, your heart stitched into paper and leather—and somehow, you knew he would guard it as fiercely as anything else he had ever fought to protect.

….

The next day, you were out in the garden patch behind your house, pulling up the stubborn winter weeds that had somehow survived the frost, when you heard the familiar sound of Joel’s boots crunching across the dirt.

You wiped your hands on your pants and turned, shielding your eyes against the low sun—and there he was, standing with that rare, honest-to-God smile tugging at his mouth. Not the tight, forced ones he sometimes gave when he didn’t know what else to do. This one was real. Warm.

He held the hand-bound book loosely at his side, the edges a little more worn now, as if it had been properly handled, lived with for a bit.

"I made Ellie read it with me," Joel informed you. He lifted the book slightly, tapping the cover with two fingers. "She found it awesome."

"Really ?"

Joel nodded, stepping closer. His shadow fell over you, a solid, grounding presence against the flickering nerves still dancing inside you. "She loved the way you wrote it. Said it was ‘real’…not sugarcoated. Not fake. Useful. And that she would have loved to have it—if she didn’t already have me that is." He gave a short, rough chuckle. "Pretty much the highest praise you’ll get outta her."

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing at the notebook, then back at you.

"You did good," he told you. "Real good."

Joel wasn’t a man who tossed around praise lightly. If he said something, he meant it. You nodded, trying to keep it together, feeling your throat tighten.

"Thank you, Joel."

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then, he held the book out to you again.

"Y’know," he said, "Ellie had an idea. Said you oughta make more copies. Get ’em out there. Inside and outside Jackson. For anybody passin’ through."

He cleared his throat, almost like he was embarrassed for suggesting it. "Could save some lives."

You let yourself imagine it—the book in more hands. In the hands of some scared kid who needed a guide. In the hands of people trying to rebuild something better.

You smiled and nodded. "Then we’ll have to make a lot more covers."

Joel grinned, real and easy, and bumped your shoulder lightly with his hand—a small, steady show of support.

"We got time," he reassured you. "I’ll help."

And just like that, it wasn’t just your dream anymore. It was yours and Joel’s and Ellie’s—and maybe, if you were lucky, it would be everyone’s someday.

A few weeks later:

You bent to place another book on a moss-covered stone, just off the beaten path. You’d set them up in strategic places, near landmarks you and Joel knew would be safe, yet easy to find. The books were designed to be found—passed on to the ones who needed them the most. Each time you found that one of the books you had strategically placed was no longer there, you let out a short, sharp howl. It was your way of marking the moment—signifying that another survival kit was now in the hands of someone who might need it.

And when you howled, Joel stood there, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the trees, his eyes never leaving you. Another survival kit was out there, another piece of knowledge passed along to someone who needed it.

And somewhere, out in the wild, you both knew that another person, another survivor, was just one step closer to finding their way.

You didn’t notice the smile Joel had on his face when he heard you howl a second time upon discovering that another one of your books had been taken. Another life saved.

A few months later :

Joel could handle himself better than anyone you knew—but still, it didn’t sit right with you when no one could tell you exactly where he had gone off to with Abby. Something about the tightness in your gut pushed you to follow, your feet carrying you faster and faster through the streets of Jackson until you found yourself near the old gym. The streets just outside of Jackson were quieter today, the cold wind snapping little bits of dust and dead leaves through the air as you followed the trail Joel had left behind.

You quickened your pace, heart thudding harder with each step, until you finally rounded a low hill and came across the scene. That’s when you heard it—low voices, the tense sort of murmuring that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

You peered around the corner, heart hammering.

There he was. Joel, standing in the middle of the gym, surrounded. A few faces you recognized—others you didn’t. Abby stood nearby, holding a golf club in one hand, her knuckles white around it.

You immediately knew what this was.

A trap.

Your instincts screamed at you to do something, but instead, you forced yourself to slow down, to fix your expression into something light, something oblivious. Act natural, you thought, even as adrenaline burned under your skin. You walked out into the open, smiling bright like a fool, waving the notebook in the air.

"Hey, Joel !" you called, your voice carrying through the gym. You saw him flick his eyes to you—sharp, calculating. "Just finished that last page you said needed some modifications !"

You closed the distance casually, pretending like you didn’t see the weapons, didn’t notice the circle tightening. You moved right up to him, standing on your toes as if to kiss his cheek, your mouth brushing just past his skin to his ear.

"Last page. Knife. Use it," you whispered, barely a breath against his skin. Joel’s body tensed almost imperceptibly. In your hands, the notebook pressed lightly against his side where you had slid in a small, wickedly sharp knife, hidden between the pages. You felt him shift slightly, the weight transferring to his hip where the blade was tucked.

You pulled back with a sunny smile, tapping the notebook once like it was nothing but a delivery. Joel caught the slight nod you gave him—the unspoken signal between two people who knew how fast things could go to hell.

You stepped back, like you were going to leave, your hand brushing your side casually.

Then in one fluid motion, your gun was out.

And the air exploded.

The first shot rang out, echoing off the gym walls like a bomb. You weren’t aiming to kill—not yet—you hit the ground near Abby’s feet, the wall near one of the other strangers’ heads, just enough to make them flinch, scramble, scatter.

Chaos. Exactly what you needed. The distraction that Joel needed. In the blink of an eye, he was moving, knife flashing out from the book with brutal efficiency. He caught the closest guy in the arm, spinning him around, using him like a shield as the others shouted, shot and scrambled.

Joel’s voice was a low growl beside you, just loud enough for you to hear as he moved.

"Good instincts, darlin’."

You didn’t waste time. You stepped in tight behind him, keeping his blind side covered, your gun trained steady and fierce at anyone who thought about getting clever. Abby swung the gold club in a panic, but Joel ducked it easily, kicking it out of her grip with a sharp, practiced move that sent her stumbling back.

One of the others—a younger guy—tried to rush you. Bad mistake. You shot him clean through the knee without hesitation.

He dropped with a loud scream.

Joel didn’t even look. He trusted you had it covered.

The rest of them ?

Well, once they realized Joel Miller wasn’t going to be easy prey after all, they started backing off—muttering, cursing, dragging their wounded away. It wasn’t long before it was just you, Joel, and a wide empty space full of echoes and the stench of fear. You lowered your gun slowly, heart still hammering in your chest. Joel wiped the blood off the knife with a piece of torn cloth, tossing it aside casually.

He turned to you, breathing a little hard, but otherwise steady.

"You always carry a gun when you’re deliverin’ book edits ?" he drawled, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You grinned back, breathless but exhilarated. "Only when the editors are assholes."

Joel chuckled low in his throat, a sound you didn’t hear nearly often enough. He stepped closer, bumped your shoulder lightly with his own.

"C’mon," he said. "Let’s get outta here and collect Ellie before they decide to come back."

You nodded, holstering your gun, sticking close to Joel as you slipped out—grabbing Ellie on the way out.

…

A few days later, life had found a new kind of normal. You, Joel, and Ellie decided it was stupid to keep living separately after what happened. Three guns were better than one. Three pairs of eyes too. You’d found a bigger house at the edge of Jackson. Nothing fancy. Weathered wood, a stubborn front door that stuck when it got too cold. But it had enough space for all three of you, and more importantly—it felt safer, somehow, when you all shut the door behind you at night.

Ellie hadn’t said much right after the gym incident. She’d been quiet, tense, her mouth set in a hard line whenever anyone mentioned Abby’s name. You’d heard the rumors: Abby had run. Disappeared into the woods beyond Jackson’s walls.

Good riddance, you thought. But still—you didn’t take any chances. You kept your guns close, your knife even closer. Joel, too. He didn’t say it, but you knew—he was sleeping a little lighter, checking the windows before bed.

Then, one afternoon, as you were unpacking some of your things in the living room, Ellie came up behind you. You heard her before you saw her—a quiet shuffle of boots on old floorboards.

You turned just as she launched herself at you, her arms wrapping tight around your waist.

It shocked the breath out of you.

Ellie, who didn’t hug.

Ellie, who didn’t cry unless it was tearing out of her like a storm.

But here she was—small and shaking against you, her face buried against your side.

"Thank you," she mumbled thickly, voice cracking. "Thank you for saving that asshole."

You smiled, even as your throat tightened painfully. You ran your hand gently over her hair, smoothing it down like you would with a little sister.

"Couldn’t let him get taken out by a bunch of amateurs," you teased softly, feeling her laugh, wet and hiccupping, against you.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Joel standing in the kitchen doorway, watching. His arms were crossed, but there was something soft and unguarded in the way he looked at the two of you.

Family. Maybe not by blood. Maybe not by old-world definitions. But family all the same.

Joel’s voice was rough when he finally spoke.

"Dinner’s almost ready. Y’all wanna come eat before it gets cold ?"

You nodded against Ellie’s head, still holding her for just a second longer.

"Yeah. We’re coming."

Dinner was simple, but it tasted like heaven after the last few days—fresh bread, some roasted meat, canned veggies Joel had traded for. Ellie cracked bad jokes through mouthfuls of food, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, you heard real laughter. Not the sharp, defensive kind. The kind that warmed your chest.

Joel barely said much. But you caught him sneaking extra food onto your plate when you weren’t looking.

Subtle as a brick, that man.

Later, after Ellie went to her room, you grabbed your jacket and stepped out onto the porch. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of damp wood and far-off pine trees.

Joel joined you not long after, two chipped mugs of hot tea in hand. He passed you one wordlessly, settling into the chair beside yours with a low grunt. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping, listening to the quiet murmur of Jackson at night. It was nice—peaceful.

You took a long sip, feeling your mouth curl into a mischievous grin as you tilted your head toward him.

"By the way," you said, "don’t think I didn’t hear you that day."

Joel glanced at you, mug halfway to his lips, a brow lifting in that slow, suspicious way he had.

"Hear what ?"

You smirked cheekily. "You called me darlin’."

Joel froze for half a second. A tiny twitch of his mouth. He tried to play it off by taking a slow sip of his tea, but you saw the tips of his ears go a little pink in the porch light.

You pressed on, playful.

"Does that mean I got a shot, or are you just passin’ out compliments for free now that you’re retired, old man ?"

Joel huffed—an incredulous sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He leaned back in his chair, legs stretching out in front of him, the picture of casual…but you saw the tension hiding in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed around his mug.

"Tch. Retired, huh ?" he muttered, shaking his head. "If this is retirement, remind me to stay workin’ forever."

But then he looked at you again—really looked—and he surprised you by adding.

"But yeah. You got a shot."

Your heart skipped, thudding hard in your chest. You tried to keep your cool, to match his easy, slow drawl.

"Oh yeah ?" you teased, but your voice was a little breathless now. "Gonna need more than just words, Miller. Gotta earn it."

Joel smirked, slow and devastating. That man’s smile was dangerous. Without a word, he set his mug down on the porch railing, stood, and leaned down. His hand brushed lightly against your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Been earnin’ it," he claimed. "Every damn day. Carryin’ yer books. Accompanyin’ you everywhere. Almost broke my back by the way. Also listened to yer incessant yappin’. I should call the elderly mistreatment’s community office…Should gimme somethin’ fer my troubles."

And before you could fire back some smartass reply, Joel closed the space between you and kissed you—firm, steady, real. You replied eagerly and smiled into the kiss. When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, he added in a rough whisper:

"But since ya saved my dumbass. Think it’s about time you cash in, darlin’."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, so loud you were sure he could hear it. But you didn’t pull away. You set your mug down carefully, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, pulling him back down to you.

Joel didn’t need much convincing.

The second kiss was rougher, hungrier. Less careful. You let him. You answered him in kind—hands sliding up into his hair, tugging gently, earning a low, rumbling sound from deep in his chest. When you finally broke apart for air, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads still pressed together.

Joel’s voice was raw when he spoke.

"Come inside."

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, too breathless to trust your voice, and let him lead you back into the house. The door clicked shut behind you, the world sealing itself away. Joel was careful at first—gentle even, as he pressed you up against the wall just inside the front door, his hands braced on either side of you. He kissed you slow and deep. He trembled slightly when your hands slid under the hem of his shirt and traced the lines of his stomach, his back, his sides. His hand was in your hair now, his other resting at the small of your back. You tugged at his jacket, fumbling with the buttons between frantic kisses, and Joel chuckled low in his chest.

"Easy, darlin’," he murmured against your mouth, breath hot. "Ain’t goin’ nowhere."

Once his jacket discarded, you tugged at his shirt wordlessly. Joel chuckled low, breath hot against your ear.

"Bossy," he murmured teasingly, but he lifted his arms and let you peel it off him anyway. God, he was solid. Scarred and strong and real. You ran your hands over him, memorizing every inch you could reach. Your hands explored every scar, every worn muscle like you were learning a map that had been made just for you. Joel grunted softly when you kissed along his shoulder, a sound that made you shiver.

Joel kissed you again, more frantic now, walking you backward towards the couch. You fumbled your way towards the couch together—hands tugging, mouths brushing between half-broken laughs and gasps.

You bumped heads. He cursed under his breath when he fumbled with your buttons.

You giggled and he growled in frustration.

When he finally slid into you, he let out a sigh of relief. Finally…you both stilled—just breathing, just feeling and enjoying the moment—before moving together slow and steady. You clung to each other through it, through the ragged breaths and broken whispers and soft gasps in the dark.

He came quietly and you held him.

Later, when you were curled up together on the couch, the night cooling around you, Joel tucked your head under his chin, his hand splayed protectively over your back.

"Should’ve kissed you a long time ago," he said into your hair with a light smirk.

You smiled against his chest, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his skin.

"You’re makin’ up for lost time just fine, Miller."

He huffed a soft laugh and pressed another kiss to your temple. Joel then tucked you against him, one strong arm wrapped securely around your waist. His breathing evened out, but he didn’t let go—not even when you shifted, half-drowsy, to get more comfortable.

You heard him murmur something against your hair, soft and rough and too quiet to catch all the words. But you caught enough.

"Ya stuck with this old man now."

You smiled, heart aching in the best way, and pressed a kiss over his racing heartbeat.

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," you whispered back.

You both fell asleep in each other’s arms…

…

The morning sun filtered in slow and lazy, lighting up the house in soft gold.

You woke up warm—too warm—with the heavy, solid weight of Joel wrapped around you. He was still asleep, his breathing deep and steady. His arm was slung low across your waist, his face buried somewhere near the crook of your neck. You could feel the faint scrape of his stubble every time he exhaled.

You smiled sleepily, stretching your toes against the worn fabric of the couch. Every part of you ached in the best possible way. You were just about to close your eyes again when you heard it—the heavy thud thud thud of Ellie’s boots stomping down the stairs.

Crap. You barely had time to sit up halfway before the door burst open.

"Joel, have you seen my—" Ellie’s voice cut off like a snapped wire.

She froze at the door, wide-eyed, staring at the two of you tangled together on the couch. Joel stirred at the noise, groaning, blinking blearily up at her from where he was still practically draped over you.

For a full second, no one moved.

Then Ellie’s mouth dropped open in a slow, exaggerated O.

"OH. MY. GOD."

You felt your face burst into flames as you tried to scramble up, Joel groaning and grabbing for you instinctively, like his half-asleep brain was still convinced you were under attack. Ellie just stood there, hands on her hips now, grinning like the cat who caught the goddamn canary.

"I knew it !" she cackled. "I friggin’ knew it ! I told Dina ! I told her ! She owes me twenty bucks !"

Joel muttered something that sounded suspiciously like Jesus Christ under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. You tried to salvage what little dignity you had left, sitting up straighter and trying to pretend you didn’t look freshly wrecked.

"Ellie, go away," Joel grumbled, his voice still rough with sleep (and...other things).

Ellie didn’t budge. She just smirked harder, rocking back on her heels.

"Oh no. No, no, no. I’m soaking this in. This is the best thing that’s happened all week. Joel and Y/N, sittin’ in a tree—"

"Ellie," Joel growled warningly.

"—k-i-s-s-i-n-g—" she sang, practically bouncing now.

You groaned and buried your face in Joel’s shoulder while he just sighed heavily like a man questioning every life choice he’d ever made.

Finally, Ellie took pity (sort of) and snickered as she backed away toward the steps.

"I’ll let you lovebirds get back to it," she said innocently. "Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. And Dina. And maybe all of Jackson."

You heard her laughing as she stepped out.

You lifted your head just enough to glare weakly at Joel. "This is your fault."

He looked absolutely unrepentant, smirking that rare, small, boyish smile you didn’t get to see often enough.

"Worth it," he replied—completely unashamed.

And, damn him—you couldn’t even argue.

A year later, you and Joel found yourselves side by side at the kitchen table, the last embers of daylight flickering through the window. You’d both been tinkering in secret: Joel carving little wooden trinkets by the stove’s warmth, you hand-sewing the final pages of your newest book, A Life with the Millers. It was a story of your days together—campfires on the edge of Jackson, stormy nights on the porch, Ellie’s unstoppable brilliant mind, and all the small, fierce moments that made you a family.

When you set the finished manuscript down, the leather cover embossed with your initials intertwined, you caught Joel’s eye. He nodded, and you reached inside the back pocket to pull out a small, velvet-lined box. He mirrored you, lifting a nearly identical box from behind his own stack of carved wood.

He opened yours first. Nestled inside was a delicate ring—simple band, rough-hewn silver, as real and resilient as the man who’d taught you how to survive. Your breath caught watching his eyes light up. Then you opened his: the same ring, shaped by your own careful hands, each imperfection a promise of love that no apocalypse could erase.

Joel’s voice was low, thick with emotion you rarely heard. "I was gonna ask you to stay with me—permanently. Ellie likes you. I like you. Hell—even my brother likes you."

You smiled, tearing up as you slid your ring onto his finger and he did the same. "I mean—it is a nice ring. It would be a shame to let it go to waste…"

He reached across the table and took your hand in his—two rings shining softly in the lamplight.

"So," he started and smile, "you wanna write that new book together ?"

You squeezed his hand. "Every chapter. For the rest of our lives, baby."

Ellie’s distant giggle floated up from her room, a testament that even if she didn’t know the details, she’d heard enough. But in that moment, it was just you and Joel—ringed hands clasped, a new book between you, and a lifetime still to write.

"Hey, Joel ?"

He turned his head towards you.

"Yeah ?"

You smiled at him.

"I am glad you’re not dead."

His breath hitched before he let out a soft chuckle.

"Yeah. Me too, darlin’. Me too."

[dorlilymylovesss]

James wanted to rip Regulus to pieces. The sight of his perfectly pressed clothes, the way he held himself with an untouchable air, as if the whole world was beneath him, made James's blood boil. But it wasn't just Regulus, it was the whole Black family. They treated Sirius like he was nothing, like he didn't matter.

The Blacks had nearly broken his best friend, twisted him to the point where he had almost stopped being himself. Sirius struggled to break free of his family's suffocating grip, and James had been there every step of the way, picking up the pieces they'd broken.

And now Regulus stood before him, the epitome of everything James despised. The same blood, the same name, the same privileges that had turned Sirius' life into a nightmare.

If James had the chance, he wouldn't even look at him or sit next to him. But today, unfortunately, he was forced to be alone with him in the same classroom.

He had two choices to ask for help in potions from Severus Snape or Regulus, both of this variants were terrible, but he had to choose Regulus because Snape would rather rip his head off then spent his time on him. But Regulus, to his surprise, had accepted his offer and agreed to help him.

James sat stiffly beside Regulus, every muscle in his body tense. He could barely believe he was in this situation, forced to rely on the one person he wanted nothing to do with. The classroom felt too small, the air too thick, and the silence between them was suffocating. Regulus, with his immaculate appearance and that infuriating calm, didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

"Do you understand this part?" Regulus asked, his voice as neutral as ever, pointing at a complicated section in their Potions book.

James gritted his teeth. He wanted to snap, to tell Regulus where he could shove the Potions textbook, but he needed to pass this class. And no matter how much he hated it, Regulus was good at this.

"Yeah," James muttered, not looking at him, though the truth was he didn’t understand a thing.

Why had Regulus agreed to help him in the first place? James couldn't understand it, and it was eating him. He wanted to believe it was some twisted game, Regulus's way of showing his superiority over him, of making him feel obligated and stupid. But as they sat in silence, Regulus didn't gloat or mock him. He simply explained the essence of the potion with a calmness that made James grit his teeth.

"You seem a little confused, but that's alright, this potion isn't as complicated as it seems. I have a book that should explain its nature perfectly. Wait here, I'll be right back to get it."

James nodded curtly, his eyes following Regulus as he walked away.

As Regulus disappeared through the door, James slammed the book shut and rubbed his temples.

And that's when he noticed the small notebook that Regulus usually always carried with him, on the table.

He had always wondered what he was writing in it. Perhaps he was describing some forbidden dark spell that could make a person suffer like crucio. Or something worse.

Curiosity took over. When Regulus was out of sight, he hesitated for only a moment before reaching for the notebook. It was small, bound in green leather, with a snake-shaped clasp that closed it securely. God, how corny. His fingers fumbled with the clasp, and he briefly considered the possible consequences of invading Regulus' private thoughts. But the curiosity was too strong.

He managed to open the notebook without a sound, and he stared at the pages in utter disbelief.

The first page had a drawing of Sirius sitting by the fireplace.

Next was a picture of a smiling Barty and Pandora, drawn with colored pencils.

Continuing to turn the pages, James saw more intimate drawings - scenes from different places, moments that seemed to have great meaning to Regulus. Notes were scribbled in the margins, observations about each person and snippets of thoughts.

When he reached a particular page, his eyes rounded. It contained a picture of James himself. He was standing in his Quidditch uniform, holding broom with his hand.

He flipped to the next page, hoping to find something to dismiss the drawing as just a picture with no deeper meaning, but instead he found something more. Regulus drew various moments that seemed to revolve around him - James' triumphant expression after winning a match, his laughter during a joke, even the quiet, pensive look he often wore when he thought no one was watching him.

His hands trembled slightly as he flipped to the last page of the notebook, which was different from all the others. It was completely filled with his name.

James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James, James

James's mind raced.

Was Regulus in love with him?

The door creaked open and Regulus appeared with the same neutral expression on his face that he always had. James, who only moments ago had slammed the notebook shut and thrown it back on the table, sat with a flushed face. Regulus didn't seem to notice the change in the surroundings on the table, he simply set the book aside and continued explaining the potion.

"Are you alright?" Regulus' voice was even, almost too calm, as if he didn't notice the storm raging inside James.

James answered as calmly as he could without giving away the chaos inside. "Yeah, just... just need to focus."

As the lesson dragged on, James couldn't escape the feeling that the dynamic between them had shifted irreversibly. The notebook had opened a door that James wasn't sure he wanted to walk through, but now that it was open, he couldn't ignore the new, uncomfortable reality.

"If you need any more help with Potions," Regulus said in a measured tone, "Just let me know.

Their lesson was already over, which made James sigh in satisfaction.

The moment he was outside the classroom, he leaned against the wall, trying to clear his head.

[desideriumwriter]

Anyone But You | Chapter 7

Pairing - Fred Weasley x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Category - enemies to lovers + hurt/comfort

Content Warnings - cursing, mentions of nightmares

Word Count - 3.0k

A/N: this one feels a bit rushed and all over the place, but hey there's some slight warming up heree

Series Masterlist | F.W Masterlist | Previous | Next | Navi

You already had a bad feeling about this year.

Firstly, you were late to the train, then you couldn’t find Cedric in any of the booths so you had to sit in one by yourself. Your arm was still sore if you put it in a certain position. You couldn’t get in a comfortable enough position to sleep in the booth.

So you just laid on your back on the cushion, your feet up on the wall next to the window. You stared at the ceiling of the train, tracing the patterns with your eyes.

The door of your booth slid open, you raised your head and looked up a bit too happily, hoping it would be Cedric.

All you got was a mop of ginger hair standing there.

“Mind if I take a seat?” Fred grinned.

You sighed and dropped your head back down on the seat. You didn’t want to talk to him, but you didn’t want to be alone the rest of the ride back to the school.

Not giving him a verbal response, you lazily gestured to the seat across from you, signaling for him to go ahead. It didn’t matter, he was going to sit down even if you said no.

He shut the door and sat happily.

“I was wondering why Cedric wasn't sitting with you.” He laid his back against the wall, putting his feet up on the seat.

“You saw him? Where?” You looked over.

“Sitting with Ms.Chang.” He said in a dramatically eloquent voice.

Great.

“He’s got a damn obsession with that girl.” You huffed as you rolled your eyes, looking back at the ceiling.

“How’s your arm?” Fred said awkwardly, picking at his nails.

“Better. I think.” You sighed, you were bored, you were tired, you didn’t want to deal with Fred, but you didn’t want to be alone.

“That’s good. How many more weeks til it’s off?”

“Fred.” You said flatly.

“Hm?” He turned his attention to you, brushing back some hair from his eyes.

“Why are you here?” You stared at him.

“Thought you’d like some company.” He shrugged. You only stared at him, knowing that was not the reason.

“Well, George is talking to Angelina, and I thought I’d at least bother you on our first day back.” He cracked.

“You’re doing a great job.” The annoyance in your tone was clear, yet that was probably the nicest thing you’ve said to him. Ever.

Fred let out a small hum as he sat up quickly, pulling his backpack from off the floor and taking something out of it.

“Well, I was thinking about your broken arm, and that gigantic cast must be no help with writing, so…” He presented a long, rectangular, orange box with a purple ribbon tied around it to you. “I made you something that might actually help you.”

You pulled yourself up, looking at the box and taking it from him slowly.

He nervously smiled as you unwrapped it and took the lid off.

Inside the box laid a quill, with several small bottles of different colored inks.

“It’s a self writing quill.” Fred beamed.

“What?”

“A self-writing quill.” He emphasized each word slowly. “You tell it what you want it to say and it’ll write it for you.” He shrugged, crossing his arms smugly.

“That’s…impressive.” You began to smile, biting it back once you realized it could just be another one of the twins' sick pranks. “Does it actually work? Or are you just tricking me?” You glared.

“It works. Just like the bruise cream did.” He smirked. He noticed, all your bruises were gone by now, thanks to the cream. “You can try it out right now if you want to.” So you did.

You took a piece of paper out of a notebook in your bag, carefully opened and dipped the quill in a bottle of ink and spoke aloud.

“Fred Weasley is an asshole.” You said happily, the quill floated up and began to write the same words all by itself, the handwriting was exactly the same as yours, creepy, but cool.

You hummed in satisfaction at the writing.

“Not bad, Weasley.” He shrugged and laid down on the seat. He placed his backpack under his head and crossed his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable.” He looked around, confused.

“You’re not staying in my booth! Go somewhere else!” You scoffed in disbelief, no way did he think you’d willingly let him stay with you.

“There is nowhere else.”

“Sit with George!” You cried.

“I don’t want to deal with him and Angelina flirting the entire ride.” He rolled his eyes.

“I don’t want to deal with you the entire ride!”

“If you’re so bothered by it, why don’t you find someone else to sit with? What about Cedric?”

“I got here first, you’re not gonna kick me out of my own booth!” You said sternly, like an angry mother, “Plus, I don’t want to deal with Cedric and Cho flirting the entire ride!” The side of Fred’s mouth slightly curled up at your last sentence. It took you a second to realize.

You two were basically in the same situation.

“Fine. You can stay.” You muttered, sinking back against the cushion. Fred began to open his mouth, but you pointed a finger up and stopped him.

“But, you will not talk to me. You will not play any pranks on me. And you will not bother me.” You clenched your jaw, he just smiled.

“As you wish.” He nodded, pulling out his scarf and placing it over his eyes, starting to nap right there.

You decided to try and do the same. It was fine and peaceful, you were on the verge of knocking out until he started snoring.

He would snore for a little bit, then stop, then snore again, then stop, and the cycle repeated.

Godric, you tried to ignore it, you tried to block it out, but ignoring Fred Weasley is impossible.

You called out his name, trying to get him to wake up, but he was dead asleep. He looked peaceful, so comfortable you almost didn’t want to wake him, but he was pissing you off.

You huffed out before grabbing the piece of parchment you tested the quill on earlier, you crumpled it into a ball and threw it at him.

It hit him right in the nose then fell onto the side of his neck.

He groggily removed the scarf from his eyes and blinked a few times, sitting up slightly and looking around with squinted eyes.

“Are we there already?” He rubbed his eyes.

“No.”

“Then why’d you wake me?”

“You were snoring. Loudly.” You stared at him with a straight face.

“Oh come on, I was not.”

“Was so!” You called back.

“I do not snore, you liar!.” He grimaced.

“Yes you do! You had your mouth wide open and everything!” You chuckled a bit.

“You looked like a dead fish!” You copied his pose from a few minutes ago, you slumped your head on your backpack, hung your mouth open, closed your eyes, and mocked his snoring.

“Oh, you’re just being ridiculous.” He laughed and threw the crumpled paper ball back at you. “Always dramatizing everything I do.”

“I don’t dramatize it! You’re just dramatic.” You laughed in return, throwing the ball at him again.

“Always so criticizing!” It became a battle between you two, bantering and laughing while throwing the ball back and forth at each other.

Soon the both of you got tired of messing around, you both laid in the same position on the seats. Backpacks under your head, feet up on the seat, arms crossed comfortably.

You yawned. It was getting dark and there were still a few more hours before you arrived at Hogwarts.

“I’m going to sleep. No pranks.” You threatened him. He lifted up his hands in surrender.

“No pranks.” He repeated. “But, I’ll see if you snore.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes, turning your head to the side and closing your heavy eyelids.

The screech of the metal wheels hitting the train tracks made you slightly stir in your sleep.

Two hands roughly shaking you fully woke you up.

“Hey, hey!” Fred called out, his voice still quiet, trying not to yell. You groaned and muttered, wiping the sleep from your eyes.

“We’re here. Get up, sleepyhead.” He patted your shoulder, his bag was already hanging off one shoulder, you could see the students shuffling through the aisles.

You sat up and stretched, Fred had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What are you smiling so hard about?” You muttered.

“You’re a snorer.” He pointed at you, trying to stifle his grin.

“Am not!” You denied, grabbing your bag and shoved yourself in between students trying to get off the train. Fred followed suit.

“Oh you absolutely are. You go out like an old man!” He chuckled, beginning to make loud and dramatic snoring sounds.

You elbowed him in the side, he let out a small yelp and laughed some more, you bit back your smile, moving in front of him to walk down the train steps.

You made your way to get your luggage, only turning once towards Fred to get a final bite back at him.

“You drool. Did you know that?” You let out a playful scoff at him, a smile on your face and turning back around to walk away.

⋆⋆⋆

You hurried up the marble staircase to the entrance of the school. You were starving, all you wanted was something to eat and somewhere comfortable to sit.

A call of your name slowed you down, you turned your head to find Cedric catching up next to you.

“Cedric! Where were you? I couldn’t find you on the train!” You tried to mask over the frustration in your voice with sweetness, damn well knowing

“Really? Cause’ I was looking for you and um- I couldn’t find you anywhere!” He acted surprised.

“Hm, you wanna know who I was stuck with on the train-“ Your incoming rant was cut off when a large water filled balloon came speeding your way, hitting the ground and bursting at your feet.

You gasped as a small wave of cold water splashed onto your shoes and into your socks. You groaned and cursed.

Malicious laughter appeared from above you. You looked up to see Peeves the Poltergeist taking aim again at another group of students, McGonagall's voice boomed as she screamed his name, commanding him to get down as she chased after the ghost.

“Aw that’s a shame! We just witnessed Ron get hit with one right on the head!” George’s voice appeared from the side of you, laughing with Fred next to him.

“Better your feet than face!” Fred added on before George and him hurried on, shuffling through the crowd. You just rolled your eyes and grimaced.

Cedric’s attention was already turned to someone farther up in the crowd, Cho. Of course. He pardoned himself and promised to catch up with you more later, pushing past the crowd and speeding up next to Cho.

You uncomfortably continued on through the torch lit halls, cringing at the way your shoes squeaked with every step you took, until you were finally able to drop into a seat at the large wooden table in the Great Hall.

You were welcomed to sit by Katie Bell, who was sitting by Angelina, who was sitting across from the twins.

You could never get away from those bastards, could you?

You accepted the spot anyways, you’d rather have some type of company than none. Katie had always been kind to you anyways.

Dinner went nicely, the first years were sorted, you ate, compared your course schedules with Katie, finding out you had Charms with her and unfortunately Potions with the twins. Again. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher was introduced and the Triwizard Tournament was announced.

You saw as the twins' faces lit up in awe as the winning prizes were announced.

“A thousand galleons! You realize what with a thousand galleons!” George said, nearly bouncing up and down in his seat.

“Oh I’m going for it! I’m going for it!” Fred whispered excitedly.

"Eager though I know all of you will be," Dumbledore continued on, "the heads of the participating schools and the Ministry of Magic have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are seventeen years or older will be allowed to put forward their names." His voice was soon wiped out by several students that had made groans and noises of outrage, especially the twins.

Their expressions of excitement had changed into fury. They began to shout.

“That’s rubbish!” The twins exclaimed in unison, the room was filled

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Fred booed.

Dumbledore's voice shouted for silence and continued on with his speech. You looked at the displeased faces of the twins, you almost wanted to laugh at their scowls.

"They can't do that!" muttered George, glaring at Dumbledore. "We're seventeen in April, why can't we have a shot?" He groaned.

"They're not stopping me entering," said Fred stubbornly, also frowning.

After Dumbledore was finished with the announcement, he dismissed everyone to bed. You walked with Katie and Angelina, trailing behind the twins, who were already speaking in hushed tones of a plan to get in the tournament.

⋆⋆⋆

The next few days were tiring, you were stuck once again in Snape's class with the twins, and you already had a large load of work to do with other classes.

The twins seemed to be giving you a break from being a victim of their tricks, too busy with whatever their plan was to get their names in the cup.

The quill they gave you came surprisingly in handy. However, not wanting their help, you still attempted to write by yourself, though your writing would come out messy.

You were just counting down the days until you could get that stupid cast off.

You'd lost count of how long it’s been since you haven't had a nightmare about that night. It was constant. Being scared awake in the middle of the night by your own dreams.

Tonight you weren’t able to sleep at all, especially after the horrid dream you had. Instead of continuing to toss and turn in bed, you decided to go down into the common room, maybe the fireplace would provide some comfort.

You were met with a mop of ginger hair, one of the twins already sitting on the sofa, a sketchpad in front of him.

Dammit.

You didn’t mean to sigh out loud, grabbing the attention of Fred. Who stopped and whipped his head around. His expression was a mix of surprise and confusion.

“Trying to sneak out?” Fred asked.

“Had a bad dream. Can’t sleep.” You said flatly as you began walking over to the sofa. There was no point in going back upstairs. You’d be stuck awake either way.

You sunk down into the empty side, criss crossing your legs.

“What’re you doing awake? Planning your next horrific prank?”

“Coming up with a new idea.” Fred grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “See for yourself.” He handed his sketchpad to you.

You took it hesitantly, only to be surprised by the detailed potion bottle drawn on the parchment.

You were utterly shocked, this was like a renaissance painting compared to the shit he drew for Snape's homework.

"You made this?” Fred shrugged and nodded. “This is fantastic…" You trailed off, taking in the well put in effort.

“Was that a compliment I heard?” He sounded genuinely surprised as his face lit up into a mischievous grin.

“Oh shove it. You can draw this but not a cabbage?” You scoffed, tossing his sketchpad in his lap.

It felt wrong to be talking so casually with him. So nice. You should be spitting insults at him right now, you should be being meaner, maybe you’re just too sleepy to bother.

“You know, I’m surprised you weren’t sorted into Slytherin with how crude you are.”

“I’m not crude! You’re just bloody annoying.” You huffed.

“Cabbage are boring to draw anyways. It’s fun when it’s original and something fantastic.” He grinned, using your niceness against you.

“You just can’t help it, can you?” You shook your head as you gave him an unamused look.

“Help what?”

“Being full of yourself.”

“Who wouldn’t want to be full of me?” He smirked, a dramatic seductive tone in his voice.

“God, you’re gross!” You grimaced. “Merlin, do not make me stab you with a pencil again.” You muttered to yourself, you could feel your eyes drooping and your body felt heavier.

You yawned before shifting in your soft, curling up and resting your head on the leather armrest.

“How’s your arm?”

“Better.” You said flatly.

“What was your dream about?”

“Nothing good.” Fred let out a small hum, taking the hint that you weren’t up for talking anymore.

The room was silent except for the sounds of fire crackling and Fred shifting in his spot.

“I can leave you be if you’d-” Fred began as he sat up, gathering his sketchpad and pencils.

“No, you can stay!” You cringed at how your voice pipped as you lifted your head up, you sounded way too eager, too desperate. Fred must’ve noticed it too, he looked at you with complete confusion, shocked you weren’t trying to shoo him away for once.

“I just…I don't want to be alone tonight.“ You mumbled, it came out more depressing than you meant for it to sound. You cringed at how pathetic it sounded.

“Well, we can just sit here for a while, okay?” There was a change in his demeanor, one you’ve never seen before. Such a soft tone, a reassuring look in his eyes.

“Okay.” You agreed silently, laying your head back down. Fred eventually went back to sketching. You stared at the blooming fire as your eyelids fell heavier and heavier. Eventually drifting off to sleep.

You awoke a few hours later, it was early morning, the sun just above to make its first appearance for the day.

The spot on the couch next to you was empty. There was a blanket draped over your body and a few chocolates sitting at the small table right in front of you.

tell me what you thought!

[kjupchurch-xx]

Professor Jackman (WattPad request)

I tapped my pencil repeatedly on my essay as I tried to figure out how to write about our topic for the week. My college classroom was completely silent, besides the sounds of my mechanical pencil hitting my notebook. I mindlessly looked up, seeing my Professor, Professor Jackman staring at me almost amused at my disruption of the classroom, which caused me to blush nervously and quickly drop the pencil. 

Professor Jackman was a young, handsome Professor. He was around 27 years old and taught our English Literature college class. He joined our University this year, and this was his first time in America. This was my first year at University, also my first semester. I was attending college for a degree in business management, but had been required to take a college skilled English Lit class before I could proceed with a degree. I had turned 18 earlier this year, celebrating with my best friend, Bianca, who was also placed in the English Lit class. 

We'd spend hours after class discussing how hot we thought our professor was. The way he smiled, his accent, the way he smelled and the way he always showed up in a casual suit. Another fellow classmate attempted to flirt with him, other teachers would flirt with him, he'd always shrug them off in an effort to maintain professionalism. Not to mention, a student-teacher relationship is extremely forbidden and grounds for termination. 

I gave him a nervous smile as I quickly picked my pencil back up and went back to my essay. I was at a complete loss. Professor Jackman had assigned us to read a book about the life of Henrietta Lacks, which required an essay to be written for the exam. 

"Ms. Jordan?" I heard Professor Jackman's voice say, causing me to look up from the still blank paper. 

"Yes, Professor?" I asked anxiously. 

"Can we have a moment outside?" He asked, giving me firm look, which caused me to shutter. 

He was a no non-sense teacher. He did not put up with insubordination whatsoever. He was strict, but genuinely wanted his class to succeed. 

I nodded as I quickly got up from my desk and walked towards the classroom door, entering the empty hallway, he followed behind me, softly closing the door to avoid disrupting the other students. 

"Is everything okay, Ms. Jordan?" He asked me. 

I swallowed the lump in my throat as I looked at his beautiful face. "Yes, Professor. Everything's fine. I'm just having a difficult time with my essay." I said nervously. 

He gave me a slight nod, "Once we dismiss, I'd like to speak with you again." He said sternly. 

I nodded, "Yes, sir." I said as I walked back into the class and sat back at my desk. 

As I went back to my essay, I couldn't help but glance around the room. I kept noticing the professor stealing glances at me. Each time I'd lock eyes with him, he'd give me a small smile and look down at the stack of papers he was mindlessly grading on his desk. I couldn't help but let my mind run wild as I continued catching him stealing glances at me. I wondered what he was thinking about or why he kept continuing to look at me, not bothering to look at the other students. 

As our day came to an end, the Professor told the class to turn their papers in by placing them in a basket on his desk. Each student got up, but I stayed behind, waiting for everyone to clear the room. Bianca noticed and mouthed to me, 'what are you doing?', I sighed, mouthing back with a panicked expression on my face, 'I'm in trouble'. 

As everyone else exited the class, I made my way up to his desk, sitting my blank paper down. He got up and closed the door after the other students had left. He sat on top of his desk and looked at me curiously, a smile appearing on his lips. "What seems to be the problem?" He asked casually, as he grabbed my blank paper. 

I sighed, nervously running my fingers through my hair. "I'm not very good at essays...Unless it's a topic that I'm passionate about." I said honestly. 

He smirked at me, "So I have to give you a topic that fascinates you?" 

I chuckled softly, "I'm sorry, Professor. I'm just being honest. If I'm not invested in what I'm reading, it's hard for me to write about it." 

He shifted on his desk, looking at me with a playful smirk, "What would you say fascinates you?" He asks. 

I shrugged with a small giggle, "You really want to know what fascinates me?" 

He chuckled softly, "You're my star student. I'd love to know many things about you."

I gave him a look, furrowing my brow. "I'm your star student?" I asked in disbelief. 

He smirked, "Your grades are fairly decent. You're admired by your peers... I'm starting to get quite smitten with you myself."

I almost choked on my saliva as I widened my eyes, taking a deep breath. "You're smitten with me? What is going on right now?" I asked, chuckling. 

He chuckled at my reaction, "Ms. Jordan, you're a beautiful 18-year-old woman. I'm smitten with you. And I've also overheard you and your friend Bianca talk about me during class." 

I blushed instantly, feeling my cheeks becoming hot. Bianca and I had made comments recently about how unbelievably hot we found him. It was the day Bianca decided to "accidentally" drop her journal in front of him and slowly bend over to see if he would react to her. Which did not work out in her favor. 

He smiled, "I have to say, I'm flattered you find me...What was the word you used, Ms. Jordan? Dreamy?" He laughed softly. 

I laughed, "I did say that..." I said softly as I mentally face palmed myself.

He slid off the desk and got closer to my face, "I think you're dreamy too, love." He said flirtatiously. 

 I giggled, "Professor, I-" 

He quickly cut me off, "Class has been dismissed. You can call me Hugh. I don't expect you to call me Professor outside of class hours." He said sweetly, giving me a smile. 

This was starting to get less creepy. 

He chuckled, "I had you stay over because I was going to offer to help you with your essay." 

I gave him a look, raising my brow, "Isn't that against the rules?" I chuckled. 

He laughed softly, with a nod, "Well...There are a lot of things that are against the rules that I've said in this exchange, but me helping you with an essay would not be the worst one." 

I laughed as I sat back down at one of the desks. For the next hour, he sat at a nearby desk and helped me with my essay. Occasionally, he'd sneak his arm over my shoulder or steal a glance at me. Although I tried focusing on the essay, I couldn't help but think back to him telling me he was smitten with me. He'd noticed my mind was preoccupied, so he took it upon himself to write a majority of the essay himself. 

I looked at the perfectly written essay, "There we go. And you're done." He said with a smile as he placed the paper on his desk to grade with the others. 

I smiled, "I appreciate that...But you didn't have to write it for me. I don't want to get you in trouble." I said softly. 

He shook his head, placing his hand over the top of mine. "No worries, love. Just keep this between you and I." He said softly as his fingers caressed mine. 

I nodded, giving him a smile before quickly thanking him and skipping out of the classroom to head home. As I'd driven home, I felt my phone buzz.

Professor Jackman: You left your pencil.

The text read aloud through the bluetooth in my car. I giggled, realizing he used my pencil as an excuse to text me. I grabbed my phone, texting him back. 

Me: Did I? Thank you for reminding me. I was distracted by a dreamy professor and must've forgotten it.

Professor Jackman: Touche... I would've forgotten my pencil too. 

I chuckled at his response before pulling up at home. 

As the semester went on, the Professor and I had become a little too close. He spent the remainder of the semester writing my essays, coming over for late night 'study sessions' at my apartment to ensure that I'd pass his class. The study sessions were typically spent with maybe 30 minutes of actual studying, with the remainder of the night spent cuddling and making out on my couch. Other students had begun noticing him start to favor me, which had begun causing problems. 

The one person I didn't expect it to cause problems with, was Bianca. She'd become increasingly suspicious. I was never available after class to hang out, or on weekends anymore. She noticed how I'd started purposely wearing low cut tops to class and how the professor would always praise me a bit more than the others and use me as the example student for a majority of demonstrations. 

"Enjoy it while it lasts, he's a creep!" She spat at me. 

I rolled my eyes, "Why are you acting like this? Were you not literally bending over purposely to get him to look at your ass?" I yelled back. 

She chuckled, "I was, but I guess I just wasn't good enough! It's all good though boo, I'm sure Principle Ayers would love to hear this." She said as she hung up on me. 

As I paced my apartment on the verge of a panic attack for the next hour, there was a knock on my door. I quickly ran to the door and opened it, seeing him standing there. I looked at him frantically, which caused his expression to go from a smile to a look of concern. 

"Love, what's wrong?" He asked as he quickly walked in, closing the door behind him. 

I took a deep, trembling breath, "Bianca is telling Principle Ayers." I said shakily, avoiding eye contact with him. 

He pulled me into his arms, "Did you tell her about us?" He asked as he stroked my hair.

I shook my head, "No. She figured it out on her own. And I think the last time she was here, she went through my phone..." I said softly. 

He sighed as he held me tightly, "I asked you to delete those..." He said, softly scolding me. 

I sighed, "I know, I know. I just wasn't expecting this to happen." 

He looked down at me, pulling away slightly to see my face, "Everything will be fine, love... We're both consenting adults. Yes, it's forbidden but the worst that can happen would be I'd lose my job." He chuckled, "I can easily find another." 

I looked at him seriously, "You're not worried about losing your job?" 

He smiled at me, "You're worth the risk, love." He cheekily winked at me before softly kissing my lips, "I love you." He said suddenly with a smile. 

I looked at him for a minute before responding, "I... love you too." I said, gazing into his eyes.

He smiled at me, blushing slightly, "I brought your favorite - Reese's Cups and a Dr. Pepper." He said cheekily as he handed me a bag that contained a pack of Reese's and a drink. 

I smiled as I grabbed it, "Aww, you didn't have to do that." I said giggling as I sat the bag down and sat down on the couch. 

He smirked, "I know they're your favorite and I wanted to surprise you." He said as he sat down beside me on the couch, pulling me into his chest. 

His phone began ringing, he grabbed it noticing it was Principle Ayers calling. 

"Mrs. Ayers." He said as he answered the call and gave me a 'stay calm' look as he turned the phone on speaker. 

"Mr. Jackman." She said before continuing, "There has been a situation brought to my attention that I need to speak with you about."

He nodded at me, "Yes ma'am, go ahead." He said calmly. 

She sighed through the phone, "Mr. Jackman, I hate to have this conversation with you, but it has been brought to my attention that you're having an inappropriate relationship with a student." 

He took a deep breath, laughing softly, "Mrs. Ayers, I can assure you that is simply not the truth." 

She chuckled, "This particular student has a history of not performing well academically... I did not necessarily believe her story, but I do have to investigate all accusations. The only thing I will tell you, is if there is a particular student that you're interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with,  please wait until the end of the semester when the student is no longer in your class." She said, knowingly. 

He nodded, "Ah. I do appreciate you for calling and informing me of the matter." He said simply as they ended the call. He looked over at me and gave me a small smile, running his fingers through his dark colored hair, "All good, love." He said matter of factly. 

I giggled as I squeezed him tightly before pecking his lips. "So we have exactly two more weeks of being a secret." I mumbled against his lips. 

He giggled against my lips, "I can assure you that after your semester ends, I fully intend on you no longer being my dirty little secret, sweetheart." 

[creweemmaeec11]

Dark Horse Painted White Part 3

Pt 1 Pt 2

Hero couldn't help the feeling of guilt clawing at their throat. They were at such a loss! They'd tried so hard to be nice to civilian this morning, but it was as if the nicer they were, the more Civilian seemed to hate them! They didn't understand what they'd done so wrong!

Despite their loss of appetite, hero ate their omelette to avoid being rude, before doing the dishes like they'd promised. They wiped down the table, and even spotted a broom behind the fridge they used to sweep.

When their civilian host still wasn't back yet. Hero awkwardly lay back down on the couch, not daring to touch anything else they might get in trouble for. It was very rare they ever got the opportunity to sleep in like this, nevermind have free time. What should they do? It's not like they had time for any hobbies. What did normal people do with time off?

Hero continued staring at the ceiling. They'd checked their phone a half dozen times. No new assignments or instructions from their boss. They hadn't even gotten any paperwork passed off to them yet. They received nothing but radio silence, all their time meant to be dedicated to protecting the Civilian.

Finally, after what felt like hours of staring at the wall, hero heard the door at the end of the hall open and the clacking of claws approach. Immediately, they sat up to attention.

Civilian rounded the corner, holding a notebook and a pen but their eyes stayed trained on their phone as they typed with their other hand.

"Here," they said, tossing the two items onto the coffee table, "make a list of stuff you want picked up at the grocery store,"

"Wait, what?"

"Food, hero," civilian deadpanned, "unless you plan on eating all of mine while your here?"

"N-no, of course not! But-"

"Then get to writing," they quipped, before turning and heading to the kitchen.

Despite their confusion, hero did as they were told, writing down a list of things they could think of that didn't take much preparation.

Civilian came back a few minutes later, looking at the hero expectantly.

They stood up off the couch, handing the notepad back to their host, "Please let me pay, for all of my stuff at least-"

"Do you have cash?" Civilian asked as they started typing on their phone yet again.

"Only $20, but I can send you the rest-"

"The twenty is fine," they replied. They weren't giving the hero any sort of link to their accounts. Civilian's eyes finally left their phone screen to begin reading the list. Something in their face seemed to shift as they read the items.

"Is something wrong?" Hero asked nervously.

"We just have a much simmilar palette then I would have expected," they replied, tone a mix of begrudging and in awe.

Hero wanted to ask why, but they bit their tongue, "are we going to go pick this stuff up?"

"No, I'm having a... uhm, *friend* pick it up for me," Civilian replied, snapping a photo of the notepad before dropping it back down on the table.

"So, what are we going to do today then?" Hero questioned.

"Nothing," the other replied, tucking their phone back into their pocket.

"Nothing? What do you mean nothing?"

"As in we aren't doing anything..." Civilian explained in confusion, "I canceled my plans,"

"But..." hero hesitated,"what should I do then?"

The civilian bit back the comment of telling the hero they should leave, if not for it being a waste of breath, then for how genuinely confused the hero sounded, "Uhm... I don't know? Whatever you want? You didn't bring anything with you to keep you occupied?"

Hero looked a bit perplexed, "uhm... no? Should I have?"

"Well... I would have thought so... never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm sure you can find something on TV at least,"

"Oh, yeah okay, sure,"

"Queen," Civilian whistled, "remote,"

Hero watched in wonder as the large white dog ran to grab the remote, bringing it over to the Civilian.

"Good girl," they praised, taking the item from the dogs mouth, "Tell me your favourite channels and I'll find their numbers for you,"

There was a beat of silence. The lack of answer caused the Civilian to glance over at the hero with a mix of confusion and annoyance.

"I... I don't know.... I'm not familiar with any of the different channels. I haven't watched anything other then the news in years,"

Civilian's face simply shifted into even more confusion, "uhm.. okay... well you can get youtube on this TV too. Do you watch anything on that?"

"Uhm, no... I don't think so," hero shifted awkwardly, "Maybe you could reccomend something?"

"Uh..." Civilian stuttered, suddenly strangely flattered hero would trust their judgment and taste to make a suggestion.

They cleared their throat. Nothing coming from a hero was any sort of compliment.

There was no way they were going to be sharing their actual preferences with hero!

"Yeah, sure I guess," Civilian shrugged. They'd share shows they thought were okay, but not their favorites. "But what do you even do in your spare time?" They asked as they navigated through the channels on the TV.

"Uh, well," they chuckled dryly, scratching the back of their head, "I don't exactly have a lot of spare time. Evil never rests as they say, and that usually means neither do I,"

Civilian internally rolled their eyes. What a drama queen. There was no way hero wasn't exaggerating. Because sure, this city did have it's fair share of criminals, but there was no way a major crime took place nearly every day. Three times a week, max.

"Plus, if the city holds any big public events, I always need to be there in case a villain decides to show up. That mixed with all the press conferences, fan meet and greets, training, street watch, you know... and any time I have leftover gets used up by finishing all the paperwork the other officers don't get done," the hero gave a forced laugh again, "in fact, I think this morning was the first time I've gotten to sleep-in in..." they blinked, "I can't even remember..."

The hero glanced up, realizing they'd been rambling and were about to apologize but the look on the Civilian's face made them stop.

Civilian was looking at them with an incredulous, shocked expression.

"Of course it's all worth it!" Hero sputtered.

"Sounds like you need to put your foot down" Civilian scoffed, turning back to the tv. So what if they'd been wrong about hero's daily life? Just because they didn't live like royalty? If anything, heros probably deserved to be working so hard, for all the problems they caused, it served them right not to have any free time! If they wanted to throw their life away for some meaningless agency, what did villain care?!

"Maybe you're right, but.... I'm a bit of a people pleaser" hero chuckled again.

Civilian side-eyed them, "you don't say," they scoffed, before carelessly tossing the remote next to the hero on the couch, "Give this channel a try for now. If you don't like it, just change the channel till you find something,"

"W-wait!" Hero sputtered, quickly jumping to their feet.

Civilian's feet regrettably stuttered to a stop. They turned their head, glancing over their shoulder at their unwanted guest.

"What?" They snapped, failing to hide the annoyance in their tone.

"Where are you going?"

"To my room?"

"But... I'm supposed to keep an eye on you? I can't really do that if you're in the other end of the house with the door closed..."

Civilian grumbled. That had been the entire point.

"Fine, I'll work in the kitchen," they amended, before heading to their room to gather a few things.

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

The house had been quiet for the next few hours, the only sound being the soft murmur of the wTV in the other room, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Hero immediately jumped to their feet.

"Please, let me get it!" Hero asked quickly, coming up behind the Civilian who was about to open the door, "just in case,"

Civilian rolled their eyes, scoffing under their breath, but they didn't argue, stepping aside to let the hero grab the handle.

The door opened to reveal no one, only multiple grocery bags on the front step. The hero poked their head out further, looking around, but they couldn't see anyone.

"Uh..."

The Civilian didn't say anything, instead pushing past them to begin bringing the bags inside. Quickly, the hero scurried to help.

"Was that your friend?"

"No, my groceries just teleported onto my doorstep," Civilian replied sarcastically as they began taking things out and putting them onto the counter.

The hero chuckled humorously, "No, I mean, where did they go? Why did they run off so quickly?"

"Maybe supervillain got them,"

"What?!"

Civilian gave them an incredulous and unimpressed look, "they were *busy* hero," they explained, rolling their eyes.

"Oh, right," Hero replied, clearing their throat awkwardly, "Well, it sure was nice of them to pick up everything for you,"

*that's what they get paid for* civilian thought to themselves.

Once everything was put away, they let out a sigh.

"I need to take Nova and Queen out for a walk. Be ready to go in half an hour," Civilian stated matter-of-factly before disappearing down the hall and into their room.