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celestie0 · 7 months

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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.7 to lose someone you love

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, mentions of weed, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot

ᰔ chapter. 7/x (probably 12)

ᰔ words. 8.5k

a/n. sighhh i'm rly sorry for the wait. and thank you sooo much to the love for the last chapter omg :') this chapter is gojo pov and it's a bit different than the rest, but i still hope you enjoy and that it was worth the wait. if there are typos, they're not typos they're actually 100% intentional and you are the silly one

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When Gojo was just four years old, he called for the paramedics for the very first time.

He had wandered around the house, wide and innocent blue eyes searching the room for the landline in the dim light of the evening, his lip quivering in a pout. His small arm reached up to pet around at the top of his parents’ dresser before his fingers wrapped around the phone. He couldn’t remember what the number was at first, the one his mother always told him to call in case of an emergency, but he remembered he scribbled it down somewhere with red crayon in one of his coloring books. By the time Gojo first realized he needed to call for help, located the landline, looked through all of his little portraits of dinosaurs and spaceships sprawled across the carpet of his room, found those three numbers, and then finally dialed them, his father had already been seizing and shaking on the bathroom floor for longer than twenty-four minutes.

He was just a child. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know any better.

Gojo spent the remainder of that night hugging his mom in the hospital’s emergency room, his tears soaking through her shirt as she gently rocked him back and forth in her lap while whispering soothing words in his ear. His father lay motionless on the hospital bed before them, eyes shut, and Gojo will never forget the haunting sounds of the machinery that was keeping his father alive. It was a sudden onset seizure, likely stemming from the traumatic brain injury his father had suffered a few years ago, and the prolonged convulsions he experienced on the bathroom floor that night had resulted in severe brain damage. Gojo could still hear the echo of his mother’s silent cry when the doctors informed them that it’s unlikely his father would ever fully recover from this.

No reasonable adult would ever look a four-year-old in the eyes and say if you had called for help sooner or knew what to do, maybe your father would’ve still had the chance to live a long life. Yet, even at his young age, Gojo was aware of the energy in the room, and that explanation was the only truth his mind could grasp onto to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

After two weeks of clinging to life, his father miraculously woke up from his coma and persevered for the sake of his wife and son. Shortly after the incident, he began to have recurring seizures but fought through them each time. Without fail, he made Gojo breakfast in the mornings, even if it meant having to clean up the spilt orange juice on the counter every now and then because of how his hands could not stop trembling. He always walked Gojo to the bus stop, waving him goodbye, despite how troublesome and embarrassing he found it to use his cane. The love he had for his son was so palpable that it eclipsed the bitterness over how his life had ended up because of the blessing it had brought him.

In his prime, Gojo’s father was a renowned soccer player, so incredibly talented at the sport that he left a lasting mark on the way teams strategized, his presence on the field commanding respect, and he was one of the greatest talents the entire college division had ever seen.

He met Gojo’s mother at one of his freshman year games, a pretty lady in the stands that caught his eye from the sight of her laughter among her friends, her radiance drawing him to her from the field, and that’s how their love began. Exactly one year following that day, he stole one of his grandmother’s thrifted rings from her jewelry collection and that was what he used to propose. Gojo’s mother had accepted it with so many tears and so much snot running down her face, and he had never found her more beautiful. They married young and sweet, like most people back then.

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant.

No one knew that would be the last game of soccer he would ever play.

It was a freak accident, a distracted driver behind the wheel of a gray Chevy on a dark and rainy night, veered straight towards Gojo’s parents car to avoid a branch on the road. In a moment that could only be described as his instinct to protect, he quickly swerved his vehicle, taking the brunt of the impact on his side. His family surrounded him at his hospital bedside as they grappled with the news that he would be unable to play the sport ever again due to his traumatic brain injury that would lead to lifelong motor function loss. According to the doctors and police, had he not swerved to shield his wife and unborn child, the outcome would have been far more disastrous. After months of rehabilitation, he regained enough ability to walk and just enough function in his extremities to welcome his newborn son in his arms.

When Gojo was just six years old, two years after witnessing his father’s first seizure, he stumbled upon a dusty, forgotten soccer ball tucked away in the corner of the garage. When he eagerly presented it to his father, excitement gleaming in his eyes, he was only met with a scowl and the demand to discard it, to never bring such things like that to him ever again. His mother protested, ensuing in an argument, and as Gojo lowered his gaze to the ball in his hands, he noticed his father’s faded signature adorned with a heart and message of love for his mother. The ink, once vibrant, now faded with time.

It wasn’t until Gojo turned seven that his father finally relented to teach him more about the sport, knowing it was all his son wanted for his birthday. With determination in his heart, Gojo pleaded for his father’s guidance, eager to kick around a nearly deflated, weathered ball. His father watched his son, expression morphing from reserved and stoic, softening to surprise, then hopeful, and he found himself cheering on his son’s clumsy endeavors on the field despite how many times he tumbled and fell. Because that was his son, his pride and joy, reminiscent of him embracing the sport that he himself had cherished so many years ago.

As Gojo grew older and excelled at the sport, securing victory after victory in every youth league, his father’s health steadily declined. The recurring seizures caused by the brain damage from his prolonged convulsions on that fateful night exacerbated over the years and started to take an increasing toll on his body. Yet still, he never missed even a single one of his son’s games. Whenever Gojo swiftly sent the ball flying through the net, the first person his eyes would search for on the field was his father, the joy in his eyes being all he cared about in the world. Gojo lived to make his father proud, because it was the only thing that made him feel like he could make up for what little he had done to protect his father that night.

You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better.

The day following Gojo’s eleventh birthday, his father had his second major seizure, falling into another coma, but this time he never woke up. Two years later, his mother made the tough decision to end his life-support, and then he was gone from their lives. Gojo’s mother was inconsolable, and he knew that his father took a piece of her soul with him to heaven that night. The piece that allowed her to smile.

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning.

But why was he remembering all of that now?

The shrill of Gojo’s alarm clock woke him up from the intrusive memories that were washing through the fore-front of his mind, and he grumbled to himself before whacking at his nightstand haphazardly to shut the thing off. He ran a hand across his face in an attempt to wipe the sleepiness away, features instantly settling into an annoyed scowl as he blinked his eyes open and the filtering sunlight through the windows harassed his vision.

He laid there for a few seconds, mending to the pounding headache at his temples with his fingers rubbing circles, and then he finally sat up in bed. Blinking at his sheets, the images of last night start to flash through his mind. The heavy music, the dim lighting of the bathroom, the dizzying jealousy, and the taste of you on his tongue–

The memory is supposed to arouse him, and would on any normal day, but because you had left him standing there stunned with no release of his own at all, he instead just feels a pulsing, soul-deep throbbing pain at his crotch that could really only be due to the fact he was left high and dry by you last night. He groans at the sensation, palm pushing down on his lower abdomen to try and relax the torture, which barely helped. It’s either he jerks off or takes a cold shower, and given the former was likely not possible for him right now since his god-forsaken brain decided to push the traumatizing experiences of his childhood to the forefront of his headspace first thing in the morning, meaning it’s unlikely he’ll be able to settle into the memory of you bent over that bathroom counter for him, he decides on the cold shower. And it’s safe to say that today already fucking sucked.

The moment the chill water hits the skin of his body, he recollects the look you had on your face right before you walked out on him. Soft, searching, to him almost seraphic, but you also looked wounded. And something from your anger with him since before he even had you in that bathroom, to the agonizing moment you left him in there by himself, told him he’d messed up big time with you somewhere along the lines.

He knew he had been a jerk last night. He didn’t really have much of a right to be seethingly possessive of you, but the sight of you kissing another guy had him seeing red and his knuckles turning white. He finds himself clenching his jaw at the unwelcome memory even now. He figured he probably ruined what would’ve otherwise been an enjoyable night for you, and so you decided to get revenge by walking out on him. However, he can’t shake the feeling that things are messy and complicated now, primarily because of him, and he felt like he needed to apologize for dragging you into his weird, confusing emotions.

He gets himself dry and dressed, grateful for the barely sufficient relief he had down south, and sighs as he grabs his phone and taps on your name, thinking about what to say to you, and just settles on typing out Hey, can we talk? and then presses send. He turns the ringer of his phone off, tosses the device onto his bed and then heads out the door.

Geto was sitting on the couch in the loft, rubbing an ice cube across his forehead as he sprawled on the cushions and let out low and consistent groans to himself. Gojo flopped down on the armchair across from him and assumed a similar position, rubbing at his temples to nurse his own headache. Geto opens an eye to look at him.

“Morning,” he grumbles.

“I take it I’m not the only one that feels like they’ve been hit by a truck?” Gojo asks.

Geto makes a disgruntled noise and throws his head back on the cushion. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. God knows how much I had last night.” He reaches over to the console table in the center for the bottle of Ibuprofen and tosses it to Gojo, who catches it and stares down at the label. “I didn’t really see you drink that much though. Don’t know why you’re hungover.”

Gojo sighs. He wasn’t hungover. His headache was from the fact that had a lot on his mind. Like the feeling of your skin last night. And then the pain of being blue-balled. And also for some reason his father’s death. Very exhausting to juggle those thoughts at once.

Gojo twists the cap off the bottle of Ibuprofen and pops two pills, drowning them in his mouth with Geto’s glass of water, then runs a frustrated hand through his hair. The man across from him raises an eyebrow.

“You good?” he asks.

“Super peachy,” Gojo replies.

He sighs. “Well, whatever it is, just make sure it doesn’t affect your play today,” Geto warns him, sinking further down into the couch. Gojo lets out an exhale through his nose. Geto usually pushed further for answers whenever he was in a mood, so the fact that he didn’t this time meant that hangover was bad.

“I’m more worried about you. You think you’ll be fine in a few hours?” Gojo asks. Geto just waves his hand in the air in response as he grabs the hand towel on his chest and drags it up over his face, shielding himself from the light of the room.

“I have no choice but to be fine. We have to win this game,” is all he says through muffling cloth.

Gojo nods, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at the carpet. It was finally the game of the 28th, arguably the second-most important game of the season. If they take home the win, they’re automatically seeded into top sixteen teams, which means they’ll only have to win four more matches after today to take home the championship. But if they lose, they’re seeded to the bottom, and then four turns into a daunting eight. In the history of the league, not a single team has ever lost their pre-seed game and still continued to win the playoff championship. So Geto was right, they have no choice but to win today. Otherwise, they could kiss goodbye to a 12-year UTokyo championship streak.

“Not going for your run?” Geto asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Nah, not feeling up for it,” Gojo replies.

He clicks his tongue. “Never skip the pre-game ritual, man.”

Gojo groans, knowing that he’s right, and so he reluctantly gets up off the chair and heads back into his room. His phone lay there on the bed, facing down, and he felt so tragically taunted by it that he weighed the options of whether or not he should check if you replied back before his run or after his run. And then he’s wondering why you affect him this much in the first place.

He resolves to check after his run, and only gets one arm through his shirt before his hands betray him and he snatches his phone, eagerly tapping the screen to turn it on.

He sees your name at the top, where you had just replied barely a minute ago. Sure, we can talk. He blinks at his phone when he sees the polite period at the end of your message, and the proper capitalization, not to mention a vocative comma? He was starting to feel really nervous.

He didn’t care that you had only replied a minute ago, he quickly typed out his response and sent it.

|| 10:35am Gojo: Do you know how to get onto the stadium field today?

He sees you typing, and he’s holding his breath.

|| 10:36am you: yes, I do. I’m going in w the newsletter journalists. Was this what you wanted to talk about?

What did he want to talk to you about exactly? Something like I’m sorry about being an ass last night, totally not cool for me to be that territorial over you, although I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again because seeing you kiss someone other than me kind of made me want to die. Also, I’m sorry for acting like you’re just someone I know, I don’t know why I did it. I guess it’s because I didn’t know if you thought of me as any more than just someone you know either, and that thought was frightening. Did I mention I hated seeing you kiss someone that wasn’t me?

He’s never really been good with words. Or feelings.

10:37am Gojo: No, it’s not, it’s something else. I’ll come find you on the field before the game starts

He stands there, gaze fixed on his phone screen for the minute-long pause you took to respond, that for him felt like tortured eons, just for you to send-

10:39am you: k

Gojo finishes getting dressed for his run, anxiety brewing in his stomach drearily, and when he heads out the door of the house, the fresh morning air doesn’t help calm him down like it usually does. Of course, as he’s running, his thoughts wander to you. He’s thinking about the smell of your hair–or was it the perfume on your skin?–either way, it was intoxicating. The curve of your neck, that spot that made you whimper– fuck. Think of other things. Like the sound of your voice, soft and sometimes needy, but he enjoys it that way–makes his head spin. Or when you’re being sweet and thanking him for something you shouldn’t, because to him everything about you was a privilege and never a task. Even in the hot spring sun of the late morning, he finds himself missing the warmth from your body, and that look. That goddamn look in your eyes when you’re peering into his like you want him to–

“I’m sure he’s really proud of you.”

His legs stop him on their own, like they know something about the feelings in his chest that he doesn’t, and he’s standing still on the sidewalk of the neighborhood now. Short puffs of air escape his lips from his blood pumping fast through his body, and he could physically hear the sound of you in his head. Intimate enough to where he turns to the side slightly facing his surroundings, like there was no way it was just a memory and you weren’t actually near. He finds himself swallowing hard and having to consciously keep moving forward.

Gojo makes it back to the house, freshens up for the second time today, and gets dressed into his UTokyo soccer uniform with his signature #10 jersey. He leaves with Geto to campus, where all his teammates gather before eventually boarding the bus to the UTokyo stadium field ten minutes away. Coach Yaga yells their ears off in the locker rooms in an attempt to get their plays for today through their brains, and the exhilarating noises from the stands as they make their formal entrance through to the field fills Gojo’s senses, along with the obnoxiously loud music playing as pre-game rituals settle in. Gojo sets his bag down on the bench and joins the others in warm-ups for about fifteen minutes, before catching a chance to sneak away and look for you across the expansive pristine grass.

After lightly jogging around the perimeter of the field for a couple of minutes, he finally spots you, his raised eyebrows now flattening under the fringe of his hair as he relaxes. He didn’t realize he was tensing his shoulders until now. You were just beyond the sidelines near a hydration station, fidgeting with something in your camera case, lips pressed together in a frustrated expression, and he saw your body sulk with the sigh you let out as you must’ve realized you had forgotten something. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a slight smile, an unconscious reaction to seeing you look so damn cute from your troubled face decorated with a pout. And then he remembered he had been looking for you, and he had found you, and the only thing to do next was to be near you.

He ambles up to you, and you only catch sight of him when he’s just a few feet away and finally standing in front of you. He sees your eyes widen slightly, lashes blinking once, twice, and then there’s a blush of color to your cheeks as you fidget with the stadium access badge hung around your neck. He noticed there were grass stains on your jeans over your knees when he looked down.

“Hey,” Gojo greets you over the loud music playing on the field.

“Hi,” he sees you say, and he realizes he can barely hear you.

“Let’s go over there,” Gojo yells, jerking his head over to the side.

He leads you over to an area tucked near the east side entrance, a corner slightly underneath one of the sectioned stands where the loud cheers of the stadium somehow reflected off less. It was about as private or silent of a place that the two of you could manage to have a conversation on a soccer field before a match, if you could just ignore the dressed up school mascots rehearsing their walk-ins and walk-outs through the entryway.

You take a few steps backwards until your back hits the concrete slab wall, and he’s in front of you as he watches you study him for a second, taking in the sight of his uniform, before your eyes finally meet his.

“Are you ready to take your photos today?” he asks you, poorly attempting to make small talk despite the images of you with him in that bathroom last night flashing through his memory. Now was seriously not the time to be turned on.

You nod, and respond “I am”, giving him absolutely nothing to work with.

He sighs. “Listen, about last night, I just wanted to apologize. For dragging you into that bathroom with me, although you did ask me to-” He sees you narrow your eyes and cross your arms across your chest. “Sorry,” he sighs, “Seriously, I just…I don’t know what got over me then.”

“You don’t know? Or you just don’t want to tell me?” you prod at him. He briefly considers pretending he doesn’t hear your question over the sound of the stadium, but he knows he wouldn't get away with that, not with the way you’re looking at him like he’s just one more fuck-up away from making you storm off.

He looks at your lips. “I guess the only thing I know is that I didn’t like seeing you kiss someone else.”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “I know you didn’t, Satoru. Otherwise last night wouldn’t have happened. What I’m asking is why.”

He’s struggling now, searching his head for answers, like he’s fighting for his life on a test that he didn’t study for. When he looks down, he notices your foot has been tapping impatiently. And when he looks back up, there’s that wounded expression from last night again. “I don’t know,” is all he can offer.

You uncross your arms from your chest, lips parting slightly as your eyebrows pinch upwards with a disheartened look. He sees your gaze shift slowly across the features of his face, searching, and he wonders if you can see something within him that he can’t. The thought terrifies him. “Fine. It’s my turn to speak.”

He nods slowly. He wasn’t sure what you wanted to say to him. He imagined you would just cuss him out with a few choice words for being a raging asshole last night and then you’d be on your merry way. But he senses sincerity in your voice. Not that he was phenomenal at reading people, though.

He watches as you clench and unclench your fists at your sides nervously, then twiddle with the strap of your camera, then tuck your hair behind your ears, then blink rapidly as you look up at him, then worry your bottom lip between your teeth, then open your mouth to speak just to close it again.

“Do you need me here for any of this?” he says in an attempt at a joke to ease you, but when all you give him is a glare, he’s fearful enough to be serious again.

“I like you.”

He blinks. “Thanks? I like you, too.”

“No, no. I like you as in I have feelings for you,” you clarify. Gojo’s eyes widen at the confession, and he stands up straighter.

“Oh,” he finally replies when he realizes he hasn’t said anything yet, “I…I wouldn’t have guessed that.” Holy shit, if that was how you felt, then he really has been a raging asshole this entire time.

You roll your eyes. “I know. You’re a hopelessly dense, menacingly flirty, sleazy frat dude college athlete,” you sigh, “But I still like you. Unfortunately, tragically, annoyingly, much to my dismay, against my better judgment,”

“Okay, I get it-”

“I think it started that night you stayed with me when I was stranded with my flat,” you confess suddenly, your chest rising a little bit faster, and his expression softened. “I just really appreciated you being there for me.”

His voice is gentle when he speaks next. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I would’ve been there if it happened ten times over,” he pauses, “although I’d seriously question your ability to drive if it happened that many times.”

“And I think it started when you walked me out to the practice field for the first time, and you told me you cared about my dreams,” you say with a slight step forwards to him, unable to acknowledge his words at all, as if there was a script you needed to stick to that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart in front of him.

He finds himself instinctively leaning towards you, close enough to where he notices you’re wearing a different perfume today. “But that was before the night of your car incident,” he reminds you.

“I know,” you nod, and there’s that look in your eyes that he loves, “and I also think it started that first night we met and you looked sad when I said we weren’t friends.”

Gojo’s eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and he finds himself breathing shallowly as he listens to your words. “y/n…I think you’re working backwards here.”

“I’m trying to say I’ve had feelings for you this whole time,” you say to him, “they were tiny at first, I didn’t really see them, but now they’re too big for me to hold all by myself.”

Gojo nods slowly, and he already knows what you’re going to ask of him next.

“I like you in a way that makes me want more from you,” you admit, eyes steadily on his with resolve, “I don’t want to be just someone you know, or someone only for sex-”

“y/n-” he tries to interrupt you.

“And I certainly won’t be someone that sits around to wait for a guy if he doesn’t want me back,” you say, but there’s an apprehensive look in your eyes when you speak next, “so, I need you to answer to my feelings.”

Gojo blinks at you, his heart beating fast in his chest from your confession, and he feels like with every testing second that he fails to answer you back, you slip further and further away from him.

He knew he had affection for you. He always wanted to be close to you, even when he already was, as if he couldn’t get close enough. He wanted to take care of you, and see that softness in your expression when he knew you felt safe and happy. He couldn’t stand the thought of you with someone else, and it took him this damn long to realize as he stood in front of you that he had no interest in being with anyone else either. So then why did his chest feel so tight? And why was he struggling so much to give you an answer?

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning.

Gojo’s eyes widened as the memories of his life flashed through his mind, a chill running down his spine as they knock the wind from his lungs and he feels that same sense of dread that has been following him like a ghost since that day when he was just four years old, standing in the hallway, wondering why his father was having a nightmare on the bathroom floor when he should’ve known it was something far worse than that.

Gojo blames himself for so much that had gone wrong in his life. And he should know that it’s not his fault, but all of his grief was greedy to breathe and live, desperate to find a reason for why he had to lose someone he loved, and his grief found a home in all of his guilt.

And he was terrified to lose someone close to him again. Even if he decided to see what could become with you, even if he thought for a moment that he was allowed to feel any sort of happiness with you, the thought of falling short and failing frightened him. He was so tired of adding to a long list of regrets in his life. And he knew he wasn’t what you needed— what you deserved.

“I…” he starts, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way about you.” He knows he sounds convincing enough from the way the light in your eyes dimmed, anticipation faltering and replaced with a sad expression over your features. He needs to take a shaky breath to continue speaking. “It seems I’ve led you on in a lot of ways, and I apologize for that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen anymore.”

You’re silent for a long moment, twiddling with your fingers as you look up at him. “I see…” you say, and when he sees your lower lip quiver slightly, he feels sick. His instinct is to reach out for you, pull you closer to him, but he knows that’s not a luxury you would allow for him, and he knew it wasn’t one he deserved either.

Your voice is trembling when you speak next. “I appreciate you letting me know. And you don’t have to worry about not leading me on anymore, because this will be the last time you see me.”

His entire body runs rigid.

“Why?” It’s a stupid question, but he asks it anyway.

“So I can get over you.”

All he can do is stand with the feeling of a chill in his bones.

“And I ask that you’ll respect my space while I do,” you add on at the end.

He’s silent for a long moment, then lets out the breath he was holding in. “I will,” he says, the promise leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

There’s a moment where you both just look at each other, as though the two of you were trying to hold onto the moment, but you’re the one to break out of it first, and he’s the one to wish it would’ve lasted a little longer.

“I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” The words already sounded like goodbye. “I’ll make sure you look nice in your photos,” you say with a small smile, holding your camera up slightly, “and good luck today.”

He wonders if he’ll regret this moment.

“Thanks.”

He steps aside so that you can walk past him and back out to the field. Gojo takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and relaxes his shoulders. Well, that was intense. Definitely not the direction he thought that conversation was going to go in at all, but that’s fine. He handled it fine. Totally fine. Things were going to be totally fine. He just has to play the match now.

The first step he takes back towards the field, he feels his uneasiness return, with the second step the feeling of his heart beating becomes violent in his head, with the third step he swears he can’t feel the tips of his fingers, with the fourth he feels severely nauseous, and with his fifth- was he seriously about to throw up?

He barely makes it back onto the grassy field cutting across the obstacles of people at the sidelines, using all his strength to not double over before he reaches a table and grabs one of the water bottles. He sees a group of men, all dressed in suits and loitering near the team manager’s station, perk their heads up at the sight of him and he’s groaning internally. The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk to any damn recruiters, but he sees one of them bold enough to approach him in his periphery. He sighs, taking one last gulp of water, and tries to stand up straight and look like he wasn’t going insane.

“Hi, I’m Jousuke Tsuda, recruiter for Tokyo Metropolitan’s national league team,” he says and stretches his hand out for Gojo to shake. The man looked aged, with thick creases to his forehead that could only mean he’s witnessed a hell of a lot of life and he has the soul to prove it.

Gojo’s eyes widen at the mention of Tokyo-Met’s team, and he grabs onto the man’s hand in as firm of a handshake he could manage. “Gojo Satoru.”

The man laughs. It’s deep with a slight crackle. “I know your name, son. Every recruiter in the country does. You’ve got a lot of eyes on you right now.”

“I’m flattered.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him. “Surely you feel pressured.”

Gojo only hums to himself.

The man glances at his watch. “I know the match starts in a few, but if I could have a moment of your time. Take a walk with me?”

“Sure.”

The two trail down the line of the field. “I’ll get straight to the point, kid. Tokyo-Met’s really keen on scouting you for the national league following your graduation,” he says.

Gojo feels like he should be excited about that news, actually, he should be ecstatic and groveling at this man’s feet, but instead he just feels empty and hollow inside.

“Forget the fact that you’ll be playing in the nation’s most revered team,” the man continues, “but compensation is high, too.” He pulls his phone out from his front suit pocket, tapping away at his calculator app, then turns the screen towards Gojo. Holy shit. “I’m talking about a 350 million yen per year contract here. I could advocate for higher based on how well you perform the rest of the season.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Gojo responds.

The man is silent for a second then sighs. When the two of them reach a somewhat secluded bench near the corner of the field, he sits down on it and expects Gojo to do the same, to which he complies.

“You know, I’m used to much more enthusiastic reactions from players that hear this kind of news, although they’re usually ecstatic for barely a hundred million a year compared to what I’ve just offered you,” the man says.

“I guess it’s the pressure,” Gojo says to him, “it’s got my emotional response circuit all fried up, y’know?” He was pulling excuses out of his ass.

A small hmph noise is heard beside him before he sees the man pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his slacks. “I know your father has left big shoes to fill, kid. I can’t imagine the fear of feeling like you’ll fail, or the anxiety of an injury taking you out any time you’re on the field, not wanting history to repeat itself.”

Gojo’s eye twitches and he narrows his eyes at the man seated beside him. “My dad got injured in a car accident, not while playing the sport.”

“I know,” he responds, finally pulling a cigarette out of the pack, holding it between his two fingers as he rests his wrist on his knee. “The story touched the hearts of everyone in Tokyo, and the entire soccer community in general. I remember reading about it in the school newspaper. Back in the day when they still printed those things out.” Gojo’s surprised, and he’s only given a sideways smile before the man continues. “I knew your father, went to the same college as him.”

“I don’t think he ever mentioned you,” Gojo says.

He lets out a hearty laugh. “He despised me. I was a money-hungry finance major that saw a huge opportunity in mediator sports recruitment agencies. Figured if I could sign a player like your father to my start-up, I’d be set for life. He was a smart man not to sign, regardless of how things turned out.” He shakes his head musingly. “I gave up after that and got a real job. You’ll find a lot of your hopes and dreams die in college.”

“I see,” Gojo says.

The man leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and looks over with a serious expression on his face. “Tell me, son, what does this sport mean to you? Why have you dedicated your entire life to playing it?”

Gojo only gives him a cursory glance.

“Is it the fame and attention? The pride? The thrill? The prospect of earning millions and then retiring at thirty, and you get to watch your wife and kids playing in your grand estate’s pool on a sunny summer Sunday while you’re swirling around a glass of ‘90s scotch in your hand?” he asks, tone derisive but luring. “Or does it mean something more to you?”

Gojo looks down at his hands that were clenched tightly into fists. He relaxes them so that his fingers fall open weakly and his palms face the sky. He remembers the feeling of being a kid, the smell of freshly cut grass consuming his senses, the sight of bruises on his knees from how many times he fell on the field chasing after the ball, and the admiration in his father’s eyes every single time he stood back up. “It’s a chance to prove myself,” he finally says.

“Prove yourself of what?” the man pushes.

“That I’m capable of greatness,” Gojo admits, “like my father.”

The man nods slowly in acknowledgment. “Yes, your father was a great man. But not because of how he played the game. He was a great man because he knew which sacrifices were truly important.”

Gojo looks at him wearily. “Are you trying to tell a player you’re attempting to recruit that the sport isn’t important?”

He shakes his head, looking straight ahead. “No, it’s important. But it’s the meaning you give to your life outside of it that gives it importance.”

Gojo raises an eyebrow at him, not really sure what to make of the cryptic sentiment.

The man claps his hands together and stands up. “Alright, I’m sure that’s all the time you’ve got for me. Think about my offer, and if any other recruiters approach you with better ones, just know I’ll push for higher.” He hands Gojo his business card and brings his cigarette to mouth, balancing it between his lips. “Reach out if you have any questions.”

Gojo looks down at the card, his finger tracing the edge of it as he studies the shimmering gold lettering. “Why not just hit me with your best offer and leave? Why bother having this kind of conversation with me?”

The man pulls his cigarette from his mouth, pinching it between his two fingers once again. “We’ve all got regrets we want to make right, kid,” he says. And with his hands in his pockets, he walks away.

Gojo watches the man as he makes his way down the sidelines back to the cluster of men in suits. When he hears the referee whistle, he shoves the business card in the pocket of his uniform shorts, and makes his way towards the center of the sidelines.

His teammates instantly come up to him with optimistic smiles and encouraging pats on his chest and back, trying to keep the energy high to manifest a win for today, but Gojo just feels exhausted and like he’s drowning. He has so many thoughts swimming around in his head, he can’t even begin to explain, and he just wants someone to see through him at this moment.

The teams stand on the field for the national anthem, and then Osaka Uni’s team disperses while UTokyo’s alma mater plays. Coach Yaga yells for all the players to huddle before the coin toss and reminds them of their plays for the afternoon.

Nanami pulls his sweatbands onto his wrists, Geto pulls his hair back up into a bun, Chosou pulls tightly on the straps of his goalie gloves, and Gojo pushes his hair up off his forehead to snap his headband onto his face. He looks around to his other teammates and that sense of pride he feels to be a part of this team swells dully despite his emotions.

UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kick, and Gojo finds his place in the center of the field. The crowd is already cheering preemptively, their pride in their home team evident in the passion of the filled stands, and Gojo peers across the large expanse of the field as he rests his foot on top of the soccer ball. It’s a scene he’s seen a hundred times in his life, but the sight is daunting today. He takes his foot off the ball when he hears the referee signal the start of the match with a short piercing shrill of his whistle, and the second Gojo draws his leg back and his foot makes contact with the ball, sending it flying forward, he can already feel that something feels very off.

Every single time he had the ball in his possession, his footwork felt heavy and delayed. His teammates had set up more than three chances for him to score, and he shot wide every single time. The crowd’s cheers started to diminish, and he could feel the growing discontent and exasperation from all eyes on the field. Ten minutes before halftime, they were down 1-0, and stakes were starting to feel high.

One of his teammates passes a ball right to Gojo’s favored foot, the crowd instantly erupting with noise and stands to their feet as Gojo shuffles the ball past the penalty line, through Osaka’s defenders, eyes locked with the perfect opportunity to strike. This was good, he had his rhythm back, even if just for a moment, and he can see it, clear as day–the trajectory to the goal. With the feeling of slick sweat on his face and determination in his veins, he withdraws his leg back to kick the ball. The world went silent in his head, the only sound being the beating of his heart, and-

“this will be the last time you see me.”

When he recalls your voice, everything moves in slow-motion as his ankle slips slightly on the grass from his moment of hesitation, and then the ball is swiftly stolen by an opposing team player and maneuvered past him.

“Fuck!” he hisses, immediately turning his head around as he helplessly watches the opponents players move with fervor in pursuit of another goal. The crowd hushed in horror as Osaka passed the ball through UTokyo’s defense, swiftly steadying down the side and sending the ball flying through Chosou’s outstretched arms. 2-0, and the lead ref calls for halftime.

“Dude,” one of his teammates comes up to him as they walk back towards the benches and throws his arms up in the air, “what the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Seriously, man, not a single goal in the first half? You know how many times I’ve set up a shot for you?" another one of his teammates chimes in, nudging Gojo’s shoulder way harder than he’d usually warrant, and shortly after, a blaming fest begins among the players.

“Enough!” Coach Yaga yells out. All of the players quiet down and look at him, some grudgingly gulping down water while others just try to regain their breath. Gojo’s arms just hang at his sides in defeat. “We’re pushing everything on offense now, we can’t afford to miss any more shots,” Coach Yaga says, his fear of losing the match evident too despite his rough tone, “Satoru, I’m switching you out. Dai, take his place.”

“What?” Gojo asks incredulously, charging forward so he’s in front of the older man. “I’m not getting benched.”

“You will, because I say so,” Coach Yaga says sternly, “you’re distracted, boy. I can see it all over your face.”

“I’m n-”

“Just sit down,” Coach Yaga lets out a disgruntled noise. “When players are distracted, they get injured. Have faith in your teammates.”

“Coach,” Gojo asks again, this time almost pleading. He hardly ever questioned Coach Yaga’s calls, he had a great deal of respect for the man. But something within him just absolutely refused to get benched today.

Coach Yaga stares at him for a long moment, and it’s only when one of the refs chirps their whistle that he finally exhales and gives him a reluctant jerk of his head towards the field.

Geto sets up the perfect shot for Nanami to sweep for a kick that barely lands through the goalie’s lunge for the ball, and then on the next play, secures another goal himself. The score is tied, 2-2, with eight minutes left on the clock. Gojo manages to steal the ball on a defensive play, and it’s only really a stroke of luck that he manages in one solid pass the entire game, straight to Geto’s foot, crowd roaring, and he watches his best friend shoot and sink within the last minute and a half of the game.

3-2. UTokyo’s win.

Gojo sighs, exhausted as he makes his way to the bench, crouching down and zipping open his duffle bag. Spirits are low among the team despite the excitement from the crowd over their win because of how hauntingly close the loss felt during the last moments of the match, disinterested in celebrating at all as they meekly dispersed across the field. Gojo knew he was going to get a massive yelling-to from Coach Yaga and he could feel the searing disappointment from his teammates for not carrying the game more. This was just a bare win, could’ve gone either way, and his performance today wasn’t a good look for any recruiters either. He felt so emotionally and physically drained from this entire day, and he wasn’t sure how the hell he could feel any better.

Shuffling through his bag for a water bottle, his knuckles hit something cold and metallic-sounding tucked away inside. He hums to himself curiously before grabbing it and pulling it out.

strawberry vanilla soda.

Hm. This wasn’t the one you gave him a couple of days ago. He already drank that one. Did you sneak this into his bag? His brow furrows, and he stares at the sparkling smiling sloth on the label. When he turns the can in his hand, he sees a little note messily scribbled in black ink.

good luck today! u got this :) ur a star

His eyes widened.

And putting his heart through a shredder would’ve hurt less than when he realizes what an idiot he’s been this entire time.

He’s instantly searching the field, peering through crowds of people, mascots, banners, flags, for any sight of you. He’s not sure how or why he goes in the direction that he does, but deep down it’s because he knows you like taking millions of pictures of flowers, and the west side exit has endless blooms of them. And so when he runs out that way, cleats tapping against the concrete pavement that leads out into the courtyard in the front of the stadium, and spots you standing there, he finally lets out the breath of air he feels like he’s been holding in his chest all day.

You’re aiming your camera at teal and orange petals scattered across the decorative florals lining the raised concrete planters, then pull it down from your face and twiddle with the settings, tilting your head to the side. You then pluck at one of the blooms that was spilling over the edges, bringing it to the tip of your nose curiously. And he just watches, chest heaving from the urgency that he rushed to get to you, heart aching from the desperation of wanting to be near you. He wanted to ask you how you were feeling, he wanted to know how your pictures came along, he wanted to know what you were doing after this, and he wanted you to be with him. But most importantly, he wanted to make sure that this wasn’t the last time he ever saw you again.

It isn’t until a minute after that you seem keen on his presence too, and you swiftly turn your head in his direction, surprised. “Satoru?” you say. He wonders if he’ll melt. He wonders if those ice-cold barriers he’s built over the years could thaw just from the way you say his name.

But when he takes a step forward, you take a step back. And he halts. The expression on your face was unfamiliar to him. Once soft, curious, trusting. Now you looked at him like you were guarding something, keeping it safe from him, and he no longer had the right to intrude. And then he realizes the hell he’s put you through all this time.

He regrets pushing you away.

“I know I said I’d respect the fact that you want space,” he says through bated breath, “but I…I just can’t stand the thought of never seeing you again.”

You’re solemn when you look at him, reading the plea in his eyes, and then slowly shake your head. He feels like he can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

And then you walk out of his life.

a/n. thank you for reading! i have a few more author notes that explain a few things that i couldn't really find a way to fit into the chapter organically, but wanted to address before moving on, if you're curious you can find them here. hope to see you in the next one! pls lemme know if i missed any tags i'm sorry if i did :')

➸ take me to chapter eight!

taglist: @who-can-touch-my-boob @lost-resonance @foulprincesscycle @purplehallow11 @tsukikourito @getitsatoru @erencvlt @slut-4-gojo @cactisjuice @kissofife @tiredflame132 @cliosunshine @ethereally-lyann @prince-wyiilder @semra4 @gojosimp26 @hojoslutoru @drthymby @ninitoru @btszn @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010 @bakuhoethotski @fvsm4x @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @ri-sa20 @cierocanteat (thank you to everyone <3)

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gay-dorito-dust · 2 months

Note

Saw your most recent thought about writing Gambit, PLEASE DO ITTT!! He has been my favourite ever since i was young... After watching Deadpool & Wolverine, the one who played by Channing Tatum... OH GOD I need him more now 🤚😔💥 ((But please take your time to write tho!! Don't wanna rush or pressure you about it ✨️

Part two here

‘What if this is it. What if this is the ending we get because we were the unlucky ones and that this is where we were meant to be regardless of how hard we try.’ You say one day and Remy stopped shuffling his cards.

‘And what made you come to that bleak conclusion, mon cher.’ He asks softly, having a feeling that you had been withholding this thought inside for a while, and it wasn’t only until now did it feel like coming to light in the presence of someone you felt safest with, or at least he assumed you did with how often you tended to stick to his side. You had lost your friend Jubilee a while back to Alioth and ever since then you’ve been stuck to Remy and admitting things to him in confidence that he beloved you would’ve told Jubilee…had she stayed a little while longer.

You shrug. ‘Merely an educated guess. That and the copious amounts of times where we’ve tried and failed to escape but I’m pretty sure that’s evident, considering that we’re.still.fucking.here.’

Remy sighs, gets up from the table and walks across the room and takes his place next to you, shoulder to shoulder and as your thighs briefly touch. ‘You may think me stupid for thinking this mom cher, but it is the truth of my heart, and that truth is that I’m glad we’re here.’ He admits but starts laughing soon after upon looking at your confused face, finding it adorable.

‘Care to elaborate on that?’ You then said as you started at as though he had grown a second head. What did he mean by that? That he was happy he was trapped here? Had Remy finally gone mad, you weren’t quite sure but decided that you would hear him out in hopes that there was a logical explanation after a confession like that after all.

‘With pleasure,’ Remy began, ‘the reason I say this because if I weren’t here then I would’ve never met you, built a friendship with you and so on, so while I share your want to leave this place.’ He then leans in real close to you, so close to the point you could feel his breath fanning your face and his lips ghost over your own as your heart went nuts in your throat. ‘I can’t help but thank it for brining us together, for I wouldn’t have thought to experience a love quite like ours mon cher.’ Remy concludes and you couldn’t help but smile.

Remy has once told you that you did exist in his timeline, just with a minor detail in the fact that you weren’t a mutant like him. You were friends, close friends, but one day you died protecting him, he’s never forgiven himself since and still hasn’t. ‘Brave soul, courageous heart you had.’ He had said while fighting back tears as you held him just as he began to weep over a you that wasn’t you; Regarding whether or not you were together was a question that was never answered nor asked, for you didn’t want to reopen old wounds Remy chose to close for a reason.

You had a Remy back home but he was with Rouge and you weren’t even remotely as close as Remy and his variant of you were. You were barely even on speaking terms because of how little you interacted with one another. So needless to say your absence wasn’t felt nor missed in the slightest, but you didn’t have the energy nor the ability to care about that anymore.

You gently shove him in the chest. ‘Cheesy bastard.’ You muttered as Remy chuckled, pulling you into his arms as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, breathing you in as you melted into his warmth, feeling safe from all harm and most importantly; loved.

‘Don’t you know. All Remy’s to ever exist are romantics at heart mon cher?’ He playfully said as he tightened his grip on you, planting one more kiss on your forehead, humming in content.

‘No. I only know one Remy who’s a romantic at heart,’ you told him as you lifted a hand to gently boop him on the nose, ‘you and that’s the only Remy I need to know, for you are the best Remy out of all of them. At least in my opinion.’ You finished as you then kissed him on the cheek.

Remy smiles softly at you as he felt himself becoming more content with his fate if it meant sharing these moments with you for the rest of his life, you made life here bearable and he couldn’t imagine going back to a life where all he had to remember was your name scrawled into a cold, unforgiving headstone. ‘And your opinion is the only opinion I ever want to have for the rest of my life.’ He says as he held you tighter before smothering you in kisses, smiling widely as he heard you giggle and squeal for mercy, while back home you may not be anything to him, but here? You were everything to him and more.

#mcu x you #mcu x reader #mcu imagines #mcu imagine #marvel x you #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #marvel x y/n #mcu x y/n #gambit x reader #gambit imagine #gambit imagines #remy lebeau imagines #remy lebeau imagine #remy lebeau x reader #Remy lebeau x you #deadpool and wolverine

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periprose · 11 months

Note

Hi! :)

I’m craving some Logan Howlett angsty fluff and I really like your writing style… Do you think you could maybe do a fic where either Logan and reader are in the heat of the moment and his claws come out and he scratches her. Or where Logan has a nightmare and the same thing happens. Either way the reader ends up comforting him.

Thank you! 🩷 :)

Hi!! So sorry for getting to this so late 🥹 loved the idea btw :) ended up doing a bit of a mix of both? If that makes sense.

"Out with it."

Your voice rings out clearly among the X-Men, the throng of battle no longer around you all. It was a more exhausting battle than you would've thought, but nothing irks you more than knowing that Logan has been apparently thinking of you as someone to play babysitter to. He hadn't trusted you to make your final blow to the enemy, and instead scooped you away to safety before lashing out with his own claws.

Logan clearly has something to say to you, and you want to hear it. You're not going to let him escape again- the way he always does, nonchalantly, refusing to acknowledge how he treats you.

Charles stiffens next to you in the helicarrier. Watching the tension, feeling the palpable heart-wrenching sensation between you and Logan. He doesn't know how you got to this point.

"Listen. Just because you didn't have it doesn't mean you're not a good X-Man-" Logan starts dismissively.

"But I did! I did have it!" You shout back at him, and then inhale carefully. "Nobody told you to rescue me, Logan. If I was about to die, then I was. I wanted that to be on my own terms."

"Don't talk like you're a fucking martyr when you've never had the privilege, kid." Logan's unnecessarily harsh tone has you flinching. "Do you know how many people I've seen die, for no good reason? Do you really want a bunch of Pentagon psychos to be your last memory?"

"Shut up." You shift in your seat, feeling small. "We don't get to choose when we die. Not like you."

Logan becomes visibly angered with that, the little taunt you've made towards his immortality. "That doesn't mean you have to go seek it out, dumbass."

"Oh really? Don't tell me you're getting soft, Logan." You glare at him, and Charles and Jean and Scott look at each other uncertainly. "Just because your life is so long doesn't mean the rest of us have forgotten what it means to be alive."

There's an unspoken, sudden charge in the air, now that you've mentioned what everyone else has the good sense to shut up about- Logan having lived so long and not caring about the consequences of his actions. Logan's eyes narrow until you feel sure that you've pushed him too far this time- he looks more animal than human, more Wolverine than ever- and you feel yourself inching forward, letting the anger of not being understood push you to fighting him- and Charles suddenly raises his hand in protest.

"Please, you two. I'm not sure what has transpired today, but I know you are better than choosing to have a physical altercation on a helicarrier flight." His calm, soothing tone makes you feel a little disappointed in yourself, and you settle back in your seat, refusing to meet his or Jean's glances of concern.

All you really wanted was an apology. A "Sorry, I won't do that again." Or even an explanation for why Logan keeps tabs on you all the time, never letting you be a real part of the X-Men, always safely on the sidelines. Were you just too weak?

Should you even be here?

You feel guilty for what you said to him. It's not a bad thing, you know, that Logan doesn't want you to get hurt- it's just that you want to do your job. You're not a kid.

It almost, almost justifies how you treated him, but even you know that was too far. You can't act as if you know Logan's life story- not even Charles or Jean would claim to do that, and they've searched his mind for memories several times.

Like it or not, the man was mysterious. He kept to himself on a lot of things, citing past hurt as his reason why- and you should've respected that.

"Maybe I am weak." You mutter to yourself, wondering why you can't restrain your emotions around Logan.

You're practicing shooting small, psionic blasts towards the target in your room- it's a great way to pass the time when you can't sleep- when you hear a groan, a shudder, an angry, deep growl-

It sounds like Logan. His room is right above yours, and the sounds are definitely coming from there- you hear him yell, and before you can stop yourself, you're bounding up the stairs to the third floor of the X-Mansion, bursting through his room's door with a ready hand, in case you need to fight.

Logan watches as you berate him in his dream.

Actually, it's not quite you- it's some venomous, evil, witch wearing your face. You giggle at him- you call him old- you don't take him seriously.

With every taunt, you fire another bright purple blast at him- and for once, his body doesn't heal instantaneously. He is getting old, getting hurt, watching as blood pools out of him. It's agonizingly painful.

He's going to die this time, without making it right with you- he's afraid that you're right about him, that he's a washed up sad old man who can't ever let people in.

"We don't need you anymore, Logan..." The not-you whispers softly, smiling a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes, and Logan can't help but believe it.

His self preservation instincts kick in, and he launches forward, snarling, claws out with a sharp snikt sound. He feels that even though he'll regret your death, he'll miss you immensely, it's just one more tally mark to several others.

"Logan. Logan!"

You're leaning over Logan's sweaty, clammy body in his bed. You watch as his hands fist in the sheets, and he tosses and turns in agony- you breathe in hesitation, in fear that he's not going to be okay- he grunts suddenly, and you're reminded of how Rogue tells you about his nightmares. They're frequent.

How out of touch could you have been today?

You gently-yet-firmly grab Logan's arm, shaking, and his arms move forward in a self-defense mechanism that seems practiced, as if he's been attacked in his sleep before, and before you can move away, there's a sharp snikt sound, a quick wave of claws, and a searing pain in your side.

It all happens before you can even blink. You fall off to the side, on the floor, writhing in pain. Logan's claws just nicked your side, it's essentially a scratch- but the pain is so much worse than you're expecting, and you fall to the floor again as you try to get up.

You breathe in harshly, holding back a sob, as you feel wet blood pooling through the side of your night dress.

"Jesus Christ." Logan pounces off the bed, waking to blood all over his claws, and he's leaning over your body, as you blink up at him hesitantly. He immediately panics, lifting you up and resting you on his squatted thighs. "Kid! Hey, kid, don't close your eyes-"

"..." You're just barely hanging on, but you listen.

And Logan feels that same sense of shame he felt when he attacked Rogue, when Jean "died", every single time he had accidentally unsheathed his claws towards someone who didn't deserve it.

Doubly so, considering it's like his terrible nightmare has come to life. But you absolutely didn't do anything wrong- he can't believe he was so angry with you.

He calls for help, in a slightly broken tone, and no one seems to be coming.

"Just a scratch." You try, but Logan shakes his head.

"No, no, no." Logan spits out. "How could I- I never meant to-"

"I'm sorry, Logan." You cough, and Logan feels awful that you're apologizing while bleeding out due to his actions. "I shouldn't have said what I said. You're not some unreliable old man who doesn't care..."

You flinch at a sudden, sharp pain, and Logan motions for you to stop talking, but you keep going.

"If anything, you're the opposite. You're there for me. And I'm sorry that I got so... so angry at you for that." You mutter to yourself, not aware of how Logan hangs onto your words. "You're protecting me from making mistakes, and I'm grateful."

"No, kid. You had a point before." Logan interjects, but you shake your head.

"Did I? Or was I being a brat?" You grimace at yourself.

"You did have a point. I was being selfish," Logan shakes his head and then swallows that urge to push you away. "I don't always know how to leave people well enough alone. Sometimes I'm too much."

He hesitates, and then continues on. "Like, I treat you as if you're a nuisance, right? But I always... I always want you next to me. And I know I should just sort my shit out like an adult. But I'm scared."

"Scared?"

"Of what happens. What always happens." Logan sighs in defeat. "I fall in love, and they die. I find my people, and they leave me because I'm such a jackass. There's too much surrounding me that just... ruins everything."

"No, no. I won't leave." You tighten your hand around Logan's, and he, despite wanting to say that you're wounded because of him, believes you. He's so grateful to hear you say it- he had no idea that's what was weighing on him so badly.

He loves you, he knows he does. Logan has never been the best with feelings, but for once, he's glad he was honest.

The first thing Scott sees when he finally makes his way to Logan's room, from all the way across the X-Mansion, is Logan whispering "I'm sorry," and... he thinks (he's not 100% sure), "I love you," to your very forlorn, softly curved-around-him body.

It's a very tender moment, and Scott feels he should leave.

Then Logan presses a firm, shaky kiss on your forehead, and then your lips, and you, with your limited reserve of energy, kiss him back, and then Scott interjects with:

"Hey!...?"

He seems taken aback as you both look at him. "I heard screaming? What is this, some sort of weird cult sacrificial scenario?"

"Logan... had a... nightmare..." You wince, and Scott sees the red on your night gown. "I need... medical attention."

"On it." Scott glances at Logan for permission, and he's currently trying to push all these mushy feelings back into his chest where they belong, and he wants to be there to help you in the clinic, but he's flustered with everything that's happened and he can only hand you to Scott without looking at him.

Scott smirks to himself as he runs you to the clinic of the X-Mansion.

"You and Logan, huh? I knew there was something in that fight today." Scott remarks as you cling to him.

"It's taken an embarrassingly long time for me to figure it out, but yeah." You blush. "Has everyone else...?"

"Jean's been running a bet for the last year." Scott laughs. "She says you both are two sides of the same coin."

You can't help but agree.

#logan x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett angst #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine #old man logan #wolverine angst #james logan howlett x reader #marvel x reader #xmen x reader #x men x reader #x-men #x-men x reader #x-men angst #ask #requests

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anantaru · 10 months

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more rich boy alhaitham pls🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽i love the concept and how u wrote it😭🙏🏽😭🙏🏽😭🙏🏽😭🖤

cw. ⪩⪨ fem! reader, rich boy au, rich boy alhaitham, process of falling for you HARD, a little possessive again because I cannot help myself, rough sex & very messy

whether you believe it or not, rich boy alhaitham has never been in love before— and the scribe thinks about one specific kind of love here, one you read about in books, one you can evidently witness between two strangers while crossing the street.

essentially, he was attractive and he knew it, a man blessed with extraordinary intelligence and talent, bringing to mind that he was exceptionally wealthy as well.

so, speaking from an outer perspective, those factors certainly couldn't be the reason as to why he was unlucky on finding his perfect match— in fact, no one could ever deny how greatly alhaitham was being admired by the people of sumeru.

or was he?

or perhaps, they really don't often pay attention to him, because you see, he doesn't want them to.

he purposefully keeps a low profile, with a veiled identity and ulterior purposes hidden right beneath, so that he could rest easy and indulge in a comfortable life— with his wealth continuously growing, yet no specific target on what to do with it, or on who to spend it on besides himself.

yes, it was true, he sometimes catches himself getting lonely.

but in spite of that, after he meets you it's different, because suddenly alhaitham finds himself in trouble without noticing how the feelings of love were already coursing through his veins.

how unnoticeable falling in love was, snap and it's over, it's astonishing how he just needed to get closer to you.

you swallow thickly, and it was foreseeable that you ended up in his bed again, it's on the point of each night that it ends the exact same way now.

both of you knew why you were sharing a bed again— lewd and lustful traces curving over the slopes of your body and stimulating your needs— how utterly interesting how fast someone's mind could simply switch off and decide that you were in love now.

just from a simple look, and alhaitham was yours.

and he never would've let this happen to himself— the stress on how to navigate through an emotion such as love, especially since there wasn't a rational answer behind the multiple explanations he read about in the past, nor could you buy real, pure love with money.

if it were for anybody at all, he would just brush it off or at least try, but you just had to be so cruel and invade his mind.

you feel his gaze on you now, and it's the way his breath tumbles over your parted mouth that you know he's done for— his tongue driving between your lips before lapping over your pink muscle as his hips leisurely push into you.

it drives alhaitham insane, no amount of money could even come close to this feeling of pleasure and genuine lust, it's like a heavy drug someone would grow addicted to in the twinkling of an eye.

you squeal when he bites down on your bottom lip, your trembling frame teetering on the edge of a rapid sensation while every slap of skin turns the bedroom aflame, until the pleasure goes straight to your puffy clit, overflowing your belly with butterflies.

a burning pressure pricks at your spongy walls as his cock repeatedly crowds you, giving your hips a good squeeze as alhaitham presses you back into his length, making sure you're taking him all at once.

your arousal was clinging to his toned abs and turned the view before you all the more sinful, your soft pussy glistening with your slick and his pre when he uses it as a natural lubricant to make it pleasurable to the both of you, hitting your aching spots just like that.

alhaitham can hear how much you're enjoying this and he hopes he doesn't give away how much he has been enjoying this as well. of course, it's much more evident in your case, precisely from the way your moans trembled and your hips stuttered and flinch into his dripping dick, your body attempting but ultimately failing to meet his thrusts half way as you're struggling to find any strength to lift your hips up.

alhaitham sees it's too much for you by now, he can also feel it in the way you're clamping around the base of his erection with dripping heat, until he was all soaked and wet in your oozing arousal.

needless to say, the wealthy man placed a mental note into the deepest depths of his brain for later— to, as one might expect, treat you to a glorious shopping spree with a luxurious dinner waiting for you afterwards.

basically wherever you wanted to go to, he would make it possible, because obviously he will make it happen just for you! and wether the feelings he was encountering right now were pure and good ..

.. alhaitham would do anything to keep you, and he won't ever lose you.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham smut #al haitham x reader #al haitham smut #genshin x you #genshin Impact x you #alhaitham x you

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natsarrownecklacx · 10 months

Text

New Friend Of Mine

Natasha Romanoff x Reader Venom Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word count: 2,557

Summary: Natasha goes for a walk to cool down after a conversation with you doesn’t go the way she way she wants it to, while out she makes a new friend.

Warnings: Smut, minors DNI, venom Natasha, degrading kink, oral, fingering, forced breeding, heaving breeding kink, choking, dub con.

2K Follower Celebration

ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3

Natasha sits in front of you, a heartbroken look on her face as she tries to take in your words.

She’d come into your shared apartment only moments ago, nearly bouncing off the walls in excitement, telling you that Tony had finally found a way to make it so you could carry Natasha and your biological child.

She was ecstatic, hopeful, damn near on the verge of tears with overwhelming joy. Now tears well in her eyes for another reason, one that has her feeling betrayed.

You’d both made this plan together, had this dream together. The both of you, parents. Having your own little family to love and care for. Natasha wanted that with you more than anything. More than she thought she was even capable of wanting. She thought you wanted that too, you made her believe you wanted that to.

“It’s just not the right time.” You tell her, gently, as though talking to someone going through their first brush with grief or heartbreak.

“I don’t understand.” Natasha sniffs, her teary eyes looking into yours and pleading with you for an explanation. “You said you wanted this. You- it was your idea to go to Tony with this. For us to have a child of our own. Do you not want kids anymore? Or do you just not want them with me?”

Your eyes widen in shock, worry and guilt. She shouldn’t have to be upset because of your fears, you love her way too much for that. “No, baby. That’s not it at all.” You say, moving to straddle her and hold her face in your hands, knowing she needs your body close to hers for her to truly believe you in your next words.

“Natasha, I want nothing more than to have your babies. To spend the rest of my life with you. To raise and love our children together.” You say, hoping she can hear the sincerity in your voice.

“Then why are you doing this? Why can’t we have our baby now, like we planned?” She asks, running her hands up and down your hips and holding you against her as if she’s afraid you’ll get up and leave.

“I’m afraid.” You admit quietly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m so afraid that if we have our baby now something terrible will happen and we won’t be able to protect them.” Your bottom lip threatens to tremble, a sure sign that tears are not far behind, but you bite down on it and will the tears to stay hidden.

“I can protect you Detka.” Natasha pleads, barring her heart to you through her eyes and the way she wraps her arms around you so tightly, pulling you flush against her. “I would- I will protect you both with my life.”

“And I would do the same for you, Nat.” You say honestly, hoping she can sense the truth in your voice. “But that might not be enough, from either of us and I just can’t- I can’t bear the thought of having a baby, our baby who we will both love with our whole hearts and then have them taken away from us.”

You can see the tears in Natassha’s eyes about to spill over, the sight making you want to cry with her. “I’m so sorry, baby.” You whisper, running the pad of your thumbs over the swell of her cheeks. “I just need time.”

Natasha nods despondently. She’s trying to be understanding, she knows where you’re coming from and how you feel, she feels the same way herself. She just wants this so badly. “I understand, sweetheart.” She says, trying to put on a brave face but her voice still comes out dejected.

“Nat, I-“ You try to explain yourself further, to comfort the woman in some way, but what else could you do, you’ve said everything you need to say and nothing she says will change how you feel. “I’m okay, Detka. You’ve not done anything wrong, I just need a minute.” She says, gently pushing on your hips, signaling you to get up. You do and she moves towards the door, missing the look of panic on your face. “I’m going for a walk, I’ll be back soon.”

She leaves. She just walks out the door. She doesn’t even look at you before she goes. You can’t help but feel hurt. Neither of you are in the wrong. You didn’t have a fight. But you can’t help but feel slightly abandoned, left sitting alone in your shared apartment.

All the lights on, noise from the movie you’d abandoned when Natasha came in still playing in the living room, giving the impression of the place being full.

The second you turn it off the silence is defining. You're alone. She left. She said she’d be back, but god only knows when that would be. So you go to bed, move one foot in front of the other on autopilot until you’re dressed in one of Nats big T-shirts and buried under a comfortable blanket.

Natasha makes it about half an hour into her walk before she comes to her senses and decides she needs to go back home to her wife. She turns on her heel mid step, intent on making her way back home, when a russell in the bush beside her catches her attention. Just as the black widow would be, she was on guard straight away, ready for whatever would jump out at her

Something does, a mess of back and gray and so fast she can’t stop it before it goes right into her chest.

—------------------------------------

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, silent, slow tears leaking down your cheeks and Natasha’s pillow held tightly to your chest and between your legs, trying to trick your brain into thinking she’s still there with you.

It’s not until three hours later that you're woken to the sound of the front door opening and closing, the noise barely rouses you from your sleep, knowing it’s Natasha by the way she locks the door right behind her and walks toward the room with a barely audible footstep.

You groan quietly into the dark room and coil tighter around the pillow in your arms, you just want to sleep. Natasha opens the bedroom door quietly, stepping in and making her way over to the bed. She doesn’t say anything as she peels the blanket off your body, nor does she say anything as she takes in the sight of you beneath her.

It takes no time at all for her enhanced eyes to adjust to the darkness, her green orbs drinking in the sight of you wearing nothing but her black oversized T-shirt. The pool of inky black in her orbs grows, spreading like the hunger, the need, she feels for you.

“Nat.” You complain, turning away from her and burying your face against the pillow beneath you. “It’s cold, gimme back the blanket.” She takes in a deep, greedy inhale through her nose, her heightened senses allowing her to smell the result of you rubbing your bare pussy against her pillow in your sleep.

The lack of response from her frustrates you, the feeling of her bone chilling cold hands sliding up your warm thighs shocks you, the icy feeling making you jump and turn toward her with wide eyes.

“Natasha!” You gasp exasperatedly. Usually you’d be all for a late night fuck with your wife but right now is not the time. Not when she just walked out and left. Not when ye haven’t talked at all and NOT when she’s so damn cold.

Natasha’s body drops onto yours faster than you can perceive the movement. Her hand is covering your mouth, her thighs tight on either side of yours, tapping you against her as she pulls off your shirt. She’s so cold.

Your eyes widen at her, confused by her actions. You can’t see her, the darkness of the room prevents you from doing so. Her free hand trails up the outside of your thigh, moving up ward slowly until and across until she’s cupping your wet folds. You moan against her hand, your hips squirming against her.

She lowers her head to be aligned with yours, her lips grazing your ear as she finally speaks to you, her voice coming out somewhat strained, deeper. “I’m so cold, Detka.” She whispers, moving her body between your legs, preventing you from closing them. “But you’ll help me warm up won’t you, sweetheart.”

Your words are muffled against her hand as you try to ask what the actual fuck is going in, what’s gotten into her. But she cuts off your mumbles by sliding her, somehow seemingly longer and thicker fingers, into your wet heat.

Your head slams back against your pillow, your back arching off the bed and into her body. It feels as if you’re burning, the one and only source of heat in this whole universe and she needs you. Needs to claim you, claim that heat, to keep her from freezing to death.

“I need you, baby.” She groans against your ear. “I need you to thaw me out.”

She moves her hand from your mouth, bringing it down to rest on your hips, using it to guide you to fuck yourself on her fingers.

Her words confuse you beyond belief, but they all but go unheard as she slides her fingers in and out of you, moving her mouth to place open mouth kisses to your neck, down the valley of your chest and down your stomach until she’s taking your clit into her mouth.

“Jesus C-Christ, Natasha- fuck.” You all but scream out, the added stimulation from her tongue swirling expertly around your clit driving you to a fuzzy headspace.

One of your hands scrambles to grasp at the sheets as the other winds its way into Natasha’s hair, pulling on the stands in an effort to keep yourself grounded.

The red head groans at the action and something’s about it sounds more primal, more animalistic then normal.

“Natasha?” You pant, confusion and arousal clouding your brain, along with the remnants of sleep.

“Shh detka.” She answers, pulling away from your clit as she nuzzles against your tummy. “I just need you to be good and let me fuck you.” She says firmly, yet somehow softly.

Her actions along with her words sends your brain into a frenzy, a flood of arousal pouring onto her fingers and she moves her mouth back down, removing her fingers and allowing her tongue to slide its way inside you.

The stretch is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, it’s long and wet and feels so, so good. You scream out at the intrusion, feeling more full then you thought could ever be possible just from her mouth.

“Oh god.” You cry out, your hands gripping desperately at her shoulders, trying to find something solid to ground you.

Natasha only pulls you closer to her, her hands gripping your ass and holding you against her as if she's afraid someone will come take her last meal from her. She fucks you with her long tongue, thrusting it in and out of you and alternatings to suck on your clit until you cum with an arch of your back and a scream.

Natasha pulls away and trails kisses feverishly up your abdomen, nuzzling her head against you. “Now you're all ready for me.” She says, lifting your legs under the knees to stand them, your ankles resting only a few inches from the back of your thighs.

“What?” You ask, panting, still out of breath from your previous orgasm.

When Natasha doesn’t answer you furrow your brows, tilting your head up to look at her, your slightly adjusted eyes allowing you to see her outline as she unbuttons and unzips her pants. Before she slides them down her attention snaps to your face, her hand coming to wrap around your jaw and force your head back against the pillow.

“Natasha!” You gasp, never having seen this side of her before.

She brings her mouth to your ear, her hot breath hitting the side of your face, her hand still firmly around your jaw. “Stay down.” She orders and it's all you can do to nod in response as you hear her remove her pants and boxers.

You feel her bare thighs press into the sides of your own, her fully naked body now positioned between your forcibly spread legs. You flick your eyes toward her, trying to catch a glimpse of what she's doing, only for your eyes to roll to the back of your head when you feel her push inside you.

She's big, bigger than she's ever given you and so cold. The contrast of her cold cock sliding into your warm core sets your nerves alight, a whorish moan falling past your lips.

“That's right.” Natasha says, pulling out and thrusting inside you again with more force this time. “Just take whatever I give you, like a good little whore.” She says, but it doesn’t fully sound like her, her voice different, deeper.

You feel your stomach tighten at her words nevertheless, she's never spoken to you like that before and you didn’t think you’d like it, but you do. Your legs move from their standing position to around her body, the cold of her skin still shocking you a bit.

Natasha quickens her thrusts, moving her hand on your jaw down to your neck, her movements stuttering when you moan and clench around her. “Fuck. I'm gonna fill you up, put a baby in you.”

You don’t have a second to process her words before a hot thick spurt of cum shoots inside you, Natasha moving her free hand to your hip to hold you down as she uses you to ride out her high.

It's not even seconds later that your own height crashes over you, sending your body through too many loops, your vision fades to back and your body goes limp on the bed.

Natasha pulls out of you and stares down at the mess between your legs, using her fingers to push her seed back inside of you, not wanting to waste a single drop of it.

She looks up and notices your unconscious state, a smile sliding over her face at the view.

“Will it work?” Natasha speaks into the room, a black slimy, tendril creature emerging from her shoulder and materializing into a head next to her; venom.

“I will work.” Venom confirms, nodding to the red headed woman before moving his gaze over to your sleeping form. “She’s so pretty when she’s asleep.”

Natasha hums and nods in agreement. “I should have told her.” She mumbles, half ashamedly.

“No.” Venom says, sliding back into Natasha’s body then taking his full form to hover over you. His big slimy hands run over your bare stomach, gently, hopefully. “She doesn’t need that kind of stress right now. We can tell her after the baby is born.”

Natasha hums in agreement again, watching through venom's eyes as he tucks you into bed, one thought on her mind as she does so.

Now nothing can stop her from protecting you and your child.

ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3

A/n- I’ll be honest it’s not my favourite thing I’ve ever written but venom Nat is HOTTT so imma forgive

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #Natasha romanoff smut #venom natasha romanoff #venom Natasha romanoff x reader #venom x reader #venom #venom natasha romanoff smut

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steddiehyperfixation · 1 year

Text

accidental eavesdropping (steddie ficlet)

based on this post by @imjust-that-shy. i hope i did this vision justice <3

The doors to the bathroom burst open, and - on some pure, inexplicable instinct and with nearly inhuman speed - Eddie darts back into the stall he'd just been about to come out of and leaps to perch on top of the toilet seat, crouched there like some sort of creature.

He hears the sound of retching and the stench of vomit fills the air. He holds his breath, wrinkling his nose and trying to imagine what possible context could be behind Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley bursting in here together to puke their guts out. Eddie knows the two of them work together, he’s seen them sharing shifts at Scoops Ahoy when he's walked by. (Not that he often intentionally passes by the ice cream parlor and slows down just to catch a glimpse of Steve or anything… Although who could really blame him if he did? Like, come on, Steve in that uniform? Hello, sailor.) His mind is busy spinning stories of possible explanations, ranging from spoiled ice cream to sneaking alcohol and getting too drunk during their break.

Eddie's leaning towards the 'drinking on the job' explanation, especially when the retching finally ceases and Robin says something about the room no longer spinning. Those little rebels, Eddie thinks approvingly.

“When’s the last time you, uh…peed your pants,” Steve is asking Robin now, in response to her telling him in a Russian accent to interrogate her.

Eddie curls over his knees, tilting his head to try to peer through the gap between the stalls and the floor to put an image to his eavesdropping. Might as well, he’s kind of stuck here and there’s really not much else he can do right now. He can see Steve’s legs, one bent and the other stretched out in front of him, and Robin in the stall past him laying on the floor with her legs up against the stall wall as she answers, “Today…”

“What?” Steve questions.

“When the Russian doctor took out the bone saw!” Robin says.

Okay…what? Russian doctors and bone saws? Eddie’s now thoroughly intrigued, if a little (okay, a lot) confused. Maybe they’re talking about a movie they watched or something.

Steve’s legs shake with his laughter. “Oh my god.”

“It was just a little bit, though.” Robin pinches her fingers together as she twists her body in Steve’s direction while he laughs again and mutters that whatever it is they took is still in her system. She pushes her feet off the stall and slides to sit against the opposite wall. Eddie can only see her legs now. “Okay, my turn. Have you…ever been in love?”

Steve answers that he has, with Nancy, and makes a sound mimicking an explosion. Eddie remembers that, remembers seeing Steve and Nancy being all touchy and cute in the hallways at school while he was trying his damndest to convince himself that he absolutely definitely did not wish he was in Nancy’s place. It didn’t work very well. And it’s not working very well now either as Steve starts to go on about some new girl he likes now instead - some girl who’s funny and smart and can crack secret Russian codes (okay, seriously, what is it with these two and Russians?) and oh shit, he’s talking about Robin.

Eddie very suddenly feels like he should not be here listening to this, eavesdropping on Steve confessing his feelings for someone. Not only is that, like, a private and personal thing, but also what if Robin likes him back and they start kissing or something right here in this bathroom where Eddie has to sit here and listen to it and that would just be horrible for him for so many reasons and- Eddie’s getting ahead of himself. Robin hasn’t even said anything yet, and her knees are pulled up to her chest and her voice shakes when she confirms she’s still alive after Steve asks if she’s OD’d there in the silence and she uncurls with a deep sigh. All signs that she doesn’t actually like Steve back.

Eddie watches as Steve shifts and slides under the stall into Robin’s, and catches sight of the nasty bruise marring nearly half of Steve’s otherwise beautiful face as he does so. Now concern has been added to the list of emotions this eavesdropping experience has rollercoastered him through so far. The bruise looks fairly fresh and Eddie can’t help but wonder what the hell gave Steve a black eye like that and if he’s okay.

After a brief spiral of concern for Steve’s face, Eddie tunes back into reality to find himself staring at Steve’s ass as Steve now sits with his back against the stall wall opposite Robin. Eddie blinks, expands his tunnel vision to include Steve’s lower back and Robin’s legs which are also visible beneath the gap in the stalls.

“It’s not because I had a crush on you,” Robin is saying. “It’s because…she wouldn’t stop staring at you.”

“Mrs. Click?” Steve sounds confused.

“Tammy Thompson,” Robin clarifies. “I wanted her to look at me.”

Oh. Eddie should really not be listening to this. Robin is trying to come out to Steve, trying to share something deeply personal and vulnerable with him and only him, not knowing that she’s outing herself to an eavesdropping near-stranger as well. Eddie feels violating and intruding. He can’t imagine how he would feel if he found out someone he barely knew had been secretly listening in on him coming out - probably not great, probably terrified. This is something he shouldn’t know, not like this.

“But Tammy Thompson’s a girl,” Steve says, his tone unreadable, and Eddie’s heart nearly stops, sure his own anticipatory anxiety is likely only just a fraction of what Robin must be feeling right now.

“Steve…”

“Yeah?” A pause. “Oh,” Steve’s voice goes soft. “Oh… Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Robin sighs. Eddie can see her hands nervously rubbing at her shins. “Holy shit.”

Steve is silent for a few painfully long moments. Eddie’s hands curl nervously around his own shins. Is Steve going to be homophobic? Should Eddie be worried for Robin now?

“Steve, did you OD over there?” Robin asks, trying to be light but Eddie can hear the anxiety in her voice.

“No, I just, uh- just thinking,” Steve responds.

“Okay…” Robin’s voice is barely audible. Eddie is holding his breath.

“I mean, yeah,” Steve says finally, “Tammy Thompson’s cute and all, but the only reason I never gave her the time of day was because I was too busy staring at Eddie Munson.”

The aforementioned Eddie Munson releases the breath he’d been holding with an involuntary squeak and claps a hand over his mouth. Thankfully, neither of them heard him over the sound of Robin shouting. “What?! Eddie Munson?! You liked Eddie Munson?” she squawks, voicing Eddie’s own stunned thoughts perfectly.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms casually, completely unaware that he's throwing an eavesdropping Eddie into an absolute crisis right now. There's a soft thudding sound like Steve's hitting the back of his head against the stall wall. His voice gets kind of wistful, almost dreamy, as he says, “His rings, man. Rings and tattoos…and that long hair and those chains he'd wear… Honestly just his whole punk aesthetic thing had me mesmerized.”

“Pretty sure he's metal, not punk,” Robin corrects him.

Thanks, Robin. Also, what the fuck is happening right now?

“Whatever. Still hot as hell,” Steve says.

Eddie squeaks again and practically shoves his whole fist in his mouth to keep himself from making any more noise, his teeth knocking against his rings. The rings Steve likes, apparently. He feels like he's going to pass out, his heart beating so erratically it's making him lightheaded. King Steve - the popular, preppy, stupid, gorgeous, dumb jock Eddie's been crushing on since forever - just called him hot????

“Did you hear that?” Robin asks suddenly, voice low and cautious.

Shit.

“Is anyone else in here?” Steve calls out.

Fuck.

Eddie bites down hard on his knuckles and holds his breath, going impossibly still. If they get up and search the bathroom, then he’s about to be caught red handed, crouched on top of a toilet seat with his fist in his mouth and his face flushed scarlet, eavesdropping on their private conversation about secret Russians and gay crushes. Eddie contemplates falling into the toilet and attempting to flush himself down it. Every god imaginable is receiving a silent prayer from him right now as he watches apprehensively through the gaps in the stall. One of those gods must've heard and taken pity on this poor gay disaster of a man crouched like a goblin in a bathroom stall, because after a few horrible seconds of silence, all Steve does is lean down to peer beneath the stalls for a moment before sitting back up and saying, “Looks empty. I think the drugs are making us hear things.”

“Yeah, probably,” Robin says. Then she giggles, knocking her leg against Steve’s. “I still can’t believe you were into Eddie.”

Steve flicks Robin’s knee. “I can’t believe you were into Tammy.”

“What’s wrong with Tammy?!” Robin protests.

“What’s wrong with Eddie?” Steve counters. “At least he’s actually got talent. Tammy’s a total dud - she wants to be a singer and shit but she can’t even hold a tune.”

Eddie is going to die. He is actually going to die right here, right now, because Steve Harrington thinks he’s hot and talented. And then Steve starts mimicking Tammy, singing Total Eclipse of the Heart in a ridiculously goofy voice, and now Eddie is going to die because he finds that so stupidly endearing and adorable. Maybe he should just flush himself down the toilet, save himself from this hopelessly pathetic crush of his. Instead, he’s saved by the bathroom doors bursting open again and a new voice shouting at them, “Okay. What the hell?!”

Steve and Robin collapse into a fit of giggles before being dragged to their feet by the newcomers and led out of the bathroom, leaving Eddie alone and reeling and struggling to process literally everything he’s just overheard. He finally hops down from his toilet perch and exits the stall like he’s in a daze. He’s not sure how long he had been camped out in there - probably only about ten minutes - but it felt like hours, so long that the world outside of that single bathroom stall almost feels foreign and unfamiliar now.

Eddie grips the bathroom sink and stares at his flustered reflection in the mirror and whispers to himself, “What the actual fuck?”

---

Later, years later, only after he and Steve are already dating, Eddie tells him all about this experience, and Steve laughs so hard he nearly cries.

(ao3 link)

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lukesandromeda · 7 months

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gimme ur fav luke headcanons 😏

DATING l. castellan

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

a/n: hi soleil it spooks me what u will do with this information but i also got so carried away with this for some reason and i did in fact not proofread it

• he’s a thief. so obviously as soon as you point out something in the store, uttering a quick “that’s pretty,” he’s nodding and pushing you along to go to another section of the store, mumbling something like, “sure is.” so as soon as you’re not looking he’s breaking the tag off the item and sliding it into his back pocket because he knows that if you were to see him, you’d scold him for his habit.

and when he hands it over to you later without an explanation, you’re asking, “how did you buy this?” and when he looks away nervously, you’re quick to lecture him about why what he did was wrong—but he doesn’t care; he gets to see the smile and appreciation from you.

• hearing constant “i’m so sorry” when he comes late to hang out with you. he’s the head counselor and has so many responsibilities to the point that even begging mr. d to let him go and hang out with his girlfriend will never work.

so when he finally does have the time to hang out, he’s exhausted—beads of sweat from sparring evident on his forehead as he takes the backpack he had slung over his shoulder and tosses it to the ground.

and he’s trying to give you as much attention as he can as he shares stories from his day with you, but his adhd’s getting to him and his eyes are so, so heavy and—you finally ask him if he just wants to go to sleep, and he’s jumping out of bed and changing into comfortable sleeping clothes.

soon he’s back in bed with you, comfortable and grateful enough that the few time he gets with you is not as stressful as what he had to deal with before.

• omfg sparring is the worsttttt with him. he makes you schedule two whole hours, yapping about something like, “i’ll just tell any other kids who wanna practice to wait until tomorrow,” and you’re telling him how it’s not fair for you to take that practice away from someone else, and he’s rolling his eyes and leaving your cabin after pressing a sloppy kiss to your forehead and mumbling, “see you tomorrow.” when you do see him tomorrow, he’s already working on his footwork and smirks as you arrive. the next couple hours are brutal. there are no breaks. at that point, why did you even bring a water bottle?

because every time he has you pinned down and you’re grunting, your throat dry as you look over to your water, he tilts your head back to him with his sword and gives you a look that tells you to focus.

and every time he gets his touch on you, he’s ordering, “again.” he wins. “again.” he wins again. “again.” so many times that you repeat the same moves, and every time, his sword is lightly pressed against your chest and you’re muttering in surrender.

after the fifteenth time of hearing the word again, you drop your sword to the ground and shove him, knocking his sword out of his hands. you break down into tears of frustration, and he’s quick to explain to you that he’s not trying to make you angry—just teach you how to protect yourself.

• usually he’s the one to hold you in his arms and let you speak your mind; he’s usually your rock. but some nights, when maybe a new camper has gotten claimed, or maybe someone got a birthday gift from their godly parent, he’s laying in the crook of your neck as he suppresses his tears against the soft skin there.

he’s talking for hours, babbling about gods know what. you find yourself wondering: how did he go from talking about nick, his newest cabin mate, getting claimed as a child of apollo, to talking about what he would name a dragon? you didn’t mind, because at least now he’s not crying about his father and the stupid quest he’d sent him on.

eventually, after a long day of a fake smile and the stressful teaching of a six hour sparring class, he falls asleep, his last words of “i love you” resting on his lips.

• he’d been happy the entire night—the blue team, his team, had won capture the flag again. he’d had so much fun at the celebration afterwards, (or at least it seemed,) but now it’s time to get ready for bed. it’s 1:30 am, and you’re washing off your makeup in the bathroom mirror when luke comes in, reaching for another rag.

he stands next to you in the mirror, watching your reflection for a moment before his eyes flick over to himself. his jaw clenches, his eyes trailing up and down the left side of his face before he swallows and wets the rag.

he begins to wipe the dirt and grime off his face, slowing down when the cloth traces the scar on his cheek. he drops the rag in the sink and sniffles, walking out of the bathroom and into the bed. once you’re finished, you join him in your room and climb into the bed. you lay down, and he rolls over and rests his face in the crook of his neck.

you wonder why it feels weird for a moment, and then you realize he has his head tilted oddly so that the left side of his face is hiding in the crook of his neck. odd, you think, considering he’d been complaining about neck pain the day before. you lift his head up, hand tracing on his left cheek and he freezes, body tensing.

“luke?” you ask, your eyes searching for a reason to his odd behavior. you look at where your fingers are tracing; on the scar. you understand, and for a moment, you see his eyes fill up with tears.

you swallow and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his scar before resting your forehead against his. he closes his eyes with a pained expression. moments pass, and then he moves to rest his head in the crook of your neck again, but this time he doesn’t hide his scar.

#luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x fem!reader #charlie bushnell #luke castellan x reader fluff #luke castellan x reader smut #luke pjo #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #charlie bushnell x reader #charlie bushnell x reader fluff #luke castellan headcannons

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yaksha-lover · 1 year

Text

cw: yandere, stalking, imprisonment

Malleus is locked in the castle - a mild territory dispute nearby, but his grandmother insisted he stay inside for the duration - when he sees you for the first time.

When you’ve spent as long as he has staring out the tall stained glass windows of his chambers, you learn to recognize the faces which roam your garden.

You are new.

He doesn’t think too much about you at first. Your novelty is the only thing that stands out to him; he doesn’t even think to ask Lilia where you’ve come from. Surely, you will be gone soon enough and his inquiry will have been pointless. Time proves him wrong.

Over the next few days, Malleus finds time between his magic and history lessons to watch you wander across the greenery. Perhaps you wouldn’t put in it such terms, you are working after all, but the fae can’t help but see it in that light.

He’s jealous, in a way. Perhaps that’s why you’ve captured his attention. He’s the one with wings, and yet, you are more free than he will ever be.

His grandmother- all his ancestors would surely scoff if they knew the heir to the Draconia kingdom was jealous of a human gardener.

That’s another thing he’s noticed from watching you. You’re human.

If your features weren’t enough to give it away, he’d also overheard Sebek complaining to Lilia about having more humans around the castle. His guardian had replied something about this being the exact reason he’d hired you, and then Lilia walked too far away for Malleus to hear any more of his explanation.

Even once he’s allowed to travel beyond the stifling stone walls of the castle, Malleus chooses not to approach you. It’s become part of his daily routine to watch you go about your caretaking of the bushes and the flowers; he would loathe to disrupt your genuine behaviour by making it known someone was watching you.

His eyes search for you as soon as he peers out his window. It’s second nature, an unconscious habit that’s begun to take hold in him.

As he watches you tend to the roses, Malleus can’t help but wonder how you would look dressed in an expensive silk of the same dashing red instead of your usual brown corduroy uniform. He’s sure you’ve never even dreamed of wearing fabric so expensive.

He thinks it would suit you. You might not have the look of the typical nobles he interacts with, but he certainly believes you have your own charm.

That’s another reason he’s become…interested in you. You’re so far removed from his own world, from any of them who sing his praises or whisper worries behind his back.

Of course you must know of him, but Malleus doesn’t know what you think of him. That, in of itself, is tantalizing and terrifying.

Malleus watches you until the sun sets upon the grounds and you’re forced to retire to your lodging at the corner of the property.

He falls asleep wondering what you dream about.

This habit of his goes on longer than it probably should. Although time doesn’t mean much to him, Malleus knows a couple months would be a significant amount of time to a human.

What would you think if you knew the crown prince was watching you day after day? Would you be flattered? Afraid?

Part of him knows it’s not right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to pull himself away from the window.

He feels as though he knows you.

He knows that tulips are your favourite by the way you take your time when trimming the stems, going much slower than he knows you’re capable of just to spend a little longer taking in their smell.

He knows your favourite foods, having watched what you bring for lunch. On the days his grandmother is too busy to dine with him, he prefers to take his food in his chambers, so that he can eat with you.

He knows that you love to read, your breaks spent sat by yourself with a novel instead of with the other staff. He finds himself reading alongside you sometimes, picking up the same book he noticed you had with you. It’s almost as though you’re truly doing it together.

It’s during one of these breaks that Malleus notices someone talking to you, interrupting your reading.

A blond man kneels down beside you, clearly trying to start a conversation with you. You smile politely as you look up at him from your place under the tree, book face-down on your thigh.

You’re too far for even his superior hearing to catch your words.

He doesn’t miss your giggle at the man’s chatter.

Malleus lets go of the document he’s holding. He’s accidentally crushed it in his grip.

You and the other staff have been on edge since Edric got fired. It seemed so random - one day, he was managing the grounds and chatting with you about your novel, and the next he was gone.

The crown always had a good reputation as an employer - it was one of the many things that drew you to the castle. There was gossip about Edric after he left, rumours about things he’d done to deserve getting fired. You didn’t want to believe it; he was the only one kind enough to try and befriend you after the others had all but shunned you for being human.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

There was nothing much you could do but continue your work as usual.

A couple days later, one of the castle guards approaches the garden while you’re working. Everyone pauses their tasks with held breath as the man walks past everyone and stops in front of you.

You can feel the stares of your fellow staff burrowing into your back; you’re next and they know it. Despite the fact that they’re probably happy to finally get rid of you, you catch a glimmer of sympathy in some of their eyes.

Silver has been friendly in passing before, but this time his face is serious as he speaks to you: “Please come with me, MC. The crown requests your presence.”

The walk is long and tortuous - you’re no longer afraid of being fired, more like getting struck down by lightning. You trust Silver, but you know his kindness ends where his duty begins.

You’re not taken to the throne room or in front of the queen like you expect.

You’re taken to the chambers of the prince.

Malleus Draconia sits cross-legged at the head of the wooden table in his room. There’s two steaming teacups, one sitting in front of him and the other at the opposite end of the table.

You’ve seen glimpses of him here and there around the kingdom, but this is the first time you’ve been able to take a good look at him. His presence is more intimidating than you’d even imagined, his tall stature and broad shoulders making him seem imposing even if you didn’t know his magical capabilities.

He smiles when he sees you, but his expression looks wrong. It makes something in your gut twist.

You don’t smile back.

“Thank you, Silver,” he says, his tone steady and revealing nothing. “Please, leave us.”

You want to beg him to stay, but he nods at his prince and does as he’s told, shutting the door and trapping you in.

Malleus motions for you to sit at the single empty chair.

“Please,” he says. “I’ve had them brew some tea for us to share.”

“…Thanks.”

“Do you like the centrepiece? I picked it out just for you.”

A glass vase full of fresh cut pink tulips sits in the centre of the table, on top of a dainty, white lace place mat.

“Yes…thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear.” He leans slightly forward across the table. “I want to make you happy, MC.”

“No offence, your majesty-”

“No need to be formal with me, my dear.” He continues to smile. The grin unsettles you further; as though he’s attempting to lull you into a false sense of safety, just waiting to sink his teeth into you.

“Why am I here? Why did you…set all of this up?”

“You’re here because you’re my beloved. I’ve watched you for months, you know.” Your stomach drops. “I wanted to stay away, to leave you be. I know now I was wrong. I should’ve brought you here much, much sooner, my love.”

“Watched? What do you mean? Why-” Your voice rises as you become more panicked.

The thorny vines growing around your wrists and tying you to the chair stop you from standing up.

You never even noticed them begin to bloom.

“Shh, there’s no need to have a tantrum. It’s all okay, MC. I know you will need time, but soon you’ll fall for me, as I have you. We belong together.” He stands from his chair, walking over to your side and placing his hand on your forearm as he kneels beside you.

“Please let me go,” you whisper, wetness pouring down your cheeks, despite how you try to hold in your tears.

His expression darkens as his grip on your wrist tightens to a level of discomfort. “We all have a role to play in the kingdom. It’s treasonous to not play yours.” He tilts up your chin to face him. “You wouldn’t want anyone else to end up like that little friend of yours, would you?”

#tw: yandere #twst x reader #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #yandere malleus draconia #malleus draconia #yandere #twst #twisted wonderland #k.concepts

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a-lexia11 · 21 days

Text

Out of love

Leah Williamson x reader

Warning:angst,break up, no happy ending

Word count: Around 3k

Summary: Leah has been acting distant lately, and you decide to confront her to understand why she's behaving that way.

I always believed that love was a fortress, something strong and invincible, capable of withstanding any storm.

And for the past five years, Leah and I were proof of that—at least, I thought we were. We’d built a life together, shared dreams, challenges, and victories on and off the pitch.

Arsenal was more than just our club; it was our home. Football brought us together, and love kept us close—or so I thought.

The first signs that something was wrong were so subtle I almost missed them. Leah began coming home later and later, her explanations brief and detached.

At first, I brushed it off, telling myself she was just tired or stressed. Our schedules were demanding, and we both had a lot on our plates.

But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, her late nights became the norm, and her excuses became more half-hearted. When I asked if everything was okay, she’d nod or shrug, barely making eye contact.

The first time she slept on the couch instead of beside me, it caught me off guard. I lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had done wrong.

She’d mumbled something about needing space, but it felt like more than that. The bed felt too big, too cold without her.

Every night that followed, she found new reasons not to be by my side. The distance between us, both physical and emotional, grew wider with each passing day.

The idea of Leah cheating crossed my mind, but it felt almost inconceivable. It’s Leah we’re talking about—someone I’ve always seen as honest and dependable. I found it hard to believe she could be unfaithful.

Why would she betray me in that way? The thought seemed so out of character, yet the signs of her growing distance and emotional withdrawal made me question everything.

I missed her laugh, the way she used to tease me about my messy hair or how I couldn’t cook to save my life.

I missed our quiet moments together, when we’d sit on the couch, legs tangled, talking about everything and nothing.

Now, those moments were replaced by silence—heavy, suffocating silence. It was like living with a ghost of the person she used to be.

I tried to be patient, thinking maybe she just needed time, but every day felt like another piece of her slipping away. Our date nights, once a cherished routine, disappeared entirely.

She was always too busy, too tired, too something. And when she did have time, it wasn’t for me.

The loneliness became unbearable. I cried every night, silently, not wanting to wake her—or maybe hoping she would wake up and comfort me like she used to.

But she never did. It was as if she couldn’t hear me anymore, couldn’t see how much I was hurting.

Training and matches became my only escape, but even that was tainted by her absence.

Leah was always there, physically, but it felt like she was a million miles away. I watched her on the field, admired her skill, her focus, but when the game ended, she was gone again, lost in her own world.

Then came the team nights, gatherings that used to be filled with laughter and camaraderie.

Now, they were a painful reminder of how far apart we had drifted. Leah would sit across the room, chatting and laughing with our teammates, completely ignoring me. It wasn’t just that she didn’t talk to me—she didn’t even look at me.

Our friends and teammates noticed the tension, the awkwardness that hung in the air, but no one said anything. Maybe they were waiting for us to work it out, just like I was. But deep down, I knew something was broken, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

The final blow came on a night that should have been a celebration. We had won a tough match, and the team had gathered at a local pub to unwind.

I leaned against the bar, absentmindedly swirling my drink as my gaze lingered on Leah from across the room. She was with another woman, someone she had just met at the pub.

The two of them were deep in conversation, their heads close together, her eyes sparkling with laughter. I watched as Leah's hand brushed against the woman’s arm, a playful touch, the kind of casual intimacy that used to be reserved for me.

My chest tightened at the sight—the way she leaned in, hanging on every word, her smile wide and genuine. It was everything I hadn't seen from her in months, and it felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

This sight twisted something inside me, a painful reminder that whatever was wrong, it wasn’t going away on its own.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending that everything was okay when it was so far from it. The pain, the confusion, the constant ache in my chest—it was all too much. I needed answers.

I needed to know why Leah was pushing me away, why she was treating me like a stranger.

That night, when we got home, I knew I had to confront her. I couldn’t keep living in this limbo, waiting for her to come back to me when she clearly wasn’t going to.

As we entered our flat, Leah headed straight for the couch, grabbing her phone and settling in as if nothing was wrong. But everything was wrong, and I couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t.

“Leah,” I said quietly, standing in the middle of the living room, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay calm. “We need to talk.”

She didn’t look up from her phone, just muttered, “Can it wait? I’m really tired.”

“No, it can’t wait,” I insisted, my voice firmer this time. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She finally looked up, her expression annoyed. “Do what?”

“This.” I gestured between us, feeling the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Us. You’re distant, Leah. You don’t talk to me anymore, you don’t even look at me. You ignore me like I’m not here, and it hurts. It hurts so much. I need to know why. I need to know what I did wrong.”

For a long moment, Leah just stared at me, her face a mask of indifference. I could see something flickering behind her eyes—guilt, maybe? Regret? But she quickly looked away, sighing heavily as if this conversation was just another burden she didn’t want to carry.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Y/N,” she finally said, her voice flat.

“Then why?” My voice broke, and I hated how small I sounded, how desperate. “Why are you doing this? Why are you pushing me away?”

Leah stayed silent.

“Are you cheating on me?” I finally asked, my voice trembling as I locked eyes with her. Leah’s reaction was immediate and stark—her eyes widened in shock, as though I had just posed the most ridiculous question imaginable.

She looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and hurt, as if the very notion was absurd. “Of course not,” she said firmly, her gaze steady and earnest as she tried to reassure me.

“I would never cheat on you.” Her voice was calm, but the intensity in her eyes seemed to plead with me to believe her, to trust that she was speaking the truth.

“Well, back at the pub, it seemed like you had no problem flirting with that woman,” I said, my tone accusing and hurt.

Leah’s eyes widened with surprise, and she quickly defended herself. “I wasn’t flirting with her; I was just being friendly,” she insisted, her voice steady but with a hint of frustration.

“Friendly?” I shot back, my voice rising in disbelief. “It looked like you were just seconds away from making out with her. How can you expect me to believe you weren’t flirting?” I continued, unable to hide the pain and anger in my voice.

Leah’s face hardened as she met my gaze, her expression resolute. “Y/N, I told you before—I would never cheat on you. I may have my faults, but infidelity is not one of them.” Her voice was firm and unwavering, but the tension in the air was thick with unresolved emotion.

"Then why? If not cheating? Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, my voice quivering with a mix of confusion and hurt. "I don’t understand why you’re treating me like this. I’ve tried so hard to be patient and understanding. I don’t deserve to be treated this way." My words faltered as the pain in my chest tightened, the betrayal cutting deep.

Leah rubbed her temples, avoiding my gaze. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just say it,” I whispered, my heart pounding in my chest. “Please.”

She hesitated, her jaw tightening as if she was bracing herself for something painful.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, but the words cut through me like a knife.

“I fell out of love with you, Y/N.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me.

My breath caught in my throat, and I stumbled back, clutching the edge of the couch to steady myself. “What?”

“I didn’t want to admit it,” she continued, her eyes still fixed on the floor. “Not to myself, not to you. But it’s the truth. I don’t feel the same way anymore. I’ve been trying to avoid this, trying to make you break up with me so I wouldn’t have to say it. But I can’t keep lying to you. I can’t keep pretending.”

I stared at her, disbelief and hurt battling for dominance. “So, all of this? The ignoring me, the coldness, the distance… It was because you wanted me to end it?”

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes for the first time. “I was a coward, Y/N. I didn’t want to be the one to break your heart, so I thought… I thought if I made things bad enough, you’d leave. But you didn’t, and I just kept making it worse. I’m so sorry.”

Her apology hung in the air between us, but it didn’t make the pain any less. If anything, it made it worse.

All this time, I had been blaming myself, wondering what I had done wrong, when the truth was that Leah had already given up on us. She had already stopped loving me.

I couldn’t stop the sob that escaped me. “How could you do this to me, Leah? How could you just… stop loving me?”

“I don’t know,” she cried, her own tears spilling over now. “I wish I had an answer. I wish I could change it, but I can’t. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you like this. I never wanted it to end this way.”

“But it’s ending, isn’t it?” I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of the truth. “This is the end.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

The sight of her crying, the woman I had loved for so long, the woman who had been my everything—it broke something inside of me.

I wanted to reach out, to hold her, to tell her that we could fix this, but I knew it was too late. There was nothing left to fix. The love we once had was gone, and there was no bringing it back.

I stood there for a moment, numb, before turning on my heel and heading to our bedroom—no, not our bedroom anymore. Just a room.

A room full of memories that I couldn’t bear to face right now. I grabbed a suitcase from the closet and began packing my things, my hands trembling as I folded clothes and placed them inside.

Each item I packed felt like another piece of my heart being ripped away, but I forced myself to keep going.

Leah stood in the doorway, watching me, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t try to stop me, didn’t say a word. Maybe she knew, just as I did, that there was nothing left to say.

When I finished packing, I zipped up the suitcase and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

My eyes burned with unshed tears, but I refused to let them fall. Not yet. I couldn’t break down. Not here. Not in front of her.

She doesn’t deserve to witness my tears or my vulnerability. She’s the one who inflicted this pain on me, who chose to string me along and hurt me for months on end.

She ignored me, distanced herself, and let me suffer because she was too selfish and cowardly to have the decency to break up with me outright. I refuse to let her see me fall apart in front of her.

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked away toward the front door. Leah stood aside, not saying a word, just watching me with those tear-filled eyes that once held so much love.

Now, they were filled with something else—regret, guilt, maybe even relief. I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

As I reached the door, I paused, my hand hovering over the doorknob. There was so much I wanted to say—questions I wanted to ask, more accusations I wanted to throw at her—but I couldn’t find the words.

What good would it do, anyway? It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring back the Leah I used to know, the Leah who loved me.

Instead, I just stood there, trying to summon the strength to leave. My heart was screaming at me to turn around, to fight for her, to fight for us. But my mind knew better. There was no fight left. The battle had been lost long before this moment.

Finally, Leah broke the silence. Her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper. “Y/N… I’m sorry. For everything. I never wanted it to end like this.”

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “Then why did you let it? Why didn’t you just talk to me, Leah? Why did you let us fall apart?”

She wiped at her tears, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Because I was scared. Scared of losing you, scared of hurting you… and scared of facing the truth. I thought if I ignored it, if I pushed you away, maybe it would be easier. But it wasn’t. It was just… cowardice. And now I’ve hurt you even more.”

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Yeah, well… mission accomplished, we’re over”

I saw her flinch at my words, and for a moment, I felt a pang of guilt. But the hurt in my chest was too overwhelming to care. I had given her everything—my love, my trust, my heart—and she had thrown it all away.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Leah,” I said, my voice strained. “I really do”

Her tears fell harder now, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to hold herself together. “I…I’m so sorry”

I nodded, though it felt meaningless. Her apologies couldn’t fix what was broken. They couldn’t take away the pain that was tearing me apart.

Without another word, I turned the doorknob and stepped outside. The cool night air hit me, chilling me to the bone. I didn’t look back as I pulled the door shut behind me. I couldn’t. If I did, I knew I’d fall apart.

As I walked down the street, suitcase dragging behind me, the weight of everything that had just happened crashed down on me.

The tears I had been holding back finally broke free, and I stumbled to a stop, my chest heaving with sobs.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sounds, but it was no use. The pain was too much, too raw.

How did we end up here? How did five years of love, of shared dreams and laughter, dissolve into this? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I didn’t know how to move forward, how to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart.

For what felt like hours, I stood there on the empty street, crying until there were no tears left. The world felt silent and cold, a reflection of the emptiness inside me.

The person I had loved more than anything in the world had just let me walk away, and I had no idea how to process that.

Eventually, I managed to compose myself enough to keep walking. I didn’t know where I was going—maybe to a hotel, maybe to a friend’s place. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that wasn’t filled with memories of Leah.

As I walked, my mind kept replaying the past few months, trying to find the moment where everything went wrong.

But there was no single moment. It was a slow, painful unraveling, one that I had tried so hard to ignore, to fix, but had failed.

I reached a park, deserted at this late hour, and collapsed onto a bench. My suitcase sat beside me, a stark reminder that I no longer had a home to go back to. Not really.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. I tilted my head back, staring up at the sky. The stars were out, bright and clear, indifferent to the heartbreak unfolding beneath them. I wondered if Leah was crying, too, or if she had finally found the peace she had been searching for.

The thought stung—both the idea of her hurting and the possibility that she might feel relieved.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone and I found myself opening the photo gallery, scrolling through the images of Leah and me. There we were, smiling and happy—on vacations, after matches, during quiet moments at home.

Each photo felt like a cruel reminder of what I had lost. How could everything that felt so real, so solid, just fade away like this?

I lingered on one photo in particular—a candid shot that my sister had taken of us at a team party last year.

We were both laughing, our arms wrapped around each other, eyes bright with happiness. I could almost hear her laugh, feel her warmth beside me.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

I stared at the photo until my vision blurred with tears again. I knew I needed to delete it, to delete all of them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The sound of footsteps on the path made me look up. It was an older couple, walking hand in hand, their heads bent close together as they whispered to each other.

I watched them pass by, a pang of longing twisting in my chest. Would I ever have that again? Would I ever find someone who loved me the way Leah once did?

For a moment, I considered going back. Maybe we could talk, really talk this time. Maybe there was a way to fix things, to rebuild what had been broken. But deep down, I knew it was hopeless. Leah had made her choice. She had let me go long before tonight.

I sat there in the park for a long time, lost in my thoughts, until the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon.

The realization hit me then—this was the first day of my life without Leah in it. The first day of starting over.

It felt impossible, like a weight too heavy to bear. But I knew I had to. I had to find a way to move forward, even if I didn’t know how.

With a deep breath, I stood up, grabbing my suitcase and heading down the path. One step at a time, I told myself. One step at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, one day the pain would fade. One day, I would be able to look back at what we had and remember it fondly, without the ache in my chest.

But for now, all I could do was keep walking, keep moving, and hope that the road ahead would lead me to a place where I could heal.

Because even though Leah had fallen out of love with me, I had to find a way to love myself enough to move on.

FIN

#woso community #woso #woso soccer #woso appreciation #women’s football #woso x reader #awfc x reader #awfc #leah williamson #woso one shot #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagines #woso imagine

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bleedingoptimism · 9 months

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𝑜𝑚𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠

Steve loves his roommate. He’s funny and witty and knows so much about everything. And he’s kind of an asshole, but in a good way. Like, he doesn't take shit from anyone way. He would never hurt someone on purpose and he apologizes immediately if he does, kind of way.

When Steve first moved in with him, Eddie was kind of quiet and reserved, but once they started talking, getting to know each other, he showed just how wonderful he was. So, Steve really liked Eddie. The problem was… Steve kind of liked-liked Eddie. But he had no idea if Eddie liked him back.

Until… he noticed Eddie’s nightly pauses outside his bedroom.

The thing is, Steve has always had trouble sleeping. He’s never managed to just fall asleep when he hits the bed, it always takes a while and he sleeps very lightly. Usually waking up at least once in the middle of the night. But it’s fine, he’s used to it and he doesn't need much sleep to function properly, so he’s managed.

The problem is, sometimes, when he’s stressed or anxious about something, he doesn't sleep at all. It's awful and it stresses him out even more.

When he was in high school, he was in the middle of a really bad episode when he finally decided to talk to his father about it to see if there was something he could do to help. Silly Steve, thought maybe his dad would take him to a doctor but he just told him to lay down and pretend to be asleep until he actually was, so that his body would get the rest anyway and not shut down. Not exactly helpful.

Steve worked through his anxiety for having sleeping problems by doing yoga a couple of years after that. But, for some reason, when he can’t sleep, he still does what his dad told him. And pretends to be asleep.

So that's why he noticed Eddie stopping by his door every night. He didn't catch it right away. The first time he’d heard Eddie come home, drop his keys on the kitchen counter, and stroll down the hall to his room, it wasn't until he started moving again that Steve noticed he had stopped outside his door.

He figured there had to be an explanation and put the thought aside but the next night, he did it again. And the next. And the next.

And Steve… Steve started looking forward to it. Playing with it a bit. Trying to figure out what underwear made Eddie stay the longest, laying in the bed in positions that he knew made him look good. He started wondering if Eddie would ever… come inside his room. If he could make him do it. Tempt him enough.

He realized too, that he was sleeping well again. That he always fell asleep right after Eddie looked at him and left for his room. And wasn't that something?

During the day, they both acted the same and nothing seemed weird. But during the night. Steve waited for Eddie, and Eddie looked.

And then, a couple of weeks into it, Steve is lying on his bed, waiting for Eddie to come home and his mind starts wandering, and he fantasies about Eddie, walking inside his room, looking at him from up close, waking him up with a soft touch of his knuckles on Steve’s cheek only for Steve to be already awake, waiting for him. He imagines Eddie touching him everywhere. Telling Steve what parts are the ones he stares at the most. What are the parts he wants to lick. To bite.

Steve doesn't realize he’s hard until he hears the door open and he freezes, he can’t run to his door and shut it, there’s no time, the apartment it’s too small! Eddie will be here in no time. And he can't turn around and face the wall because he’ll make noise, Eddie will hear. So he just pretends to be asleep, as usual. Except he’s hard and he knows it's evident because he’s wearing his tight white boxers Eddie seems to like the most and they leave nothing to the imagination. He hopes Eddie will just think Steve is dreaming or something.

And he trains his ear, nervously trying to hear every step as Eddie walks down the hall. And stops in front of his door.

And he hears the softest ‘fuck’ like it was punched out of him. And then nothing. Eddie is just standing there, and Steve knows he’s looking at him. And he stays a while, the longer he’s ever stayed and Steve, he’s getting more and more turned on and he keeps hoping he’ll hear the footsteps come closer and not away. His dick twitches at the thought and he hears Eddie gasp and then the footsteps… Away from him, toward Eddie’s room.

Steve turns to lie on his back and huffs. He needs to make a decision. To either stop this before it gets worse or... Do something about it. And then he hears it. A couple of minutes after Eddie shut his door. A muffled moan. Jesus Fucking Christ. Steve is lying on his bed, hard and thinking about Eddie, and Eddie is touching himself, thinking about him. This is ridiculous.

He comes to a decision. Tomorrow. He’s doing something about it.

𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑒𝑑

a coffee? while we wait... ☕🥐💕

(first part) 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠

(you are here!) 𝑜𝑚𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠

(last past) 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #i wrote something #its getting steamy but the last part is so 😳😳😳#and they were roommates #omg they were roommates

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merakiui · 7 months

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Hello! I'd like to place an order for a flower bouquet with banana pudding and lemon squares for guests Floyd and Jade Leech (together) please!

yandere!floyd leech x (gender neutral) reader x yandere!jade leech cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping, dub-con, implied loss of virginity, mentions of implied death/murder, jade and floyd's morbid back-and-forth banter note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

You wake to the dreary interior of a stranger’s van, lying on your back with your wrists tied expertly above your head. There’s thick tape plastered over your mouth and it ensures you’re kept quiet. The only noise you manage to produce is a weak, muffled sob. Your struggle is brief and futile, for the restraints won’t budge no matter how hard you pull.

You realize, rather quickly, that your head is resting in someone’s lap. That same someone is currently peering down at you, his head tilted curiously. Two-toned eyes blink at you, shimmering with a childlike glee.

“Wakey, wakey, Li’l Shrimpy,” he sings.

Staring at him with wide, terrified eyes, you think you’ve just met the Devil. He senses your intent to escape before you can even act on it. Clicking his tongue, he wraps his arms around you and drags you into his lap, holding firm.

“No need to be scared. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” With a toothy grin, all sharp points flashing at you, he pokes your cheek. “Jade might.”

You’re made aware of the second man then. He turns around to greet you from the driver’s seat with a kind, close-lipped smile. He looks friendly enough, but there’s malice thinly veiled in those polite features of his. Both of them bear a striking resemblance to one another, but if you look close enough the differences begin to show through. Eye shape, the way the part in their hair sits, that stray dark strand… You look between the two of them, silently urging for an explanation.

Jade chuckles, feigning sheepishness. “I wouldn’t do anything without reason.”

“Hear that, Shrimpy? You’re in good hands. We just wanna play with ya for a bit.”

You shake your head, whining when his fingers stray too close to your throat. He pets you fondly, soaking in your terror like a parched plant. You squirm in his lap, inching as far from him as you can get, but he’s everywhere—clinging to you, his face in yours. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. Revulsion shudders through you.

How did this happen?

You were on your way home from work when the van pulled up and the door opened. Arms shot out to drag you, kicking and thrashing, inside and then a rag was being held over your mouth. It wasn’t a far walk—safe by your standards! You’ve done it dozens of times prior.

So why now? And why you?

Lying there, perfectly at the mercy of two strangers, you wonder if it would’ve been any different if you knew them. Maybe then it would be easier to find some sort of crooked comfort in the midst of so much fear and uncertainty.

Jade slides out of the driver’s seat to join you and his brother in the back. You catch the scenery beyond the van during the slim second the door’s open. Trees reach towards a gloomy sky on all sides, tall, hulking pines that close you in with twin monsters. It’s isolated, the ideal location for something nefarious and foul. Your stomach churns, and suddenly you feel sick.

The door shuts, and the forest vanishes. Just like that. As if it was never there at all. As if someone’s turned the page in a novel and the landscape has fallen away to account for the next scene—one far more gruesome than the last.

His arrival has you pressing back against the other’s chest. In this enclosed space, both of them don’t seem to fit. It’s too compact to account for long, lanky limbs. For a short moment, you wonder if both of them are trees.

“Let’s take the tape off, shall we?”

“Ooh, good idea, Jade. I wanna hear Shrimpy’s voice.” In one hasty motion, the tape is ripped from your mouth. Stinging pain settles beneath your skin. You yelp.

“Now, Floyd, you’ll scare the poor thing to death if you handle them so harshly.” Jade’s words sound sympathetic, but his laughter dampens them with insincerity.

“Oops. My bad.”

You open your mouth and then shut it. What can you say? What are you supposed to say?

More importantly, what won’t send you to your grave right away?

“I’m sorry. If I did anything to upset you, I’m sorry. So please don’t…”

“What’s there to apologize for?” Floyd grips your chin and turns you towards him. “You did nothin’ wrong.”

And that’s what’s so sickening about it. Not the leering or the kidnapping. Not the fact that they’ve trapped you here in the middle of nowhere, in a van that no one will ever find. It’s the unlucky innocence of it all—the fact that you are merely a victim of chance and nothing more. No grudges or revenge needed. No real motive. Just bad fortune.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

Looking into Floyd’s eyes, you can’t find a spot of remorse. You suspect it’s much the same for Jade, who tasks himself with untying the laces in your shoes and slowly slipping each off your feet. Floyd watches this with a lazy smirk.

“You ever think about gettin’ new shoes?”

“T-They’re my work shoes…”

“Yeah? Where do you work?”

You swallow thickly, helplessly gazing about the van. It’s messy, things strewn about in disarray. A blanket bunched haphazardly. Empty pill bottles. Candy wrappers. Old receipts. A first aid kit. A shrimp plush missing its eye. Despite all of this clutter, the interior smells eerily sterile. Fresh like mint. The juxtaposition tricks your nose and eyes terribly.

“An i-ice cream parlor…”

“Ooh. No wonder you smell so sweet.” Floyd pinches your cheek. “Don’tcha think Shrimpy smells yummy, Jade?”

“Quite yummy, Floyd.” He sets your shoes aside before turning back to you. Large hands run up the length of your legs. Even though you’re fully clothed, you’ve never felt more bare. “So much so I’m tempted to take a bite…”

You squeak when he squeezes your calves. A devious grin curls on his lips, revealing the beginnings of his pointed teeth. “A-Are you going to kill me?”

Jade hums, tilting his head as he pretends to mull it over. “What do you think, Floyd?”

“You wanna wind up another number on the news, Shrimpy? You think anyone’s gonna come lookin’ for you?”

“M-My family—”

“Will be very sad if they aren’t allowed the closure an open casket provides,” Jade finishes matter-of-factly.

Your heart plummets into your stomach at that implication. Biting back bile, you shrink away from both of them. They share a glance, giggling in unison.

“Poor Shrimpy, having to be pieced back together like a puzzle…”

“Stitched up like a patchwork quilt.”

“Mm, yeah, but that’s no fun. Shrimpy’s too cute to become chum. I don’t wanna put ’em in the ground.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Jade’s fingers work to slide you from your pants. You fall still in Floyd’s arms, looking on in silent horror. He gazes at you. “Don’t look so devastated. We won’t kill you.”

The first tear slides down your cheek. Soundless. Alone. Floyd leans in to lap at the rest that follow, tracing a line up your face with his tongue.

“Aww. You went and made Shrimpy cry.”

“Have I?” Jade moves in to dab at the tears on your left side. Pressing his fingertips to his tongue, he smiles. “So it seems.”

Your shirt comes off next, slid up until it stops at your bound wrists. Floyd gets impatient halfway through and, seizing a blade from somewhere in the back, cuts you free of the pesky fabric. Much like your hope, it falls around you in tattered pieces.

It’s when you’re turned and pressed face-first into Floyd’s crotch that you begin to panic. Jade slides the knife through your underwear, peeling it away with a satisfied sigh. You writhe uncomfortably. Floyd’s fingers are in your hair next, holding you up just enough so that he can reach down to pull himself free from his sweatpants. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen a cock before. Thick and veiny, achingly hard with pre-cum beading at the tip, it terrifies you more than the slick fingers prodding at your hole from behind.

Floyd takes hold of his cock and taps it insistently against your cheek. “C’mon. Open wide.”

You watch him through your lashes, your lips pursed tightly. There really is no other way, is there? You’re trapped between the two of them, your life in their hands. Or, more fittingly, snapped up in their jaws.

“Please… D-Don’t make me…” you whisper, but it’s a pointless plea.

Floyd tuts, temper flaring. “Don’t make me shove it down your throat.”

Jade’s hand massages your cushy ass. It doesn’t do anything to comfort you. “Be gentle, Floyd. I suspect this is their first time.”

“Is it really?” His gaze flicks to your face, searching for an indication that Jade’s observations are true. An odd light sparks in empty eyes. “You’re a virgin?”

A cold sweat washes over you. Your heart won’t stop pounding. Blood is rushing in your ears, trickling through your veins and electrifying your nerves. It’s too loud. Too dizzying. You’ve never felt fear so raw and cloying before. It claws at your throat, setting it aflame. It flicks on your fight or flight. It brings with it the animalistic urge to survive. Above everything else, no matter what it reduces you to in the end, survive.

“W-Will you let me go?”

“So you can go cryin’ to the cops? Yeah, right.” He scoffs and pats your cheek. “Either answer my question or open up.”

“How does this sound?” Jade offers just as one lithe finger slips inside your hole. You wince and grit your teeth at the intrusion. He chuckles and, without warning, forces a second inside. “If you’re good, we’ll stop by the ice cream shop when it opens tomorrow and get you a milkshake.”

Floyd’s lips split apart in a cheesy smile. “Aren’t you a lucky Shrimpy? Jade likes ya.”

You crane your neck to look at him. He smiles sweetly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Every other part of him seems so receptive to you, but his eyes betray him. They’re just as cold and dull as his brother’s. You’re nothing more than a cut of meat—an offering to sate his appetite.

“It’s important to feed your pets. They’ll starve otherwise.”

“You just wanna get yourself a sundae.”

“That, too.”

“We might as well get somethin’ to eat if we’re gettin’ sweets. Shrimpy can pick the place. Bet they’ve got great taste.”

“A brilliant idea. I’d like to know what sort of cuisine they’re partial to.”

You’re not sure how they can carry on like this as if it’s normal. It’s gross. You feel like you might vomit.

Floyd’s cock prods at your lips. This time, throwing your dignity aside in order to survive, you open wide.

You’re not killed, but something in you dies inside that van.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere jade leech #yandere jade leech x reader #yandere jade x reader #yandere jade #yandere floyd leech #yandere floyd leech x reader #yandere floyd #yandere floyd x reader #tw: dubcon #n/sfw #lunar love hotel 2023

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splatashahowlett · 2 months

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lethargic love

logan howlett x reader

the world has never been as quiet as in this exact moment.

you could hear your own breathing, your nose softly whistling. the soft sheets felt divine against your legs and the light breeze coming out the window tickled your face in the most relaxing way possible. the only thing that was lacking was your typical morning headache.

in the hope that this moment would never end, you kept yourself from moving, even the slightest. the truth was that even if you wanted to, you couldn't. logan's arms were wrapped around you and there was no escaping from those muscles.

logan and you had decided that you both deserved a weekend away from the chaos of xavier's school for gifted youngsters. you loved life back there and the kids were one of the reasons you felt fulfilled and happy today. but life at the mansion can sometimes become a bit overwhelming. so when logan came up with the idea of getting away from it you immediatly agreed.

that's how you ended up in the canadian mountains, in a small cabin probably older than the professor.

still with the purpose of not moving from an inch, you felt immediate disappointement when you started to feel hungry. so after a few moments contemplating if being half-starved was a good enough reason to get up, you came to the conclusion that you could make breakfast for when logan would wake up.

but when you tried to get up, you felt a strong kind of resistance around your waist. logan wouldn't let you go. at first you didn't want to wake him up, so you tried to slowly untangle his arms from your body. but it's when you felt him tightening his grip on you that you realized he was definitely awake.

"logan" you muttered his name softly; the only answer you got was a disapproving groan letting you know he didn't want you to get up. this made you smile fondly, knowing that he felt comfortable with you and wasn't willing on letting you go under any circumstances. you turned around, and found yourself only inches away from his face. his eyes were closed and eyebrows relaxed -which was unusual- so you enjoyed the view and explored every captivating peculiarity about him.

in the beginning of your relationship you would ask yourself everyday what you did to deserve someone like him in your life. but you came to the conclusion that you both chose each others for good reasons and that was an enough of an explanation.

you tried a second time to get yourself out of harms way but of course, you were still stuck in your own personal heaven.

"what could possibly be better then spending the morning in bed?" logan whined. you weren't used to staying in bed back at the mansion, it wasn't really a possibilty, so the idea was particularly attraying. you chuckled at his comment and kissed his forehead.

"good morning to you too" you said with a wide smile. without opening his eyes he nestled his face into your collarbone and tightened his grip around you again (if that was even possible).

"stay" logan said in a way that almost made your heart break. you could never get used to seeing him so susceptible and unveiled. so you stayed.

"I wasn't planning on leaving anyway" you whispered while gently scratching his head which was entrenched under your chin. you couldn't really wrap your mind around how love worked but you knew it did. and you weren't ready to give up on it; ever.

so you closed your eyes and sweared to whoever could hear you that you would never leave logan's side, even if it meant fighting his cimmerian battles with him.

"I love you."

those words were also a thing you would never get used to.

#wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #logan howlett fluff

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miserycanary · 4 months

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MISSION: LOVE KILL ᡣ𐭩 [trailer]

pairings: Simon 'Ghost' Riley & fem!reader

synopsis: the trailer to my very first full-length series set in a soulmate AU.

pairings: (applies to future parts) angst, smut, fluff, mutual pining, misunderstandings, rivals to lovers to rivals, featuring Ghost's inability to communicate, graphic mentions of violence, might hint to sexual violence, BARELY PUT TOGETHER, torture, one bed trope, i-will-wait-for-you trope, loving-you-is-like-breathing trope, slowburn (unless I get bored and rush this), poor poor attempt in crack, will add more as we go on

The subtle searing pain on the back of his neck is enough reason for Ghost to hate the idea of soulmates existing. It wasn’t just the fact that he has lived up to his 30s feeling like a fire wasp is buzzing under his skin, it was that the government fully developed their system with pairs in mind. You mean to tell him that he has to have found his partner—who’s probably cities or even continents away—just so that he could fucking own property? Utter fucking bullshit, he calls it.

‘Nutjobs! The lot of them’

It was also the fact he had to watch his mum’s so-called soulmate almost beat them up to death each day. How could someone whose single purpose in life is to torment them be his mother’s soulmate? Fate either has a weird take on the concept of love and the whole shenanigan or it’s fucking wicked. Either way, the S-word has left a bad taste in his mouth—and memory. He would rather die, not having property—or anything really—to his name if it means that he wouldn’t comply to the fucking standards of pairs.

Or so he thought because, once again, life is fucking wicked like that.

When he first broke the news that he would be retiring from the army, he expected his future days ahead full of smooth-sailing lounging. Maybe a cup of tea in hand or even some biscuits if he was feeling fancy. Imagine his shocked face when he inquired with a real-estate agent to finally have something to call home, no longer needing to stay by some cheap hotel with what his little pay could afford, that he cannot fucking do that!

“Yeah, this would be good. Really nice stuff here,” Ghost gruffs. “Yeah? Well, let’s get started then. Um, here are the paperworks that you need to fill out. Uhh, you just need to input your government code and your partner’s. It is policy that you bring your pair in with you when it comes to legal documents, but I’m sure that we could make an exception for our veteran here,” the agent smiles; one that Ghost did not reciprocate. “I ain’t got a missus with me. Haven’t found them yet.”

It was a simple explanation, not wanting to dwell too much on his reasons. Before he could even take the papers in his hand, the man retracts. Confusion etched on Ghost’s face while pity is on the man’s. “Oh, I am really sorry but you are legally required to have a partner before you could own property—or anything for that matter.” Ghost looked this agent for a good few minutes, anticipating the ‘sike’ that he desperately wishes to hear but only dead silence echoes. “Surely you could, say, make an except for a veteran?” he nervously chuckles out, trying to weasel his way into a fucking home. Nothing. Dead fucking silence that’s heavy with pity. Ghost loathes it.

Without even saying a word, he turns his back and starts walking towards the car he rented today, because you can’t even own a car in this government! He should have flagged it as weird when the lady in the car shop insists that he should rent first before buying something. So, now he sits in the dingy bar that Soap has dragged him into after he informed the force that he would not be settling anytime soon. After explaining his circumstance, he expected them to react like he did before, but no. They all replied like they knew this. Even saying stuff like, “you didn’t know?” Of course he didn’t! It wasn’t like Ghost was invested in property or anything for that matter while he was serving. All he cared about was surviving each day, and that is it.

“Aye, cheer up, lad. Life ain’ that bad. Ya’ just gotta get them lassie, and all yer problems would go away,” the Scot on his right drunkenly offers advice—a shit one at that. Did he really think Ghost hasn’t stepped foot on every land they got deployed with heavy hopes that he’ll find whoever he needs to find there? He fucking hates it here. He should have not retired this early if he knew this would happen. Now he needs to go around the world and search for the lassie whose presence—or her lack thereof—is the root of all his problems.

If finding a needle in a haystack is hard, imagine finding a lady that’s probably moving countries as he speaks with Soap. “Yeah, like that’s fucking easy,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes before lifting his mask just enough to down his shot of whiskey. The fiery burn of the alcohol down his throat is nothing compared to the one on his neck. He would rather have it cut at this point than to go on about this miserable lifetime any longer.

“Should I just cut and peel it off?” he mumbles to no one in particular; probably to Fate if that shit is listening. Seeing that no one else in the rundown bar is really paying attention to him, Soap takes the honour in replying to him instead. “According tae what I’ve seen, jobby pain is hee haw compared tae th' pain ye will feel in yer heart. Doctors say that th' pain goes tae th' heart instead while tripling”. Unprompted, Ghost curses like a fucking sailor. Saying stuff that will probably get him on the government's watchlist if he wasn’t part of the military serving this goddamn country. He risks his life daily and this is what he gets? Ungrateful bastards.

With a slam of the glass on the mahogany table, he stands up with a new profound determination. “Fuck it, I’m finding that missus if it’s the last thing that I do”. “Eyy, that’s the spirit, matie,” Soap drunkenly encourages him, which should have been the first red flag on this idea. Any idea supported by Soap is an immediate botch.

Well, what could go wrong? He’s retired anyway.

Turns out, many could go wrong. Well, here’s to the fucking shit-show of his life.

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱: please give this love!!

dividers by @cafekitsune

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist is open!! @hotvinimon

check out my other works in the masterlist: ୭!

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dark-night-hero · 4 months

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When Geto Suguru left and turn his back on the jujutsu sorcerer, you also vanished in the picture. But unlike him who left to be a villain, you left because of simple things. You are tired. Tired of understanding why and how. How and why does things ended up the things as it was right now. Why did Suguru did that? He left without a word. He left like it way nothing, he turn his back into his friends and of course you. So instead of turning your back into the world of jujutsu sorcery, one you known to be your world form as far as you can remember and stray on the wrong path. You retired, left the academy and ever looked back.

And your friends. Your friends understand, your classmates understand. As much as they want you back. You look tired. You look like you needed a rest. So they leave you be, hoping as time passed by, you will heal within the process. So they let you go, occasionally checking up on you and you did the same. Turning your back from the world you once live in, you have now strayed into a new and unfamiliar path. The one that is so unfamiliar yet somehow seemed more peaceful than ever.

The step back out of the world of Jujutsu was something that you have never thought to be refreshing. You have never realize life could have been so easy from the way you are living your life in the past. Maybe that was one of the reason why you never go back. Even after your junior went back. You never did. Life has been so peaceful nowadays. Although once in a while, a letter would came someone. You never opened it, just by picking up the scent coming from the letter, you knew where and who it came from. You never bother looking at it nor reading it, finding no reason to do so. He was just someone from the past.

Geto Suguru was just someone from your past, like a chapter in your book you never wanted to go back. He was the one who caused you so much pain, so much pain that you no longer enjoy the things you loved. You hate him a lot. That is why for the past few years, even after all that happened, you never wanted to hear about him. And his and your friends understood that and never tell you anything about him. In the first place, Suguru was a very sensitive topic for all of you.

You were living the life you once thought would never fit you, away from the messy world of jujutsu. Away from the remains of your past and the one you once love, now loathed. Away from the love you once had and the dreams you once shared would come true. It was now all as deep as the box in your basement, the one that kept those letters away, never to be open now nor in the near future. Long ago, from the moment he turned his back into you, into all of you. The moment he left without a word, you had long stopped hoping and expecting words of explanation from him. What is the use? It is not like it would make you hurt less, it was not like he would come back to you. It is useless.

So you wonder why you are here, years after not saying or acknowledging his presence, his presence that never seemed to go away even after all those years, fulling knowing he was somewhere by your side, even from faraway. You wonder why you are here, back in the academy where both of you have left from coming and taking a different path. Years after years of ignoring his letters, there you are right in front of the man you vowed to hate until one of you dies. You wonder why you are here, staring at the man that was once the love of your life looking quite unfamiliar. He looks old just like the rest of you. Maybe it was the time that have passed by, maybe it was the distance from back then. But the two of you looked nothing alike like yesterday. The two of you have changed. Yet it seemed like the way the two of you looked at each other remained the same.

With a sigh, you walked passed Gojo and went close to Suguru and crouching beside him. "Look at where your path takes you." "What are you doing here?" He asked, he never expected to see you here while he was on his last breath. "I thought you had plans." His statement made you scoff, knowing fully well why he knew about that. Nevertheless you stayed on topic and move even closer to him. "You're dying." You sat right beside him and even lean on the wall he was leaning on. "We alreay knew that." He chuckled. "Have you read my letters?" He asked, head suddenly leaning on your shoulder, but you never seemed to mind, completely ignoring that fact. "No." You answered truthfully.

"I..." He let out a shaky- painful breath as if trying his best to last on a little longer. "I thought love was enough to save me." You did not reply, you just stand there by his side unmoving. "I thought you were enough for me to hold one." He let out a tired sigh and you felt his weight shift upon you. He sounds tired. "I'm sorry." He added. "I hope that one day, you'll be able to forgive me." "I have forgiven you long ago." You spoke, looking head of you. It was not a lie, its true that you hate him, you still do. But it was also true that you had long forgiven him. "You-" He laugh like he was not bleeding to death. "You two should at least curse me at the end." You paid no attention at his nonsense. In stead, your hand find its way on the side of his face, caressing it gently before saying. "Take a rest, Suguru."

My dearest,

How have you been? Although you might not be to pleased to know but I am alright. With my family right beside me I could say that I am alright. Also like I have told you on my previous letter, I think that I have been raising my girls wrong, they've become to spoild for my liking. Then again, that pits the blame on me, don't you think? It is just as you have once told me to I would become, someone who spoil their child rotten beyond their control which is yet to come but is perhaps tilting that way haha. Looking at you from afar, you seemed to be doing well. The gift that I have sent to you last time looked so well on you, I'm glad you seemed to take a liking into it. I thought your preference would change but it seemed like it remained the same as it was all those years ago. For a while, this might the the last letter I will be sending as things are quite geeing busy nowadays. If the mission were to be successful, then be sending you more letters and gifts in the future. But if it were to fail... would it be to much for me to wish for you to come and see me again?

Your love, Geto Suguru.

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ficnation · 11 months

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Chapter 3: Splattered Brains

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,6k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings A/n: Plot twist—I couldn't wait. Enjoy it, my darlings. (unedited)

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Will looks through the peephole before opening the door, his entire body tense. He glances back at you apologetically, and you know he wants to continue where you left off. You want more too, but you understand—there’s the world outside, with its mysteries and its demands, and you both have to confront it.

The woman on the other side of the door is someone you don’t really recognize. Her face rings a bell somewhere in the back of your head, but you can’t say for sure you’ve met her before. She doesn’t seem like a person that would linger in your memory for long.

“Will,” the woman acknowledges him, red lips pressed into a thin line.

“Alana,” he responds, his tone flat and devoid of any sympathy. “What brings you here?”

Will’s face is frozen in a state of neutrality, neither annoyed nor pleased by the woman’s presence—it’s impassive. A tiny part of you wonders if he’s ever looked at you with this much disinterest. You know he doesn’t have it in him, he loves you with his entire being, but the idea makes a sour grimace crawl onto your face.

There’s no happy greeting between them, and it’s selfishly comforting even though it shouldn’t be. You don’t know her at all, yet she seems to be the polar opposite of what you stand for.

Alana’s eyes flit across the room, landing on you for the first time, and as her gaze lingers, she raises her eyebrow. Her face has a timeless quality, sharp angles, and beautiful, expressive eyes. But something about her doesn’t sit right with you. That look she sends you as if she’s inspecting you, trying to analyze you—you hate it.

“Don’t ask me that question when you already know the answer to it,” she says, her tone just as cold and detached as Will’s. “I’m here for a reason, Will. And the less you drag this out, the better.”

You notice Will’s fists clench at her words, you take his hand in yours, dragging the pads of your fingers across his white knuckles. He relaxes under your soothing touch. You take a step closer to him, pressing yourself against his shoulder.

“Just get to your point,” Will says, his coldness making the situation all the more tense. “What do you want from me?”

Alana stares at your entwined hands then her eyes meet yours again, and Will notices how her attention is immediately pulled solely to you—as if everything else is bathed in a thick fog. You notice how her lips slowly curve downward, just a bit. You think she might be envious.

She bites the inside of her cheek, proving you right. She’s jealous. You can’t help but smirk at this realization. Will glances at you, asking wordlessly for an explanation, because whatever game this is, he’s clearly not in the loop. You don’t give him what he wants this time.

“I will give you some privacy then,” you suggest, whistling at the dogs to follow you outside. You don’t have to call for them twice, as they run toward the door, waggling their tails. “Just don’t take too long. I don’t want to keep Crawford waiting.”

Before Will can object, the dogs dash out the door, and you follow in their steps, shutting it behind you. You know you did the right thing by giving them some space. How she treated Will was unforgivable, but he has to fight this one battle by himself—if you stayed there by his side, you’d probably bash her head against the wall. Not today. This fight has to be his.

You look over at the door, and you think you can hear their voices through the walls, but you’re not entirely sure. After a few moments, the door opens and Alana storms out. She doesn’t even look at you, she just turns on her heel and walks away, leaving Will behind.

You lean against the railing of the porch, the dogs snuggling up against your calves for pets and scratches—something you never deny them. It’s a moment of peace in a world full of chaos, and you can’t help but enjoy it all—even the chill bite of the winter air. It’s refreshing after spending all night and morning with Will, whose body radiated so much heat, and who left you breathless every time he was close.

He steps out on the porch, and you turn to face him, confusion written across your features. The man only shakes his head, staring at her retreating back. You don’t pry, and he doesn’t tell. There’s a wordless understanding between the two of you already—he’ll tell you when he’s ready, and his emotions are no longer an overwhelming susurration.

Will takes his place at your side, elbows leaning on the wooden balustrade. Both of you watch in silence as Alana Bloom walks down the driveway, soon disappearing from your view.

“You don’t like her much, huh?” you ask, voice laced with irony.

You don’t really expect an answer, so he only rolls his eyes. But there is a hint of sadness in them, a tiny sign of his own disappointment, at himself, her—all of it. He takes your hand in his and leans forward to kiss your icy-cold cheek.

He pulls away then, his gaze fixed on you. “We should get going,” he says quietly. “You don’t want to keep Jack waiting.”

And he’s right. You’ve been out here a little too long, and Jack is bound to be impatient by now. You’re sure he’s already called twice to ask you where you are.

Your cheek still tingles from the kiss, but you remain focused on the way Will’s expression shifts slightly. He’s crestfallen, there’s no denying it, and you know this conversation took a toll on him—even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He calls the dogs inside, then locks the door. You squeeze his hand, and with a sigh of resignation, the two of you head to the car.

The cold has gotten to your skin, and you can feel every pore of your body aching for warmth. The windshield is covered in a thin layer of snow, and your body shivers as you wait for Will to swipe it off with his glove-covered hand. Even though he already unlocked the car, you refuse to let him suffer in the unforgiving winter alone.

Once he’s done, he joins your side and opens the passenger door for you. The protest on the tip of your tongue dies off when he guides you inside with a steady hand on the small of your back—you comply. He closes it behind your back with a satisfied grin that doesn’t really reach his eyes. He gets in the driver’s seat and starts the car, warming it from within.

You put on the seatbelt, and relax your muscles, letting your fingers trail along the armrest and the door, enjoying the warmth against your skin. Your mind is wandering, lost in memories of the morning and the little moments you shared with Will.

“You know…” Will starts from behind the wheel, his eyes don’t stray from the road ahead. There’s a quiet moment between you two while he considers what he has to say, and when he finally talks, he barely mumbles the words under his breath, “I was thinking…”

“About what?” You raise your eyebrow in curiosity, giving him all your attention and more.

“Well, I was thinking…” he pauses for a moment, the words struggling to leave his lips, he’s visibly tense.

You want to say something, help him find the words. It’s clear he needs a little push. So you reach up and caress his stubbled jaw—the lightest of touches—hoping the gesture can help ease him out of this nervous state.

It works. Will sucks on his bottom lip for a moment, still facing forward, but at least his face is calm now. “I’ve always been in love with you.” Even though it’s only a whisper, the confession sounds like thunder in your ears—its rumble shaking every tiny cell in your brain. “I never said it out loud until you disappeared. I regret it to this day.”

That’s all it takes for your chest to tighten and your heart to start hammering wildly. It makes you wonder if you’re on the verge of having a heart attack. You know you love this man—you know more than anyone else on this earth just how strong your feelings are for him. You were always aware that he reciprocated it—in his own intricate way, but there was no way to be absolutely certain. Hearing him say it now—gifted your mind with a blissful sense of peace.

You look at him, and you can’t find the words to respond. Nothing that comes to mind is even faintly close to what you feel for him, so you settle for a gentle squeeze of his thigh.

Will glances at you, his eyes roaming over the curve of your cheekbones, the shape of your lips, the long lashes fluttering over your eyes—you’re breathtaking. You don’t even need to respond—he knows how you feel already, and he’s just happy to have you by his side again. He’s head over heels, hopelessly and utterly—in love.

“I’ve never met anyone who made me feel the way you do,” Will continues, and the words ring out in the cramped space of the car. “Nobody has ever seen me the way you do. Nobody has ever loved me the way you do. You’ve been the only light in my darkness, the only source of hope in my life.” His voice softens with every word, and he doesn’t look at you as he talks, afraid he’ll get distracted if he does. He just needs to get it all out.

Your smile is so bright when he catches it in his peripheral vision—it could probably replace the stars at night. He takes a pause, and you wonder if all those words have made him feel better. It seems like that’s the case—he looks so much more peaceful next to you, no longer tense from holding in everything he felt.

Will chuckles, and it fills the air with a different kind of light that washes over you and makes you feel just a bit warmer. Just as you retract your hand from his thigh, his own reaches past the center console, his palm grazing your knee to find it again. He interlaces his fingers with yours, and you think you’ll die of joy, and you wish the drive in the car never had to end—you could stay like this, his hand clasped tightly to yours, forever.

Silence falls between the two of you, but you’re so close to each other that it feels like there’s no need to speak. The tension in the car is gone, and Will’s words still linger in your mind. I’ve always been in love with you…

You’re so caught up in this elation, you don’t even notice when you reach your destination. The brutalist architecture of BAU’s building makes you feel intimidated—more than you anticipated. It’s cold, uninviting. There’s also another feeling that crawls over your skin, a sense of dread, but you shake it off before it can completely take over.

Will pulls into a parking spot, turns off the engine, and faces you. “We’re here,” he says, a grim expression on his face. It’s so different from how you just saw him a mere moment ago.

You share that expression. You feel it on your face, the weight of it pressing down on your soul as you slowly realize that you’ll need to step away from the bubble of happiness you’ve been in. It’s not a bubble you would ever want to pop—so you have to leave it behind. Shut it off.

You take in the headquarters’ exterior, its harsh outlines, and the shadows it casts on the already grim streets of Quantico. Your stomach sinks. There’s a part of you that missed this place, being in the field and helping people—it used to be your dream—but now you despise it. You don’t want to go back to seeing dead bodies over and over again, hearing the murmur of their whispers that never disturb the air and never leave you in silence for too long.

“I’ll take you inside,” Will offers, but you don’t really have a say in it either way. Of course, he notices the solemnity on your face. He puts his hand on your cheek, the skin of your cold face against his warm palm warming you for a brief moment. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you answer simply. You don’t have to say anything more.

Will gently caresses your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your lower lip. His eyes are filled with concern for you. He nods slowly, his hand still on your cheek. You can’t even explain what you’re feeling right now, but he understands as much—he’s been there too.

“I know it’s not easy,” Will says softly. “But I’m sure Crawford won’t keep you there long.”

You’re about to voice your doubts, the million reasons as to why this is a terrible idea, but then you pause. You can’t seem to find them—there is no single coherent thought in your head, the stress of the day finally taking its toll on you.

Will sighs and pulls away, leaving his hand hanging in the air for a while before he finally rests it on his own thigh. He climbs out of the car, and you take a few deep breaths to try to quiet the voices inside your head. You don’t know what you need, you just know that you don’t want this.

You step out, and the silence between the two of you doesn’t go unnoticed. Will reaches out to you once again and puts a hand on your shoulder, as if he can’t decide what to do, either. He looks over your shoulder—at the towering building in the distance.

The man sighs and steps closer to you. He looks at you, eyes roaming over your face, scanning every single detail of your expression. His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “I know it doesn’t feel right being back here,” he says, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “But I need you to be strong, for just a few minutes. Okay? This might be important.”

You nod, willing to do anything for him—anything at all. The deep breath you take in almost makes your lungs flutter in outrage.

“That’s my girl,” he says, his voice a little softer than usual.

He pulls away finally but doesn’t let go of you entirely. His hand holds tight to your fingers, and Will starts to walk you toward the building. It’s cold, windy, and you’re not looking forward to a single second of being inside that building. You’d much better prefer to freeze here outside—maybe turn into an ice sculpture if you’re lucky.

There is an undeniable uneasiness in Will’s expression as he opens the big doors and ushers you inside. It’s a big lobby, and every person there is busy with tasks, on the phone, typing something or other away on their computers.

You see Crawford sitting on one of the couches in a corner that almost resembles a waiting room. He glances at Will, and his expression only hardens upon seeing you two together. You want to run away, but Will has a grip on your arm and doesn’t let go.

“Come with me,” Crawford says to you, his tone stern and a little annoyed, probably by the fact you’re twenty minutes late. “We need to have a long conversation.”

You share an unsure look with Will, he nods encouragingly. You feel his hand gripping yours, and you notice how shaky you are. For a moment, you wonder what the hell you’ve signed yourself up for by coming here.

Crawford heads for the nearest elevator, not waiting for you to catch up with him. His attitude is clear—he’s annoyed, and he wants results. That’s how it’s always been, but you never got the chance to get used to it.

“I will be here when you come back,” Will promises, tentatively releasing you from his hold.

You nod in acknowledgment before following after your former boss with hurried footsteps.

It’s a tense, uncomfortable, and entirely too silent ride up to the top floor. The lights are bright, almost blinding, as the elevator rises. Crawford stands by your side, arms crossed over his chest, face expressionless. You wonder what he even needed you here for.

He walks ahead of you and takes out a keycard from one of his pockets. A moment later, he uses it to open a door in the hallway, revealing a large office. The lights inside are dim, almost cozy, and the view from the large windows is one you recognize. Crawford heads inside, telling you to follow with an exasperated sigh.

“They moved your office two more doors down the hallway,” you notice, looking around in curiosity. You hope your poor attempt at loosening the atmosphere works, even just a bit.

Once Crawford chuckles at your words, you know you succeeded. “You’ve always looked for distraction, haven’t you?”

He takes a seat behind his desk and motions for you to do the same. He spends a few moments looking you up and down with a blank expression, the kind he usually reserved for suspects at interrogation.

“Have I changed that much?”

Crawford shakes his head, a grin forming on his lips. “Not really.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, taking in the view from the nearby window. “Though you look older than I remember.”

“It’s been long eight years,” you admit with a nod. You don’t even want to think about all the new wrinkles that materialized on your face through those years.

His eyes travel over the length of your arms, and then over your face again. “I can see time’s been hard on you,” he says. You know he’s not referring to your physical appearance, and that’s what stings the most. “You haven’t had it easy, have you?”

“I managed.” You don’t give him more than that. The stories of your suffering are yours to tell when you feel ready—and you don’t.

Crawford’s lips narrow as he considers your response. He doesn’t seem to be one who accepts “I managed” as an answer. Then again, he’s never been the patient type. You’re surprised when he doesn’t question you further on the matter.

He leans forward to grab a folder from inside his drawer. “I brought you here because I wanted to talk to you about Hannibal Lecter.”

You sit up straight and lean forward in your chair. Your eyes, bright and curious, are fixed on Crawford, who seems to notice it.

“You seem interested,” he says in the same neutral tone as always. He opens the folder and starts flipping through the pages. Then, he sets the folder down and looks straight at you. “I’m here to ask you a question,” Crawford says, “and I want you to think very hard about your answer before you say it.”

The room is quiet, still, and your heart is beating frantically in your chest. The silence stretches on, and it’s so loud you can practically hear it.

“Do you believe the Chesapeake Ripper murdered your father’s killer?”

You study Jack for a moment, noticing the gleam in his dark eyes, and the way he focuses entirely on your response. You weigh your options—you can deny it and trust that Will already has a plan to catch Hannibal, or you can tell the truth and hope your former boss doesn’t consider you delusional.

“Yes, or no?” Crawford urges you, his tone sharp. It takes all your willpower not to answer right away.

“I do,” you blurt out finally with a resigned sigh. “I think he did it.”

The man nods slowly, his lips pressed together in thought. He doesn’t seem surprised by what you told him—it almost makes you wonder how much he already knows.

“Do you have any proof?” he asks. That’s the million-dollar question, and you know your former boss isn’t asking it just to make conversation. “Do you have anything to support your claim?”

“I wasn’t allowed near the evidence.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

You feel your stomach twisting into knots for a second, but you remain calm. Crawford is not the kind of man you can lie to, so you take a breath and say what you have to say, the words spilling out of your mouth on their own.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit, “and I can’t say that I expected you to believe me. But I know I’m right about this.” You can feel Crawford judging you with his relentless gaze, so you continue, “He lost far too much blood, yet there was no sign of it pooled around him. Not the amount he’s lost. It’s almost as if it was drained out of him.”

Crawford only nods. He doesn’t look at you like you’re crazy—he looks at you like he’s studying a puzzle. He considers your words, staring at your face, his expression still and unchanging. Your words feel like they’re bouncing in the air, waiting for a response, for something that isn’t silence.

“And you’re sure there’s no other plausible explanation for it?” his tone is curious, interested.

Your heartbeat quickens as you shake your head back and forth. “No, that’s impossible.”

He’s intrigued now. The man doesn’t say a word, but you can tell from the way he looks at you. Crawford looks like he almost believes you. He’s interested, alright—very interested.

“Do you think it was Hannibal?” he asks. You notice the change in his tone, and you know a yes or no response will not be enough for Crawford this time. He needs the answer to satisfy his curiosity.

He has an aloof expression on his face, the kind that never truly gives away his thoughts. It keeps you hanging in uncertainty, because you have no idea what you should tell him that could possibly sate that curiosity.

“I believe Will.” Your answer is short, devoid of anything he was hoping for.

Crawford doesn’t seem to like that answer, at least by the way his eyes narrow and the way his lips tighten into a thin line. Then, after a momentary pause, he leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his desk.

“And what’s this belief based on?” he asks, his tone demanding, almost a challenge. He’s expecting you to tell him, to give him a reason to believe you.

“He’s not insane, Jack.”

“What makes you think he’s sane?”

You don’t hesitate when you give your answer this time. “Because I know him.”

You notice his eyes studying you once again, his gaze not stopping on any detail of your face. He doesn’t comment on what you just told him, and doesn’t tell you whether he believes you or not. Instead, he leans back in his chair once again and sighs. He lets his fingers tap against the wood of the table for a moment, a small sound in the quiet office.

“Your father’s case will be reopened. Be prepared to be questioned again,” he says, his voice very much like the Crawford you know. “Now I need you to answer me one last question.”

“What is it?” You tilt your head, you almost look curious, as if whatever he wants to ask isn’t something that worries you. It’s a carefully built facade, and you hope he doesn’t see straight through it.

It’s an uncomfortable few moments, as Crawford takes a break from his tapping to look straight at you with those intense eyes. The wait is almost killing you—but the tension in his expression might be even more deadly. He’s thinking deeply, and whatever he’s just figured out isn’t anything that you would like to be privy to.

“I want to offer you a deal,” is all he says. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What deal?”

Crawford takes a deep breath as if he’s been holding it in for the better part of his life.

“I want you to go back to BAU.”

“No.”

He blinks, completely caught off guard by your response. You didn’t think saying no would be that easy. He pauses before his lips form a firm line.

“That wasn’t a request,” he says.

“Well, you can’t really force me.” You shrug your arms—not even slightly moved by the intimidating raise of his eyebrow.

“Actually, I can.”

The air around you changes. You can feel the meaning behind his threat like a heavy weight, pressing down on your skin, suffocating you. You go to breathe, but find that the air is suddenly too thin, that it’s like breathing underwater. The world around you buzzes like a lightbulb before it explodes.

You can hear the screams of your sister, her wretched sobs, her desperate begging for you to stop. The buzzing gets louder—the image of your father’s body sliding down the wall as his brains splattered over the flowery wallpaper burns alive in your mind.

You blink once, then twice, making sure there’s no suspicion nor satisfaction on Crawford’s face. There isn’t and relief washes over you like a wave—one that’s perfect for surfing.

“You can’t.”

Crawford’s face contorts, his lips twisting into a frown. He eyes you carefully. You can tell his mind is racing, trying to come up with something to make you join his team. There’s a heavy silence between the two of you as if you could hear a pin drop. You wait carefully with your breath bated and watch your former boss, waiting to see what he’ll do.

“Do you want your sister’s case solved or not?” he taunts. So that was his leverage over you.

It’s almost jarring to hear him mention her, to see him play this card. You take a deep breath and keep yourself calm. His thought process was on point—you had to give him that. You’d do anything for your sister and to get rid of that stormy cloud hanging over your head anytime the room was too quiet or someone dared to mention her person.

“Yes,” you agree finally, “I want her case solved.”

“Then go back to BAU. It’s your answer.”

That tone of his makes it hard not to laugh out loud. You thought it might be that simple—a yes or no, two letters of the alphabet. That didn’t apply to Jack Crawford, it seems. He wants an answer, and he will get one. A smile curls on your lips as you consider how to proceed. You’d have liked to have more leverage in terms of negotiation, but unfortunately, you have none.

“Then make me an offer worth my while.” You cross your arms over your chest and wait with a raised eyebrow.

Crawford is still the boss you know and love, albeit slightly confused by your attitude. It’s clear that this isn’t how he expected you to respond. His lips curl into a frown again, but he seems to think of something suddenly.

“I want you to join BAU as Will Graham’s partner. You’ve worked with him before, and I need you on the team,” he asserts. “I need you to look at his cases from your perspective. You will have access to all resources we have available at the bureau. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

You can’t help the surprise that colors your expression now. Working with Will again, and having access to the FBI’s resources, it’s impossible to say no. Now you might have a chance against the cunning mind of Hannibal Lecter.

You don’t even hesitate as you say, “Deal.”

Crawford’s eyes soften as he hears your answer, and you can tell he’s glad you’re not going to give him a difficult time.

“The decision is yours, then,” he says finally. Your eyes meet his. “Will you go back to BAU?”

You nod in response, showing him the brightest of your smiles. “Absolutely.”

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