#wooden file box

[sumiwoodlaser]

🎁It would be a great choice to give your mother the gift you have prepared in special sliding lid boxes🎁

✔️Since it has different sizes, it is suitable for a variety of gifts.

[circe69]

"had to get it in, couldn't wait around!" - s.r. x reader

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ who is it? simon "ghost" riley x you

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ what is it? enemies always fuck better, right? you hate him, or so you thought...

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ cws: unprotected p in v, angry simon turned soft, huge d!ck, knife play kinda? ass play, heavy make out. word count: 2.4k

<3

"what the fuck was that about?"

you stomped into an empty, abandoned conference room and stood at the end of a long table, with one masked man sitting at the other end. your arms crossed themselves across your chest, and you popped a hip out to the side as you waited for his answer.

simon motherfucking riley was your arch nemesis. someone you didn't trust, never agreed with, and certainly never wanted to work with. but the world isn't fair. it keeps spinning even when you despise someone, and captain price couldn't care less about your feelings towards simon when it came to the thousands of lives you were saving every mission.

usually, if you're in a group, you don't dare speak to simon this way. you only nod your head at his commands and walk away, hoping that he's receiving the millions of telepathic "fuck you's" you put out somewhere into the universe. but now, you're alone, and there is no better time than the present to tell your lieutenant off.

"if you need to blow some steam, i suggest going for a few boxing rounds w' soap. he's always looking for-" he paused whatever ministrations he was writing on a file and looked up at you slowly, "an easy opponent."

you huff and smirk out of pure anger as you briskly round the table, making your way over to him. "I'm not here to fucking play around, lieutenant, I'm here to let you know I'm pissed because you gave everybody else an assignment overseas next month except for me." you paused and let his eyes meet yours as your strong volume turned into a whisper. "I've worked just as hard, if not fucking harder than the rest of these task force fuckers, and we both know I'd be a good shot out there."

when it comes to you giving your superior a piece of your mind, simon usually submits completely. he never fires back, to everyone else's surprise, and he always allows you to use him, so to speak, to yell at him and get everything out of your system before entering the world again.

but not today.

simon slowly stood up from his chair, keeping eye contact with you as he expanded to almost double your size in every factor possible.

the seconds felt like years as his eyes bore down into yours. your heart rate was doubling every time one of you blinked, and you had to tense every single muscle in your body just to remain stagnant in position. the silence was deafening, and as the seconds passed, you remembered everything you've seen this man do, every corpse he's thrown to the side like a piece of garbage in his way, every knife rusted and wasted because it's been buried deep in the jaw of his enemies, and the eyes that have seen all of this from the first person perspective, are staring right into your-

SLAM.

simons hand comes down onto the wooden table with the force of 10 men, it sounds like, and you couldn't do anything but jump. you flinch. you fucking flinch and it feels like you're waving a white flag.

His gloved fingers reach out to your chin and tug you by the jaw, forcing your face inches away from his, "I have fuckin' had it with your attitude. you can act like a bitch all you fucking want to price, to gaz, and I sure as fuck don't care about how you treat soap. but to me," he squeezes your chin to reinstate your obedience before drifting his hand to rest on your neck, "to me, you either respect me or don't say shit at all. so get used to swallowing your words around here from now on, cause there won't be anywhere else for them to fucking go but down your own throat."

coincidentally, you do swallow. hard and slow, and simons eyes watch and feel your neck bobbing as you begin to shake just slightly under his pressure. as he squeezes, a small squeak releases itself from your lips and you mentally kick yourself for it, knowing that's just what he wants. because once you let yourself go to the stormy waters that is simon riley, you'll never be the same again. he'll make sure of it.

"you say yes sir." his low voice whispered into the empty room, your face somewhere even closer than before, every minute that passes you move an inch. you still can't open your mouth, you're suffering from shell shock and there's no mercy to be found in the eyes of your shooter.

simon pulls out a blade from his thigh holster and presses it to your side, "say. it. now." he yells even louder. you feel the sharp sting of the metal start to break through the cotton of your shirt and tease your skin. a tear breaks free from your eyes, and you are completely gone. you're done for. absolutely dead in every sense but the physical.

"yes sir." you whisper, finally freeing yourself from some kind of paralysis. you feel the blade crash onto the table, as well as the sweet release of your neck from his hand. an extra wave of oxygen that you didn't know you were missing flowed though you in small gasps.

simon said nothing as he walked straight past you, out of the door, slamming it behind him. he left you, his knife, and a part of your soul, there in that room.

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

it had been a few days since simon had blown any ounce of relationship between the two of you into ash and dust, and you can't tell if the looks simon gives you now are filled with rage or just empty. empty meanings, empty promises, because he just doesn't care. but ever since he's made it clear with you that he is not to be messed with, you've unfortunately want him more.

simon riley is a fucking apex predator, and in the past, you've just been standing there, petting him, taunting him, and expecting nothing to happen. well now, you not only expect it, you fucking want it. you dream about all the things he could do to you. but all the things he hasn't said just prove that he couldn't care less.

that night, the only news channel your small tv offers called for rain, a lot of it, mixed with thunderstorms and lightning. as you dry your hair off with a towel, you walk to your window and look outside. your stomach churns at the sight of the angry clouds heading your way. you absolutely despise thunderstorms, and you prefer for a long night because there is no way you would be getting any sleep.

"fuck." you whisper to yourself as it starts to drizzle.

you try to ignore it as you kick off your slippers and get under your soft covers, pulling your duvet all the way up to your ears to try to mute the sound. it was now raining harder, and occasional sparks of electricity lit up your room from the sky, so you tossed and turn all night until you finally fell asleep.

it wasn't until hours later that a large boom of thunder shook you awake. you sat up immediately in a panic, gasping for air and looking around you as if you were expecting anything, something to explain the sound. tears started rolling down your face not only in fear, but in frustration also. you were so upset and so tired. you needed something, someone. just to tell you it was going to be okay. you slipped out of bed with a shaky hand clutching a necklace around your neck as you opened the door of your room and walked out.

the cold air of the hallway caused your skin to raise up into goosebumps and your nipples to pebble through your thin tank top, and even as you crossed your arms over yourself, it wasn't enough.

you headed straight for a door right down the hall. one with a name on the wood that you never thought you would go to in need in a million years. but you didn't know what to do.

your small knuckles rapped on the door, right underneath a nameplate.

simon "ghost" riley

you hear heavy footsteps and several locks unfastening before the door swings open.

a maskless man appears, with no shirt, and a large hand rubbing the side of his face. he was no doubt asleep before this. his eyes squinted as he leaned against the doorframe, trying to adjust to the light. your jaw hung slightly agape at the sight of him, so human. so disgustingly human who's done such non-humane things.

his eyes swept over your face as he noticed the tear stained cheeks, reddened from lack of sleep and continued down your body, down your full teardrop breasts, across your bare stomach, your sweatpants that hung loosely off your hips, and no words were spoken as he grabbed you by both forearms and drug you inside his room.

you gasped as he moved you backwards towards his bed, his much larger and comfier bed, and you no longer had any reason to stop him as he drug you under the covers with him. you couldn't believe him as he snuck in close to you, silently, as if it were normal.

it wasn’t until you felt an arm come up to rest upon your hip, and the floodgates opened. you couldn’t stop tears from rolling down your eyes. you were so confused, so scared, so fucking tired. small whimpers and gasps of breath continued.

“shhh.” came from simon’s mouth as he pulled you closer and softly squeezed your hip.

“you hate me” you whispered back, sobbing louder.

“hm-mm, no.”

“yes, you fucking hate me and you’ve just pulled me into your bed,” you start whining louder as your hands reach up to cover your face.

simon’s eyes slowly opened to look into yours before swatting your ass ,”quit crying n' go to sleep.”

you only responded with smaller, shorter intakes of breath and sniffles.

“y’hear me?” he patted your ass where he had slapped it before.

you nodded and whispered, “yes sir.”

a growl tore threw simon’s mouth as he looked up at the bedroom ceiling before throwing his forearm over his eyes, “fuckin’ hell.”

this time it’s you who reaches out, as you place a small palm on his bicep. he flinches at the touch before sighing,

“c’mere puppy.”

you slowly crawl on top of simon, placing both hands on his arms before allowing your head to fall between his neck and shoulder. a warmth slithered through you as you relaxed into him, and as his hand slowly caressed and squeezed the fat of your ass, the warmth exceeded just below your navel.

you made the mistake of squirming, and he noticed.

he clicked his tongue against his teeth while pulling you closer, “stay still.”

“i-i’m trying to get comfortable-"

"well stop." he interrupted, "just relax."

the wind outside howled, as simon's breath and yours intertwined through the space between you. and just like the storms outside, simon was the most unexpected thing to ever exist. he was trying hard to not scare you off, to be gentle, even though every thing in him contradicts that. but you know better. you know that he is gentle somewhere behind that mask.

you squirmed again, "simon I just don't know what to do." you leaned up to look at him. and there it was, the look that he only gave you, the small and desperate iris' just begging for some kind of affection. even without much light, you could still see him grasping at the frays for you. seconds of intense eye contact went by for simon broke the silence,

"just kiss m'then."

you gasped, sitting back a centimeter, but then nodded. and leaned into his touch. into him.

the kiss was soft and delicate, your lips and his just barely overlapping as you took in his woodsy smell, pine and maple, but that was all it took to pull a groan from simon.

more, more, is all he thought as he grabbed you by the hips and prodded his tongue against your lips. you smiled at the action, and without hesitation, opened up for him completely.

it was nothing but violent, raw, and urgent, the way simon kissed you. you moaned into his mouth as he smacked the fat of your ass, "all it took," he mumbled, "all it took was a little tongue for you to shut the fuck up."

you whined at the loss of contact as simon struggled to pull your pants down, but it disintegrated as he swiped a finger between your thighs, "fuck." simon whispered at the wetness pooling from your sex. "how many times have I yelled at you and gotten you wet?" he said, as he flipped you both around so you were now in your back, head smushing the soft pillow.

you groaned as he discarded his sweatpants and boxers, leaving his cock to spring out against his stomach. "how many times, baby?" he asked again, "you think about me hurting you when you play with this pretty pussy?" his index reached out to circle your clit a few times.

you couldn't help it, your body was betraying you in real time as your walls fluttered around nothing. "yes, yes I think about it, I think about you all the time simon." your babbles spilled out of you like water, and simon was lapping it up.

he chuckled, "don't even n'to prep you, you're a fuckin' faucet, sweetheart." his lengthy cock, with precut oozing out of the tip, was begging to be inside you, begging to fill you up. as he grabbed his length and positioned himself to your weeping hole, he looked you in the eyes, "y'want this?"

your eyes met his and for a second, you felt some sort of fire igniting deep within you, why was he even asking? why did it feel like the monster he is was softening for you?

you grabbed his hip and thrusted yourself, notching the tip of him inside your walls. "yes, I fucking want this, simon."

he chuckled as he watched him disappear inside you, inch by inch, every fucking centimeter felt like a year lived without you. he needed to make up for it, because the one woman that he couldn't stand just happened to be the woman he couldn't live without.

[writingoddess1125]

HI HI!! Could I possibly request a little blurb of how Crocodile met his wife? I LOVED that story and think it would be cute!

Sure! It's gonna he a bit short but I hope you like ot! (I Wrote this right after the Darling Dove one- So it's probably noticable lol)

Crocodile Beauty and Beast Effect : How they Met!

<<< Masterlist

Sir Crocodile x FemReader

It was fairly average day for you- a few pickups, some commissions on book repairs and having sent out a few copies of your own written work-

Same old Same old really-

Sure it was a bit dull however you enjoyed it for the most part.

Till that lovely peace was oh so rudely destroyed when thw bell above the door of your little shop jingled violently as the door slammed open- almosy falling from its place.

You looked up from the counter with a bit of a jump where you had been carefully cataloging a stack of old maps, to see a towering figure step inside.

His presence was something youd never experienced before... his long coat sweeping blocking out all the natural light like a cloud in your poor shop.

Sir Crocodile. Oh great

The very Infamous Warlord, known for his ruthlessness and willingness to kill on a dime stood in your shop, which was clearly way too small for him since his frame damn near had his head to the ceiling. Paired with him oh so wonderfully bellowing tobacco smoke acrose the place-

Like an asshole..

Behind him, a group of rough-looking men filed in as they overly crowded the store, their eyes scanning the shelves like vultures much to your confusion.

The air was now incredibly tense, as Crocodile’s sharp gaze landed on you. He took a step forward a sneer on his lips as if looking at something that would only iritate him.

“I’m looking for the other half of an ancient book-” he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation reachinb into his coat and tossed it at you which you barely caught by the force of the action.

“I’ve heard you might have it. Where is it?”

You blinked, turning what remained of the book in your hands- sad seeing it this way clearly the elements had gotten to it.

The shop was silent except for the faint creak of the wooden floorboards under Crocodile’s boots probably due to being too heavy for the old shop and you flipping through the broken pages to identify what you were even looking at.

His men began to fan out a bit. Their hands hovering near weapons, ready to ransack the place at a moment’s notice.

But you didn’t really care much. Instead you tilted your head slightly. “Ah, yes. I do have it-”

You hum glancing behind you with a sigh at the admittedly slightly messy backroom you had been avoiding organizing.

“But it’s buried in one of the boxes in the back. It’ll take some time to find. Come back tomorrow morning”

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed scoffing at your laid back way of speaking to him, his patience painfully thin at the best of times, especially now. He took another step closer now shadowing you fully, his hook glinting as he raised it slightly as you felt sand beginning to gather around you like a noose prepared to wrap around your neck.

“Brave little thing arent you?” he growled. “Tell me exactly where it is, or I’ll tear this place apart and you with it.”

You met his gaze narrowing him slightly, taking a bit of a breath to ease yourself.

“You are more then welcome to do that-” Sounding damn near annoyed at his threat-

“But if you or your men start tearing through the place, you might damage the book. Or it could take you days if not weeks to find it in this mess. Or, you could let me look for it myself. I have no problem giving it to you. Once I find it, you’re free to do whatever you want. Threaten me, kill me, whatever seems to tickle your fancy. But if you want the book intact and quickly, it’s better to let me handle it.”

For a moment, Crocodile just stared at you his expression now one of curiosity. The silence was uncomfortable to say the least, his goons exchanging uneasy glances as well at how he seemed to pause.

Then to everyone’s surprise, Crocodile let out a low chuckle. It wasn’t a warm sound, but it wasn’t entirely menacing either. He took a drag of his cigar and he waved his hooked hand for the others to leave, and his men quickly filed out leaving the two of you alone the sand that had began to form around you fast to leave you.

“Fine,” He grunted out, a smirk on his lips clearly in some odd way amused.

You simply nodded, turning to head into the back room leaving Crocodile there a bit frozen as he watched you leave him like that- Enough to even turn your back to him. “I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow morning Sir”

He didnt say anything just left the shop after that. Now curious at what an interesting women he had found.

The next day Crocodile returned, this time alone. You were behind the counter, carefully wrapping the ancient book in brown paper and occasionally sipping your coffee, unsure if it would be your last one afterall. When the bell above the door chimed, you looked up and gave him a small nod.

“Good Morning” you said, tying the package with a piece of string. “Here it is”

Crocodile approached the counter his eyes narrowing as he studied your face, clearly looking for something in particular. He reached for the book taking it up fairly fast. For a moment, he seemed almost… unsure? Clearly confused over you in some fashion.

"That will be 40,000 Beri" You say calmly- more out of habit then to expect him to actually pay for it.

He stared at you blinking for a moment. Then, a wide smile stretched over his lips- Like a monster showing its teeth to you, as he set the book back down reaching into his coat and pulled out a wad of bills, tossing them onto the counter.

"That is way more then 40,000 Beri-" You mumble already able to tell by the stack alone. Seeing the way he gazed down at you, going as far as to cock his head to the side.

"Keep it..."

You raised an eyebrow at the way he looked at you making a slight shiver go down your spine, before simply sliding the money into the register.

“Pleasure doing business with you Sir” You say in your usual customer service way going back to your coffee fast.

Crocodile stared at you for a moment longer, as if trying to figure something out or decide something. Then without another word he took his purchased item and left the shop, the door closing softly behind him.

Outside he stood on the street, the book in his hand as he tapped his hook on the side of his leg in thought. He glanced down at the book, then back at the shop, that wide smile still on his lips as he tucked the book into his coat after a moment.

'Interesting.. little flower you are. Prickly too'

Walking away as he thought to himself- He would be returning soon enough thinking of some excuse to return, maybe a map he didnt need or a useless book he could throw in his office.

Afterall it wasn't like he had given you a tip.

No-

It was a deposit really on what he considered a very nice future investment. One that would look very nice seated on his desk like a nice rose for him to look at done up and pretty- Or possibly in nothing at all too.

Oh he liked the thought of that-

He'll have to ask for your name his next visit..

[pretentious-blonde]

first chapter

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve stops by the bookshop for his students and leaves an impression—one that lingers when the reader sees just how much he cares about them

warnings: literally none, steve is a softie!!

a/n: here we go again! short and sweet intro chapter before we get to the good stuff. also i was grinning at my screen writing steve interacting with the kids <3

series masterlist

The morning bird song filtered through the lace curtains draped across the front windows of your grandmother’s old bookshop—now your bookshop.

The wooden floors, worn by decades of footsteps, creaked quietly beneath your shoes. You had just flipped the sign to declare that, yes, you were open for business, though not a single soul was out on the pavement yet. The serenity of a small town in the early hours felt soothing, and you allowed yourself to breathe in the stillness of the morning.

Upstairs in the modest flat you now called home, the kettle had whistled only moments before, providing you with a simple comfort—a warm cup of coffee. Steam rose from the mug like a contented sigh, warming your fingers and your chest. 

As you descended the short flight of stairs to the shop, you couldn’t help but marvel at how seamlessly your new life in Hawkins had begun to take shape. Yes, there were boxes you still hadn’t fully unpacked and occasional bursts of Midwest weather that threatened your peace, but on mornings like this, you felt sure you had made the right choice.

This shop, bequeathed to you in your grandmother’s will, carried a deep history and charm. You had wrestled with the idea of selling it—a practical move, some might say—but the thought of parting with such a beloved space felt entirely wrong. So here you were, two months into a life of dusting ancient shelves, cataloguing novels by authors known and unknown, and greeting the locals who had begun to trickle in as regulars. 

It wasn’t always smooth sailing. The old filing system your grandmother had used was more a labyrinth than a library, with handwritten ledgers that offered few clues. But slowly, day by day, you’d learned to navigate her quirks, an exercise that felt like stepping into her shoes and forging a path of your own.

You settled in behind the counter, a cosy nook framed by shelves of bestsellers and classics alike. The lighting was soft, mostly amber-hued floor lamps with tasseled shades that cast an inviting glow. Mismatched cushions had found their way onto plush armchairs and vintage sofas arranged in corners throughout the space. It felt less like a store and more like a living room that just happened to sell books. 

To you, that was precisely the point—somewhere quiet, welcoming, and full of potential.

Taking a careful sip from your coffee, you let yourself sink into a well-worn seat behind the register. There was a quaint luxury in these early moments, before the day’s customers arrived, and you cherished the silence. A part of you wondered if you should tackle the stack of new releases that needed shelving, but the comfort of your chair—and the lingering caffeine aroma—kept you rooted in place. 

You reached under the counter and pulled out a paperback you’d been meaning to read. The cover teased an enchanting story, and you were eager to get lost in it.

It never occurred to you that someone might stroll in so soon after opening. Eight o’clock in Hawkins seemed far too early for anything but coffee. Still, the unexpected had become more common these days, and the jingle of the bell over the door startled you from your first page. It rang out, clear and bright in the morning quiet, signaling the arrival of your first customer of the day.

He didn’t exactly look like the typical morning browser, appearing slightly out of breath from the chill outside. His cheeks were tinged pink, the tip of his nose a little red, and his hair—once styled impeccably—looked tousled by the wind. A muted green jumper peeked out from beneath a casual jacket, and he wore well-fitted jeans that bore faint traces of scuff at the knees. He hovered for a moment near the threshold, glancing around as though making sure he was in the right place.

The glow of your shop seemed to settle around him, beckoning him inside. You could see the tension in his shoulders lessen when he realised he wasn’t intruding on some hidden enclave but rather stepping into a homey space. He offered a tentative half-smile when he caught sight of you behind the counter.

“Uh, hi,” he began, clearing his throat as if to ground himself.

“Hello,” you returned, offering a welcoming smile.

His eyes flickered across your face, taking in your kind expression, before he schooled himself into polite cordiality—reminding himself he had come here for a reason, not just to gawk at the cute new bookseller.

“Yeah, I… I was wondering if you could help me,” he said, voice soft.

You closed the book you’d been reading and placed it to the side, standing from your chair to greet him more fully. 

“What can I do for you?” 

He cleared his throat once more—nervous habit, perhaps—and gestured loosely at the shelves behind you. 

“You’re not… the usual lady who runs this place.”

“No, I’m not. I, uh, took it over recently,” you chuckle, trying to keep the note of sorrow out of your voice as you thought of your late grandmother. “Just reopened it a couple of months ago.”

“Huh,” he said, nodding, clearly absorbing that bit of information. “Good to know.” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “I’m looking for some kids’ books.”

The corners of your mouth lifted in a gentle smile. “Kids’ books?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. It was a little awkward, the way he rocked on his heels, as though not entirely sure how to stand. 

You offered to show him the children’s section, stepping out from behind the counter and leading him through a short row of middle-grade novels. The far corner of the shop was dedicated in bright colors, whimsical cover art, and lower shelves that invited small hands to grab at storybooks.

“This is where we keep the children’s section,” you said, sweeping your hand over the shelves. “How old are yours?”

He blinked in surprise, eyes widening. 

“Oh—oh, I don’t… I’m not— I don’t have any.” A flush of pink returned to his cheeks, and he quickly added, “I need them for work.”

“Work?” Your brows arched in curiosity. 

“Yeah, I’m a teacher. Second grade,” he explained. “My kids—they’re around seven or eight.”

“Ah,” you breathed, nodding. “That makes sense.” 

Turning back to the shelves, you placed a hand on the upper row of picture-heavy chapter books. 

“These are aimed at eight-to-ten-year-olds,” you said, tapping a few titles you recognised as popular, “and these down here,” you crouched to point out another set, “are a bit younger, around five to seven.”

He followed your gestures intently, glancing between you and the books. You didn’t miss the slight dart of his eyes, noticing the way he took you in with a curiosity and—appreciation? Though he seemed quick to hide it.

“Honestly, I’m not super well-versed on the new stuff,” he admitted, the confession made all the more sweet by his earnest tone. “What would you recommend?”

You straightened up and began scanning the spines. 

“Well, we have a few encyclopedias that are really engaging for that age group—lots of pictures, fun facts. The classics, too—Roald Dahl, E.B. White. They never go out of style.”

“Perfect, yeah,” he said, nodding along, already imagining reading the stories aloud. Then, almost unprompted, his eyes lit up in a flash of recognition. “Oh—there’s this one book I read as a kid, about a boy who, uh… posted himself through the mailbox or something?”

The excitement in his voice was contagious, and you couldn’t help but giggle, your own smile widening. In that moment, you saw how approachable he was—a man who loved sharing a piece of his childhood with his students. His face reddened at your soft laughter, but he seemed more embarrassed by his enthusiastic outburst than upset.

“Flat Stanley,” you offered, the name rolling easily off your tongue.

“That’s the one!” He looked almost triumphant. “Man, my mom used to read that to me all the time, can’t believe I forgot the name.”

“I don’t think we have a physical copy right now.” You scanned the rows but shook your head.  “But I can get it delivered if you’d like?”

Relief washed over his features as he released a breath he probably hadn’t realised he was holding. 

“Oh, thank God,” he said, smiling. “That’s great. Didn’t want them to be disappointed.” His gaze flickered over you for a moment. 

“Why don’t you just borrow from the library?” You tilted your head. 

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Well… we tried, but the books kind of got destroyed. Kids that age can be… a lot,” he explained with a dry chuckle, eyes crinkling at the memory. “The librarians and I have come to a mutual agreement that I should probably source my own copies.”

“I see.” You couldn’t help but grin, picturing a bunch of rambunctious kids flipping through pages with sticky fingers, leaving chaos in their wake. “That can happen.”

Standing next to him as he peered intently at the spines, you felt a fondness bloom for this stranger who cared enough about his class to restock his own library. 

He wasn’t exactly bad to look at either. You almost envied his students, getting to see him like this every day—but you quickly redirected your thoughts before they could wander too far. You were supposed to be helping him out, not gawking while he tried to do something sweet.

A quiet fell between you, his profile illuminated as he studied each title.

“Hey,” you offered gently, feeling brave, “if you want, I could pick out a selection for you and order them in? Might be easier than you spending your whole Saturday leafing through everything.”

“Really? That would be… amazing, actually.” His face lit up at the suggestion, and the gratitude in his eyes made something flutter pleasantly in your chest. 

“Of course,” you said, gesturing for him to follow you back to the counter. You made your way around to your usual spot, grabbing a pen and a patterned notepad. 

“Alright,” you began, poised to write. “Do you have a budget for these?”

“Not really,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder. “I figure about ten books, give or take. Whatever you recommend. I want to cover all the bases.”

You jotted down a note, nodding in approval. 

“No problem.” You glanced up at him. “Any particular genres you had in mind?”

“No, just a little bit of everything. Some nonfiction to keep ‘em curious, few adventure stories… Maybe some silly stuff too.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Kids love silly.”

“Silly, got it.” You chuckled, writing that down. “And where should I send them? Or—what school was it?”

“Hawkins Elementary.” He smiled, almost proudly, and you wondered for a moment if he had grown up around here.

“Makes sense,” you murmured, scribbling another note. Then you paused, pen poised above the page. “And can I have a name?”

“Oh! Right, sorry. It’s uh, Steve. Steve Harrington.”

Repeating his name softly as you wrote it, you offered him a warm, reassuring look. Steve Harrington. It had a certain ring to it. The corners of your lips curved up as you thought about how well ‘Harrington’ would look on the small slip you’d attach to his order.

He swallowed, finding your attention unexpectedly disarming.

“Alright then, Steve. When do you need these by?”

“As soon as possible,” he admitted, looking a bit helpless. “If that’s alright, I’d love to have them by Monday—though I know that’s short notice.”

You checked the small calendar pinned to the side of the counter and tapped the date lightly.

“We’re closed Mondays, so I can have them delivered then—no problem at all.”

“You can?” His relief was so palpable it made you laugh. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’ll do my best.” The warmth in your voice matched the gratitude in his eyes. 

He lingered a moment, as though he wanted to say something else—perhaps ask more questions or keep chatting, but he caught himself, clearing his throat again. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, more quietly this time. “For all your help.”

You waved off the formality. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He gave a small nod, a smile tugging at his lips. Before he turned to leave, he lifted a hand in a goodbye wave. You echoed the motion, finding the gesture unexpectedly sweet. As the door swung open, letting in a brief gust of cold air, you could see how his cheeks coloured once again in the bracing wind.

The bell jingled to mark his exit, and you simply watched the door close behind him. He trudged back onto the pavement, jacket pulled snug. He allowed himself a quick glance through the front window, catching one last glimpse of you looking after him with that gentle smile. A slight flutter caught him off-guard—relief at having found exactly what he needed for his students and a barely-there thump at meeting someone he hadn’t before. 

It’s not everyday someone new moves to town, especially one around his age and with such a soft demeanour. He walked away, the faintest grin played on his lips, leaving him feeling lighter than when he’d first stepped inside. 

You sank back into your seat behind the counter, already thinking of the perfect selection of books to gather for the following week. But also wondering if you’d see that soft-spoken teacher again soon.

Monday morning brought a crispness to the air that you felt through your coat. You sat parked in front of Hawkins Elementary School, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel, trying to summon enough courage to make your delivery. 

The box of books you’d so carefully selected for Steve Harrington and his second graders was tucked in the backseat—carefully wedged between a pile of tote bags and a folded-up umbrella. It wasn’t heavy enough to break your back, but it still felt significant, because of what it contained and who it was going to.

You hadn’t expected to feel nervous. This was, after all, part of your job—providing customers with the books they needed. Yet a twinge of excitement emerged in your stomach whenever you remembered his soft brown eyes and that quietly dorky grin. 

He’d seemed so genuinely pleased when you mentioned Flat Stanley; you’d practically sprinted to the phone after he left, calling your supplier to confirm you could get a copy in time. Part of you told yourself you were just being a good shopkeeper—wanting a repeat customer, ensuring satisfaction, all that. But in truth, you knew there was a deeper motive at play. 

You wanted to see him smile again.

Drawing a steadying breath, you stepped out of your car and walked around to open the trunk. The box was bulky, and a small grunt escaped your lips as you lifted it out. Clutching it carefully in both arms, you made your way across the short walkway to the main entrance. The school doors gleamed in the late morning light, and you nudged them open with your shoulder, the scent of floor polish and crayons that seemed to greet you as soon as you stepped inside.

A lone receptionist—an older gentleman in a sweater vest—looked up from behind his computer screen as you approached. You offered your brightest smile, placing the box gently on the desk before explaining, 

“Good morning.” You greet him. “I have a delivery for Steve Harrington?”

“Yes, he’s here.” His eyebrows perked with polite curiosity. “What would it be for?”

“Just books.” You slid the lid off the box, revealing a tidy row of colorful spines. “I work at the bookshop on Oak Street.”

Recognition dawned in his eyes as he nodded. 

“Ah, yes. Been in there a few times—nice place,” he noted, then glanced over his shoulder at a clock on the wall. “He’s probably with his class right now. Break’s in about ten minutes, though, so you might catch him.”

He rose to his feet and gave you clear directions. 

“Down the hall, first room on your left once you reach the end.”

“Thank you so much.” You slid the box’s lid back into place, gathering it carefully in your arms again.

The corridor stretched ahead, brightly lit by overhead fixtures. Child-sized artwork taped to the walls shifted in a faint draft—handprints in rainbow paint, construction paper collages, and scrawling pencil drawings of families and pets. 

Everything felt warm, friendly. Despite being new to Hawkins, you already felt the community’s kindness wrapping around you.

You found the door labeled “2B” easily enough. The window set into the top allowed a small glimpse inside, and what you saw made your breath catch in delight. 

Steve was crouched next to a student’s chair, his posture open and attentive as he listened to a young girl excitedly explain something, her little hands gesturing in all directions. His own hands were braced on his knees, and you could see his eyes crinkle when he smiled. He nodded along as though whatever she was saying was the most important information in the world.

It was absolute, wonderful chaos—kids milling around in their seats, pages turning, pencils scribbling, a few quiet squeals of excitement from a group in the corner that filtered through the door. But Steve seemed perfectly at home there in the midst of it all, soothing any anxious energy with gentle instruction.

A light rap of your knuckles on the door went unheard—Steve was so focused on the small child in front of him, nodding along to the excited chatter that spilled from the little one’s mouth that the sound didn’t register. You lingered for a moment, balancing the heavy box in your arms. 

When his attention didn’t shift on the second attempt, you carefully pushed the door open with your hip. That slight movement must have caught his eye because he glanced over, registered your presence, and offered you a bright smile. He held his finger up apologetically and mouthed a: “One sec.” You responded with a quick nod, glancing around the room and taking it all in.

The classroom was pure, bursting with the wonder only associated with childhood. The walls were lined with drawings, some wobbly stick figures with unmistakable swoopy hair, others detailed crayon masterpieces that clearly took serious effort. They stretched across the length of the room like an ever-growing mural of creativity, pinned up with care rather than neat precision. 

His desk was a happy kind of cluttered—pens in every colour were scattered in cups and across papers, alongside little stacks of homemade cards with messy, heartfelt messages scrawled in different handwriting. A few framed photos sat amongst the chaos—one of Steve surrounded by his students, another of him and you assume his friends, grinning mid-laugh.

The reading corner was cosy, though the shelves looked slightly bare, with a rug that was a little too soft and bean bags that were well-loved and possibly past their prime. A small chalkboard at the front had doodles in different colours, little inside jokes between him and the class. In one corner, a calendar was decorated with goofy stickers marking birthdays and "important events," a few glittery stars suggested the kids fully endorsed it.

Everything about the space screamed safe, fun, and loved. You could feel it in the way the room was lived-in, the way nothing felt stiff or too polished. He had poured himself into this place, making it somewhere his kids actually wanted to be. And it was impossible not to smile looking at it.

Glancing back at him, you took a moment to appreciate the sight of him in his element. He wore a rust-colored jumper, tucked into jeans with a bold smear of what looked like red paint on one thigh—an inevitable hazard of teaching little ones, apparently. 

He had a calm, attentive expression as he finished listening to the girl, who was still gesturing animatedly. When he finally stood up, his sweater rode up just slightly, revealing the curve of his waist before he pulled it quickly back into place. You caught yourself thinking he looked genuinely beautiful, even amid a swirl of classroom hysterics. He crossed the room with an apologetic smile. 

“Hello, again,” he greeted you in a voice that held gratitude. Your heart did a small flip at the way his gaze flickered from the box in your arms to your eyes. You couldn’t resist a playful quip. 

“Delivery for Mr. Harrington?”

A faint flush coloured his cheeks, and he chuckled under his breath. 

“Yep, uh, that’s me.” He reached out and gently lifted the box from your arms, setting it on his desk at the front as children laughed and played in the background. “Sorry you had to carry it all the way here.”

You wave a hand in front as if to tell him not to worry, he glanced at the clock mounted above the door and turned back to you. 

“Could you give me five minutes? I wanna show them what we got.” The eager gleam in his eyes was entirely too charming.

“Sure,” you agreed softly, catching the brief glimpse of excitement on his face as he lifted the lid and took in the neat stack of titles you’d chosen. His smile widened when he spotted the beloved Flat Stanley perched near the top, and you could almost feel the tension melt from his shoulders as he realised you’d pulled through.

Yeah, maybe you wanted it to be the first book he saw. So what?

Steve turned to the class, a gentle command in his voice as he clapped his hands twice. Almost instantly, the children quieted. You half expected them to carry on shrieking, but they gazed up at him with unwavering attention, surprising you with their composure. In that moment, you understood that these kids trusted him completely.

“Alright, everyone, eyes up here. We have something very exciting that’s just arrived.” His tone was soft yet enthusiastic. “Someone was kind enough to make a trip to bring us something special. Any guesses what’s in this box? Hands up.”

Little hands shot up in the air—or, in some cases, little voices called out answers without waiting to be chosen. Steve grinned, an indulgent, affectionate smile that lit up his entire face. After a chorus of guesses—“Chocolate!” “Dinosaurs!”—he chuckled and reached inside the box, retrieving Flat Stanley to hold up for emphasis.

“If anyone said books, you were correct.” He pointed the cover toward the sea of wide-eyed students, then gave you a grateful glance that made your stomach flutter. Turning back to the group, he continued. “We have some brand-new books, and these are just for us. That means we have to look after them, okay?”

A short silence followed. Then, with a gentle prompt.

“Can anyone tell me what we are not going to do with them?” 

Every hand in the room shot up. 

“Rip them!” A small boy yelled out.

“That’s right,” Steve agreed, beaming at the child. “The pages tear easily. What else?”

“We don’t throw them!” Another student chimed in.

Steve’s expression flickered with amused severity, no doubt recalling some past mishap. 

“Exactly. No throwing—especially not at each other.”

Unable to resist joining in, you raised your hand along with the children. Steve’s gaze shifted to you, a hint of delight in his eyes that you’d play along. You offered your own rule. 

“We don’t draw on them.”

“Absolutely,” he said, nodding sagely and turning back to his class. “Some of them already have pictures, and they don’t need you adding more, okay? If you want to draw, we have plenty of paper at the back.”

They all nodded, and you felt a rush of affection for his patient approach. He wasn’t stern in the way some teachers might be; instead, he treated the kids like partners, inviting them to share in the responsibility. You couldn’t help but feel a little flustered at how effortlessly he seemed to balance control and kindness.

Steve turns to you with a grateful expression before addressing the class again.

"Okay, now what do we all say?" he prompts, his voice warm and expectant.

A disjointed chorus of "Thank you!" erupts from the kids, some louder than others, a few delayed, and at least one who just echoes the words a beat too late like an afterthought. The sincerity in their little voices makes your cheeks warm, and you can’t help but laugh.

He was clearly proud as he glances around at his students, then flicks his eyes up at the clock,                                telling him it was nearly break time. 

“Alright, we are gonna take a short break. Grab your snacks from your cubbies, and then come back to your desks, alright?”

A joyful scramble ensued—chairs scraped against the floor, and the children dashed off in unison, giggling as they rifled through bright backpacks and lunchboxes. 

Steve turned to you with a lightness in his eyes, the excited buzz of his students drifting behind him. His lips curved into that grateful smile you remembered from the bookshop. 

“Honestly, thank you so much for doing this,” he said, quietly enough that only you could hear.

“It’s no problem, really—it’s kind of my job.” You felt a warm flush rise to your cheeks, and you tried to deflect any praise.

Still, he couldn’t help the appreciation that washed over him. You looked so earnest, standing there in the middle of his classroom, and he found himself thinking that you were sweeter than he’d initially realised. 

“Good contribution on the ‘no drawing’ rule, by the way,” he teased softly, chuckling. “We have had issues with that before…”

“Thought so,” you replied as you looked around once more. “Kind of jealous I have to leave your class after this—it seems fun here.” You gestured to the room, taking in the brightly colours and kids rifling through their little lunchboxes.

His eyes flicked around the room, landing on the paint smudge on his own jeans as if to prove a point. 

“It can be,” he said, wry amusement in his tone, “but it’s definitely a handful.” There was a slight pause as he glanced back at the box on his desk. “So, how much do I owe you for all this?”

“Seventy dollars,” you answered, feeling a bit uncomfortable about naming the price.

Without missing a beat, he opened a drawer and fished out his wallet, sliding out a few bills. 

“Went to the ATM this morning,” he explained with a small shrug. “Was expecting you.”

Your hand closed around the money, but you lifted your gaze to him in concern. 

“Aren’t the school’s funds supposed to cover this?”

He huffed a short laugh. “Not a chance with the budget we’ve got—and especially after the last round got destroyed.”

A pang of sympathy flashed through you. You didn’t like the idea of him footing the bill just so his students could have decent reading material. 

“Then let’s make it fifty,” you offered, handing him back a portion of the money.

“No, no way.” His eyes went wide, and he shook his head firmly. “Take it.”

“If you give me all that,” you said, adopting a light, playful tone, “I’m just going to leave the difference at the front desk for you at the end of the day.”

“Come on,” he frowned, looking torn. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s books for children,” you shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”

He exhaled a resigned sigh, finally conceding and pocketing some of the cash. 

“Fine,” he muttered, embarrassed.

An instant later, you saw a flicker of something cross his face—resolve, or maybe nerves. He glanced at the class, making sure they were occupied, then gestured toward the door. With a silent tilt of his head, he indicated you should both step into the hall.

Out in the corridor, the sudden quiet felt almost jarring compared to the cheerful chaos inside. The overhead lights were softer here, and you looked up at him with what Steve could only describe as the biggest, most open doe eyes he’d ever seen. His heart thumped a little faster. 

Spending all day with second graders had left him woefully out of practice when it came to talking to someone his own age—especially if he might be asking them out.

“If you, uh, won’t take the money…” he began, clearing his throat. “Maybe you’d like to let me buy you a coffee sometime? My treat. As—as a thank-you, for everything.”

The invitation caught you off guard, and a gentle blush warmed your cheeks. He picked up on it immediately, and worry flashed across his expression. 

“Is that too forward?” he backpedaled quickly. “Sorry—I’m sorry, forget I said anything—”

“No, wait,” you interrupted, mustering a quiet laugh at how flustered he seemed. “I’d love to meet you for coffee.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed, relief flooding his features. 

“Yeah?” he asked, a small, triumphant smile quirking his lips. “That’s…That’s good.”

“We’re closed on Sundays, I’m assuming you’d be free then?” You offered as you smiled back, feeling an unexpected rush of excitement of your own. 

“Sunday is perfect,” he said, nodding a bit too eagerly. “Do you know the coffee place on Maple?”

A soft sparkle lit your eyes. “I love their pastries,” you admitted, grin widening.

“Me too,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “How about eleven?”

Eleven, you repeated in your head, trying not to beam too obviously. 

“That works for me.”

“Great—eleven.” He tried to hang onto an air of casualness, but there was no denying the spark in his expression.

You turned to go, warmth spreading from your chest all the way to your toes, when he suddenly called out. 

“Wait—I, uh, didn’t catch your name.”

A slight laugh escaped you at his flustered state, and you told him softly. He repeated it under his breath, letting it roll off his tongue as though to memorise the sound. 

“Right. Sunday at eleven.” He echoed the words again, as if reassuring himself that this was really happening, before heading back into the classroom.

You took a small moment, hugging that sense of anticipation. As you walked away, you caught the echo of his voice as the door began to shut. 

“Alright, guys,” he announced brightly, “who’s gonna help me put these away?”

A gentle laugh escaped you as the door closed behind, picturing the eager hands shooting up in response to his question. In that instant, the hallway felt a little less quiet, and your footsteps sounded more like a happy skip than anything else.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer

[lostintransist]

COOKED. BAKED. BARBECUED 🙏 thank you☆

Thank you! I enjoy writing shorter fun blurbs amidst my giant ass stories.

Anon I have been looking for an excuse to write about this smarmy asshole for a while. Excuse me while I run with your compliment 😅😘

Phillip Graves loved heading home after jobs. The shift from dry air recirculating air of the plane to the moisturizing soup that passed for oxygen in the south east of Texas was the first sign he could relax.

The second sign often was his sister's incessant calls to his phone as she circled the airport waiting for him. Lillian hated waiting for her little brother. She complained he took an excessive amount of time to escape the airport despite him never checking a bag and having the skills and leg length to stride past hordes of others attempt to escape the liminal hell that is the airport.

If ever you meet a powerful man and want to be reminded he is no more than a man, you should see him with his family. They do not care if their brother can topple governments. He is just a person who flinches when his sister points a wooden spoon at him too aggressively. He can't forget the times it connected before.

The third sign that Phil had arrived home was the smell of BBQ drifting into his nose. The owner of the food truck had found a perfect spot to set up three times a week; the parking lot of a local gym. Stupidly smart businessmen.

Phil could hold himself back from many things. Fall off the bone ribs after a hearty work out could never be one of those things.

He has noticed you inside the gym. Of course he did, it was his job to notice. You were strongly built, a feast for his eyes.

Phil had learned dainty was never going to pull him in quite like the ability for a woman to lay him out if he mouthed off. Or tie him down and edge him to hell, whatever her prerogative happened to be. Mmm his last girlfriend hadn't been interested in strapping him to the bed and fucking him within and inch of his life. Yeah, that's what he needed on this leave—days without leaving the bedroom and a woman who would fuck him like she hated him.

Now Phil is an opportunist; he won't take shots that will likely miss. He noticed you in the gym but only let his fantasies run wild and not his mouth. He finished up his workout and left the gym, presumably leaving you behind for good.

He would have left you behind, but it seemed you also had a hankering for some of the best BBQ in the state. You seemed smart enough not to say that out loud though. Highly contested titles were highly contested for a reason.

Having gotten his overfull styrofoam box Phil settled in the one patch of shade near the food truck. Everyone else piled back into their cars and drove away to enjoy, but Phil didn't want to wait. The meal settled on his knees he dived in.

When you join the queue, spandex pulled snug across your body, Phil watches. Taking in the view of you moving with a purpose and smiling at the man taking your order, he adds these to the mental files for later. Creepy? Maybe. But he didn't make it your problem.

Tucking into his meal Phil is pleasantly surprised when the sound of shoes slapping concrete pulls him from the haze of good seasoning and moist meat. Looking up, it's you.

Instead of offering a smile like southern hospitality instructed, you point to the shade next to him.

"That free?"

Phil lifted a brow and gestured to the open space with an elbow. Swallowing down his bite, Phil lets you settle before he speaks up. The rib pinched between his fingers has a bite left. He didn't learn much from his father, but he did learn not to waste his food.

"That accent is too strong to have been here long." Phil presses the knuckle of one hand to his mouth he cleared his throat. "What brought you out this way?"

"A cheating man, why else does someone move here?" You give him a hard side eye as you dig into your mashed potatoes.

He opens his mouth to continue the conversation, ignoring the clear 'I don't want to talk about this' vibes you are throwing off.

You cut him off before the air can leave his lungs to form words.

"I'm going to a sex party tonight."

Ah so you had learned how to get the religion folks to back off. Interesting. Meant you had been out this way a while.

"Interesting, which club?" Phil keeps his eye on his food as he names off a few larger ones and several smaller ones. He clocks the slight twitch when he picks the right one.

"You sure know a lot of clubs out here," you glance over to him with narrowed eyes before picking up your own rib.

"Mmm. Maybe I'll see you out tonight," Phil drops the information casually like he hasn't adjusted every plan he has in the hopes of wearing you like a mask.

"Maybe," you reply noncommittally.

Silence between the gusts of wind is all that is between you until Phil suckles the sauce from his fingers and closes his box. The best thing about this food truck is the leftovers.

Phil stands, throws you a wink, and walks to his lovingly restores 1960's Chevy truck.

Imagining the look on your face when he is introduced as one of the owners of the club you are going to tonight got him through. Through the rest of the day with his sister, through dinner with his family without punching someone out, and through the traffic that would normally have him cursing people out in all his favorite swear words from across the globe.

He had been wrong. The look on your face was better than anything he could have imagined.

Gym Adventures: SoapGaz | John Price | Simon | Ghost | 4 for 1 Special | SoapGaz/Reader NSFW | Phillip Graves NSFW | AO3

Masterlist

[houseslollipop]

play the game

you’re a new rheumatologist at ppth. when dr house realizes your intelligence, he becomes easily obsessed. a game of cat and mouse ensues. gregory house x reader.

first house md fic so ty for reading <33 this is self indulgent (right around 4k words). i look forward to writing more like this, i am now taking requests via my ask box :) warnings below. also available on my ao3 greghouseluvr if that is your preferred platform.

mdni, enemies to lovers (i think ?!), pill popping mentions, tw death mentions, some smut, reader referred to with she/her pronouns at times, asshole greg house, i am NOT a medical professional

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

“We need you for a consult,” you hear your friend’s familiar voice from behind you as you reach to open the door to your office.

“Cameron,” you rest your forehead against the wooden door, you’re tired and ready to finish your charting, “do you at least have the file?”

She shakes her head of brunette curls and looks down at the carpeted floor.

“Fine, let’s go.”

You know that the Diagnostics Team would only use you in an emergency. It was probably Cameron’s idea, given that she’s a close friend of yours. Her boss doesn’t seem to be a fan of people stepping on his toes — especially when it comes to his cases.

“Is House okay with me giving my medical opinion?” You ask as you make your way down the hall.

Cameron shrugs, “I don’t know. I just want a second opinion before we pump this eleven-year-old full of steroids.”

A sense of dread fills you. Consults are normal for you, but you’ve never done one for Dr. House. He’s infamous for his outlandish attitude and horrible manners, but he’s a genius. You better not screw this up. Or worse.

Cameron opens the door to the Diagnostics Office.

Gregory House, M.D.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” House gestures towards you and Cameron, “did you two come up with a differential while you were screwing?”

You stand there in a daze, trying to make something of the whiteboard that has about twenty symptoms scribbled on it.

“Who has the file?” Cameron ignores House’s crude remarks, looking to her colleagues.

Dr. Foreman hands it to her, a slim red file.

You read the case back to front — an 11-year-old girl presenting with muscle weakness and several skin rashes. She had just been on a cruise a few weekends ago and plays in a soccer league.

“Has to be juvenile dermatomyositis,” you quickly hand the file back to Foreman, “best treatment is steroids.”

Dr. House shuffles towards his desk, “You heard her, start the treatment.”

Without a minute to spare, the ducklings flee to the ICU to begin treating the patient for your diagnosis. You begin to walk with them, but House stops you.

“You,” he points his cane at you, “not bad. I’ll let you know if the kid survives.”

You nod your head politely and leave his office. You still have a whole day’s worth of charting to catch up on. You can see House throwing a red tennis ball up in the air as you leave, his ankles crossed on his desk. His eyes never falter their watch on you.

A man in a perfectly pressed lab coat heads into Dr. House’s office after you leave. The oncologist — Dr. Wilson. They’re always following each other around.

“I didn’t know you made nice with the new rheumatologist,” Wilson begins his interrogation.

House puts the tennis ball down for a moment, “It was just a consult, it was Cameron’s idiotic idea.”

“So… a beautiful, intelligent doctor didn’t do anything for you?”

“It obviously did something for you,” House scratches the side of his jaw, “weird, I thought hot nurses were more your speed.”

Wilson tries to come up with something witty, but unfortunately there is not much he can muster.

“Come on House, why won’t you just let yourself be vulnerable for once?” He continues his chattering as he follows House into the elevator.

House presses the button to take them to the ICU, “vulnerability is a weakness.”

The ICU is buzzing with the usual hustle and bustle, the smell of disinfectant travels up House’s nostrils. He and Wilson make their way to the patient’s room. House would never admit it — but he has been worried about the patient. She’s only a child, the emergency room had suspected heat exhaustion or an allergic reaction. Electrolytes and allergy tests didn’t help. They were running out of diagnoses.

“She’s doing better already,” Chase emerges from the patient’s room. “Steroids have calmed the inflammatory reactions, she’s resting.”

“So it is dermatomyositis,” House stares at the patient through the glass, “start her on Methotrexate in a few hours.”

“That’s it?” Chase crosses his arms in question, “The case is over?”

“That’s it,” House turns back to the elevator, “she can be discharged tomorrow, let the parents know to bring her to a pediatric rheumatologist.”

You solved a case so quickly that House had nothing to say. They had run every test, exhausted every diagnosis — and all you had to do was read the damn file.

He can’t tell if he’s attracted to your sharp intelligence or angered by it. He just knows that it frustrates him in a way he can’t explain. Just like he can’t explain why he wants to see you again, and again, and again.

“Interesting,” Wilson presses the elevator button this time, “it seems you’ve been outsmarted.”

House knows he’s been more than just outsmarted. At this point, being outsmarted is the least of his problems. Repressing his desires is the priority. It keeps replaying in his mind — the way you licked the tip of your index finger to flip the pages of the patient’s file, how you smoothed your hands over your modest skirt that left just enough to the imagination, how you’re so smart without even trying.

Your charting is barely getting started, you sort through various patients’ files trying to find a place to start. There are countless things you need to finish by the end of the week, but something is distracting you.

Dr. House.

His quick-wit, deep voice, and eyes you could get lost in. It feels so wrong to think of him in a way that makes your stomach drop, but you can’t help the bit of attraction you feel towards the older doctor. Cameron shares stories of his antics and schemes, making him sound like a mad scientist. You didn’t expect to enjoy his crudeness, to desire to be around him again.

The sound of your office door clicking open interrupts your thoughts.

“Dr. House,” you feel heat brimming up to the tips of your ears. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

You adjust your lab coat nervously, and try to make your messy desk look a bit neater.

He pulls out the chair adjacent to your desk. “You mind if I sit?” He says, “Bum leg.”

“Yeah… uhm, sorry,” you motion towards the chair, “is there something you need to discuss?”

“Actually, yes.”

You bite down on your bottom lip. He’s hard to read, his expression neutral as he mindlessly pops a pill into his mouth with no water.

“Is this about the patient?” You begin to panic, praying to whatever higher power that you hadn’t messed up the diagnosis. “Is she showing improvement?”

He twists the orange pill bottle between his fingers. “That’s the problem, she’s fine.”

“And that’s a problem… why?”

A deep breath fills his chest, “you solved the case, it’s over. She’s your patient.”

A look of bewilderment spreads over your face. The whole point of patient care is that patients get better.

House grasps his cane in a move to get up, his feet pointing towards the door.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Your voice stops him in his tracks.

“Full of questions today, are we?” He shoots you a half-hearted smile, “You solved it, she’s yours. It’s that simple. You can prepare her for discharge tomorrow.”

Maybe his crudeness and holier-than-thou attitude isn’t so attractive, because his words are making your ears pound.

“Is this how you reward people for being smarter than you?” Your hands ball into fists in the pockets of your lab coat, you’ve never had someone make you feel so — small. Your intelligence is what has always given you the upper hand, and now it’s letting House kick you down the ladder.

He bites the inside of his cheek and flashes his stupid, ridiculous, awful blue eyes at you, “you may have cured my patient, but I keep the lights on at this hospital.”

The door clicks behind him when he leaves, the tapping of his wooden cane echoing down the hall.

You rub your temples, sinking back into your seat in defeat. It would have been in everybody’s best interest for you to refuse the consult, surely Cameron and the rest of House’s team would’ve come to the correct conclusion.

The patient had started on Methotrexate by morning. Even though Cameron explained to the parents that her condition was chronic, the parents were thrilled their child would live. You fasten on your badge as you hurry to the pediatric ward, your heels clicking against the tile floors.

“Good morning,” you greet the parents with a welcoming smile, “I am happy to share with you that your daughter will be able to go home this afternoon.”

The parents stare at Cameron blankly, “I thought Dr. House was in charge?” The father says.

“Dr. House is no longer the attending on your daughter’s case,” Cameron says, “let me go get the discharge paperwork.”

Cameron spots a familiar face at the nurse’s station, cane in hand.

“The family is asking for you,” Cameron cocks her head towards the patient’s room.

“Pretty sure mommy and daddy will be just fine,” House’s nose scrunches up, “our expert rheumatologist has it all under control.”

“Stop playing games,” Cameron snaps, “can’t you just move onto the next case?”

“Your friend is my next case,” he watches you speak to the patient’s family, he doesn’t do stuff like that, “studied at Duke, fellowship at Mayo Clinic… what else should I know?”

“Get over it, House,” Cameron staples the discharge paperwork and heads back to the patient’s room.

House leans on the nurse’s station, observing you and Cameron through the glass. He notices you take time with the patient, something he has never been good at. A smile tugs at his lips when you give the young girl a high-five.

“I recommend regular follow-ups with a pediatric rheumatologist for now, I will write a referral,” you tell the patient’s parents, “here is my card in case you have any further questions.”

You hand the patient’s file back to Dr. Cameron. As you walk out into the hallway, a wooden cane smacks into your chest.

“Excellent bedside manner,” Dr. House lowers his cane back down to the floor, “where’d they teach you that?”

“Are you hazing me?” You keep walking, purposely leaving him behind.

He catches up to you when you’re at the nurse’s station, you can feel his presence behind you. His warm breath fanning your neck, he’s so close you can hear his heartbeat.

You lean on the counter, scribbling on your notepad and trying to ignore him. The nurse across from you is trying not to stare.

“Just making an effort to get to know the person who is trying to take my job,” he tilts his head closer to your ear.

“I am not after your job,” you turn to face him, your eyes level with his chest, “my only intentions were to help Cameron and the patient.”

The look of anticipation on his face disappears, it’s replaced by rejection. The older man continues to follow you to the elevators, hot on your heels.

You know he’ll follow you into the elevator, piss you off some more. You keep moving past the elevators and head to the stairwell.

“That’s just evil,” he shakes his head at you, “have you no respect for cripples?”

His voice echoes through the stairwell, and you can’t help but laugh a little.

“I’m sure you’ll catch me later,” you shrug, making your way down the rest of the stairs.

House tries to pry his eyes away from you, but he just watches your figure vanish down the stairwell. Only the pain in his leg was stopping him from following you. He reaches into his jacket pocket, feeling around for the small orange pill bottle.

“You know the whole ‘bullying-a-girl-means-you-like-her’ thing only works through junior high,” Wilson makes air quotes with his fingers.

“Oh, and you know everything about women,” House moves past Wilson, “how’s that third divorce going, by the way?”

Wilson crosses his arms, a strand of his dark hair falling between his brows, “you’re deflecting.”

House presses the elevator button with his cane, “actually, you deflected my question.”

The elevator takes them both to the first floor — the clinic. House despises the clinic. Patients wheezing, coughing, itching strange rashes and oozing from every orifice — and all their diagnoses are something that can easily be fixed with some rest, over-the-counter medication, or better decisions.

“There are two reasons you’d come here voluntarily,” Wilson grabs House by the forearm, stopping him, “either to bother Cuddy, or to keep up this strange scheme you have going on.”

“Maybe,” House dramatically clutches his chest, “I’m just upholding my oath to care for every patient.”

You’re in Exam Room 3, examining a man who appears to have swollen lymph nodes. You’d rather be finishing your charting, writing referrals, completing rounds — maybe anything else, but clinic hours are a requirement.

“Swollen lymph nodes are often caused by infections,” you feel the nodule below the man’s jaw, “been sick recently?”

He nods, but several knocks on the door interrupt the exam.

“I’m sorry, this will just be a moment.”

You crack open the door ever-so slightly, almost like you’re afraid of an intruder.

“Seriously?” You say through gritted teeth.

Dr. House’s icy blue eyes stare down at you, his pupils dilated like a cat on the hunt.

“I need you for a consult,” he hands you a patient’s file, you open it.

“House, this guy is in a coma.”

“Exactly!”

Something in your gut just can’t say no. Maybe it’s his salt-and-pepper beard or partially unbuttoned shirt that makes you only dislike him, but not hate him.

“Sir, no need to be concerned about your lymph nodes. If they’re still there in a month, come back to the clinic,” you say to the patient briefly.

“Toodles!” House waves to the patient and reaches over you to close the exam room door.

“I thought you didn’t want my help with patients,” you continue reading through the file as you follow House down the hall.

“I’m testing you,” he pops the cap of his pill bottle open, “maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

Of course it’s a test. You could do this, you had already outsmarted him once.

House takes you to the patient’s room. It’s eerie, the only sound is the heart monitor beeping. The patient is an older man, and he’s been comatose for a month.

“Tell me,” House leans against the rail of the patient’s bed, “why is he in a coma?”

You feel like you’re back in residency, when those nasty attendings would put you on the spot.

You gulp, “patient presented to the emergency room with severe strep throat symptoms, patient had a consistently high fever —“

“Tell me something I don’t know,” House interrupts.

“Patient was admitted to the ICU as the fever, nausea, and vomiting had progressed overnight. Patient was a lifelong smoker, he had difficulty breathing and was put on a ventilator,” your eyes glance to the comatose man.

House keeps his gaze on you. He wants to watch how your hands clutch the file, how your chest heaves from speaking so quickly, how you nervously bite your glossy, swollen lips.

“While the patient was on ventilation, he went into cardiac arrest. He was not pronounced dead, but is now comatose,” you look up from the file and at House, “it’s rheumatic fever.”

He reaches across the patient’s bed, snatching the file from you.

“He could still be with us,” you touch the patient’s hand, “if his strep hadn’t gotten so bad, he would’ve been fine.”

“You knew what he had,” House scrubs his hand over his face, “I mean, I don’t care, but you knew.”

“You do care,” you begin walking out of the patient’s room, “you wanted me to be wrong.”

The tapping of the cane, you can hear it. He’s following you.

“I didn’t want you to be wrong,” he shoves the file under his arm.

“You didn’t want me to be right.”

“Then why’d you come with me?”

He’s in the elevator with you, following you, again. Perhaps this is some kind of weird social experiment he’s trying out.

You take him in for a moment. What would it be like, just one kiss? What would his big, rough hands feel like gripping your hips?

His eyes soften, and the crinkles by his eyes make you smile. He keeps close to you as you walk to your office, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

“I’m going to go into my office now,” you open the door.

“Wouldn’t be chivalrous of me if I didn’t walk you in.”

Click.

“Did you lock the door?” You take your lab coat off, hanging it on the back of your chair.

“I think you need to get that checked,” he points to the doorknob. “Might be defective.”

It’s Dr. House, he’s just being a prick. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

You stand in front of him, observing the way he tenses up. The silence is palpable, and tension seethes through the both of you. You’re afraid if you touch, one of you might explode.

You muster up the confidence to grip his red dress shirt, his eyes going wide. You pull him against the wall into what can only be described as the most desperate, dirty, satisfying kiss you’ve ever experienced. An eruption of pleasure ignites through your body as House cradles your jaw, kissing you harder. His cane falls to the floor. Your lips are even softer than he had imagined, you taste like pure sweetness.

House feels like flying, electricity sparks throughout him. For the first time in months, he’s focused on something other than his pain. He slides his hand under your blouse, feeling your soft skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps.

The stubble of his beard against your face and his bruising kisses make you writhe against him. You’re putting your hands wherever you can reach, popping open the buttons of his shirt to explore him.

“Jackpot,” he takes a moment to admire your flushed face and seductive eyes.

You push him back towards your desk chair, pawing his jacket off. His lips continuously crash against yours, hot and needy. He makes a move to sink his teeth into your collarbone. It makes you feel dizzy, like he’s claiming you.

House sits under you, waiting for your next move. All rationality is neglected, and your hands begin unbuckling his belt.

Checkmate.

Hungry kisses make their way down your neck as House’s calloused hand migrates up your thigh, pulling down your underwear. Your office will be a mess by the time all is said and done, articles of clothing and paperwork strewn across the floor.

House isn’t the talkative type during a time like this, but he groans your name and his hands grip your hips firmly. His head falls back as you settle into a rhythm. He starts assisting your movements, his warm hands unbuttoning your blouse and roaming your body.

There’s more greedy kisses, you feel full to the brim with everything. Your legs shake, and all that you feel is House. His lips, his hands against your skin, his heart beating against yours. It’s euphoric.

Time slows down and your eyes briefly fall shut. House’s fingers trail down your spine, a soft smile upon his face.

His chest glistens with a sheen layer of sweat and his face is flushed. You’re willing to bet that seeing him in such a state of happiness is a rarity.

House picks up your underwear from the arm of your chair and shoves them in the pocket of his dress shirt, “I’m saving these for later.”

“I have a whole drawer of them at home.”

[simdertalia]

🥊 🏈 ACNH Sports Stuff ⚽ 🥅

Sims 4, base game compatible | 38 items | extra swatches added by me 💗

I hope you enjoy! ☺️💗

A tip for building your boxing ring: I placed the corners and ropes and got that all lined up, before raising the platform a bit. I tried to build another one with the platform raised first, and the middle rope-only piece wants to snap to the higher floor, so make sure you do the raising after those are placed.

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

Use the 0,9 keyboard feature to raise items or lower them

Use the scale up & down feature on your keyboard to make the items larger or smaller to your liking. If you have a non-US keyboard, it may be different keys depending on which alphabet it uses.

Download below, all in a zip file or pick & choose!

Set contains: Buy: -Ball Catcher (Basketballs) | 4 swatches | 2390 poly -Ball Catcher (Soccer Footballs) | 4 swatches | 2390 poly -Ball Catcher (Volleyballs) | 6 swatches | 2390 poly -Baseball | 2 swatches | 194 poly -Baseball and Mitt | 8 swatches | 938 poly -Baseball Bat (2 items, up & down versions) | 8 swatches each | 266 poly each -Baseball Mitt | 8 swatches | 746 poly -Baseball Mitt Chair (functional living chair) | 6 swatches | 1164 poly -Baseball Stuff Cluster (all the items)  | 8 swatches each | 1202 poly each -Basketball | 4 swatches | 434 poly -Basketball Net (decor) | 3 swatches | 2359 poly -Basketball Net (wall decor) | 3 swatches | 997 poly -Bicycle (2 items, adult & child size) | 9 swatches each | 2402 poly each -Boomerang (2 items, wall item on hooks and clutter item) | 6 swatches each | 410 poly each -Boxing Ring Corner | 3 swatches | 1432 poly -Boxing Ring Drape 1 & 2 (2 items, mirrored) | 5 swatches each | 54 poly each -Boxing Ring Ropes | 1 swatch | 225 poly -Gridiron Football | 1 swatch | 1186 poly -Gridiron Football Helmet (2 items, adult & child size) | 10 swatches each | 2053 poly each -Gridiron Football Rug | 2 swatches (I made a brighter version of the original) | 692 poly -Judge's Bell | 6 swatches | 880 poly -Mountain Bike | 12 swatches | 2402 poly -Mountain Bike (wall) | 12 swatches | 2392 poly -Pennant Flag (wall) | 4 swatches | 316 poly -Scoreboard | 3 colors for frame, 4 colors for number tabs, 12 total swatches | 1200 poly -Skateboard | 8 skateboard colors, 1 blank and 4 stickers, 40 total swatches | 960 poly -Skateboard Rack (wall) | 4 swatches | 1810 poly -Soccer Football | 1 swatch | 434 poly -Soccer Football Goal | 4 swatches | 4666 poly -Volleyball | 6 swatches | 434 poly

Build: -Dojo Wall | 1 swatch |Paneling -Sumo Ring Floor | 25 swatches, goes together like a puzzle | Misc -Boxing Ring Floor | 25 swatches, goes together like a puzzle | Misc

Type “acnh sports" into the search query in build mode to find  quickly. You can always find items like this, just begin typing  the title and it will appear.

As always, please let me know if you have any issues! Happy Simming! 💗

📁 Download all or pick & choose (SFS, No Ads): HERE

📁 Alt Mega Download (still no ads): HERE

🌻 Download on Patreon

Will be public on March 14th, 2025 💗 Midnight CET

Happy Simming! ✨ Some of my CC is early access. If you like my work, please consider supporting me (all support helps me with managing my chronic pain/illness & things have been rough as of late):

★ Patreon  🎉 ❤️ |★ Ko-Fi  ☕️  ❤️ ★ Instagram📷

Thank you for reblogging ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

@sssvitlanz  @maxismatchccworld @mmoutfitters  @coffee-cc-finds  @itsjessicaccfinds  @gamommypeach  @stargazer-sims-finds  @khelga68  @suricringe  @vaporwavesims  @mystictrance15 @moonglitchccfinds @xlost-in-wonderlandx @jbthedisabledvet @fischottersims

CC Previously Made: -Golf Bag -Ski Rack -Surfboard -Volleyball Net (& another volleyball) -Wooden Field Sign -Desktop Mic -Handy Water Cooler -Wrestling Figure -Full Length Mirror

[sevcasejay1chicago]

hiii I hope you are doing ok

Could I please request a Jay Halstead x GF Reader

Reader is Diabetic and her monitor gets broken on a call out a couple of hours later when back at the station reader collapses and becomes unresponsive she is rushed to med where they find out she has gone into DKA (diabetic ketoacidosis) and has a seizure Jay is worried and is panicking ect.

Happy ending please

Thank you in advance if you decide to write this request 😘

DKA-Jay Halstead

Authors note: I found this deep within my inbox. I’m so sorry it took me forever to do this. I hope you enjoy it anyways. Also, not really completely proof read, but I hated waiting any longer. 😂

Warnings: vomiting, language, possible inaccurate medical information

🚔🚔🚔🚔🚔🚔

What should have been a run of the mill bust and paperwork day ended at Med. You’re barely conscious as Jay leans over your head, yelling for Nat to do something as you seize, barely getting a breath in. Everything flutters in and out of focus as your mind replays the day.

🚔🚔🚔🚔🚔🚔🚔🚔🚔

You sat in Jay’s passenger side, restlessly waiting for Voight to give you the go ahead. You and Jay have been on this stake out for over 24 hours and your ready to do the bust so that you could go file your paper work and go home with Jay. It was also time to change your monitor this evening and you wanted nothing more than to shower without the old device before replacing it with a new one.

“I can hear you thinking.” Jay mumbled, head laid back as he rested his eyes.

You jumped, thinking your partner was asleep. Last time you checked, his breathing was even and his jaw was slack. “Thought you were sleeping.” You muttered, rubbing your eye where the binoculars you were looking through hit it when you jumped.

Jay sighed, sitting up in his seat and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Well, the sun is up and your thinking too loud, so I figured it was time to wake up and check in.” Jay said, smirking as he reached across the console to kiss the side of your head. “Sooooo?” Jay drug out, wiggling his eyebrows to make you crack a smile.

“Just ready to go home.” You said, looking in his eyes briefly before sweeping the area. There were only a few cars in the area at this time of morning, but this was the time they liked to move product.

“I know baby. Soon enough.” Jay said, reaching for your luke warm coffee and taking a sip before placing it back in the cup holder. “Let me take a turn. Maybe close your eyes or check in with the team.” Jay said, opening his now empty hand for the binoculars.

You sighed, not wanting to argue with him. You handed the binoculars over to Jay before pulling out your phone and shooting a text to Kim to check in. While you waited for her reply, you leaned your head against Jay’s shoulder and snuggled close, letting your eyes slip shut.

Jay leaned his back into the center console to provide you access to his shoulder, knowing you sleep best when you can feel him. His eyes stay trained on the surrounding area, checking closer with the binoculars every now and then. He keeps his movements to a minimum to not disturb you seeing as you’ve been up most of the night. You never rest well on stake outs, but Jay’s former Army background has proven useful for sleeping pretty much anywhere.

Half an hour later, you wake to Jay speaking on the phone in a hushed voice. “Sarge. Get everyone down here. We’ve got a small box truck and three more vehicles pulling into the warehouse.” Jay said, leaning back to look at you as he felt you remove your head from his shoulder.

You took the binoculars, narrowing in on the open garage door. You could see a table lined with wooden crates. All of them appeared to be unmarked, but big enough to contain guns. “I see boxes that probably contain weapons, but they are unmarked and I can’t see inside from this angle.” You spoke into your own phone.

“We will be there in 5.” Voight said, causing you and Jay to jump into action. “50-21 requesting backup to 1415 Kincaid. Multiple players. Assumed to be armed and dangerous.” You and Jay heard called out on the city wide radio.

Jay grabbed your bullet proof vest and handed it to you before grabbing his own. He threw his seat back to avoid hitting the wheel by accident as you scrambled to grab Jay’s rifle from the back and place it on the floor board next to your feet. By the time both of you have your gear on, ears in, and weapons checked, the team has pulled up. Voight’s tires screech as he parks his SUV to block the entrance with Kevin’s car blocking the rest of the way. Jay pulls his truck behind Kevin’s before you are both jumping out and running into the building after your team, patrol flanking as they arrive.

“Watch your backs. We got guns.” Kevin says, peeking into the boxes as you all run by.

“Chicago PD! Come out with your hands up! We’ve got you surrounded.” Voight yells, eyes scanning the warehouse. Tall boxes block the view, but you can hear scrambling as the men pick up guns and begin to take off on foot.

“Stop! Police!” You yell, running as fast as your legs can carry you. You stop every now and then to shield your body with varied crates as you all begin to exchange gunfire, but you don’t let it stop you from reaching an open area blocked off with more boxes for cover. You take off, yelling to Kim and Adam “We are coming to you guys at the back.” As you continue your pursuit of two men running along the other side of the boxes. Once you reach the end, you are able to tackle one to the ground as you hear Kim announce herself, stopping the other man in his tracks.

Silence, other than the clicking of handcuffs, is now the only thing you hear. Jay runs up, pulling you up off the ground as Adam puts the cuffs on the man. “You good?” Jay asks, holding you by the shoulder so that you don’t fall over as you bend at the waist, propping yourself up with your hands on your knees, attempting to catch your breath. You nod, giving a shaky thumbs up as adrenaline pumps through your body. Jay leads you to a crate and sits you down. “Catch your breath and then we can start processing the evidence.” Jay says, kissing you on the forehead before walking away.

~TIME SKIP~

Once you finished doing what you all could, Jay leads you to the truck and helps you climb in, stripping your vest off of you as you basically collapse into the passenger seat. You’d been dragging the past hour, which was now starting to become noticeable by everyone. When you started recounting the items in your possession for the third time, Voight sent you and Jay back to the precinct to change and go home, having everyone wrap up as well.

“Hey baby. Let me see those y/c/e.” Jay spoke softly, tenderly holding your head in his hands. When you groggily peered at your lover, you let a dopey smile spread across your face. “There’s my girl.” Jay whispered, kissing your forehead. “Drink your water and I’ll get us back to the precinct.” Jay said, helping you to put your legs into the truck and buckle you up before handing you your water. Once he had you situated, he closed your door and rounded the truck to get into his side.

You winced as the truck started moving, lightly hissing in pain. Jay didn’t seem to hear it since he didn’t start grilling you about potential injuries, which you were thankful for. You didn’t want or need to be interrogated for a tummy ache. Instead of saying anything, you drank your water, gulping yours down and Jay’s down within minutes when you suddenly realized how thirsty you were. Jay didn’t comment, thinking you were dehydrated from the stake out.

Once back at the district, Jay helped you up the steps and into the locker room. All the movement made your stomach churn. You tried to ignore it, but suddenly all the water you drank was pushing to the surface. You launched yourself out of Jay’s arms and over the trash can before he could even process what was happening. You had a white knuckle grip on the rim of the trash can as you hiccup and heave, letting out a stream of water.

“Woah! Okay. Okay baby. I gotcha.” Jay says, rushing to grab your pony tail and tuck it into your shirt before he is wrapping an arm around your chest and rubbing your back with the other hand. “I gotcha. Just let it out. It’s alright honey. It’s alright.” Jay soothes, not really sure if it’s mostly for you or some for himself.

You cough and heave a few times, shakily latching onto Jay’s arm around your chest with one hand while clutching your stomach with the other. You moan as your vision blurs and you feel your knees begin to buckle. “J-humph.” You try to call his name, fear taking over your voice.

“Sh Sh Sh. I know. I know. Hang on.” Jay says, getting a better grip on you from behind before turning to yell out the door. “I need some help in here!” Jay hollers, having a gut feeling that something is really wrong.

Footsteps can be heard running up the stairs in multiple directions before Trudy comes running in from the stairs near the Sargent desk and Kim comes through the door you both just came through, Voight and Adam not far behind.

“What the hell happened?” Both Trudy and Hank yell at the same time, coming up to the pair of you.

“I don’t know. I gotta get her down. She’s fading Sarge.” Jay says, leaning over you to grip you better in his arms.

“Kim, guide him back with her to straddle the bench. Adam, go call a bus. Tell them we have an officer down. Trudy, help me move this trash can with them. She’s still going.” Voight instructs, immediately taking charge.

Once Kim has her hands on Jay’s sides, he allows her to guide him back, you being practically dragged along. Platt and Voight follow close to you, making sure you stay over the large trash can. They tilt it some once Jay sits and pulls you down with him. Voight has a hold of one of the handles as Trudy goes to grab a few paper towels and wets them. Adam comes running in with a med bag.

“Ambo’s 10 out. 51 is sending Brett and Violet from a call. They are closest.” Adam relays the information, kneeling at your side. “Lemme check her vitals. They want us to watch her stats.” Adam explains, taking out the pulse ox and attaching it to your finger as your heaves start to calm.

Voight sets the trash can down and slightly to the side before taking his phone out, checking your monitor. “Jay, how long has her monitor been down?” Voight asks, seeing that it is no longer transmitting information.

“What?” Jay asks, leaning around you and lifting your shirt. When he sees the broken monitor, he mutters a curse. “DKA. Fuck. Sarge, she’s in DKA.” Jay quickly realizes, having seen you in this situation before.

Trudy has a wet paper towel on your neck and forehead as your head lulls forward. “Y/n!” Trudy yells as Jay tightens his hold on you.

“I gotta lay her down. Kim, I need your jacket.” Jay instructs, allowing Adam and Voight to help him lower you into the recovery position on the floor. “Give me the glucose machine.” Jay says, holding his hand out to Adam. Once the monitor beeped, Jay swore lowly. “It’s 487.” Jay mumbled, pulling out his phone. He pressed it to his ear as Adam monitored the pulse ox.

“Jay?” Nat asked as soon as she picked up. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Y/n. 61 is on the way, but I need a room cleared and prepped. She’s in DKA.” Jay explained, running a hand through his hair.

“Is she conscious?” Nat asked, moving to April and Maggie to whisper the urgent need she had.

“No. She threw up and she passed out. We’ve been on a stake out and then a bust. Her monitor probably broke during the bust, so we had no idea. She’s been struggling with her sugar the last couple of days, but now she’s at 487.” Jay quickly explained, thankful that Brett ran in has he spoke. “ Brett’s here. We should be landing in 20.” Jay said, not waiting for a reply as he locked eyes with Brett’s movements.

“Hey Y/n? Can you hear me?” Brett asks, turning you over slightly, using Jay’s lap to tilt you enough to do a sternum rub. You groan and Brett relaxes some. “She’s not coming out of this. We gotta load her up and get h-“ Brett stops as you tense up, immediately being thrown into a seizer.

“Oh fuck.” Jay gasps, rolling you completely on your side as Voight leans down to move your legs into a more stable position and lightly holds them there.

“Vi, I need the med kit in the locker rooms now!” Sylvie says into her radio. “Everyone else that is not helping, please clear the room. We need space.” Brett instructs, leaning over to make sure your airway is clear and to check the pulse ox that is still on your finger. “Vitals are mostly fine. Elevated for obvious reasons, but not dangerous. I’m going to give her meds to stop the seizer if it continues. Let’s see if she can ride it out first.” Brett says, not wanting to pump you with anything knowing that you have weird drug reactions.

Jay nods and sits back, a hand lightly in your side to keep you there. He mutters soft reassurance in your general direction has tears quietly roll down his face. He’s never seen you this bad before.

“Oh God.” Violet says as she walks into the room. “Here.” She hands Brett a saline bag and a IV kit before she leans down to recheck your stats and airway.

After roughly 45 seconds, the seizer stops. You go completely lax under Jay and Voights’ hand. Your breathing is erratic, but the pulse ox results aren’t causing any other alarms.

“Sargent. Get Ruzek to grab the stair chair. It’s in the lobby next to the watchman’s desk.” Violet says, taking the prepped saline bag from Brett and standing, putting pressure on it to speed up the process and get you rehydrated.

——PRESENT——

Everything else is a blur. Now, as you open your eyes to various voices and bright lights, you do your best to lay still. Everything feels wrong. You immediately feel anxious and start to reach for the mask over your face.

“Hey hey hey. No baby.” Jay says, immediately taking your hand and gently lowering it back to your chest. “Hey. Look at me. I’m here sweetheart.” Jay says, brushing your hair back from your face and gently coaxing you as the heart monitor starts to pick up.

You open your eyes and look around. You are clearly in one of the icu rooms at med. You can see Nat and Will exchanging words outside your room as they glance between you and their computers.

“Baby?” Jay calls, grabbing your attention.

You slowly turn to Jay, locking eyes with him as he finally comes into view. You squint against the light, but Jay leans further over to block the assault.

“Hey you. Welcome back.” Jay whispers, tears threatening to spill.

“W-wha-“ you try to say, clearing your throat.

“Hang on.” Jay says, reaching for the water next to your bed and carefully helping you sit up and take a few cautious sips as he pulls the oxygen mask to the side. Once your done, he places the water aside and immediately replaces the oxygen mask.

“What happened?” You ask, clearing your throat from what feels like disuse or sickness.

“Well you went into DKA. You got sick in the locker rooms and we had to call 61 to transport you. You had two seizers and stopped protecting your airway so they had to intervene. You’ve been out for 48 hours. Your in the ICU at Med.” Jay explained, soothing your hair back as he speaks.

Your eyes widen, staring at Jay as you process what he just said. “H-how?” You ask, wracking your brain. You haven’t had an episode this bad in years. They don’t happen with the monitor.

“Your monitor broke during the raid. We knew your sugars had been out of wack, but since you weren’t attached to the monitor, we had no clue how high it got until you went down.” Jay explained, squeezing your hand that you slipped into his.

You slowly nodded. That made sense. Now you had just one more question. “When can I go home?” You whispered, looking at Jay with the biggest puppy dog eyes you could.

Jay chuckled. He knows you hate hospitals as much as him. “Soon enough baby. Soon enough.” Jay promises, leaning up to kiss your forehead.

TAG LIST:

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@sorry-i-spaced

@zephyrmonkey

@allisonargent144

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[devoutekuna]

Family bonding

Includes- Toji, Sukuna, Nanami, Gojo, Geto

Sukuna-

Sukuna never brings his child around his followers, finding them unworthy to grace their eyes upon his offspring. Sat in a vacant room, laid out on the floor as he watched his followers trying to entrain him, dancing around, telling stories or jokes. Nothing could suffice him, a pile of heads adorning the corner of the room, yet to become of everyone. Small giggles being heard from the slightly open door, pink hair sticking out from beside it as he looked at it, hands working magic as he sliced their head off, ushering for the next person. Door slashed open just like those people, leaving wooden remains all around. "Show yourself" crimson eyes peering out from the last standing part of the door. A smile glistening on her face, flashing her canines at him. "Papa!" Running towards the king. A smirk on his face as he felt his daughter's embrace, staring at the one servant who raised their head just for it to be cut off, leaving no witnesses to the matter.

"Next!" Motioning for the next person to come in, only to receive the news that there was nobody left, leaving a pile of corpses in the corner of the room, blood seeping towards him.

Gojo-

"Won't mummy be mad?" Sat in his father's arms as he fought a curse, using his infinity to block all the attacks, still flinching from the idea of them getting through. "Not if she doesn't know" grinning at the little boy, he loved to mess with you, hearing you scold him was some of his favourite highlights. "But still" covering his head in his father's shoulder, white hair rubbing against his neck. "If you're that scared we can go home" exorcising the curse as he looked away, making sure not leave a mess and just use the excuse that it ran away. Kicking his leg into his chest on accident. "No!" Smiling at how much his son wanted to spend time with him.

Nanami-

"If your going to stay in here, help me out" trying to declutter his office. Taking down a box full of files, throwing them onto the sofa since he knew that they were no used to him. Reaching for the next one as he noticed a small pair of hands reaching towards him first. "To me" on her toes as she reached for it, wanting to be helpful like she said. "Don't drop it sweetheart." Handing her the box, noticing how she reacted by lowering her body, waddling over to the sofa since the box was too big for her. "Ooo, what's this daddy?" Pulling out a memory box you two made when you reached your 10 year anniversary. Ripping the box open before he could even get a good look at what she was talking about. Ripping the box from her arms, not knowing what she would discover if she opened it up. "Awh" folding her arms over her chest, trying to act cute to get it back. "Let's leave this up here" straining his arms as he put it back up.

Geto-

He's rambling on about his stupid followers, talking about how useless and belittling them, cup in hand as he took a few sips of the drink before he carried down talking. "Here you go daddy" running up to him with a new glass of milk, having it come out of the microwave, it was warm, but still a little cold. Ripping the other cup from his hands, running back to the kitchen to hand it you. "Thank you sweetheart" smiling at the girl as she seated herself next to him, leaning her body onto his.listening to whatever he had to say despite not understanding the meaning behind it at all. "And then they have the nerve to say something about my actions!" Maybe he was drunk with the way he was acting. Small hands leaning over to grab the felt tips, refusing to get out of her comfortable position only for her father to step in and pass them to her, stroking her hair in the process.

Toji-

"Keep up" strolling in the park, he would've kept his normal quick pace but he had his daughter with him, both dressed up in pyjamas as they walked through the park. He was only here because the lines for the food truck were shorter at nighttime. Nightie swaying in the wind despite her coat. "Wait up daddy!" Running up to him to try and grab his hand, only to grab his fingers because she was too short. Picking the girl up as he sped up, wanting to get back before you woke up since he knew you would scold him.

Sat on the bench eating some ice-cream, it was a quick stop by to the shop before they made it to the food truck since she was so hungry. Wiping the ice-cream off her nose with the spare tissue he had. "We've got to go before your ma' wakes up"

[sweetttsummer]

reachin' up for sunlight (just to be ripped out by the stem)

dr. robert chase x fem!reader

summary: Robert Chase and you fell somewhere, somehow, somewhat in love each other at what was the worst time of your lives. Now, a decade later, you've showed up at the one place he didn't think he'd see you, Princeton-Plainsboro, as a patient.

wc: 17k

tw: typical house medical stuff, Chase's family history (yes thats a tw) and some allusion to not a great family life for reader also!

author's note: this is a week late, but in my defense..its 17k words long. also, i'm not a medical doctor or even close to one so if you wanted accurate medical shit, wrong place! wrong person! this has not been beta read so apologizes!

have a request? ask away!

Dr. Chase took a moment to glance as he stepped out of the elevator door, and the next moment to breath in happy to be out of his own place. The long weekend off had done nothing for him, he felt exhausted. His weekend off had finally taken all the excuses he had left and he had pulled out the last box of things that his father had left him. 

It had been months (half a year? when did that happen?) at this point since he had learnt of his father’s death. When it first happened, it was like nothing had changed, he got the phone call, he remembers thanking the person for the information and then continuing on with his day. (Given the lawsuit that had found itself into his life, obviously it had bothered him more than he first thought.)

But then the box showed up. It had taken a week, and Chase had already learnt that his father left him no money (although it wasn’t shocking) so when the box showed up, he had been confused. Inside the packing bag, was a fairly decent sized briefcase. For the first week, the briefcase stayed on the dining room table. It’s not like he ate dinner in his apartment anyways. It haunted him often, and it took three days of it sitting there for him to realize it was the same briefcase he remembers his dad coming home from work with before he had left. That clarity was enough for him to take the briefcase and shove it against a nook, out of eye sight. And then came the long weekend half a year later, and what else was he suppose to do? Suddenly he was faced with the fact that five months later, the briefcase was still here and his father wasn’t. So he had picked it up back and opened it. 

There wasn’t a lot, the deed to a house his father had owned passed to Chase, some heirlooms he doesn’t recognize that he’s sure his father would be ashamed at the blank memory. The folder in which the deed rested in had been filled with other papers, some obviously were older than most. The already mentioned deed (and the pile of paperwork that comes with that), a pile of photos from before his father left, some mail that he’s sure his father’s lawyers had forwarded, and a bundle of letters, the top one doesn’t have a return address instead just “Robert” written in his fathers illegible writing. Papers that he couldn’t get himself to sort through so instead, he threw them on the table and moved along. The briefcase had ended up making its home at the front of his door, he had stared it down this morning before leaving thinking about easy it would be to slip his own things into it and use it. 

The beep of the elevator shakes him from the small turmoil he was suddenly throwing himself into. He forced his feet to start moving himself. 

The wooden bench was not meant to be sat on for hours: she had come to that conclusion about 20 minutes into camping in the hallway. That had been about an hour and a half ago according to her watch. Still, the lengthy medical file with her name poking out of the top was enough for her to deal with the numbness of her legs. The idea of wasting time did linger in the back of her head, she let out a small sigh and leaned her head up against the wall behind her, keeping her unfocused gaze on the ceiling. 

(Y/N) had found herself thinking about quitting her paralegal job at the law firm she had finally made a home at. Everything was going so well she had finally found herself a position that used her degree, and was in a town that she found the perfect balance of small but still full of things happening. Whatever bad luck she had when she was a teenager had finally been flushed out, or so she thought. 

About a week ago, she had fallen sick, quite literally. She had blacked out at her desk and came to by a small tap on her cheek, one of her bosses was crouched down near her obvious concern across her face. (Y/N) had felt embarrassed immediately and tried to sit up at her desk, but couldn’t seem to find her own strength and felt her face shake a little at the energy that was being used. Her struggle must have been obvious, as her boss had sent her home with a referral to a doctor she recommends. She was sent home by the first doctor with a simple answer of “stressed, dehydrated”, “You legal type work too hard, just give yourself the weekend” 

So she did. A whole weekend off, not answering her pager, her cellphone or home phone. It was a hard weekend, a reminder of the emptiness she had found herself in for adulthood. She had her job, her own pride, her health (for now), she tried not to think of the loneliness that lingered in the crawl spaces of her life. It would just lead to her dwelling on her teen years spent miles away, across oceans and railroads, with the one person who took in every piece of her and had shed light on the loneliness. No enough. 

She finally focused her gaze again and went back to staring at the tiles on the ceiling. She couldn’t think of him, she avoided it all these years and there’s no reason to think of it, of them, now. The ceiling is four by six tiles. She thinks to herself and it immediately brings her back to the ache of her butt against the wooden bench. A ding of the elevator torn her eyes from the ceiling and she went back to staring down the empty office’s glass door. 

Dr. Chase felt a few people slip out of the elevator behind him and he finally kicked himself into gear, moving towards the conference room. He was sure no one would be in yet, but he couldn’t stand sitting around anymore, better to hang out in the conference room where Foreman and Cameron might be able to pull him out of his own existential dread. Even if it’ll be through pissing him off, it would be better than this. 

Across the conference room, Chase noticed a small figure slightly slumped on the wooden bench. The color of her hair made his gut tighten just for a moment. The way it laid, the exact color, it all felt too close to someone he knew so long ago, someone he never thinks about anymore. It wasn’t on purpose, the way he immediately moved his feet towards the person on the bench. 

(Y/N) had heard the footsteps coming closer to her and ended up sitting up a little in her spot and looked up at the doctor who had stopped a little further than she thought he would. Whatever thoughts she was trying to avoid a few minutes ago, suddenly swarmed across her mind.  Dr. Chase didn’t even make it all the way over the person before his feet stopped him, it couldn’t be. 

There was a moment where they seemed to both size each other up, to debate if they had lost their minds. Chase couldn’t help the way his feet moved, they were use to walking towards her, not running away from her. 

“(Y/N)” Chase barely recognized his own voice. (Y/N) on the other hand had that voice burned into her brain. The lilt in the accent, the slight breathlessness laced in her name. It had been at least a decade since she heard him say her name. Still she could pick him out by voice alone. 

(Y/N) straightened her back against the wall in her sitting position and opened her mouth to reply. Nothing came out. Instead, the unanswered letters she had sent 10 years ago flash across her mind. She finally closed her mouth and kept her gaze up. He looked mostly the same, older of course, a decade apart will do that to a person. He had let his hair grow out, and despite the shocked look on his face, he still had the same rosy undertone in his cheeks. 

Chase took her silence to really look at her. He thinks of lingering teen hands, of giggling in the dark, of the only soft thing he had when everything was falling apart around him. There had been plenty of parties in his teenage years, so many girls, so many things he hid away but (Y/N). (Y/N) had been the one person he never spoke about, he had done his best to ignore the betrayal he felt when she left and she never reached out to him. He had packed it away. His father’s briefcase all packed with his things flashes in his mind. 

“What are you doing here?” Chase finally speaks up again, he rolled his shoulders a little and tried to put on a front, tried to pretend he wasn’t aching at the sight of her now. She still mostly looked the same, a little thinner than he thinks is natural for her, slightly hollow in her face in places that shouldn’t look like that. He tore his eyes away and glanced over to the empty conference room, House’s empty office. He ignored the voice telling him something was wrong. He had looked away and she could find her voice again. 

“Robert” (Y/N) finally spoke said the only thing that came to mind.  She didn’t know how to answer his questions, she wasn’t here to even ask his professional opinion, she had no idea he was even here. She had last seen him so far from here she never imagined he would have came all the way to New Jersey. 

Thankfully, the moment died quite quickly. Sadly, it was broken by the voice by House. 

“Chase, tell Wilson here..” House didn’t finish his sentence when he noticed Wilson had taken his chance to slip away, not wanting to hear whatever shitty thing House was going to yell across the hall to Chase. 

Chase clenched his jaw and kept his eyes trained on House as he limped over to where Chase stood. 

“Not now House,” Chase mumbled. 

“Dr. House?” (Y/N) tried to confirm if this was the man she was told could help her. House acted like he didn’t hear her and went to say something else to Chase before (Y/N) stood up quickly and held her medical file out towards House. 

“My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and I was referred to you. I work under Stacy Warner and-“ (Y/N) was cut off by a small wave of fatigue. She felt her legs shake a little at the act of standing up so quickly. Chase didn’t think twice  when he moved a little closer, let his hand linger around (Y/N)’s  arms. He stopped himself before he could actually put his hand on her, there was something scary about the idea of touching her again after all this time. It felt like another lifetime when he had the chance to be able to touch her freely, and her disappearance from his life felt like enough for a sign that she didn’t want him to touch her anymore. 

His voice soften when he spoke, “Hey, you should sit back down,” he kept his hands lingering near his elbow as he came closer to her, a little nudge to get her back onto the bench. (Y/N) listens without thinking and falls back onto the wooden bench. Her medical file is still in her hand and slightly held up towards Dr. House. “If you could at least look at it, tell me anything please,” (Y/N) tried to get Dr. House’s attention. 

House didn’t seem to be looking at her, or the medical file. Instead he had his gaze trailed on Chase, on the hand that he pulled away and shoved into his coat pocket when he noticed the lack of response from (Y/N). House finally caught Chase’s eye for only a moment before Chase immediately looked away. It was the only response House really needed. It had been a while since something had Chase on edge. House had been wondering if after the lawsuit Chase had caught if he decided to simply shut down, but his actions now seemed to say otherwise. 

House barely glanced at (Y/N) before snatching the medical file from her hand. (Y/N) let out a small sigh and leaned her head against the wall again, her eyes closed for a moment in relief. Dr. House grabbed my file, he’s opening it, Stacy had told her this would be the hardest part and she did it. (She can’t help but internally laugh at the fact that the hardest part is Robert Chase standing. right. there. But Stacy couldn’t have known.) 

Dr. House barely glanced at the file before swing it towards Chase for him to take it. Chase clenched his jaw but took the file and held it closed. 

“You ever spend time in Australia?” Dr. House leans against his cane as he finally stares down (Y/N). 

(Y/N) couldn’t help but glance over to Chase who was staring down House. She thought of her time in Australia. She had met Robert by accident, when she was working some fancy event that he was attending as a teenager. He was so obviously a bad idea, but he made her laugh and she could see the insecurity behind whatever fake gusto he was displaying. She remembers how he had almost blown her off when he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to fuck her tonight. She tries not to dwell on the years they spent attached at the hip. She tries not to think of all his secrets she had been holding close to her heart. Sometimes, when she focuses enough, she can remember the first time he had confessed that he thinks(knows) that no one else will ever understand him the way (Y/N) did. 

“I lived in Australia for 5 years when I was 16. My mother wanted me away from my father, and apparently across the country wasn’t enough, so she took me to the further place she could think of. It’s been so long I doubt it’s connected, I just barely started getting sick.” (Y/N) answered keeping her gaze away from Chase. 

House let out a little “huh” before he opened his mouth to say something else. Chase immediately spoke up to stop him from asking what he knows House will ask, “No.”  House glanced over Chase’s shoulder and noticed Cameron and Foreman making their way over to the both of them. 

House snatched the medical file, that Chase still hadn’t open, and met Cameron and Foreman half way and pressed the file into Foreman’s hands. Chase took a moment to glance at (Y/N). He thought of how much it hurt when she left, he thinks of her promises that she would write, that being physically separated didn’t mean anything with them. She felt his eyes on her and pulled her eyes from the ceiling, Chase still seemed to have her memorized because he could tell she was going to say something about the situation and he wasn’t sure he could handle it. He immediately turned away and went over to where Cameron was speaking. 

“It says here she had a cold about a month ago….”

“She also lived in Australia when she was 15 and now she seems to be 30. Weird right?” House said in an obnoxious tone that had Chase glaring at him already. 

Cameron’s attention is pulled from the file as she looks at Chase slightly confused. “You know her?” She asked ignoring the glare Chase is wearing. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Foreman said as he quickly walked over to (Y/N). She seemed to be slightly falling asleep against the wall, her head falling a little before she realized and slightly stood up. Foreman grabbed her shoulder a little and shook her awake a little. House watched as Foreman made sure she was aware of where she was, he noticed the way Chase’s jaw clenched at Foreman’s attention and grabbed the file out of Cameron’s hand. 

“Get her a room, and come back to me with information.” House made his way back to his office. Cameron glances at Chase for only a second before she made her way over to (Y/N) and helped Foreman out. Chase didn’t move, keeping his eyes on House his jaw clenched, “Well. Go!” House motioned with his cane. 

Chase had waited for House to make himself comfortable in his office before he took off. He didn’t even mention to Cameron and Foreman that he wouldn’t be around. He just needs a few moments to himself, the irony of how much he didn’t want to be alone an hour ago wasn’t lost on him. Chase was staring at the inside of his locker, he had walked into the doctor locker room without thinking and opened his locker like he was going to go home. The locker was full of his own items and he tried to take inventory. Instead he lost himself in the memory last time he had spoken to (Y/N) face to face.

They were both 21, he never had a secret with (Y/N) since he first opened up. Often, he remembers feeling like she had came into his life and without any medical school, knew how to perform open heart surgery, knew his insides without any problems. This was the first time he had held a secret from her. He had confirmed his medical school entry date and had been scared to mention it to her. ow, he couldn’t avoid it anymore, he was leaving tomorrow and the guilt at not telling her soon ate him alive. For the last few years it was just them, together, Chase knows he has his sister, and really his mother is still alive, but neither of them seem to see Chase. They see his hands cleaning up their mess, his voice lecturing them about something new. Then there was (Y/N). Every time he imagines not having (Y/N) it feels like those first ten minutes he was locked in his father’s office for the first time. He feels the ache in his hands from pounding on the wooden door, the panic in his chest. 

“Bobby,” (Y/N)’s singsongy voice came from behind him. 

He had picked her favorite little coffee shop he had shown her. She always claimed she liked all his spots equally, but something about the beach side patio this one had always made her brighten up a little. He likes to think it has to do with the fact that they can easily walk to the little beach cave they use to spend time in. He hoped it was enough to make her not hate him. 

He knew he wasn’t just dependent on her, it was mutual. She rarely spoke of her family, of the father and brothers she was pulled away from in the States. When she did speak of her mother it was in the same tone Chase spoke of his own. Distain, slightly laced with the longing want for someone, anyone to care. They both chalked it up to teenage angst as they grew together, not wanting the other to think them broken. It was a precarious situation. Both afraid the other would leave if they were broken, both holding each other together. 

(Y/N) was, as always in Chase’s eyes, beautiful. She was a little frazzled, caught being late as she was between class and work.She went to lean down next to his seat and without thinking he pulled himself up a little more, knowing what was coming. 

“Thought I told you not to call me that,” Chase mumbled a little as she pressed her lips against his cheek in a swift kiss. When she straighten up again and started towards the seat across from him, Chase stopped her and reached out to grab her hand. She stopped her movement without question and he pressed a small kiss onto the top of her hand before dropping it and letting her settle into her seat. 

She hummed a little at his comment, “Would you believe me if I said I forgot?”

Chase laughed a little under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly playful. 

(Y/N) took a moment to glance around the coffee shop. When they first really became friends, Chase would insist on meeting up somewhere, not wanting to expose (Y/N) to his mother, and (Y/N) hadn’t questioned it not wanting to answer questions about her own mother. This coffee shop had been in the middle of all the trips and for a while it didn’t mean anything to her. Most of them didn’t matter to her, what mattered was the company with her. What mattered what light blonde hair and rosy cheeks and blue eyes set in that slightly mischievous glare. What mattered when it came to their breakfast dates was how Chase would slip his feet towards her under the table, press his leg against hers just to feel her. What mattered was how easily it was kiss for kiss with them. 

Chase pulls out the folder he had put together, he was prepared, had his whole schedule, what halls he’s being put into. He had taught himself to have it all ready. 

“I was going to tell you sooner, but..” Chase trails off and keeps his eyes locked on the top of her head as she skimmed throughout all the papers he had pushed across the table. (Y/N) didn’t say anything for a few minutes, as she looked through the papers. Chase kept trying to find an excuse as to why he waited last minute to tell her he was leaving for medical school. It was never a secret this is what he wanted, had never let himself dream about it out loud unless (Y/N) was the one listening. Now, he was felt the guilt of abandoning her for this dream looming in his throat. (Y/N) took a sip of her now cooled down beverage and pushed the papers back into the middle of the table. 

“Can I keep this paper? Or should I just write the address down? Can you even get mail in a college hall? ” She said keeping her eyes on the paper. She ignores the abandonment that’s growing in her own gut, tries to figure out what can work with them. She knew this was coming and she wished he had told her sooner, but at least he told her. 

“What?” 

“You need an address to be able to get mail, as far as I understand the postal service at least.” (Y/N) took a sip from her drink once more and kept her hands on the cup and squeezed it just a little. 

Chase couldn’t help but laugh a little at her. He glanced down to the way she was squeezing her take out cup, reading it for the anxious movement it was he put his hand onto the table, his palm facing up. The dread he felt a few minutes away seemed to simply melt away. Of course it was going to be easy, it always is with (Y/N). She would write, he would reply, and they would survive. It would be even easier than it was now, besides the fact that they’d never actually see each other. Okay so maybe not easier, but worth it anyways. 

(Y/N) looked at the palm open hand Chase had stretched towards her and immediately dropped her hand into his.  He tightened his grip on her hand for just a few seconds before relaxing his grip and keeping his gaze on their clasps hands. 

“Just write to my current address, I’ll be back every other weekend to see my sister. It’ll make it easier to come knowing your letters, hand delivered,  are waiting” Chase said trailing off a little at his final statement. (Y/N) hummed in reply. They both see it for what it is, an invitation to wait for him every weekend, to just hold on during those weekdays. 

Chase squeezed his eyes closed at the memory. It continued without his permission. He remembers the first weekend he came back to visit his sister. It was a weekend his father decided to play his part, he was there, asking questions after question about medical school. More importantly,  (Y/N) had written a letter explaining that she had to leave (the details were blurry but Chase knew how much she didn’t like talking about her family) but she would keep writing, and he should write back, she misses his words, really his voice but his words will do for now.  Chase had spent that whole weekend rereading the letter, had recited the letter in his mind when his father was ranting about the medical school Chase had picked. Even now, all these years later, he can see her handwriting, her words at the end, in his head. Sorry I’m not actually there, but let’s pretend I am, we’d be sitting in that little grove you’ve hidden away from your sister, with shitty coffee made by whatever maid your father hired this week. Go do that. I’ll find some shitty coffee on Saturday, maybe if we’re lucky we’ll be doing it at the same time. (Hope to ) See you soon. 

Sick of the flashbacks, Chase presses his locker door closed and looks around at the empty locker room.  

_______

Chase slipped into the chair next to Cameron in the conference office. He put down the tray of coffee and takes his own out from the slot before Cameron and Foreman grabbed theirs. 

“Thought I hired you as a doctor, not an intern?” House spoke as he wrote on the white board. 

Chase glared at his back for just a moment before using a second to try and stable his voice, “Good thing I didn’t get you a coffee then”

Foreman slid a copy of the medical file he had made towards Chase. Chase’s eyes went to the file, he stared down the name sticking out from the top. (Y/N) (Y/L/N). He grabbed the file and held it closed but moved his gaze to House who had finished his nonsense on the whiteboard. Now that he wasn’t blocking it, Chase could see it was a rough timeline. His grip on the file tightened and he heard Cameron let out a sad sigh. 

“At 16, (Y/N) moves to Australia and she leaves when she’s 21,” House took another marker and circles the area between those years, “ Which makes these the Robert years,” House moves around on his cane for a moment mimicking a pace.

“She got sick a week ago, how is this relevant?” Foreman knew it was useless to ask the questions but he couldn’t help it. 

“Why would it not be relevant?”House leaned against his cane, “Parasite,  STD, spider bite, botched abortion who knows what happened in Australia?” 

Chase took his eyes off the whiteboard at House’s words the glare in his eyes back. After a second he finally found the courage and opened up the medical file to pretend he could handle this. His eyes immediately focused on the photo copy of her drivers license photo. 

“Can’t you torture Chase on your own time?” Cameron mumbles a little as she opens her own file and seems to focus on something inside of it. “Botulism fits most the symptoms?” 

“Botched abortion could have left the little Chase attached to her uterus, growing this whole time.” House ignored Cameron and kept his eyes on Chase. Chase looked up and gave House the most bored look he could muster. He couldn’t get himself to tell House anything. 

“It’s been too long for Botulism, but heavy metal poisoning could mimic it depending on the metal?” Foreman stated although he knows only Cameron seems to be paying attention.  

“She’s a paralegal who lives in a fairly decent area, where would she be exposed to that much of any heavy metal?” Cameron shut the file and finally looked at House who was staring down Chase still. At this point House typically picks a side and decided something. House gives Cameron a look of confusion, “Sorry” He hisses a little sarcastically “haven’t heard from my whole team, can’t decide just yet.” 

Chase didn’t think as he ran his thumb over the little black and white photo. He was listening just barely and realized both the options would give House an excuse to go diving into (Y/N)’s current life. He couldn’t seem to focus on the actual symptoms but when House hissed he looked up and noticed all three pairs of eyes on him. 

Cameron’s pity was written across her face and Chase clenched his jaw at how bad it made him feel. Foreman looked away immediately and focused on House instead. “Both can be found with blood testing,” House finally gave up and leaned back in his chair, cane sitting between his legs. 

All three doctors took the dismissal for what it was and stood up. House cleared his throat and stared at Chase a little dumbfounded, “Not done with you.” House waved away Cameron and Foreman. Cameron patted Chase’s arm as she passed him and exited, Foreman right behind her. House made his way into his office, Chase behind him. 

_____ 

In the hospital room, (Y/N) sat up in the bed a little at the sight of Dr. Cameron and Dr. Foreman. The last few hours had been hard for her, sitting in the dull hospital bed reliving those few moments with Chase over and over. She had gone from shocked to angry to sad to shocked multiple times and now she’s landed on simply dazed. She saved her lamenting of those years for dark nights in her empty apartment, for dreams that she pretended weren’t memories and now she couldn’t do that. The second she saw him, she had remembered the weeks she’d spent waiting for a reply, she remembers writing letter after letter, and never getting once back. There was a year of her life that she swore she spent more time at her local post office and PO box than her own little shitty apartment. It had taken a little over a year before she wrote her final letter to Chase. She wasn’t sure why he never replied, wasn’t sure what happened, but whatever it was, she wanted the best for him. She had ended this letter different than most, no references for a future, instead a simple goodbye. 

“We’re going to need a few samples, blood, urine, the simple stuff” Dr. Cameron smiled at her. 

(Y/N) liked Dr. Cameron so far. She had been polite, and managed to make some small talk when she and Dr. Foreman had helped get her settle into the hospital. She spoke kindly to the nurses and despite the awkwardness that came from the fact that everyone seemed to know Chase, Cameron treated (Y/N) as well as she can imagine a doctor could. 

“If this is for drugs, I’ve already admitted to smoking weed in the past but its been years, and my file is completely up to date and correct about any medication I have taken,” (Y/N)   said as Foreman grabbed some tools close by and motioned for her arm. (Y/N) let him take it and looked away as he took some blood. 

Cameron noticed the way (Y/N) seemed a little squeamish at the needle and moved to look at her. “We’re going to look for any sort of toxicity within your blood. You might have been exposed to something that’s causing your condition.” 

(Y/N) had a confused look on her face for a moment she went to open her mouth to speak back, try and understand what she possibly been exposed to. Cameron watched as (Y/N) seemed to lose her train of thought and in seconds, (Y/N) started to seize. 

_____ 

“I don’t want to talk about her,” Chase started once House had settled himself into his chair. 

“Really? Couldn’t tell,” House moved a little in his chair, “Problem is, you need to do your job, which involves, speaking.” House emphasized at the end of his sentence. 

“Just let me run the blood tests, or any of the lab work, I’m sure Cameron would like a break from the lab.” 

House took a moment to rest his feet up on his desk and stared Chase down for a moment. 

“I didn’t do anything to her, I haven’t seen her in years. She’s sick and I have nothing to do with it.” Chase said. He’s been repeating the same phrase in his head since he first heard Cameron and Foreman debating the diagnosis. She’s sick. She’s sick. She’s sick. 

“What are her symptoms?” House asks. 

Chase rolled his eyes, knowing full well that House had already memorized the file. When he got no answer, House stood back up and walked towards Chase and snatched the medical file Chase had been gripping this whole time. “Go away, you’re no fun to me.” 

House went to his office door and held it open, waiting for Chase to leave. Instead, Cameron filled the doorway, “She seized.” Cameron was obviously out of breath, “She’s been given lorazepam and-“ 

Chase took the medical file back from House before interrupting Cameron speaking, “Brain stem seizure could be a possibility” he mumbled a little under his breath as he opened the file and ran his thumb across the photo again and glanced at the medical tests already performed by previous doctors. “She’s always had high blood pressure,” Chase kept the file open but looked up to meet House’s gaze. House took a moment and focused his gaze on Chase before turning to Cameron

“Put her on Reteplase,” House started to walk away. 

“We should do an MRI first, it might not be a brain stem seizure, Reteplase can-” Chase was cut off before he could finish. 

“You know where the patient is, you know where the MRI machine is. Do it yourself.” House looked at Cameron “Give her Reteplase and monitor her”

_____ 

Chase didn’t pray that often anymore, but he almost went to the hospital chapel when Cameron said he would help him get the MRI before she gave her Reteplase. He tried to ignore the obvious pity Cameron had when she said she’d help him. He’s sure he looked like a kicked puppy when he realized House was going to force him to see (Y/N) no matter what, at least it’s working to his advantage. 

Cameron slipped (Y/N) into the MRI room and Chase felt himself sit up straighter in the computer chair as he watched them chit chat with each other. He didn’t think about his actions as he pressed the speaker button to be able to hear them. 

“Montgomery’s library is a little bigger than the this towns, but I think the university library tends to be the best for content,” (Y/N) had been speaking in a slightly out of breath tone. Chase wondered about her oxygen stats and leans forward on his seat to really look at her. Cameron’s voice was in the background as she replied to (Y/N)’s comment but Chase wasn’t pay enough attention to make out the words. Still, Chase felt a burst of joy at how easy Cameron connected with patients. 

Instead, he noticed the way (Y/N)’s hand shook gently, a slight tremor, another symptom he knew. He noticed the dark red nail color she had on, slightly chipped and obviously done by her own hand since her non dominant hand seemed a little messier than the other. The fact that she had already pulled Cameron into a full conversation effortlessly was also familiar. He remembered how easy it was to just listen to her. When they were young he remembers telling her he hated the silence, he had so much of it. She had always feared over talking, taking too much of the space. He smiled a little at how much stayed the same when he noticed the sheepish look on (Y/N)’s face at the fact Cameron had to stop their conversation to work. Cameron had slipped back into the computer room once she had gotten (Y/N) settled. 

There was a moment of silence as Cameron checked the systems. “She’s nice,” Cameron finally broke the silence. 

“Didn’t like her because she was nice,” Chase couldn’t help the way his defense seemed to come up. He still felt like he was in the room with House. If he looked over he’s sure he would catch Cameron rolling her eyes. Chase opened his mouth to apologize, maybe even to thank Cameron for her help, but was interrupted by a voice through the speaker. 

“Dr. Cameron, I should have probably mentioned that enclosed spaces aren’t exactly my favorite” (Y/N)’s voice held a slightly nervous shake. 

Chase clenched his jaw and looked at the machine throughout the window, he felt Cameron’s eyes on the side of his head and he reached his hand out to the speaker button and thought about what to say. His hand fell short once he found his own thoughts and he looked over at Cameron, “Ask her to tell you about the worst movie she’s watched recently,” He said in a slightly whisper, as if (Y/N) could hear through the glass and the machine. 

Cameron turned to glare at Chase but the look fell from her face after a moment, he had turn his gaze back to (Y/N) in the machine. His hand was resting near the speaker button, she could tell he wanted to do something, felt the small bouts of desperation that slightly radiated off him. Without thinking, she reached past his hand and pressed the speaker button. 

“No worries (Y/N), close your eyes and stay still it’ll go by really quickly” Cameron took her finger off the button. 

Cameron watched on the screen as (Y/N) settled and closed her eyes. The tension of the enclosed spaced was written across her face and when she glanced out the window and saw (Y/N)’s hand in a tight fist. Chase’s hand balling itself into a fist stole Cameron’s attention for just a second. 

Cameron let herself start looking at the scan and for a few seconds she had focused in enough to forget the situation around her, until she went to point something out to Chase and he seemed to still be staring through the glass focused at the way (Y/N) was relaxing her fist just to clench it again. Cameron had felt like she had learnt everything there was to know about Chase in the years working with him. Even sleeping with him hadn’t really taught her anything about him. She had used that experience as an excuse to write him off completely, an arrogant pretty boy doctor with daddy issues, they were everywhere in this field. Now she was faced with a quick reevaluation of him, had to put him into this new light. His other hand rested against his mouth in that same stubborn way he rested when he was resisting the urge to speak up. She had blown off the obvious connection with Chase and (Y/N) as a teenage year mistake that Chase was too proud to face, but that didn’t explain why he seemed to care that she was uncomfortable in the machine, explain the motion Cameron had caught of his thumb tracing (Y/N)’s picture. In just a few seconds Cameron made her decision and reached out to press the speaker button. 

“Hey (Y/N), do you like movies?” Cameron said in a soft voice and watched through the window as (Y/N)’s fist unclenched a little, Chase pulled his hand away from where it rested near the speaker button. 

(Y/N) hummed in response obviously doing her best to take the distraction given to her. 

“I saw this terrible movie in theaters last week.” Cameron continued trying to search for the last movie trailer she had seen on television to sustain her lie “Worst thing ever, something about calls? Ever heard of it?” She leaned back in her chair once she heard (Y/N)’s voice in a steady stream start to talk about what movie she thinks Cameron was referring to.  

She let go of the button and glanced over to Chase. (Y/N)’s voice was gentle in the room and Cameron noticed the way Chase settled back into his seat, and finally started to look at the work on his screen trying to catch anything in the scan. For a few minutes it went on like this, Cameron and Chase exchanging mumbles of “nothing here” at each scan loading, (Y/N)’s voice through the speaking filing the emptiness. There was a moment of lull in which (Y/N) had tampered off, slightly embarrassed at how quickly she had let herself start to ramble. 

Without taking a chance to look away from the scans, Chase reached his hand out, pressed the speaker button and, out of an old habit, something that was buried inside him from years ago, spoke out “Where’s the unmute button?” 

In the MRI machine (Y/N) felt herself lose her breath at the words. The phrase always lingered in her mind when she needed the boost of confidence even all these years later. She wishes she could remember when the joke had started, the first time Chase had joked about how she stops herself without any warning, how jarring it felt like someone had pressed the mute button on their conversation.The insecurity in her own voice had slowly started to disappear when she realized that Chase really did like hearing her ramble, it took him out of his own mind. He had started asking for the unmute button as a joke whenever he felt the heavy air of silence and eventually it just became a phrase she took as a sign that she was being listened to, that she, herself, was being listened to. 

She didn’t know what was happening outside the machine so she assumed that the tension she felt came from hearing the phrase. She let out a small breath and closed her eyes once more before she started speaking again. This was something she could do, she understood her role when she heard “unmute button” even after all this time. 

Cameron heard (Y/N)’s breath hitch for just a second before she continued on her rambling. Almost in tune with her, Chase froze until she started rambling again. 

Cameron opened her mouth and started to say something, “Chase..” She tried to find the right words. 

“It’s been ten years, it really doesn’t matter.” Chase didn’t let her continue. He leaned back into the office chair and let out a small sigh  “The brain stem looks completely clean, not a single sign of seizure” He sounded obviously defeated. 

Cameron didn’t say anything but instead stared at the scans. She tried to find an obvious sign of anything wrong in the scans they already had. Before she got the chance to speak Chase stood up and rushed out of the computer room. 

Cameron pressed the speaker button “Okay (Y/N), we’re all set, I’m going to come help you out.” 

—— 

 Chase knew that Cameron could handle (Y/N) and while the idea of them alone made him a little nervous, the idea of having to face (Y/N) was more nerve wracking. Instead, Chase had stopped by and visited Foreman in the lab to check on the samples. Foreman glanced up thinking it was something important. When he noticed it was just Chase he went back to reading the sample slide. Chase took a stool out from under the counter and sat next to Foreman, but kept himself facing the counter. He didn’t know exactly what he was here for, Foreman seemed to have it almost finished and they had rarely hung out and chit chatted for fun. 

“Brain stem is clean.” Chase finally spoke, best to land on the one thing they do have in common: the patient. Chase ignored the way his gut tightened at the idea of (Y/N) as a patient. She’s sick. She’s sick. She’s sick.  

“The toxicity report came back clean also,” Foreman let out a small sigh as he leaned back and crossed his arms, “Her liver functions seem fine, her blood seems a little high in white blood cells but she just got over a cold a few weeks ago.” 

Chase had his hand in his coat pocket, squeezing his fist for a moment as he tried to understand what was happening. 

“You’re stupid for letting House get to you this much,” Foreman mumbled a little as he started cleaning up the blood samples he had. 

“Like he’s never gotten to you?” Chase felt himself slip back into the amour he had built himself so long ago. Right, this is why he sought out Foreman. He exists as a reminder of the person he had crafted himself into here.  

“I hide it better than you,” Foreman mumbled a little before stopping his clean up, “Go home, or go see the girl, but stop mopping around, it’s embarrassing” Foreman shrugged a little as if it would make the statement softer. 

“Not that easy,” Chase mumbled as he glanced at the tests that Foreman had ran. 

There was a soft click before another voice took over the room,  “Actually, it is.” House spoke, “Cameron says she’s stable,” House glanced at the results to the tests that sat on the counter and turned to leave the room. “Keep your pagers on” House yelled from the hallway. It was the closest to a dismissal they have ever gotten from him. 

_____

Chase had tried to go home. He sat in the locker room with Cameron and Foreman and they all grabbed their stuff. He mimicked the motions, took off his doctors coat, grabbed his items ,Cameron even offered him a ride home, but he couldn’t do it. Foreman cupped his shoulder for a second before he left and Cameron just mumbled a little, “Get some sleep” when they both finally left. The silence of the locker room was enough to push Chase out the door, but not enough to stop his feet from heading to the third floor where (Y/N)’s room was. 

Once he got to the room he realized he didn’t know his plan. It had been so long since he didn’t feel prepared, since he felt ungrounded. His tether had been cut loose for a short time when his father died, but he quickly recovered, shoved the thoughts away and weighted himself down enough that he didn’t think anything would shake him again. He recalled the way (Y/N) had been sitting on that stupid wooden bench this morning, how silly all that tethering had been. How easily he felt himself fall back into her gravity and they haven’t even spoken more than two words to each other. Chase moved away from the closed door and debated his next steps. He didn’t know if she was awake, if she would even want to see him. He glanced around the hallway and after a moment pulled out his wallet from his pocket. He let it fall open and shoved his fingers into one of the extra slots. The wallet was slipped back into his pocket and he slowly folded the worn piece of paper. The creased were slightly discolored from the constant pressure in his wallet but it still read the same words. He didn’t completely unfold the letter, instead just flopped the first crease up, exposing the signature on the letter. Always yours, (Y/N). Chase ran his finger across the name, it was the only thing he let himself keep from the whole situation. He had taken his position at the hospital and made the decision to get rid of all his reminders of (Y/N), it was better, safer. Yet, the letter never left his wallet, he had pulled it out so many times and thought about tossing it, but this was the last thing he had of her. The only thing left that  confirmed he didn’t make her up so he kept it. He started to pull the whole letter open when a nurse slipped out of the room. 

“Oh, Dr. Chase sorry do you need Ms. (Y/L/N)? She just fell asleep for the night, I thought all the tests were done and she was little shaken up so I gave her something to help her sleep.” The nurse grimaced a little, House’s team wasn’t known for kindness. 

“No, it’s fine. Tests are done for tonight,” Dr. Chase folded the letter as he spoke and slipped it into his pocket before nodding a little at the nurse and trying to act like he wasn’t scared as he started towards the door, “Just checking in” He didn’t let the nurse say anything else as he finally stepped into (Y/N)’s room. 

The room was the same as every hospital room around it, not exactly dark, but no longer well lit, soft beeps breaking whatever silence there was. Still, Chase tried to look around the room instead of at the girl laying fast asleep in the bed. Chase clenched his jaw when he heard the smallest shuffle from the bed. He finally let his eyes linger on (Y/N). She was fast asleep, fist in a slight curling position near her face. Without thinking Chase let out a small breath of air and felt himself move over to the side of the bed. Chase raises his hand to uncurl (Y/N)’s fist a little but stops short. Throughout the day he had stopped himself the few times he was close to touching her, he thinks of the warmth that barely came off of her when he first saw her stumble a little. Thinks of Cameron’s easy hands helping (Y/N) settle into the MRI machine. (Y/N) shuffles a little more in her sleep and it finally breaks something in Chase, she had always been restless in her sleep. He lets his hand reach past her fist and instead lets his fingers move a few strands that rested on her forehead. The warmth of her skin tingles a little against his fingertips.

“Hi darling,” Chase whispers a little when his hand trails down her hair a little, letting it drop onto the bed when he gets to the end of the strand.  He felt a small shake in his knees and pulled his hand away, letting himself plop into the plastic chair that was in every room. He squeezed his hand into a fist and felt a few tears start to appear in his waterline. He leaned his head back a little to stop the tears from completely dropping before finally letting himself completely look her over. Despite the obvious signs of something unhealthy lingering in her features, she mostly looks the same, a little older, but still the face he knew all those years ago. Chase didn’t think as he pulled himself and the chair to be closer to the bed. He leaned forward in the seat and let his hand settle near the end of her hair. He lets the lack of movement from her push him to reach his fingers out and slightly twist the end of her hair. It’s not the touch he wanted, but it was something. He let himself twirl the strands a little before letting his eyes completely rest on her face. Finally, he broke the sound of the machines around him. 

“House is a dick, but he’s good. The whole team is really, don’t tell Foreman I said that,” Chase let out a small huff of a laugh before he drops the strand of hair he was toying with. He let his hand rest on her bed, not touching her, but only a small motion would bring his finger against her arm. 

“Seems like you like Cameron, she’s good with people, although the movie trick was mine, I’m sure you remember it. I think you’ve talked me through more movies than I’ve actually watched.” Chase’s voice stayed low as he spoke. 

It seemed a little ridiculous if he thought of it too hard, talking to someone who wasn’t listening, but still it was (Y/N), he had never learned how not to talk to her. He spent what felt like a few minutes explaining how he ended up on House’s team. It was a superficial telling, wanting to avoid the pieces that still felt tender, his sister, his parents. It didn’t take long for Chase to feel himself fall into the familiar place that was (Y/N)’s side, even if she asleep. 

Chase forgets how quickly time passes in a hospital when you aren’t working. How the windows barely give away time and people are always moving so it’s hard to notice when hours past. The only thing that indicated the passing of time was the nurses who slipped into the room every once in a while, in the same rotation they’ve been doing their whole careers.Every nurse took a moment to eye Dr. Chase, trying to understand why he was here, and then proceeded to explain what they were doing like he was just another family member. It wasn’t until a nurse showed up with an extra blanket and tossed it at the end of the bed that Chase accepted his fate. He didn’t give the nurse any indication of a thanks but grabbed the blanket as she was walking out. He closed his eyes and in the dark, he felt the nerve to reach out and rest his hand in her empty one. 

_____

Dr. Chase sat slumped in the chair and Cameron tried to bite her tongue at how he tried to switch his clothing to make it look like he’d gone home, but she knew that shirt had been a spare he left in his locker. The spare blanket he had tucked under the chair wasn’t obvious to anyone that hadn’t been in and out of the room, but still couldn’t fool Cameron. His eyes were droopy, but any attention he had left in his half asleep state was completely on (Y/N)’s hand interlaced with his. Cameron stood for a second and debated coming in and bothering him, she had assumed that (Y/N) was awake when she first passed by the door, hearing Chase low whisper and she felt a strange pride in her chest that Chase had finally gotten the nerve to speak to her. The pride was undeserved, apparently as (Y/N) was dead asleep and seemed to have been like that for a while now. When she realized Chase had leaned a little closer to the bed and was bringing (Y/N)’s hand up in his own she quietly tapped on the door to make her presence known. She mentally kicked herself when she realize how quickly Chase had slipped his hand out of (Y/N)’s. 

“Hey, just swinging by to check on her, thought she was awake,” Cameron’s pity seeped into her voice no matter how much she tried to fight it. Most the time, the family’s found some sort of comfort in it, the care that this stranger of a doctor had. Chase, was not most people. 

“She’s been asleep for a few hours now, a nurse just came in twenty minutes ago and did the bare minimum,” Chase mumbled as he leaned back into his hospital chair. If it had been any other person within the hospital he probably wouldn’t have spoken, but Cameron had helped him with the MRI, risked a verbal berating from House for him, and never once brought up how he had embarrassed himself after a one night stand with her. Cameron put her hands into her doctor pockets and stayed near the doorway. 

“Well, you know how House gets about the nurses,” Cameron rolled her eyes a little at how often Dr. House had groaned about the fact that nurses mess up, and how own team’s mistakes are his but he hated having to account for random nurse’s mistakes. 

Cameron moved into the room a little more, reaching for the clipboard at the end of (Y/N)’s bed. She took a second to pretend to read the information on the clipboard as if it gave anything new to the case. She glanced back up at Chase when she realized he had the same look she had seen a million times before, the same look she saw once in her own face, when she lost her husband. It felt wrong to see it across Chase’s face, to know this doctor who she found fairly intelligent (at least when he wanted to be), and charming (again, when he wanted to be), was falling into a pit of despair over a women none of his coworkers even knew about, a women who he claims he hasn’t seen in ten years. 

“She’s not bad enough for that look yet. We’re going to figure it out.” Cameron tried to make a joke but instead was met with Chase’s subtle glare. She let the joke sit in the air and decided there was nothing else she could do and started towards the door. She had barely reached the handle when she finally heard him speak. 

“I think I’ve made it fairly clear it wasn’t great after my dad left ” Chase spoke through gritted teeth. Cameron let her hand linger on the door handle, but she stayed frozen. “She was the only thing I had left to hold onto when I was a teenager” 

Cameron turned a little so she could face him but didn’t come closer. It felt a little silly, like trying to approach a lion during a safari trip, or a bunny in the backyard she didn’t want to scare him out of finally saying something. She noticed Chase had leaned his head back against the wall and had his own hands wringing within each other, resting every few moments in a sort of prayer position. She was sure if she looked closer she’d notice his eyes closed. 

Cameron realized it was her turn to speak, confirm she wanted to hear this. “She’s not Australian?” Cameron pointed out the only thing that felt safe. It had made no sense they knew each other all that time ago and when she looked at the file there was no relevant information as to why (Y/N) was in Australia, no past doctor seemed to find it important enough to ask and House knew better than to actually think her few years in Australian were important to the case. Chase shook his head against the wall. 

“She was in Australia because her family, I can’t….” He kept shaking his head and Cameron understood. That isn’t mine to tell, it’s hers, he was saying. 

“She was working at this shitty dinner that was down the block from my neighborhood. I’d always meet my friends there, to avoid them running into my mother. One day she was just there like she had always been around, too young to be working there but she knew someone needed to bring money in, she had problems I hadn’t even thought of but that didn’t matter, doesn’t matter even now. She just….” Chase finally pulled his head forward and kept his gaze on (Y/N)’s sleeping face. 

“She made sense, maybe not right away. But I kept showing up and she kept telling me she wasn’t going to sleep with me,” He laughed a little and Cameron realized he wasn’t actually telling her the story, he was just thinking out loud “I kept lying, saying that it didn’t matter to me,” His hand reached out a little as he tucked his fingers under (Y/N)’s resting hand on the bed, “And then one day, it wasn’t a lie. It didn’t matter to me, she just wormed her way into it all. She was the one thing I had that wasn’t ruined by anything, she saw me and nothing else around me.” 

“You cared about her,” Cameron whispered a little, trying to remind Chase he had an audience. 

“Yeah, something like that.” Chase finally caught Cameron’s gaze and flinched a little at the amount of pity that was seeping out her. “Not that it really mattered. We were kids and I had to go to medical school, just had to leave…” Chase stops and Cameron knows the implication, he needed to leave his parents house. “I told her and she took it well, thought it would be harder. She told me we’d be fine, she’d write and I’d come visit every weekend and we’d survive and once we were both away from our parents, on our own completely, we’d finally figure out whatever it was between us.” 

Cameron tilted her head a little trying to make sense of what Chase meant. 

“You weren’t together?” She finally just asked. 

“I had a reputation, she’s never been native” Chase shrugged a little knowing it was well earned, “And I think she knew we both needed each other more than we needed to be together,” The vulnerability was threatening to rip his chest out, but he couldn’t handle keeping it inside anymore. Cameron wasn’t, would never be, (Y/N) but she was still kind, still understood that Chase wasn’t always a dick. Cameron stayed quiet, waiting for Chase to keep going, he hadn’t gotten to the end, the piece that really mattered to her. After enough silence Cameron finally decided she needed to say something to push Chase into finally explaining why they had gone ten years without speaking. 

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you for not coming back,” Cameron whispered in her softest tone. 

Chase clenched his jaw and looked away from the gaze he had on Cameron. Shame was a feeling Chase had quickly learnt to hide away. He leant quickly that pity doesn’t get you much and that shame would never do anything useful for him. Now, the insecurity of being left by the one person he cared about was seeping into his gut. 

“I came back.” Chase said through gritted teeth, “I went home every weekend for my first year in medical school. She said she would write and the first weekend I went there was a letter  so I came back and waited for another letter for a whole year. Whenever there wasn’t one, I would reread the first letter.” Chase shook his head a little before stealing his hand back from under (Y/N)’s hand. He stood up and clear his throat, “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s been years.” Chase cleared his throat and fidgeted with his tie before he started towards the door. 

Cameron felt herself stunned at the sudden shift in tone. She didn’t expect it to be Chase who was left high and dry. For a second it all seems to add up in her head, of course Chase was the one who held on longer, was it not just a few months ago that he was trying to make something out of the one night stand they had? She forgot how soft Chase could be when he wanted to be, forget that underneath the pretty boy doctor facade, he was someone who raised his sister and his mother, someone who spent his childhood praying for something better, for help. Cameron glanced at the girl who laid in the hospital bed and felt a twinge of anger that this girl had hurt Chase. 

___

(Y/N)  winced a little at the pressure of the needle against her skin as Dr. Foreman mumbled an apologize.  She wasn’t exactly sure what happened overnight but the tension in the room had somehow ballooned into something more and even in her state, she felt it. She had learnt at a young age to be able to detect when something was unsaid, that something wasn’t right. After Dr. Foreman pulled the needle and she felt the pressure release from her back, she turned herself over a little to look at Dr. Cameron and Dr. Foreman. She tried to silence the whisper in her head that there was typically one more doctor on the team, tried to ignore the way he seemed to exist on the edges of her whole visit. The visitors chair had been pulled away from the wall when she woke up and she had stared at it for a few minutes, trying to create an apparition of the person she hoped had filled the chair while she was asleep. She noticed the extra blanket across her feet, the one part she always struggles to keep warm. Dr. Foreman had been exactly what she had expected from a doctor, what she has been dealing with for weeks, she had come to rely on him for the real medicine of it all, once she realized Dr. House didn’t seem to interact with patients. Dr. Cameron on the other hand, knew something and cared, (Y/N) wasn’t sure when it happened, but she felt the tension from her the whole day so hard. Foreman and Cameron were speaking to each other and when they started walking away (Y/N) finally spoke up. 

“Dr. Cameron?” (Y/N) cringed a little at how dry her voice sounded. Dr Foreman seemed to look at Dr. Cameron for just a moment before he walked away, obviously trying to get some sort of work done. (Y/N) kicked herself a little at the fact that she didn’t plan out what to say. She took a moment to sit up as much as possible in the hospital bed and felt herself shake a little at the energy it took. She noticed the way Dr. Cameron seemed to take in every shake and movement, ever vigilant in the face of her job. 

There was silence for a moment before (Y/N) cleared her throat a little and squeezed her eyes shut. For the last two days every test had brought her closer to the idea that this was it, that she had tried every option, that the world had give her this last chance to be able to tie up any loose ends in her life. Robert being at this hospital was a sign enough for her, she had nothing left but to figure this out so when she died she at last had the answers. She had been debating how to do it, focused on every outcome instead of the needles and the blood and the shitty hospital food. She hoped over and over every hour since she last heard his voice during that MRI that she’d get the chance to ask him directly. She even dreamt of him, the first time in years, of his voice, of him, close by. 

“(Y/N)?” Dr. Cameron said her name but her eyes were glancing at the machines to try and figure out if something was wrong. (Y/N) shook her head lightly at the questions interlaced in Dr. Cameron’s voice. 

“Everything is the same,” (Y/N) swallowed a little and braced herself, “I know I don’t have the right to ask you, but Robert, uh-“ (Y/N) ignored the pressure in her chest at the vulnerability she was going to force out of her. She noticed how quickly Cameron seemed to straighten up at the name. 

“(Y/N),” Cameron shook her head a little. 

“He has every right to not want to see me,” (Y/N) always knew her relationship with Chase was a stroke of luck anyways, “He knew me for only a few years so long ago, I’m sure it meant nothing but,” (Y/N) stopped herself against and tried not to cringe. 

At this Cameron furrowed her brows a little, it didn’t make sense to her. Meant nothing? Cameron thought of the way Chase held onto (Y/N)’s hand when she slipped in, thinks of the way he couldn’t work knowing she was uncomfortable in the MRI machine. Something wasn’t adding up, and Cameron was trying to put it together when (Y/N) kept speaking. Cameron seemed to have forgotten how quickly (Y/N) can tumble into rambling. 

“I’ll die, it’s fine,” She paused, “Well not fine of course, but I think it’s time I accept it. And all I want is to understand what happened. I know I don’t deserve it, if he wanted to give me an explanation he would have answered one of my letters but I’m dying now, so maybe…” (Y/N) trailed off when she noticed Cameron’s furrow eyebrows. 

“Sorry I thought you guys are friends, or that maybe he mentioned something, which is stupid now that I’m thinking about it,” (Y/N) felt herself slide a little more into the bed to try and escape the situation. 

Dr. Cameron shook her head softly and whatever anger she had felt when Chase told the story seemed to leak out of her, “Hey, I get it.” Cameron whispered a little, “I’ll talk to him, but…” She trailed off to figure out the right thing to say. Finally she just let out a huff, “One letter isn’t a good enough excuse to leave someone hanging,” She spoke in her softest voice. 

“One letter?” (Y/N) swallowed and pressed her fingers against her eyes to try and subdue the headache. “I wrote over and over and over.” 

Cameron glanced at the door and decided she needed to figure this out.

___ 

“You had no right and you know it,” Dr. Chase was snipping at Cameron. 

“She thinks she’s going to die, and she thinks you’ve abandoned her!” Cameron huffed a little. 

She wasn’t sure why she always put herself into things that were none of her business, but Chase is her friend, at least she thinks he is. She’s never been good at denying someone’s dying wish, although she’s sure that not many people deal with dying wishes this often. She had sat with (Y/N) for about an hour, learnt about what it meant to be pulled from the people who loved you at such a young age, what it meant to have a parent that saw you as nothing more than a weapon against others. Cameron kept a score each time she heard (Y/N) mention writing another unanswered letter. She had heard the way (Y/N)’s voice seemed to soften a little around Chase’s name.

“She’s not going to die.” Chase clenched his jaw.

“She said she wrote, she mentioned it over and over. Maybe the post office couldn’t deliver? It was the 90s and who knows how Australian post offices even work! You need to talk to her, really, you’re both just missing each other.” Cameron felt herself sparked within the story she had heard from (Y/N). “She’s so afraid, and her mother just” 

Cameron was immediately cut off by Chase’s cold voice. 

“Don’t try and make me understand her. I know about her mother, I know her, better than I have ever known anyone. You treat her as a patient for a few days and suddenly you think you get it?” Chase felt the anger of the situation he had been pushing away bubble in his chest. “She’s been the voice in my head my whole life, I didn’t exist before she said my name. I’ve seen her everywhere all these years. I thought I had finally lost my mind when she sitting on that bench, and instead it’s something so much worse. Don’t get involved Alison. Don’t speak on things that are bigger than you’ll ever understand.” 

Cameron opened her mouth to fight back when Foreman opened the conference room and stuck his head in. “She’s having trouble swallowing, the tremors are getting worse.” He ignored the obvious tension in the room between Chase and Cameron. 

“If you really know her, you know she wouldn’t have left the way you think she did. ” Cameron whispered before heading towards the door with Foreman. Chase ignored the comment and instead stared at the door where they were both leaving. Cameron was right, he knew her, knew she wouldn’t have abandoned him with a single letter filled of promises. He knows her. 

“Is she having trouble speaking?” Chase grabbed her file off the table and without thinking, pressed his thumb against her photo like before as he read the file, trying to make it fit with what is turning in his mind. Whatever Foreman responded was ignored as Chase pushed his way throughout the conference room and headed to where he assumed House was. He wasn’t sure if Foreman and Cameron were following, but it didn’t matter at this point. 

In the clinic Chase pushed into the room the nurse pointed that House was in. He had assumed the clinic patient House was taking care of was fake once he read “Eric Shawn” on the chart. 

“It’s her immune system. The tremors, the fatigue, it had to be autoimmune. She had a cold a while ago, but (Y/N)’s always been bad at gauging how much pain she’s feeling. It was most likely a Campylobacter jejuni infection and it started to attack her immune system. She downplays the cold, doesn’t notice the tingling in her limbs and dismisses any of the pain she was feeling, keeps going until it turned into what it is now. Guillain-Barre.” Chase closed the file he had brought within and looked up at House half asleep on the patient’s table. 

House glanced behind him to see Cameron and Foreman standing there. He didn’t get up just holding his head up, “Any objections?” 

Chase looks at them both, “It’s Guillain-Barre syndrome. A few weeks with immunotherapy, some plasma exchanges and she’ll be well enough to figure out how to survive with an autoimmune disorder.” 

“She’ll be in and out of the hospital all the time.” Cameron frowned a little. 

House pressed his cane against the floor and stood up from his laying position, “Oh wise one, should we test? Go run another useless test? Or can we treat?” House glared at Chase, letting him know that he didn’t appreciate the MRI test behind his back. Chase stood his ground, didn’t flinch at the glare, she didn’t have a brainstem Reteplase would have caused damage, he regrets nothing. He’s sure Cameron looks guilty enough for the both of them.  

“Figure out if you’re doing plasma exchanges or intravenous immunoglobulin, then do it” House pushed Foreman and Cameron out the door and shut it. 

“You should have figured that out when she was still sitting on bench.” House mumbled a little once they were alone. 

“At least I figured it out,” Chase mumbled a little. 

House didn’t say anything as he stared Chase down a little. After a few minutes, he finally shook his head before opening the door again and motioning Chase out ready to go back to his nap. 

___ 

Chase debated his next step. He thought figuring out what was wrong with (Y/N) would have been enough to clear his mind. In some sense it was clearer, more space had been freed up to think about what Cameron had said.  The few hours of sleep he had accidentally caught on her hospital bed didn’t seem enough to keep him standing much longer, so once Foreman sent an update about her condition and that were going to start some treatment despite not testing for Guillain-Barre, he took it as a sign to get some sleep. He thought of going through the motions of undressing in the locker room, getting his stuff and really leaving, maybe even swinging by to take create for his diagnosis like they always did, but found the whole ordeal exhausting. Instead, he pulled his coat out of the conference room and headed to his apartment with Cameron’s words repeating in his head. 

If you really know her, you know she wouldn’t have left the way you think she did.

If you really know her, you know she wouldn’t have left the way you think she did.

If you really know her, you know she wouldn’t have left the way you think she did.

He spent an hour in his own bed, twenty minutes on his couch and even tried to lay on the floor to try and calm himself down enough to sleep when he finally got to his apartment. If you really know her, you know she wouldn’t have left the way you think she did. He finally stood up completely and scrubbed his face a little at the irritation. His eyes landed on his father’s papers that he had tossed a few days ago, onto the dining table nobody used. He sat himself at the dining table for what felt like the first time since he bought it. If you really know her, you know she wouldn’t have left the way you think she did. If his brain wanted to keep tormenting him, he could do it right back he quickly decided. He grabbed onto the deed of the house and made a mental note to call the lawyer who’s card was paperclipped to it and started to sort through the papers. Anything with sentimental value was tossed away from him, something to handle later. His mind had somewhat silenced, completely focused on what papers would have to go straight to his sister and which he would have to handle himself. 

It didn’t take long and Chase let himself puff out his chest a little in relief. The final thing he had in front of him was a stack of letters, on top sat an addressless one, ‘Robert’ in his father’s terrible handwriting. He ran his finger across the name, bumping into the rubber band that held the stack of letters together. He pulled the top one out and went to open the letter when he noticed the next one in the bundle. 

The address read his father’s home back with his name, nothing straight. But the top corner, the send address held the name he had been avoiding. Immediately  he dropped the letter he was holding and pulled the rubber band off the small bundle of letters. He shuffled them as he looked at each sent address, Auckland. Tokyo. California. Colorado. Iowa. New York. Each addressed to him, at his father’s house. Each from the same person. (Y/N) (Y/L/N). She said she wrote, she mentioned it over and over. 

Chase dropped the letters onto the table again and spent what felt like hours, but most likely was only a minute, staring them down. They all had the same worn look, like someone had dropped them into a desk drawer and didn’t pull them out for years. They weren’t dated, he didn’t know if he should open them, (they were his mail he could right?) She said she wrote, she mentioned it over and over. 

Chase finally grabbed the one letter he knew he could handle reading; his fathers. 

Robert, 

There is no way I can make you understand why I kept these from you. You wouldn’t want to hear my answer if I tried. The first month she kept sending them and you kept showing up at the house, slyly checking the mail, looking at your textbooks but never really pulling anything out. I was grateful you had a reason to even come to the house, yet I needed you to understand the importance of your studies. Then the more time that passed, the more you seemed to forget, the easier it was to just ask the maids to tuck the mail away,  you seemed to focus on medical school. That’s all I wanted. You had a duty to your studies, to the Chase name, it seems you understand that now and your mother tried to take that from me long ago, I wasn’t going to let the same happen to you. Look at you now, it did you wonders. 

Chase turned the piece of paper around, as if he was going to find anything else. As if his father would have put another note on the back a quick “Just kidding!” Or a P.S of any sorts. Chase felt his eyes warm as the tears seemed to build and he dropped the letter back onto the table and pressed his palms together in a prayer motion without thinking as he felt a few tears slip out. It wore him out enough that he found himself falling asleep on the couch, ignoring the dread of letters he knew he had to open. 

____

(Y/N) perked up in her chair when Dr. Cameron slipped into her room. The treatment had been working for the last few hours now. It had taken some time to find the right plasma type and get it all set up, but (Y/N) already felt her shakes subside just enough. Dr. Cameron pressed the door shut behind her and dropped a cup of pudding onto (Y/N)’s lap, “Don’t tell the nurses, I had to steal it from someone’s cart,” She smiled a little as (Y/N) nodded. 

As she dug into the pudding Dr. Cameron started speaking, “Guillian-Barre syndrome is an autoimmune disorder. We believe it got triggered during your last cold. Dr. Chase,” Dr. Cameron paused just a moment to look at the way (Y/N) tried to not stiff, “mentioned that you’d probably downplayed the cold and any tingling that occurred before the fatigue. It’s easy to miss the signs at first when you’re trying to tough it out. The plasma exchange you’re getting is only to be able to stabilize the immune system again, you’ll have to get checked at least yearly from now on, it can reemerge, but you’ll be able to live your life mostly normal again.” 

“So Robert figured it out?” (Y/N) spoke with the spoon in her mouth, at Dr. Cameron’s nod of confirmation (Y/N) pushed the pudding to the side table and nodded back. “And he’s not gonna…” (Y/N) squeezed her eyes shut fighting back the tears at the lack of his presence and opened them again “Thank you. Please make sure the rest of the team gets told I owe them everything. Thank you guys.” 

Dr. Cameron reached her hand out and squeezed (Y/N)’s fingers just a little “Give him a little more time,” She whispered before leaving the room. 

____ 

When Chase finally woke up he felt the warm sting of crying to himself last night and groaned a little. He pulled himself off the couch, glanced at the clock that read 4:32am and grimaced a little at the 12 hour nap he had fallen into. He lagged for about an hour, trying avoid the obvious task sitting on his dining table. Finally, he had no choice and had scooped them all up and sat on his couch. 

He stared at his old address, written in handwriting he knew once long ago, and finally he gently, as if not to disturb anything, pulled the envelope open. Inside sat a postcard, scribbles across the back. 

 Hi Robert, 

It’s been nearly three weeks since I last saw you. (or heard from you. Write back if you’re not too busy. Please?) I barely explained in my last letter, I’m sorry. Things got worse with my mom. And you were gone, and we both decided that distance doesn’t matter so I hope you aren’t too angry with me. (If you are, that’s fine, just write and tell me you’re angry.) I’m going to stay at this address for about three months, so it should work if you are writing and the stupid post office is losing them. 

Anyways, enough of that.  I know you noticed the New Zealand postage. New Zealand is amazing Robert, you were so right I do love it. It’s green and warm and wet and everything a Tolkien girl could dream of.  I’ve taken to eating like the hobbits, snacks and snack and snacks, since you aren’t around to remind me about real meal times. I’ve met some cool people, no one is you, they’re being nice to me and showing me around. I’m sure you have a lot of homework, lots of studying, so here’s just a list of things I need to tell you about next time we’re face to face. The rowboat, two rainbows!! Aroha and her family, the terrible movie that was on cable the first night I got here, the book I read on the train to go swimming at some random swimming hole. 

I wish we could put cameras into our eyes, let you see everything I’m seeing, and force you to stare into a mirror so I could see you, even just for a little. I miss you and no amount of New Zealand can make me forget. 

Always yours, 

(Y/N). 

P.S I know you’re judging me for putting a postcard in an envelope, but I wanted to make sure it got to you in perfect condition, the photo in the front is the town I’m staying, so now you know where to picture me. 

Chase felt his heart ache at how easily he could hear her voice in her writing. He let out a small broken laugh when he flipped the postcard and started at the photo. She had drawn an arrow to some random spot in the photo and scribbled two little hearts, in the smallest writing yet she wrote “you’re right here with me!” 

He felt more tears come out of his eyes and he quickly wiped it away to avoid them dropping onto the postcard as he run his thumb over the two hearts, feeling the indentation of the pen. Flipping it again, he reread the letter, once, twice, and then a third time, trying to contain the bubble of emotion that sat in his chest. He grabbed the next letter in the pile and noticed she was still in New Zealand when she sent this one. When he noticed it was a full letter, not just a simple postcard, he wiped his tears as clean as he could and started reading the letter. She had decided and wrote upfront to ignore the silence on his end for this letter, instead writing details about her housemates, the swimming she had been doing, the coworker she was sick of waiting tables with, Chase flipped the page and read the other two in a matter of minutes.

The third New Zealand letter explained that she had felt like she overstated her welcome, and maybe it had something to do with the letter she had gotten from her mother, she had a saved enough to go somewhere, and when she looked at plane tickets, it seemed Tokyo was that somewhere. She promised that if he felt like writing her, she would get the letter if he sent it to her New Zealand address as the family she stayed with was happy to forward mail. 

The first Tokyo letter was almost the same as the first New Zealand postcard, but Chase could feel the dying hope of hearing back from him. No sly remarks about him writing to this address, nothing about seeing each other soon, but still at the bottom of the letter he read; “Always yours, (Y/N)”. One more Tokyo letter, and it read like an itinerary, “flying back to the states. landing in california, going to find my brother and dad.” an address to where he could write scribbled in a different color, as if she almost didn’t put it. And again, “Always yours, (Y/N)” 

It was the first Colorado letter that had Chase contemplating praying for his dad to come back to life just so Chase could kill him. The sloppy letter and smudges were enough to tell that (Y/N) had been emotional when writing. Chase didn’t register any of words instead paying attention to the smudged “R” where a tear had fallen. 

Robert. 

They were suppose to be here. My dad always loved Colorado and I thought maybe he would have been here. But he’s not, not in the phonebook, not in any directory. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve lost it all. Anything. Everything. 

The scribbling she had done barely covered the words, but still she started the letter over again. 

We were suppose to be fine. You promise you’d write and I know I promised I’d be there so maybe I deserve this. But I miss you and I miss our coffee shops and I miss the green grove at your parents and I miss shitty Australian tea. You swore everything would be fine. If I knew this was going to happen I would have stayed in that fucking house with the monster who thinks she’s my mother. I should have stayed, at least until the weekend, so I could have explained it to you face to face, but I couldn’t she had 

More scribbles in the line, these dark and hiding whatever secret her mother had done, whatever the final straw was. 

The worst part is, I can’t get myself to stop sending these. I keep convincing myself that you’re just not getting them. If that’s not the case, just write me telling me to fuck off, I can take it. 

I miss you so much. Sometimes when I’m in the dark room of my motel, I’ll close my eyes and I’ll find on a movie I’ve seen a million times and I’ll try to imagine you’re laying with me, asking the dumbest questions about the stupid movie just to hear my voice. More and more I’m convincing myself you were never real, something I made up in a time of despair. Other times, I know I could never have dreamed you up. Do you remember when you tried to teach me to surf? If I had tried enough I know I would have been able to get it, but you had your hands wrapped around my ankles as I tried to stable myself on the board and it’s all I could focus on. I had been so nervous and you started rubbing circles against my ankle bone and I lost any chance of learning how to surf. The other day I was in a crowded bar and some dude put his arm around my shoulder and suddenly I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Still, I slept with him, and thought of you the whole time. It’s probably better I never slept with you, I knew from the start you would have me wrapped up, completely incased in you. Imagine if we had actually slept together? I don’t know how much longer I can pretend your letters aren’t getting to me. I don’t know if I can keep holding onto something that’s slipping out of my fingertips. 

Next time, I’ll stay. I’ll endure what I have to, as long as it means you. 

Always yours, 

(Y/N). 

Chase didn’t bother opening the last two letters. He had enough. He stood up from the table and scrabbled to grab all the letters. His father’s letter was shoved to the bottom of his coat pocket as he rushed out the door. 

____ 

(Y/N) had slept well that night, finally actually getting the treatment she had been waiting for. She focused on that the whole time she was falling asleep, ignoring the pity she got from Dr. Cameron when she came to check in. Dr. Foreman had made it clear that (Y/N) would be in the hospital for a while as she got better, they wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure everything was going back to normal. So she slept, waking up for breakfast at 8am and eating as much of it as she could stomach. She flipped through another magazine some nurse had slipped her. It was all easy, until she flipped to the travel agency ad and they were boosting about low Australian flights. She tossed the magazine away and let herself slip back into an uneasy sleep. 

She was awoken by a small tickle against her scalp. She didn’t open her eyes but crinkled her nose a little at the sensation. Dr. Chase had entered the hospital and didn’t even bother going to find any of his colleagues or boss. Heading straight to the girl he wanted to see. He had stood in the doorway for a little trying to catch his breath, trying not to fall into an endless pit of guilt at his abandonment, he knows she won’t hold it against him. He was a victim as much as she was in this situation. Still he steeled himself to be sent away before he slipped in and let himself fully touch her, his fingers lightly scratching her scalp. 

“(Y/N)” The accented voice left a warm feeling all the way to her toes. 

“‘M sleeping Robert,” She mumbled a little, still mostly out of it all but pressing into his touch anyways. 

“The doctor who solved your case can’t get a minute of your time?” Chase tried to joke but felt the watery tone in his own voice. 

At the small crack in his voice, (Y/N) pried her eyes open, he dropped his touch. She didn’t say anything as she looked at Chase, instead just savoring looking at him. He had obvious tears in his eye line. The smallest quiver of his face made her sit up, “Oh you’re here,” She whispered a little and she tried to tame her hair a little and rub the sleep out of her eyes. 

“I didn’t think you’d come, I didn’t expect you to come, you’ve done enough. Thank you,” She shoved her hands into the blanket to avoid reaching out, “For saving my life,” She clarified. Chase hummed a little and sniffled to try and hold back a tear. (Y/N) furrowed her brow a little and glanced to see the door to her room was shut before she pulled her hand out from under the blanket and reached out to grab his. She stopped herself before she could grab it and looked up at him. He didn’t bother making eye contact with her, his eyes trained completely on her hand before reaching out and meeting her halfway. 

“I didn’t know, I didn’t get them. My father he- He’s dead and still mucking up my life,” Chase breathed out. He dropped her hand for just a minute so he could go around the bed, put himself back into the visitors chair that sat exactly where he had left it. Once he was sat, he reached out again without thought and wrapped up both her hands in his. “I was never angry at you for leaving, never for that.” He held their hands close to his chest as he spoke. 

(Y/N) let him speak as she tried to put together exactly what he meant. The sleep was still clouding her brain just a slightest, but having Robert here in front of her, touching her short wired her brain just the slightest. “Honey, I just woke up, you gotta clue me in a little,” She cooed and squeezed his hand a little when he squeezed at her voice. 

Chase pulled one of his hands away from holding hers and grabbed the letter his father left for him from his pocket. He pasted it to her and she grabbed it with her empty hand. As she started to read he started to speak, “I’m going to write you back, for each one. I’m going to send you four letters for every one you tried to send me. I had been writing them in my head for years, you’re always the person I’m talking to. Darling, I’m sorry,” He confessed. 

(Y/N) slipped her hand out of his completely and sat up as she read and reread the letter that Chase had given her. For a few minutes it was silent as she accepted the fact that it wasn’t Chase that didn’t reply. It wasn’t his fault he never saw her words, she mentally thanks whatever God that Chase never had to read her drunk crying letter from Colorado but feels a little dip of despair at all the postcards he missed out. 

“I know it’s not a good enough excuse, I should have looked for you, I knew you’d never break your promise and I just let myself believe you didn’t write.” Chase whispered after the silence went on for too long. 

(Y/N)’s eyes widen, “Wait what? Robert?!” She slightly scoffed. Chase cringed a little and (Y/N) knew what to do in this situation. This was something she was still an expert in. Soothing Robert Chase when he tries to shoulder blame that isn’t his was a textbook problem for her. 

“Your father kept all the letters from you until he died? And you think that’s not a good enough excuse?” (Y/N) dropped the letter and let it join the useless magazine from this morning. 

“Nothing to forgive.” She whispered and let herself be brave by reaching her hand out and wiping the tear that Chase had let out. “Plus you saved my life, kind of have to forgive anything” She joked a little but felt her own tears start to build. 

When Chase felt her hand against his cheek he let himself sink into it a little, his cheek resting against her palm for just a few seconds before he grabbed her hand in his again and intertwined your fingers together. “It’s my job, I should have been quicker, but you’ll be fine.” He brings their hands up to his lips and pressed the lightest kiss against her knuckle. 

“Has Cameron explained everything to you?” Chase leaned forward in the chair to be close to (Y/N). 

“Most of it, but I’d rather hear it from you,” (Y/N) contently sighed at the way Chase kept trying to get closer. 

____

Dr. Foreman had been about to slip into (Y/N)’s room when he heard Chase’s laughter leak out from it. He knocked instead of just going in and took a quick moment to observe the way Chase had found himself sitting at the end of the bed, (Y/N) sitting up and obviously in the middle of a story. Chase didn’t move an inch, didn’t even acknowledge Foreman, his eyes trained completely on (Y/N). 

“Hi Dr. Foreman! Time for more meds already?” She smiled. Foreman knew that she looked better because she was in fact, getting better, but he’s sure Dr. Cameron would claim it had something to do with the two making up. Dr. Foreman nodded and started to get the machines ready to give (Y/N) more plasma. He had zoned himself into the process so much, he didn’t notice the small whisper of Chase’s voice. When he looked up, he noticed Chase had moved, now resting back on the chair as he whispered to (Y/N). Foreman paid enough attention to hear him explaining what exactly each thing was to (Y/N) but stopped listening once he heard, “It shouldn’t hurt at all, sweetheart.” followed by (Y/N)’s soft confirmation. 

Foreman managed to get it all set up and never once did Chase seem to actually pay any attention to him. It wasn’t until (Y/N) had. slipped into a nap because of the meds that Chase finally looked at Foreman.

 “She’s doing a lot better. I’ve been waiting her vitals since I’ve been in here,” 

“Your diagnosis” Dr. Foreman said, letting Chase know there was no thank you needed. 

____ 

(Y/N) groaned a little at the stretch she had taken. The hospital bed wasn’t the worst to start but by week three she had found herself counting down the time to leave the hospital. She ignored the lingering doubt that she’d lose Robert again and let herself instead enjoy every second she had gotten over the last three weeks. He had started coming in to eat every meal with her. He was there when she went to bed, and unless a case had come up, he had been there when she woke up. It felt easy, it was always suppose to be easy between them, it was others that had complicated things. They had fallen back into the rhyme they once had, only it felt as if something had clicked. (Y/N) didn’t ask about his parents, although eventually he did drop some hints to what was happening. Robert had asked about her father, and brother and was met with an excited (Y/N) pulling out photos from when she finally found them again. It was this moment that made Robert pull out his own wallet keepsake. (Y/N)’s eyes had watered at the letter he had been carrying around for so long and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek when he said “I still owe you letters, I haven’t forgotten”. 

Now, she stared at the terrible hospital bed and found herself going to miss it, even just because it gave the perfect excuse for Robert to be closer. 

“Ready sweetheart?” Chase spoke from the doorway, “Convinced House I had to see you off,” He hummed a little and grabbed her bags without thinking. (Y/N) looped her arm around Chase’s open one and they set off outside the hospital. 

“Did you really think sleeping with me would make it worse?” Chase said as they stood int he elevator. 

(Y/N) groaned at his questions. He had been doing this all month, asking questions that had to do with her letters. He never told her if he finished reading them, but one night he had come in, teary eyed and pressed a kiss against her forehead mumbling apologizes that were unnecessary. She had assumed he read that final letter, the one she had poured everything she had felt into before she locked it up. 

“Sleeping with you would have probably ended with me trying to swim back to America from Tokyo,” (Y/N) pressed the floor button and rolled her eyes, “So yeah, it would have made it worse,” 

“Well, you’re already here so no harm in trying it now right?” Chase smirked a little and braced himself for (Y/N) gentle wack. 

“At least take me to dinner first Bobby,” (Y/N) gasped with no malice. 

“No,” Chase glared with no real threat at the nickname, “No one here knows me by that, lets not start, brat” He made sure all her bags were in one hand and used his other to pull her in his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll take you to dinner, maybe even a movie if you promise to talk my ear off the whole time,” He mumbled against her hair as they walked out of the hospital. (Y/N) hummed a small confirmation and pressed herself deeper into his arms.

extra authors note: thanks for making it this far! please come let me know if you hate it, love it or even if you want more! i have so many silly little thoughts about these two together <3 come chitchat!

[cherbii]

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS | Gojo Satoru

summary ➜ you could easy forget your old fling, and boss, but when there’s a new p.a swooning for him, you can’t help but want him back, and want what you two used to have.

warnings ➜ language, smut! dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, blindfold sex, semi-public sex, office sex, oral (F), cum eating, thigh fucking, praising, multiple orgasms, fingering, mdni

[part 2]

Your fingers nimbly clicked against the keyboard of your computer, eyebrows drawn together, met with a crinkle in focus. You sat in your office, one that matched everyone else's. Though it was more of a small boxed off area, where people could pass by as they pleased.

Your one hand moved swiftly to the mouse before clicking, then your printer began to whir, the green light flashed before it was spurting out inked paper, warm like a fresh loaf of bread. You patiently waited for all pages to be printed before sliding them into a file, kicking yourself off of your office chair and striding towards your bosses office.

Satoru Gojo was your boss, the enigmatic and charismatic head of the department. Though his boss was Nanami Kento, Gojo was the second in command, and he held a commanding presence that demanded both respect and attention.

Your heart skipped a beat as you approached his office, your mind racing with anticipation. You turned the corner to reveal his personal assistant, Mei.

She had tightly curled, blonde hair that framed her face perfectly, and her curvy figure was accentuated by the form-fitting pencil skirt she wore. Mei glanced up from her file as she stood outside the office door, waiting. "Can I help you?"

You cleared your throat, trying to gather your thoughts. "I need to discuss the new project proposal with Gojo. It's urgent." Your tone was strong, firm, and no sense of messing around.

"Of course," Mei replied, giving you an slow nod. "Go right in; he's expecting you." She hummed, and gave you a tight lipped smile, you often got the feeling she didn't like you.

Taking a deep breath, you entered Gojo's office. The room exuded an air of power and authority, with dark wooden furniture and shelves lined with impressive accolades and certificates. Gojo himself was seated behind his large, imposing desk, his piercing blue eyes fixated on the documents before him. His perfectly styled silver hair added to his allure, making it hard to focus on anything else.

"Ah, come in," Gojo said, looking up with a smile that could charm anyone. "What can I do for you?" His eyes pierced through you, through the shades he wore, they were the same eyes that—no, you swore to forget the past.

Summoning your confidence, you began to discuss the project proposal, explaining your ideas and suggestions with passion and clarity. Gojo listened intently, nodding occasionally and asking insightful questions.

As the conversation progressed, you found yourself drawn to his genuine interest in your work and his ability to challenge your ideas, making you see things from different perspectives.

Unbeknownst to you, Mei lingered outside the office, stealing glances through the partially open door. Her heart sank as she observed the undeniable connection between you and Gojo. She knew she had feelings for him, but witnessing your professional rapport filled her with both envy and admiration.

As the meeting came to an end, Gojo complimented your work and encouraged you to move forward with the proposal. With a grateful smile, you thanked him for his support, feeling a sense of accomplishment and validation.

In the days that followed, you found yourself working more closely with Gojo, collaborating on various projects and growing closer as colleagues. The chemistry between you two was undeniable.

Mei couldn't ignore the growing attraction between you and Gojo, and her heartache became evident as she tried to mask her feelings. But she was no stranger to facing challenges head-on, and she wasn't about to let her emotions hinder her professional growth.

Determined to prove her worth and showcase her talents, Mei threw herself into her work with renewed vigor. She took on more responsibilities, impressed Nanami with her efficiency, and showed her mettle as a capable and dependable professional.

As time passed, Mei's dedication and resilience caught Gojo's attention. He began to notice her in a new light, admiring her tenacity and unwavering commitment.

You had always been ambitious and driven, striving to prove yourself in the workplace. But seeing Mei's rapid rise and the attention she garnered from Gojo ignited a competitive streak within you. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards her, and it became clear that the feeling was mutual.

Mei, aware of the growing tension between you, didn't shy away from the challenge. She matched your competitive spirit with unwavering determination, pushing herself even harder to outshine you in Gojo's eyes.

Each achievement she earned, every accolade she received, served as a constant reminder of your own insecurities and shortcomings.

As the rivalry between you and Mei intensified, it began to affect the office dynamics. Colleagues noticed the subtle hostility between you, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere within the team.

However, Gojo remained oblivious to the underlying tension, preoccupied with the demands of his role. At least, that's how it seemed.

On a random Tuesday, as you were engrossed in your work, Mei approached your desk with a triumphant smile on her face. She couldn't resist the urge to gloat about her latest accomplishment, aware of the effect it would have on you.

"Did you hear?" Mei asked, feigning innocence. "Gojo praised my recent presentation. He said it was one of the best he's seen in years."

You clenched your fists, struggling to maintain your composure. "That's great for you, Mei.” You replied curtly, trying to hide the bitterness in your voice.

Mei's smile widened, and she leaned in closer. "It seems Gojo has taken quite an interest in my work. I guess some people just have what it takes."

The words stung, fueling your growing envy. In that moment, you made a silent vow to prove yourself, to show Gojo that you were just as capable—if not more—than Mei. The rivalry had reached its breaking point, and it was time to confront your feelings head-on.

Determined to gain Gojo's attention, you dedicated long hours to perfecting your projects, leaving no room for errors. You poured your heart and soul into your work, channeling your jealousy into a relentless pursuit of excellence.

As weeks turned into months, Gojo noticed your transformation. He recognized the fire in your eyes, the drive that pushed you to go above and beyond. He appreciated your work ethic and the passion you exhibited. But unbeknownst to you, Gojo was also aware of the growing tension between you and Mei.

One day, he called you and Mei into his office for a meeting. As you both entered, the atmosphere was palpable with unspoken animosity. Gojo, ever perceptive, sensed the underlying tension and decided to address it head-on.

"I've noticed the competitive dynamic between the two of you," Gojo began, his voice carrying a hint of sternness. "While I appreciate your dedication and drive, it's crucial to remember that we are a team. Our success lies in our ability to work together, not tear each other down."

You kept silent, not saying a thing, it was true. Very true. But you had a heart made of steel and was too stubborn to back down.

The short meeting was kept curt, Gojo called your name. "Wait, please stay, I have something I need to discuss with you." Gojo's voice rang out as you were about to leave, you didn't miss the nasty snarl Mei sent your way before she left. You went back to your previous chair, hovering before Gojo spoke again. "Come here, I don't bite."

Your eyes widened for a second before you slowly walked around the massive desk, to where Gojo sat, inclined on his seat with a boyish grin, legs spread. His pale hand patted his lap, an invitation. "I don't think I should." You insisted.

"Oh come on. It's not like you haven't sat on my lap before. Hell, you even came all over it—when? Like a year ago. Don't be shy now." He moved his sunglasses down, sending you a wink. His one foot kept the office chair swivelling, side to side, slowly.

You felt warmness creep up your neck and prayed he couldn't tell, suddenly, your shirts collar felt as though it was choking you. "Sir, that's rather unprofessional." You held your walls high.

Gojo chuckled. Laughed. "Oh, but we're far from that. So come. Now." That was an order, and you knew it.

Your legs felt stiff as you walked closer to him, to have his being hand grip your wrist and yank you, chest first onto him. Your hands awkwardly pressed against his shoulders as you straightened your back.

"See?"

"What do you want, Gojo? Last I remembered, you were the one saying that this can't happen again due to your power. What's changed?" After your words, the black in his eyes swelled, shamelessly looking at your lips that held a coating of your favourite lipstick, one he often fantasised being smeared across the both of you, on different parts.

"You've changed,” his thumb went to your lips, collecting the lipstick before dragging his thumb down your chin. His lips were left parted after he spoke, before closing when he took a swallow, eyes momentarily fluttering closed, before his bright eyes shot to yours. "I see you begging for attention, don't think I haven't noticed. I see the look in your eye whenever I'm with Mei."

You pursed your lips, now you knew he noticed though to be quite frank, you thought you were subtle. Gojo let out a chuckle, his body reverberating underneath you. "And what look is that?"

Gojo's tongue darted out, wetting his lips. You watched his tongue's movements, the shine of his lips, mind wondering to what other liquids would make his lips wet. "The same look in your eye now, like you want me to bend you over and fuck you for everyone to know who's cock you belong to."

At Gojo's words, you scoffed. "Who said I belong to you?"

"Alright. Tell me, have you fucked anyone else since out time together?"

"Yes, I have actually." Your chin raised, taking pride in that (for some reason), you felt Gojo's hands move from where it still was on your wrist, to the lower part of your back, where he began to tug free your blouse from your pencil skirt.

"Did they make you cum?"

He pulled the rest of your shirt out, immediately going to pop open the lower buttons, stopping short when it was halfway done before letting his hands fall to the side, limply. Your mouth felt dry as you tried to swallow.

Your head tipped down, and that's all Gojo needed to know. "Use your words."

"No." Your voice was quiet when you spoke, staring at the fingers that toyed with his black tie.

"Ah. Well, have you touched yourself?" You nodded, Gojo did as well, just much slower, "Did you cum then?" Another nod. "When last did you touch yourself?"

Why was the room feeling hot all of a sudden? Gojo's hands were now removing the small blazer you wore, then going back to un-buttoning your shirt. You let him. You'd always. You cleared your throat before speaking. "Last night."

Something in his eyes flashed. "Who did you cum to? Hmm? Who was in your pretty little mind as you fucked your pretty pussy?" His tone didn't hold any playfulness now, it was far more malicious. "Was it Geto? I know you two used to fuck around a lot. Or was it Nanami? You want an older man, huh? Such a slut."

"I-It was you." You blurted, a sense of embarrassment washed over at you. The night sky twinkled from city lights, a beautiful view you could see from the floor to ceiling windows in Gojo's office. "I came, because of you."

Gojo smirked. He knew it was because of him, in some way, he hoped you only came because of him. "I see. Well go on."

"W-What?"

"What were you thinking about? My mouth? Fingers? Cock? Where did this happen? Tell me, baby. Set the scene for me." He slowly removed your blouse, exposing your lace covered tits.

"Um," your skin felt hot to the touch from your immense blushing. You didn't want to tell him, yet you also wanted to. Because it wasn't ordinary vanilla sex, it was a whole lot more spicier. "Your cock, and i-it was in here and...I was—I was uhm..."

"You were what, pretty girl?"

"Your blindfold. The one you used to wear around. Yeah, I had that on." You watched him smirk again before feeling the chair roll back, Gojo's arm moved to open a drawer before retrieving the exact blindfold.

"This one?" You nodded. "Can I put it on you?" Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. You bit your lip before accepting.

Carefully, Gojo placed the fabric over your eyes, now, you were visually impaired. All your other senses spiked.

A gasp fell from your lips when you felt yourself being picked up and placed on the floor, hands flying out to hold onto his arms. Then, you felt your skirt being pulled down, exposing more of your stockings and your panties. Your body got pushed back as you fell onto the desk, messing up piles of paper, yet Gojo didn't care.

A warm body pressed between your legs and a hand cupped your jaw before hot breath that smelt of mint caressed your ear. "Continue your story." Gojo whispered in your ear.

"It was just like this. Y-You fucked me many times, I think I came three times, but someone walked in, I don't know who,” you mumbled. You wanted to rip the blindfold off when you felt him move away, but then your ears caught sound of fabric ruffling before you soon felt warm flesh touch your own. "It actually started with your mouth."

You could recall vivid flashbacks of your dream, how real it felt. How hot and passionate it all was. Instead of your bullet vibrator you used, it was his lips, tongue and teeth lapping away at your cunt.

You felt his hands ball around your stockings, knuckle grazing over your clothes pussy before your stockings got ripped. "Can I?"

His finger brushed over the spot where your leg met your pussy. You hurriedly nodded before blurting out a yes. The cold air hit your puffy clit before anything else, then his even colder fingertip that elicited a gasp from your lips. It rubbed tantalisingly slow circles.

You almost forgot what it was like to have someone else's hands on you. You let out a groan of pleasure when you get his thumb join, pinching your clit that sent your legs into a spasm.

"Fuck, Gojo." You moaned, his fingers flicked, pinched and rubbed away at your clit. You felt a blow of air meet your swelled bundle, legs closing on reflex only to enclose around his head. His hands pried your legs further apart.

"Try again." He mumbled, before he lolled his tongue out, watching saliva dribble onto your clit before he sucked his all up and spat it out again.

"Satoru, oh god." Your hands flew to his hair, with a vice grip as your thighs humped on his face.

Even through the dark fabric, you could feel his eyes watching you, the way your plump lips fell open as he started to suck on your clit, teeth grazing over, adding to the stimulation. You could hear the suckles he made, and the groans that left his lips. You remembered him briefly saying pleasuring a woman turns him on.

His hands were wrapped around your thighs as you ground your pussy onto his face. And that's all it was. You grinding into him while he ate you out like a starved man. It didn't take long for you to squirm under his hold.

"I'm gonna cum." You threw your head back as your legs twitched.

Your lower belly started to bubble and before you knew it, your cum was dribbling down his chin. His lips moved down and slurped your hole, tongue plunging into your pulsing pussy to drink all your juices.

He stood up, your legs still on your shoulders. At this angle, the bottom of his boner wedged between your pussy lips. "How many times did you say you came?"

"We-We're not done?" You shrieked, though you still felt your hole clench and you were sure he could feel in on the shaft of his dick.

You failed to miss the bead of pre-cum that grew on his tip, slowly running down a vein and onto your pussy lip. A high pitched moan left your lips when you felt his hips move back, then your walls stretched open as he thrusted into you at a decent pace.

"How many times did you say you came again?" He snarled, he grabbed both your ankles and drew your legs together, the flesh of your thighs squeezing your pussy which pressed against his cock, he held your legs straight up as he began to piston in and out of you. A beautiful moan left his lips at the new pressure. "Answer me, slut."

"Three! Three times!" You squealed as his thrusts became faster, balls slapping against your ass. Oh how you missed this, his cock splitting you open as you became a mess underneath him.

"Then three times it is,” he bent his body around your legs, his free hand fisting the fabric of your bra before snapping it loose. Your breasts spilt from their confines, jiggling roughly as he fucked you harder. "Fuck, so beautiful. Better than I remember."

"Satoru, too—too fast,” you moaned, fingers clawing at the wooden desk, back arching against it. Short huffs of air left your lips, already so sensitive, you were close. "Gonna cum s-so soon."

"You can take it, I know you can,” he cooed, finger slipping between your thighs and provoking your clit. "You're already taking me so well, your pussy is swallowing me up. Good girl."

Your slick bubbles popped, wet sounds, slapping and moans bounced around in the office. Your hands were making a mess of his papers, now torn or crumpled.

"G-Gonna—!" You didn't get to finish your words before hot liquid squirted onto your thighs, he opened your legs and allowed for your squirting to spray onto him. His name fell from your lips like a mantra.

He quickly pulled out, closing your legs against before fucking your thighs, not a minute later, his cum was spraying onto the front area of your pussy before he dropped your legs, grabbed your hips and turned you around.

"You did so well, baby,” he kissed your shoulder. Hand flattening your sweaty hair. You could feel the wetness you made on him press against your ass. "One more,” he nudged your legs apart, before slowly inserting his cock again. "I know you still have one more for me."

"Gentle, please." You mumbled. Your head was spinning, your body ached yet yearned more. Gojo pressed soft kissed to your neck then moved your head to him. You felt his lips meet your own, you gladly welcomed him. It was slow yet open mouthed and nasty kisses.

He begin to rock his hips again setting another fire to your core. You hadn't even noticed when the blindfold got slipped off.

Even at the awkward angle, he still continued to kiss you, one hand threading through your hair while the other rubbed your throbbing clit.

This time, this round was passionate. It could easily have been mistaken for more than pent up lust. Your stomach rolled, you were closer than you've ever been. Gojo could tell by the way you failed to kiss him back, how your legs wobbled all and you moaned into his mouth.

Before he knew it, he felt your warm liquid run down his cock. He broke the kiss, letting his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder while you rolled your head back to allow him more space. He moaned your name, his thrusts became short and sloppy.

"In me, please." You begged.

"You on a pill?" He mumbled against your skin.

"No, but I need it in me, I'll take one tomorrow." Your pleas worked, a gasp left your lips when you felt fuller than you ever have.

Your stomach felt warm with the new secretion. Gojo pulled out and watched you drop onto the floor.

"Fuck me," he whispered. "You did so well." He gently made you face him, pressing a kiss to you're forehead. He helped you clean up and dress yourself.

As he was about to walk you to the door, the both of you heard the unmistakable sounds of heavy footsteps. Your eyes widened and your heart dropped.

Well shit.

[aismoker]

Be a GOOD boy

Tucker looked up from his work when his phone buzzed. He had received a message. At first he didn't recognize the sender: GOOD boy #79. The avatar showed a picture of a bald guy wearing a leather uniform with a big cigar in his mouth. His eyes seem to glow red.

Tucker was annoyed. It must be some kind of spam bot. But as he saw the number, he recognized it as the number of Connor, his best friend. As he looked better, he recognized the guy on the picture as his friend. He opened the message. It only said: "be a GOOD boy". Tucker was now very puzzled. Did Connor get some kind of virus on his phone? Was it some kind of joke? Barry was so occupied with the message, that he hadn't noticed that a file had started to download. Once it was finished, his phone shut down. Tucker didn't know what was happening. He started his phone again, but instead of the normal opening screen he saw an image of a red spiral.

"Shit", Tucker thought, he must have downloaded a virus. He tried to shut down his phone again, but nothing seemed to work. As he tapped frantically on the screen, the image started to change. A picture of bald man in a leather uniform, smoking a cigar appeared on the screen and then another and another. Tucker didn't understand anything of all this. What was happening to his phone? He looked at the screen. The images started to change faster and faster. He sometimes thought he recognized some of the guys in the pictures. Wasn't that James? And wasn't that the guy who worked at the gas station? He wasn't sure. By now, the images flashed so rapidly that his consciousness couldn't register. It was, however, in a way quite relaxing to watch the images. The longer he kept looking at the screen, the more he got entranced. He didn't even notice that text started to appear on the screen. He didn't even notice that after a while, he was starting to chant softly: "be a GOOD boy... be a GOOD boy... be a GOOD boy..."

Several hours later, the doorbell rings. Still entranced, he stands up and goes to the door. He ooens the door. He doesn't expect there to be anyone and indeed, the hallway is empty. He looks down and sees a big bag standing on his doorbell. There is a note attached to the bag. It says: "GOOD boy #137". He smiles. He takes the bag inside and opens it. In it he sees a pile of neatly folded leather clothes. He smiles. His uniform has arrived. He puts it on. He walks towards the bathroom and picks up his razor blade and starts shaving his head. He doesn't question his actions. He just OBEYS. It feels so GOOD to OBEY. Once done with shaving he grabs the bag again and takes out a wooden box. He opens the box. In it, he sees a rows of cigars. He softly caresses them with his fingers and picks one out. As instructed, he cuts the cigar and toasts it. He then sticks it in his mouth. He flicks the lighter and looks in the mirror. In a few seconds, he will be a GOOD boy.

As he takes his first drag and his lungs fill with the thick, creamy smoke, he feels a feeling of euphoria and joy wash over him. He is a GOOD boy! GOOD boy #137 takea another drag. The feeling intensifies. It feels so GOOD to smoke a CIGAR, so GOOD to OBEY.

GOOD boy #137 picks up his phone. The phone seems to work normally again, with the small differences that the red spiral with the cigar-smoking men is non-stop visible, like a transparent film over his screen. He takes a picture of himself and he uses it as his new avatar. He looks at his screen name. It said "Tucker". He frowns, he knew he had heard that name before, but he couldn't recall when. He tried to think, but GOOD boys don't think. He changed the screen name to "GOOD boy #137". He then uploads his photo to the spiral-file. He is a GOOD boy and everyone who sees the file should know it.

He looks through his list of contacts. He sees that besides GOOD boy #79 there are also GOOD boy #89, #103, #107, #117, #118 and #129. He smiles. So many GOOD boys already, but not enough. Everyone should be a GOOD boy, so he sends the file to all the men in his list with the simple message: "be a GOOD boy".

He then texts GOOD boy #137. "I am a GOOD boy now. Thank you!" Half a minute later, he got a reply: "It is so GOOD to be a GOOD boy! Come out and meet me at my place, we need to make more men into GOOD boys." #137 answers: "every man should be a GOOD boy. I'll be there in 5 minutes." He grabs a few extra cigars and walks out of his apartment. He smiles as he takes dep drags of his cigar. It is so GOOD to be a GOOD boy.

======================

EPILOGUE

Barry Johnson, head scientist at Big Tobacco international, a conglomerate of the largest tobacco producers worldwide, rushes to the director's office. There was no time to lose. He knocks at the door and without waiting, he opened the door and stepped into the office. "We have to stop the GOOD boy project! We have to use the kill-switch!" The director, sitting in his large leather chair didn't answer for a second. He then asked, calmly: "And why should we do that?" Johnson answers hastily: "The program is too powerful! Our estimations showed that it would affect about 200 men in the course of a month, but it has reached that number in a few days. The program's reach seems to grow exponentially!" "No worries, I have increased the production of uniforms already. We cannot have GOOD boys without thwir uniforms. I have also contacted the partners. They have increased their production to the max." Johnson is dumbstruck. "You did WHAT? You don't understand! I have to kill the program before we lose control!" As the director turns his chair slowly around to fave Johnson, he says: "No, you don't understand how GOOD it feels to be a GOOD boy."

The director had now a shaved head and he was wearing a leather uniform. He has a cigar in his mouth, in the other his phone. The phone emits a vague red glow, that is reflected in his eyes. Johnson backed away. "How?", he stammered. "My son Jason shared the file with me. He wanted me to know how GOOD it is to be a GOOD boy. "So, it got to you too," Johnson said, "the there is only one thing that I can do. I have to use the kill-switch" He backed further away from the director, until he hit the wall. "Odd", Johnson thought, he didn't know the office had leather walls. But then he realized he hadn't backed himself into the wall, but into Andrew, the 2.07 m high security guard who was into body building big time. "Andrew, thank God, we have to get out of here!" He looked up and his heart jumped. He saw a large cigar sricking out of Andrew's mouth. Plumes of smoke came out of his nose, covering Johnson. "It got to you too..." Andrew didn't reply to him. He simply mumbled around his cigar "be a GOOD boy... be a GOOD boy..." Johnson felt the iron muscles of the security guard wrap around him. He was trapped in a smokey embrace. Johnson tried to get out, but the other man simply was too strong. Andrew holding the head scientist with one arm, took out his phone and switched it on. A red spiral appeared. Johnson tried to look away from it, but only a short glance was enough to fix his gaze on the screen. He saw the images of men, wearing leather uniforms and smoking cigars flashing in front of his eyes. Inside his head, a battle was taking place:

"All those guys... all GOOD boys now... victims of the program... MY victims... all GOOD boys now... I have to help them... I have to kill the program... they know how GOOD it is to be a GOOD boy... I have to fight the program... be a GOOD boy... I have to think... GOOD boys don't think... I have to think of a way out now... GOOD boys obey... I have to think... GOOD boys smoke CIGARS... I have to... be a GOOD boy... be a GOOD boy... be a GOOD boy..."

[vigilante-3073]

Helping Hand

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Putting together a bookshelf becomes a lot more complicated without the help of a super-soldier.

TW: Fluff, girl construction, mild flirting.

Y/N sat on the floor in the middle of the living room. Various wooden pieces were scattered around the floor along with a singular pink bowl filled with screws.

Y/N had bought a bookshelf to put up in the nearly empty apartment that she lived in with Bucky. The place could definitely use some decor in order to start feeling like an actual home.

She sat on the floor in front of the television as it played some overly dramatic reality show that Bucky insisted he loathed, but secretly loved.

Y/N put the screws into the wooden pieces with the backside of a metal nail file as the door opened.

"Doll, you home?" Bucky called, tossing his keys into the dish on the table by the door.

"In the living room!" She called without looking up from her project.

Bucky made his way into the living room, bright eyes finding the chaos that had unfolded while he was out.

"How was therapy?" Y/N asked, tightening one of the screws.

Bucky looked around the room slowly "What the hell are you doing?" Bucky questioned.

Y/N looked up at him, "Building a bookshelf," She stated plainly, turning her attention back to the pieces.

"We don't have any tools. What are you using?" Bucky asked, looking around for evidence of a recent trip to the hardware store.

"This," She said, holding up a nail file proudly.

"What is that?" Bucky asked, making his way over to her.

"My building nail file," Y/N said.

"You're seriously using a nail file to put together a bookshelf?" Bucky asked incredulously.

"Yeah, it's worked out well for me so far," Y/N stated, looking down at the book of instructions.

"Did Steve let you put together stuff with that thing?" Bucky asked.

Y/N dropped her hands to her lap with a huff, "No," She admitted reluctantly.

"He always did it for me, but I swear I can do it myself," Y/N said, looking up at him.

Bucky sighed, squatting down beside her "What kind of screws are they?" He asked.

"I have no idea. They have a little 'x' on top," She said.

"I'm gonna run to the hardware store and them I'll help you put the rest of it together, okay?" Bucky questioned, she nodded.

...

Bucky lifted the bookshelf, sliding it back against the wall of the apartment. He took a step back, standing beside Y/N as they admired their handiwork.

It had taken Bucky under an hour to put together the rest of the shelf with the appropriate tools.

"Now that the shelf is put together, I bought you a little something to put on it. Wait here," She said, rushing out of the room.

She returned quickly with a blue gift bag, white tissue paper sticking out the top.

"You didn't have to buy me anything," He said.

She waved her hand, "It's a gift. Now, c'mon, open it," Y/N said, holding it out to him.

Bucky sighed, taking the bag from her hand and pushing aside the tissue paper. He reached into the bag and pulled out a boxed set of books.

His brow furrowed as he turned the plastic wrapped books in his hand, "This is The Lord of the Rings," He stated.

"Yeah, Sam told me that you read them when they first came out and I thought you might like to have a copy of your own," Y/N said.

Bucky stepped forward, tossing the gift bag onto the couch before placing the boxed set up onto one of the shelves.

He stepped back again, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her body close to his side. Bucky pressed his lips to the crown of her head, "Thank you for thinking of me, doll," He said softly.

"I always think of you," She stated, wrapping her arms around him.

He ran his hand over her back gently, "I do have to say, you did a pretty good job with that nail file," Bucky said.

"That's girl construction, for you," Y/N smiled.

[forhappysake]

Fluffy Surprise

Author's Note: Not proofread and the first fic I've written in like six months so read if you dareeee

Summary: Reader decides to give Spencer a present when he returns to their new home.

Warnings: People with cat allergies, beware! (?) Fluff ofc.

You moved into the new house two weeks ago.  Technically, you moved all your stuff into the new house two weeks ago. In boxes. Lots and lots of heavy boxes.

Spencer had come up with a system, labeling each box with the room it would go into at the new house. You had worked together to pack everything, label each box, and unload the boxes into your new home. 

And it seemed like the moment he set the last box down and you were ready to start setting the place up, his phone rang. 

Spencer had been gone for one week. 

The case was halfway across the country, somewhere in Santa Fe. You couldn’t exactly be mad at him for being gone, but unpacking and trying to organize everything without his input was a nightmare. You were finishing the last box in your shared bedroom, carefully placing his clothes on wooden hangers and organizing them in the closet, when your phone rang. 

Spencer’s name lit up the screen. You answered quickly. 

“Hi, Spence,” you said, plopping down on the freshly made bed.

You could tell how tired he was from the long pause he took before responding. “Hey, honey. How’s the unpacking?” he asked with a small sigh. 

You frowned to yourself, worried about how tired he sounded. “Oh, it’s alright. I’d like you to look through all the rooms when you get home, just to make sure everything is where it should be.” You let out a soft laugh, “I also had a hard time hanging up all the pictures and paintings without you, so we may have to straighten some of them up when you get back.” 

Another pause followed, though this time you could envision him nodding to himself. “We can do that,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to do it all by yourself. I promise I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It was fine, Spencer. Besides, I’m pretty sure chasing a serial killer or something gives you an excuse.” 

He sighed on the other end of the line. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. We caught the unsub this evening. I’m hoping to be home late this evening, but it probably won’t be until after you go to bed.”

You smiled, content with the thought of him coming home to your freshly decorated home. “Oh, I’ll be staying up. I want to see your reaction to the place.”

“Alright,” he said, clearly too tired to urge you to go to bed instead with a list of facts about the health benefits of a good night’s sleep. 

You sighed. “As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I’ve got about fifteen more boxes to go.” 

“I understand. I should probably get some work done, too. Files, reports, you know how it is,” his voice was barely a whisper now, the exhaustion beginning to get the better of him. 

“Don’t work too hard, Spence,” you cautioned. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. I love you.”

“I won’t. I love you too,” he answered. The end of his line promptly went dead.

You looked around the bedroom, discarding your phone on the bed. You couldn’t help but wonder if there was something you could do to make Spencer’s return home a bit more special. 

You sat up and leaned over, furrowing your brow and resting your head in the palm of your hand as you tried to think of things Spencer liked. Of course, Spencer liked a lot of things. He liked sweet coffee, puzzles, and a classic novel in some foreign language you couldn’t comprehend. 

None of those things were overly special, in your mind. As you sat and wracked your brain, a thought finally came to you. 

One month ago, walking by a local cat cafe, Spencer spotted the most beautiful calico. She had fluffy hair, one black ear, one orange. Her little paws were white and she was so well mannered. Spencer and yourself had gone in immediately and he had spent your time inside doting on the calico, whose name, you learned, was Calypso. 

You bolted up from the bed and out into the living room, finding your purse sitting among the unpacked boxes. You shot out to the car, and without a second thought, drove the ten minutes to the cat cafe. 

You said a silent prayer that the cat was still available as you pulled into a parking space across the street. As if on cue, you looked up to see the same cat lounging lazily in the window sill, green eyes poised on you. 

The adoption process was quick, quicker than you anticipated. Fifty dollars later, you were on the road with Calypso in the passenger seat, sitting demurely in the carrier the shelter had provided you with to take her home in. 

On the way home you had to stop at PetSmart to pick up a litter box, a few toys, and a scratching post with the hope that your new furry friend would not decimate your new furniture. Calypso remained in the carrier, watching quietly from the shopping cart as you agonized over which treats to get. 

Soon enough, you were on your way home. The moment you walked through the front door, you set the carrier down and allowed Calypso to wander free. She was tentative at first, gently sniffing the floor and getting the feel for her new surroundings. However, after ten minutes, she perched herself on the kitchen counter, looking quite like the queen of her own castle. 

You took this chance to open her new toys and scatter them about the house, as well as find a secluded corner for her litterbox.

For the rest of the day, the cat watched you unpack boxes. Beady green eyes noting your movements until you disappeared from her sight. Occasionally, if you left the room for too long, you would turn to find that she had followed you. In these moments, you would stop to offer her a gentle petting and giggle as she flopped down on the floor, furry belly up to the sky. 

It was six hours after his phone call that Spencer arrived at home. 

2:19 a.m. was the time on your watch when you heard the lock turn and rose to greet him at the door. Calypso, seated in the corner of the room on a side table, perked her ears up at the new noise coming from the entrance. 

Spencer locked the door behind him and turned to face you, reaching out and pulling you in for a long hug. 

You rubbed your hands up and down his back. “Are you happy to be home?” you asked, your voice muffled by his shoulder. 

“You have no idea,” he said. He pulled away only to examine the living room. Spencer nodded in approval. “It looks really good in here. You did a great job.”

You smiled warmly, nerves settling in your stomach as you realized he’d not yet noticed the cat in the corner of the room, who was still watching him with suspicious eyes. 

“Spencer, I have to tell you something,” you said, wanting to explain yourself for doing something as impulsive as adopting a cat while he was away. 

His face suddenly became very serious. “What is it? Did something happen while I was gone? Are you alright?” 

The questions came quickly and you shook your head to reassure him. “No, Spencer, it’s nothing bad. Here, come look.” You grabbed his hand and pulled him forward until the two of you were standing behind your couch in the middle of the living room. 

“Look around,” you said. 

Spencer’s tired eyes traversed the room. You watched as they landed on paintings, the television, the clock, and nearly everything but the cat who sat entirely still in the corner. 

“I don’t understand,” he said, brow furrowed. “Did you make some major change I don’t know about? If you did, I’m sure that it’s f-”

At that moment Calypso jumped off the side table. The soft thump that accompanied her landing on the floor was enough to stop Spencer in his tracks. Finally, you watched as the feline caught his eye. 

“You didn’t,” Spencer said, his voice barely above a whisper. His reaction wasn’t telling you much, and you were afraid that he was not pleased. 

You started trying to explain yourself. “Well, I knew that you had a long week. I wanted to do something special. I know how much you enjoyed spending time with her at the cafe and now that we have the space I figured…”

You trailed off. In the time you had spoken, Calypso had crossed the room, climbed the couch, and began butting her head up against Spencer’s hand. Panic was setting in. Why wasn’t he reacting? 

Just when you were about to push him to say something, you looked up to see a large grin plastered on his face. Spencer gently wrapped his arms around the cat and picked her up, holding her close and petting in between her ears. 

“This is the most thoughtful present ever. I love her,” he said. His excitement reminded you of a little child and pulled at your heartstrings in a way that could have made you cry. 

You sighed in relief. “I’m so glad.” 

With Calypso still draped over one arm, Spencer reached out for you, pulling you to his side. He planted a soft kiss on the top of your head. “Thank you so much. I love her. I love you,” he said, smile still evident on his face. 

“I love you too,” you said, turning to face Calypso, who looked all too content to be wrapped up in Spencer’s arms. 

“I think she’s trying to steal my man,” you joked, nudging Spencer on the side. 

Spencer laughed. “I don’t think you have to worry too much about that. My heart has room for two lovely ladies.”

[ginnsbaker]

In Silent Screams (1/3)

She clutches the steering wheel, knuckles white, struggling with the realization of what she's done. She's betrayed you. It wasn't just a lapse in judgment, it was a deliberate decision, a yielding to curiosity, to loneliness, to that inexplicable pull towards someone who isn’t you.

Chapter word count: 10.3k+ Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Vision Tags: Mentions of Smut (F/M), Cheating, Angst, Gaslighting

Notes: This will follow the events of IFISS (not strictly) but in Wanda's POV. Check the tags, you've been warned. This is not rated M, but feel free to skip parts you feel uncomfortable with.

Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Part I 

It’s all happening very fast and she’s hardly keeping pace.

You and Wanda have cleared the apartment you've shared for over five years. The boxes are loaded onto the moving truck, while more personal items are safely packed away in the trunk and rear seats. You're in the building's administrative office, addressing the bills and finalizing other necessities before the move, while Wanda waits for you, sitting on the floor in the middle of what used to be the living room.

Sparky darts around the room, the vastness of the deserted space giving him room to play. Every so often, he looks up at Wanda, his tail wagging, perhaps sensing the change that's about to come. Wanda's gaze follows the little dog, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, grateful for his company. 

Every corner of this apartment held a memory—from the faded mark on the kitchen wall where Wanda accidentally spilled red wine, to the tiny dent on the living room floor, after Sparky ran into it during a rough playtime with you. Packing up wasn’t just about boxing items; it felt like carefully wrapping up fragments of time, every piece a memory filed away, never to be recovered ever again.

Though the accumulation of belongings over the years had made the space feel a tad cramped, and a move to a larger place seemed the logical next step, Wanda was deeply nostalgic about leaving behind this chapter. It marked the end of an era for you both—the days of being a young, hopeful couple in love. But at the same time, Wanda also held onto the hope that maybe starting anew somewhere would be good, especially since the past few months have been rocky, with her failed attempts to get pregnant and her stagnant career. Maybe a fresh environment would ease some of that pain, she thought.

The trail leading up to this new chapter, however, is characterized by your increasing hours at the office, overshadowing the time spent at the apartment. Yet, it's this very commitment that led to your promotion just two weeks ago, sparking the unexpected decision to move to an unfamiliar town in New Jersey.

As the reality of the situation sinks in, Wanda feels as if life is moving at an almost dizzying pace. Everything is changing so quickly: your recent promotion, the emotional roller-coaster of trying for a baby, and now the looming move. It’s been more than a lot to take in.

Your footsteps, a soft thud against the wooden floor, break the quiet, drawing Wanda from her deep thoughts. 

“Ready to go?”

She turns towards you, her eyes slightly misty, and whispers, “Just one more minute.”

Understanding her need to linger, you cross the room and lower yourself beside her. “Are you okay?” you ask.

Nodding, she takes a deep breath, as if trying to inhale every memory, every scent of the place she's called home for so long. “Yeah. I just need a moment to say goodbye.”

Gently, you squeeze her shoulder, drawing her gaze to meet yours. “You know, it's not really goodbye,” you murmur, trying to reassure her. “Scott promised it’s temporary, so there's a good chance we could be back here in Manhattan.”

Wanda turns to face you, her eyes searching yours for any hint that you're merely telling her what she wants to hear. You consistently strive to make her happy, aiming to shield her from distress. It's a trait she adores about you, though it can slightly irritate her at times. But right now—

“You really think we might come back?” she asks.

You nod firmly. “Absolutely. Manhattan is where we built so many of our memories, and it will always be a part of us. Westview is just a chapter, not the whole story.”

—right now she appreciates your ability to ground her with your words.

She laughs a bit, dabbing at her eyes. “God, I've fallen so hard for this place.”

“Me too,” you say, giving in to the urge to kiss her forehead. After all these years, and despite being married for a while, you still constantly seek reasons to be near her, to touch her. “But wherever we’ll go, we’ll make it our own.”

-

Wanda decides to christen the first day in your new home by making love on the living room floor, and you're as eager to indulge her. It's short and sweet, straightforward in its intensity. You’re both already attuned to each other's bodies, and she knows precisely where to touch, how to curl her fingers to draw out those soft, sultry moans she always finds so enticing.

The shadows created by the fire dance across the walls, mirroring the boxes scattered all around, each labeled and awaiting their turn to be unpacked and settled into this new space. Wanda absentmindedly rakes her fingers through your hair, your head cushioned on her warm, pillowy chest as you sleepily hum a song. Every scratch sends tingles down your spine, adding to the lethargy pulling at your eyelids.

“'Fade Into You' by Mazzy Star,” Wanda says softly, recognizing the tune.

You give a soft, drowsy chuckle. “You always know. Remember that tiny café near your dorm? They played it on a loop. It was drizzling outside, and we had that ridiculously oversized shared umbrella.”

Wanda smiles at the memory. “How could I forget? We sat there for hours, sipping on our lattes and listening to that song. And we weren’t even together then.”

Drawing a deep breath, you let out a contented sigh, murmuring, “Yeah, but I was already so deeply in love with you then.”

Wanda scrunches her nose and smirks, teasingly retorting, “That's really cheesy.”

You grin, nuzzling further into her, feeling her heart's rhythmic beat beneath your ear. “Doesn't make it any less true,” you whisper.

Wanda would later reflect on this memory, wishing she had held onto it more tightly, especially since it marked the true beginning of something withering inside of her.

-

Westview isn't quite the place Wanda envisioned. Instead of offering an escape from the unresolved threads of both your lives, it feels more like trading one cage for another. The town pulses with its own set of peculiarities, a rhythm and routine foreign to her. She's ambivalent about it. Sees it only as a brief interlude, a temporary concession she's making to support your career endeavors.

The demands of your job appear to be greater than either of you anticipated. As she's finishing up the first dish she's prepared for the evening, you call her midday to say you won't be home for dinner. 

It's not the first or even the third instance. She refrains from keeping tally because she doesn't want to be that kind of wife. However, she's certain it's happened more than just a few times. Wanda tries to hide the disappointment from her voice, assuring you it's fine and that she understands. But as she hangs up the phone, a sensation that's become all too familiar washes over her. 

She finds herself drifting towards the window, gazing out at the street below, lost in thought. She's never been one to demand all of your time, but this—it's the first time she's felt so small and insignificant. Aside from that first day when you both made love on every possible surface, there hasn't been a moment recently where you've shown interest in being that adventurous again. You both promised never to become that type of couple. Yet now, she's tormented by the thought: maybe you no longer find her as attractive as you used to, or perhaps you've come to realize some latent disappointment in her.

But everytime you come back in the quiet of the night, pulling her close, kissing her neck, and nestling into her hair, you dispel all her doubts. Wanda's only learning now how exhausting and powerless it could feel to need someone this much.

-

One particular night, mirroring the many late evenings before, you arrive home to find Wanda watching television in the living room. Both of you are thrilled to see each other awake, rather than just you returning to a warm, sleeping body next to your (cold) side of the bed.

Wanda's hair is slightly tousled, eyes glazed from the weariness of the day, but they light up when they meet yours. The corners of her lips curl into a small, sluggish smile. “You're home,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and longing.

You shed your coat, moving towards the couch and sitting down beside her. “I missed you,” you admit, running a gentle hand through her hair.

She leans into your touch, her body molding against yours. “I've been trying to stay awake lately, just hoping I might get to see you before drifting off,” Wanda says. “Tell me about your day.”

You take a deep breath, trying to process the day's events. “Same old, same old,” you say, putting your head on her shoulder. “Tight deadlines. And you won't believe this, but Janet, my secretary, she's going on maternal leave sooner than expected. So the office... well, they decided to throw something together last minute.”

She sits up a bit. “So you weren't held up because of work, but because of a party?”

“Uh, yeah. I think I mentioned it in my text?”

“I didn't get any message about…” Wanda trails off, taking a moment to steady herself. You’ve barely seen each other in the past week. The last thing she wants is to lash out on you.

But instead of noticing her distress and apologizing, or recognizing how your consecutive absences have affected her, you're fixated on pulling out your phone, scrolling through your messages, to… what? To prove to her that you mentioned it in your text?

“I sent you a text. I swear, I mentioned it,” you mumble. After a few more seconds, you let out a sigh of exasperation, showing her the screen where the message lays unsent. “The message failed to send... I thought you knew.”

Wanda looks at the screen and then back at you, her gaze softening slightly. “It happens,” she says with a soft smile.

“I'm sorry, Wanda,” you admit, placing the phone down. “Yes, it was a gathering, and I should've double-checked or called.”

She shakes her head, her fingers brushing against your cheek, just happy to be touching you. “I’m not mad. I just miss you, that's all.”

You take her hand in yours, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “I miss you too. So bad.”

Wanda shifts slightly, trying to get more comfortable in the embrace. “Did you have fun, at least?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you reply with an enthusiastic nod. “It was great catching up with everyone, especially Janet. Did you know she only got married a year ago? And they're already expecting. It's amazing how quickly things happen for some people.”

Wanda's expression, which had been soft and open, changes almost imperceptibly. The brightness in her eyes dims a little, and there's a slight tensing of her lips, a subtle sign of the pain you unknowingly inflicted. You love her, yet at times you unintentionally wound her deeply without even realizing it. Wanda doesn't know how that can be, but in this moment, it feels truer than ever.

“She's really excited,” you continue, oblivious to the change in your wife’s demeanor. “They weren't even really trying. It just... happened. I'm happy for her, genuinely.”

Wanda nods, swallowing hard. “That's... that's great for them,” she says, forcing a smile. She withdraws from your hold, rising from the couch. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

This time, you notice the hardened look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“It's nothing,” she replies with a faint, unconvincing smile. “Just tired.”

“Wanda—”

“Good night.”

You hold back, not pushing her for answers. She stops briefly at the base of the stairs, shoulders drooping. Then, with a heavy sigh, she slowly makes her way up, each step looking like it takes more effort than the last. 

-

The computer screen shines a relentless blue glow onto her face. 

As the weeks pass, she sees fewer and fewer unread emails, fewer blinking notifications. The heart of the art world has always thrummed with in-person interactions, art deals solidified by firm handshakes, cocktail parties filled with patrons looking to be swayed by a charismatic gallery curator, and the intimate closeness that comes from viewing a painting together and discussing its merits. Video calls, as efficient as they are, don't capture the nuance of human emotion and instinct in the same way.

Sometimes she dreams of being back in the thick of it all, surrounded by masterpieces and dizzying energy. Westview, however, is quaint, almost eerily so. It has its charms, its local coffee shops and small art scenes, but it's a far cry from the scenes of the big city.

She feels her importance at the gallery dwindling. She can't fault them; many of the responsibilities demand her physical presence. Currently, she can only manage to send crucial emails and direct calls and messages from essential patrons, sponsors, and others integral to the gallery's ecosystem. Her power of persuasion doesn't translate as effectively one email at a time. 

Wanda has always enjoyed playing to her strengths, particularly when meeting artists in person, where she can swiftly adapt her tactics based on the reactions of her audience, all while maintaining her self-assured demeanor, knowing that she carries a natural charm. However, being stuck in this town has taken that from her.

Feeling the stirrings of frustration rise in her gut, Wanda steps away from the table and retrieves her cellphone. She stares at it like it’s her salvation, contemplating whether to make the call. She needs someone to talk to, someone who knows her, someone who won't judge. 

She dials Agatha's number.

The phone rings a few times before a familiar voice, which once irked her but now only deepens her homesickness, answers.

“Wanda, dear! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Wanda tries to muster her energy to match Agatha's, but a hint of her distress manages to seep through. “Hi, I'm—I'm doing well. How about you?”

“Great,” Agatha replies cheerfully, but then her voice drops, “What's troubling you?”

“Nothing,” Wanda tells her quickly. A soft “hm” emanates from Agatha's end, followed by a silence that feels hefty, but not oppressive. It's the kind of silence that invites confession, though with a gossip-driven curiosity.

“It's this place,” Wanda starts, “It's not what I expected. I thought being here would give me space to breathe, a fresh start, but instead, I feel... trapped. Isn't it ironic? I have all this open space around me, but I feel more confined than ever.”

Agatha sighs, a knowing lilt in her voice. “Look, we've been in this rat race long enough. New city, new job, new whatever—it's all the same cycle, just different packaging. Maybe this detachment you're feeling? It's a cue. A chance to rethink... everything.”

Wanda arches an eyebrow, though Agatha can't see it. “What are you saying?” Sparky trots towards her, mewling. Wanda briefly flashes him a smile before scratching him behind his ears.

Agatha's voice grows sharper, more incisive. “I’m saying that maybe you haven’t really given your new town a chance because you’re holding on tightly on a rope to the past. I'm saying maybe the gallery, as much as it's been your lifeline, is now your anchor. Dragging you down. Ever thought of cutting the cord?”

Wanda's heart races. “You mean quit? Just like that?”

A snort from Agatha. “Why not? What's it giving you right now? A title? Perks? Or just a nostalgia trip and a daily reminder of what used to be?”

Wanda is silent, grappling with the blunt reality Agatha’s laying out. The realization that maybe she's clinging to a past that doesn't fit her present is daunting.

“Look, Wanda,” Agatha continues, softer now, “it's just business. The gallery won't sink without you, and maybe you'll find a version of yourself you didn't know existed without it. Westview’s a new board. Play it.”

-

The house is enormous for two people and a small dog. The vastness of the space should thrill her, yet it amplifies her loneliness. Your early departures and late returns leave her lingering in the expanse, waiting for life to unfold. The sparkling countertops, the polished floors—she's cleaned them over twice this week, a feeble attempt to occupy her time, to feel some semblance of accomplishment. 

But what's the point when, at the end of it all, it feels like nothing? 

Wanda's eyes flutter open as she hears the familiar, albeit late, sound of the front door clicking shut. Recently, her sleep has been light, so even your softest footfalls register in her consciousness. She remains still, her back turned to the bedroom door, her breathing deliberate and even. The sounds of shuffling reach her ears: the rustle of clothes, a muted sigh, the faint creak of a floorboard.

The bed shifts, dips, as you ease yourself beside her. The silence stretches, becoming palpable, thick. And then, a whisper, soft and low, bathed in regret. “Wanda?”

She doesn’t respond, biting back the words she wants to unleash, the lack of purpose and direction she feels these days. The longing in her eyes, if you could see it, would tear right through you. 

It's been five nights in a row. Five nights of cool sheets and colder silences.

Moments later, she feels you trace your fingers over the bare curve of her arm. “I'm sorry,” you whisper, every word dripping with the weariness of corporate warfare and personal neglect. “Missed you. Like you wouldn't believe.”

You press a tender kiss to her hair and Wanda holds her breath. “I promise, I'll make it right,” you say, your voice a mere breath against her ear. “We'll find our way back. I just... I need a bit more time.” Nestled against her, the familiar contours of her body will always be your home, and soon the demands of the past days pull you into a deep slumber.

Yet, for Wanda, sleep remains out of reach. Despite your assurances, a gnawing uncertainty has taken root in her heart. She craves your company, but she also harbors a growing resentment that she’s been trying to deny ever since she set foot in this forsaken town. 

Not for the first time this year, Wanda wonders if you can really love someone deeply and yet blame them for the things in your life that make you unhappy.

-

The rain pelts down on Westview’s streets, the usually quiet lanes now slick with water and glistening under the sporadic streetlights. Wanda’s pace quickens, her umbrella slipping from her loose grip when an unforeseen splash from a passing car leaves her utterly soaked.

“Hey!” she shouts out, more from shock than anger. But the car drives on, indifferent to the trail of mess it's left behind. She's in the process of assessing the damage—wet strands of hair plastering to her face and her shirt now ruined – when he appears. A young man with strikingly bleached hair, seeming unaffected by the god-awful weather.

“You look like you're having a day,” he remarks, his voice carrying an amused lilt. With a confident stride, he approaches her. He’s tall—almost a foot taller than her. “Here, this might help,” he says, already moving to the trunk of his parked car nearby. 

She watches him, curious and a tad skeptical. It's not every day a stranger offers assistance, especially in pouring rain. But this one is already producing a neatly folded tee from the trunk. “I hit the gym quite a bit. Always have a spare,” he explains, flashing a grin.

Wanda hesitates, her gaze shifting from the shirt to him and back. Up close, he appears younger than she initially perceived. “Thanks,” she murmurs, accepting the shirt. There's an odd sincerity in his eyes that makes her trust him, if only for this fleeting moment.

“How about a drink? To warm you up. And perhaps, as a small token of thanks for letting me play the good samaritan today,” he says. She arches an eyebrow, surprised by his boldness. Most people would've stopped at the shirt. Had this conversation taken place in Manhattan, Wanda would have already left with a sharp remark about his bold attempt to engage her in conversation. But here and now, she can't quite pinpoint why she hasn't brushed him off as she usually would have by this point.

Despite her initial reluctance, she finds herself smiling. You're the only person she's spoken to since arriving in Westview. She's so starved for a bit of normalcy that maybe a chat with a stranger might do the trick. After all, he's just a kid. She could regard him as a nephew or something similar.

“Alright,” she concedes, “just one drink.”

-

Within the first minute, Wanda learns his name: Victor Shade. However, he prefers the nickname ‘Vision’, which Wanda finds a tad whimsical. They find a cozy booth in a tucked-away corner, shielding them from potential prying eyes passing by the restaurant. While Wanda didn't plan to keep their meeting a secret, Vision naturally guided her to the more discreet spot.

“So, Wanda,” Vision begins, taking a sip of his drink, “What brought you to town? It doesn't seem like the most obvious choice for someone like you.”

Wanda looks at him, intrigued. “Someone like me? What does that mean?”

He chuckles, “Well, from our short interaction, you seem like someone who's seen bigger cities, more happening places. Westview is... charming, but quiet.”

“Same could be said about you. You don't exactly scream 'small town boy' either,” Wanda says.

Vision's eyebrows rise playfully, feigning offense. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Your confidence,” she retorts with a smirk. “It's loud, almost deafening. It echoes big city vibes.”

He laughs, nodding in concession. “Touche.”

As their conversation progresses, Wanda begins to see him less as a kid and more as a well-read, intriguing individual, particularly when Vision reveals he's an art major, his eyes lighting up as he talks about his passion for Renaissance art and postmodernism.“I graduated with a degree in art,” she shares, her own memories of university flooding back. She recounts stories of late-night classes and the exhilaration of her first gallery show. They bond over favorite artists and art movements, finding shared preferences and amusing disagreements. It's a pleasant surprise for Wanda to discover that, out of all the people in Westview, the first one she genuinely converses with is someone with whom she shares so much in common.

Yet, as she's engaging with Vision, a tiny voice at the back of her mind keeps drawing comparisons between him and you. The way you and Wanda communicate is so fundamentally different. You lean heavily on the left, analytical and logical in your thinking. Your conversations with Wanda often revolve around structured debates, dissecting topics with precision and care, always seeking the root cause or solution. Wanda, on the other hand, leans more to the right, driven by creativity and emotion. She loves diving into abstract concepts, weaving narratives and ideas with passion.

You and Wanda did find common interests and topics that you both enjoy. Over the years, you've had countless meaningful moments where you both found yourselves talking for hours on end. But the rapport she's building with Vision is something she hasn't felt in a long while, or perhaps ever, even with you. It's not necessarily better or worse; it's just different, and it takes her by surprise.

At one point, Vision’s gaze falls upon the glint of Wanda's wedding ring, reflecting the ambient light of the restaurant. “You're married,” he observes, not as a question but a statement.

Wanda hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes, I am.”

Vision looks at her, searching for something in her eyes. “Does he know you're out with a stranger?”

“She,” Wanda corrects instinctively, her cheeks warming as she notices his eyes sparkle with heightened interest, then she adds, “She probably wouldn't mind. We trust each other. Besides, it's just a drink with a friend, right?”

He smiles, raising his glass. “To friendship.”

-

For the first time, she arrives home later than you that night. Wanda finds you in the living room, curled up on the couch, a remote in hand, and an empty wine glass on the table beside you.

As the door clicks shut, you turn, and your eyes clouded with surprise as you meet hers. “Hey,” you murmur, the TV's remote paused mid-air, “Wasn't expecting you this late.”

Wanda shrugs, unsure of how to convey the unexpected turn her day had taken. She hangs her coat and moves towards the living room, her shoes making soft tapping noises against the wooden floor. “Ran into someone... from college,” she half-lies, the omission of Vision's identity a deliberate choice. Not out of guilt, but more a protective instinct to keep the evening's serendipitous meeting to herself.

“Oh? How was that?”

“It was... nice. Different,” Wanda replies, picking her words with care. She can sense your gaze on her, trying to piece together the puzzle, and she quickly adds, “We just grabbed a drink, caught up. You know how it is.”

You nod slowly, the lines of your face softening. “Good. You needed that. This move... it's been hard on you.” The acknowledgment feels like a balm, and Wanda gives you a small, appreciative smile. She’s about to head upstairs when your voice stops her in her tracks.

“That's a... unique shirt you've got there,” you comment. She turns around slowly to face you and sees a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. 

Wanda glances down at the shirt she's wearing, an admittedly garish tee that's far from her usual style. “Some idiot in a car decided I looked better drenched,” she explains, rolling her eyes. “This was the only option the nearby store had.”

It's her third lie of the evening, and Wanda can't explain why she keeps doing it.

“Well, I've got to say, it's a look. You're absolutely killing it,” you tease, a bit sarcastically.

Wanda snorts, the tightness in her chest loosening a little. “Oh, shut it.” She can't help but smile. “You're one to talk. Remember that hideous Christmas sweater you insisted on wearing last year?”

Ah, a challenge. You rise from your spot on the couch, taking a deliberate step towards her. “That was festive. This is... rebellious?” you guess, tracing a finger in the air around the outlines of her new shirt. “You pulling a midlife crisis on me, Mrs. Maximoff?”

She blushes, but whether from the memory of the car incident or your close proximity, it's hard to tell. “It's just a shirt,” she retorts, but her voice cracks and the light in her eyes betrays her amusement.

Your fingers itch to brush against the fabric of her shirt, to maybe pull her closer. “You know,” you murmur, voice low, “you could make even a potato sack look sexy.”

Wanda bites her lower lip, her breath catching just slightly. She revels in the banter, the space between yourselves shrinking with every heartbeat. She finds herself lost in the pull, but a gnawing unease lingers, making her wary. Just then, Sparky comes out of nowhere, sprinting and eventually running into Wanda’s leg. His tail wags a mile a minute, pleading for Wanda to shower him with affection. Grateful for the interruption, Wanda quickly shifts her attention, bending down to indulge the spirited pup. “Missed me, did you, Sparks?”

You try to mask your disappointment, but the subtle change in your expression isn't lost on her, even as she pointedly looks away.

-

Nights following her meeting with Vision find Wanda restless. It isn’t necessarily Vision himself that haunts her thoughts, but rather their impassioned discussion on art (and just about anything). She realizes, with a sharp pang, how deeply she misses the world that served as her refuge for years when she sought to escape her own reality.

With a renewed sense of purpose, she heads to Westview Institute of Arts and Sciences, seeking a place where her passion and expertise could be valuable.

Hours later, she gets an email inviting her for an interview with the dean. Apparently, the school has been looking for an assistant professor for the past several months now.

-

A week later, they offer her the position, and she talks to you about it shortly after sending them the signed letter of acceptance.

-

Her first day at the school is all kinds of awkward, likely more so than her first day as a student years ago. The university building looks massive for being in such a remote, out-of-the-way town. All around, there's a crowd of young students bustling about, their laughter and conversations filling the crisp, morning air. 

Among them, Wanda stands, momentarily frozen—an outsider looking in. She wears a chic black ensemble: slacks, a blazer, and a turtleneck, hoping to conceal the anxiety that's making it difficult for her to keep her breakfast down. However, as she's introduced to a few of the other professors, her resolve wavers. They're in more casual attire, and she can't help but feel a tad overdressed, sticking out like a meticulously painted stroke on an empty canvas.

She doesn't get to meet her students immediately. Instead, her day is consumed by orientation processes, faculty meetings, and an extensive tour of the sprawling campus. Every time she turns a corner or meets someone new, a mix of excitement and jitters rushes through her. The enormity of the responsibility she's shouldering, coupled with the fact that she's never taught anyone before (not even tutored)—it's both intimidating and thrilling all at once.

It's been a while since she's felt this alive, apart from the rare times when you're home on time, or when she gets to spend an entire day with you. But this? This is the first time in ages that something beyond the comfort of your love has rekindled a spark in her, reminding Wanda of a part of herself she had almost forgotten.

-

At the end of her first day, Wanda does meet one of her students.

Technically, she has met him before, but it was in the context of a friendly stranger who lent her his shirt when she needed it the most. When Vision told her that he was an art student, she didn't actually expect to find him attending the same university. She had assumed he was from the city and just passing through.

(Perhaps it’s her silliest assumption she's made to date but—it is what it is.)

“Aren't you a pleasant surprise,” Vision says, rolling down the window of his Mustang. When his voice reaches her, it's distinctly out of place, an unexpected ripple in her carefully mapped out day. 

She swallows hard, resisting the urge to take a step back, “Vision, I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

He grins, the sunlight catching the edges of his aviator glasses. “It's a small world, or rather, a small university.” He tilts his head playfully, “Wait... are you...?”

Wanda cuts him off, “Let's just say, I'm exploring my options here.”

A pause ensues, both understanding the unsaid implications. 

“You know,” Vision starts, leaning against his car, “I'd heard there was a new, 'exceptionally dressed' professor in town. Just didn't piece it together that it would be you.”

“It's a small world,” she murmurs, her face a shade paler.

He seems to sense her discomfort and remarks, “I suppose this changes everything.”

Wanda sighs, “It's just... I need to maintain a certain decorum here. It would be inappropriate if—”

“—If I turned out to be one of your students,” he finishes for her. His smirk is replaced by a milder expression. “Don't worry. Whatever our relationship outside this campus, I respect boundaries. And I expect you do too.”

She nods, appreciative of his maturity. “Thank you, Vision.”

Before she can fully turn away, Vision snaps his fingers together. “Oh, by the way, you left something with me from last time. Your shirt? The shirt you had to change out of?”

Wanda's face reddens slightly at the memory. “I completely forgot about that. Do you have it?”

Vision points with a thumb over his shoulder towards his car. “Wait a second. It's in the back.” He moves to retrieve the shirt, but after rummaging for a few moments, he frowns. “I could have sworn I left it here…”

He removes his sunglasses, allowing his gaze to lift in thought, revealing the unnaturally vibrant blue of his eyes to Wanda.  “Ah, I remember now. It's in my laundry bag, which I took to my apartment.”

“It's fine. You can give it back another time,” Wanda says.

But Vision, with that same gleam in his eyes, counters, “Why not just come with me and get it now? It's a short drive.”

She bites her lip, thinking. On one hand, she'd rather not prolong their interaction given the new dynamics. On the other, it might be best to just get it over with. “I'm not sure…”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I promise it's just a shirt, Professor.”

The inclusion of the title almost brings a smile to her face. “Alright,” Wanda gives in, “But only if it’s quick. And remember, as far as the university is concerned, we’re merely acquaintances.”

“Technically, you haven’t met your class yet. And as of now, I’m not your student,” he points out with an innocent shrug.

The logic is sound, though it does little to quell the anxiety bubbling within Wanda. She nods, exhaling deeply. “Let’s go.”

They drive to Vision’s apartment building, the journey marked by fleeting glances and a silence that's not entirely comfortable. He attempts to dispel the tension, “I've washed and ironed the shirt for you. Hope that's alright.”

She looks over, surprised by the gesture. “Thank you, that's... unexpected.”

As she sits in the passenger seat of Vision’s car, Wanda inadvertently starts picking up on the small details surrounding her. She notices the immaculate interior of the car—not a stray piece of litter, every surface gleaming. There's a fresh, clean scent permeating the space, a subtle hint of citrus perhaps. It's not the typical aroma one would expect from a college student's car. She thinks of the younger people she's known and how their vehicles often doubled as chaotic storage spaces, littered with discarded clothes, takeaway containers, and the musty scent of overdue laundry.

When they arrive at his apartment, it further exemplifies this meticulousness. Sketches, paintings, and art supplies are neatly arranged, yet the area feels lived-in, warm, not sterile. It's easy to forget he's just 21. He exudes an aura of maturity that doesn’t align with his years. If they had met under different circumstances, and if she hadn’t known his age, she would have pegged him for someone much older, someone who's seen more, experienced more.

“Your shirt,” Vision says, pulling it out from a cupboard—neatly folded, rather than from the laundry bag he remembered earlier. “As promised.”

As Wanda accepts it, her fingers brush against a freshly painted canvas. The vibrant colors smear slightly under her touch.

“Oh! I'm so sorry,” she exclaims, pulling her hand back.

Vision waves it off, “No worries. Sometimes accidents lead to the best kind of art.”

He then looks contemplative for a moment before posing a question,  “You know, Picasso once said, 'Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.' What do you think of that?”

The randomness of it throws her off for a second, before she regards him with a thoughtful look. “Well, in a way, creation and destruction aren't opposing forces. One can be a precursor to the other. To create something new, often something old has to give way.”

Vision's eyes light up, clearly pleased by her response. “Exactly! It's like when you're sketching. Sometimes, you have to erase an entire section just to rework it. And often, the second attempt is much better than the first.”

They continue discussing, each statement leading to another topic, and another. After a while, Vision hesitates before making a bold request, “Wanda, would you... would you mind if I sketched you? Just for practice. You have such unique features, and it'd be a challenge for me.”

“Trying to butter up your professor already?” It comes out a bit flirtatious by accident, and Wanda struggles to retract it.

He nods, a little sheepishly. “Only if you're comfortable. It’s just... our discussion has inspired me.”

Wanda laughs lightly, unable to deny that the notion does flatter her.. “Alright, but only for a bit. I'm not exactly dressed for a portrait.”

“You are…” Vision murmurs almost too quietly to hear, his eyes already fixed on his sketchpad. But Wanda still catches it, and a faint blush tints her cheeks. Vision gets to work. In this moment, she's both his muse and his critic, and for a brief while, a hushed silence envelops the room.

However, as the minutes tick by, Wanda begins to feel increasingly restless beneath his studious, penetrating gaze. She tries to keep her posture, attempting to appear at ease, but her muscles gradually tighten in response to his intent focus. There’s a kind of intimacy in being observed so closely that she wasn’t quite prepared for.

“Can you tilt your head just a bit to the left?” he asks, never lifting his gaze from the page. She obliges. Moments later, “A little to the right now, and chin up. Perfect.”

Wanda obeys, adjusting her position to his liking. But it's a stray strand of hair that falls onto her forehead that really tests her composure. Vision notices it immediately. “Could you brush that hair away, please?” he asks.

She reaches up, trying to tuck it behind her ear, but it stubbornly returns to its original position. Frowning in mild irritation, she tries again but with the same result.

Vision chuckles softly. “Stay still,” he murmurs, placing his sketchpad to the side. He carefully rises from his seat and approaches her, eyes never leaving her face. “I'll fix it.”

Heart inexplicably racing, Wanda can't comprehend why she obeys so willingly, remaining motionless as Vision's fingertips ghost near her face. The distance between them becomes almost negligible as his face hovers mere inches from hers. She can feel the warmth of his breath, see the earnest concentration in his eyes. Slowly, ever so gently, his fingers brush the errant strand away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “There we go,” Vision whispers. 

But instead of retreating, he lingers. She watches as Vision's eyes flutter closed, and he begins to lean in. She's teetering at the precipice of something that can't be taken back, and she’s horrified to discover a part of her that wants to give in.

Shaking herself out of the trance, she manages to whisper with a tremble in her voice, “I... I have to go.” Her words cut through the moment like a knife, yet Vision remains close, eyes searching hers as he softly challenges, “Are you sure?”

That simple question, laden with suggestion, irks Wanda. This was more than just an innocent sketching session. Irritation builds as she understands what he might have been attempting. In her haste to distance herself, she stands abruptly, accidentally brushing his face with her head. She doesn't apologize, too focused on gathering her belongings.

Vision, realizing his mistake, scrambles to his feet, “Wanda, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”

But she cuts him off, hand already on the door handle. “I'll see you in class, Mr. Shade.”

-

Wanda doesn't know how you managed to convince her to shower together one morning.

To be fair, you didn't make much of an effort to persuade her, and she was more than willing to participate. Perhaps it's because life has been an unending whirlwind lately, a blur of responsibilities and ever-mounting pressure.  Her fresh endeavor into academia had consumed much of her waking hours, leaving her mentally drained by the end of the day. You, on the other hand, seemed perpetually buried under a mountain of paperwork and late-night calls. 

It's not an excuse, of course, but these realities have inadvertently wedged a distance between the two of you. So, on that fateful morning, when you followed her into the bathroom, you were a woman on a mission. But as you wordlessly entered the shower, a certain determination evident in your stride, Wanda felt the need to object. Her protest, however, was cut short. The feel of your lips on hers, possessive and demanding, effectively silenced her. Her knees threatened to give way, and if not for the firm grip you had on her waist, she might have collapsed. Instead, she melted into your arms, letting you take the lead, and well—

That resulted in her losing nearly half of her students for her first class of the day because they believed she wouldn't show up after being nearly twenty minutes late.

“That can’t happen again,” Wanda told you.

“Whatever you say, babe.”

It occurs a few more times before she intentionally begins waking up before your alarm goes off. Wanda misses her wife, but she misses the life you both left behind even more. And despite finding satisfaction in her new career,  she can’t seem to stop resenting you for that.

-

Her period is a week late, but Wanda isn't worried. You both stopped trying to conceive before coming to New Jersey. However, it does remind her of something else she had to let go of and how it felt like you gave up on her too easily for comfort.

-

The stress from her new job eventually begins to take a toll on her. Stacks of papers sprawl across the table, some marked with red ink, others waiting to be perused. Her hand moves methodically, adjusting her notes, reviewing her questions, ensuring every detail is in place for the impending exam. Her back protests from the hours spent in the same position, her eyes blink away the fatigue, but she's determined to finalize every last bit. It takes a few more moments before she finishes editing her students’ first examination. It's late—far too late for her to still be at the university, but a sense of accomplishment washes over her.

In the middle of soaking up her minor achievement for the day, she suddenly remembers Sparky. He's been left for hours, with just water, and that she's supposed to get groceries for him this afternoon. Shit, Wanda curses breathily, hurrying her movements. 

She's about to shut her laptop when she hears a knock on the door. Thinking it's the security guard, she quickly rehearses her plea for just a few more minutes. However, when she opens the door, she's staring into the all-too-familiar blue eyes of Vision.

Wanda takes an involuntary step back, her pulse quickening. “Mr. Shade,” she greets, an uncharacteristic iciness in her voice.

He looks equally surprised, “Wan—Professor Maximoff,” he responds. “I... I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

“Neither was I. What are you still doing here?”

Vision runs a hand through his hair, looking bashful for a change. “I often come to the art room late at night. It helps me think, especially when I feel creatively stuck. I was on my way home and noticed the lights still on in this office.”

Wanda feels a pang of suspicion, even as she tries to remind herself that the university is as much Vision's space as it is hers. Still, she can't help but feel wary. “Well, I'm just leaving,” she says curtly, shouldering her bag. Before she can take another step, Vision's fingers encircle her arm, the unexpected touch of warm skin on skin causing her to pause. She looks down at where his fingers lightly grip her, and then up into his earnest eyes. She can feel the warmth of his hand, the roughness of his fingertips. 

“Wait,” he murmurs, his blue eyes locking onto hers, an earnest plea evident in their depths. “We need to talk.”

Wanda instinctively tries to pull her arm away, but Vision's grip tightens, not painfully but enough to keep her there. He steps closer, effectively cutting off her escape route. His height becomes even more pronounced as he leans slightly, bringing his face closer to hers. His presence feels overbearing, almost intimidating, as he places himself between her and the exit. He quietly closes the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the silence, and the room feels much, much smaller now.

Wanda's eyes dart around, looking for a way out, her mind racing. “Vision, this isn't appropriate,” she manages to say.

All he says is, “I know. I'm sorry.”

They find themselves engaged in a staring contest, with only the sound of their breathing serving as a reminder of each other's presence. Several tense seconds pass, with neither willing to break the gaze. Then, slowly, Vision eases the grip on her arm, his fingers lingering for a moment before letting go entirely. He steps back deliberately, emphasizing the space between them, a clear invitation for her to leave if she chooses to.

Her heart pounding loudly in her ears, Wanda takes a moment to gather her thoughts. She wants to leave, to create as much distance as possible between them, especially when she knows what's about to happen if she gives in even the slightest bit.

She takes a shaky breath and, for the briefest moment, her gaze drifts to her work laptop. A flash of silver catches her eye. Her USB, containing the work she's been laboring on for hours. “I-I forgot something” she mutters, panic rising in her voice. “I need that before I go,” she says, pointing to the device.

Vision nods, not saying a word. Wanda cautiously begins to move towards the desk, but before she can reach it, Vision's there, his movements swift and silent. He suddenly wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close. The initial shock has her resisting, pushing against his chest, but it's short-lived. Before she knows it, she's letting out a quiet sigh, her face buried in the crook of his neck. He hoists her up effortlessly, seating her on the edge of the desk.

As she looks up at him, he slides his hands up, disappearing beneath her skirt. The faintest image of your face flickers across Wanda's mind, a ghost of a memory that almost pulls her back to sense and reason. But as Vision's fingers find their wet mark, Wanda's grip tightens on the edge of the desk, her eyes fluttering closed.  She can no longer recall the sequence of events that led her to this very moment, nor the myriad reasons why it shouldn't be happening.

Every bit of rationale, every thought of you, all seem to evaporate, leaving only the need to breathe and to feel. 

To just be.

-

Wanda remains in her car without starting the engine for a good thirty minutes. She left the room as soon as she could pull her panties up past her knees. She can feel the residual heat on her skin, how he felt inside of her. She resists the urge to squeeze her thighs together, attempting to disregard the stickiness and discomfort she feels.

She clutches the steering wheel, knuckles white, struggling with the realization of what she's done. She's betrayed you. It wasn't just a lapse in judgment, it was a deliberate decision, a yielding to curiosity, to loneliness, to that inexplicable pull towards someone who isn’t you. But as much as she’s drowning in guilt, she couldn’t deny how her mind keeps going back to Vision’s touch, the way he'd made her feel so alive, so seen, in a way she hadn’t felt in a while. It's maddening, this push and pull. It's like there are two sides of her fighting it out inside—one, the devoted partner who loves you, and the other, a woman who's awakened, yearning for something she can't quite put into words.

She laughs, the sound teetering on the edge of hysteria. It's an unsettling sound in the quiet of the car, an indication of her fraying sanity. How did she get here? How did she become this person? In what manner did she find herself engaging in infidelity despite your presence in her life?  You've been the guiding light in her life for so long, making her the best version of herself she's ever known. But still, how can she undo this part of herself she never thought existed?

Tears form in her eyes as she closes them, trying to banish the memories, to shut out the storm of emotions threatening to consume her. But they're too powerful, too raw, too fresh. Too real. And she knows she has to face them, to confront the reality of what she's done and decide where to go from here.

It's just past midnight when Wanda's car pulls into the driveway. She emerges from the vehicle in a daze, her steps slow and disconnected, as if each step leads her inexorably towards her reckoning. The door to the house opens before she can even reach for the knob. There you stand, concern evident in your eyes. Wanda hadn't expected to find you awake, especially not at this hour, waiting for her. 

It’s your scent first that reaches her before anything else,  the distinct aroma of fresh pine from the sprawling garden surrounding the house, coupled with the distinct smell of Sparky, suggesting that you've held him close most of the night. The protective, almost desperate way your arms encircle her reveals just how much you've been consumed with worry about her whereabouts and safety. 

Every time you’re near, every time she gets to hold you, it’s instinctual for her to break into a smile. But tonight, it's ephemeral. A tidal wave of guilt and regret crashes over her. She stiffens in your arms, the realization of her actions making her insides churn.

“Where were you?” you exclaim as you pull away and clasp her shoulder blades hard.  “I've been here, pacing, worried out of my mind, and I couldn't reach you.”

It's the questioning, the concern, the love in your voice that breaks something inside her.  “My phone died and I forgot to bring my charger. I was writing the final exam that I have to turn in by tomorrow, and got carried away. I’m so sorry,” she says evenly, almost robotically.

You raise an eyebrow, frustration evident. “You could've borrowed a phone or used the school's landline, right?”

She has to remind herself that your words aren't accusations. You're not out to corner her; you genuinely don't know what she's done. And in that moment, she decides that she'll do everything to ensure you will never know. 

Taking a deep breath, Wanda resorts to tactics she despises in herself. “Like I said, I was working,” she retorts with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, hoping the hint of condescension in her tone might distract you, even as it tears at her own conscience. “It’s Westview. What’s the worst that could happen to me? Please let it go, I’m so fucking exhausted.”

Your reaction to her words is immediate, a palpable retreat, and she's overcome with the urge to spill every secret, every confession, if only she could be certain you wouldn't walk away.

“Fine,” you say tersely, stepping aside to let her pass. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.” You don’t bother to hide the hurt in your eyes and her resolve almost crumbles.

“Sounds good,” she says and turns abruptly, making her way upstairs, her pace quickening with every step. 

In the morning, she offers you kisses as an apology, and you're blissfully unaware of the hundred ways it's steeped in treachery.

-

It keeps happening with Vision and she starts to waste away. On the surface, she seems to be taking better care of herself: shedding some weight, toning in ways that leave you entranced during the few mornings you catch her making breakfast. 

But Wanda is adept at playing it cool, brushing off your hungry gazes as if they're mere figments of her imagination. She longs for you in the same intense way she always has, but she's entangled in this twisted duality now. As she writes names and explanations on the board, she can almost feel the intensity of Vision's stare, a heat on her back that she's come to recognize all too well. Sometimes, during a lecture, she'll turn and catch him staring, and right then, she knows where they'll be once the session ends. She also begins to frequent places she's never been to before, corners of the town she hopes no one will recognize them in. There, they sit side by side, their knees touching underneath the table, talking about everything and nothing. 

And you wouldn't, not for a second, entertain suspicions about her hardly ever being at home. Because your love for her is profound, and your trust, even more so. Because she knows you're buried under the weight of your own challenges at work, and capitalizes on this knowledge for the time being. Because whatever this is, whatever she’s doing with Vision, she knows it’s temporary. She swears she’ll clean up after herself, the moment she can purge this from her system.

Because none of it feels as if they're truly happening,  and Wanda convinces herself it's just a hazy, erotic dream from which she can wake at any moment she chooses.

-

“Do you love me?” 

The question hits Wanda like a freight train. Of course she does. You’re her… of course she does. And she’s never felt the fear of losing you, the true love of her life, more acutely than now.

“Of course I love you,” Wanda says, fighting to keep her voice steady even as her chin quivers. “What a silly question.”

“I guess I’m just feeling silly. We’ve been working hard, and when we’re together,” you pause, your voice quivering, letting out a mirthless laugh, “We’re still working.”

Her guilt amplifies. She's been so engrossed in her own struggles that she failed to see how it's affecting you. The toll it's taken on your relationship. Your insecurities, your need for validation, all because she's been distant and distracting herself from her own demons. She's grateful the shadows conceal her face from you, or else it would be to easy for you to recognize the truth, and—

“I just miss you,” you confess, and it stings.

“Me too,” she whispers, the words filled with layers of meaning she can't articulate. Wanda tries to find more words, something to reassure you further, but she can't quite comfort as effortlessly as you do for her. You've always been more adept at loving her than she's ever been with you.

“Good night,” you say, and Wanda detects no underlying bitterness in your tone. She almost wishes there were. It'd be easier if you didn't love her so unconditionally; then she wouldn't feel so wretched for the secrets she's keeping just beyond this room's walls.

-

She goes as far as asking herself if she simply misses having a cock inside of her, the thought nagging at her especially when Vision stays firmly inside her, holding her in place as he spills into a condom. She flutters around him a few more times before she slackens in his hold. 

Pushing away the guilt that threatens to engulf her every time they are together, Wanda wonders if this reckless escapade with her student is merely an escape from the monotonous predictability of her life or a deeper reflection of some unmet need. Vision’s bedroom becomes a space of both pleasure and torment for her. When she catches her reflection in the mirror he’s installed in front of the bed, she barely recognizes the woman staring back, eyes clouded with both desire and regret. She clings to the belief that once she figures out what she's truly seeking, she can end it all and return to you, wholly and completely. But the more she thinks about it, the more elusive the answer becomes.

Vision’s bony hips gradually come to a stop, and he finally pulls out of her. She feels the evidence of their recent activities on her skin, and is hit with an overwhelming need to wash it all away. 

“I need a shower,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. He simply nods, watching her intently. There's a question in his eyes, perhaps seeking assurance or simply wondering if she'll return to his bed afterwards. Wanda doesn't give him an answer, nor does she meet his gaze for long. Instead, she wraps herself in whatever piece of clothing she can find and heads towards the bathroom.

When she emerges from the shower, redressed in the clothes she wore earlier, Vision is absent from the bedroom. Instead, the appetizing aroma of food wafts toward her. Following the scent, she discovers him in the kitchen, incongruously clad in a pink apron over his boxers.

As Wanda heads straight for the exit, Vision's voice abruptly stops her.

“Wanda, wait.”

She halts, not turning around, her hand still clutching the handle.

“You act as if I'm luring you back each time, Wanda. Like I'm this puppeteer pulling your strings.” He casually flips whatever he's cooking. “That's not how it is, and you know it.”

Wanda grimaces, his words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “Vision, it's not that—”

He interrupts her, his tone dripping with feigned innocence, “Have I ever forced you? Pushed you into anything? Or have you willingly come to me every time? You have, haven’t you?”

She turns to face him. “You know it’s more complicated than that—”

“Yet you keep coming back. And every time you do, I think, 'Maybe she sees in me what I see in her.' But then you run, making me out to be the villain.” He finally looks up, his eyes pleading and calculating at the same time.

Tears well up in her eyes. She tries to speak, but he continues, overriding her. “You're an intellectual, Wanda. A brilliant mind. I've learned more from you this semester than years combined. Isn't it natural to be drawn to such brilliance? To want more than just lectures?”

“I'm married,” Wanda states with conviction, even though just an hour ago, that fact  held no meaning beneath the sheets. “I've made vows. Promises. Every time I’m with you, I question myself, my integrity. I don't know why I keep letting this happen.” Wanda's voice quivers with frustration and desperation. Vision sees it as a minor victory. He knows he's affecting her.

Disregarding the pan and turning off the stove, he approaches her, his gaze never leaving hers, trying to weave his narrative into her consciousness.

“That's just it, isn't it? There's no betrayal. We're not sneaking around, planning secret getaways. We're two souls who've connected on a level that's rare. Deep, profound. We're just... experiencing it.”

She takes a step back, shaking her head furiously. “It's not right.”

He follows, closing the distance between them. When she’s within his reach, he lifts her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Who defines what's right, Wanda? Why is it wrong for two souls with undeniable connection to explore every facet of it? Does it make us bad people to want to feel alive?"

She tries to pull away, her gaze dropping to the floor, but he tightens his grip on her chin. “Look at me,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. “Tell me you don't feel it. This connection.”

She inhales sharply, her resistance waning. “I do... but I can't understand why.”

He releases her, placing a gentle hand on her cheek. “Because it's natural. And maybe… maybe there's nothing malicious in it. Nothing deceitful. We're just... experiencing.”

Wanda closes her eyes, his words washing over her, causing further confusion. “What do you want from me?”

He smiles, his touch growing bolder as he cradles her face. “I want friendship. Inspiration. You've become my muse, Wanda.”

“She loves me,” she murmurs, a last-ditch effort to wriggle free from his hold.

“And you love her, right?” he challenges, slowly starting to unbutton her blouse.

“Yes, but—”

“But love isn't singular,” he interrupts, his fingers moving deftly, revealing more of her skin with every second. “You can love her and still find something unique with me. Your love for her isn’t lessened because of our connection.”

Wanda bites her lip. With every piece of clothing he peels away, it feels like he’s stripping away her defenses, too. “It's not just about love. It's about commitment, trust.”

He slides her jacket off her shoulders, his hands warm against her bare arms. “And haven't you committed to her in every other aspect of your life? You share a life, a home, memories, and love. What we have... it's different. It's intellectual, spiritual,” he argues, his gaze never leaving hers. 

“But there are lines we’ve crossed—”

“Lines society drew for us.”

She swallows hard, tears threatening to spill. “I just don't want to hurt anyone.”

His voice softens, even as his fingers deftly work at the last buttons of her blouse. “Neither do I. But sometimes, in life, we have to listen to our true desires, to understand what our heart and soul really need. It’s not about being selfish; it’s about being true to oneself.”

And is this one of her 'true' desires?

Before she can articulate things further, the last of her defenses and garments are stripped away, and Visions sheds his boxers and draws her near. Their skins meet, a tantalizing sensation of heat and urgency. Wanda's breath catches as Vision's strong arms wrap around her waist, effortlessly lifting her. She instinctively wraps her legs around him, their closeness leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. 

[writingjourney]

a message from the bulletin board | cardinal copia x gn!reader

summary: the ministry’s bulletin board, ordinarily used for missing items or party announcements, contains a particularly interesting request this week – a lonely hearts ad.

content: 9k words, gn!reader, slightly suggestive at times, first date/first kiss shenanigans, sad lonely awkward cardinal fluff, you know the drill

Masterlist – Ao3 link

You ignore the knot of people in front of the bulletin board.

As much as the whispers and giggles garner your attention, someone else attracts it even more. Cardinal Copia, red cassock, red biretta, arms filled with two boxes worth of files and papers, is trying to push the door to his office open with his hip under a swell of Italian curses. Certainly, his hip swing is impressive on most days, especially on stage, but today it seems more like a helpless, uncoordinated bumping that the door is fighting with every ounce of its wooden strength.

Evidently, he’s struggling.

“Good morning, Cardinal, do you need a hand?”

His eyebrows shoot up when he hears your voice and he stops dead in his tracks, slowly turning his head until he catches you standing right behind him. Despite your announcement, he visibly startles, nearly dropping the boxes in his arms.

“Oh, eh… yes, if you could open the door for me, Sibling?”

“Of course.”

With your hand on the knob, you watch as he hurries inside of his office, wheezing under the weight and dropping the boxes onto his desk with a dull thud that echoes loudly in his mostly bare working space. Apart from books upon books strewn across and around his desk as well as an old weathered couch, there hasn’t been any love put into decorating the space. You wait patiently for him to turn back around to you, a hint of red dusting his cheeks when he finally does.

“Thank you,” he squeezes out, trying very hard to swallow his heavy exhales. “I carried them here all the way from the archives. Long way, you know, even for my…” He holds up his arm, flexing it exaggeratedly. “My strong, powerful muscles.”

You giggle and he perks up in delight, eyes wide and shiny. “No problem, Cardinal, I can imagine they’re very heavy.” 

You smile at him and he smiles back, so sweetly, and you’re momentarily at an equal loss for words. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, down the prominent bridge of his nose. He brushes it away with a leather-gloved hand and you can’t help but stare as he wipes it clean on the heavy fabric of his vestments, shaking out his fingers once he’s done. You can’t look away as they flex and release, flex and release. They’re surprisingly long and so… nimble.

Copia’s violent cough startles you awake and you’re not sure if it’s his own nerves that make him clear his throat, if his overexerted lungs are protesting or if he caught you staring. Either way, you feel your own cheeks getting hot now, the moment of hesitant silence slowly transitioning into a gooey sort of awkwardness.

“So, ugh… I better get back to my own duties,” you say. “Lots to do, spring cleaning and all that.”

He nods. “Yes, yes, you are busy, of course. Such a busy little bee. Bzz bzz. Hehe.”

You awkwardly giggle back, trying hard to think of a clever joke. Maybe something that has to do with stinging? But before you can settle on one, the time for a witty come-back has stretched thin and so you just awkwardly wave at him, mutter a “see you later” and close the door.

With your back pressed to the wood, you let out a deep exhale, the butterflies – or bees – in your stomach making it very hard to breathe at a normal pace. Once you’ve recollected your wits, you notice that the hallway is still as busy as before, maybe even busier.

Like lions gathering around an animal carcass after days of starvation, what feels like half the abbey has been flocking to the big rectangular corkboard. You cannot possibly imagine what would warrant such intense interest. The most exciting messages on any given day are unusual sex requests, the invitation to a weirdly themed party or a call for applications to a particularly intricate sex ritual to honour the Dark One.

You push through the crowd to check what’s causing the repeated giggling and excited whispers amongst your peers when you spot a pristine piece of paper on the board. It’s thick, stark-white, shaped like a heart at the top and with pieces to rip off at the bottom that contain a phone number. You squint, move in even closer until you can make out the text – hand-written and in cursive.

I (m, 50) am looking for a partner to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t have any preferences but it would be coolio if we had similar interests, so we can have some fun together.

I like: watching movies, playing video games, going on walks, rigatoni, juice, small animals

I don’t like: coconut flavour, being barefoot, swimming, touching wet dishes, bullies, dentist appointments

If you think we are a good match I would like to take you on a romantic date. Please call or text me.  Bye bye!

You smile at the note but quickly find back down to earth when someone rams their elbow into your side. No one has taken one of the numbers yet, so you assume the excitement is more about the fact that there is a lonely hearts ad on the bulletin board at all than any actual interest in the person. You have to admit, it is a bit odd. Most younger clergy members just use dating apps these days or social media. But the lonely heart in question is fifty, so they may not be familiar with modern methods, and it’s oddly endearing that anyone would go through the trouble of creating such an ad. At the same time, it breaks your heart that someone in the abbey is so lonely that they risk the ridicule of half of the clergy members just to have a chance at finding love.

“Well, there are a bunch of people who it could be,” you overhear someone say. “Maybe one of the older Brothers, a bunch of them are single. Could also be that new bishop who just arrived, I heard he’s a cinephile and walks around the gardens quite often.”

You ignore the whispers of speculation, making your way back through the crowd to return to your duties. It’s almost dinner time by now and you need to get two more loads of laundry done before then. But even as you sort through piles of habits, cassocks and veils… you can’t stop thinking about the ad. You sincerely hope the person receives a few serious and not just prank calls. The note did sound endearing and you definitely see similarities. At the same time you’re far too busy nursing your hopeless crush on the Cardinal to actually entertain the thought of dating someone else. 

You decide to check on the ad again tomorrow, see if anyone took a number, and if not, you could at least save it to your phone… just in case.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Two birds land on his window sill, rubbing their beaks together in a kiss before happily chirping at each other. They’re in love, literal love birds, building a nest on the little protrusion in the wall right below his window. He’s been watching them occasionally, unreasonably envious, as they bring in twig after twig, ready to start their family. From the same window, Copia can make out the spring-filled gardens with their colourful patches of pink and red tulips, bumblebees hurrying from blossom to blossom, drunk on pollen and greedy for more. He can overlook the bright green meadow leading down to the pond, speckled with lush, budding trees. At this time of the day, after everyone finished their daily duties, the grass has almost completely disappeared under a plethora of picnic blankets.

Spring fever, he assumes, has to be the reason why everyone seems to be in love. Couples dozing in each other’s arms in the shade of the trees, feeding their lovers berries or grapes, taking a stroll down to the pond with their joined hands dangling between them, kissing without pause in the archways of the cool stone walkways leading outside. Just now he spots two Sisters rubbing sunscreen on each other’s bare shoulders, one of them kissing the other's head before they fall back onto their blanket, giggling happily at each other.

He feels so incredibly lonely.

This has been going on for weeks now and he’s tired of feeling so shamefully worthless of affection. Instead of the arms of his lover, he sinks into his tattered old desk chair and drowns his sorrows in boring paperwork. Not that that’s going well, but for lack of alternatives, he’d rather do budget calculations than sit in his quarters all alone. Every evening, the spring breeze carries the sound of happy laughter through his windows, usually while he’s playing video games all by himself, but he can’t keep them closed if he doesn’t want to sweat to death. Besides… that same gentle breeze is the only thing caressing his skin as he tries to fall asleep at night and if he closes his eyes, the wind almost feels like fingertips ghosting over his arms.

As he leaves his office that night, he receives another heavy but sadly much expected blow. Almost a week now and still no one has taken one of the numbers from his lonely hearts ad. Of course it doesn’t mean no one saved it to his phone, he tells himself, people are shy or they just don’t want to date an anonymous person. It has nothing to do with him, they don’t even know it’s him. And yet… if his dating streak continues so poorly, he’s not sure if he can stay sane for much longer. There are only so many tears you can cry in bed at night before it starts to take a toll on you.

His heart is especially heavy as he makes his way to his lonely quarters. One more day and then he’s taking it down, he decides. No use in waiting any longer now that surely everyone in the abbey has seen his request and the last thing he wants are pity calls.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

“So, are you going to call the Cardinal?”

You look up from your breakfast plate. Your friend Lily is sitting opposite of you, chewing on a blueberry muffin, and you narrow your eyes at her. “The Cardinal?”

“The number in the lonely hearts ad,” she says. “It’s still there, I checked earlier.”

“It’s the Cardinal?”

She nods, popping another piece of muffin into her mouth. “Duh.”

You feel your cheeks heating up and set your fork down to hide the sudden tremor in your fingers. “Which Cardinal?”

She gives a soft groan of annoyance. “Babe, there is only one of the Cardinals who would ever hang up such a goofy thing. Now, will you call him?”

Copia. She knows about your… slight infatuation with him. And despite being kind and not teasing you too much, it was just a matter of time until the occasion popped up. If he is looking for a serious partner… maybe it’s too late for you soon. The ad has been up for days and while you’ve been toying with the idea of calling, you just haven’t found the courage yet.

You continue eating, trying to act casual, but it takes you three attempts to pick up a stray piece of cucumber from your plate. “How do you even know it’s his number?”

Lily takes a deep breath, setting the muffin down to ready herself. “Sooo, Michael wanted to call the number to check who it is, right? Well, turns out his girlfriend already knew it’s the Cardinal’s number and his girlfriend is Sister Jill who knows it from Sister Mary who is roommates with Sibling Jessie who works with the treasury and their colleague Brother Paul works as the Cardinal’s assistant two times a week and that’s how he has the Cardinal’s number for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Now, will you?”

Eyes on your empty plate, you bite your lip until you can taste blood. It’s Copia’s number, the number of your crush of about six months now, and he’s looking for a partner, unspecified. That’s… big news, intimidating news, news that calls to an action you’re not sure you’re prepared for.

Glancing at Lily, you catch her smirking at you and promptly give her a scowl. “I don’t know. What if he already got better options?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Better than you? I doubt it.”

“You’re biased because you’re my friend.”

A shrug. “You should try. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“He could be disappointed.”

“He’s more disappointed if no one calls,” she counters.

“Yeah but–”

You stop yourself when you see Nora, Lily’s girlfriend, approaching the table. Her arms wrap around Lily from behind as she presses a loud, lingering kiss to her cheek, both of them giggling.

“You scared me,” Lily says, turning around for a proper kiss.

“Sorry, love, but I can’t leave breakfast without my sweet treat.”

You avert your gaze, involuntarily feeling like an intruder. They’ve been together for a few weeks now, sickeningly adorable. Lily had been pining after Nora for months, a little bit like you with the Cardinal, only that she eventually found the courage to ask her out. To see her bravery being rewarded like that makes you incredibly happy for both of them. But at the same time… you have rarely ever felt your loneliness so sharply, the heaviness of your unreciprocated crush such a weight on your shoulders.

You know that if you want this to be you and the Cardinal, then there’s only one real answer to her question: You have to reach out to him.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

He’s ready to toss this day into the trash bin already and he only just got up. 

Last night, after tossing and turning for hours, Copia fell asleep only to promptly land in a hysterically embarrassing dream that made him jolt up whimpering like a kicked dog and hiding his face in the pillow. Bringing himself close to suffocation, he finally realised that he had not actually stumbled right in front of you, spilling juice all over his robes, scrambling to get up only to slip in the puddle by his feet, falling onto his butt with a high-pitched cry. You had been standing there motionless, watching the spectacle unfold until you turned around to leave.

This is the reaction he would expect, should he ever actually find the courage to ask you out. However, this is highly doubtful, because upon walking to his office half an hour later, he catches you with a group of friends. He often sees you with them – attractive young Siblings, evident chemistry between all of you, and every week he suspects a different one to be in love with you. He recognizes the two Sisters he saw from his window earlier this week. One of them presses a loving kiss to the other’s cheek and he wishes he could just walk up to you and do the same.

His heart hurts. No matter how much kindness you extend to him, you’re a beautiful young soul who could never be romantically interested in an aging loner. Copia is not disliked per se, he gets along with pretty much everyone, but he struggles to build meaningful connections. Between working his butt off to satisfy the clergy and spending time on his mostly solitary hobbies, it’s hard to meet people. He had to actively put himself out there but neither online dating nor any of the singles’ events Terzo sent him on brought any results – only what the young Siblings call getting “ghosted” or “benched”.

His ad is his last chance. And even that failed miserably.

As he ponders his options, your eyes suddenly meet his and he swears you’re smiling. Then you lift your hand in a cautious wave. For a second, he’s too scared to wave back because there are people around him, all of which could be your target. Your hand sinks after a moment as your smile slowly straightens and he suddenly knows that you do mean him. He lifts his hand far too excitedly in a reciprocative wave. Your smile returns, a shy one, but before he can even think about possibly approaching you, his knees suddenly give out.

No, they don’t give out, someone rams a trolly filled with supplies for Black Mass into him. Some of the tall candles roll off the top and clatter to the floor, breaking in half just like his dignity. 

“Oops, sorry, Cardinal,” the Sibling says, scrambling to help him up. “It’s so hard to steer this thing.”

“It’s fine,” he chokes out, the pain in his knees anything but fine. “It happens.”

“I’m truly so sorry.”

He smiles, a hand on their shoulder now that he’s on his feet again. “It is okay, eh? No worries.”

When his eyes try to find you again, you’re not there anymore and he can’t decide if he’s relieved or sad. He prays to Satan that you didn’t see him fall but there is no way you missed it. His dream, if slightly watered-down, did come true after all and perhaps now you won’t want to–

“Cardinal, are you alright?” 

Copia, still dizzy and skittish, spins around so hard he nearly stumbles again. He smooths out his now crumpled cassock, the dust he collected on the floor even more visible on today’s black vestments. In an attempt to retain his dignity, he straightens his spine and looks right into your beautiful eyes. You have a tendency to startle him like that and he wishes he could be more smooth about these encounters.

“Yes, yes, Sibling, thank you. It was… it was nothing, just a little stumble, eh?”

“Are you sure?” You inspect him from head to toe, your brow creased in concern. “It looked painful. Your knees…”

“Oh, my knees are fine!” he lies. “I kneel all the time, Sibling. You know this.” Your eyes widen and he continues to stammer. “I mean in prayer. I pray a lot. On my knees. I am a Cardinal, yes? It’s my job.”

 You nod heavily. “Yes, of course.”

“So, ugh… I better just fuck off.” He presses his lips together to keep more silly words from coming out. “I mean I’ll go back to work. ”

As he tries to leave, your hand shoots up, squeezing the muscles in his forearm. He’s not as much startled as enthralled by your touch, so unexpected that he has no time to feel insecure but so welcome that it almost feels natural to have your fingers on his arm. He swears there is a hint of nervousness in your eyes now and despite knowing it’s silly, his heart wants to interpret it as bashfulness.

“Cardinal, please. I… ugh…” 

You look beautiful from up close. Even if you weren’t stuttering he’d have a hard time listening to your words. It seems like you stopped breathing, your cheeks now a sweet shade of rosy, and you open your mouth to speak but no words come out. Eventually, you shake your head and run your fingers over the fabric of his sleeve. He thinks he’s about to pass out, his nerves rising until he can feel his heartbeat all the way up to his neck. Your hand is so gentle, so… affectionate.

“I’m sorry, Cardinal. I don’t mean to keep you. I was just thinking that I really like the black cassock. It suits you.”

A compliment. His mind is racing. This is not what you really wanted to say, he can tell, but he grins anyway. You like his cassock? Well, you should wait until you see him in a suit. Maybe on a date. He should ask, he realises. This is the moment he’s been waiting for for months now. But as he continues to stare at you his tongue becomes too heavy to form the words, and then your hand is suddenly gone and takes his courage right with it.

“Thank you, Sibling,” he says instead. “I also really like your ugh… your outfit.”

Only when the words leave his mouth does he realise it’s the same everyday habit you’re wearing all the time. Somehow, the silly compliment still manages to conjure a smile onto your face and so he stops berating himself because he made you smile. The sight stuns him, butterflies erupting in his already nervous stomach.

“I’ll see you later, Cardinal,” you say then, your eyes leaving his to glance down the hallway where your friends are waiting, beckoning for you to hurry.

Copia nods and he looks down at your hand in silent fascination, staring at your fingers that are dangling by your thigh without any use as if he could magically make them touch his arm again. “Yes, yes. See you,” he mumbles. “Bye bye.”

When he looks back up, you’re already hurrying off. Copia stays frozen, his gaze trailing after you as though his eyes are glued to your form. Even when you’re out of sight it takes him a while to start moving, to start breathing again.

Around him, the hallway slowly empties as everyone starts to tend to their respective duties. Copia can’t help but feel the nagging disappointment about not asking you out. A chance like this won’t suddenly appear again and even if you refused him it would still be less humiliating than the untouched ad at the bulletin board. He should take it off right now, he figures.

Only when he enters the hallway leading to his office, something looks off about the postings. He notices the change from the corner of his eye at first as he walks past the large corkboard. More party flyers have appeared, someone took down the “diamond butt plug set missing” request that had been hanging there since an orgy in the Siblings’ wing went wrong last month. Instead, Copia notices a large poster promoting condom usage that partly covers the request underneath. Which is how he recognises it.

His ad. 

And one of the numbers is missing.

Copia nearly lets out a loud squeal as realisation dawns on him like the gentle spring sun rising over the hills every morning, bringing warmth and happiness after a cold, dark night. It seems like Cupid finally answered his prayers, like Aphrodite found sweet mercy for him.

Someone took his number. Someone wants to reach out to him.

For the rest of the day, he feels like he swallowed a swarm of bees, staring at his phone like it’s going to light up any second. Which it could. He could receive the message or call that changes his life any second now. Any second. Any… any second.

Nothing happens. Not in the next hour, not in the next two hours. All day, in fact, his phone stays quiet. His initial happiness deflates like a balloon. As he heads towards his quarters that evening, he observes how everyone piles into the dining hall, their happy laughter and cheerful spirits spoiling his usually solid appetite. He hates the sour feeling of envy in his stomach but he can’t help but suspect that everyone conspired against him.

Copia decides to skip dinner in order to cry into a big bowl of gelato. His nightmare might not have come true but his brain tortures him with pictures of your smiling face instead, with the phantom feeling of your warm hand lingering on his arm, and he can’t help but feel crushed anyway. He’d sell his soul to come home to you, to eat with you, sit with you, watch silly movies with you, fall asleep with you in his arms and wake up with your smile as the first thing he gets to see every day. It becomes increasingly clear to him that every day he misses out on being with you is a day tragically lost.

If only he was brave enough to change that.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

You’ve been pacing your bedroom for the better part of the evening now, back and forth and back and forth to the point where you’re seriously concerned about wearing down your carpet. The day passed uneventfully apart from your encounter with Copia in the hallway where you made a complete fool of yourself. You would have loved to skip all of the unnecessary fuss of texting back and forth but you barely spoke more than two words to him before you chickened out. Surely, if his interest in you was romantic, he could just ask you out instead of advertising himself on a public corkboard?

In any case, you’ve been typing out messages for over an hour now, deleting every single one of them only to throw your phone onto the bed multiple times before picking it back up to risk another attempt.

The reason you haven’t given up yet is that Lily knows you have his number now. Last night, when you thought everyone was asleep, you snuck out of your dorm feeling like James Bond with your torch and black clothing, tiptoeing down the empty corridors of the abbey. You didn’t want anyone spreading any premature rumors but a part of you was hesitant to take one of the numbers at all. Even if you called him, it wasn’t certain that he’d want to go on a date with you.

Still, you ripped off one of the thumb-sized pieces of paper and headed back – only to promptly run into Lily as she snuck out to meet Nora. You’re never going to forget her self-satisfied grin as she spotted you with the crumpled number between your fingers.

Begging your creative juices to start flowing, you stare at the empty message box. Perhaps you should be funny. You wonder if he knows the Piña Colada song. It is about a lonely hearts ad after all and he’s a musician. You type and type, delete and retype until you end on a rough draft to show Lily when she gets home. But no, upon rethinking, the joke is too silly even for you and there’s probably a better way to phrase this–

“Hey, have you called him yet?”

You jump, your heart rate doubling in shock. Lily appears in the open doorway and her voice startles you so fiercely that you clutch your phone to your chest. To your utter horror, the swishing sound of a sent message reaches your ear as your palm connects with the touchscreen, and when you glance down, the bubble with your typed out message sits at the top of your chat history.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I sent my stupid silly joke message to him.”

Lily picks your phone from your hands, reading the solitary message from the display. “Well, at least now you’ll know if he shares your weird sense of humour?”

You grasp her shoulder and release a deep, throaty groan. Her words don’t calm you in the slightest, if anything, they only make it worse.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Driving Miss Daisy can’t distract him anymore.

Every two minutes Copia reaches for his phone to check for any missed texts or calls only to have the gapingly empty home screen staring back at him. He never figured out how to change the pre-set wallpaper. Perhaps he could try again when he has a cute couple picture of him and his future partner. The thought makes him smile. It’s one of many little things he would change – if they only called.

Despite putting it on vibrate, he doesn’t trust the device to inform him of any news. He even carried it to the toilet twice already, just in case something happens while he’s gone. His ice cream doesn’t satisfy him tonight, everything feels bland and devoid of flavour, but he refills his bowl anyway. One big spoon and a bit of spray cream… and as he walks back over to his bed, he realises that he should definitely check his phone again because this took way longer than two minutes.

Right as he pulls the device out his pocket, it vibrates violently in his hand. For a moment he is so shocked to see a message pop up that he throws it away. It lands on his bed, bouncing a few times, display still lit up with one new notification glaring at him from the centre of his screen.

He takes a deep breath. This is real. He got a message.

No, he can’t look at it, he’s going to lose his nerves. A few more deep inhales and slow exhales, then he can’t fight the suspension any longer. 

Hey, stranger :) You don’t like coconut, so you probably don’t like Piña Coladas, but maybe I’m still the love that you look for?  I would love to go on a date with you, if you are still looking for one. 

It takes him a second, then another one. The ice cream melts in his bowl as it sits forgotten on the floor next to his bed. Suddenly it clicks and he chuckles, in relief as well as amusement, thinking that he knows that song, that he gets the reference. That means this person is funny. They made a joke. He smiles to himself. A funny person wants to go on a date with him.

He types back, deleting, typing again. After five minutes, he comes up with a reply.

Hello, stranger! 👋🏼 I do not like Piña Coladas 🍹 but I have many better things to offer if you want to go on a picnic 🧺 with me tomorrow? I will bring food 🥪 and drinks 🧃 of course. Hopefully we do not get caught in the rain 💦😀

He thinks about how he could sign the message but then his nerves start to kick in. If he tells the person who he is, they may reconsider their choice to go out with him and that’s the last thing he wants. Even if the date doesn’t go well, he wants to try his best, so he shoots another message after the first: 

Oh. It will be a blind date, if that is okay with you?

The next minute is the longest of his life. An eternity passes. He thinks he might have stopped breathing with how tight his chest feels. That is, until his phone lights up and shows the same number again, wringing a deep sigh of relief from him.

That’s fine with me. Where do we meet?

The squeal he lets out vibrates in his chest and bounces off the walls.

He’s got a date. Finally.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Copia hears his bad conscience somewhere in the back of his mind whispering that blocking the best spot in the gardens all day is selfish. Perhaps it is true, perhaps he feels a little selfish today. And yes, besides feeling selfish he also feels a little guilty. Is it fair to go on a date when he has such a horrible crush on someone else? No. No, it’s not fair. But he can’t let another chance at love run through his fingers like sand on the beach. He simply has to grasp this opportunity.

His red-checked blanket lays untouched underneath the tall chestnut tree, its big, hand-shaped leaves rustling in the soft breeze as he approaches. The head of a rat is stitched into all four corners  of the fabric – a gift from Sister for his latest birthday – and it’s been sitting here since nine o’clock when he took the liberty of… reserving… the spot. He picked the north-side of the tree so that the shade falls exactly where he’s going to be sitting with his date in approximately fifteen minutes. If they prefer the sun, he can just pull the blanket over a little, but he’d never forgive himself if they got sunburn because of him.

Copia took the day off, his first day off all year in fact, risking his next employee of the month award to spend all morning in town, running errands. With the end of May and strawberry season starting, he visited every grocery store within walking distance to find the ripest, juiciest ones they offered. He was lucky enough to obtain a small basket filled with the most delicious-looking red fruits and some additional fresh ingredients for his sandwiches. While he was quick-witted enough to ask about his date’s allergies yesterday, he completely forgot to ask them about their favorite snacks and so he’s decided to just bring anything he could think of that wouldn’t melt in the sun.

The basket he packed feels heavy in his hand for that exact reason and when he sets it down on the blanket, he can feel the strain in his arm. The past hour was spent obsessing over his outfit until he decided to just go for the white suit combo. Yes, white fabric near grass and juicy red fruits is not the most brilliant idea, but he wants to look his best and that means going the extra mile, even if he has to wear the tiny, itchy underwear underneath.

His heartbeat is going a mile a minute now. He can’t unpack yet, he doesn’t want the food to be out for too long, and so he sits and waits, his hands sweaty under his black and white leather gloves. The fact that the gardens around him slowly become crowded as the afternoon rolls around does nothing for his nerves. He can feel the curious glances, can hear the hushed whispers, and as the hour nears, he starts sweating even more despite the shade. If the unanswered ad had been embarrassing, being stood up so publicly would be even worse. 

And then the most horrifying thing ever happens.

Copia sees you walking along the path, wearing a weather-appropriate, slightly dressed-up outfit that makes his eyes involuntarily roam your whole form. But he can’t fully focus on your loveliness. At first, he’s panicking that you’re meeting your friends somewhere close by where you could see him with his date. He would be so embarrassed, so distracted, so uncomfortable. But you walk straight towards him and that’s even worse. If he has to tell you that he’s busy meeting someone else he might spontaneously combust, explode into tiny particles of humiliation. It would ruin everything, his date and his crush on you. What if his date shows up and sees you with him? What if–

Oh no, you don’t stop approaching, you don’t take a turn, you walk up straight to where he’s waiting – with a hint of hesitation, yes, but very directed steps. Copia jumps up immediately, his black hat nearly falling from his head.

“Oh, Sibling,” he stammers, lifting a trembling hand to adjust his fedora. “Hello, hi. Are you spending some time outside today as well?”

Your mouth opens and you wring your hands before hiding them behind your back. “Hello, Cardinal. I ugh… I’m supposed to meet someone here under the chestnut tree.”

Copia furrows his brow, slowly registering your words. “Meet someone. Under the chestnut tree.” 

“Yes.”

“Oh, Satan. It’s you?” He stops, stares, comprehends. He sounds incredulous, his voice a higher pitch than usual. “You’re my stranger?”

You nod, big eyes staring into his mismatched ones in silent expectation, hope and fear muddled together in the crease of your brow. He doesn’t know how to react, just rubs his thumb and index finger together as his mind races faster than speed limit.

“Is this… is this bad?” you finally ask, breaking the awkward silence.

“No!” Copia exclaims. “No, no, no. Please, please sit.”

You do, kneeling down on the blanket a little hesitantly. Copia joins you, still not fully trusting his senses. This feels like a hallucination. His disbelief has to be the only reason he hasn’t passed out yet. Is he really on a date with you right now?

After another moment of silence, Copia notices you eyeing the basket and snaps back into reality. His plans, his very detailed plans for how this date is supposed to go, flood his mind and he remembers the first step now. Swallowing his shock, he sits up a little straighter.

“Ah, eh… yes, I got you something.” He reaches behind the basket and procures three deep red roses he stole from Primo’s rose garden on the way here. Their intense smell hits his nose as he whips them past his face and hands them over. “These are for you. I hope you like roses. I know it is a bit cliché but also a classic, no?”

“I love them,” you assure him, holding them up to your nose with a smile. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

He smiles. “Good, good. Yes. So… I thought about what we could do and–”

“Cardinal,” you interrupt then. 

“Oh, no. No, call me Copia. Please.” He gives you a shaky smile. “We’re on a date, no?”

“Copia,” you try but feeling his name on your tongue doesn’t make you feel any better. Ever since getting here your bad conscience made it hard to fully settle into this date and with his visible distress upon discovering it’s you, you feel like now is the time to address it. “Before… before we do this, I have a confession to make…” 

He hums and wriggles his eyebrows. “Oh, really? Well, I would love to see you in confession soon…”

You blush furiously. “Oh, no. No, that’s not what I meant.”

A flash of concern and you can practically see all of his insecurities mirrored in his eyes. You’re both tiptoeing around the same question, you assume, but it’s on you to take the plunge.

“What… what do you mean then?” he asks.

“About this date…” His lightheartedness completely disappears. You feel bad for ruining the mood but it’s too late now and you need to get it out, you owe him that much. “Copia… It wasn’t a blind date on my part. I… I knew it was you.”

“You knew it was me?” he asks and again his features change, eyes wide now. He really had no idea that people knew the ad was his and suddenly he feels like a fool.

“I’m so sorry, I should have been honest from the start.” You stare at his gloved hand but you’re too scared to take it. “I hope you can forgive me for keeping this from you.”

“You knew it was me and you still… you still wrote to me? You still came?”

You furrow your brow. “I didn’t tell you because then I would have had to admit that it’s me and I was scared that maybe you wouldn’t want to go anymore.”

“Me? Not… not…” He shakes his head so fast that his fedora once again threatens to fly off. “Oh, tesoro, I would have… I would have been on the moon with joy, as they say. Yes, yes, I would have.”

You don’t correct him. Instead, an insecure smile settles on your face. “You know you don’t have to say that, Copia, it’s okay if you were hoping for someone else… That’s the risk of going on a blind date, right?”

He yanks your hand out of your lap, wrapping it up in both of his gloved ones. “Tesoro, can I be very honest with you?”

You nod. “Of course you can. Always.”

“I was hoping it was you.”

Your breath catches and steals your next words. The same incredulity that hit him earlier now settles in your chest and you can’t find it in you to question him.

Copia immediately fills the silence. “I never… I never thought…” You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, a nervous swallow, before he wets his lips. “Tesoro, you were always very good to me. I always saw your kindness, you understand this, yes? Don’t get me wrong, I just… I never thought you were interested in me like this. In such a silly old man.”

You have to giggle through your nerves. “I love that you’re a silly old man.”

He smiles shyly. “You are very sweet, tesoro.”

“I’ve actually had this crush for a few months now,” you admit, encouraged by his positive reaction. “And I want you to know that when I saw your ad I thought about calling even before I knew it was you.”

His smile grows impossibly bigger at that. “Did you?”

A nod. Copia squeezes your hand, then brings it to his face for a kiss. You feel his wet lips on your skin and they’re so soft, so gentle. When he sets your hand back down you see a trace of black lipstick on its back and instantly feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“Should we start then?” he asks. “I brought a lot of things, let me show you.”

The basket opens to reveal a plethora of food and drink options. Copia sets down a foil-wrapped plate with sandwiches that look a little wonky so you assume he made them himself, then some juice boxes, apple and orange, a box of fresh, delicious-looking strawberries, two bottles of water, reusable plastic cups and plates. At last, he hands you one of many different muffins he must have stolen from the kitchens.

“For my dolcezza,” he says with a smile.

More heat spreads in your cheeks as you take the little treat from him with a thanks. You’re both visibly losing your nervousness now, your postures less cramped, stretching out your limbs on the blanket with your bodies angled towards each other.

“Maybe we should… talk a bit about us?” Copia proposes. “To get to know each other, sì? I would like to learn about you.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds good. Do you want to start?”

He thinks on a good starter question, the pressure clouding his thoughts for a moment but then his silence grows thick and he has to say something. “So, ugh… do you like Star Wars?”

This is not one of the questions on his list of conversation starters. For some reason, every single meaningful thought suddenly leaves him. Luckily, this simple, safe question seems to put you at ease and you relax even more.

“I do,” you say. “I watched all the movies.”

“Oh, good! And what is your favorite?”

You pluck a piece from your muffin, popping it into your mouth. “Hmm… The Empire Strikes Back, I think.”

“Hehehe, sì, sì, I am your daddy.” His eyes widen. “Not that I’m… I don’t mean… you know, the scene with Luke… ugh. So, anyway, yes, that is my favorite as well.”

You giggle and he lights up, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. You reach for one of the sandwiches then. Copia helps, holding the plate up for you.

“So, these are all inspired by Italian foods. I have ugh… caprese. Mozzarella and tomato?”

You reach for the one he showed you. “That sounds great, thank you.”

Copia can’t help but stare as he awaits your reaction. You hum in delight and immediately take another bite of the soft bread. Satisfied, Copia allows himself to grab one as well now. Conversation slows down as you eat but you continue to talk about your interests between bites, finding more and more similarities as the minutes pass. 

Your little spot is beautiful, cool enough to sit comfortably but warm enough to feel the reviving effects of spring. The leaves above you rustle every now and then, birds and bees flying past, the odd ant crawling over your blanket in search of some crumbs. Neither one of you is bothered as you sip on your juice boxes in tandem and intuitively increase your proximity.

With your bodies gravitating towards each other like that, you end up sitting very close after a while. Copia reclines against the tree trunk, pulling his hat down to grant him more shade, a little bit like a cowboy leaning against the walls of a saloon. His white suit is an odd contrast to his relaxed pose, not the most comfortable outfit to lounge in. Without thinking too much about it, he pulls you close to him and angles you so you can rest your head in his lap. 

You’re only tense for a short moment. Copia gets rid of his gloves and you can feel his bare fingers running over your scalp. The steady pattern he draws calms you and you sigh, closing your eyes for a few minutes as a warm feeling of safety spreads out in you.

Copia can’t help but stare. Despite the initial hiccup, you’re so comfortable around each other that he feels like he’s known you forever. This is a dream come true for him, all his fantasies, his wishes, his longings, they all seem to come together in the lovely face dozing in his lap. You’re the most stunning sight he ever had the pleasure to behold. Every line, every hair, every mole, blemish or scar combines into the most beautifully painted canvas – and to him, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

“Do you want a strawberry, tesorino?” he asks then.

You open your sparkly eyes and they reflect a speck of sunlight breaking through the canopy. Blinking a few times, you shift in his lap to avoid being blinded. He tenses as your cheek narrowly misses his groin, but then you nod and he distracts himself by reaching for the box of strawberries. 

With careful fingers, he grabs one of the shiny heart-shaped fruits, making sure to touch the stem to avoid any stains, and then guides it to your mouth. He can’t help but stare as he sees your lips part for him, the tip of your tongue peeking out to welcome the sweetness. You sink your teeth into the red flesh, so eager, and spatters of juice stain your lips. They appear even more saturated as you lick them clean, wetting them with your tongue, and he so desperately wants to kiss you.

“They’re so sweet already,” you say, taking the rest of the fruit from his hand.

“Yes, I agree.”

You giggle. “Copia, you haven’t even tried one yet.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean the strawberries.”

You huff out a flustered breath, fighting the still evident smile on your face, and hold the half-eaten strawberry up to his mouth. “Try.”

He lets you feed him with burning cheeks, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As his teeth meet the flesh, a few droplets of juice fall astray but he doesn’t even care if they ruin his suit anymore. He can’t stop looking at you, thinking about your soft hand so close to his mouth. He wants to kiss it again, desperately, and so he traps it with his when you try to pull away. With his lips pressed to your palm, he closes his eyes, kissing all the way down to your wrist where he lingers.

You gasp softly, lips parting as Copia continues to drag his lips over the delicate skin. Your reaction brings a smirk to his face, another moment that he’s going to think about for days to come.

“I tried, dolcezza,” he says. “And I think you’re still sweeter.”

You blush so prettily at that. Flustering you is easier than he expected and he takes notes of every little thing that draws a reaction from you. You spend another hour like this, eating fruit, drinking juice, chatting about all sorts of things while you exchange soft touches and words of your blossoming affection. At some point, the gentle breeze that carries on throughout the afternoon becomes stronger, and more and more people head back inside to escape a possible weather change.

Neither one of you wants to leave but as you start to shiver more violently, Copia’s worry about you catching a cold wins over his desire to prolong your date. He proposes to head inside as well, running his hands over the goosebumps on your bare arms to warm you up.

When you reluctantly agree, he starts to pile your dishes and the leftover food into the basket. You move to help but he stops you with a tut. “I will pack this up, eh? Don’t worry about it.”

“I could help you, you know.”

“Ah, no no. I invited you, yes? It is my pleasure.”

It only takes him a few minutes to pack everything up. You grab your flowers in the meantime and he watches from the corner of his eye as you sniff them with a growing smile on your face, swaying slightly from left to right. As Copia shakes out the blanket, folding it messily in the middle, you hesitate by the edge of your little picnic spot.

“So, do you want to walk back together?” you ask.

Copia smiles, glad that you don’t want to leave him quite yet. “I would like that a lot, tesoro. Should I carry the roses for you?”

You hand them over and he places them on the lid of the basket before he carefully picks it up. When he’s by your side again, you stop him with a hand on his forearm, the same gentle squeeze you gave him the last time. Only this time you don’t leave. Instead you lean in and press a soft kiss to his reddened cheek, your lips lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary. Copia opens his mouth but he can’t think of anything to say. Instead he uses his unoccupied hand to fish for yours.

Hand in hand, palm against palm, you walk past the leftover groups of Siblings that make use of the last few moments of sun. Neither of you spares anyone else even a glance. Whenever your eyes aren’t focused on the path ahead, they meet each other, giddy, love-sick smiles gracing your lips.

As you finally pass the first archway and enter the cool stone corridors of the abbey, Copia suddenly stops. Your arms slowly extend as you take a few more steps but before your hand can slip from his, he pulls you back. Maybe he used a little bit too much force or maybe he just caught you by surprise, but you practically stumble into his arms. A gasp falls from your lips. You make no attempt at breaking away and so Copia gently guides you against the frame of the archway, setting down the basket in the process so he can place his other hand on your hip.

Big eyes look up into his. He leans in slowly. The rim of his hat catches the stone and it finally slips from his head, dropping somewhere. Copia doesn’t care because he can already feel your sweet strawberry breath on his lips and nothing could stop him from getting a taste. Your hands impatiently grab at his lapels, then, pulling him even closer, and he gasps at the force of your need. With your eyes falling closed, lips slightly parted and your chin tilted up, Copia feels like he’s in a dream.

“Please,” you whisper.

He has to fight a moan, the word resonating somewhere deep inside his belly. Still, he draws out  the moment for as long as he can, stalling as the tension crackles in the tiny space that separates you. He starts by nuzzling your nose while he pushes his hand upwards until he can grasp your jaw. As he angles your head just right, he feels your lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He fights off a giggle as they continue to tickle his skin and you shift slightly against him, growing impatient.

“Co–”

His mouth swallows your next syllable. You hum against him as his lips capture yours with gentle adoration. The grip on your waist tightens at the same time as his thumb presses into your cheek. Want, need, trickles into your belly and Copia feels the same way, moving his mouth against yours with slightly more pressure. The kiss is still slow, still tame, but it’s unmistakable how much stowed up desire for the other you both hold inside.

For a while you continue like this, your body trapped between Copia and the cool stone and the world around you a mere shadow. You open your mouth for air and that’s when you can feel his tongue cautiously pushing against yours. The sensation makes you feel even more fuzzy, the need for oxygen forgotten as you tangle your tongue with his. The taste is sweet, residues of fruit and juice, and underneath it all you feel Copia. Copia.

You only break away when you’re both struggling to keep up the pace. He’s a mess, his lipstick gone, black smears covering his chin and cheeks where his eye make-up rubbed off. You lift your hand to wipe some of your mingled spit off of his chin and the blissful expression on his face makes you smile. You love to see his face ruined like this, you decide. And Copia, seeing the lipstick-smears all over your kiss-swollen mouth, unknowingly thinks the same.

“We should do this again sometime,” you say. “The date but also… this. Actually, I think we should do it again right now.”

Copia chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “How about we never stop doing it?”

You nod your approval, wrapping your arms around him to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s soft, if a little bit sweaty, messy from the loss of his hat. “I would like that a lot, Copia.”

“I mean it, tesoro,” he whispers with a hint of insecurity. “I don’t want to stop spending time with you. Ever. We already wasted enough of it.”

A big smile breaks out on your face. Copia can’t help but return it, squeezing you a little tighter to his body, and you giggle happily as he kisses your nose.

“You’re right,” you finally say. “Let’s not waste another moment.”

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this silly little story – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

Masterlist – My Ao3