#why has boots been so haunted lately...

[hatefueled]

@lumoire asked: ❝ mr boothill, ❞ puppeteer says as he turns around slightly, pointing at a rather creepy doll sitting there on the floor. ❝ can you shoot that thing ? ❞

Boothill looks to where he's pointing, and spots the doll. It did look a bit off, for a doll that is. Looked a lot like the one pointing at it actually, which has him more than a little suspicious. " I mean. Sure. Ya don't want it anymore...? " jeeze. Could of just thrown it away couldn't he?

With a twirl of his revolver ( purely for the fun and flare of it ), he fires three quick shots at the thing. Each one nailing it right in the head.

" That good enough? "

unprompted

[blindmagdalena]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.

[genderlessghoul]

I feel like we've all seen this pic by now but it's been haunting me, lately. Like yeah, "omg Dew boot so small, he tiny" YES I KNOW AND I AGREE. BUT!!! Look at literally everything else???

There's five uniforms and five pair of boots, this is the men's changing room. Copia doesn't get changed with them, you can't see a single piece of his costumes.

This is Pre-Impera because that's the only time they used the capes on stage for the guys. The fact that there's a whole bag of gloves right there makes me wonder if this was for a photoshoot, since the gloves were never used on stage as far as I could find, but the cable in the case makes me doubt that.

Shirts are sprawled around, I wonder who put them there and why they're not on hangers like the other pieces.

You can see that the vests on the rack have shoulder patches and the ones in the closet case don't, which means that they are removable. You already know that if you've been following me a while, I made a whole post talking about how much I hate velcro. It must be partly to preserve them, which makes me wonder how expensive they were to make.

In the far right corner, you can also see that the jackets are stored withour shoulder pads. This is 100% to protect them and save space since they aren't flexible.

You can also see that some shirts in the case visibly have ruffles at the cuffs, while others don't. Since this is Pre-Impera, the one with ruffles is either Rain's, Aether's or Swiss'.

The second to last jacket on the rack is Dew's, you can see white stitching at the cuffs and he's the only one who has that.

I dunno why, I also love seeing the costumes about to be used and the extras they have for wash days and in case something breaks.

I gotta admit, though... I have no idea what this is and it's driving me insane.

[reiding-writing]

ok but the whole “on a case, reader fits the unsub’s type so the team wants her to go undercover pretending to be a couple with someone” type of scenario would be interesting with cold!reader bc the obvious choice for her “date” would be Spencer (cue Morgan’s teasing) and i imagine she wouldn’t be happy about any of it

SPIN THE WHEEL — SPENCER REID!

you and spencer have to go undercover as a couple for a case. chaos ensues.

spencer reid x cold!reader | 5.1k | ???? | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

WARNINGS | fem!reader, knife violence, violence against women, reader is physically threatened but not hurt, reader and spencer are kinda awkward sometimes, morgan is a great wingman and an annoying friend

a/n — unfortunate spolier alert, there is no kiss in this fic, sorry 😔

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as you stepped into the BAU briefing room. The heels of your boots clicked against the polished floor, a sharp counterpoint to the low hum of early-morning conversation. It was barely 7am, but the team was already gathered, their attention focused on the case files in front of them.

“Morning,” you said curtly, setting your travel mug on the edge of the conference table. Hotch acknowledged you with a nod, his expression as unreadable as ever. Morgan glanced up from his file and grinned.

“Look who decided to join us,” he teased, leaning back in his chair. “Thought you’d gone into hibernation now the sun’s out.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss your sparkling commentary,” you shot back, earning a quiet chuckle from JJ.

Hotch cleared his throat, and the room instantly quieted. “Let’s get started.”

He gestured to the board at the front of the room, where photos of four women were pinned in neat rows. Their faces, bright and smiling in life, were now haunting reminders of a killer’s pattern.

“Over the past two months,” Hotch began, “we’ve identified a series of abductions and murders targeting high-profile women in their late twenties to early thirties. Each victim was abducted from a public location—bars, restaurants, upscale events—and later found in secluded areas outside the city.”

JJ chimed in, leaning against the edge of the table. “They’re all single on paper, *but* they were last seen in public with male companions. Same dynamic in every sighting. The woman appears dominant, in control. The man, quiet and deferential. A classic ‘power couple,’ but with the woman holding the reins.”

Prentiss leaned forward. “So the unsub’s targeting these women because of their perceived control in the relationship?”

“Presumably one he wants for himself,” Hotch confirmed. “Each victim was restrained, but there’s evidence they were given specific instructions during captivity—what to wear, how to speak. The dominant dynamic appears to be a key element of their fantasy.”

You flipped open your case file, skimming the notes Garcia had compiled. Confident, independent women. Late twenties. Seen with male partners. A pattern was beginning to form alright.

Morgan spoke up. “So, the unsub is looking for a specific type of woman. Someone who exudes authority, but…”

“But is in a relationship dynamic that contradicts societal expectations,” Reid finished. “A dominant woman with a submissive male partner. It’s uncommon enough to draw attention, which might be part of the appeal for the unsub.”

Morgan let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a control freak with a very specific fantasy.”

“Precisely,” Hotch said. “Which is why we’ll need to act quickly. The unsub has been escalating—shortening the time between abductions. Based on their pattern, we believe they’ll strike again within the next 48 hours.”

“Any leads?” you asked, your voice sharp with focus.

Garcia’s cheerful voice practically burst through the door. “Good morning, my lovely profilers! As much as I’d love to say I’ve cracked this case wide open, we’re still working on a list of potential suspects. But I do have some good news—There’s a community gala happening, super high-profile. It’s upscale, trendy, and crawling with exactly the kind of power couples they’re looking for.”

Hotch nodded. “That’s where we’ll set up our operation.”

The tension in the room thickened. You could feel it before Hotch even said the words.

“We’ll need someone to go undercover,” he continued. “Someone who fits the unsub’s preferred victim profile. Confident. Independent.”

All eyes turned to you.

You froze, a sip of coffee halfway to your lips. “You can’t be serious,” you said, though the tone of your voice made it clear you already knew he was. “Can’t Prentiss do it?”

“You’re the best match,” Hotch said simply. “Your appearance and demeanor align with what the unsub is looking for.”

Morgan’s grin widened, sensing an opportunity to stir the pot. “And since it’s a couple we’re talking about…” He let the sentence dangle, his gaze flicking around the room. “Looks like we need to find you a boy toy.”

JJ smirked. “Any volunteers?”

Morgan pretended to study the room, tapping his chin theatrically. “Hmm, let’s see. Rossi’s too old. I’m way too good-looking. And Hotch… well, I don’t think he’d appreciate being dragged to a bar on his off-hours.”

“Get to the point, Morgan,” you snapped.

His eyes landed on Reid, who was sitting awkwardly at the edge of the table, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

“Oh, come on,” Morgan said, his voice full of mock conviction. “The answer is obvious. Dr. Reid is the perfect choice. Smart, polite, and devoted to his boss lady. What more could you ask for?”

Reid blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Me?” he stammered. “I—uh—I don’t think—”

“You’ll be fine,” Morgan interrupted, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just follow her lead. She’s already bossy enough for the both of you anyway, no acting needed,”

You glared at Morgan. “I’d rather go alone.”

“Not an option,” Hotch said firmly. “The unsub is looking for couples. If you go in alone, you’ll stand out for the wrong reasons,”

You crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair. “And why Reid? No offense, but he’s not exactly…”

“Not exactly what?” Reid asked, his tone defensive.

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He’s not exactly the type you’d expect in this kind of role.”

“That’s what makes him perfect,” JJ pointed out. “The unsub isn’t looking for traditional dynamics. A strong, dominant woman with a partner who defies stereotypes fits the victim profile,”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but to your surprise, he straightened and spoke with quiet resolve. “If it helps catch the unsub, I’m willing to do it.”

“See? Loyal man already stepping up,” Morgan said with a laugh.

You shot him a withering look before turning to Hotch. “Fine,” you said, your voice clipped. “I’ll do it. But if this backfires—”

“It won’t,” Hotch interrupted. “You’ll have full backup, and the team will be monitoring every step of the operation.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, a smug grin on his face. “This is gonna be good,”

You sighed, already regretting the decision. Spencer, for his part, looked as nervous as you felt, but there was a determination in his eyes that you hadn’t expected.

“Great,” Garcia chirped. “I’ll send over everything you need for your cover story. And don’t worry—I’ll make sure you two are the most convincing power couple that bar has ever seen.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to stave off the headache already forming. This was going to be a long 48 hours.

—

“You’re really going to have to sell this,” JJ said, her lips curling into a faint smirk as she watched you and Spencer stand awkwardly in the aisle of the jet.

You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes at her. “I know how undercover work works, JJ.”

“Sure, but this isn’t just undercover work. This is undercover work as a couple,” Morgan chimed in from the corner, barely hiding his grin.

Spencer cleared his throat, the faint blush on his cheeks deepening. “We should probably practice,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “The unsub will be looking for natural interactions—gestures, body language, subtle communication cues. If we’re stiff or hesitant, it’ll be obvious,”

Morgan barked out a laugh. “Oh, trust me, kid. It’s already obvious,”

You shot Morgan a glare that would’ve made a lesser man wilt. He just grinned wider. “Fine,” you said brusquely. “Let’s get this over with.”

Spencer nodded, stepping closer to you. His movements were hesitant, almost shy, and it took every ounce of patience you had not to roll your eyes. He hesitated before holding out his hand.

“Let’s start with this,” he suggested.

You stared at his outstretched hand for a beat too long before sliding your palm into his. His hand was warm and slightly clammy, but his grip was firm, maybe a little *too* firm if the way your knuckles were awkwardly pressed together had anything to say about it.

“Relax,” you muttered, glancing up at him. “You’re supposed to be my date, not someone who’s never felt human interaction before.”

His lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile. “Right. Relaxed. Got it,”

You worked through the basics: standing close together, holding hands naturally, leaning into each other like a couple sharing a private moment. Spencer was diligent, taking mental notes and adjusting his movements based on your corrections.

Despite his effort, the awkwardness between you two was palpable, made worse by the occasional muffled laughter from Morgan and JJ.

When it came time to practice small touches—a hand on the small of your back, a brush of fingers against your arm—you could feel the tension radiating off him. He was careful, almost too careful, as though afraid you might snap at him.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said, your tone sharper than intended.

He blinked, his hand hovering inches from your arm. “I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not. Just… stop being so stiff about it. This isn’t life or death.”

“Actually, it kind of is,” he murmured, his lips quirking in a faint smile.

To your surprise, you felt the corner of your own mouth twitch upward. You quickly smothered it, stepping back and crossing your arms. “Good enough for now. Let’s move on to the backstory.”

—

The gala was in full swing by the time you and Spencer arrived, stepping into the grand ballroom of the city’s most exclusive hotel. The chandeliers glittered overhead, casting warm light over the crowd of elegantly dressed attendees.

You smoothed down the front of your sleek black gown, the fitted fabric hugging your frame in all the right places. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Spencer adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. He looked… good. The cut of the suit flattered his lean frame, and the crisp white shirt brought out the warm tones in his skin.

He caught you looking and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, glancing away.

You looped your arm through his and guided him toward the bar. As you moved through the crowd, you felt the weight of eyes on you—not just from potential suspects, but from the other guests as well.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” you murmured as Spencer ordered a glass of wine.

“I don’t,” he said, giving you a small smile. “But it would look suspicious if I didn’t have something in my hand.”

You hated to admit it, but he was right. He was thinking like a profiler, analysing every detail to make your cover as convincing as possible.

Morgan’s voice crackled in your earpiece. “Damn, Pretty Boy cleans up nice. And look at you, boss lady. You two are turning heads out there,”

“Focus, Morgan,” you muttered under your breath.

JJ’s voice chimed in next, a hint of amusement in her tone. “He’s not wrong. You two look good together.”

You ignored them, instead focusing on the task at hand. Spencer leaned in slightly, his body angled toward yours in a way that felt natural, almost intimate.

“Do you see anyone who fits the profile?” he asked softly, his breath warm against your ear.

“Not yet,” you replied, scanning the room. Your gaze lingered on a man at the far end of the bar, his eyes locked on you with a little too much interest. You straightened slightly, letting your body language shift just enough to signal dominance.

Spencer noticed the change immediately. Without missing a beat, he placed a gentle hand on the small of your back, his fingers light but steady. The touch was subtle, protective, and entirely convincing.

You glanced up at him, surprised by the ease of the gesture. His face was calm, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that reminded you just how capable he was.

Morgan’s voice crackled through again. “Wow, look at Romeo and Ice Queen over here. You two might actually pull this off.”

“Shut up, Morgan,” you muttered, but there was no real heat in your voice.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself noticing things about Spencer you hadn’t before. The way he adjusted his movements to match yours, the subtle way he deflected unwanted attention, the quiet confidence in his voice when he introduced himself to other guests. He wasn’t just playing his role; he was living it.

And Spencer? Well he thought you were beautiful. You were always beautiful, but being this close to you, it was almost enough to feel like he was being set on fire.

“Someone’s watching us,” Spencer murmured, his lips barely moving.

“Where?”

“Two o’clock. Dark suit, red tie.”

You glanced in the direction he indicated, keeping your movements casual. The man from the bar was still watching, his gaze sharp and calculating.

Spencer leaned down, his lips brushing your temple in a gesture that looked affectionate but was purely strategic. “Do you think it’s him?”

“Maybe,” you said, your voice low. “Let’s see if he takes the bait.”

Spencer nodded, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. For the first time that night, you felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—a strange sense of comfort in his presence.

You pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. There was no room for distractions, no matter how unexpected they might be.

You sipped your drink, letting the act settle over you like a second skin. The confident CEO with her doting partner. The perfect bait.

“You’re doing well,” Spencer murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m aware,” you replied dryly, earning a quiet huff of laughter from him.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re commanding the room without overdoing it. Subtle but effective.”

You glanced at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. “You’ve been taking notes.”

“Of course. It’s what I do,” He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that reached his eyes.

Something about the way he said it caught you off guard, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the quiet confidence in his voice, or the way he seemed so at ease despite the tension crackling in the air.

A server passed by, offering a tray of appetisers. Spencer reached out, grabbing one before turning to you.

“They have the scallop canapés you liked at Rossi’s,” he said casually, holding it out to you.

You froze for a moment, caught off guard again. You’d barely mentioned your preference for seafood during one of Garcia’s long-winded stories about fancy catering. It was a throwaway comment, something you didn’t think anyone had noticed.

He shrugged, his expression impossibly soft. “You said you liked them. Thought it might help you relax.”

The gesture was so small, so thoughtful, that it left you momentarily speechless. Spencer wasn’t just going through the motions; he was paying attention, learning your rhythms and quirks without ever prying.

“Thanks,” you said finally, your voice quieter than usual. You took the canapé, your fingers brushing his.

His gaze lingered on yours for a beat longer than necessary, and for the first time, you found yourself looking away first.

“Stupid eidetic memory,”

—

The man in the red tie made his move a half-hour later.

You and Spencer had positioned yourselves near the bar, your conversation laced with just enough tension to draw attention. Spencer leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady as he spoke.

“Are you sure this is the right approach?”

“It’s fine,” you said sharply, letting your tone carry just enough edge to sell the act.

“You don’t have to handle everything alone,” he pressed, his brow furrowing in genuine concern that blended seamlessly into the performance.

“I said it’s fine.” you snapped, crossing your arms.

The man approached before Spencer could respond, his smile polite but laced with something colder. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice smooth. “Is everything all right here?”

You turned to him, plastering on a forced smile. “Everything’s fine. My partner is just… overstepping a bit.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, and he stepped back slightly, giving the other man an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to upset her. She just works so hard—it’s difficult not to worry.”

The man’s eyes flicked between you and Spencer, assessing. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the way he cataloged your body language and tone.

You gave him a weary smile, letting the cracks in your façade show just enough. “Comes with the territory. My job isn’t exactly forgiving.”

“And what do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I run a consulting firm,” you said smoothly. “Corporate strategy and restructuring.”

“A powerful position,” he said, his tone laced with admiration. “I imagine it must be stressful, balancing work and… home life.”

You shrugged, casting a glance at Spencer. “It has its moments.”

Spencer stepped in, his role as the supportive but slightly sidelined husband playing out perfectly. “She does an incredible job. I just try to stay out of her way,”

There was something in his voice—an undercurrent of pride and affection that made the words feel painfully real. For a moment, you wondered if the man in the red tie wasn’t the only one Spencer was trying to convince.

The man chuckled, a cold, calculated sound. “It’s rare to see someone so dedicated to their partner’s success.”

Spencer nodded, offering a tight smile. “She deserves it. But, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll grab some air. Long nights like this aren’t really my scene.”

He turned to you, his expression softening. “You’ll be alright for a few minutes?”

“Of course,” you said, your voice clipped.

Spencer gave you a lingering look before turning and walking away, his retreat deliberate and measured. You could feel the man’s eyes on you the moment Spencer disappeared into the crowd.

“He seems… sensitive,” the man remarked, his tone careful.

You gave a soft laugh, sipping your drink. “He means well. But sometimes I wish he’d let me handle things without hovering.”

The man’s smile widened, the glint in his eyes unmistakable now. You’d hooked him.

“It’s difficult for some people to understand power dynamics,” he said. “Especially when the woman is in charge.”

You tilted your head, feigning curiosity. “You seem like someone who understands.”

“Oh, I do,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “There’s a balance to everything. Some people thrive in positions of power. Others…” His gaze flicked to where Spencer had disappeared. “…are more suited to supporting roles.”

Your pulse quickened, but you kept your expression neutral. The trap was set, and now it was just a matter of waiting for him to take the bait.

“Sometimes,” you said, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “I think he resents me for it. He’d never say it, of course, but… you know how men can be.”

The man’s smile turned predatory. “I know exactly what you mean.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer reenter the room, his posture tense but controlled. He caught your eye, giving you the faintest of nods.

Game on.

The man leaned in closer, the sharp scent of his cologne curling in your nose. You tilted your head, giving him a coy smile as he spoke, his voice low and smooth.

“Men like him don’t understand what it means to truly have power,” he said, his hand brushing lightly against your arm.

You forced yourself not to recoil, leaning into the act. “Sometimes, I think you’re right,” you murmured. “It’s hard to find someone who really… gets it.”

His eyes gleamed, and for a brief moment, you saw the darkness that lurked behind his charming façade. He believed he had you hooked, believed he was in control.

You felt the comm in your ear buzz faintly. “All eyes on Ice Queen,” Morgan’s voice came through, sharp and focused. “Unsub is making his move. Keep it steady.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, but you kept your expression relaxed, offering the man a small, inviting smile.

“You should come with me,” he said, his hand sliding to the small of your back. “Somewhere quieter. I’d like to hear more about your perspective.”

You hesitated, feigning reluctance. “I don’t know… I don’t want to leave him for too long.”

He chuckled, a low, predatory sound. “He’ll be fine. You deserve some time for yourself, don’t you?”

Spencer’s voice crackled through the comm, tight with tension. “Don’t let him separate her too far from the crowd.”

You met the man’s gaze, pretending to consider his offer. Finally, you nodded. “Just for a minute.”

He smiled, guiding you toward a hallway leading to a quieter area of the venue. Your stomach tightened, every step pulling you further from the team’s line of sight.

Once you were out of earshot of the crowd, the man’s demeanor shifted. His grip on your arm tightened, and his tone grew colder. “You really are impressive,” he said. “So confident. So controlled. It’s almost a shame.”

You let out a laugh, glancing around for an opening. “A shame?”

“That someone like you can’t appreciate what it means to truly submit.”

Your comm buzzed again. “We’re moving in,” Hotch’s calm voice said.

The man’s hand drifted to your waist, and that was all you needed.

“You’re under arrest,” you said sharply, yanking free of his grip and stepping back. You reached for the small earpiece hidden under your hair. “Target is isolated. Move in.”

The man’s eyes widened, and his mask of charm shattered. His hand shot toward you, his fingers curling around your wrist with bruising force.

Before you could react, Spencer’s voice cut through the tense air like a knife.

“Let her go!”

He stormed into the hallway, his face taut with barely contained anger. His usual awkward demeanor was gone, replaced by a fierce protectiveness that caught even you off guard.

The unsub tightened his grip, dragging you closer as he pulled a knife from his jacket. “Stay back!” he snarled.

Spencer didn’t flinch. His hands were raised in a calming gesture, but his eyes burned with determination. “You don’t want to do this. Let her go, and we can talk.”

Your pulse raced as you struggled against the unsub’s grip, a knife to your throat would do that to most people you supposed. You could see the rest of the team moving into position at the far end of the hallway, but Spencer was the only one close enough to take action.

“Reid.” you said, your voice steady despite the adrenaline racing through your veins. “Don’t blow this.”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I’m not— I—”

There’s a moment where you feel the unsub’s arm relax, just that tiny bit where his confidence had gotten the better of him, and you take that moment like it’s the only chance you’ve got.

You slam the back of your head into the unsub’s jaw, hand darting up to grab the his wrist so you didn’t recoil into the blade. The knife clattered to the floor as he retreated in pain, and you go from being held hostage to pinning his chest against the marble floor.

The unsub froze, his face panicked as the team closed in. Within seconds, he was cuffed and hauled to his feet, Morgan giving him a hard shove toward the exit.

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath as Spencer hovered nearby.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft but urgent.

You nodded, your gaze flicking to him. His face was pale, his eyes filled with worry. “I’m fine, Reid.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve been closer. I should’ve—”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, your tone firm. “You did exactly what you needed to. I’m fine.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, stepping back to give you space.

Back at the surveillance van, the tension dissolved into a mix of relief and exhaustion. Morgan leaned back in his chair, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“Well, I’ve gotta hand it to you two,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “You played the part perfectly. I mean, the chemistry? Oscar worthy.”

You shot him a glare, but he just laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Seriously, though,” he continued, glancing between you and Spencer. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two were actually getting it on.”

Spencer’s ears turned pink, and you rolled your eyes. “Let it go, Morgan.”

“Never,” he said, smirking.

As the team packed up their gear, you caught Spencer’s eye. For a moment, neither of you said anything, but the unspoken gratitude between you was clear.

And maybe a hint of something else.

—

The jet ride home was unusually quiet. The adrenaline from the mission had finally worn off, leaving everyone drained but relieved. You kept mostly to yourself, as usual, watching the clouds pass by through the window. Occasionally, you caught Spencer glancing in your direction, though he didn’t say anything.

When you finally returned to the BAU, the rest of the team trickled out, eager to head home. You lingered in the bullpen, reviewing paperwork under the dim glow of your desk lamp. The steady rhythm of typing was almost comforting until you sensed someone hovering nearby.

Looking up, you saw Spencer standing a few feet away, fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag. His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth, hesitating before speaking.

“I just wanted to check in,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “About earlier. During the mission.”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “What about it?”

He shifted on his feet, clearly nervous. “I just… I hope I didn’t overstep. With the unsub, and… you know, everything after.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was worried I might’ve made things harder for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. For a moment, you considered brushing him off, deflecting like you always did. But you couldn’t do that to him, not tonight.

“You didn’t overstep,” you said, the words slower, more deliberate than you intended. You hesitated, the admission foreign and uncomfortable on your tongue. “You handled yourself well. Better than I expected.”

His eyes widened slightly, and you could see the flicker of surprise in his expression. “Really?”

You gave a small nod, your arms still crossed as a defence mechanism against the vulnerability creeping in. “You stayed calm under pressure. You didn’t panic, and you were quick on your feet. Not everyone can do that.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that wasn’t quite sure if it was allowed. “Thanks. That… means a lot, coming from you.”

You glanced away, feeling the weight of his gratitude settling uncomfortably on your chest. “Don’t let it go to your head, Reid,” you said, your tone sharp but lacking its usual bite.

But before he could respond, Morgan strolled into the bullpen, his ever-present smirk firmly in place. He glanced between the two of you, one eyebrow quirking as if he’d stumbled upon something far more interesting than a late-night check-in.

“Well, well,” Morgan drawled, leaning against your desk. “What do we have here? Romeo and Ice Queen, burning the midnight oil together?”

You rolled your eyes, but this time, you didn’t fire back immediately. Instead, you glanced at Spencer, whose ears were turning an impressive shade of pink.

Morgan’s smirk widened. “Aw, come on, don’t let me stop you. You two clearly have some very important business to discuss.”

Spencer opened his mouth, likely to stammer out a denial, but you beat him to it.

“Goodnight, Morgan,” you said pointedly, your tone cool but lacking its usual edge.

Morgan chuckled, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Goodnight, lovebirds,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hallway.

When you turned back to Spencer, he looked flustered but oddly pleased, his bag clutched tightly to his chest.

You lingered for a moment longer than necessary, your gaze meeting his. “See you tomorrow, Reid.”

“See you tomorrow,” he echoed, his voice carrying a note of warmth you hadn’t noticed before.

As you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, and for the first time, you didn’t mind.

[hxzbinwrites]

Vox x Emotionless! Reader | Ignorant In Love

(Lovestruck Part 2)

Warnings ⚠️: Cussing, Violence, Vox being annoying

————

4:30am

Vox woke up, yelping as he sprung out of bed. Not a great decision for his sore back as his clawed hand immediately went to brace it. Groaning, his eyes fluttered, attempting to recall what got him in such a tizzy waking up

Right. Another dream.

Vox had been, haunted, by that humiliating event last week. Even more so that he finally realize how incredibly enamored he was with her.

His screen flushing red at this realization of his current situation, Vox decided to rise out of bed. What good was sulking going to do?

Since that day, (Y/n) hadn’t smiled once more at him. Oh how he craves it. Vox acts like he doesn’t care, but he’s aching for another fix. Another high of seeing that smile. He would do anything and everything just to experience that euphoria one last time, just one drop of it.

Getting dressed for the day, Vox was looking at his bow tie collection, seeking out one of his favorite ties before realizing it had been ruined from the coffee.

Frustrated, he grabbed a random one from the pile, not really thinking too much about it as he put it on.

He stomped out of his quarters, his heels dramatically clacking against the floor as he made his way to his office. It was far too early in the morning for anyone to be active, too late for Val to be doing work (at least IN the office, and not at the club), so the quite walk gave his ever-running mind more time to think

What the hell has gotten into him?! He’s a VEE, THE VEE. If anything, this is woman should be loosing sleep and foaming over him!

‘That’s what I like most though’, He thought to himself,’She’s real. She doesn’t tell me just what I want to hear, or cause problems for me, she’s just…her, and she simply does it best.’

His internal conflicts were brought to an end once he finally sat down in his chair. Cracking his sore, aching joints, before booting up his monitor system.

————

8:30am

(Y/n)‘s heels clacked against the tiled floors, making her way to her desk. Her desk was one of those circular desks that curved around the middle and touched both sides of the wall. There was a small door on the side that she could enter from, but it blended in seamlessly with the black desk, so it would be hard for someone who didn’t work here on a daily to find.

Once she entered her cubicle-like desk, she logged onto her monitor, clocking in. 8:30am sharp, as always. She began to work on her boss’s meetings, but her eye caught a certain one for today “errand.”

This caught her eye, as Vox always made her run errands during work hours. Mostly for coffee, but she’s ran to the convenience store in the lobby for strange things as well.

“Hmm” she mumbled, before printing off the schedule regardless and putting it in her folder for later at 10.

That was her routine, print off the original schedule for the day, present it to him at 10, and if edits are needed, she’d come back and re-arrange some things, and repeat the process until it was to his liking.

(Y/n)‘s hardest part of the job was the PR portion of it. Normally, it’s for the PR team, but they got sick of the Vees tantrums and the entire department up and quit. Now, (Y/n) handles Vox’s PR, Velvette’s assistant handles hers, and Vox handles Valentino’s himself.

Speaking of PR, she was in for a doozy today. Last Friday, when the coffee incident took place, apparently Vox said some…choice words…to the Radio Demon, and Alastor relayed that information back to his listeners on his radio show.

Sighing, (Y/n) began typing a public rebuttal, going for the “deny and victim blame” strategy, as Velvette called it.

‘Why does Vox have to act so…stupid’ (Y/n) thought, her stoic face staying steady as her fingers flew across the keyboard,’For someone so smart, he sure acts dumb. Maybe he should just be a model for Velvette instead, he’s sure got the looks for it, but he doesn’t have the social skills for a public viewpoint like this-‘

“(Y/N). MY OFFICE. IMMEDIATELY.” Vox yelled.

Her eyes flicker up from her monitor, which was now adorned with two clawed hands gripping the top of it. Vox was leaning over it, his tall, slender frame allowing his screened face to intrude (Y/n)’s personal space, but it’s not like that hasn’t been done the before the weekend.

Locking eyes, he saw the flick of emotion run through her, he almost for a moment let his anger go, almost. He could hear her mumbling those things about him. About how “stupid” he was, his “dumb actions….how “he’s got the looks”….never mind that last part.

“Sir..?” She said, her face immediately turning back cold. Ah, there it goes again, fleeting like time itself.

“Don’t sir me,” Vox said, shoving the monitor who knows where. He crawled on the desk towards (Y/n), before grabbing her chin, pulling her towards him. The force from his arm made it where she was on her feet, but she was now hovering over her chair. Vox cocked his head at her, narrowing his eyes and he whispered towards her.

“I heard you mumbling about me over there. Insubordination will not be…tolerated, at this company. If you want to keep this job, and your soul, I suggest you meet me in my office.”

He let go of her chin, before sliding back off of her desk, and walking towards his office. Vox’s hands were clasped behind his back, as he glanced over his shoulder one last time to look if she was following him.

(Y/n) got up and started walking behind him, her face not giving away any emotion.

‘DAMN IT.’ He thought, his mood growing worse,’That whole little stunt was just to get a rise out of her. To get something!’

————

10:00am

Once they arrived in his office, the door slammed shut behind them. Vox’s electrical bolt from his fingertip locked the door, as he walked towards his chair, took a seat, and swiveled it around to see an unamused (Y/n) awaiting his words.

“So, (Y/n)” He started, his claws tapping against one another, “Would you like to repeat, word for word, what you were mumbling about me, or should I repeat it for you?”

“Okay, I asked myself why you acted so stupid. Your actions are ignorant and your social skills need heavy improvement.” (Y/n) said,”also, for your schedule today you have a meeting at-“

“No no no sugar.” Vox said, smirking as he crossed his legs,”Tell me everything you said.”

“I did” She lied, standing her ground.

“Ah, so Im not good enough to be a model anymore? That’s a shame, I would’ve loved to give you a show, but alas.” He sneered, trying to desperately to get a reaction out of her, but failing miserably.

“Ah, a shame indeed.” She said, deadpanned,”Now, todays schedule consists of one meeting with Valentino at 7:30pm and during your 3:30 slot all it says is ‘Errand’? Sir, I’m confused about that portion, don’t I normally run your errands..?”

Vox gritted his teeth, his hand now clenching the sides of his chair. This was getting ridiculous, no emotions out of this one. God, he should just pour an entire mountain of coffee on himself, muck up his PC and everything just to see her smile.

“I was originally planning to get my clothes back from the dry cleaners myself, but I see that as punishment enough for today. Do it and get out of my office.”

“A-Alright sir.” (Y/n) said. They locked eyes, and Vox immediately regretted pushing so far for a reaction. Her eyes showed hurt in them.

Vox couldn’t bring himself to say anything, his face contorted with many emotions. One side of him was over the moon, he made her show something! The other side was in immense regret, he didn’t want to hurt her, that was by far from the plan.

Once she left the office, he started throwing monitors again in frustration.

————

10:30am

(Y/n) didn’t even return to her desk, instead opting for a little stroll down to the convenience store down in the lobby. She picked up a drink and a candy bar to take back to her desk as a little pick me up

Well, she attempted to go back to her desk, she ended up just going to a secluded corner in the building, only adorned by a lonely bench, a plant, and a security camera in the hallway.

(Y/n) sat there on the bench, sighing from stress and she took a chunk of her candy bar.

Sitting there, she replayed the interaction in her mind once more. The way he was so, powerful, it made her cheeks dust pink, with equal parts admiration and humiliation as she smiled to herself, lowering her head. She softly chuckled before taking her wrapper of her snack and going to seek out a trash can.

Little did she know that Vox was watching her every move on his monitor, stalking every security camera that tipped off her motion. He was nearly short circuiting at her little smile. Vox noticed how her shoulders bounced as she chucked slightly. He really wished he could just call her into his office, but it was already time for her to pick up his dry cleaning. Sighing to himself, he adjusted his bow tie.

Out of his entire collection, he just had to pick the most irritating one out of all of them. It was entirely too tight and the material was so unpleasant.

Sighing, he just untied it and threw it on his desk, reveling a small sliver of his skin beneath it.

————

3:45pm

“I’m here to pick up Vox’s clothes.” (Y/n) said, making the worker scramble to go retrieve the Overlord’s clothes.

“H-Here you go ma’am! Do you mind checking to see if everything is in there? We don’t want to forget any article of our valuable costumer’s clothing!”

“Sure” She replied with her signature neutral expression, opening up the box of neatly folded clothes to see his entire wardrobe from that day, except something was missing…a key part of his ensemble.

“Ah, where is his bow tie?”

“Oh, did he not tell you? We had to return it to him, the fabric of it was too thin, it would’ve burnt up in the dryer.”

“Oh, well thank you.” (Y/n) said,”everything looks like it’s in order.”

“Have a good day!” The worker said, earning a nod from (Y/n) as she walked out of the dry cleaners.

‘He wore that bow tie often’ (Y/n) thought to herself,’ Maybe since I pissed him off earlier today, I can get him another to make it up to him.’

She strolled by the clothing district before entering the tailors shop, browsing the different selection of items for a while before the clerk cleared his throat.

“Ma’am, is there something I can help you with?”

“Ah yes, I’m looking for a bow tie with a certain fabric to it. It’s rather thin, I need a replacement.”

“You? A replacement?” The man chuckled, looking over at her,”I think I know which one you’re talking about, but I dare say I don’t think you’re in the tax bracket to be purchasing that.”

“I’ll purchase what I please.” (Y/n) retorted, her dead eyes looking into the man’s cocky ones

“Oh really? And who is this for?”

“Vox.”

The man started howling in laughter,”YOU?! FOR THE TECH OVERLORD?? OH PLEASE I-“

(Y/n) briskly walked over and slammed the man’s head down on the table.

“Yes. I suggest you make it quick due to your little interruption.”

“And why should I?”

(Y/n) gripped him by the hair, making his eyes meet hers,”Vox is my boyfriend, and so help me I’ll let him tear you limb from limb just because I said pretty please, now fucking do it.”

“Y-Yes ma’am.” He said, as she let go of his hair, he scrambled to the back room to give her a lavish tie. Instead of the navy blue one he had previously, it was near black with bright blue strips adorning the sides of the fabric where it curved in on itself.

“Hmm, this will do.” (Y/n) said, snatching the box before walking away.

“W-Wait, aren’t you going to pay?”

“Pay? You should be dead where you stand for messing with me today. This is your pay.”

And with that, she walked out of the store, leaving the man shocked.

————

8:00pm

Walking into Vox’s office, (Y/n) looked around to see Vox nowhere in sight.

“Ah right,” (Y/n) muttered to herself, despite the fact that very action got her in a tight situation with her boss earlier that day,”Meeting with Valentino. I’ll just set his stuff down here.”

(Y/n) looked around once more, before setting his clothes neatly on the desk. Patting it down to remove it of any lint that couldn’t accrued on the bag, before setting the nicely wrapped gift atop of it, adorning it with a letter signed to him.

————

9:00pm

Vox groggily walked back into his office, after his “productive” meeting with Valentino on his public image. Not a word went to that moth’s head. One ear and out the freaking other.

He closed his eyes, plopping down unceremoniously into his chair, not even bothering for the brooding dramatics this time.

Rubbing his eyes, he really contemplated calling it quits early tonight. But alas, Vox never does, that’s the mantra of a workaholic.

His digital eyes fluttering open once more, he gazed upon the clothes neatly laid there for him. Smiling he looked at it before his smile turned into confusion. Why was there a box? Wrapped with a ribbon…?

He slowly and gently grabbed onto the small box, unwrapping it like an inpatient child on Christmas morning, only to reveal a new bow tie, the one he ached for the entire day.

This one was nicer though, how she scrounged up some money to “buy it”, he didn’t know, but he was eternally grateful.

His eye caught the letter that was now sitting beside where the box was, it fell off when Vox took the box. He held the envelope and slit the seal with his claw like a letter opener.

“Dear Vox,

I sincerely apologize for this morning. I was out of line. I just don’t really know how to process everything. I feel like you’d understand being mechanical and all, but I don’t know how to process emotion.

Normally, I feel nothing towards anyone, but there’s something weird going on. This strangely warm feeling in my chest and my face, I feel clammy around you, and you specifically.

Feel free to ignore this, but here’s my number. Contact me if you are willing to help my predicament. Enjoy the gift regardless, you deserve it. Also, stop coming to work at 5 in the morning. You’re not sneaky, I see when you’ve clocked in on your schedule.

-(Y/n) (L/n)”

Vox was beaming, a pure genuine smile. He might be a lovestruck fool, but she’s ignorantly in love.

————

Word Count: 2,540

(Part 3?)

TAGLIST

@burningfishkidlamp

@koji-akeme

@callmechito

@neito327

@chocolat3pudding

@yellowsubiesdance

[jburrgf]

About You II — The Love Trope Series

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

◦pairing: ¡lsu! joe burrow x ¡ex situashionship! reader

◦summary: second change trope, college relationships, slow burn love, right person wrong time.

◦description: after the dinner at Malone’s, your best friend and you go to the biggest party of the year, and there, you find out why you can’t forget Joe — at all.

◦playlist: About You - The 1975, Love Me Like You Do - Ellie Golding, Like Real People Do - Hoozier, I Bet You Think About Me - Taylor Swift, Called You Again - Lizzy McAlpine, Tolerate It, ImGonnaGetYouBack, Clean - Taylor Swift

PART TWO: ALL OVER ME

Joe and I didn’t happen overnight.

It was a slow burn, full of late-night conversations, stolen glances, and an undeniable pull neither of us could explain. He was juggling the pressures of being a star quarterback with the weight of expectations I couldn’t fully understand, and I was caught between wanting to be a part of his world and keeping my own identity intact.

We weren’t perfect. We fought. We drifted. We came back together, only to drift apart again. And then, months before graduation, Joe started pulling away for good.

I didn’t chase him.

And that was the end of it.

Or so I thought.

The faint hum of music and muffled voices filtered through the walls of our shared dorm as I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the pile of clothes Maddie had dumped on me earlier. A crop top, a leather skirt, and heeled boots that looked like they belonged on a runway rather than at a party in a dingy warehouse.

Maddie was pacing, a hair curler in one hand and a bottle of glittery body spray in the other, a force of nature in her pre-party ritual. She was dressed to perfection already, wearing a sequined halter top and ripped jeans that made her legs look a mile long.

The mirror in Maddie’s dorm room was barely big enough for one person, but tonight, we were making it work. Her makeup brushes, palettes, and lip glosses were spread across the desk like an arsenal, the tiny lamp casting a warm glow on the chaos.

“Y/N, come on,” Maddie groaned, holding up two options—a cropped black sequin top and a deep green halter. “Which one says, ‘I’m here to have fun but also break hearts’?”

I glanced up, her mind still clouded, offering a weak smile. “The green one, I guess.”

Maddie frowned, dropping the tops onto her bed and placing her hands on her hips. “Okay, what’s going on with you? This is the biggest party of the year, and you’re sitting there like we’re about to go to a funeral.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Just tired.”

Truthfully, exhaustion wasn’t the problem. My chest felt heavy in a way I couldn’t explain—like I was carrying the weight of something I didn’t have the courage to admit. Joe. His name felt like a forbidden word, a ghost haunting the edges of my thoughts as Maddie flitted around the room, oblivious.

“Liar,” Maddie shot back, narrowing her eyes as she crossed the room to sit beside Y/N. “You’ve been weird all weekend. Let me guess…” She tilted her head, a knowing smirk spreading across her lips. “This is about him, isn’t it?”

The mention of his name made my stomach flip, but I kept my face carefully neutral. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“Bullshit,” Maddie said, nudging her shoulder. “I know you, Y/N. You’ve been moping around ever since Malone’s friday. Did something happen with Joe that you’re not telling me?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Look, I know he’s... complicated. But tonight isn’t about him. It’s about you having fun. Forget about the past. It’s just one party.”

“Exactly. Just one party,” I said, grabbing the crop top she’d picked for me and holding it up with skepticism. “And I’m not even sure I want to go.”

Maddie marched over, snatched the shirt from my hands, and tossed it on the bed. “Oh, you’re going. Whether I have to drag you kicking and screaming or not.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to enjoy myself, but something in me felt heavy, like an anchor tied around my chest. Maddie didn’t need to know how often my mind drifted to Joe—how his face had been etched into my thoughts since that night at Malone’s, how his stupid note was still folded in my desk drawer.

“Y/N,” Maddie said, her voice softening as she sat beside me. “I know you miss him.”

I blinked, startled. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, nudging me with her shoulder. “But trust me, wallowing isn’t going to help. You need to let loose, have a drink, and dance with someone who’s not Joe Burrow.”

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy.”

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my jeans. “It’s… nothing happened. It’s just—ugh, I don’t even know, Maddie. I don’t want to talk about him.”

Maddie raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. Instead, she stood, grabbed Y/N’s hands, and pulled her to her feet. “Okay, fine. No more Joe talk. But I’m not letting you go to this party looking like you just rolled out of bed.”

“You know i’m not thrilled about frat parties.” I said

“This isn’t just any frat party,” Maddie corrected, grabbing a curling iron and plugging it in. “It’s in the Kappa alumni barn. Do you know how hard it is to get invited to this? People are literally selling wristbands for $50 just to get in. We are elite, babe.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered under my breath.

”Come on, I’m going to pick out the perfect dress for you.” She threw open her closet, rifling through the racks of clothes like a woman on a mission. “We need something that says ‘I’m hot, but I don’t care if you notice.’”

“I was just going to wear jeans,” I offered weakly.

Maddie spun around, her expression scandalized. “Jeans? To this party? Y/N, we’re not freshmen anymore. This is senior year. Go big or go home.”

Before I could argue, she pulled out a sleek black dress with a subtle shimmer. It was simple, but the cut was flattering, and the fabric looked soft enough to melt into.

“This,” Maddie declared, holding it up like it was the Holy Grail.

I hesitated, glancing at my reflection. “I don’t know...”

“Trust me,” Maddie said, shoving the dress into my hands. “You’ll look amazing.”

With a reluctant sigh, I headed to the bathroom to change. The dress clung to my figure in all the right places, and when I stepped back into the bedroom, Maddie let out a low whistle.

“Y/N! You look... Wow. Just wow. Girl, if Joe doesn’t come crawling back to you after tonight, he’s an idiot.”

I finally turned to face my reflection, and to my surprise, I didn’t hate it. The dress hugged my figure in all the right places, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like maybe I could blend in tonight.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my llips. “It’s not about Joe.”

“Sure, it’s not,” Maddie teased, returning to the mirror to finish her makeup. “Now, sit down. I’m doing your hair and makeup.”

As Maddie curled my hair, the mood in the room shifted slightly. The music softened, and for a moment, it felt like the old days—just us two, laughing and talking about nothing.

“Listen,” Maddie said, her tone gentler now. “I know you’re going through it, but you deserve to have fun tonight. Forget about him, or at least try to. This party is going to be amazing. Everyone’s been talking about it for weeks. The lights, the DJ, the whole vibe—it’s gonna be insane.”

I nodded, her chest tightening. Maddie was right. I needed to let go, even if just for one night. “You’re right. Let’s do this.”

Maddie grinned, placing the final curl in my hair and fluffing it out with her fingers. “Now that’s the spirit. Look at us—two bad bitches, ready to take on the world.”

I laughed, feeling a flicker of excitement for the first time that night. Maybe this party wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe I could forget about Joe, even if just for a few hours. Maddie got all the makeup things right in front of us, and started to do my makeup.

Hold still!” Maddie ordered, her hand steady as she worked on my eyeliner.

“I am holding still,” I mumbled, trying not to blink.

“You keep flinching every time I get close. Do you not trust me?” she teased, stepping back to inspect her work. “Did you know they rented an actual DJ for tonight? And there’s going to be this crazy light show. Plus, rumor has it the football team’s throwing in a ton of money for drinks and food. This is basically LSU’s version of Coachella.”

I hummed noncommittally, watching her in the mirror as she worked. Her excitement was contagious, even if I wasn’t quite ready to feel it yet.

“Y/N,” Maddie said after a moment, her tone more serious. “Promise me you’ll try to have fun tonight. For real.”

I met her gaze in the mirror and nodded. “I’ll try.”

She smiled, satisfied. “Good. Now, glitter or no glitter?”

“No glitter,” I said immediately.

Maddie rolled her eyes but relented, finishing my makeup with a swipe of lip gloss.

Maddie, of course, looked flawless in her emerald green romper and heels, her hair styled in loose waves that framed her face. She had a way of commanding attention without even trying, and tonight was no exception.

“You’re stunning,” I said honestly.

“So are you,” she replied, grabbing her phone to snap a picture of us. “Okay, let’s take a pre-party selfie. Smile!”

I forced a grin, but even as the camera clicked, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“You’re thinking too much,” Maddie said, catching my expression.

“I’m not,” I lied.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing her purse. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you change your mind.”

By the time we were both ready, the campus was already buzzing with energy. The party was being held in an old warehouse on the edge of campus, the kind of space that was only used for events like this—loud, chaotic, and slightly dangerous.

As we stepped outside, the cool evening air hit my skin, and for the first time all day, I felt a flicker of anticipation. Maddie looped her arm through mine, grinning.

“Trust me, Y/N,” she said as we made our way toward the warehouse. “Tonight’s going to be unforgettable.”

The walk to the party was electric. The campus buzzed with excitement, groups of students streaming toward the barn like moths to a flame. Maddie chatted nonstop, filling the silence with stories and jokes that I barely registered.

But as we approached the barn, the music growing louder with each step, I couldn’t ignore the way my heart began to race. Part of me hoped Joe wouldn’t be there.

And another part of me—a part I hated—hoped he would.

[…]

I caved, mostly because Maddie was impossible to argue with, and by the time we arrived at the warehouse, I was already questioning my decision. The music was loud, the drinks were cheap, and the place was packed with bodies moving to a beat I couldn’t place.

It was an underground-style party. Everyone was wearing colorful, fluorescent paints, and the music had heavy beats. It was a fraternity party, but it wasn't at a house. Everything took place in a warehouse, surrounded by a parking lot that was already full when we arrived.

“Loosen up,” Maddie said when we got out of her car and were walking through the parking lot, heading to the party entrance. My friend showed something on her phone to someone, and we went in.

She dragged me toward the makeshift bar. “Come on, Y/N, I know why you're like this. But remember, we have to have fun, right?” she said, shaking my shoulders from side to side as electronic music played.

I rolled my eyes, letting out a small smile because the beat of the music was really contagious.

“Alright, but I’m not going to drink much!”

“I love you!” And that was what Maddie said before dragging me to the fraternity's makeshift bar, preparing something for me to drink.

I downed a few shots, one after the other, laughing and speaking loudly as people came over to greet us. I danced to a few songs with Maddie, swaying from side to side.I felt the urge to go to the bathroom, so I asked her to wait for me close to the bar. I started walking, looking for something like a bathroom, being careful not to open doors to already occupied rooms.

I found an empty bathroom at the beginning of one of the hallways. I fixed my makeup, washed my hands, and got ready to leave. I closed the door behind me, starting to walk down the hallway.

When I returned to the party, the music was louder, and people were dancing more. By that time of the night, the bar was even more crowded than usual, signaling that the party had reached its peak.

I tried to. I really did. But I wasn’t a natural at these things, and it wasn’t until I stepped outside onto the quieter patio that I felt like I could breathe again. I walked out of the warehouse, exiting through makeshift tarp doors. Outside, in the back, there was an Olympic-sized pool, illuminated and filled with inflatable balls.

The air outside was cool against my flushed skin, the sounds of the party muffled behind the thick metal doors of the warehouse-turned-dancefloor. I leaned against the railing near the Olympic-sized pool, my chest rising and falling as I tried to steady myself.

The stillness of the pool was a welcome contrast to the pulsing energy inside. Its surface reflected the night sky, fractured by the faint ripples of the water, and for a brief moment, I felt at peace.

“Finally found you!” Maddie shouted from afar, stepping out of the warehouse with a red cup in hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah… it just got way too crowded all of a sudden.”

“Yep, it’s about time for us to head out.” She patted my back, as if she knew me well enough to understand exactly how I was feeling.

The bass of the music hit me like a wave as soon as I stepped through the doors, the lights swirling in hypnotic patterns that danced across the crowd. The air was thick with heat and the mingling scents of sweat and cologne, and I almost turned back around.

I tugged at the hem of my dress, suddenly feeling too exposed in the sea of intoxicated strangers. Maddie was nowhere to be seen— I lost her when I got back inside. I should’ve texted her to meet me outside, but I didn't want to ruin her night.

The overhead lights twisted and flickered in a kaleidoscope of colors, casting long shadows that danced across the packed room. People swayed and spun to the beat of a song I didn’t recognize, the energy electric and wild.

And then it happened.

The opening chords of Innerbloom by RÜFÜS DU SOL floated through the speakers, and it was like the entire atmosphere shifted. The crowd slowed, their movements taking on a dreamlike quality as the tempo of the song washed over the room.

That’s when I saw him.

Joe.

He was standing near the edge of the dancefloor, just beyond the reach of the flashing lights. His blond hair caught the faint glow of the strobe, his tall frame relaxed yet commanding as he talked to someone I didn’t recognize. But it wasn’t the way he stood or the casual confidence in his posture that froze me in place. It was his eyes.

Because, as if sensing me, he looked up—and our eyes met.

Everything else faded.

For a second, I thought I was imagining it.

It was instant, like a magnetic pull I couldn’t fight even if I wanted to. The room, the music, the crowd—all of it faded away. All I could focus on was him.

Why does it always feel like this?

The way he looked at me was almost unbearable—like he’d been waiting for this moment as much as I had dreaded it. His gaze was steady, unflinching, and for a second, I thought he might come toward me.

But he didn’t move. Neither did I.

My breath caught in my throat. We just stared at each other, the space between us suddenly feeling both infinite and too small.

I wanted to run. I wanted to stay.

The flicker of the lights seemed to sync with the thrum of my heartbeat as he started walking toward me. Everything was in slow motion—the sway of his body, the way his hands slid casually into the pockets of his jeans, the way his jaw tightened when our eyes locked again.

The music, the crowd, the swirling lights—it all blurred into the background, like the universe itself had tilted to make room for this one moment.

*If you want me, if you need me... I'm yours.*

The words felt like a taunt, an echo of everything I hadn’t allowed myself to admit.

Joe’s gaze held mine, steady and unyielding, as though he could see every thought racing through my mind. His expression was unreadable—calm, almost curious—but his eyes told a different story. They were searching, pulling me in, and suddenly the space between us felt both infinite and far too small.

I couldn’t move. My feet were rooted to the ground, my pulse hammering in my ears as the world seemed to slow to a crawl.

He took a step forward.

The lights shifted, casting his face in shadow, and for a second, I thought I might faint. My breath hitched, and I gripped the edge of a nearby table to steady myself.

Another step.

The crowd parted like water around him, the sea of bodies moving in rhythm with the music but leaving him untouched. It felt unreal, like a scene from a movie, the kind you tell yourself could never happen in real life.

But it was happening.

And then he was in front of me.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, almost lost in the swell of the music. But I heard it. God, I felt it.

“Joe.” My voice came out softer than I intended, almost shaky.

Neither of us said anything for a moment. The room seemed to spin around us, the world a blur of light and sound, but we were still. Anchored.

“You came,” he finally said, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile.

“You called.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying me in that way he always did, like he could see straight through every wall I’d put up. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Why did he have to be here? Why did he have to look at me like that? Like he was still holding onto something I’d been trying so hard to let go of.

The muffled beat of the music reached me even out here, but it was quieter now, easier to ignore. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the image of Joe—his face, his voice, the way he said my name. It lingered like a ghost, refusing to let me be.

“Neither was I,” I admitted, my voice barely audible.

Another beat of silence passed, heavy and charged. His gaze flickered down to my lips for a fraction of a second, and my stomach flipped.

The song swelled, the lyrics a haunting echo in the background: If you want me, if you need me, I’m yours

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the song and the pounding of my heart. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. All I could do was look at him, and all he could do was look at me, like we were the only two people in the room.

Something flickered in his eyes—relief, maybe, or something deeper. He stepped closer, and I felt the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the humid air of the warehouse.

The words hung between us, heavy and unspoken truths laced beneath them. I wanted to ask him why he cared, why he’d left that note, why he was standing here now, looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered. But I couldn’t.

The music swelled, the lyrics wrapping around us like a cocoon.

“I’m glad you did.”

The words hung between us, heavy and unspoken truths laced beneath them. I wanted to ask him why he cared, why he’d left that note, why he was standing here now, looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered. But I couldn’t.

The music swelled, the lyrics wrapping around us like a cocoon.

It felt like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for one of us to make the next move.

And then, without thinking, I took a step closer.

“Joe,” I said again, my voice steadier this time.

“Y/N…” His voice was barely a whisper now, lost beneath the music but somehow still clear as day.

For a moment, neither of us moved, the world narrowing down to just us.

And then someone bumped into me, breaking the spell. I stumbled, and Joe’s hand shot out, steadying me with an ease that made my stomach flip.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

I nodded, my cheeks flushing. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. Not even close. Because standing this close to him, feeling his hand on my arm, hearing the way he said my name—it was all too much.

And yet, I didn’t want it to end.

He held out his hand. “I…”

“I can’t do this, Joe. I have to go,” I said, finally creating some distance between us. I walked out of the warehouse, but I knew he was following me.

“CAN YOU STOP?”

He froze, started, coming to an abrupt halt behind me. Even in the dark, I could tell he was looking at me with shock. I could see the way he looked at me, and it made me feel nauseous. Not because I didn’t like it, but because I missed it. God, I missed it so much.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said, and I could feel the honesty in his voice eating away at me.

“You haven’t talked to me in months, and I’m not going to let you do to me what you’ve done before,” I said, stepping further away. “You forgot about me, Joe. Completely. You pushed me away, and now, I don’t want to come back. Just… stay away.”

Maddie came running after Joe soon after. With a confused expression, she purposely bumped into his shoulder as she walked past him toward me.

“Let’s go, Y/N,” my friend said, still shooting side-eyes at Joe, who stood there frozen. “Leave her alone, Joe. She doesn’t need you anymore.”

Maddie grabbed my hand and started walking with me through the parking lot. I got into the passenger seat, still dazed. It had been almost seven months, and that was the first time he had spoken to me.

When I looked in the rearview mirror, he was still standing there, in the middle of the street.

I knew I would see him again. I just didn’t want to believe it.

[ellieslittleburrow]

Coming home late..doesn't keep Dean okay. P1

Summery : You've been acting out, lately. Or at least that's what Sam and Dean called it. For you it was just having fun, living. That is until Dean couldn't take it anymore...

Warnings : a bit of a violent behaviour, stern brother

Pairings : Dean winchester x sister reader

A/n : AHA WHATS THAT TITLE. Also i'm sorry if this brings bad memories to any of you guys ❤️ Comments are much appreciated peeps 🌸

-----

"Lookie here"

A voice you have so carelessly gotten used to, tinted with a hint of disappointment and of passive aggressiveness. "Miss wild life has just come back from her adventures."

You sighed as your boots tiredly thump the metallic steps of the bunker and Dean emerged through the metallic columns.

"What?" You threw your arms out. "Am i not allowed to go out now? Should i ask for your permission for everything?" You spat out. Fucker really had to do this as soon as you came back home?

"No!" Dean rose from the chair and dangerously made his way to you. "You could've answered the phone one of the 10 times i called, though!" He sounded enthusiastic for a second. "Or maybe just gotten home on time." And then that enthusiasm shifted to disappointment. And after a few seconds of silence, he spoke again, his voice fatigued. "What are you doing, kid?"

It was a simple 4 worded question. But the answer to it requiered a few shrinks and lots of writing. You didn't know why you were acting this way, really. To you it was no big deal. Why do they want to force everything on you? Get home at this hour, wear this and not that, eat, don't talk to that person, don't haunt this and that...You were just done with all this attention to the little details that meant nothing to you...You just..wanted them to notice you, what you liked, your qualities, the fact that you knew well enough how to haunt. There was also the fact that...handling things on your own was no longer a possibility..The pain, the nightmares, the memories.

"I'm not doing anything, Dean. I just got home like-" You stop to look at your watch. "A fucking hour late. Boohoo, what a big fucking dea-"

"LILY."

You stop! Faltering for a tiny moment before quickly recovering, adrenaline pumping through your body.

"Don't raise your voic-"

You'd spoke but Dean interrupted you, closing the gap between you, sending you staggering backwards. But you still hold your head up high, chest puffed up and ready to fight...cleching your fists as your hands trembled.

"i don't think you understand, lily." Your brother wrapped his hand around your arm, looming over your -what felt like- tiny body. You held your gaze down. Are you still going to fight? Or are you going to apologize and move on?

"It's not because i let you loose that it's actually acceptable for you to behave this way. I understand that you're angry and that you're taking it out on me-"

"that's fucking stupi-"

Fight it is..

"it's not stupid, you're acting out like you're five."

"i swear to god and i promise you, if you ever do this again, lily, you're done. And not done the way you usually are. I promise you that if you do this ever again, i will make sure you never forget that day. "

You scoff and shrug, the perfect cocktail for Dean's eyes to go lower, darker. Angrier. But all that bitterness washed away... and he nodded, slowly.

"Okay then" He let go of your arm and you internally wished he didn't. It felt now like you'd rather he grounds you and yells, because that smile meant that whatever was coming, was going to be much worse.

"Since you're all grown up and ready to take care of yourelf, let me change it up for you."

Much worse indeed..

He stood up straight and you shrunk again. You didn't want this!!! This is not what you had in m-

"We've already got enough problems on our plate, you acting out, with your temper tantrums and your shit-" He shakes his hands. " i'm not having it."

You'd speak up...apologize..But you're too angry and terrified to even think. Let alone talk.

"You do this shit again, you're out. Capiche?"

You opened your mouth to speak but!- you're stunned. And a lump grew heavy in your throat as regret set in....

"And you watch your language, or else i promise you i'll smack your face so bad your jaw will hurt."

Your eyebrows stood up in surprise..Never has Dean EVER been this violent. And by the looks of it, he meant it. He meant all of it. Every single word. And you...you-

You burst into tears, choking as saliva pooled in your mouth. You've never felt such things and-and you don't get why he'd eve-

"I asked you a question, lily." He thundered but you were in no state that would get you to stop crying, anytime soon. Only an unintentional whimper escaped your lips. "Lily, i asked you a question." He demanded again, groaning higher.

You nod, hoping it would get him off you but...that only infuriorates him more. "ANSWER ME."

his tone turned more violent, piercing your ears and you nodded again. "Yeah. Yes-I I understand." Your lips trembling as your upper body leaned away from him.

Just then does he let go of your arm. "'Out of my face now, kid."

Without hesitation, you stepped aside, heading for your room.

You placed the back of your hand on your mouth, covering it before another wave of tears comes in.

You might've fucked up, badly this time, as Dean has never been this mean to you. And it just felt like....John and Sam all over again.

You had to do something about it. But it could wait. Until Sam came back.

--------

PART2

--------

Ola, yall! I love writing angst 😭😭😭 What do we think???? ❤️❤️❤️🥀🥀🥀

[chvoswxtch]

☾ romcom- headcannons (request a director’s cut to make it spicy)

i am in desperate need of some slutty thoughts about matt crawling through your window late at night (aka the dream)

you didn't ask for it but the wardrobe department has decided to put matthew in the black suit of sin for this scene for reasons

andddddd ACTION!

as a reminder, director's cut means it's spicy ! (minors dni)

headcannon below the cut

late night with the devil starring matt murdock

matt can't tell if it's an unusually slow night in hell's kitchen, or if he just can't seem to focus on blind justice tonight bc your sent is still all over him from having you tangled up in his sheets last night

he'd worn the very tie this morning he'd used to blindfold you with last night (let your imagination run wild with that one) which was a mistake on his part bc it meant your scent was right under his nose all day long

the longer he's perched on the roof like a fucking gargoyle, trying and failing to concentrate on the sounds of the city, he gets more and more restless, and eventually his desires win out over his self imposed duty

the window to the fire escape by your living room was always left unlocked for him so he could pay you a visit anytime he wanted while he was out on patrol. he could hear your even breathing, steady heartbeat, and the sound of pages being turned, which indicated that you were awake to his delight and excitement

matt lifted the window and slipped inside without making a sound, closing it just as quietly, his booted footsteps mute against the worn wooden floor

you hated it when he snuck around like a ninja and scared the shit out of you, threatening to haunt him if he ever sent you into cardiac arrest, but matt was a little shit and loved making you jump and scream. he especially liked making you scream ;)

he stalks towards you like a predator, and then without warning, he yanked the book out of your hands. before you even had a chance to react, he pounced on top of you, making you squeal loud enough to wake your neighbors

"matthew michael murdock! you fucking-"

a rumble of amused laugher sounded deep from within matt's chest, and he grinned as he bent down to capture your lips, cutting off your string of irritated curses. he nuzzled his nose against your neck, purposefully using his sexy daredevil voice bc he knows what it does to you

"well, hello to you too, sweetheart."

your anger swiftly evaporates bc how can it not when matt has you trapped beneath him, your wrists pinned above your head, those sinful lips teasingly brushing against that spot on your neck that drives you wild and that sultry voice in your ear

"you're a goddamn menace."

matt lets out another hearty chuckle, and you can feel the vibrating rumble against your own chest, and his callused hand stroking your bare thigh before squeezing the soft pliant flesh eagerly

"so i've been told."

a shaky breath left your parted lips feeling the coarseness of his facial hair brush against your neck, the ghost of his breath making your skin prickle, and the warm weight of his hips between your thighs

"sorry for scaring you, honey. let me make it up to you."

matt was already kissing his way down your chest and pushing the hem of your nightgown upwards

"I want a sincere apology, murdock."

matt grinned against your skin as he lifted the nightgown up to your hips, dragging his tongue slowly along your lower stomach, making your back arch slightly and a shudder run through you to his delight

"of course, angel. why don't I get on my knees and beg, hm?"

it amazed you how he could move so quickly while being such a tease. he kept his touches featherlight and barely granted your needy skin any contact from his lips, and your brain barely registered the feeling of your panties being slipped down your thighs, but you did feel matt's hands gripping your hips and dragging you towards the edge of the bed

you don't know who moaned louder after that first swipe of his eager tongue through your soaked cunt, you or matt

he didn't hesitate, diving right in with his greedy mouth. he captured your hands and intertwined your fingers, holding your hands tightly against your hips, groaning as he allowed you to rock your hips against his face as he devoured you

the burn of his facial hair rubbing your inner thighs raw was a problem for tomorrow bc all you could focus on was the way he alternated between teasingly tracing the tip of his tongue around your sensitive clit and then flicking his tongue over it repeatedly

he moaned when he wrapped his lips around your clit and began to suckle, and both the sensation and the vibration had your thighs trembling, making you squeeze his hands so tightly the skin went taut over your knuckles

even when he made you come, hard, he wasn't done. while you were lost in the buzzing blissful haze of an orgasm that made you feel boneless, matt had stripped down completely and rejoined you on the bed, flipping you over onto your stomach and pulling you up onto your knees

his firm warm chest was pressed against your back as he leaned over you and gruffly whispered in your ear

"now it's your turn to beg."

the urge to write 137 pages of this akjsdhlksjklf

[amourlyns]

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

𐙚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: in which batman visits crime alley, and the reader indulges the bat with sweet notes and baked goods.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: none

𐙚 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: inspired by this post. thought it was the cutest thing ever and i wanted to write it out, something short n sweet !! dedicated to @armin-ocean-eyes

⟡ ⠀ | 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲. Of course, The Bat doesn’t want to jinx his nightly patrol but (…) it’s been nice.

In all honestly, it finally felt like a break. A time to hunker down and take time to focus on his parents. A stroll through Crime Alley would do. Bruce never forgets about his parents, nor does he forget that night. He comes back to remind himself of what happened. How he couldn’t stop it. How he failed to protect them. It’s a constant reminder, a punishment.

Tension never leaves Bruce’s body. He’s always so high strung, constantly prepared for fight or flight. Shoulders are tense, brows are furries and teeth are gritted. This was his very being now.

Late nights, cold and oh, so lonely. The heavy bass of boots sloshing through rain water across the concrete street. Vengeance has filled the role of Gotham’s protector for long enough to know everything about the city he tirelessly protects. He knows this city better than anyone else.

But he still can’t stomach the alleyway.

Today, Bruce doesn’t bring flowers, but he brings himself. And hopefully, that’s enough for them.

From above the street, unbeknownst to the Bat. He has an angel, a watcher if you will. The city has swallowed him whole and spat him right back at out tonight. Senses are diminished, hazy from the beatings of tonight. Usually, he’s more attentive than this.

Funnily enough, you just moved into the city of Gotham three weeks ago. It’s a dreary, dull city. But at least it’s away from home. Right? Sure, the apartment you were currently living in definitely seemed haunted and it literally oversaw the alleyway the Waynes died in. Why did no one tell you they got mugged? (…) But what could you do? It’s shitty but the only thing you could afford in this damned economy.

And dude, it was definitely haunted.

You actually thought you were hallucinating the first time you laid your eyes on it. The fucking Bat, Vengeance. Gotham Cities actuals protector? It was odd and horrifying. You expected to see him raging through the alley in his moody glory. Big, defiant, and spooky!

But he actually seemed defeated? In a way? His strides were slow. Then, he knelt down onto the pavement and stayed there. It’s weird, this habitual routine of the Bat coming by and kneeling happened constantly. Well, to be fair he did patrol your building after that. Scouring the rooftops for any signs of peril within the area.

When he was done, he would come back to your building and linger on the fire escape. Sometimes you could hear his heavy footsteps on the rooftops or the iron steps.

Now, no one ever said you were the brightest in the bunch. You moved to Gotham for goodness sake. Anyways, you decided to actually make contact with the Bat. Which in theory, sounds like a good idea because who wouldn’t want a hero in their pocket? Well, a vigilante. But you digress (…) If coming near the alley brings him down, maybe he needs a lift?

The general idea was, leave a note or a gift for Vengeance and leave him be. So, that’s how it begun.

It was the third time Bruce visited the crime alley. This time, he had the intention to make his trip revolve only around his parents.

But then he saw you.

Granted, you were definitely not expecting to see anyone or someone like the Batman at this time of night. So you scrambled off of your balcony and dropped some sort of post-it note on the way out. There were three things on Bruce’s mind. How many times have you seen him and did you know his habits or who he was? Paranoia gnaws away at his guts and creates a nasty hole in his stomach.

He was a master of overthinking.

The Bat was quick to snatch up the post-it note you dropped, taking the time to read and analyze your penmanship. Was it lined with some sort of poison? Was it a tracking device? He waits for a moment. Grunting at the words etched into the paper.

〞I don't know what you're going through but I know you'll get through it. Xoxo. 〞

Huh.

Alfred would tease him for this.

An admirer? He was stumped.

It’s been about a week since you’ve seen Vengeance, your gifts of food and ever abundant notes never stopped though. You were starting to think he changed his route ever since that night he caught you on the railing.

First off, he was terrifying up close (the man was ten feet away) and second off, how was he able to catch you. Some part of you expected the man to interrogate you or something.

He didn’t, thank goodness. But you kind of missed seeing the cryptic Bat.

On the other hand, Bruce decided to do some research on you. A through background check would never hurt and who knows if you wanted to kill him? It could all be a facade. Each baked good and beverage you left out for the Bat was analyzed and tested. It could’ve been poisoned, laced, or worst, set to detonate. He was taking precautions. But Alfred insisted it was a good gesture.

Whatever it was, you never stopped. Bruce changed his route of course, there was no reason to let his guard down. But, he did appreciate the notes. To an extent. He just couldn’t help but think of the uncertainty.

The latest one he was holding onto was nothing short of thoughtful.

〞I hope you're having a good day :) (Btw, I haven’t seen you around!〞

So for the most part you were attentive. So he could commend you for that.

Despite all of the alarms in his brain telling him to stick to the new route, he returns to the old route for your sake. The very least he could do was thank you for the messages and treats. At least, that’s what Alfred said. For once, he didn’t feel like being stubborn and listened. The first thing he saw was your silhouette against the glass of your sliding door. Then, your emergence.

Bruce is frozen in place. But you’re waving frantically and running down the steps to greet him. Should he turn away? Just leave and never show up again? What if ⸻

❛ OHMYGOSH, OH MY GOSH. YOU’RE REAL! YOU’RE HERE! I WAS STARTING TO THINK I WAS BEING DELUSIONAL AND SEEING THINGS. WHOA, YOU’RE TALLER IN PERSON. AND LIKE SCARY. SORRY, SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN THAT. WOW. ❜

You’re realizing how that sounded; Bruce notices how you cower in fear. Despite his own anxiety driving him up a wall. The least he could do was say thank you, or show his appreciation. It takes him a few moments to say anything. He can hardly hold eye contact, but it eventually comes out.

❛ I (…) I APPRECIATE IT. ❜

Well. You definitely didn’t expect him to sound like that. His response was so soft you couldn’t even tell if he was directing that towards you. It was so quiet he might as well been talking to himself⸻ and before you could even ask him another question, he’s gone by the time you look up.

Introvert much?

[jackiepackiee]

Not your Typical Confession

Chuuya x Reader

Gonna edit in the morning

Chuuya Nakahara was an enigma to all of those lucky enough to have met him and live to tell the tale.

Stronger than stone, a certain kind of elegance akin to nature itself. Brilliant as blossoms off the trees of spring. Loyalty bleeding throughout every vein. Onto vines of care and protection he let grow to only his closest companions.

One of which was you.

So when you see him kick back his motorcycle stand before walking towards the entrance of the port mafia, you feel intrigued.

A tug on your heart that seems to physically pull you in his direction.

Mouth moving faster than your feet.

“Wait up!”

“Hm?”

He hummed in his usual late night tired tone.

Stars barely visible from the city lights blowing the scenery up in a warm glow.

Rain just having calmed moments before, when he turned you could see the contact his boot made with a little puddle.

Dreary was the night.

And dreary were his eyes.

“Hi! Just me.”

God, was your bright tone infectious.

“I noticed that.”

Something was off. A lack of sarcasm that his words always held. Mean in textbook, but humorous in tone.

This was cold.

“…no need for attitude.”

Suddenly that stupid little puddle was really catching your eye.

“Yeah, well no need to be a nuisance. And we still stand.”

Did his voice always have such a desolate tone? Maybe with his enemies on harder missions, or when Dazai said something that seriously made him upset.

“…”

“I need a drink, so read the room and scram.”

Oh wow, maybe his tone is just this cold. And maybe he did need that drink.

“I- well… umm.”

“Spit it out. You can’t seriously ha-”

Fuck his tone, and fuck that stupid puddle.

“I’m only ever nice to you, but tonight you’re so mean!”

One drop of water falls from a leaf, then two, then…

“I’m always mean.”

“Not to me.”

Drop three.

“Well I’m not always nice. So the point you’re making is? You can’t make me happy, so give up.”

“…what happened?”

You could feel your heartbeat in your fingertips. It was faster than normal, as if you were in some high intensity fight.

“Just work. So forget about it.”

His eyes rolled back, the kind of thing a child would do when they didn’t get what they wanted.

“…no.”

“What? I said for-“

“No! You’re being a total dick to me as of late and for that I think I deserve to at least know why.”

Rarely did you stand up to your friends. Stranger or enemies, sure? But this was out of imagination for your actions.

Had the world stopped spinning? Maybe it had, because time definitely stopped for the both of you.

Air was even still. Not daring to bother your outburst.

“It’s not fair, I hate it. I hate this, I hate us! When we are “friends” one day but the next you act as if you want me gone.”

Not a single part of him reacted. On the outside, at least. Every stab wound he’d ever obtained could not have been this painful combined.

To see you break.

“Maybe I do care too much. Maybe I do overthink your every little action, but there isn’t anything else good for me to focus on.”

His voice had changed, for a quality you could notice. To something soft. One he always used after a tough mission of yours while comforting you. Soothing you with gentle words and petting your hair.

But something new was there. A sense of desperation.

“Am I all you have here?”

“…”

Never had silence felt so haunting. Slowly carving the scene into a sculpture of perfect stillness.

“I have these beautiful thoughts, and a world that fascinates me. Societies I can look in on and be a part of. Ideas that I may only ever understand in the moment, and actions that I make knowing I’ll regret them even after I die. But people? You’re the only human I can actually trust.”

…

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Fuck, I didn’t mean to swear, wait. Shit- wait! Damnit…”

His hat tipped low so you couldn’t see his eyes.

“…huh?”

“I hate to swear around you.”

His arms crossed over his black suit. Red shirt still visible from underneath his arms and jacket.

“That’s not my confusion.”

“I know. Just… I can’t bring myself to stomach the idea that I’ve been neglecting you.”

He spoke with a hesitation on the words of confession.

“Neglect is a bit much.”

“Not when you’re the only thought I like to have on my mind.”

Brown/blue eyes flickered up to you. He fiddled with the cuffs on his suit sleeves.

“I think too much, but for so many thoughts you’re the only positive one. And I’m sorry for neglecting you.”

“Chuuya…”

“I don’t have anyone else either.”

He was vulnerable. Never had he ever willingly showed that side of himself to a single person he’d ever known. He’d cried, he’d screamed, but never once had he put down his strength and displayed his feelings in such a way.

Ready for whatever punishment you could cause. Taking those now exposed feelings and plucking each heart string until they all wore down. Snapping at a delicate touch.

And this was his reality. That he hated caring for you.

And yet he’d die before he’d stop caring.

Only now was he aware of all this.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why now? Why now have you been getting further away from me?”

“Because I can’t admit to myself that I need you.”

There it was, the hideous truth. A truth that he only just now came to terms with.

“I need you, because I love you. Well, at least I think I do? You make the world so bright. Every morning is worth while, and work is worth the fight. I have to stay healthy so I can protect you. See that smile every day. And when- when you call me human. It’s all there. All I need, you.”

If Chuuya wasn’t human, then what could explain this intense urge to pull you close and tell you all that’s good within you? What he loved.

So he did just that. Pulled you into a close hug, down into his red work shirt that smells of cologne.

“I love you too, Chuu. More than I ever realized.”

Maybe this wasn’t the perfect confession, but perfect isn’t irrelevant when you’re in his arms.

[syrma-sensei]

Somewhere In Your Heart, Ch.3: Mirrors.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!reader.

Rating: Explicit.

Setting: In the early 80s.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Prostitution, angst, sexual innuendos, violence, cursing...

Summary: Soldier Boy lives through the ennui of his peak, but everything is about to change when he has a shift in his heart.

“That’s not what I fucking signed up for!”

Legend flinches a bit as Soldier Boy flings the glass of liquor in his hand. Legend's face twitches as he sees it splinter into tiny pieces, which makes him often wonder if he’d end up with his head bashed into pieces if he carried on his career in this damned place. Despite everything, Legend has developed a tight resolve when it comes to dealing with Vought's supes, Soldier Boy in particular.

“You wanted the gal, and now you have her.” Legend answers crudely.

Soldier Boy seethes, “I don't recall being consulted about her fucking pimp tagging along!”

Legend sighs at this point, “Mr. Harold's her manager, and he emphasised his inclusion to be thoroughly considered. He's been her tutor for years. And you heard her yourself, she wanted him in.”

Soldier Boy smacks his lips in deep frustration. Great. Now, he'd have to deal with her manager being up on their asses in their little game of cat and mouse. What he wants is simple, he wants her in his bed after he's won her over. He doesn't want that fuck face to get in his way. Soldier Boy sighs, passing an aggressive hand over his face.

“When do we start the rehearsals?” Ben asks in a tight tone, he's still finding this hard to digest.

“Tomorrow morning, because you know, she's quite busy at night.”

Legend's insinuated smirk didn't go unnoticed by Ben. The little shit.

“Good.” Ben replies, and dismisses Legend, because he too has a busy night.

Ben exhales deeply through his nostrils before he scooches by the swarms of dancing and drunk people. He's donned in a casual outfit for tonight. Casual yet fancy; Ben never skimps on his looks whether it's for business or in his private life. He dresses both to impress (the gals) and depress (the pals). He's aware of his effect on both sides and likes to swagger with his looks; he has black jeans on his legs, black jean jacket wide open to show off his chest which is accentuated by a white shirt. His feet are comfortable in a pair of brown and sleek boots.

Finding his way to the bar, his piercing green eyes catch the visage of a pretty girl by the bar. Once his eyes land on her, she flashes him a grin which he partially ignores on his way to his destination.

He sits on a stool, resting one arm on the bar counter, ordering a drink, then he turns around to have a quick scan on the dance floor. Most of the people dancing are between late adolescence and early twenties. When he was their age he applied to Dr. Vought's Compound V trials to win his father's favour. He scoffs between him and himself.

A real man doesn't take a shortcut.

The words still titillate a bitter taste akin to ash under his tongue whenever he remembers what his father spewed in his face after Ben saw God under those fucking trials. It was perilous and shrouded with uncertainty, but he was willing to do it for his father, to make him proud. He became America's first superhero, the golden son of the states, but what good the golden son title could do him if he was a disappointing coward in his father's eyes.

He closes his eyes for a bit, he can't believe it still haunts him after all this time. His dad is dead. Hell, he's older than him right now, hitting his fucking sixties with ease his dad would've wished he had. The bastard died of cancer, or so he'd heard. It was a long time ago. He doesn't remember, of course, why would he bother? He didn't even attend his funeral. The old bastard didn't deserve the honour.

He gobbles down his drink in one go when it's served, relishing in the momentarily burning sensation. Then, he orders another.

Fuck, sometimes, he wishes he was normal like those youngsters, he thinks melancholically. Hell, he can't even get drunk to forget, to make mistakes, to feel alive again.

He comes to places like this because it's easier to blend in. He's rarely recognised among drunk and stoned people who are looking for some ass.

Ben's head whips to the side when he feels a gentle hand on his arm, caressing it tenderly. “You look sad…” He raises a brow at the girl, she's the same gal he saw when he first entered the club. “I can fix that…”

He lets her despite the fact he knows she can't fix shit.

After hours, Ben is lying naked in one of the club's rooms, beside him the girl who offered him help, the help that did him nothing at all. He knew from the outset this wouldn't work, but he gave it a shot because the girl looked somewhat akin to Rita Hayworth whom he had a crush on growing up.

He rubs his eyes with a groan as he sits up, deftly swinging his feet down on the floor. This is not good. Sex is never not good to him, especially if it's accompanied with some toots on fine breasts like this one had. God, she has two watermelons for a pair of tits. And boy did he fucking like tits. Big, medium, small, he likes all of them.

Ben glances at her, fuck, he didn't even ask for her name, but Rita-Hayworth-knock-off is a new mom. He can sense the milk hormone kicking in her system which she's trying to dial down with meds. Ben twitches his eyebrows; it explains why she's taken this road.

He shakes his head, looking at her, she seems in her early twenties, he can hazard a guess and say it's the same scenario. She met Romeo, got knocked up, Romeo left, big old daddy kicked her out. And now she has hers and her baby's mouths to feed.

Ben grunts as he reaches for his jean jacket on the floor, he grabs something out before he gets dressed in his clothes. He leaves her some money under the pillow.

Rita-Hayworth-knock-off wakes up after a while to find her payment under the pillow, and a piece of paper above it, with no trace of the handsome man. Her eyes widen when she flips it back and forth trying to comprehend what's that.

It's for you and your baby, not for the fucking pimp.

Rita smiles with tears in her eyes, hugging the check to her chest.

When his pursuit of pleasure has failed, Ben heads back home. And by home it means one of his private properties, a penthouse. He sighs as he slips the jacket off, tossing it on the armrest of the leatherd big sofa in the living room. He ambles towards the wet bar and pours himself a drink. He lets out an elongated sigh, it almost sounds longing and craving.

“Fuck…” He groans. You really did a number on him. His bodys is fucking raging with want and nothing besides having you will regale that burning desire to claim you. He guzzles up his drink.

He fucking met a broad twice and his body is acting up like a pussy. He's fucking Soldier Boy, the Soldier Boy. One fleeting girl can't bring him to heels like that. But again, the image of your sensual features, the rasp in your voice, the mystery in your eyes, they're all so fucking tempting him to coax you down layer by layer. He wants to see the girl behind this facade. Oh, he knows there's one behind that eloquent, sagacious mask. He wants to meet the one who's grinding on his vainglory's gears. He wants that woman, and he's intended to own her.

The world of Vought is a dreadful and dangerous place to be, but however the people in charge of making it dazzle with such glamour, they earn each penny they make.

You were fast to acclimate to the somewhat new atmosphere. Jack was proud of you, and you were happy you managed to do so.

You're always on time, with utter competence and professionalism; any lack of diligence is frowned upon. Your business is mostly tied to none other than Soldier Boy, the greatest hero ever lived.

Working with America's son is amusing to say the least.

In spite of his big headed self, he's actually good at taking orders and exerting them like a good soldier would. Through the days in the rehearsals, he's been unexpectedly nice to you, which makes you wonder what he really wants from you. You're not an idiot. Jack made sure of that. You know that Soldier Boy wants you; him practically eye-fucking you is a bit of a giveaway. However, he doesn't verbally express anything of the sort.

During the days at Vought, you've come to learn more and more about Soldier Boy, bits reporters would kiss your ass to divulge to them. But of course your professionalism and the NDA you signed prevent you from doing so.

You find Soldier Boy — or Ben as he emphasised to call him, is an interesting individual, as expected from a man of his rank and fame. But as any performer he's a complete hypocrite. Just like yourself. The first time in which he almost made you gasp was when he invited you to his headquarters in the tower so you could sniff some crunched crack with him. To kick back, as he put it. That shit is good, I'm telling ya. You discovered that America's golden son isn't as godly as his media pretence claims to be.

He's flawed, tremendously so. Just like you are. He has a short and firing temper that threatens to blow off at any second. And he isn't kind to those who don't make him happy. One time, he burst in the face of a poor assistant for not bringing his right order of coffee. Iced. He snarled at him.

And to add insult to injury, he's hard to please.

However, and oddly enough, he isn't as crass with the gentle sex. Especially with you. Maybe the fact he would fuck you at some time has something to do with that. Be that as it may, you enjoy the companionship of the supe, because there's a lot to him that intrigued you. Despite everything, his what is akin to giddiness that he shows when he's with you is growing on you.

Anywho, within the deepest layers of you, you envy him. He isn't on a leash like you. He comes and goes whenever and wherever he likes. He takes shit from nobody, and does whatever he wants. You wish you had anything close to what he had. The power, the money, the connections. You want to be like him, and not some bitch tied to her owner for life.

Today's the day you and Soldier Boy officially record the cover song after days of arduous rehearsals with the latter. Again, he's hard to please; you can't help but to think whether he made you and the rest of the crew reiterate when he didn't like that note, or when he disliked the harmony of the rhythm, or he was doing that on purpose just so he can spend more time with you.

You internally sigh, you shouldn't read much into the lines, but considering, you relish in the attention and you give him yours, the thing he wants the most as of yet. You wonder when he's going to get bored of you. Up close, Soldier Boy is the kind of a man who falls fast into ennui. It's only a matter of time before he tosses you aside and moves on to his next stimuli.

You're playing with fire, and you know that. Much like he is seeking the pleasurable sting, so are you.

Despite Soldier Boy's faults, he knows how to get the job done, whether it's on field or up on the stage, Legend muses. The latter can't but acknowledge that Soldier Boy is a talent. A magnificent and pure one at that.

Legend is glad about the fact this gal is being in Vought's favour. She has the voice and the looks, and he can feel it, everyone working in the studio can feel it. The chemistry between the two. Maybe, just maybe, he can consider making them a screen couple after the song hits the audience on cloud nine.

It's been a good day today. The records are going smoothly. The only thing that might've disturbed it was Jack Harold's presence in Soldier Boy's. The latter has a thing about the former. And casting professional shit aside, the man is hubristic and kind of unpleasant. Luckily, he doesn't come by often. Jack dropped by from time to time to establish his presence. Nothing harmful, yet.

Legend only hopes Soldier Boy keeps his cool in front of Jack just for a couple of days more. Legend watches the duo sing in a flawless consonance.

Everything is at ease until a rambunctious Noir barges in the studio, seeing red.

The music of “Just The Two Of Us” slowly dwindles away, as yours and Soldier Boy's melts into the walls of the recording room.

“You’re standing in my place, Soldier Boy.” Noir enunciates.

Soldier Boy wries a brow the young supe.

The palpable tension is a clear cue for the crew to scramble out of the recording room, because they know better not to get in between two supes. Legend watches from the control room, he notices that you aren't running like the rest of the staff. Instead you take the spot behind Soldier Boy.

The latter can hear your heartbeat quicken up and can distinguish it from Noir’s; each has its unique pattern like a thumbprint. And at the moment, Noir's is gushing with fury, and yours… Well, yours is bumping with fear and… excitement?

Soldier Boy scoffs at Noir, a small grin playing on his lips. “Your place?” He snickers, “Listen up, kid—”

“No, you listen to me, Ben.” Noir spits, “This is where you fucking stop getting in my way!”

Soldier Boy bursts out laughing, “Getting in your way? Kid, this is my hit, before your old man knocked up your mama.”

That's it. Noir couldn't take more insult into his wound and marches forward, launching an attack at Soldier Boy. However, the more seasoned supe grabs his fist in his first with ease.

Soldier Boy tilts his head, glancing at you over his shoulder, “You might as well get outta her, sweetheart, things are gonna get a little bit messy.”

You don't need to be told twice. Your feet hit the air as you scurry out of the room. But… Noir takes the shot and hauls you in his free hand and hurls you to the wall. You wail as you fall on the floor.

“You little shit!” Soldier Boy grits his molars and grasps Noir’s arms and fixes him to his spot before he headbutts the younger supe. Three hits were enough to make Noir stagger backwards, giving Soldier Boy the chance to punch Noir's cheeks, then depositing him unconscious onto the floor.

Soldier Boy lips twitch at the pathetic little shit, before he walks in your direction, crouching down to your level.

“Hey, are you okay, sweetheart?” Unlike the brutal scene from moments ago, Soldier Boy's touch is gentle when he holds you up to check for any injury. Luckily, and thanks to Soldier Boy, Noir couldn't exert enough power to cause any severe damage to you but manageable bruises and a sprained ankle.

Legend watches at the mess from behind the scenes as supe crisis staff pour into the room to clear that mess up. He doesn't heed anything of his attention but how Soldier Boy insisted on carrying you up in his arms to get patched up in his own personal quarters.

Legend lights up a cigar and wonders what kind of spells you cast on Soldier Boy that he's so smitten with you. Could it be you're a supe with hypnotising powers? Maybe, but if so, you'd have been within Vought's records.

But nothing of the sort was found on you. You're just a human with a pretty face and vocal talents that happened to captivate the mind of the current most important asset of Vought. He expected Soldier Boy to get bored and toss you aside after a couple of days when he was done with you. But Legend was gravely mistaken. For the past weeks, Soldier Boy only got more enamoured by your charms and was putty in your hand with only a bat of your pretty eyelashes. Legend kept an eye on both of you everyday to see how that was coming along, and it surprised him to say the least.

Perhaps they can use you to their benefit for a better communication with the supe, Legend says. Because as the days pass by, Soldier Boy is only getting older and out of touch with each day. He's become more tenacious and hard to deal with each day. Maybe you could become a key for a new affair. Who knows, maybe when the song is all the rage in the country, people will like the idea of pairing you together better than Soldier Boy with Countess. People would find a human girl paired up with Soldier Boy more appealing and more relatable. Legend flick the cigar in the ashtray on the dashboard in the control room. He shakes his head, and gets back to reality. There are two injured people in the mess today which makes him release a series of expletives as he huffs a vapour of smoke.

He sighs. The things he does for talents.

“Oww!” You groan as the medic dabs an alcohol-soused piece of cotton on your ankle.

“Careful with that one. She's delicate.”

Soldier Boy tells the medic as he patches you up.

When he's done, he leaves you with several plasters on your body and a swollen ankle wrapped with a white bandage.

Great. Now you're gonna be useless for few days. You sigh, already picturing the querulous frown on Jack's face. You're gonna miss a couple nights at his clubs.

“Relax, you’re gonna be fine.” He offers you a glass of whiskey with rocks. “I know you're no snowflake.”

You take a gulp of your drink and the searing sensation temporarily numbs the bitterness you've held for the most of your life.

You sigh again, placing the glass on the coffee table in front of you. In times of vulnerability like this, you can't be but haunted by the memory of your brother. The only family you had before your life took a shitty turn and snatched him away from you. Before you met Jack. Before you've become this.

You drown yourself in self pity and scoff. Life wasn't just a bitch by depriving you of your care-taker and protector, it also threw Jack Harold in your way who moulded you into what you are now. A complete hypocrite, who lives off kissing ass and sucking dicks.

Soldier Boy studies you before he pours you another. He knows you need another shot.

“You know…” You say after you feel the tantalising burn in your esophagus. “I didn't remember being roughhoused by one of you folks in our contract. Plus, what did he mean by you getting in your way?”

You usually won't care, but you're really curious what rubbed Noir the wrong way that he hurled you across the recording room. For all you know, and from what you've heard from the halls of Vought, he was on a solo mission.

Soldier Boy jeers. “The kid's delusional. He thinks I pulled the song from under his feet when in fact, Legend begged me to do it.” He swallows a mouthful of his drink.

You sigh again, “But isn't he a member of Payback? I thought you guys are like family.”

Soldier Boy sneers, “The kid needs to be reminded to respect the chain of command every once in awhile. He shouldn't have crossed me with such impudence.” Then through his fleeting ire, a sly grin pulls at his lips as he tips your chin up, “And he shouldn't have touched what belongs to me.”

A bemused shiver roils through your spine at his claim of ownership of you. You can't be his. You're Jack's. The latter made sure of it. Being Jack's property would be a dread to any woman, but wanting to be Soldier Boy's is frightening. You saw what he did to Noir with a sliver of his strength, the fact he can snap you in two halves like a toothpick makes your bowels liquid. However, you can't ignore the twinge in your core when he said it. No, no. You learnt how to lie and be a fake bitch to other people, but not to yourself. You don't misinterpret the aching throb between your legs for this man. No, no. You crave to be his, you wish he'd snatch you away from Jack the way life snatched your brother away from you; once and for all.

You drum up what remains of your deteriorating aplomb and keep your chin up. “I wish to be compensated.”

Soldier Boy quirks a brow up. “You want compensation?”

You nod at your bruises, “If you want me to be yours, you must show me.”

He falls silent for a moment that elapses like a year. Then, another grin curves his lips up. “Show you…”

“I want you to show me something I've never seen… Can you do that?”

His grin widens, it almost resembles a shark's. “I think I can, dollface.”

After a few days, and after your bruises fade away into yellowish smudges, Soldier Boy keeps his words.

He sneaks you out of Vought after you two finish recording the damn song. Pleasure after business as he told you. You only thank Christ that you conducted the visuals a day before Noir came back and almost ruined your work.

He takes you to a building in the heart of the city, the sliding spyhole glides open, an eye peeks through it, and as soon as it perches on Soldier Boy, the door immediately clicks open.

You step in, dogging Soldier Boy's steps. He turns to you and smirks. “Welcome to Herogasm, sweetheart.”

🦅 Previous Chapter: A New Window

🦅 Next Chapter: Unmasked.

🦅 Somewhere In Your Heart Masterlist

🦅 Soldier Boy Masterlist

Taglist: @thebiggerbear, @zepskies, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deansbbyx, @deans-spinster-witch

@venus-haze, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @ketchupjasmin, @demodemo909

@mystic-mara, @jqtaro, @pepsicolacoochie, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @prurose

@leavli, @robertthehoover, @soldiergrimes, @vanessa-boo, @uddiifiigj...

[imbibitorlunaeluv]

Late Night Talks

You can't seem to get a peaceful night's rest, and neither can he.

Yuta Okkotsu x Fem! reader.

A lil drabble I made, basically for those who feel absoloutely guttered after a long day. L/N is your last name! have fun lovelies and DON'T sleep late!

This isn’t normal. None of this should be normalised to a teenage girl, a child who eliminates curses up until the sun rises up. But there are some who are considered gifted. Blessed to be stronger by others, and at all cost protect the weak. Though those rules are unwritten, it should be common knowledge by everyone.

I open the door to the dorms, my breath heavy as I fight the urge to close my eyes. A full week of enduring the need to faint is what I have overcome, and it may as well become part of my life by now. They say it is all well, the safety of others- of the weak, ensured.

The strong shielding the weak.

I lazily take off my combat boots, not caring what noise I may make at this time of night as I let my back collapse onto the sofa. I feel my sight become a blur, the taste and smell of curses still lingering in the air, the face of a helpless man screaming and kicking whilst making it harder to exorcise the damned cursed spirit.

To hell with the weak.

My right arm lifts up to cover my eyes, exhaling through my nose as I feel myself getting lightheaded,

“I feel like dying today…”

I mutter, to absoloutely no one. Besides, who in god's name would still be up by this hour?

“L/N-san?"

For some reason, something in me warms up just by hearing the familiar voice. I pry my hand away slightly, only to be met by a cursed boy’s dark silhouette in the dimly lit living room we both inhabit. His head peeked out from above the couch, leaning against the back of it while he looked down at me.

“Yuta…” I couldn’t fight the small smile forming onto my face, a slight bit surprised that I was caught off guard and couldn’t sense his presence.

“What… Why are you still awake?”

"I should be the one to ask you that."

I sit up slightly, propping myself up onto my elbows as I attempt to show a non exhausted grin, not like he could actually see it in such darkness.

“I just finished a mission… took longer than expected.”

He doesn’t at all seem satisfied with my answer. The change in atmosphere and posture could tell it all,

“Ah… alright then.”

“You don’t seem content with my answer, pretty boy.”

And he answers a beat later,

“You’re lying. Your missions usually take way longer than this.”

Even without seeing him clearly, the frown on his face was as bright as the sun. Ever since our shared conversation in the sushi restaurant, Yuta and I have been conversing more and more frequently without experiencing an awkward silence.

So attentive, I let a chuckle slip past my lips. The thought of having someone who could actually be awake enough to hear me come through the door is actually frightening. Having someone else who also has a messed up sleep schedule, or mind, accompanying me in the lonely night.

I gave into a smile, “You were always awake, weren’t you?”

A question that needed no answering to, making Yuta shake his head slightly as he walked to turn on the kitchen light instead.

“I never sleep- well at least I try not to…” his voice trails off, a yawn overcoming him as I sit up to get a better view of Yuta.

The way his eyes were begging to be closed shut, his slouched back and heavy eye bags were enough to make me feel slight pity. For a boy who claims to never sleep, he’s done particularly well in the art of combat. His passion, his determination, his love towards her.

I pursed my lips at the thought of Rika, “Do you never try to talk to… you know… Rika?”

A laughable question it might be, humorous to Yuta probably as I expected him to topple over laughing. But then again, it’s Yuta. The depressed cursed teenage boy I saved. The cursed boy merely smiles, holding his mug in one hand as he looks over to me.

“Not ever since being haunted by her face in my dreams, no.”

I experienced it too, is what I wanted to say. Although nothing leaves my mouth, I give an understanding nod instead. After realising that the past would always chase me till my sleep, I was slightly grateful for the stockpile of missions that made me occupied. I stopped consulting with Shoko as it proved to be of no help.

“Sometimes when I do see a glimpse of the past Rika… I feel sick to my stomach.”

I know the feeling.

“Knowing that I couldn’t even do anything made me feel useless… even until now.”

I’ve always felt that way.

“Sometimes I feel that Gojo-sensei was right… love is a twisted curse.”

Love is for the weak.

I let out a hum, eyes casted down to instead look at my nails and speak whatever comes to my head, “He told me the same thing. But I thought it was so I would steer away from dating anyone.”

And for a moment, I catch a glimpse of Yuta’s sheepish look.

“You-you’ve never… had a lover?” he questions me, his cheeks flaring up into a vibrant pink while avoiding any form of eye contact. He sounds lost, astounded, even. It’s as if the facts I conveyed to him were all white lies.

“Never really thought of having one, really. I admit that the topic of romance does hang higher in the books I read, but I’ve never experienced what it’s like to be loved romantically by someone.”

My explanation seemed to bring Yuta some courage to at least look me in the eye, his lips slightly parted at the information he received. He seems to stay like that for a moment, the same startled look looming on his features.

I take notes on his face features, softly lit up by the light shining right above the kitchen counter behind him. The colour on his face seemed to return after enrolling in Jujutsu High for a while, and he doesn’t look as skinny and bony as he did. His hair was growing a tad bit longer, more fluffy but never kept neat. My gaze goes down to his lips, his slightly chapped, parted lips.

I feel myself getting warmer by the second, my heart thumping so loud I can almost throw it up. He looks at me, with such eyes that cloud so much thought. And I absolutely feel myself getting weaker just by this, and I absolutely hate it.

I return my gaze to his eyes, “Too shocked to speak?”

Yuta flinches by the sound of my voice, almost as if he was in a haze whilst looking over at me. He then shakes his head, watching his unkept raven hair move as a blush rises to his ears. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes not meeting mine as I can barely make out his muffled voice,

“You’re just… too pretty

[roxyteal]

(Jesus Christ it happened again. Mobile decided to not only publish the draft but also not save any of my edits. Pardon me if you see any appear) (Oct 30: Put context about his sobriety in the beginning, as opposed to in the middle out of nowhere.)

Today I am compelled to talk about Joe 5. It may include things I already mentioned in a different post, but those were in the tags so if any of this seems like not new info, sorry about that.

ANYWAY

Joe 5. Also this gets long so bear with me.

Joe 5 (but you can use either Joe or 5) came from a complete set copy of "Joe`s basics joke game". He was relatively fine as a person, with highs and lows. He's a bit of a snark but it's usually lighthearted. He even realized he had a problem and got clean, though... Alcohol still kinda haunts him as a result.

At some point, he and his entourage found the Webspace. On that day, they were among two others - a copy of Denied's Basics (the 10th apparently), and the 82nd Dave, who was a rogue for some reason.

Things were alright until it was mentioned that there was a pre-existing Joe and company around, and whether or not they'd like to merge with him, and so on. 5 thought that was weird as Hell and said no. But his companions said yes.

This resulted in 5 distancing from them since they're "not my friends anymore", and "I don't even know them anymore". And from then on, he resented the idea of merging, and that damned "Joe 1" for being so Goddamn happy. What's he all smiley about, he thought. The fucker.

But at least he still had his school. His empty, ghost town of a school. He quickly realized he couldn't live alone in that so he started staying in a tiny apartment, which quickly became a mess because of his plummeting self-worth. If only he'd just gone with everyone else, this could've been avoided, he also thought. It's his punishment for going against the grain. Being different. Maybe even "defective". Well shit, let's be defective. Why not.

He would have his code and model changed so that his hair would grow naturally. Somewhere in his reasons for this was needing to feel responsible for something, so he wouldn't completely fall apart. And maybe having it would make him feel better, whether about himself, in general, or both. He recalled that he considered asking his player about it in the past, but never got the nerve. Better late than never, he tried to rationalize. That's what people say to forgive themselves, right?

But the shoulder-length he requested (and wavy to boot, he didn't realize he had that...) spiraled out of control and now reaches his waist. Of course he couldn't keep up the end of the deal he put upon himself. It really needs the trim, but he couldn't be assed to try, and it disgusts him. The only good thing was how it never tangled. Game magic shit or whatever. But regardless of that, he looked like a cryptid, and he felt like one too.

At this point, his only comforts was TV, eating, and sleeping. He didn't need to do the last two obviously, but it gave him something to do, a distraction. When he ate, he could focus on the taste and nothing else. When he slept, he would stop being able to drown in his thoughts, welcomed instead into nothingness. When he watched TV, it numbed him enough to stop caring.

But even in his lowest moments, he refused to give in to his old addiction of... That. Diving back into it would truly mean the end had come. He'd rather be tortured to the brink before he had a sip again. Even now. Especially now.

He rarely ever left the apartment, kept the lights off, curtains to the balcony closed, and didn't allow visitors. He rarely ever left his bed, in fact. Sometimes he'd lie there and daydream about leaving. To where? Who knows. But this place was so painful to live in because everyone else has it great and he's got nothing so it's like... Just leave. But where?

He'd ponder it. Maybe just go out that tunnel and see where the Internet busses take him. Leave it up to fate. Maybe he'll find a nice little NeoCities domain. That whole area's so fuckin' large, there had to be a place where even 5, a worthless piece of shit, could fit right in! Yeah...

But he never gets out of bed. Out of the apartment. To the entrance tunnel. To the bus stop. To NeoCities. He just lies there, thinking about it. And nothing happens.

One day, he realized he was running out of food. The only reason he'd ever leave his trash heap of an apartment. By this point it was a matter of looking presentable enough to go out into that bright, colorful, vapid world crafted by that... Uh, mask man, and his spooky associates. Or keep staring at the dump that is 5's living space and contemplate if he could live without the sensation of eating. He still had his two other trusty vices, is it okay to lose one?

But, fuck. He loved the instant noodles. The frozen meals. The rice cups he could drizzle a little soy onto. And all the other kinds of convenient, packaged stuff. Goddammit.

So, he stepped around the trash, and next he knew, he was out the door. Fine. Fine. Fine! He'll get so much, he'll never have to come out again!

But as soon as he was outside the building, hair almost encasing his torso like a shroud, something shifted. Today's the day he's going to leave. Yeah. He'll get this done, pack up, make a pitstop to Vincent's or whatever pretentious name that supernatural son of a bitch had, flip off the gaudy building, then head straight for the tunnel. If he had time, he might even egg that fucking place!

This is it! God, it'd been so long since he was excited. Genuinely excited. He wanted to hold onto this forever.

Mood improved, he carried on with his mission. He ignored the other shoppers, checking off everything he picked up from his list. It was one of his first lessons here, because how could anyone remember everything they needed? He sure couldn't.

Things were going fine, until... He bumps into someone. Baldina. And she single-handedly became the craziest thing to happen to him.

He barely recalled the conversation, but it led to her hiring him as an assistant at her school, despite his clear lack of qualifications. It seemed that like Mr. Strobe-bow-skis, she too had plenty of people under her thumb, in numerous positions. A whole network of them.

One of which, 5 got to meet while struggling pitifully with the coffee machine, just seconds away from having a breakdown right then and there. This guy called himself, er, "I'm never"? But one word. Okay sure whatever. And in spite of 5's threatening tones and verbiage, Imnever was patient enough to show him how to use the brewer. Even informed him of how Baldina takes her coffee.

So what's Imnever's story? Oh, he teaches art here. He's more of an animator by trade, but this suited him just fine. Huh. Well, still more impressive than anything 5's ever accomplished.

The three of them became friends. He wasn't sure how that was possible, but finally he had a reason to go outside more often, instead of stewing in his own suffering for weeks at a time. In fact, slowly that poor excuse of an apartment turned into something a little more decent. It wasn't super tidy, but if Imnever, Baldina, or both wanted to visit, finally 5 could and would allow it.

It got to a point where, one morning, they surprised him with a present. A motorcycle. Apparently the two had taken his daydreaming musings seriously, about how cool it would be to have one. Also, 5 had forgotten what day it was - his birthday.

He cried. He couldn't possibly accept this. He didn't know how to ride it. He'd ruin it or hurt someone. All the classic, self-depreciating excuses he was told he was using.

But, as Imnever said, what you don't know, you fear. Once you do, you don't. Frankly that sounded confusing, and yet, these types of phrases helped him get this far, so... Just accept the damn thing.

The helmet was really cool, but he had so much hair that it wouldn't be able to fit. At long last, he got the trim he had desperately needed; up to just below the shoulders. But Baldina did it for him. Almost ironic, but at this point, who cares?

He forgot how light his head felt after the excess was cut down. It was a nice feeling.

Once he actually tried to overcome that fear of failure and took the chance to learn something, he was surprisingly quick on the uptake. And before long, he was zooming down streets in that badass chopper of his.

Maybe the Webspace isn't actually so horrible. But, thinking that, he reminisced about that day, where he was so sure he was gonna leave this domain behind and start over somewhere else. He slowed to a stop in front of Infinite School or something like that. Hm...

And he gave that treacherous high-rise building the bird, laughing manically as he drove onward. Of course he was going to stick around nowadays, but it still felt right to do. And boy was it worth it.

Life here had finally looked up for 5. Until, well... The demon showed up. But that's a whole other fuckin' story.

[hippolotamus]

🎖️ 🎖️ 🎖️

Hi, Renee!!!!!!! I hope you don’t mind me combining multiple asks from you, @diazsdimples and @acesartemis. I just couldn’t bear to split these sentences up. This snippet is based on an idea I shared with James and Jamie a while back and can’t stop thinking about 🫶💖

CW for mentions of death, war, blood, etc (putting it under the cut for this reason)

Late morning finds them in the tenth arrondissement, uncharacteristically serene given the most recent events. For nearly a week the company has been sifting through chaotic, disorganized heaps that Eddie knows will haunt him for the rest of his life. Masses of limbs, toys, bricks, cookware, concrete. All mementos of lives rearranged like a sick jigsaw puzzle. Pieces shuffled and dumped on the streets for someone to reconnect.

Their task is to seek out any survivors, no matter how unlikely a scenario that is by now. He doesn’t know why any instructions are being sugar coated anymore. They all know they aren’t looking for heartbeats. Often they’re lucky to find whole bodies. Perhaps it’s more for the delicate ears of any nearby citizens, though he suspects their hope is down to embers as well. 

Eddie takes what feels like his first full breath in days as he and Tommy come upon a section of Canal Saint Martin. The sight of flowing water, however repulsive its contents, is its own form of healing for him. If he doesn’t analyze it too closely, he can pretend that it’s only water. A historic landmark bringing a bit of tranquility in the face of destruction. 

The street itself is relatively intact, as loosely defined as the term is at the moment. He doesn’t immediately pick out spots of reddish-brown and that’s good enough for him. 

Neither one of them speaks just yet, content with listening to the faint sounds of the canal. Not quite midway down the street is what remains of a cafe. Tables and chairs mingle, overturned on the sidewalk, glittering in the sunlight from shards of glass blown out from the windows and doors. He peers into the darkened shop, curious to see what other bits he might find.

Tommy wordlessly follows him inside, chips of glass and porcelain crunching under their boots. 

“What’s on your mind, kid?” Tommy asks, breaking the silence. 

He surveys the fallen shelves, shattered cups and saucers, tablecloths and napkins, the register laying in the center of a display case. He runs his fingers across the nearest wall, swiping a pattern into the dirt and dust. It’s not even the first establishment like this they’ve come upon, so he’s not sure why this one in particular calls to him. 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “This place-” He scrubs at his chin, huffing out a humorless laugh before turning to face Tommy. “Maybe it’s a bit of sadness for something I’ll never know.”

Tommy cocks his head to the side, silently asking him to elaborate. 

“I’ve never been anywhere like this at home. Sure, we have a few places in town, but it’s- they’re standard. Small town. Probably not all that different from another place a few miles over.”

“Can’t say my little speck on the map is rolling in Parisian eateries either.” 

“That’s not-” Eddie shoots him a faux annoyed glare. “You already know I’ve never traveled before. Never went farther than the post office. Well, until I had to get interviewed by Uncle Sam. Anyway, my point is, these cities will be put back together. Eventually. Homes will be rebuilt, businesses will reopen. But- they’ll never be the same.” He pauses, turning in a slow circle to take it in again. “This was someone’s favorite place to stop on a Saturday. Someone’s preferred place to meet a friend and catch up.”

Eddie meets Tommy’s gaze, shrugging helplessly. “Maybe even a place for someone’s first date. But now, those memories will be ruined. Stained by all of this.”

Tommy nods thoughtfully, as if he’s turning this information over in his mind. “Perhaps.” 

He sets a table upright and grabs one of the filthy cream colored tablecloths, spreading it out on the tabletop. Eddie watches as he gathers two of the least broken teacups and saucers, setting two places directly across from each other. 

“The thing is, something I’ve learned from all of this mess, is that even the most damaged can be restored. It will never be like it was, but sometimes it’s- better. More complete than anyone thought possible.” Tommy reaches to take Eddie’s hand, pulling him closer. “New memories will be made.”

“Yeah?” Eddie rests his free hand on Tommy’s waist. “So, maybe one day in the future this memory could be replaced, too. You and me, we could come back here. When it’s rebuilt. Stay at one of those ritzy hotels.”

Tommy leans closer, nosing along Eddie’s cheek. “Yeah, we could. Wake up whenever we want. And we’ll come here everyday. Drink real coffee out of the fancy little cups and share a basket of warm croissants.”

“Mmhmm,” Eddie answers shakily, feeling a tear escape and roll down to his jaw. 

“Sounds like a dream,” he whispers against Tommy’s lips. 

“Just for now, kid,” Tommy assures him, even though they both know it’s a lie. 

He closes whatever gap was left, needing to kiss Tommy, needing to feel him as close as they can be, decently and in broad daylight. A risk they both seem willing to take. The taste of salt splashes on his tongue as their kiss deepens, Tommy wrapping his hand around the back of Eddie’s neck. 

For a speck of time, slim as any of the fragments laying at their feet, it’s all too easy to forget. To pretend that the world is the kind, understanding place they need it to be. That their words aren’t a spun up fantasy, no more plausible than a child’s fairytale. 

“We should get back out there,” Eddie murmurs, reluctantly pulling away. “Before someone comes looking.”

“You’re right, we should.” Tommy agrees and gives him a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. 

Eddie sighs, looking around one last time, eyes focusing where his fingers brushed through earlier. It gives him an idea, however ill advised it might be. 

“Comin’, Diaz?” Tommy calls from the sidewalk. 

“One sec.” Eddie pauses at the blank wall by their makeshift table, once again tracing into the dirt. He smiles at his creation, committing it to memory before he joins Tommy outside. 

“What was that about?”

“Just wanted someone to know we were here.”

np tagging @diazheartsbuckley @swiftiefirefighters @travellingdragon @peppermintquartz @lemonzestywrites

@your-catfish-friend @thekristen999

[grapejuicestyless]

i have been loving the song big black car by Gregory Alan Isakov lately and was wondering if you could write something based on it? maybe Conrad … maybe harry? this song reminds me of autumn and blurry scenes out of train windows and i would love to see what you could do with it xxx fluff or angst, whatever best suits your mood at the time ⭐️🧚🏻🫂 sending you loooots of love! thank you!!!! <3

Big Black Car

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

Summery: “Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car.” She laughed, pointing at the empty streets. Stepping in the puddles, I watch our reflection bend. She sticks out her tongue, but I can only frown. I understand now that no matter how this ends she will forever haunt me. I’ll see her smile in the rain and hear her voice in the breeze. She was a phonograph, I was a kid. She was everything, and yet nothing.

ANGST

(I might write an alternate version thats fluffy lmk if thats something you would want <3)

I rode in red train cars with the patterned seats from the nineties. I read the novels my friends recommend me and I bit at my nails until they bleed. I leave red stains from my lipstick on my skin when I pull away, and I admire the leaves that stick to the cement.

I don’t mind the chill or the way my nose burns in the late November air. It reminds me of the holidays, big sweaters and sweet n’ low sugar in dirty coffee cups. I don’t complain about the dirt on my shoes or the wetness on the bottom of my jeans. I don’t care about how wild my hair is or how my smile is crooked and my freckles are scattered.

The world is spinning, round and round like a carousel. What would I be if I were to stop and complain. To sit still on a world made for dancing, a world that gifts us the chance to take it all in just once.

So I don’t mind that I had to ride hours in a train to get to Boston. And I don’t care how he doesn’t wait for me on the platform like I would’ve. After all we are only gifted our place on this earth once. I’ve learned to hold no grudges, have no anger. I remember that I am not the only one living this life for the first time.

The red of their front door is the same red of my nails. The same red of my lips, the same flush of my nose and the red of my scarf. The color maroon reminds me of the fall, of the traditions and the cinnamon. Chai and tights and boots and fairy lights.

When the door opens, it’s Susannah who opens it. Her blonde hair is shorter and she has more wrinkles. The same smile lines she used to pull back and the creases between her eyebrows she used to complain about. There was nothing to complain about. Why would anyone ever be ashamed of the tattoos of their happiness. How beautifully they age. So I tell her she looks beautiful every chance I get. And I don’t say it just because I want to make her feel good, but because I mean it, and I hope she can see it too.

“Y/n, come in, come in!” She ushers me inside of the house, and her hands rub along my arms like I’d been waiting for hours in the baron winter. Then again, she’s more ill than I would ever be. She believes it’s colder than it truly is.

Unwrapping my scarf, I hang it on the banister. I leave my shoes by the door on the mat right below where my jacket hangs off the hook.

“Wheres Conrad?” I cant help but ask, running my fingers through each other repeatedly. The cold nipped at my fingertips and the wind blew harshly into my face, but it was autumn finally and I was in Boston. So who could complain?

“He’ll be down soon. Just finishing up some cleaning. You know how messy he is.” She smiles as she leaves, tending to the kitchen, making mashed potatoes and some main dish that smells like spices and butter.

The door at the end of the hall at the top of the stairs creaks, and heavy footsteps follow. There he is, I can breathe. I can breathe and I do, because the air is so much fresher when it’s the same air I get to share with my Conrad.

His hair is darker blonde than it was in the summer, and his sweater clings to his body perfectly. He looks so soft and cozy. It’s the same shade of maroon as my scarf and my nails and my nose and my lips. He’s smiling, faintly but I can see it. Right underneath the dark circles of his eyes, under his button nose. He’s just as charming as I remember.

“Con.” She breathed. She breathed like it was her first deep breath in a long time.

She looked so beautiful. Someone straight from a magazine. I swore even the lights above her head bent so they could shine down just on her. Full of so much life, so much love. I couldn’t help but feel dull being so close to her. A Plain Jane standing next to the most gorgeous woman. A miracle beside I, someone who was simply holding his space.

Each step seemed to draw out longer, my resistance to give into the warmth she radiated. The kindness that seeped out of her. She was understanding, smart. That empathy of hers really was a gift. A gift I wish I had, because then maybe I wouldn’t be thinking the things I was right now. Maybe then I could be happy with what I had.

When my mom called for us a few moments later, I silently thanked god for sparing me from my thoughts. The thoughts of her red lips, red nails, red scarf and how we looked like we matched. How I wanted to rip the cotton from my skin to differentiate us. To separate us physically.

I picked at my food with my fork that night at dinner. Pushing around the turkey and chewing at my cheek. Like she knew something was wrong she grabbed my hand, holding it under her own. She didn’t force me to curl my fingers into hers, which I appreciated. She knew, of course she did. How something was wrong. It wasn’t like me to be so distant, so closed off. No, not to the girl who had run around the beaches with me in late July, flying kites and kicking over each other’s sandcastles in fake fury.

She pressed a kiss to my hand then, and I saw the slight stain of red on my skin. She laughs about it, but doesn’t rub it away. But the red burns my skin and the reminder of her being so close hurts my heart. I rub it away quickly, smiling softly to her and letting her hand go. She doesn’t really mind it, and if she did she doesn’t have time to frown about it. Jeremiah is already asking about her college friends and if any of them are single. It makes her laugh, but he was being serious. Which is probably why it was so funny to her.

I can tell by the way he pulls at his collar and sweats from his brow that he’s tense. I know him too well for him to hide from me. I won’t lie and say it didn’t sting to see him brush away the mark of my kiss on his hand, but the pain is dulled by his family and his soft smile assuring me he’s still down on earth right here beside me. It’s all my naive, young love sick brain could ever need from him, and I’m back on my feet.

He doesn’t hold me like he once did. Maybe the salt in the air had clouded his vision, maybe the sunlight made everything feel more genuine. Maybe thats why he once held me like it was his purpose. Like by not having me, he was killing himself. Maybe it was the changing seasons, or maybe it was his mother. But then again, he doesn’t talk much anymore anyways. At least, thats what Jeremiah says at dinner.

He complains how Conrad has no friends at school because he prefers to sit quietly in his dorm, the door only open because his roommate requested it to be so. How his mouth is never dry, he must have so much to say but never says it. His teasing turns sour when Conrad shrugs and mumbles something I don’t quite catch under his breath. I understand it to be something bitter, something rude from the way his eyebrows are furrowed and how Jeremiah’s smile drops. He tries to find his train of thought again, but the more jokes he tries to make towards his brother, hoping for that old banter, the more he is met with silence. Soon the fork is thrown to the plate and the brunette is gone into the backyard to talk with the neighborhood stray cat.

I clear my throat, understanding the discomfort coming from Susannah, the anger pouring from Jeremiah and the quiet coming from Conrad. All their faces are red, blushing in embarrassment. Red like Jeremiahs eyes right before he stormed off. It didn’t really make sense, how quickly it turned sour.

Susannah gathers the plates in her hands, uncaring about the way potatoes fall to the floor or how the carrots roll onto the table cloth. I ask her if she needs help, I beg her to let me but she shoos me away.

“It’s too nice out to be here with me in the kitchen. I’ve always found peace in the repetitive action of doing dishes.” She explains calmly, “This time of year is too short to spend inside. You kids go have fun.” She tries to persuade. And I’m not going to go, but Conrad puts his hand in mine for the first time all night, and his pull is so magnetic I don’t even care how I barely have time to slip on my jacket and my boots. I don’t care that my scarf still hangs from the banister or how i’m slightly thirsty.

It’s wet outside, the sky painted with a sunset so pure, it felt like Van Gogh had to have painted it himself. Last bits of sunlight shining through the tree branches and down onto the street. As soon as we’re far enough to never turn back, not run in to aid Susannah, he drops my hand.

I think it must be from the way his palms get clammy when they are warm enough, but he sets them in his pockets and pushes down. I wish he would talk more, I see why Jeremiahs teasing slowly became bitter. I wish I knew what to say to him.

Her eyes look everywhere but into mine. I can feel them. In my pockets, on my feet, in the sky, through the bushes and over the stone wall that fell with the rain next door. I can hear her breathing in the silence, see her smile with the passing puddles. And her footsteps in the mist that falls down gently.

“Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car.” She jokes, pointing at the empty streets. I watch a large van pass by, a single man with a frown behind the wheel. The jokes not that funny, is it even a joke? I’m not even sure. Maybe it was my silence, or my unwillingness to play nice. Maybe she was just making conversation.

Stepping in the puddles, I watch our reflection bend. She sticks out her tongue, but I can only frown. I understand now that no matter how this ends she will forever haunt me. I’ll see her smile in the rain and hear her voice in the breeze. She was a phonograph, I was a kid. She was everything, and yet nothing.

I’m thankful when I see the red door cracked open on my house. I’m thankful that my mother is asleep on the couch and my brother is distracted by the orange cat rolling on his back for stomach scratches. I’m thankful for my father’s absence and how quietly Y/n hangs her coat. I’m thankful I don’t have to make conversation and that the day is almost over. At least when I’m asleep, I have an excuse to ignore everyone.

My room feels like heaven. Carpet under my sock clad feet and the pillows bent in the way I slept. I’m ready to lay back and let the day melt into a faint memory. I’m ready to forget how I feel, and what I love.

The bed dips beside me when I lay down. I can hear the sigh leave her lips, conversation on the tip of her tongue. So I pull her back to my chest and hold her close.

“Con,” She mumbles quietly. I haven’t quite mastered the evening of my breathing. She knows I’m awake. “Why won’t you talk to me?” She asks, solemnly. Like my silence physically pains her.

“Goodnight, Y/n.” I don’t feel like talking. I can’t. Not now, I’m afraid it will all come out. I’ll spew out complements to cover my insecurities. How wonderful she is, a summer breeze passing through the darkest winters. The first break of sun after a long tireless night. And how I cannot compare, how I cannot have her because it’s not fair to keep the more deserving from her.

When she pulls away, the heater is not enough to warm my cold heart. When she frowns, my pillows aren’t comfortable enough to ease the pain in my heart.

Shes pacing the room, rubbing her temples. Her fingers leave little marks, changing the color of her skin slightly when she pulls too hard. It fades back into its warmth when he fingers fall to her sides.

“What do you want from me, Con?” Her voice shakes, but she does not shy away. She doesn’t run. She will fight with all she has, even if she trembles and cries. And she will speak until she has nothing left to say.

“I don’t know.” I admit shamefully, standing up, my long strides close the gap between us. I want to hold her in my arms and put her in my pocket forever. A photo would never be enough. A photo didn’t hum little melodies in the kitchen, a photo didn’t make stupid jokes and a photo didn’t have her laugh.

When my hands reach up to hold her, they settle on her face. I don’t know what to say, I can’t find the words. My lips stutter and only a squeak can get past my lips.

Her fingers meet my left hand, holding her hand gently on top of mine. But unlike at the dinner table, she interlocks our fingers and holds me there.

She presses another kiss to the palm of my hand, and like she had earlier, the red from her lips left a soft remnant of her lips. Staining the skin with a weak smudge. When she went to wipe it away, I flinched. Why did I flinch?

"No, don't." I pleaded softly. I watched her inch away.

"What are you playing at Conrad? One minute you hate me, the next you want me." I didn't hate her. I just didn’t know.

God, how could she think I hated her? All l ever wanted was her. I just loved her too much. I was drowning in her. Slowly killing myself.

"I don't know." I couldn't say much more, I couldn't even look at her anymore. This time, she drops my hand. And the red from her lips stings my skin like a bullet through my palm. But the tears in her eyes hurt much more than a loaded gun. I would have rather been shot through the ribs than see the way her eyes glossed over because of me. How her lips quivered and finally shut. She had no more back and forth to pursue. She had said everything she wanted to say. We had run our course, it seemed.

“Loose my number, Conrad.” And shes gone like the wind, out of the door in silence other than the shaking of the coat rack and the movement of her boots. I swear I hear Jeremiah come inside. He asks very softly where shes going. I imagine she’s smiling, holding his cheek like the good big sister she is to him. His role model that I so selfishly ripped away from him by breaking her heart. I wonder if they’ll keep in touch now that it’s over.

When the door shuts, I notice two things. One, Jeremiah is standing at the door, eyes wide and mouth open. He looks confused until he sees me, and the anger is surely possessing his body by now, but he doesn’t seem to want to move. His hand stuck to his cheek, covering the stain of red left behind on his cheek. The final kiss goodbye. I know then, he won’t hear from her that often anymore. At least, not right now.

Second, I notice the maroon scarf hanging on the banister. It’s soft and still smells like her perfume. I can smell it when I get too close. It’ll stay in our home, along with her jokes and the piece of her heart she left behind when her first love shattered her heart. Maybe it’s the look of guilt on my face, or the tears in my own eyes, but Jeremiah makes his way to me finally. And I expect a punch once he reaches the third step, but instead his arms wrap around my body and his head tucks into my shoulder.

He mumbles something about it being okay, but it’s muffled against the loud memories of her that I try to keep locked in my mind so that I never forget them. He says it more for himself than for me, and I understand that I’ve left not one heart in pieces, but three.

Leaving that house, I leave behind pieces of me I wish I never gave away. I leave behind the Pinterest boards of wedding dressing and flowers and rings in boxes. I leave behind our future dog’s name and the house we picked out in the summer, the future we dreamed about.

Suddenly the color maroon didn't remind me of autumn anymore. Not of the traditions and the cinnamon. Chai and tights and boots and fairy lights.

It reminds me of the blood I left on my fingers where I bit them. Of the blood pouring from my heart now that it's shattered. Of the train I'll be riding home far too soon. Of my favorite scarf, that still hangs from the banister. That still smells like his house. That I wonder if he will keep it or toss it.

I went tor a walk that next morning. The sun wasn't up yet, and the birds were long gone. Families snuggled inside of their homes. When I walked down the stairs, I let my fingers touch the cool wood of the banister to wake me. I let my hand rub over the soft scarf thats not mine, but hers. And I bring it to my nose to see if I can still smell her.

When I go for my walk I turn to the left every time until I'm almost back home. I've gone in big circles.

Everywhere yet no where. When I reach the street sign, a neighbor honks to me. He's at the stop sign, driving a big black car. I don't wave back. I'm far too shocked to move. The same sad man sitting in the car with his dog in the seat beside him and his aging mother curled up in the backseat. He doesn’t look so sad today. He looks indifferent, but not sad.

When he drives away I can't help but raise my arm. I point. "Heartbreak, drives a big black car." I joke. And only now do I find the joke funny. Only now that I'm hurting.

[cabezadeperro]

im back and i got one actually in the spirit of the prompt this time !! reading comprehension !! casablanca w/ fox/fives/echo (or any combination thereof, there are many possibilities contained within that movie)

hiiii! thanks for sending this one, i've been in a writing funk lately and this was just what i needed ❤️

established relationship, fives lives au, 940w.

---

They’re deep enough Fox can’t quite see the sky when he looks up. He approaches the edge of the landing pad and looks down instead—the void looks back. They’re on one of the dead levels, and the chute is dark almost all the way down. Now and then something flickers in the distance: Fox knows better than to use his bucket’s HUD to find out what it is, even if part of him wants to. 

The small Corrie station set up in the abandoned hangar doesn’t exist. The shock troopers on shift aren’t actually there; neither is Fox. They are all ghosts haunting a place that isn’t real, and if Fox was a different man he’d ponder the weight of such an idea, but he isn’t, so he doesn’t. He stands with his hands linked at his back and his head tilted, his men’s quiet conversion filling the empty hangar.

The rumble of the swoop’s engines fills the quiet. Fox blinks and looks away from the flashing lights beneath his feet, his boots quiet on the hangar’s worn tarmac, and looks to his left. He exhales—just the once—before clicking open his comm channel with his men.

“Corporal. Movement half a click westward,” he says. 

A beat, and then: “Understood, sir.”

By the time the bike lands next to Fox, Corporal Fee and Carrie are gone, and Fox is all alone in the hangar with the small freighter.

It also doesn’t exist. Fox can’t quite remember who used to be its owner: it doesn’t matter. It was, and now it doesn’t, it has just become a redacted or corrected line in an unread report.

Fives waits until Echo is off the swoop bike to follow. They’re both wearing civvies, and they both look remarkably comfortable in them. A few months with the 501st, ARC training, a year and a half of intelligence operations in Separatist-controlled worlds. They are younger than Fox by almost a year, but in a way he’s the greener of the three. He might have survived the first battle of Geonosis, but he then was sent to Coruscant, to stand guard in places that don’t exist.

Echo waits by the swoop while Fives comes closer. Fox recognises the stubborn tilt to his chin, and that’s why he doesn’t take off his bucket. He waits, hands linked at his back and heart beating hard in his throat, and when Fives stops in front of him, he doesn’t reach out.

“The ship’s going to Kuat,” Fox tells the two of them. “You should have enough fuel and rations to make it there. Name’s Cant. Everything’s as legit as I could make it, but be careful.”

Whatever happens next is up to them. Fox doubts they’ll be smart about it, but he trusts them—he trusts Echo—to be stupid in clever ways. 

“Come with us,” Fives says then. Fox closes his eyes. He breathes in, breathes out. He pushes through the awful longing in his chest.

“No.” 

Fives presses his lips together. He’s not done. Fox ignores him, looks at Echo over his shoulder—he can’t help it. He’s watching them.

Fox doesn’t actually know him—he didn’t have the time. He was dead, and then he was back on Coruscant, and now he is leaving again. 

He looks better than he did that first morning when he sought out Fox in his office in the Rotunda. He’s filled out, not as pale—the harsh lines around his mouth have softened. His hair is starting to grow out.

“Fox—”

“It’s a two-seater, Fives. Crew of two,” Fox tells him, and he knows it won’t work, but it is how it is. 

Echo approaches them then. He places his flesh hand on Fives’s shoulder and stays there, and says nothing. His eyes are fixed on Fox, and Fox finds he doesn’t like the way Echo looks at him—like he understands. 

Fox steps around and away, shakes off Fives’s hand when it tries to close around his wrist. He needs to return to the surface—he can’t be missed. He’ll drive the swoop to the back of the Corrie barracks and take a transport from there after destroying the transponder.

“Take off your helmet, commander,” Echo says then. 

Fox pauses. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t care what they think. If he doesn’t take it off they will know he doesn’t want them to see his face; if he does, they’ll—

The click and hiss of the bucket’s seal is too loud in the quiet. Fox blinks at the shadows within the abandoned hangar. The warm, damp atmosphere is a shock, as it is the stink of old tibanna and rotting garbage that seems to fill the whole level. Fox closes his eyes for a beat before turning to look at them, bucket held safely in the crook of his arm. 

He raises an eyebrow at them. Echo’s smiling slight, the gesture quietly smug. At his side, Fives looks quietly heartbroken. 

Fox looks away. He clears his throat. “Well?”

He expects Fives’s kiss: Fox sees him coming, and he closes his eyes and gives in to Fives’s warm hands, to the familiar taste of his skin, salt and GAR-cleanser and clean sweat.

He doesn’t expect Echo’s. He reaches for Fox with his metal hand, the crude prosthesis clacking against Fox’s pauldron, gripping the plasteel with terrible strength, and then Echo’s mouth, his chapped lips against Fox’s.

It’s clumsy and too short. Echo leans away and licks his lips. 

“You’ll have to do better next time,” he says. Fives snorts.

They leave first; Fox waits until Fee gives him the all clear and then follows.