#@ the other ask currently in my inbox. >:] They are coming. Do not worry

[simpfortheseven]

Randomly saw your post asking for lads fic requests so I'm shooting my shot! Can I get some exhausted Rafayel that is rlly barely holding it together (and let's say he still has stuff to do like an exhibition opening or deadline the next day) and MC taking care of him?

(If u want to ofc!) <3

Ahhh my inbox got FLOODED but i love the soft and tender fluff of taking care of someone stressed

Summary: Rafayels showcase opens tomorrow! Except there's a major problem..

As you tidied up the studio you glanced over at your boyfriend, Rafayel, who was currently yelling at someone over the phone. It was most likely Thomas, he was the only one Rafayel ever got mad at. Your boyfriend was normally calm, and riding the waves of life with a smile. But he took his art seriously.

“I don’t care, just find them!” Rafayel says as he hangs up the phone. He plops down on the couch, laying down and looking up at the ceiling.

“Honey?” You ask gently. “What happened?”

“They lost the entire collection. The truck is gone, they can’t find it,” Rafayel says bleakly.

“Oh my gosh-“ You sit next to him. “Honey, I’m so sorry,”

“I don’t have time to mope,” He sighs and stands. “I need to go have a virtual meeting with the gallery director about the lighting. The lighting for the paintings that won’t be there,”

Normally his sarcastic comments make you chuckle, but his face was giving away his true mood. Rafayel heads to his desk to get on the video call, and you're left stumped. You could go to the showcase and find the paintings, but you're sure that there's already so many staff looking. You could make food, but Rafayel needed more that a quick hit of food induced dopamine. Rafayel needed a solution.

You grab a nearby blank canvas. It was a small canvas, 10 x 8, but you weren't sure you could get anything bigger done in time. While Rafayel normally does oil glazing in his paintings, he had other paints. You settle on acrylics, their fast drying time being the better option.

You get to work, making something, anything that can hang in the showcase on Rafayel's behalf. An abstract painting with lines and curves, splatters, you put your love of him into every stroke.

As soon as it's done, you grab a hair dryer. You blast it on high, trying to get it to dry so you can seal it. Before you can, Rafayel comes in.

"Cutie-?" He tilts his head, looking at you quizzically. "What are you doing?"

"I made you something," You turn it around slowly. "It's not done yet, so don't judge.."

He looks it up and down, opening his mouth and then closing it. It's as if he cant find the words to describe the feeling in his heart.

"You made this for me?" He says quietly. His eyes are full of adoration as he looks over at you.

"Yes," You look down and mumble. "I thought it might be a good replacement for the work that went missing. I know its nothing like what you made, and its not big, and-"

"I love it," He cuts you off with a hug. "Its perfect, wonderful even!"

You sink into the hug sighing softly. Seeing him in a better mood makes your heart melt.

"You really have the best ideas, Cutie," He smiles, kissing your forehead. "I'll make it the center of my collection at the showcase! But wait, they cant keep this one, it's got to come back and be hung up here! I'll find the perfect place and buy a spot light!"

"Wait- the center? I thought they were all gone?"

"Oh yeah, they found all the paintings," He smiles cheerily at you. "But I'm not really worried about them."

"..You could have started with that, Honey,"

[ribbononline]

Hello I am obsessed with your art—your line work and your colours and shading sjfjslkdkd I want to put your artwork in my mouth and consume everything. Your AC characters are so cute, i loved your timeskip Shauna and your pixel art is amazing???? I simply must know if you’re open for commissions and what guidelines you have because I would die 🥺

Aough, thank you so so very much! I'm so happy to hear that :'D As for commissions- yes, they're open! I don't have any pretty sheets I'm afraid (graphic design is not my passion), but I have the rundown.

Further details under the cut!

I'm fine with doing:

Fanart

Shipping

Self inserts/Sona's

OC's

Furries

Pokémon, stylized animals, or any monster type creatures

Pin-ups

I don't do:

NSFWT (Not Safe For Tumblr. Sorry)

Real people

Backgrounds

Mecha's (I'm just not strong enough)

Eternatus (Sorry for singling you out buddy. You're the only Pokémon that truly terrifies me when it comes to drawing)

Currently not taking any pixel commissions, I don't have a set enough 'style' yet to feel comfortable charging for it. I'd like to one day, though!

Please note: if you want something like a Pokémon or a similarish creature, feel free to ask about pricing! A Togepi and a Rayquaza are at very different levels there and I wouldn't make you pay the same for both.

In general, if you have any questions, always feel free to reach out!

General terms of service:

Payment is upfront. Please note that prices are in euro's!

Payment is done via PayPal. I do need to set up a Ko-Fi, though.

Each second character is 80% of the price.

Please do NOT use my art for any commercial use.

Please do NOT alter my art with AI or use it to work with AI.

Feel free to post wherever, just credit me if you post it on any socials!

I have a right to refuse a commission for any reason.

Please have some sort of reference sheet ready! It doesn't have to be a full drawing, just... something. Can be a picrew, a collage, a general 'something like x', but please have something ready to work with!

Let me know if you want your commission posted after it is done. If you do, let me know if you wish to be credited as the commissioner or would prefer staying anonymous.

What you can expect of me:

I work in three 'phases'. First is the sketch- you'll be send some quick thumbnail sketches to establish the general pose and vibe you want to pick from. Once you have one you like, I'll send work on the full sketch! Sketching is the stage for any and all big changes, so please mention anything you want changed here.

Once the final sketch is approved, I'll move on to the second phase, lines. Not a very exciting stage, it's just the lines! Again, I'll run them by you for approval first, to make sure I didn't miss or mess up any details.

Finally is the third phase, colors! This is both flats and rendering. I don't mind tweaking colors at all, just let me know if you want any changes in them. After this phase is approved, that's the commission done! Each phase should take around a week at the maximum, assuming there's no breaks in communication. If for whatever reason I might take longer then that, I'll make sure to mention it as soon as possible.

I have a discord which communicates slightly easier then on Tumblr, so if you have one as well and you don't mind I'll make sure to reach out to you there! Otherwise, Tumblr does always still work too.

I hope that's somewhat clear! Generally speaking my commissions are always open, no timed slots or anything like that. Whenever works for someone else works for me. But yeah!

[ekybrini]

slipping through my fingers| JACK HUGHES

— ⟡ summary | in which y/n and Jake childhood best friends who've always had something there for each other. But once jack gets drafted everything changed for both of them.

— ⟡ warnings | none (that I know of)

— ⟡ word count | 17.8k (GUYS IM SORRY)

— ⟡ gabs note | hiii!!! im so excited to finally start writing again! I apologizer if this seems rushed. also this is EXTREMELY INACCURATE!!! please don't think this is literal, I don't know how some of these things work. also i apologize if this is cringe bc I CANNOT write romance for the life of me. I'm currently on spring break so I'll be trying to take advantage of being able to write a few things! if anyone wants to request or suggest anything don't hesitate to go into my inbox . i'll try to get to it and write it as soon as I can :) after spring break I may be a little inactive as i'm trying to lock in, in some of my classes before the semesters is over (ap econ and living earth are actually kicking my ass)

⟡ slipping through your fingers | jack hughes (jacks pov)

Part two

You've known Jack since you were kids. Backyard games of street hockey, summer nights spent on the lake, and watching him skate around with his brothers. you were always there. best friends through and through. 

The first time you met Jack, you were about 10 years old. You had just moved into the neighborhood and the first thing you noticed was the street hockey that was happening right outside of your house. The kids from the neighborhood were scattered in every direction, sticks raised, yelling at each other. The one who caught your attention right away was the kid with the wild hair, darting around the group with such speed that it was almost impossible to keep up. He made it look effortless. He, of course, was jack. 

You were lonely at first, standing awkwardly by the curb or watching the game through your bedroom window . Jack, always the curious one, had spotted you one day as you were sitting on the curb and skated over with a big grin.

"You gonna watch all day, or do you wanna join us?" he’d asked, not missing a beat, despite being out of breath. his eyes were full of that contagious energy.

You'd hesitated, feeling unsure. “I don’t know. I’m not really good at this... I’ve never really played before.”

"Come on! I’ll teach you," Jack insisted. "It’s easy, you just gotta push the puck this way, and then..." He demonstrated, sending the puck flying past you. "See? Just like that!"

It wasn’t perfect, but you tried. And Jack, always encouraging, cheered you on even as you missed the puck completely a few times. "Don’t worry. You’ll get it. It’s all about having fun."

From that moment on, you and Jack were inseparable. Summer after summer, it was the same routine. Jack, with his scruffy hair and infectious smile, would be the one to drag you out onto the street, even if you were just coming off a bad day at school or feeling a little down.

One of your favorite memories came when you were both about 12 years old. It was a hot, sticky summer afternoon. Jack, as usual, had the game already set up, calling the shots while the other neighborhood kids were pretending to be superstars in a game that felt far more like a chaotic free for all than a real match.

"You in or what?" Jack shouted, holding out a stick. “This game’s going nowhere without you.”

You rolled your eyes, already seeing the sweat dripping from his forehead, his shirt clinging to his back. "You know, I was just thinking about going inside and having a popsicle."

"Are you really gonna let me down like this?" Jack raised an eyebrow, grinning from ear to ear. “you promised you'd play after school." 

"Fine," you said with a laugh, grabbing the stick. "But this time, I’m definitely winning."

You didn't win, at least not that day, but you had so much fun trying. Jack was so fast, his little tricks and turns keeping you on your toes, but every time he made a move, you were there to give it your best shot. You kept pushing him, running after the puck until the sun dipped below the horizon, and both of you were covered in dirt and sweat, laughing until your stomachs hurt.

That night, you sat side by side on the dock by the lake, feet dangling in the cool water as you two ate ice cream bars. The night was quiet except for the distant croak of frogs. 

“You were so close to getting me,” Jack said between breaths, a playful edge to his voice. He tilted his head back to look at the sky. “You’ll get me next time. Just wait.”

You chuckled, watching him with a teasing smile. "Yeah, sure, Jack. Maybe when I’m 18 and you’ve forgotten how to skate."

Jack laughed loudly, nudging you with his elbow. “Not a chance. I’ll always be better. But hey, I can teach you some moves if you want.”

“Oh, I bet you would,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Teach me how to win, too?”

"Obviously," he said with a grin, though there was a genuine warmth in his eyes. “I’ll make you into a skating legend if that's what you want.”

You didn't know it then, but those summers spent with Jack would become some of the best memories of your life. Even when the seasons changed and the street hockey games moved indoors. Jack’s determination never left. You spent every Saturday watching him at the rink, your nose pressed against the cold glass as he glided across the ice, his stick flashing, eyes full of focus. He was good. Too good, in fact. And with every game, the crowd cheered louder with his dreams growing bigger.

⟡

By the time you and Jack hit your early teens, things start to feel different. It’s not obvious at first just a lingering glance here, a nervous laugh there. Jack’s still Jack competitive, loud, always pulling you into whatever chaos he’s creating. But sometimes, when his hand brushes against yours, or when he looks at you a second too long after you’ve made a joke, it feels like something is shifting beneath the surface. You notice it, even if you don’t understand it yet.

The way he seems to notice you more, how he’s always trying to catch your eye in a group conversation, how his voice drops just a little when he says your name. It’s subtle, and you try to ignore it. He’s your best friend, right? Nothing has changed between you two. You’re still the same, pulling pranks on each other, laughing at dumb things, challenging each other to stupid games on long summer afternoons.

But the moments keep building like when he reaches across the table to grab something and his fingers graze the back of your hand, leaving a warmth that lingers far longer than it should. Or when you catch him staring at you when you’re talking, and his expression shifts just a fraction of something unreadable there for a brief second before he masks it with a grin.

And then there are those times when the air feels too quiet. Like when you’re lying next to each other on the grass, watching the stars, and the silence stretches between you two in a way it never has before. It’s not comfortable anymore, this space. It’s heavy.

You’re 14 when you notice it for real. You’re both sitting on the dock, summer sun dipping low behind the trees, casting everything in a golden haze. Jack’s freshly showered from practice, hair still damp, the scent of soap and fresh air clinging to him. You’re half listening to him ramble on about a play he’s been trying to perfect, his words weaving in and out of the soft, distant hum of the lake’s waves against the dock.

But something in the air is different. It feels thicker. The kind of tension you get when you can’t tell whether the storm is coming, or if it’s already here and you’re just waiting for it to break. You can feel the weight of the evening sun on your skin, but your heart feels heavy, like it’s pounding against your ribs, a rhythm you’re trying to ignore.

“You’re not even listening,” he accuses, nudging you with his knee, and you startle, realizing you haven’t heard a word he’s said for the last few minutes.

“I’m listening,” you argue, even though you weren’t.

Jack raises an eyebrow, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “No, you’re not. You’ve been all quiet. What's up with you?”

You scoff, trying to brush it off. “Me? You’re the one who’s weird,” you tease, attempting to lighten the mood, but your words feel hollow, even to you.

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he studies you, his expression more serious than usual. His gaze shifts from your face to your hands, and then back to your eyes like he’s trying to figure something out that you aren’t even aware of.

“Yeah, maybe.” He shrugs, leaning back on his elbows, staring out across the lake with a far-off look in his eyes. “Or maybe it’s just us.”

The words hang in the air heavy with meaning you don’t fully understand. You freeze trying to process what he’s said. It isn’t just the words, it's the way he said them. The tone in his voice is softer than usual almost uncertain. There’s something fragile in his eyes, like he’s letting a piece of himself slip past you hoping you’ll catch it, but not quite trusting you to. You don’t know how to respond.

You try to shake off the discomfort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack glances at you, his lips quivering at the edges, but there’s a heaviness in his gaze now. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Just growing up.” He pauses, his voice quieter now almost too soft for the space between you two. He looks at you then, really looks at you his eyes searching for something in yours like he’s asking a question that doesn’t have an easy answer. Something you’re not ready to answer not sure you even can.

You want to say something to reach out and close that space but you can’t find the words. Everything that’s been building between you two feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something unspoken. And the closer Jack gets to this new world he’s creating for himself this future that’s already starting to pull him away from you the more it feels like you’re both standing on the precipice of it.

You don’t have an answer, so you reach over and grab his hand. It’s instinctual, a reflex more than anything else. His fingers slide easily between yours, like they’ve always belonged there. It’s familiar, comforting even. But there’s something different in the way he holds your hand this time. He doesn’t let go immediately like he always does. He holds on for just a moment longer, and in that brief pause, the weight of it hits you.

His gaze drops to your joined hands, and you see a flicker in his eyes something unreadable, maybe even a little vulnerable before he looks back up at you. The quiet between you two stretches longer than it should, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the summer air, or because of the uncertainty that’s silently wrapping itself around both of you.

“I think we’ll figure it out,” you say softly, trying to anchor this moment, even though the ground beneath you feels like it’s shifting.

Jack’s smile is small, unsure. It’s not his usual confident grin, but it’s there. Barely, but it’s there. He doesn’t let go of your hand. Not yet. 

You don’t know what “figuring it out” means, or if you even can figure it out. All you know is that in this moment, with the sun setting behind the trees and the sound of water lapping against the dock beneath you, everything feels poised on the edge of something you don’t understand.

But you’re scared that the moment you try to reach for it, Jack might pull away.

⟡

It’s late, the fire has burned down to a few glowing embers, and the crickets are the only sound beside the occasional splash of water against the dock. You’re sitting with Jack, your legs hanging over the side, toes brushing the cool surface of the lake. The night is quiet, almost too quiet, and for the first time in a long time, there’s a distance between you that wasn’t there before.

Jack’s usually carefree, his humor quick, his energy contagious. But tonight, he’s different. He’s quieter, eyes lost somewhere beyond the horizon. You’ve known him long enough to know when something’s off.

"Jack, you okay?" you ask, not pushing, just asking.

"Do you ever feel like things are changing?" His voice is low, almost hesitant, and you turn to look at him, your heart skipping a beat.

You nod slowly, sensing that this conversation is heading somewhere you’ve both been avoiding for too long. "Yeah, I’ve been feeling it." You pause, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, you really see him. His face, the way his eyes linger on you, the way his lips part like he’s about to say something more. It’s all so familiar, and yet, everything feels new. "It’s been hard to ignore."

Jack exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath. He leans back, letting his head rest against the wood of the dock, looking up at the stars above. "I’ve been trying to figure it out. For a while now. What’s going on between us."

You swallow, the weight of his words settling in your chest. Your voice is barely a whisper when you respond. "What do you mean?"

Jack doesn’t look at you right away, but you see his jaw tense, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Finally, he glances over at you, his gaze intense. "I think I’ve been avoiding it. The way things have felt. I’ve always known you meant a lot to me. But it’s more than that now. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it."

Your heart races. This isn’t just a fleeting moment, this is him, telling you exactly what you’ve been feeling. Your stomach flips as the words finally hit you.

"I’ve been feeling it too," you admit, your voice steady but your pulse thundering in your ears. "It’s different now, Jack. And I can’t pretend it’s not."

There’s a long silence between you two as the words settle in the space around you. You both know it’s out there now the truth that neither of you could avoid forever. The air feels thick, charged with everything you’ve been holding back.

Jack’s gaze softens as he turns fully toward you. He reaches out, his hand brushing against yours. "I’ve tried not to think about it, but it’s impossible," he admits, his thumb tracing along the back of your hand. "I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of you as just my best friend. And now I don’t know how to go back."

You feel your breath catch in your throat. This is it. The thing you’ve both been dancing around for so long, the thing neither of you knew how to say. But now, here it is, raw and real.

"I don’t want to go back," you say, your voice soft but certain. "I’ve felt the same way, Jack. For a while now."

"You know, I keep thinking back to when we were kids," he says quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. "Back when things were simpler. We used to hang out, play hockey, talk about everything and nothing. I always thought that was enough."

You smile, remembering those simpler times. "It was enough. It still is."

Jack laughs under his breath, but there’s something different in it. "Yeah. But now... I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about how things feel between us lately. And I don’t know how to handle it."

Your heart picks up a little pace, and you look at him, feeling a shift in the air between you two. It’s subtle, but it's there. His eyes are locked on you now, and the usual teasing glint is gone.

"I think I’ve known for a while," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "That things have changed. That maybe… we’ve changed."

Jack’s gaze softens, and for a second, everything feels like it’s falling into place, like the puzzle pieces are finally lining up. "I’ve been thinking about it too," he says, his voice low. "And I don’t know if I’m ready for this to be weird between us. I don’t want it to be weird."

Your stomach flips at the vulnerability in his voice. "I don’t think it has to be. It doesn’t have to be weird, Jack."

He looks at you for a long moment, and you can tell he’s weighing his next words carefully. He reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and that simple touch feels like the universe’s nudge, reminding you that things have always been easy with him. There’s no pretending with Jack. There’s never been any pretending.

"I guess we’ve always been able to figure things out," Jack says, his voice steady now. "And maybe this is just… one of those times."

You nod, your chest tight as you try to put into words what you’ve been feeling for so long. But nothing really needs to be said. This moment, this quiet understanding between you two, is enough.

Jack leans in just a little, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, but not enough to cross the final line. His gaze flickers between your eyes, lingering on your lips before returning to your eyes again, as if he’s waiting for something. The space between you both seems impossibly small, charged with everything that’s unsaid.

You can’t deny it anymore the way your heart races in your chest, the way your breath feels shallow, as if you’ve been holding it in all this time. This moment, this change between you, feels like it could either break everything or put it all back together.

His hand hovers just inches from yours, like he’s unsure whether to close the distance, like he’s waiting for you to decide. The air is thick with the weight of it. You’ve both danced around this for so long, carefully, quietly, but now it feels like everything is teetering on the edge. One move, one step, and it’ll change everything.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Jack’s voice is almost a whisper, his usual teasing gone. There’s something softer in the way he says it, like he’s genuinely asking, genuinely uncertain for the first time.

You laugh quietly, but it doesn’t feel like the teasing kind of laugh you’re used to. It’s shaky, full of nerves. “No... Just a little confused, I guess. Not sure if this is all too much.”

Jack shifts closer, and his hand brushes against yours, the lightest touch that sends a jolt through you. It’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes. He doesn’t look away now, and neither do you. His breath is slow, steady, and in the stillness, you hear his heart beating in time with yours.

“I’m not sure either,” he admits, his voice low. “But I think I’ve known for a while… I don’t think we can keep pretending things are the same. I can’t. And I’m not sure what will happen next, but I know I don’t want to screw it up.”

You swallow, your own uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. Everything that’s been left unsaid finally hangs in the air between you two, heavy and undeniable. The fear of what could change, of what could be lost, and the quiet hope that maybe just maybe it could work.

"Jack…” You start to say something, anything, but the words stick in your throat. You want to say that you’ve been feeling it too, that you’re terrified of losing this, of messing it all up. But the weight of it all is too much. So instead, you just shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the uncertainty in your chest. “I don’t know what happens next either.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer, everything inside you pulling toward him, wanting to close the space between you both. And with that final breath, that quiet understanding, you realize it doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be figured out right now.

You lean in the rest of the way, tilting your head slightly, and then Jack’s lips meet yours.

It’s nothing like you expected. It’s soft, hesitant at first, like you both are testing the waters. But it’s real. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re finally on the same page. It’s not about the future or the fear of change it’s just about right now, and the way everything feels when it’s just the two of you.

When you pull away, there’s a breathless pause, but it’s not awkward. It’s not forced. It’s just you, and him, and everything that’s been building between you finally making sense.

Jack’s forehead rests gently against yours. His eyes are still closed, and there’s a quiet smile playing on his lips. “I think I could get used to this,” he says, voice low, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You let out a soft laugh, the tension between you both easing, and for the first time, it feels like you don’t need to say anything more. You both know. It’s not perfect, it’s not figured out yet but it’s real, and maybe that’s enough for now.

⟡

It’s almost midnight when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You’re half asleep, barely registering the sound until it buzzes again. You squint at the screen, the glow too harsh in the dark room. It’s a text from Jack. “are you up?” 

You rub your eyes and sit up the sleepiness fading as you type back. “yeah, what’s up? Are you okay?its midnight.” The dots appear and disappear. Then nothing. You frown, already knowing where this is going. “ want me to come over?” This time, the dots stay. “You don’t have too, just want to talk to you.”

You slip out of bed, grabbing a sweatshirt and slipping on your shoes without even thinking about it. Your house is quiet as you head out the back door and cut across the yard. Jack’s house is familiar, the kind of place you could walk to blindfolded. The back door is unlocked like it always is.

You find him on the couch, the TV on low, playing some old hockey highlights. His head is tipped back against the cushion but his eyes are open dark circles shadowing his face. He looks up when he hears you, his expression softening in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“You didn’t have to come,” Jack says, sitting up.

“You knew I would,” you reply, kicking off your shoes and sitting down beside him. Your knee bumps against his. He’s in sweats and an old usa hockey hoodie, and his hair’s still damp from a shower. He looks tired.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a long time. His eyes stay on the screen, but you can tell he’s not really watching. The hum of the commentary blends into the background. You wait, not pushing you’ve always known how to give him space when he needs it.

“I can’t sleep,” he says finally, voice low. His knee bounces restlessly. “I keep thinking about the combine.”

You lean back against the couch, watching the screen as a highlight reel of some playoff game flickers by. “What about it?”

Jack sighs. “Everything. The tests. The interviews. The scouts. If I screw up, it’s going to be everywhere.” His hand runs through his hair, leaving it messy. “I mean, I’ve trained for this my whole life, right? But now that it’s actually here I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to screw up,” you say softly.

Jack lets out a hollow laugh. “Yeah? What if I do?”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You won’t. But even if you did it wouldn’t change anything. Not with me.”

Jack’s eyes flick toward you, guarded but searching. He’s quiet for a beat. Then, so quietly you almost don’t catch it, “It’d change everything else.”

You shift toward him, turning so your knee presses more firmly against his. “Jack, you’ve worked your ass off for this. One bad day at the combine isn’t going to erase years of training and games and scouts already knowing you’re good enough.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, his eyes falling to his hands. His thumb rubs absently along the inside of his palm. “Yeah, but what if I’m not enough?”

You don’t hesitate. You reach over, lacing your fingers through his. His hand is warm, his skin rough from years of hockey sticks and gloves. He tenses for half a second, then relaxes into the touch.

“You’re enough,” you say, quiet but steady. “You’ve always been enough, Jack. Even if you didn’t have hockey.”

Jack’s eyes lift to meet yours, wide and a little raw. His thumb grazes the side of your hand, slow and deliberate.

“You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Jack’s mouth curves into the smallest smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s something. His gaze drops back to the screen, though his hand stays in yours, his thumb running over your knuckles.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t uncomfortable it’s the kind of quiet that feels like home. Jack’s breathing evens out, his knee resting against yours. The highlights on the screen blur together.

“Stay?” Jack asks after a long moment. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

Jack shifts, leaning back against the couch. You lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His hand stays tangled with yours, his thumb brushing back and forth along your knuckles in a steady rhythm. Slowly, the tension in his body eases.

“Thanks,” Jack murmurs. His head tips toward yours, his breath warm against your hair.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you say, eyes drifting shut. “Just remember this. When it gets hard, when the pressure’s too much, remember you don’t have to do it alone.”

Jack’s hand tightens around yours, his breath catching for half a second. Then he relaxes.

“I’ll remember,” he promises, voice low and sure.

You smile, your heart steady now as you let the sound of his breathing and the flicker of the TV lull you toward sleep. You know there’s still a long road ahead, the combine, the draft, Jack’s rookie year  but for now, this is enough.

It’s late afternoon when you find Jack on the ice, alone.

The rink is almost empty and quite the kind of quiet that makes the sound of skates cutting into the ice seem louder. Jack’s in a plain grey hoodie, a puck sliding back and forth between his stick blade as he moves through the neutral zone. His head is down, shoulders tense, and even from the stands, you can tell he’s overthinking it. His movements are sharp, almost mechanical like he’s trying too hard to be perfect.

You sit down on the bleachers, the cold from the rink seeping through your jeans. Jack’s been like this all week quiet, short answers, disappearing for extra hours at the rink. You didn’t have to ask why. The NHL Combine is in two weeks. The pressure’s been building, and Jack’s not the type to admit when it’s too much.

A sharp slap of the puck against the glass pulls you from your thoughts. Jack’s skating toward the blue line, his stick dragging behind him as he breathes heavily, a little unsteady. He circles back toward center ice, but his stride falters slightly just enough for you to notice.

“You’re overthinking it,” you call out, standing.

Jack glances up, his expression closed off but his eyes soften when he sees you. He coasts toward the boards, resting his forearms against the top. His breath comes out in sharp clouds of condensation.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says but there’s no bite to his words.

You shrug. “Figured you’d need moral support.”

Jack huffs a soft laugh but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze drops to the ice. “Not really playing like someone who deserves it.”

You step closer, your hands resting on the edge of the boards. “Jack, you’re allowed to have a bad practice.”

Jack shakes his head. “Not now. Not this close.” His hands flex around his stick. “I can’t screw this up.”

“You won’t.”

Jack’s eyes flick toward you. There’s something guarded in his expression the same look he gets when he’s trying not to show how much it’s getting to him. His eyes are dark under the shadows of his helmet.

“You don’t know that,” he says quietly.

You swallow, searching for the right words. “Yeah, I do.”

Jack exhales sharply, his gaze drifting to the ice. He’s quiet for a long time before he speaks again, his voice low. “What if I’m not good enough?”

Your chest tightens at the vulnerability in his voice. He’s always been confident, cocky, even but this is different. This is the fear he doesn’t let other people see.

You rest your hand over his where it grips the top of the boards. His fingers twitch beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away. “Jack” Your voice softens. “You’ve been working for this since you were a kid. One bad practice isn’t going to change the fact that you belong there.”

Jack’s mouth pulls into a thin line. His eyes stay locked on the ice.

“You know that, right?” you press.

Jack’s jaw tenses. He exhales through his nose and finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. I know.” But his voice is tight, like he’s still trying to convince himself.

You squeeze his hand lightly. “Come on. Take the helmet off. Let’s reset.”

Jack hesitates for a second before unbuckling his chin strap. His hair falls into messy waves as he pulls the helmet off, and you smile despite yourself.

“There’s the Jack I know,” you say softly.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through the tension in his face. He sets the helmet down on the boards and rests his forehead against the glass, his eyes closed for a long moment. His breath fogs up the glass in front of him.

“Why are you so calm about this?” Jack murmurs.

You smile, even though he can’t see it. “Because I know you. And I know you’re going to be fine.”

Jack’s eyes open. He tilts his head toward you, his cheek pressed against the glass. His gaze lingers on you longer than it probably should. His expression softens, his mouth curving into something more familiar less guarded.

“You always know what to say,” Jack says quietly.

You shrug. “It’s part of the job description.”

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. He leans back from the glass, turning toward you. “And what job is that?”

“girlfriend” you say lightly, even though the words feel heavier than they should.

Jack’s gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before he catches himself. shaking his head slightly. “You’ve been overpaid.”

You laugh. “I don’t know. Pretty sure I’ve earned it.”

Jack’s hand slides from the boards, brushing against yours as he steps back onto the ice. The contact is brief a split second  but it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

He skates backward, his eyes never leaving yours. “Stay?”

You smile. “Always.”

Jack nods, his jaw unclenching slightly. His shoulders relax as he turns and skates toward the far side of the ice. He moves differently now, smoother, looser. It’s not perfect, but it’s him.

⟡

Jack’s in Buffalo for the Combine. He’d been gone for almost a week now, thrown into a blur of interviews, medical tests, and physical evaluations. You’d been following the coverage clips of him flashing across social media, a quick shot of him stepping into the arena or walking down a hallway with other top prospects. He looked calm on the surface, but you knew better.  The absence of him is starting to feel like a hollow ache beneath your ribs. You’ve talked to him every day, quick texts in the morning, rushed calls at night  but it’s not the same as having him there next to you. He’s exhausted you can tell even through the phone but he’s not the type to admit when it’s too much.

You’re half asleep when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. It takes you a second to realize what’s happening, the glow from the screen sharp against the dark. You blink, rubbing your eyes as you reach for it for the sixth time this week knowing it was a text from Jack “are you awake?”

You sit up, sleep slipping away as you type back. “yeah. What's wrong? it’s late.” The typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then nothing. You frown, already feeling the tightness in your chest. “want me to call?” A pause. “I just need to hear your voice.” Jack replied. 

You hit the call button without even looking at his message. Jack answers on the second ring. “Hey,” you say softly. “Hey,” Jack’s voice is rough, low. He sounds tired.

“Did you just finish?”

“Yeah.” He exhales sharply. “Got back to my room like five minutes ago.”

“What happened?”

Jack lets out a humorless laugh. “Where do I start?” His voice is tight, and you picture the way he probably looks right now sprawled out on the hotel bed, arm draped over his eyes. “The bike test was brutal. My legs were shaking so bad I thought I was going to fall off.”

You wince. “That bad?”

“They crank up the resistance until you physically can’t pedal anymore,” Jack says. “I could barely stand afterward.” Your chest tightens. “Jack” he cuts you off. “And the VO2 max test?” Jack groans. “I thought I was gonna puke. I was seeing spots by the end.” You frown. “Did anyone else struggle that much?”

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be better than that.” His voice sharpens. “I can’t afford to screw this up.”

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “You weren’t there,” Jack says, his tone edged with something close to frustration. But then his breath catches, and his voice softens. “Sorry. I didn’t mean”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt gently. “What else happened?” Jack sighs. “Wingate test. They make you sprint all out on the bike for 30 seconds. My legs were already toast, so I tanked it.”

“Jack” you say once again, getting cut off “And the long jump?” He laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “I swear I’ve never jumped that short in my life.”

“Did Quinn do better?” you ask carefully. “Of course he did,” Jack mutters. “The scouts loved him.” Your heart aches at the sharpness in his tone. You know how much Jack admires Quinn, but that admiration is tangled up with the constant pressure to keep up.

“And then,” Jack’s voice lowers, frustration leaking through, “they threw me into interviews while I could barely breathe. One scout asked if I thought I deserved to go first overall.” Your mouth tightens. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Another one asked if I think I’m better than Quinn.” You sit up straighter. “What the hell?” Jack mutters “I didn’t even know what to say,” His voice is low and tight. “I think I screwed it up.”

“You didn’t,” you say firmly. Jack doesn’t respond right away. You hear the rustling of sheets, the muffled sound of the TV in the background probably an old hockey game. “I don’t know,” Jack murmurs. “I need to be better.”

“Jack.” Your voice softens. “You’ve done enough. You’ve been working for this since you were a kid. You’re too hard on yourself” Jack’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it “What if it’s not enough?” Your chest tightens. This is the fear he doesn’t let other people see.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Close your eyes.” Jack’s quiet for a second. “What?” 

“Just trust me.” 

A long breath. “Okay.”

“You’re on the ice,” you say. “Just you. The rink’s empty.” Jack’s breath steadies. “You’ve got the puck,” you continue. “Skating down center ice. No pressure, no scouts, no cameras. Just you.”Jack hums quietly, like he can almost see it.“You make the shot,” you say. “Bar down. Clean.” Jack exhales. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And you don’t even need to look, because you already know it’s in.”There’s a long stretch of quiet on the other end of the line. Then, so soft you almost miss it “I wish you were here.”

“I know,” you whisper, throat tightening. “Me too.” Jack sighs, and you hear the rustling of sheets as he shifts. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’re not going to find out,” you say, trying to sound light, but it comes out more fragile than you mean it to. Jack’s quiet for a long time. You think he might have fallen asleep until you hear him murmur, “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” You press the phone closer to your ear, even though it won’t bring him any closer. “You’ve got this,” you whisper. “You’re going to be fine.”

Jack breathes out, low and even. “Stay on the phone with me?”

“Yeah,” you say, curling into your pillow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack’s quiet for a while after that, but you don’t hang up. You stay there, listening to the sound of his breathing as it evens out, until the line finally goes quiet and you know he’s asleep. You don’t hang up. Not yet.

⟡

Jack’s been quiet all morning. His usual easy smile is nowhere to be found, replaced by a tight line of tension in his jaw. He’s been bouncing his knee relentlessly, his leg jittering under the table during breakfast at the hotel. He barely touched his food, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate until Quinn took it away and told him to stop torturing it. Now, he’s sitting next to you on the edge of the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, his fingers tapping absently against his knee. The hotel room is bright from the mid-morning sun filtering through the sheer curtains, but it feels too quiet  too still  like the entire day is holding its breath.

Jack’s name has been everywhere since the Combine. Every hockey account, every sports network, every mock draft all saying the same thing. First overall. Franchise player. Generational talent. He should be used to it by now, but it feels different this time. Closer. Like the weight of it all is pressing down on his chest. And you feel it too, even from miles away. You saw it during the Combine  the way he tensed when people mentioned the draft, how he downplayed his scores and his interviews even when you knew he’d crushed them. Jack’s always been good at brushing things off, but this feels different. Bigger. Like it’s not just about hockey anymore. It’s about living up to something.

The draft isn’t until later tonight, but the weight of it is already pressing down. Jack’s been working toward this moment his whole life, the moment his name is called, the moment his future in the NHL becomes real and now that it’s finally here, it’s like he can’t figure out how to breathe through it.

You shift closer until your knee bumps his. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Jack’s eyes slide toward you, dark under the shadows of his lashes. He huffs out a breath. “How am I supposed to not think about it?” His voice is quiet, frayed at the edges.

You reach for his hand, your fingers slipping between his. He’s warm always is, but his hand is stiff, tense. “I don’t know. Maybe stop overthinking it.”

Jack lets out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing along your knuckles. His gaze drifts toward the window, but you can tell he’s not really seeing it. His mind is already at Rogers Arena, already running through every possible outcome. He’s been carrying the weight of this for months the expectations, the pressure, the comparisons to Quinn, to his dad and you know it’s only gotten heavier.

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, his eyes are wide, a little raw around the edges. You offer him a small smile. “You’ve got this.”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And what if I don’t?”

“You will.” You don’t hesitate, don’t even think about it. You just know. Jack’s been skating since before he could walk. He’s trained for this put in the work, put in the hours. He’s ready. Even if he can’t see it right now.

Jack’s gaze stays on you, his brow furrowing slightly. His hand tightens around yours. “I’m scared,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shift closer until your shoulder presses against his. “That’s normal.”

Jack’s eyes darken. “What if I’m not good enough?”

“You are.”

Jack swallows hard, his jaw working. He looks away, his throat bobbing as he tries to steady his breathing. You can feel the tension radiating off of him, the way his chest rises and falls too quickly. His thumb rubs absently against the back of your hand.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” you say softly. “Even if you don’t go first. Even if it doesn’t go the way you expect  you’ll still have hockey. You’ll still have me.”

Jack’s breath stutters. He turns his head slightly, his cheek brushing against your hair. “You mean that?”

You lift your head and meet his gaze. “Of course I do.”

Jack’s hand slides from your hand to your knee, his fingers curling around it like he’s grounding himself there. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, it feels like the weight of the room shifts. The nerves are still there, the pressure, the uncertainty but some of the tension in his face softens. His eyes flick toward your mouth, then back to your eyes. He exhales slowly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you say, just as softly.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Promise?”

You smile, your hand lifting to his jaw. “Promise.”

Jack lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes for a moment, his hand tightening on your knee. The quiet settles around you both, not the heavy kind, not the tense kind  just quiet.

“Jack?” Quinn’s voice breaks the silence, followed by a knock at the door. “We’ve gotta go soon.”

Jack sighs. He lifts his head, his eyes lingering on you for a second longer before he pulls away. “Yeah, okay.”

Jack stands, adjusting his shirt and brushing his hands down his pants. His gaze flicks toward you, hesitant. “You’re coming with us, right?”

You stand too, straightening his collar. “Obviously.”

Jack’s mouth curves into something close to a real smile, small but genuine. He takes your hand again, linking your fingers as he leads you toward the door.

The car ride to Rogers Arena is quiet. Jack sits next to you in the backseat, his knee bouncing, his fingers tapping against his thigh. He’s wearing a fitted suit, his hair styled but still a little messy at the top. You can tell he’s trying not to overthink it, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.

Quinn and Luke sit in the back of the car, phone in their hand, scrolling through Twitter. The whole car feels charged, the anticipation building the closer you get to the arena. When you pull up, Jack hesitates for half a second before stepping out. His hand brushes against yours as you follow him out of the car.

Inside, the energy is palpable. The arena is packed with media, fans, scouts, the low hum of conversations mixing with the occasional burst of camera flashes. Jack tugs at the cuff of his jacket, his mouth pulling into a thin line. His eyes flick toward you.

You slip your hand into his, squeezing gently. “Deep breath,” you say.

Jack’s jaw relaxes slightly. He squeezes your hand back. His eyes linger on you for a beat before he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Quinn steps up behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got this”

Jack’s mouth twitches. He looks toward the draft stage, toward the rows of seats, the cameras, the scouts and then back at you. His hand tightens around yours.

“You’re with me, right?” Jack asks quietly.

You smile. “Always.”

Jack breathes out. And this time, when he looks toward the stage, the tension in his jaw fades just a little.

Jack’s heart is hammering. It’s too loud in here the buzz of conversation, the hum of the arena speakers, the occasional burst of laughter from a family. His suit jacket feels too tight across his shoulders, his tie choking him a little more with each second that passes. His name has been circling the draft floor for months, repeated on every broadcast and in every article first overall, franchise player, generational talent  but none of it feels real right now. It feels heavy. Like the weight of the entire league is resting on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He shifts in his seat, his hand resting against his thigh, and feels your fingers slip between his. His head turns toward you automatically. You’re sitting beside him, close enough that your knee is pressed against his. Your hand is steady, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping you until you adjust your hand slightly, your grip soft but certain.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, low enough that only he can hear. Jack breathes out shakily. “Am I?” You smile soft, sure. “Yeah. You are.”

Jack’s gaze drops to the floor, his thumb smoothing over the inside of your wrist. He can feel the pulse there, steady beneath his touch. His heart’s not steady. It’s racing. He doesn’t know if it’ll settle until this is over until he hears his name.

Quinn is watching him. He’s sitting straight in his chair, hands resting on his thighs, but his eyes are soft when they meet Jack’s. “You’ve got this,” Quinn says quietly. Jack’s mouth twitches. He starts to nod, but then Luke leans across from Quinn. 

“Yeah,” Luke adds, his grin lopsided, a little nervous but bright. “And if you don’t, you can always blame it on Quinn.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. 

Jack huffs a soft laugh, but it fades quickly. His gaze shifts toward the stage, where the Devils’ management team is already gathering. The nerves coil tighter in his chest. His hand tightens around yours.

“You’re with me, right?” Jack asks quietly. 

You don’t even hesitate. “Always.”

Jack’s eyes soften, some of the tension fading from his expression. He breathes out and shifts closer, his knee pressing into yours beneath the table. He doesn’t have time to say anything else before the commissioner steps up to the microphone.

Jack’s stomach drops. The noise in the arena swells as the camera swings toward the Devils’ table. The commissioner is still talking, but Jack barely hears it over the blood rushing in his ears. His legs feel locked beneath the table. His chest is tight.

“And with the first overall pick, the New Jersey Devils are proud to select from the US National Team Development Program… Jack Hughes.”

Your hand squeezes his.

Jack exhales. He stands on shaky legs as Quinn claps him on the back, Luke grinning wide as he jumps up to hug him. “Dude!” Luke laughs, his arms tight around Jack’s waist. Quinn pulls them both in, his head knocking against Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s laugh comes out a little breathless.

“Go get your jersey,” Quinn says, his voice thick with pride.

Jack’s hand is still locked with yours as he turns toward you. His expression is soft, his eyes dark and bright all at once. “You’re coming with me after this, right?”

You smile. “Try and stop me.”

Jack hesitates for half a second, then leans in. He kisses you quickly  just a press of his lips against your cheek  but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb brushes over your knuckles once more before he finally lets go and steps away.

Jack walks toward the stage, his heart still pounding but his legs moving steady beneath him. He can feel Quinn and Luke’s eyes on him, your smile burned into the back of his mind. He shakes hands with the commissioner, pulls on the Devils jersey, and lifts the hat onto his head. Cameras flash. The noise swells. His chest is tight again  but this time, it’s not nerves. It’s something else. Something warmer.

He looks back toward the floor, toward the row of seats where Quinn, Luke, and you are sitting. You’re still watching him. Your hand rests against your heart. Quinn’s arms are crossed, smiling like he knew this would happen all along. Luke is grinning wide, already pointing toward the Devils logo on Jack’s chest.

Jack breathes out. And this time, he smiles.

After the photos and the handshakes, Jack ushered toward the media pit. Questions are thrown at him from every angle about expectations, about his future with the Devils, about being a franchise player. He answers them as best as he can, his gaze flicking toward the crowd every so often, searching for you. When it’s over, the team staff directs him toward the tunnel, and he barely makes it a few steps before he hears someone yell his name.

“Jack!”

He turns just in time to see you barreling toward him, arms outstretched. Jack’s barely able to brace himself before you crash into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. His arms come up automatically, locking around your waist. You’re laughing and crying at the same time, your face buried in his shoulder. Jack breathes out, his chin resting on top of your head.

“You did it,” you whisper.

Jack’s arms tighten around you. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You could’ve,” you mumble, pulling back enough to look at him. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

Jack’s gaze drops to your mouth. His hands settle at your waist, his thumbs brushing lightly over the hem of your sweater. His chest is still pounding, but this feels steadier somehow. Grounding.

“Hey,” Quinn’s voice cuts in. Jack glances up to see Quinn and Luke standing nearby, Luke practically vibrating with excitement. Quinn’s got that proud but pretending to be casual look on his face.

Luke steps forward first, grinning. “Dude! First overall!” He throws his arms around Jack’s waist, nearly knocking him over. Jack laughs, ruffling Luke’s hair.

“Couldn’t have done it without you either,” Jack says.

Luke pulls back, his smile wide. Quinn rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn’t fade. “Congrats, Jack.” He steps in, pulling Jack into a one armed hug and clapping him on the back. “Knew you had it in you.”

Jack’s throat feels tight. He pulls back and looks between Quinn, Luke, and you. His family. His people. His hand finds yours again, his fingers threading through yours like it’s instinct. Your gaze softens, and Jack feels his heartbeat finally settle.

“Come on,” Quinn says, nodding toward the tunnel. “Let’s go celebrate.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Let’s go.”

⟡

It’s been a whirlwind since the draft. Jack signed his contract with the Devils two weeks ago, and now he’s leaving to New Jersey for rookie camp. Jack’s flight to New Jersey is early. Too early. You’re still wrapped in blankets on the couch when he stands in the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His Devils hat is pulled low over his eyes, casting a shadow across his face. His mouth pulls into a thin line as he looks at you, hesitation flickering in his eyes.

“I should get going,” Jack says quietly.

You push yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you cross the room toward him. “Are you sure you have everything?”

Jack nods, but his gaze stays on the floor. His hand tightens around the strap of his bag. “Yeah.”

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer. Your arms wrap around his waist, and Jack exhales sharply as he melts into you. His chin rests on top of your head, and his heartbeat thrums against your cheek.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you murmur.

Jack’s hand slides up your back. “It’s not like we’ve never done long distance before.”

“Yeah, but” You trail off, the words sticking in your throat. It feels different this time. You pull back, your hands lingering on the hem of his hoodie. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a big NHL star.”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jack’s eyes soften. He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “I do.”

You smile, even though your chest feels tight. Jack kisses you softly with a lingering brush of lips  and then pulls back too soon. His hand stays on your waist for an extra second before he steps away, his expression shifting into something steadier, more composed.

“Call me when you land?” you ask.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. “Always.”

You walk him to the door, watching as he disappears down the driveway and into the early morning light. Your chest feels hollow by the time his car pulls away. The silence that follows is heavier than you expect.

You try to keep busy over the next week  spending time with friends, picking up extra shifts but it’s hard to ignore how quiet it feels without Jack around. He calls every night, though, and you fall into a familiar rhythm. Jack fills you in on the details of rookie camp, the fitness tests, the long practices, and the media. He tells you about the other guys, how Nico seems nice, how Bratt’s already chirping at him like they’ve known each other for years. He tells you how much faster the game feels, how much stronger the guys are. You can hear it in his voice, the strain beneath his usual confidence.

“Hard day?” you ask one night, curled up in bed with your phone pressed to your ear.

Jack sighs. “Yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Jack’s quiet for a long moment. “I just don't know. I feel like I’m playing catch up. Like everyone’s two steps ahead.”

“You’ve barely been there for a few days, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack says. “But it’s not supposed to feel this hard.”

“You put too much pressure on yourself.” Jack huffs a soft laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “It’s kinda hard not to.” You’re quiet for a beat. Then, “You’re not gonna figure it out overnight.”

“I know.”

“But you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Jack doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, quietly, “I hope you’re right.” You close your eyes. “I always am.” Jack’s breath crackles over the line. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

Jack’s quiet for another moment. “I love you and I miss you .”

Your heart clenches. “I miss and love you too.”

Jack sighs softly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

You keep the phone pressed to your ear until the line goes quiet.

Jack calls you after his full day of rookie camp, his voice low and tired through the phone. He sounds exhausted, more than you expected. You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, your knees pulled to your chest, the phone pressed to your ear. 

“Hey,” Jack says, his voice scratchy. “Hey,” you say softly. “How was it?” Jack exhales a sharp breath. “Brutal.”  

“What happened?”  

“Fitness testing.” Jack huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “Like the Combine but worse.”  You sit up a little straighter. “Worse?”  

“Longer. Harder.” Jack’s voice dips lower. “I thought I was ready for it, but I don’t know.” He sounds frustrated, and that’s what gets you. Jack rarely admits when something’s hard. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” you say quietly.  “I don’t know,” Jack says again. “It’s not just the testing. The practices everyone’s so fast. So strong. I’m trying to keep up, but it feels like I’m a step behind.”  

You can almost picture him  sprawled across his bed, running a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s stressed. Your chest tightens. “You’ve been there for what five days?”  

“ a week.”  

“A week” you repeat. “Jack, you need to give yourself some time.”  

“I don’t have time,” Jack says. His voice sharpens, the frustration cracking through. “This is the NHL. Everyone’s watching.” 

You know that’s true you’ve seen the articles, the highlight reels on social media. It’s a lot for anyone especially for Jack, who’s always carried the weight of expectation like it’s part of his DNA.  

“Hey,” you say softly. “You don’t have to figure everything out right away. This isn’t going to be easy it’s not supposed to be. But you wouldn’t be there if you couldn’t handle it.”  

Jack’s quiet for a long moment. Then, barely above a whisper: “I don’t know if I can.” You close your eyes, your heart tightening. “Jack.” 

“I’m serious,” Jack says. His voice cracks a little at the edges. “What if I’m not as good as everyone thinks I am?”  

“You are,” you say immediately. “Jack, you’ve been working toward this your whole life. You belong there.”  

“Do I?” 

“Yes,” you say. “And if you can’t believe that yet let me believe it for you.”  Jack doesn’t answer right away. His breath crackles over the line. “What would I do without you?”  You smile faintly, even though your chest aches. “You’d figure it out.”  

“Maybe,” Jack says. “But I’m glad I don’t have to.”  

Jack starts texting you more after that. Sometimes it’s a quick message in the morning on the ice or a random photo of his new locker with his nameplate above it. Sometimes it’s a rant about drills, or a chirp about one of the guys. Jesper seems to be his favorite target. 

Bratt tripped me in practice today. little rat  

What'd you do? you text back.  

chirped him about his hair  

You can’t help but smile. But there are harder messages too.  

Bag skate this morning. Thought I was going to pass out.  

Coach isn’t happy with me.  

Everyone’s so much stronger. 

You know Jack doesn’t say these things to anyone else. With the media, with his teammates he’s steady. Confident. But with you he lets the cracks show. And when he calls you late at night, his voice low and rough, you know that’s when he’s feeling it the most.  

One night, it’s past midnight when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You’re half asleep, barely registering the sound until it buzzes again. You squint at the screen. Jack.  

“Hey,” you answer, your voice thick with sleep.  “Did I wake you?” Jack asks. “No,” you lie. “What’s wrong?”  

Jack sighs, and you can hear the tension in it. “Nothing.”  You wait. Jack’s quiet for so long you think maybe he’s about to hang up. Then he says, “I just needed to hear your voice.”  

You sit up, rubbing at your eyes. “Rough day?”  

Jack’s breath catches. “Yeah.” 

“What happened?”  

Jack’s quiet for another long moment. “Coach ripped into me.”  

You frown. “Why?”  

“Made a bad play during the scrimmage,” Jack says. “Got caught flat footed on the backcheck. Then I missed the net on a breakaway.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you.”  

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Jack says. His voice drops lower, almost shaky. “I’m trying. It’s just everything’s so much faster than I expected. I feel like I’m drowning.”  

“You’re not,” you say quietly. “You’re adjusting.”  

Jack’s breath hitches. “What if I don’t?”  

“You will.”  

Jack doesn’t answer for a long time. You hear rustling on the other end of the line, like he’s lying down. “I miss you,” he says finally.  

Your chest tightens. “I miss you too.”  

Jack’s voice gets softer. “Will you stay on the phone with me? Just for a little while?”  

You slide down beneath the covers, resting your head against the pillow. “Of course.”  

Jack breathes out. “Thanks.”  

You don’t say anything after that. Jack’s breathing evens out eventually, and you think he’s starting to fall asleep when you hear him murmur, barely audible “Love you.”  

You don’t know if he’s even awake enough to remember saying it. But your heart thuds painfully against your ribs.  

“I love you too,” you whisper.

⟡

Jack’s first game in the NHL is at home, and the crowd is louder than he expected. He steps onto the ice at Prudential Center, the Devils logo bright under the lights. The noise is deafening, the kind of sound that hits you square in the chest  and for a second it’s hard to breathe. His legs feel shaky as he skates through warmups, the ice cutting beneath his skates with every push. The energy is electric, but it’s not enough to drown out the knot in his chest. He knows everyone’s watching him, the first overall pick, the franchise’s future. He tries not to think about it but it’s impossible to ignore the weight of it.

You’re watching from Michigan. The game’s on TV in your room, your laptop balanced on your knees. Jack looks smaller on the screen somehow swallowed up by the bright lights and the size of the arena. He’s wearing number 86, and it still feels surreal seeing it on an NHL jersey. He’s buzzing with nerves  you can tell by the way he’s gripping his stick too tightly during warmups. He’s always done that when he’s nervous.

Jack texts you after warmups while the Zamboni is still clearing the ice. “Starting on the second line. My hands are shaking.”

You smile, already typing back. “You’ve got this. Just play your game.”

Jack’s response comes quickly. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“You won’t.” You pause before adding, “But maybe don’t sit next to Nico if you do.”

A minute passes before the dots appear again. “Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Jack doesn’t respond, but the small, shaky smile he gives the camera when it passes by his bench tells you he saw it.

The game itself is rough. Jack looks fast, quick on his feet, but the Devils’ offense struggles to keep up. He gets knocked down hard in the first period, bouncing off the boards and coming up wincing. He pushes through it, but you can tell he’s frustrated the way he shakes his head after a shift, the way he skates to the bench with his head down. The Devils lose 4-1, and Jack finishes with a minus-two rating. His line gets hemmed in the defensive zone more than once, and even though it’s just one game, the postgame interviews are already talking about whether he can handle the league’s size and speed.

He calls you after the game, his voice flat. “That sucked.”

“You knew it wasn’t going to be easy,” you say softly.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” Jack mutters. He sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I was minus-two. Do you know how bad that is?”

“Jack”

“Everyone’s already talking about it,” he cuts you off. His voice tightens, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “I can’t screw this up” He trails off, his breath shaky.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” you say firmly. “It’s one game.”

“It’s not just one game.” Jack exhales through his nose, and you can hear the tension in it. “This is what I’ve been working toward my whole life. And what if I’m not good enough?”

You close your eyes, pressing your forehead to your hand. “Jack. You are good enough. You belong here.”

Jack’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he says eventually. But he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

The first few weeks are more of the same. Jack gets pushed around a lot, the physicality wearing on him. He’s getting hit hard, knocked off the puck more than he’s used to. He’s fast, but the guys he’s playing against are bigger, more experienced. He’s trying, you can see it but it’s not coming together the way he wants it to.

Your phone buzzes constantly after games. Jack’s name lights up the screen with texts “Minus-three. Fucking embarrassing.” “I can’t score.” “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

You try to reassure him, but the losses are piling up. The Devils are 0-4-2 to start the season, and Jack’s still scoreless. The media’s already running with it  headlines about whether he was overhyped, if he’s too small for the league. Jack tries to brush it off, but you know it’s getting to him.

It’s late one night when he calls you, his voice quiet. “I don’t know how to fix this.” You sit up in bed, clutching the phone to your ear. “You will.” 

Jack doesn’t say anything for a while. “I just” He sighs. “I miss you.”

Your chest tightens. “I miss you too.”

Jack’s breath hitches. “I hate it here,” he says quietly.

Your eyes burn. “I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’re not doing this without me,” you whisper.

Jack’s quiet for a long time. His breathing is steady in your ear. Eventually, he says, “I just want to come home.”

You close your eyes, swallowing down the ache in your chest. “I know,” you say softly. “But you can’t.”

Jack doesn’t answer, but you know he’s still there. After a while, his breathing evens out, and you realize he’s fallen asleep on the line. You stay there for a while, the phone pressed to your ear, listening to his quiet breathing.

Jack finally scores his first goal two weeks into the season, a breakaway against Vancouver. Quinn’s on the ice when it happens, and you see the way Quinn hugs him against the glass after the puck crosses the line. Jack looks lighter for a moment, his smile big and bright, but it fades quickly after the game ends. The Devils still lost 5-2.

He calls you that night, and he sounds more tired than happy. “It doesn’t matter if we keep losing,” Jack mutters.

“Yes, it does,” you say. “Jack, you scored. That’s huge.”

Jack sighs. “Yeah.” He’s quiet for a second before adding, “Quinn said you screamed when it went in.”

You laugh. “Maybe.”

Jack’s breath softens. “I miss you.”

Your heart squeezes. “I miss you too.”

Jack’s quiet for a long time before he says, “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”

You don’t know how to answer that. So you don’t.

⟡

Jack’s rookie season should’ve been exciting. It should’ve been everything he’s worked for. Instead, it’s November, and the Devils are on a six-game losing streak. Jack’s gone nine games without a goal, and the media’s not holding back. Every headline is brutal. Every post game interview is worse. He’s not smiling as much anymore. He’s quiet when you call, sometimes too tired to even talk. And when you visit, it feels like he’s somewhere else entirely.

The last time you saw him in person was two weeks ago. You’d flown from Michigan to see him play in Newark the first time you’d been able to since the season started. Jack had barely looked at you when you met him outside the locker room. His face was tight, his eyes tired. He’d hugged you, but it was quick. Impersonal. And when you sat with his family during the game, you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he carried himself on the ice like the weight of it all was pressing down too hard. He’d been the last one off the ice after the loss, his head down, his mouth pulled tight.

He called you that night late, when you were already back at the hotel and apologized. “I just I’m sorry I couldn’t see you more,” Jack had said, his voice low. He’d sounded exhausted. “I’m just tired.”

Now, it’s almost midnight again, and you’re staring at your phone, waiting for him to call. He hasn’t. You’ve texted twice with no answer. You know he’s probably at home by now, maybe asleep. Or maybe not. He’s started turning his phone off after games. Less noise, he’d said. Less pressure. But you don’t know if it’s helping.

It’s hard to know what to say when you do talk to him. When he tells you he’s doing fine, even though you can hear it in his voice that he isn’t. When he tells you, “I’ll figure it out,” even though you can see him unraveling.

The next morning, you call him before class. He answers on the third ring, his voice rough with sleep. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”

Jack sighs. You can hear the sound of him rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

Jack’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah.”

You sit down on the edge of your bed, clutching the phone a little tighter. “Jack”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“You’re not,” you say gently. “You don’t have to-”

“I said I’m fine,” Jack cuts in. His tone is sharper than you’ve ever heard it.

You go quiet. Jack exhales. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I just don't know.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a while. You can hear his breathing over the line, steady but heavy. Finally, he speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “You don’t have to fix it alone.”

Jack doesn’t answer. And after a while, the line goes quiet.

The next time you talk to Jack, it’s after another loss. This time to Toronto. Another night of him leaving the rink without a point. Another night of reporters asking him what’s wrong, why he isn’t producing.

“I’m trying,” Jack says, his voice tight. “I’m trying and it’s not, it's not working.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But it’s not your fault. It’s a team-”

“I don’t care if it’s a team thing,” Jack snaps. “I’m the first pick. I’m supposed to be the one fixing it.”

“Jack-”

“I have to be better.” His voice cracks. “I just I don’t know how.”

Your heart aches. You want to reach through the phone and pull him into you. Hold him until the tension melts away. But you can’t. You’re too far away. And Jack’s already starting to pull back.

“You’re not alone im with you,” you say quietly.

Jack doesn’t answer.

You hear him breathe out. Then the call ends.

The worst part is that you don’t know how to help him. Jack’s not letting you in the way he used to. And you can feel it the distance growing between you, like something fraying at the edges. You want to fix it. You want to be enough to hold him together.But Jack’s starting to slip through your fingers.

⟡

After a while, you notice that not only jack started to drift from you, but also your relationship with him. It starts with the little things.

The missed calls. The delayed replies. The way Jack’s voice sounds a little too thin over the phone, his laugh not quite reaching the places it usually does. He’s tired you can hear it even when he tries to hide it.

At first, you don’t think much of it. Jack’s schedule is brutal, and it’s not like he’s never missed a call before. But then it starts happening more often. You’ll text him after a game Proud of you, call me when you can? and it’ll sit there for hours. Sometimes until the next day. Or he’ll call you late, hours after he said he would, with a rushed apology and a tired “I’m sorry, babe. I just passed out after practice.”

You get it. You do.  He’s in the middle of his rookie season, grinding through the hardest stretch of hockey he’s ever played, and he’s under more pressure than he’ll ever admit. But that doesn’t make it sting any less when you see his name light up your phone after midnight and realize you’ve already given up hope of hearing from him that night. 

Or when you do pick up, and it’s not the Jack you’re used to hearing.

“Hey,” you say softly, curling up under the covers. “You okay?”

Jack’s voice is thin over the line. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He always says that. Just tired. Even when it sounds like more than that.

“You played well tonight,” you offer. “Had that sick pass in the second.”

Jack’s breath crackles faintly through the speaker. “Didn’t matter. We still lost.”

“It’s not on you.”

Jack hums. You can picture the way he’s probably lying there  head buried in the pillow, hand resting over his face, the line of his jaw tight. He’s always been hard on himself. But lately, it's gotten worse.

The games aren’t going well. The media’s been tearing into him —first overall pick and only four goals? The disappointment in the headlines is almost palpable. You’ve stopped reading the articles, but you know Jack hasn’t. He doesn’t talk about it, but you can tell from the way he’s quieter now. The way his texts have dwindled from paragraphs to one word answers. 

The last time you FaceTimed, Jack barely looked at you. He was lying in bed, hair damp from his post-game shower, and you could see the crease between his brows even when he wasn’t talking. You tried to make him smile made a dumb joke about how you’d start training to become the Devils' new enforcer but all you got was a faint chuckle and, “Sorry, I’m just-”

“Tired,” you’d finished for him, and Jack had sighed, rubbing his hand over his face.

It’s been like this for a while now. He’s slipping  or maybe you’re the one slipping away. You don’t know how to fix it when Jack’s over 600 miles away, and every conversation feels like trying to grasp sand in your hands the harder you try to hold on, the faster it slips through your fingers.  

You’re curled up in bed now, phone pressed to your ear as Jack’s voice filters through the speaker. 

“It was bad,” Jack says. His voice is quiet. Defeated. “I just I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sit up a little, pushing back the tight feeling in your chest. “Jack, it’s not you. The whole team’s struggling right now.”

“Yeah, but” He cuts himself off. You can hear the frustrated exhale on the other end. “I should be better. I was the first overall pick  I’m supposed to make a difference.”

“You are making a difference,” you say gently. “It’s your rookie year. No one expects you to carry the team.”

Jack’s silent for a beat too long. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Jack?”

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice sounds distant. “I know.”

You hesitate. “Do you, though?”

His breath hitches. “I just I don’t know. Feels like I’m trying, but nothing’s working. And people are starting to talk, you know? About how maybe I wasn’t ready, maybe I’m not”

“Jack,” you cut in. “Stop.”

He doesn’t respond.

“You’re not a mistake,” you say, because you know that’s what he’s thinking. “You deserve to be there. You worked your ass off for this.”

“I guess.”

“Not ‘I guess,’” you press. “Jack, you”

“I know,” he snaps, and the sharpness of it cuts through the space between you. You freeze, swallowing the knot in your throat. Jack exhales shakily. His voice softens. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

You force a small smile even though he can’t see it. “You’re allowed to be tired.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, but it doesn’t sound like he believes it.

Another stretch of silence presses down between you. You wait for Jack to fill it, but he doesn’t.

“You want me to stay on the phone with you?” you ask quietly.

Jack’s quiet for a second. “No its okay”

“I’ll stay” 

“Okay.”

So you stay. Jack doesn’t say much after that. You can hear the rustle of his comforter as he shifts around, settling into bed. His breathing starts to even out. You stay awake longer than you probably should, listening to the soft sound of him breathing on the other end of the line, wondering how much longer you’ll be able to reach him like this.

Because lately, even when he’s right there, yet he feels so far away.

⟡

It’s been months of missed calls, delayed texts, and half-hearted conversations. Jack’s always tired. Or busy. Or distracted. And when you do talk, it’s like he’s only halfway there like some part of him is already pulling away. You’ve tried not to read into it, tried to convince yourself it’s just the pressure of his rookie season, that things will settle once he finds his rhythm. But deep down, you know better. It’s not just hockey. It’s him. It’s you. It’s the quiet space growing between you, the way it stretches wider with every unanswered text and every empty conversation.

So you book a flight to New Jersey because you need to know if this is still something you can save or if you lost him completely

DAY ONE  

The cab ride from the airport to Jack’s apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The city outside the window passes in a blur of gray and headlights, but you don’t really see it. Your phone sits heavy in your lap, the screen dark except for the faint reflection of the passing streetlights. You tap your thumb against the side of it like you're expecting a message that you know isn’t coming. Jack texted you earlier to confirm he’d be home when you arrived, but that was three hours ago. No follow-up. No “Can’t wait to see you.” No little heart emoji like he used to send.  

It’s not that he’s ignoring you  at least, not outright. He’s busy, you’ve told yourself a hundred times over the last few weeks. Rookie season is demanding. New city, new team, new pressure. He’s adjusting. You should understand that. And you do. You swear you do. But understanding it doesn’t make the silence feel any less heavy.  

When the cab pulls up in front of Jack’s building, you hesitate for a second before stepping out. You’re not sure why  it’s not like you’ve never been here before but the weight sitting low in your stomach makes it hard to breathe. The driver sets your bag on the curb, and you force yourself to pick it up, shoulders tensing under the weight of it as you walk toward the entrance.  

Jack opens the door when you knock. He’s in a plain Devils hoodie and sweatpants, his hair damp like he just showered. He smiles, but it’s thin, barely reaching his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice is soft, like he's already tired.  

You smile, forcing brightness into your voice. “Hey.”  

Jack leans down to kiss you, but it’s brief. Quick. Like he’s already pulling away before it starts. His hand finds the small of your back and guides you into the apartment, but it drops as soon as the door closes behind you.  

The apartment looks the same cleaner than you expected, probably because Ellen came to visit last week but it feels off. Like someone came through and rearranged all the furniture just enough to make you notice. Jack’s shoes are in a neat row by the door. There’s a half empty coffee mug sitting on the counter. His phone is face down on the couch.  

Jack sits down on the couch, leaving a noticeable gap beside him. You sit too, trying to close it, but he doesn’t shift toward you.  

“So,” you start, your voice too bright, too forced, “how was practice today?”  

“Fine.”  

Your stomach twists. “Just fine?”  

Jack shrugs, eyes fixed on the muted TV. “Yeah.”  

You watch him for a second, the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hand rests against his knee. Normally, he'd have his arm around you by now. Normally, you’d be tangled together and he’d be rambling about plays and drills and how Nico wouldn’t stop chirping him today.  

But he’s quiet. Detached.  

And you’re hyper aware of the space between you.  

Jack reaches for the remote and starts flipping through channels. His brows furrowed in concentration, but he’s not really watching anything. It’s like his body is here, but the rest of him is somewhere else.  

“Hungry?” he asks after a minute.  

“Yeah, I could eat.”  

“Cool.” He stands. “I’ll order something.”  

And that’s it. He disappears into the kitchen without asking what you want. A minute later, you hear the soft murmur of his voice on the phone.   

You sit there, your heart beating loud in your ears, and wonder why it feels like you’ve already lost him.  

Jack comes back a few minutes later and drops onto the couch, his knee brushing against yours for half a second before he shifts away.  

“Food should be here in, like, twenty minutes,” he says.  

You nod. “okay”  

More silence. The TV hums in the background, the flicker of light reflecting off Jack’s face. You glance at him, hoping he’ll look over at you, but his gaze stays fixed on the screen. His hand is resting between his knees, his fingers pulling at a loose thread in the fabric of his sweatpants.  

You clear your throat. “Did you, um talk to Quinn today he was asking me about you?”  

Jack’s mouth tightens. “Yeah.”  

“And?”  

“He’s good.”  

You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. The seconds stretch out between you, long and tense and uncomfortable.  

“Jack.” You lean toward him, lowering your voice. “What’s going on?” Jack’s jaw twitches. “Nothing.”  

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.”  

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just been a long week.”  

You search his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint crease in his forehead and you know he’s not lying. But you also know he’s not telling you the whole truth.   

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say, your voice soft.  

Jack’s gaze flickers toward you, and for a second, you see it  the familiar warmth, the quiet vulnerability you’ve always known how to reach. His eyes soften, and he looks like he might actually say something.  

But then the buzzer for the front door sounds, and the moment evaporates.  

Jack stands quickly. “That’s the food.”  

You watch him cross the room, feeling the distance stretch wider with every step.  

He comes back with a brown takeout bag, setting it on the coffee table before sitting down. He opens the bag and pulls out containers of food  sushi, not your favorite  and hands you a pair of chopsticks without looking at you. 

You stare down at the food. “Did you know what I wanted?”  

Jack hesitates. “I just ordered something quick.”  

Your chest tightens. Jack always knows what you want. He knows you like avocado rolls, not spicy tuna. He knows you like extra soy sauce on the side and that you don’t like wasabi. But tonight, it’s like he didn’t even think about it.  

You pick at the sushi, appetite gone. Jack eats quietly, his eyes back on the TV. The sound of the game commentator fills the air, too loud, pressing into your skull.  

After a few minutes, Jack stands and starts cleaning up. He takes your barely touched container and tosses it in the trash without a word.  

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.  

“Oh. Okay.”  

Jack hesitates in the doorway. His eyes flick toward you, and for a second, you think he might come back, sit down, pull you into his arms, tell you he’s just tired and that everything is fine.  

But he doesn’t. He disappears down the hall, and a minute later, you hear the sound of the shower running.  

You sit there, hands clasped in your lap, listening to the water hit the tile. Your heart feels too big and too small at the same time, pressing against the walls of your chest.   

Jack’s phone buzzes on the table, and you glance at it. A text from Nico lights up the screen:  

Good skate today. 

 You stare at the message for a long time. 

The shower runs in the background, and you sit alone on the couch, feeling the emptiness stretch out around you.

DAY TWO

Jack sleeps with his back to you.  

It’s not the first time, but it feels different tonight. Final. His side of the bed feels miles away, the sheets cool and untouched where his body should be. You lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his breathing. It’s shallow, restless. Every few minutes, he shifts, the mattress dipping under his weight.  

You think about reaching for him, curling up into his side like you always do. Your hand twitches under the blanket, fingers itching to brush over his back, to anchor yourself to the steady rhythm of his breathing. But something stops you. Fear, maybe or just the quiet certainty that if you reach for him, he’ll pull away.  

So you stay still, the space between you cold and unforgiving.  

You wake up sometime in the middle of the night to find him half hanging off the edge of the bed, his face turned toward the wall. His arm is curled beneath his head, his breathing uneven. You watch the rise and fall of his back, the way his shoulders tense even in sleep. He’s not resting, not really.   

You swallow hard and sit up slightly, brushing your hair away from your face. For a second, you think about touching him, coaxing him back toward you. But you don’t. You can’t.   

In the morning, Jack wakes up first. You know this because you hear him moving around the apartment while you lie there, eyes closed, hoping he’ll come back to bed. He doesn’t.  

Instead, you hear the distant sound of water running in the bathroom, the clink of glass in the kitchen. The low hum of the TV. You press your face into the pillow and try to breathe through the tightness in your chest.  

When you finally get up, Jack’s sitting at the kitchen counter with a protein shake. He’s already dressed in workout gear Devils issued shorts and a long-sleeve shirt that fits snug around his arms. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. He glances up when you enter the room.  

“Morning,” you say, your voice coming out softer than you meant.  

“Hey.”  

You sit across from him, pulling your knees up and wrapping your arms around them. Jack’s gaze flickers toward you briefly, then drops back down to his protein shake. He spins the cup slowly in his hands, condensation trailing down the side.  

You try to find his eyes. “Sleep okay?”  

Jack nods, distracted. He taps his thumb against the edge of the cup. “Yeah.”  

“You sure?”  

“Mmhmm.” His gaze darts toward the window.  

You glance at the clock on the microwave. “What time’s practice?”  

“Ten.”  

“You want to grab coffee after?”  

Jack hesitates. His shoulders tighten. “I don’t know. We’ve got media stuff later.”  

“Oh.”  

You feel stupid for asking.  

Jack stands and rinses out his cup in the sink. His back is to you, but you see the tension in his shoulders. He’s holding it all in  the pressure, the frustration, the weight of everything this year has asked of him. Normally, he’d tell you about it. He’d talk through it, let you hold it with him for a little while.  

But now it feels like he’s trying to keep the distance intact.  

“You okay?” you ask quietly.  

“Yeah.”  

“Jack.”  

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. When he speaks, his voice is tight. “It’s just a lot right now.”  

You nod, even though he’s not looking at you.  

Jack’s hand curls over the edge of the counter. His knuckles turn white for half a second before he exhales and grabs his keys from the hook by the door.  

“I’ll see you later, okay?” His tone is light  too light. Like he’s trying to make this feel normal.  

You sit up straighter. “We could go out tonight. Dinner or something.”  

Jack pauses with his hand on the handle. His eyes flick toward you, guarded. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”  

Then he’s gone.  

The door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet of the apartment closes in around you.  

You sit there for a long time, staring at the spot where he stood. The sunlight spills in through the thin curtains, cutting pale lines across the hardwood floor. You think about the way he used to kiss you in the mornings, sleepy and warm, his hand curled over the back of your neck. You think about the way he used to tug you into his chest after a restless night, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your hair.  

And then you think about last night about the empty side of the bed and the quiet wall of his back facing you.  

Your phone buzzes on the table. You grab it quickly, your heart leaping in your chest. But it’s not Jack. It’s a text from quinn  

"Hope you’re having a good time! How’s Jack?" 

You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back:  

"Good. Everything’s good." 

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.   

You sit there for a while longer, the phone still in your hand, before pushing yourself to your feet. You grab the half-empty protein shake Jack left on the counter and dump it down the sink. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence.  

It’s only nine o’clock, but it feels later. Your eyes drift toward the bedroom  the sheets still rumpled from sleep and you wonder if you should crawl back into bed and wait for him to come home.  

But you know better.  

Instead, you curl up on the couch and pull the blanket over your legs. Jack’s sweatshirt is draped over the arm of the couch, and you pull it onto your lap, bunching the sleeves in your hands. It smells like his laundry detergent and something warmer, more familiar.  

you press your face into the fabric and close your eyes, trying to remember the last time he held you like he meant it.  

You think about how he used to look at you and really look at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.  

But that was months ago. Now, when Jack looks at you, it’s like he’s looking through you. Or worse like he’s already decided what happens next.  

Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Jack.  

“Practice ran long. Gonna be late.” 

You type out a quick response  "Okay."  but don’t hit send right away.  

Instead, you sit there with the message glowing on the screen, wondering when it started feeling like this. Like you’re holding onto something that’s already slipping away.

DAY THREE

It was worse the next day. The air felt thicker, like it was weighing down every conversation. Jack seemed distracted, his gaze always drifting toward his phone or the TV. When you asked if he wanted to grab lunch, he hesitated for a second before saying, "Yeah, sure," like he was doing you a favor.

At lunch, he kept glancing around, not meeting your eyes. You watched him scroll through his phone between bites of his sandwich. You tapped your nails against the table.

"Jack."

"Hmm?" His eyes didn’t lift from his phone.

"Can you put that down?"

He sighed but set the phone face down. "Okay."

You wanted to ask if he even wanted you here. You wanted to ask why he wasn’t looking at you like he used to, why you felt like a ghost in his apartment. But you swallowed it all down and smiled when Jack forced another conversation about hockey that you could barely focus on.

That night, he sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone again while you sat behind him. You reached out, resting a hand on his back. He tensed.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said quickly.

"You don’t seem like it."

"I’m fine, okay?" His tone was sharp. He stood up and walked toward the bathroom without looking back.

You stared at the empty space he left behind.

DAY FOUR

You woke up before Jack.  

He was lying on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair sticking up in every direction. You watched him for a moment, chest rising and falling steadily. He looked peaceful like this like the Jack you used to know. The Jack who used to roll over and pull you into his arms the second he woke up.  

You shifted closer, brushing your hand over his back. His skin was warm under your fingertips. He stirred, groaning softly into the pillow.  

"Morning," you whispered.  

Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked at you sleepily, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Morning."  

You smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his bare shoulder. He didn’t react. Just sat up and ran a hand through his hair.  

"What time is it?"  

"Almost nine."  

Jack nodded, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I should get going soon."  

"Going where?I thought you had today off"  

Jack stood, stretching. "I do, I'm just going to go workout with some of the guys."  

"Oh." You sat up, the sheets pooling around your waist. "Can I come?"  

Jack paused, looking at you over his shoulder. "I mean it’s just going to be boring."  

"I don’t care."  

Jack hesitated. "I think we’re just gonna grab lunch after. Probably end up hanging out at Nico’s."  

You bit the inside of your cheek. "So you don’t want me there?"  

Jack’s gaze darted to the floor. "It’s not that."  

"Then what is it?"  

Jack sighed. "I don’t know. Just feels like a guys' thing, you know?"  

You swallowed. "Right."  

Jack’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it, checking the screen. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.  

"Who is it?" you asked.  

“Nico," Jack said, texting back quickly. He tossed his phone onto the bed, already moving toward the bathroom.  

You sat there for a moment, heart sinking.  

"I’ll be back later," Jack called over his shoulder.  

"Cool," you murmured. But Jack had already closed the door behind him.  

You sat there for a long time, listening to the shower running.  

When Jack got back that afternoon, you were curled up on the couch, knees pulled to your chest. He walked in, tossed his keys onto the counter, and sat down across from you. He scrolled through his phone without saying anything.  

You watched him for a moment.  

"How was it?" you asked.  

"Hmm?"  

"Your workout."  

Jack shrugged. "Good."  

"Anything else?"  

Jack didn’t look up. "Nope."  

Your jaw tightened.  

You shifted closer, resting a hand on his arm. "Jack."  

He tensed. "What?"  

You hated how sharp his voice sounded. Like you were annoying him.  

"Do you want to do something tonight?" you asked quietly.  

Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t know. I’m kind of tired."  

"Oh."  

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you. "What?"  

"Nothing," you said quickly, even though it wasn’t nothing.  

Jack’s phone buzzed again. He picked it up without hesitation. You sat there, heart sinking as he smiled at the screen. He didn’t even notice the way your hand fell away from his arm.  

And that’s when it hit you.  

You weren’t the person he wanted to talk to anymore.  

You weren’t the person who made him smile like that anymore.  

You took a breath, swallowing hard. "Jack."  

"Hmm?"  

You sat up straighter, heart hammering painfully against your ribs. "Do you even want me here?"  

Jack’s head jerked toward you, brows furrowing. "What kind of question is that?"  

"You’re barely looking at me." Your voice cracked. "You don’t talk to me. When you do, it feels like you’re trying to get through it so you can go back to your phone. Just say it if you don’t want me here."  

Jack’s jaw tightened. "Jesus, you’re making this a bigger deal than it is."  

"A bigger deal?" you echoed. Your voice sharpened. "Jack, I flew to new jersey to see you. I’m trying so hard to hold this together, but you’re not even meeting me halfway. If you don’t want this anymore, just"  

"I didn’t ask you to come."  

You froze.  

Jack’s eyes widened, but the words were already out there.  

Your heart hammered in your chest. "What?"  

"I didn’t ask you to come," he repeated, softer this time. His gaze fell to the floor. "You decided to."  

You blinked hard, your throat tightening painfully. "Wow."  

Jack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "I didn’t mean it like that"  

"You did."  

Jack’s mouth opened, but no words came out.  

You stood up, shaking. "I can't, I can't do this anymore."  

Jack’s head snapped toward you. "What does that mean?"  

"It means I’m done." Your voice broke, but you kept going. "I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this. If you’re not going to try, then why am I even here?"  

Jack’s eyes darkened. "So that’s it? You’re giving up?"  

You laughed bitterly. "You gave up first."  

Jack’s mouth twisted. "Right. So now it’s my fault?"  

"You know what?" you said, your breath shaking. "Yeah. It is."  

Jack stood up, his eyes hard now. "Fine. If you want to go, then go."  

"That’s it?" You took a step toward him, tears blurring your vision. "You’re not even going to try to stop me?"  

Jack’s eyes flashed. "What do you want me to say? That I miss you? That I love you? You already know that, but it’s not enough, is it?"  

"It’s not enough if you’re not going to show it!" you shot back. "You say you love me, but you act like I’m just here. Like I don’t matter."  

Jack’s expression darkened. "Yeah? Well, maybe you don’t."  

You sucked in a sharp breath.  

Jack’s face paled instantly. "I—"  

"No." You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. "You said it. And you know what? Maybe you’re right."  

"Don’t twist this"  

"I’m not twisting anything! I’m done!" Your voice cracked, but you held your ground. "I’m not going to sit here and beg for you to care about me. I deserve better than that."  

Jack’s jaw flexed.  

Your breath hitched. You waited for him to take it back to tell you to stay. But Jack just stood there, eyes stormy, hands clenched into fists at his sides.  

You nodded slowly. "Okay."  

You grabbed your bag from the floor. Jack didn’t say anything as you walked toward the door. Your hand trembled as you opened it.  

You hesitated. Just for a second.  

"Bye, Jack," you whispered.  

Jack didn’t reply.  

You closed the door behind you.  

The flight home feels like a blur. You don’t cry at least not yet  but the numbness sets in as soon as the plane takes off. Jack didn’t text you before you boarded. He didn’t call. He didn’t say anything after the door shut behind you.   

You stare out the window, watching the clouds blur beneath you, but your chest feels hollow. Four years. Gone in a single weekend. Your friendship since you were 10 of growing up together, of loving each other through every awkward phase and milestone  shattered in one conversation.  

You scroll through your phone without really seeing it. His contact sits at the top of your recent messages, the last one marked as read. I’m sorry. He hasn’t sent anything since.   

And honestly, you don’t expect him to.  

Your phone vibrates, and for half a second your heart leaps. But it’s just your mom, checking in. You let the message sit unopened and slide your phone facedown on the tray table.  

When you get home, everything feels wrong. Your room looks the same, but it’s too quiet. No FaceTime calls from Jack lighting up your phone. No goodnight texts. No “Miss you” or “Wish you were here.” The absence is deafening.   

You lie in bed that night, scrolling through old pictures, ones from Vancouver, from Michigan, from all those summers at the lake house. Jack’s smile frozen in time. Your hand in his. Quinn and Luke in the background, laughing at something Jack had said.   

Your chest tightens.  

You think about how easy it used to be how you could sit in silence for hours and still feel connected. How you could tell what Jack was thinking just from a look. How his hand would instinctively find yours without either of you thinking about it.   

But somewhere along the way, you both stopped reaching for each other. Mostly him. 

Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Quinn.  

“You okay?” 

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don’t know how to answer that.

“Yeah. Just tired.”  

Quinn’s reply comes quickly. “Jack didn’t mean it.”   

Your breath catches. A hollow feeling sinks deeper into your chest.   

You don’t answer.  

Because the worst part is maybe he did.

[blondeaxolotl]

Finally dropping a ref sheet for my yuusona, say hi to Yuu/Ebi

undercut if you want to hear me yap about her a bit

Yuu, or Ebi is a giant monster shrimp (non-magic user). Where she came from or what her homeland is currently unknown. But it's safe to assume she comes from a place populated by mostly sea monsters like her.

Despite being a monster (maybe similar to Grim?), Ebi seems to have a more calming and sensible personality when compared to Grim, only reacting strongly when something seriously bad is going to happen (ex: someone almost fucking dying) or when she's over-exaggerating to just get a reaction out of someone. Surprisingly, when she arrived to NRC, she had a more irritated reaction knowing full well she was somewhere she didn't belong, and complained under her breath about "missing work and getting family worried for nothing". In other words she seemed to have known she wasn't in any true danger when she arrived, thankfully. Ebi also appears to be naturally caring for others, immediately taking in with living with Grim at Ramschackle (and eventually becoming his caretaker basically), and helping Ace and Deuce out with whatever issues they're having without hesitation (issues being either preventing them from almost being expelled or just help with simple homework). This soon enough became an on-going thing with majority of the students, and according to Ebi it's because;

"I grew up in a large family and have always taken care of my younger siblings. It's in my duty to help and take care of those who need a hand to come pick them up from the ground, even if they didn't ask for it."

It didn't help that Ebi was already older than most students there, being closer to Leona's age, she started to view and treat a lot of students as if they were her younger siblings. And like it was meant to be, this quickly made her earned the title of "Big Sis Ebi". Making it known that she was someone who the students could trust and come to for both help and comfort. This meant there were a lot of visits at Ramschackle, (especially from the ones who overblotted GULPS) but fortunately, this just made Ebi feel more at home as it reminded her of her actual siblings back at her homeland, so she doesn't mind these visits (Grim on the other hand not so much).

Also yes, just like any older sibling, this does mean Ebi started to mess and tease the ones she viewed as younger siblings a lot. It ain't a true sibling bond without at least a wee bit of sibling rivalry 👌 (Rip Ace he's the most common victim to this).

ANYWAY, okay enough yapping, when I first created Ebi she was just a silly gag I made when I first got into twst.

But when I actually started to put effort into her I at first didn't know what to do since most yuusonas I know of were shipped with other characters. But I didn't want Ebi to have anything romantic with any character, I decided what better way than to basically make her the older sister figure everyone comes to when they need help? I thought it's both funny that characters are looking for comfort from a literal giant fucking shrimp, but also twst characters genuine just seem to lack a lot of comfort because Jesus fucking Christ all of you need therapy and a hug, no matter if it's by a shrimp or not 😭.

Okay yeah, that's it for Ebi if anyone has any questions about her or her dynamics with other characters, feel free to send an ask in my inbox 🦐.

[makelemonade]

The Harbinger’s Daughter; Series; They don’t know much.

authors note; hello it’s not exactly like a series where you have to read each part it’s just all under the same name. - wanna make this into a continuous “series” with just little stories or ideas so if anyone has any ideas or stuff they wanna see my inbox is open only for that!!!

pt1

- reader is in last year of high school, female reader, it’s kinda modern but also kinda isn’t do with that what you will

basically the harbingers realizing they don’t know much abt reader and Pantalone decides to find out

The lounge room was quiet, only the sound of the crackling fireplace filling the room along with the clicking of Dottore’s pen since he was frustrated with his current work- no one was annoyed, this was usual for him. Pierro sat in his specific sofa chair, it was large enough to fit him perfectly. However he wasn’t as comfortable as he looked, no, instead his face was one of concern and annoyance.

The others were scattered around the room, Signora was flipping through a magazine, Childe was just staring up at the ceiling with Capitano- the both laying on the floor, Pantalone was flipping through a bunch of papers with complicated equations, and Dottore was looking over his science whatever notes.

“I need to ask you all something,” Pierro spoke up, folding his hands together. Everyone looked over. “What does Y/N like?”

Everyone’s eyes lit up, and yet a heavy silence settled over the room.

They realized they knew nothing.

Childe shifted uncomfortably, “Uhh, she trains with me sometimes?” he offered hesitantly.

Signora grimaced. “She borrows my perfume. She….likes perfume.”

Dottore sighed, throwing away his papers and pen. “She’s smart, likes learning new things. Dunno.”

Capitano just didn’t say anything.

Pantalone just pressed his lips together, a little disappointed in himself for not knowing.

Pierro waited for more answers, and when none came, he was also disappointed, and a little frustrated. He spoke with a scoff, “How could we raise her and know nothing about her?”

He was a lot more disappointed in himself though, he was your father- how did he know nothing?! You were almost an adult, he’s raised you since you were a baby with the rest of them.

He stood up, exhaling. “I’ll go ask her. I wanted to spend some time with her.”

He left the room, listening to his own footsteps echoing in the hall as he walked the long way around the castle, making his way to your room.

“Y/N?” He called, knocking lightly. He waited a few seconds, but there was nothing. “Y/N?” He called again.

No answer.

“Okay, I’m coming in.” He turned the doorknob, opening it slowly. His frown depended once he scanned the room, you weren’t in your bed, your bathroom door was wide open, and your purse was gone- everything that connects to you was fine.

An uncomfortable feeling settled in his chest and he immediately turned out of the room and walked down the hall to the guards. “Where is she?” He demanded.

One of the agents stiffened. “She left a few hours ago, sir. We assumed she had your permission.”

He felt his heart quicken, turning away from the guards to rush back to the lounge room.

“She’s gone,” Pierro announced, his eyes scanning each face in the room.

Childe and Capitano say up, with Childe’s meditating expression replaced with concern. “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean she left the castle.” Pierro sighed. “Without anyone knowing. She found a way,”

A long pause followed.

Signorae ran a hand through her hair, visibly worried. “Okay, she’s obviously gonna come backs right?”

Silence followed again.

Capitano cleared his throat. “Although I find it worrisome she left without a word, I doubt she means any harm. I believe she just wanted to go out without having to tell any of us.”

Dottore chuckled. “I’m not surprised she left without saying anything; we know absolutely nothing about her.

There was no retort.

Pantalone stood up, “Hold on.” He said, before rushing out of the lounge room and down the hall to Pulcinella’s office.

He knocked 3 times, hearing a mumble of a “come in.”

Pulcinella was sat on his high chair, looking over files on his messy desk. He looked up and his annoyed feature was replaced with a smile. “Ah, Pantalone. What can I do for you?”

Pantalone gave a small, worried smile back. “Y/N is gone. She left and we don’t know where she is and she didn’t tell any of us.”

Pulcinella frowned. “Oh, well that’s not good- thé not telling you part. She’ll be back soon.”

Pantalone gave him a curious look. “What do you mean? Does she normally leave?”

Pulcinella nodded. “She asks me most of the time, since you’re all not around as much as I am.”

Pantalone knew he didn’t mean that as anything rude but it still sting him a little bit. “Do you know where she could be?”

Pulcinella gave a knowing smile, looking back down at the papers he was reading over. “She loves books. I’d start out at the library.”

~~

The library was quiet, save for the movement of pages as you sat at a small table in a far corner, surrounded by four books. Shopping bags were piled at your feet.

Pantalone slipped into the seat across from you, his presence imposing despite his calm persona- you hadn’t even noticed he’d entered the library or was walking towards you.

You blinked in surprise. “Uh. What are you doing here?”

He rested his chin on his hand, “What are you doing here? How did you even get out of the castle?”

You hesitated for a moment, slowly putting down the book before a sly smile crept across your face. “I put on Capitano’s jacket. No one questioned me.”

Pantalone laughed. “Of course you did.” His have moved to the books aroubd you. “You like reading?”

You nodded, pulling your book closer. “I come here a lot.”

Pantalone’s sharp eyes narrowed. “How many times have you snuck out?”

“Well, it’s not exactly sneaking out it I ask Pulcinella.” You giggled, giving a cheeky grin.

His gaze shifted, this time landing on the shopping bags on the ground by your feet. “And shopping?”

You smiled proudly. “I love it.”

He raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with curiosity. “I don’t recall giving you any money.”

You shrugged casually. “Oh, I paid for it myself.”

Pantalone’s brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t have a job.”

“I do.”

Now he was shocked. “Since when?”

“I work at the daycare,” you said it so casually that it just made him feel more shocked and, honestly, worst about himself. “After school, for about four hours.”

Pantalone blinked, looking at you as if he were seeing you for the first time. “…And what exactly do you do there?”

“We teach the kids sometimes. I help with karate.”

He stared at you, disbelief written across his face. “Self-Defense?”

“Mhm,” you confirmed, your voice light, beginning to feel a little awkward.

The silence that followed felt thick.

“…How do I know nothing about you?” He mumbled.

You hesitated, then reached into your pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

He took the paper, scanning the question quickly. It was a prompt for your economics class; Thé questions were about market trends and financial stability- he could do this in his sleep.

“You’re taking economics?” he asked, surprised as he looked up at you.

“Yeah, I was interested in it.”

Pantalone tapped the paper thoughtfully. “What do you want to do when you’re older? You’re in your final year aren’t you?”

You hesitated for a moment before answering. “I think I want to go into sciences. I was thinking of applying to the Academia soon.”

He smiled, brows raising. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“…Because of Dottore.” you confessed softly, grimacing.

Pantalone let out a long, sad sigh, his expression softening. “Just because Dottore had a bad past with the Academia doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want to help you. In fact, he’d probably be thrilled.”

Your eyes lit up with hope. “Really?”

“Of course,” he affirmed with a small nod.

You both sat in silence for the next while. You were just thinking of what next, while he was thinking too much. He knew nothing about you, but now seeing all this, he kind of does know you.

Because you’re him. You’re the others.

Your interests in economics- Pantalone. Sciences - Dottore. Your love for shopping - Signora. Working with little kids - Arlecchino. Teaching said little kids karate - Childe. Reading - Pulcinella and Capitano. Your intelligence and curiosity - Pierro.

You were all of them combined.

After a while, he glanced at the time on his watch. It was 5pm, dinner was at 7pm. “It’s best we go now.”

You gave a small pout but still stood up, closing the book. “Let me go return these.” You piled the books together, and he made a mental note of the title of the book you were reading before he got here.

~~~

At dinner that evening, Pierro’s voice cut through the awakward silence. “I was really worried when you left today.”

You winced, guilt creeping in. “I’m sorry.” It was a little awkward, and you were glad not all the Harbingers came for dinner.

He put his utensils down, “You aren’t confined here.” He said gently. “However I do prefer you let us know when you leave. I’ve already got white hairs, don’t make it worse.”

You laughed and he smiled, and a few others giggled, the tension easing.

~~~

The next morning, you woke to find new findings on your tables. Curious, you stood up and walked over to them, only to end up shocked and heartfelt.

Dottore’s old notes from his academia days were stacked neatly, along with folders with even more. There were piles of fancy clothes and new makeup. The economics assignment you gave Pantalone was completed, and he had wrote notes to explain the questions and answers.

Right beside it, was the book you hadn’t finished the other day. There was a small sticky note on it, reading “Meet in the lounge.”

Your heart was racing with anticipation as you hurried over to the lounge room, excited for what was awaiting you. Capitano was there and gestured for you to follow him, laughing at your eagerness.

He has taken you to a room down the hall- you’d never entered this room and you honestly didn’t even know it was there.

Upon entering, you gasped.

It was a library. Shelves upon shelves of books; They were all new, shining and hardcover, waiting for you. Pierro and Pantalone stood inside, watching you closely and laughing at your reaction.

“H-how…” You trailed off, spinning to look at everything and feeling overwhelmed. “When- how-?!”

Pantalone smirked. “Pulcinella and I placed orders for books- he knew which ones you’d like. We’d sent agents out to do the pick ups, and the rest of us put up the shelves, while signora and Childe decorated. We had some agents give the finishing touches.”

You felt tears in your eyes and you immediately threw yourself into their arms. “Thank you thank you thank you!!! It’s beautiful!”

Pantalone hugged you back tight, placing a kiss to the top of your head. He let you go to give you a moment with Pierro.

Pierro patted your back gently. “I’m your father. I always want to know what’s going on in your life.”

You pulled away, shaking your head and sniffing. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Pierro’s expression softened, his voice full of warmth. “You could never bother me.”

And for the first time, you truly believed it.

[literaila]

I seriously love the relationship between Megumi and reader. He is in fact, a mama's boy lol

But Dadgojo and Megumi moments are cute as hell too

So herw you go a small oneshot: Little Megs would always go to reader's or Tsumiki's bedroom when he has nightmares. He already trusts you enough to see him vulnerable and goes to seek for your protection, and of course you never complain and comfort him.

But this time is different. He had a nightmare and you were on a mission and Tsumiki is staying at a friend's house.

There is only one person left in the house: Gojo.

So, with the greatest shame and irritation in the world at having to depend on his annoying and childish dad, he goes to Gojo's room because at moments like these he can't stand being alone. So he eats his shame and goes to seek for him.

You can imagine reader's surprise when she comes back home in the morning and finds Satoru and your son cuddling together on the bed, Megumi's hold on Gojo's shirt tight as both sleep peacefully.

You swear you are not like Satoru, but you can't help it but to pick up the phone and take thousands of pictures of this rare moment, knowing it wont happen again (because Megumi won't do it twice after Satoru didn't stop mocking him about it.)

honestly you might as well just write the series for me. like do you wanna look in my inbox? you can write all of the one shots currently rotting away (i’m not asking im pleading)

this is so correct though.

megumi’s just not used to not having you home. when this arrangement first began you took some time off, let satoru handle everything (as per usual) so you could take care of the kids. adapt.

when you resume your former busy schedule, both of the kids are slightly thrown off. and satoru too—because he misses you. he’s known the caress of your absence and isn’t fond of the feeling.

and now it’s megumi’s turn.

but the boy doesn’t start having serious nightmares till around seven or eight (despite the…lack of an upbringing, the rotting apartment and cuddling with tsumiki in bed so neither of them froze in their sleep).

when it happens the first time, he sits there, waiting for some answer to come. he’s a quiet, stoic kid—and he doesn’t get scared. he’s not like his soft, kind sister. he doesn’t even flinch when others would jump.

he lays there until he falls asleep again. and he won’t mention it. megumi doesn’t need to worry you or satoru (mostly you) with this.

then it happens a second time.

this time he’s woken up on the verge of tears—already passed that breaking point—and he can’t stay in bed. he can’t lay there and recall images of monsters no child should understand.

so he gets out of bed—but just for a glass of water. he’s still not scared.

though it just so happens that you’re already in the kitchen when he gets there, and it just so happens that you know things about him—just because you know—so there’s nothing he can do to hide any of it.

still, you’ll only tilt your head at him, giving him a half-sleepy smile. “hey, megs. you okay?”

“i’m thirsty.”

so you get him his glass of water and you watch while he takes tentative sips.

again, somehow you just know. the same way that megumi knows that you know.

“are you having a hard time sleeping?” you ask him, after a minute of silence.

megumi shakes his head on instinct.

you’re still smiling. “bad dreams?”

and he could lie—he’s so very used to lying about things like this. megumi doesn’t want people to see him as this little boy who needs their help. he wants an equal playing field, and he doesn’t want to be scared.

but he is.

and when it comes to you, and only you, megumi is a terrible liar.

so he nods, and your smile remains—sure as always.

“i get ‘em too,” you whisper to him. “even when i was a kid. especially then.”

“you do?”

“yup. all the time.”

“what…” megumi furrows his brows. “what do you do?”

“hmm…” you go and stand beside him at the counter, leaning your chin on a hand. “well, it depends on the dream. sometimes they’re… smaller. and i can usually sleep through those ones, but i always remember them in the morning.”

megumi nods; he has all sorts of dreams.

dreams of running around with tsumiki, of going on missions with gojo. he dreams of you in the kitchen, you telling him to keep going. and he dreams of the dark. of a house that could never be a home.

he dreams of being all alone, and when he wakes up, it feels so real that he can’t help it.

he begins to believe that it’s true.

“when i have bigger ones, though, that i can’t sleep though… well, usually i just wake satoru up.”

megumi frowns. “why?”

“he’s so irritating that i forget all about the dream.”

“oh. yeah.”

you laugh. “or i just ask him for a hug. he always says yes. or i wake him up and we steal a car and drive around for a bit,” you add, almost absentmindedly.

megumi blinks, about to interrupt, but you continue.

“sometimes i just lay in bed until i fall back asleep. or i get up and do something else—get some water,” you give him a pointed look, “so that it feels less real.”

“does it work?”

“most of the time,” you answer, so softly. and you’re right there next to him, still smiling. “wanna watch a movie or something? i’ll let you pick.”

megumi frowns. you don’t like to let them stay up late (despite satoru’s many attempts to go out for gas station ice cream at three in the morning). “really?”

“sure.”

and you sit with him on the couch, not cuddling, but close enough.

megumi listens to you laugh at the random movie he put on—something tsumiki likes—and it feels a little bit better. he feels a little less alone.

and later on, just when he’s falling back to sleep, almost slumping on you, you’ll whisper to him: “the thing about nightmares, megumi,” your hand is in his hair and your voice is almost a lullaby. “is that you can always wake up.”

so megumi gets in the habit of looking for you when he’s had a nightmare—the bad ones, like you mentioned. he doesn’t ask you for a hug, or ask you to sit with him, but you do anyway.

and somehow the two of you will end up on the couch, or in his bed, so close together that megumi can’t have another bad dream (because he’s suffocating).

but on this night—the one night where you’re not home—megumi isn’t sure what to do.

because he doesn’t want to be alone. he doesn’t want to feel trapped in his room, and there’s no way he’s falling back asleep now, and why did he forget that you weren’t going to be home tonight, and—

“psst,” a voice says, a little bit amused. “why are you awake, kid?”

almost immediately megumi straightens. his arms cross like it’s a habit. and when he looks to gojo, he’s already expecting the grin. “why are you?”

“i was calling y/n. or she was calling me. it’s hard to be away from me, you know,” gojo is sprawled out on the couch, taking megumi’s spot.

“it can’t be that hard.”

gojo shakes his head, pouting. “are you awake because the guilt from all of the cruel things you say is keeping you up?”

megumi rolls his eyes. says a curt: “no,” and then pauses.

if you’re not here then what…

“what else could it be?”

“nothing,” megumi answers, immediately defensive.

gojo purses his lips, considering megumi. “why do you look weird?”

“why do you?”

“is that the only insult you’ve got?”

and finally, the boy gives in. he steps over to the couch, sitting down next to gojo (ten feet away) with his arms still crossed. “it’s late.”

“that’s no excuse, young fushiguro.”

they both sit there for a moment, staring off.

then gojo speaks up: “you know y/n would kill you if she knew you were awake, right?”

“no. she would kill you.”

“that’s…” gojo huffs. “true.”

at this, megumi lets out a grunt—it could be a laugh, could be a cough.

he doesn’t want to tell gojo about the dreams, he decides. because he doesn’t want to be ridiculed, and he doesn’t want gojo to tell you and then—

he’s not even scared. you’re gone, tsumiki is sleeping, and gojo is… staring at him.

“are you going to answer my question?”

megumi merely grunts again.

“c’mon, don’t make this awkward.”

“can’t. you already have.”

gojo scoffs, leaning back again, crossing his arms in a poor mimic. “we’ve been letting nanami watch you too much,” he says, but continues. “fine. don’t tell me. i can call y/n back right now and you can talk to—“

“no,” megumi looks over to him, wide eyes.

“then speak, kid.”

he sighs, annoyed. at least you’re right about one thing. it takes a moment, but megumi relents because he has to. “i had a bad dream.”

gojo’s face goes slack. “oh.”

megumi feels like crawling into himself, for just a moment, and then: “do you want to talk about it?”

blue eyes meet blue, and megumi frowns. “what?”

“do you want to talk about it?” gojo repeats, but… weirdly, this time. awkwardly.

“um..” is all the boy says, feeling like he should move away. like to his room away. like he should probably find someone else to live with, a random stranger, even, because that would be easier.

“i don’t know, okay?” gojo blurts out, like it was killing him not to. “that’s just what y/n asks me when i have a nightmare.”

“you have nightmares?”

gojo is running his hands through his hair, looking like he’s about to go on a tangent. but when megumi asks his question, gojo pauses. he gives megumi a look. “doesn’t everyone?”

megumi scowls. “i don’t know.”

“huh. well, i have them. sometimes.”

“and you tell y/n?”

gojo snorts, shaking his head. “there’s no telling y/n anything. she just—“

“knows.”

gojo nods, giving megumi a small wink that makes the little boy want to throw up.

“so…” gojo taps his fingers on the couch. “do you want to talk about it?”

“why would i want to talk about it with you?”

“well you came out into the living room looking all… surly.”

“surly?” megumi repeats, with a face.

“down. upset. sad.”

“i’m not sad.”

“people who aren’t sad don’t need to deny that they’re sad.”

“y/n isn’t here,” megumi says, shaking his head. “i could hit you and be fine.”

gojo laughs, again, relaxing once more. because the man cannot be serious for any longer than three minutes. it’s biologically impossible. “i’d like to see you try,” he whispers, and it’s just enough.

megumi falls asleep on the couch that night. he spends another half hour arguing with gojo about whatever he says—forgetting about his dream, the reason for coming into the living room in the first place.

and when you get home, you open the door to the sight of two boys, both drooling.

megumi has his head pressed against satoru’s shoulder, hair smushed against his face. satoru is crossing his arms, face tilted towards the ceiling as he snores.

…it’s pretty obvious what happens next.

[temporarywelcome]

Home Run - Spencer Reid

Wordcount: 2.6k

Summary: The FBI's baseball team needs a fill in for their game against the Secret Service, Morgan being able to convince Reid to take up the role. However, the boy genius does not have an athletic bone in his body, Morgan recruiting the genius' girlfriend to help.

Warnings: some swearing, Spencer is like a baseball magnet

A/N: my inbox is open! Currently working on my first request right now, and will hopefully have it posted tomorrow! This also can 100% be read as a standalone, though it's kind of a continuation of my first Spencer fic "Smooth Criminal". All information needed is in this fic as well though! ok ill stop yapping

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

It might have been the worst day of Spencer’s life. 

Trudging along the field as sweat trickled down his neck and back, the sun beaming down at his pale, vulnerable skin. His tongue was dry, throat closing in on him. He could see spots clouding his vision. 

This wasn’t good.

“Jesus, Reid, we just got out of the car,” Morgan chuckled, hitting Spencer’s back, “This isn’t a desert,”

It wasn’t a desert, it was actually a baseball field. Which was just as bad to the boy genius. 

“You couldn’t ask Hotch or Rossi to do this?” Spencer mumbled nervously, eyeing the field as if some jock baseball player was going to come out of the dug out and murder him. 

“You’re young. Nice and nimble. Lots of potential-”

“They said no?”

“Yes, they said no,” Morgan sighed, placing down his bag on a bench in the dug out. Spencer did the same, awkwardly looking around once again. “Look, it’s only for one day,” 

“One day too many,” 

Morgan shot him a look, taking out his baseball glove and a ball, “We’ll start simple with some catching and throwing, yeah?” 

“This is so embarrassing,” Reid grumbled, grabbing his glove as well (which he has never used before, just buying it this morning). 

“Did you break it in like I told you to?”

He shook his head, “I got it two hours ago…”

Another sigh left his friend, who walked out into the disgusting sun. Spencer hesitantly followed.

And within fifteen minutes, Spencer was laid out on the ground in a starfish position, his life flashing before his very eyes. He thought this was the end.

“Shit! Reid! Reid!” Morgan sprinted towards the young genius, crouching next to his still figure, “Are you okay?” he touched Spencer’s cheek, already starting to turn red after connecting with the ball. 

“Shit, that hurts!” Spencer hissed, slapping Morgan’s hand away. The first sign of life. He slowly sat up, cradling his cheek, “I feel concussed,” his other hand went to the back of his head. 

“Be for real,” Derek muttered in worry, “It’s that bad?” Spencer had quite a low pain tolerance, so neither of them could tell how bad this really was. “I mean, you almost passed out just being in the sun.”

“I could feel my cells mutating,” 

“Let’s hope you’re just being dramatic,” 

_________________

Luckily for them, Spencer was being dramatic, and was back to normal activity the day after.

Like most days, his girlfriend, Y/N, drove into the bureau parking lot and parked, waiting for Spencer to get out of work. She was reading sheet music for her next show when there’s a knock on their window, making her gasp, snapping her head in the direction of her window.

Derek Morgan.

With a sigh, she pressed the button, window inching down slowly, “What the fuck was that for?”

Morgan laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, “Sorry, Y/N. I know Spencer is trying desperately to keep you away from the team, especially after the fiasco last time we saw you, but…”

Ah, yes. Last time. Y/N and Spencer have been dating for a year, but he has kept the relationship extremely secretive from his team, until Garcia was able to finally crack the case and find pretty much everything to know about her, discovering she was a diagnosed kleptomaniac. The team (minus Hotch, who was peacefully in his office during the whole ordeal) was completely eager to meet this kleptomaniac girlfriend, and Y/N had a) admitted to not being able to pronounce JJ’s last name, and b) stole Rossi’s keys.

Yeah, Spencer wanted his girlfriend and friends far, far away from each other. 

“I really need your help.” Morgan finished.

“With what?” She asked in curiosity.

“I don’t mean to creep you out, but when Garcia did her whole ‘background check’ on you, or whatever you would want to call it, she found you used to play softball?”

“Yes, I’ve played since I was five,” She confirmed with a nod, “Still do, occasionally,”

“Well, the FBI has this little team I play on, and next weekend we’re going against the secret service, but we’re short one player, one of us has an injury. I convinced Spencer to fill in,” he noticed Y/N’s shocked expression, “Yeah, I know. I convinced him to fill in, really because no one else wanted to, and we went to practice yesterday-”

“Oh, yes! He’s got a huge bruise on his cheek, he said it was from some special training though,” Y/N laughed, “I guess he was embarrassed. He was hit by a ball?”

“Yes, he was on the grass fifteen minutes into our practice. It’s bad. He doesn’t even want to practice anymore, but I need him for that game. We haven’t beaten the secret service in years.”

“So you want me to convince him?” She concluded.

“Not just that. Maybe he’ll be more willing to learn if you’re also there to teach him?” 

“Hm,” 

Derek frowned, “Please, Y/N?”

She playfully narrowed her eyes at him, “How much?”

“What?”

“How much did you bet on this game?”

“Oh,” he awkwardly cleared his throat, “Five hundred,”

“Damn,” she whistled, “We gotta whip Spencer into shape,”

___________________

Spencer loved Y/N.

He loved her dearly.

However, right now he hated her with a burning passion.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Morgan asked as Spencer ran from home to first base. “What if this just makes him quit again?”

She had Spencer running laps. “He won’t.”

He only did two runs around the diamond before he came back to them, panting dramatically, hands on his knees, “Why… why do I have to… do this?” he gasped.

“Because, drama king, when you hit that ball, which you will, you need to be able to get to the bases on time,” Y/N replied, handing him a bottle of water.

“This is hopeless,” he began to carefully sip the water, not wanting to choke in his desperation for hydration. 

“We just started, baby” Y/N sighed, rubbing his back, “Now, c’mon, break’s over. Two more laps and we’ll practice catching and throwing,”

“I hate you,” Spencer huffed, handing the water back to her. However, he went back to running. 

“I love you too, darling,” Y/N rolled her eyes with a soft laugh. She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled as he clumsily ran along the diamond. 

Morgan glanced at her, “Thanks for this.”

“Of course. I love seeing Spencer suffer,” She joked with a chuckle, watching her lanky boyfriend move. He was so cute, despite the fact he looked incredibly pissed off. She sighed, soft smile on her lips, “I know you guys are all probably iffy about me, but… I do love him. Genuinely, I do.” 

Morgan’s lips curled up, “I know.”

Spencer finished his second lap, looking at Y/N and Morgan with an annoyed expression, “Okay,” he panted, “I did it. Now what?”

“Catching and throwing,” Y/N slipped on her glove, grabbing a ball, “Alright, we’ll start with the basics.”

“How hard can it be?” Spencer said, putting on his glove (which Y/N had broken in for him). 

“Eh, best not talk, you might end up with two bruised cheeks,” Morgan chuckled, nudging him. He was not amused.

“Alright,” Y/N began, “When you throw the ball to someone, you have to aim for the other person’s chest. As a beginner, you can practice by using the hand you’re not throwing with, so the gloved hand, to aim. Like this,” Y/N faced Morgan, holding out her gloved hand and throwing with the other. Morgan caught the ball with ease. “See?” Morgan threw the ball back at her the same way, which she caught. “You try.” She tossed the ball to Reid, who was, like, two feet away.

He fumbled the ball, scrambling for it as it landed on the ground. Once it was in his hand, he stood up awkwardly. Spencer got into position, following Y/N’s instructions. He threw the ball to Morgan, it landed a few feet in front of him.

“You’re releasing it too late,” Y/N explained, “Try again”

Once the ball was in his hand again, he took a deep breath, throwing it again. It flew way past Morgan’s head this time.

“Okay, at least you got a strong throw,” Y/N said, trying to stay positive, “Now you released it a little too early. We’re getting somewhere. Try again.”

A few tries later, the trio went on to catching. It ended with Spencer thrown onto the grass once again in a starfish position, Y/N and Morgan both running to his side. 

“Well, now your cheeks match,” she said, making Spencer groan. 

They decided to end the fieldwork, getting Spencer to bat next. He had a helmet on and everything, determined to not actually get concussed. 

“Alright, baby,” Y/N began, handing him the bat, “Knees shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees slightly. This elbow up,” she gently touched his arm, bringing up his elbow, “Keep your eye on the ball. The ball should be chest-height when thrown to you. If it’s a bad pitch, don’t swing.” 

Morgan goes to pitch, Reid’s brows furrowed as he eyed the ball. 

“Hold on,” Y/N stopped him, “I can see the gears turning in your head. No calculations, none of that smart boy stuff. Just put on a mean face, spit in front of you, and hit that home run.”

“Spit?” Spencer gasped, “That’s disgusting.”

“It works,” Y/N shrugged.

“I’m not doing that,” he deadpanned, making her giggle. He faced Morgan, a determined look on his face. “Let’s do this,” 

“Hell yeah, baby,” Y/N grinned. 

With a grin, Morgan pitched the ball to Spencer, who grunted, swinging the bat as hard as he can.

Losing his grip in the process, the bat flying through the air. 

__________________

A week had passed, game day approaching fast. The BAU all sat together to cheer on Spencer and Morgan, Y/N awkwardly with them. Garcia was friendly enough, yapping away, which caused Y/N to yap away as well.

Until it was Spencer's turn to bat. 

Y/N rushed to the fence, clapping, “You got this, baby!” He turned his head and gave her a look that resembled a deer caught in headlights. Prior to the game, she said she won't embarrass him. She had to promise it, because he knew how competitive she was.

Spencer gave her a thumbs up, going to the home plate and getting into position.

“Bend those knees, baby,” Y/N called. Members of the secret service glanced at each other smugly, making her scowl.

Spencer did as told, eyeing the ball nervously. The pitcher was a mean-looking guy with a vicious bulldog expression. He pitched the ball, and Spencer squeaked, swinging at nothingness as the ball flew past him.

“Nice try, baby, nice try!” Y/N said. He turned his head to glare at her, before looking back at the pitcher. “Oops,” she said, making Garcia giggle.

Spencer ended up striking out, incredibly embarrassed. He had a girlfriend coaching him at the stands and a team that was completely pissed at his inability to even catch the ball. He was humiliated.

Until he turned his head, seeing Y/N, camera in hand, taking pictures of him with a huge smile on her face. She grinned, doing a finger heart, and Spencer felt his spirits lift slightly, raising his hand and doing one back at her.

And then a ball went flying into his abdomen. 

After that setback, the FBI was back to batting. Morgan landed on third, this guy Ron at second. The FBI was at two outs already, losing to the secret service by one point. 

And it was Spencer's turn to bat.

He heard some other agents groan from the dugout, making him feel like absolute shit. As he trudged to the home plate, the secret service members were all chuckling to themselves, already knowing they won another year in a row. 

Spencer felt awful.

Then he passed Y/N. She had a determined look on her face as she stood in front of the fence. “Baby, he's a shitty pitcher. Don't swing at every pitch.” 

Spencer took a deep breath, nodding. “O-Okay.”

She cracked a smile, “You got this. Make them cry. I already don’t like them.”

He laughed, nodding and going to the home plate. Morgan nodded from third, and Spencer clenched his fists around the bat.

Putting on a mean face, he gathered the courage to spit, staring at the pitcher straight in the eye (who looked a tad bit grossed out). He planted his feet shoulder width apart, bent those damn knees, had that elbow raised.

The pitcher threw his first ball, and as instinct, Spencer swung, missing. He cursed under his breath.

“Chin up, baby, chin up!”

Spencer turned his head to Y/N, who was smiling wide. Then his team, all cheering for him in the stands. His family.

The pitcher threw again but Spencer got himself, not swinging the bat.

“Good job, baby, that pitch sucked!” Y/N said proudly. She paused, “I mean, it didn't suck…”

“We're going to get kicked out,” Rossi muttered to Hotch, who chuckled softly in agreement.

The ball went to Spencer again, and this time, with a low growl, he swung hard, bat connecting with the ball and sending it flying.

Everyone gasped, watching the ball descend into the air, until Y/N shouted, “RUN!”

Spencer snapped out of his trance, bolting towards first base while Derek sprinted towards home. Once at first, Y/N shouted for him to keep going, and so he did, rushing to second.

Longues burning, he dashed for home, throwing himself onto the plate.

And saving the game.

The FBI erupted into cheers, everyone rushing towards him and hauling him to his feet, slapping him on the back and shouting in joy. After a few hollers, Spencer was lifted off of his feet, laughing excitedly after their victory.

Once the crowd dispersed, Spencer immediately ran to Y/N who was waiting for him, a big grin on her face. She already had her arms open, which he dove into.

“You saw that, right?!” Spencer asked her, practically vibrating in eagerness.

“I did! I told you spitting works!”

He was pretty sure the spitting had nothing to do with it, but he didn't argue. “I can’t believe I made a home run!” He pulled away to greet his team, but Y/N stopped him.

“Jesus, baby, you’re lucky you didn't trip. How embarrassing that would have been,” She chuckled, gesturing to his untied sneakers. She kneeled down, tying them for him.

Prentiss, who was still sitting with the rest of the BAU, noticed the exchange from the corner of her eye.

Maybe Y/N wasn't too bad.

When Y/N finished tying his shoes, she stood up and kissed his rosy cheeks, red in embarrassment. She then patted his back and nodded, silently telling him to go to his team.

With a grin, Spencer rushed off to them, babbling about his hit.

_______

A few weeks had passed, and Y/N was with some friends at a softball field, getting ready for a game. Slipping on her glove, she turned her head, smiling at Spencer who was seated at the bleachers. He waved, and that's when she noticed Derek and Penelope were sitting next to him.

Y/N's eyes widened and she grinned, waving back at them.

Then, surprising her even more, Emily Prentiss took a seat with them.

It seemed that, little by little, Y/N was winning over the BAU.

[mytheoristavenue]

MHA - How they comfort you - I

Dedicated to my dear friend @marsoverthestars.

Summary: Your peers notice you've hit a rough patch lately and want to help.

Warnings: Pure fluff, comfort, mentions of depression, mentions of unhealthy habits.

It was no secret: you were going through it. Life was ju8st currently putting you through the wringer and you were beginning to feel like a damp, laundered rag. Due to having a quirk heavily affected by your emotions, every soul around you could feel your upset, as if your depressive mood chipped the very paint off the walls. Luckily for you, they know just the trick to help you out of your funk!

Yuga Aoyama:

"Out of bed, mon amie." Yuga chirped, letting himself into your room, throwing the curtains open. You hissed at the sudden flood of light.

"Aoyama, shut the curtains!" you protested, pulling your comforter over your head and rolling over.

"Not today, cheri," He persisted, tearing your covers from you.

"You've been locked away in this dungeon for far too long, my dear, and I'm afraid you're beginning to smell." He smirked, pulling you out of bed by your wrist, forcefully but with care.

"Gee, thanks..." you grumbled, rubbing your eyes, nonchalantly sniffing your underarm before wincing. "Fuck, I do smell."

"Langauge, amie," He reminded, sifting through your dresser. "But yes, you do, and worse than that, you're loosing your sparkle and that simply won't do." He stood straight, a bundle of clothes in his arms, smiling warmly. "For this time only, I will grant you access to my luxury bath salts, so make sure and enjoy them while you can."

He shooed you out of your own room, shoving your clothes into your arms. "No off with you, towels warm and the bathwater is boiling. Go take care of yourself, darling."

Mina Ashido:

Mina hadn't seen any sign of you in days, worrying her to bits. She knew you tended to seclude yourself when you were down, and she did try to respect that. She'd comb through TikTok, bombarding your inbox with memes, edits of your favorite characters, and 'us' slideshows, but when you would simply heart them (if you responded at all), she couldn't take it anymore.

"(Y/N), are you in there?" She asked cautiously from the hall, knocking softly. "Can I come in, please? I miss you!"

You trudge to the door, wrapped in melancholy and a stale blanket. "What is it, Mina?" To your surprise, she threw her arms around you, tearing up as she saw your disheveled state.

"Whatever it is, I'm sorry!" she lamented, squeezing you tightly. "Whatever is bothering you, we can talk about it, please don't shut yourself away from me!" You'd never seen her so upset outside of battle. She was typically so bubbly, was she that concerned. "Everyone's so worried about you..."

"M-Me...?"" you repeat, not having realized how important you were to others.

"Please, if you won't come out, at least let me in..." she begged, pulling back with an earnest look, onyx scaleras glistening with worry. To her relief and yous, you relented, letting her inside.

Tsuyu Asui:

Tsu had noticed you withdrawing from your peers long before you actually had. First, you wouldn't talk as much in class, then you began eating lunch alone and declining invites out, and then, one day, you disappeared entirely.

She wasn't entirely sure how to go about comforting you, but it was obvious to her you were having a hard time. At first, she just left you alone, thinking you might have needed space, but then she began to wonder if there was something more she could do. Then it came to her, she was a big sister, she was so good at giving comfort to others. She'd just do for you what she'd do her her siblings.

"You you like a hug, ribbit?" the question caught you off guard as you stood in the kitchen, drink in hand, one of the rare occasions you left your room.

"What?"

"I've noticed you've been having a hard time, would you like a hug, ribbit?" She asked, offering you her arms. "I know being part frog, I'm a little awkward to hug, but when my little siblings were upset, I'd-" You didn't care how her slouched back back it odd for you to do it, you wrapped your arms around her, tears streamiong down your face.

"Yes, a hug would be wonderful, Tsu..." you answered with a sniffle. "Thank you." She happily enveloped you in a warm embrace, stroking her thumbs over your shoulders.

"Happy to help, ribbit," she beamed, resting her head on your shoulder. "I'm happy to give you as many hugs as you like, anytime you like..."

Tenya Iida:

Tenya was smart, obviously, but he was still a novice when it came to relationships with his peers and handling interactions. That's why when you began skipping class, he, as class president took it upon himself to hand deliver your homework, along with a stern talking to about attendance. That earned him a door slamming in his face, to nobody's suprise.

Now he knows better. Though it goes against his morals, he cuts you slack, visiting you every day briefly. Papers slide under your door in stacks. Neatly written notes, mock tests, and graded homework, all with nothing less than A's. You haven't done your homework in a week. Among the pages, one day, a letter appears, reading:

"I understand I am still learning how to be a friend, and you are teaching me new ways to be a better one. I appreciate that. I also understand I can't take your woes off your plate, so, even though I find it wrong, I will take on what of your burdens I can. I hope we can talk soon, but until then, take all the time away from school that you need. You will have perfect grades to come back to."

Ochako Uraraka:

'Good morning!' 'Goodnight!' 'How do you feel today?' It seemed like your phone never stopped dinging from how many times a day she texted you. Not only that but she'd check in on you in person multiple times a day as well, especially if you didn't answer any of her texts. She'd bring you breakfast in the mornings and dinner in the evening, catch you up on current events.

Eventually, you wound up letting her stay longer each time, texting her back longer replies. Before you knew it, you were texting/talking for hours. She'd send you a meme and you'd send one back. She'd tell you who liked who in the toher classes and you actually began to care.

You didn't even notice when the worries of your depressive episode began to fade into the background, the excitement of waking up to a good morning text lighting up your day each and every time.

Mashirao Ojiro:

It wasn't clear how it came to this, but here you were, cradled in Mashiroa's lap, tail curled around you securely. "Shhh, it's okay, let it out." he murmured, chin resting atop your head, thumbs stoking your skin with such care as he rocked you back and forth, letting you cry and vent your frustrations.

He hadn't needed to ask, he didn't beg you to talk. He simply knocked on your door and engulfed you in a warm, wordless embrace, the moment you opened it, holding you against him until you stopped resisting. You were rewarded for your surrender with his fingers gently raking through your hair. And then, you ended up like this.

"It's all gonna be okay, I promise." He swore, pressing a kiss to your temple as he felt your breathing calm. You'd cried yourself to sleep in his arms. He was just glad to see your pain fading away, even if momentarily.

Denki Kaminari:

"Why'd you stop answering your phone?" Denki asked, leaning into your doorway. "I've been worried sick."

"It died," you said dismissively. In truth, you doom-scrolled the battery to death.

"Charge it, maybe?" he deadpanned, cocking a brow at you.

"Lost my brick." you answered numbly, moving to shut the door, simply wanting to crawl back into bed, only to have his foot come between it and the frame.

"Bullshit," he called, pushing his way into your room, kicking out of his shoes and crawling into your bed without care in the world. "C'mon," he patted the space beside you, rolling his eyes at your befuddled expression. He swiped your chord off the nightstand, popping it in his mouth. "Bring me your phone." he said, words muffled by the charged between his teeth.

Your shoulders slumped as you came closer, handing it over, watching him plug the chord into it before holding the power button and bringing it back to life. Reluctantly, you crawled under the covers with him. "What are you doing?" you asked as he opened the Youtube app.

"You look like you could use a laugh," he smirked fingers tapping across the keyboard. The search bar read 'kids getting hurt'.

Eijiro Kirishima:

Eijiro sat on the outside of your door, rapping softly against it near the bottom. "Talk to me, please?" He asked, defeated. "I wanna help..." He had been at this for hours, listening to you cry on the other side of the locked door. He finally sighed, shifting into a more comfortable position. "We don't have to talk, if you don't wanna, we could just chill..."

Ten minutes pass and still, your only response to his coaxing are sobs not even meant for him. "I'm not exactly cuddly, but I could give you a hug?" he offered, knowing it was futile. "We could watch a movie, just lay in bed." he swallowed hard, rolling his stiff neck. "Just let me know you're okay..."

Still, he got no answer and part of him began to wonder if he was doing more harm than good. "Want me to just go...?"

"...No..." your soft voice came from the other side- inches away. When had you moved closer? It didn't matter. His fingers slipped under the crack of the door as a sympathetic smile crept across his face, widening when he felt yours graze them.

"I'm not goin' anywhere," he reassured kindly. "We don't gotta talk, I'll stay out here all night if I have to. Until you're ready for more than company."

Koji Koda:

Koji had no idea how to help soothe your pain as shy as he was. He could hardly talk to you in person, what could he possibly do? Well, he did have your social media, and he knew your favorite animal...

At exact times, staggered throughout the day, your phone would buzz, always with a message from him saying something like: 'I hope you're doing okay today!" with an attachment of a cute video or picture of your favorite animal. Sometimes they'd come with a little factoid about the animal.

It wasn't much, but he put a good deal of effort into this ritual, always making sure the messages, facts, and media were never the same. Little did he know, his efforts weren't in vain, they meant everything to you.

Rikido Sato:

Rikido had many flaws, but if there was one thing he was an expert at, it was keeping an index of everyone's tastes, and baking. That's why when he noticed you beginning to pull away from your friends, he was quick to jump into action. He wasn't one for confrontation, but acts of service were how he showed he cared.

He knew you favored a certain flavor, and he challenged himself to see how far he could take that knowledge. What all could he do with the extract of one flavor?

You were taken back when you began finding treats waiting for you outside your room every day. Poundcake on Monday, cupcakes on Tuesday, tarts on Wednesday, and so on and so forth. After a week or so, he was beginning to sweat, having scoured the internet and every book on his shelf for new recipes.

On the eighth day, while setting a beautifully wrapped box of cookies at your door, he jumped out of his skin, looking up to find your feet in front of him. "Sato..." you muttered, smiling sadly down at him as he bashfully stood, hulking over you.

"S-Sorry to bug you, just uh..." he explained sheepishly, lifting the package off the floor and handing it over directly. "I-I made you some cookies and..."

"Thank you..." you smiled, holding them to your chest. "You're so sweet." He was delighted to see such a genuine look of joy in your tired eyes. He felt like he'd found you after a long search.

"There you are..." he smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Missed you..."

I hope these help lift yall's spirits! There will be more, I promise!

[celuere]

ikikik you don’t write male readers but PLEASE consider it! your fics are genuinely so good, and the male reader audience is starving over here

ig i can give it a shot, but i‘m not the best when it comes to writing men, anon so i hope you will like this nonetheless❤️

the restaurant was bustling with customers as you patiently waited for her arrival. usually arlecchino was a woman of punctuality, at least she made that impression on you.

you honestly still didn’t believe that she agreed to you taking her out, even tho she was… reluctant. eyeing you up and down a few times before you noticed the corner of her lip quirking up, you almost missed it.

with your gaze fixated on the menu before you, you didn’t notice the harbinger slowly approaching you. graceful. patiently. a bait waiting to be taken.

your head only quirked up at the sound of the chair in front of you being shoved back, your heart almost made a jump when-

„hold on… you… are not arlecchino.“, before you was sitting none other than the 11th fatui harbinger, tartaglia. a smug smirk plastered on the gingers face as he took the menu card into his own hands.

„my colleague could sadly not attend tonight’s meeting since the… wedding anniversary with her wife happened to fall right onto this very day… oh- may i?“, he casually bend over to take the wine glass that was resting before you into his hand, bringing it his nose and swirling the liquid around before having a sip of his own.

„you do have a good wine taste, gotta give you that…“

balling your fist, you threw some imaginary daggers at this guys head, „tch. then why did she agree in the first place? you‘re fucking with me aren’t you?“

„oh nonono, not at all. arlecchino is currently busy with pounding her wife seven ways to sunday and back and you happened to simply not get the of her obvious relationship status. but don’t worry, i could also show you a way to poundtown…~“, he even had the audacity to wink at you.

BOOOOOOO👻👻👻👻👻 did the consequences of your own actions scare you? don‘t come with that shit into my inbox ever again DESPITE reading my rules. for clarity, this is not the first time something like this was sent into my inbox and at one point you just gotta take it a step further other than blocking and deleting the ask. respect writers and their boundaries and shit like this doesn’t happen <33333

[sunnydbeam]

If Y/N had a bad day or was sick, how would the guys react? Who would be more likely to do something about it? I can only imagine something very wholesome out of this!

So this sat in my inbox for a while, but I finally got around to writing something about it! Sorry for the late reply!

______

"What if?" I: Not at home

Gamma Code AU

• Word count: 4,784 • [ Beta x Reader x Gamma] Platonic or romantic. Fluff. • CW: mild language, mild angst, hurt/comfort.

Link to AO3

______

It’s written all over your face, undeniable and frankly embarrassing that you can't hide it in the slightest. Head bowed, hair disheveled, eyes dull behind exhausted lids – you know full well you resemble a miserable creature starved of motivation and sleep. Yet, you care little that your current appearance is more zombie than human.

Stumbling, you collapse heavily into your chair, burying your face in your hands. The pain is a relentless jackhammer against your skull, making it impossible to keep your eyes open for long. Why on earth did you drag yourself here, knowing deep down this was more than just seasonal allergies? Everyone asked you that, a question you couldn't quite answer.

You lean back, tilting your head against the chairrest. Eyes squeezed shut, you still feel the ambient light piercing your thin lids like needles. An anguished groan escapes your lips.

Three hours left on your shift. The thought is agonizing. You’re far too embarrassed to ask the manager to leave early, not when you insisted coming in was the right decision, despite every sign screaming otherwise.

"Ugh…" you whimper softly.

Time melts into a hazy continuum, but through the fog of discomfort, you're vaguely aware of someone speaking to you. You try to ignore it, but the voice persists, gentle yet insistent.

A subtle movement beside you, then a light pressure on your shoulder, almost like a tentative massage. It's followed by a dizzying whirl as your chair abruptly spins, your eyelids flying open to meet a pair of wide, luminous blue eyes mere centimeters from your flushed face. You yelp, startled, instinctively trying to push back, but large, firm hands immediately clamp onto the chair, steadying it, and preventing you from tipping over.

"I— I apologize! I didn't mean to startle you…"

This time, you truly look. The large, purple robot is kneeling before you, his four arms outstretched, hands gripping the sides of your chair as if bracing against its imminent collapse. He seems to tremble slightly, his usual friendly expression warped into a nervous grimace, a mask of perpetual anxiety as if bracing for a reprimand he hasn't yet earned. But God knows, you don't have the heart for that. Not with Beta.

"Sorry," you murmur, rubbing your temples, the ache flaring. "You just surprised me."

It's not unusual to feel a flicker of nervousness around him sometimes – a primal awareness of your own fragile, fleshy body compared to his powerful frame – leading to exaggerated reactions. But Beta has always been too gentle, too considerate for those worries to take deep root.

Beta tilts his head, those blue optics scanning you like an open book, making you feel momentarily exposed. He knows. He sees your pitiful state and likely has a dozen observations ready. But, to your relief, his expression softens into a subtle, warm smile. His grip on the chair loosens, then releases it entirely. Two hands rest on his knees, while the other two carefully extend towards you, a silent question seeking permission.

"You're not feeling well, are you, sweetie?" His voice is soft, melodic. "That's awful… Are you sick?"

Oh, that robot is impossibly sweet every time he speaks. It still catches you off guard, given everything. You have no illusions about his artificial nature; rather, it’s something in his intuitive, caring manner that's undeniably charming. It's in the way Beta chooses his words so meticulously, clearly intending to evoke warmth without a hint of condescension. He almost always succeeds. Why that matters so much to him, or even to you, remains a puzzle you haven't tried to solve.

But lately, that once-clear line dividing your perception of true life and sentience feels increasingly blurred.

Receiving no verbal response from your foggy mind, his eyes shine brighter with concern.

"You should have stayed home."

"Mm… I know…" You mumble, the admission tasting like defeat.

You grumble under your breath, and Beta offers another small, sympathetic smile.

"May I touch you?"

"… Uh, what…?"

Blinking, puzzled, you watch as Beta carefully removes one glove, revealing the intricate mechanics beneath, and looks at you with a soft, pleading expression.

"Your face," he clarifies, gesturing with his bare mechanical hand.

Though still disoriented, you manage a small nod. The cool, smooth fingertip, tinged with a neon purple, gently brushes against your cheek. You instinctively close your eyes, letting out a sigh you immediately feel embarrassed about. When you cautiously peek at Beta, he doesn't seem fazed, his focus absolute. With immense care, his large hand cups your face, sliding upward to rest against your forehead.

Oh. He's taking your temperature. That makes sense.

A fresh wave of embarrassment washes over you, realizing your subconscious craving for simple physical contact.

"You have a high fever, Angel," he observes softly. "I'll take you to the recovery room. I’ve heard they have a very comfortable, fluffy couch and soft blankets, perfect for a nap during break time."

You almost want to laugh at how endearingly he phrased that.

"But first stop, the infirmary," he adds firmly.

Without further warning, Beta scoops you effortlessly into his arms. A small, surprised gasp escapes you, which he seems to absorb as he cradles you securely against his chest, a gesture meant to reassure you. Being carried by a robot is a novel experience, and the distance from the solid ground feels disconcertingly vast.

"They’re going to scold me…" You mutter against the slightly rubbery texture of his hazmat suit.

You hear him chuckle, a sound still strangely localized, not resonating from his chest as you might expect.

"That would be logical," he says, his voice soft, almost playful. "But don't worry too much. I won't let them be too harsh with you, sweetie."

You snort, which turns into an abrupt sneeze, burying your face against him again. A gloved hand settles on the back of your head, fingers gently, tenderly stroking through your hair. He pushes open a door, entering a room bathed in light so jarringly bright you groan, squeezing your exhausted eyes shut tighter. You dissolve into a fit of coughing and sneezing, feeling utterly wrecked by this flu.

Lost in your misery, you're barely aware of the worried glances Beta casts down at you, nor how steadfastly he refuses to put you down while the nurse examines you and dispenses some painkillers. You do get scolded, but Beta keeps his word, defending you with absurdly sweet excuses about you being an exemplary worker, too responsible to miss a day even when clearly unwell. Still, leaving isn't an option now. Not like this, without someone ensuring you make it home safely. You feel perilously close to fainting.

So, Beta proceeds with his plan, heading towards the recovery room, you still cradled in his arms. Some colleagues shoot you curious glances; others stop you both, their voices laced with concern as if there's something inherently unsettling about seeing you carried, vulnerable, by a robot. A few even offer to take over. You have to summon the patience to reassure them, insisting Beta's company is perfectly fine, that there's nothing to fear. Throughout these exchanges, Beta's eyes briefly divert as his head slightly bowed. He never utters a word.

It must be tough, you think fleetingly, being judged simply for being different. Being perceived as some kind of monster.

You know he feels it.

Beta knows that you know.

His gaze returns to you, softening instantly. He pulls you a fraction closer against his chest, his hold firmer now, as if afraid you might slip away, vanish, and he'd never get to hold you again. There's a unique quality to Beta's hugs – laced with an anxious undercurrent, a fear of crushing your fragility, yet overwhelmingly full of affection, as if trying to shield you completely within his embrace.

He enters the recovery room. Your tired eyes flutter open, vaguely scanning the surroundings. To your immense relief, the room is empty. The next thing you know, Beta is gently depositing you onto a plush couch, then hurrying towards some nearby cabinets, searching for the blankets he mentioned. You hear a soft, happy humming sound when he finds them. Moments later, he's back, carefully tucking the soft fabric around you, right up to your chin. You gratefully sink into the cushions.

"I’ve never been in here before," he reflects, his voice quiet. "It’s nice."

"Hm… I don’t come here often either…" You reply, your voice muffled.

He looks down at you, his large frame looming slightly. It’s a touch intimidating, but you bite back the comment, not wanting to make him anxious. Instead, you quickly ask, "Are you going to stay?"

Your face flushes instantly, heat rising that you hope the fever masks effectively. Why did that sound so needy?

Beta smiles, a tender, understanding expression.

"I can, if you want me to."

Somehow, that makes it even more embarrassing. But Beta doesn't laugh; he just seems to find your flustered state endearing. He sits down carefully beside you on the couch. Even seated, he's significantly taller, and his weight causes the cushions to dip, drawing you slightly closer to his side.

A dense, slightly awkward silence settles between you. You can't help but notice the way Beta looks at you – calm, thoughtful, as if carefully weighing his next move. You cough again, your head swimming.

He shifts, and in one smooth motion, you're drawn onto his lap. Four arms gently envelop you, holding you as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in his universe. You don't know why. You don't understand it. But somehow, it feels… right.

Maybe it's like this for everyone he interacts with. A loving robot shouldn't be such an alien concept. But emotions aren't typically associated with circuitry and code, yet Beta… Beta is a being of circuits and code who feels, sometimes overwhelmingly so.

You dislike the word 'machine' when thinking of him.

You remain still, your body limp and weak. But even if you had the strength, you wouldn't fight this. Not when, finally, you feel so at ease. The blanket cocoons you, warm and secure. One of his hands moves soothingly along your back, tracing patterns up to your nape. Long, gloved fingers gently tangle in your hair, massaging your scalp, combing through the strands up to your crown. He leans his face close, murmuring against your tousled hair.

"Shh… You can rest now. You’ll feel better…" He closes his eyes briefly. "Humans feel better when they sleep, don't they?"

It’s strange seeing him so calm, so centered. Usually, he's a bundle of nerves – jumpy, anxious, always seeming to anticipate the worst possible outcome. That’s the Beta you know most of the time. This quiet optimism feels almost foreign, yet it brings an unexpected peace. If Beta is this calm, perhaps it’s because he genuinely feels comfortable with you.

The thought warms your chest.

"We’re going to get in trouble for this…" You sigh, the words punctuated by a sniffle as you battle a congested nose. "They’re already so hard on you…"

Beta’s soft chuckle vibrates slightly against you, somehow. You can't quite gauge if it holds amusement or disbelief.

"They’ll understand," he replies lightly. "Helping is also part of my job description."

"Don’t take this the wrong way," you begin carefully, glancing up at him sideways, "but you’re… way too calm right now."

Beta tilts his head again, his hood dipping slightly, casting his face in shadow. The Beta you’re used to would have likely flinched at the implied scrutiny. He makes a small, strangled sound and looks away, suddenly tense and nervous again.

Ah, there he is.

"I was just trying… uh… I read that staying calm can help others feel calm too," he mumbles, fidgeting slightly. "If it bothers you, I—"

"No, it’s fine! I promise it’s fine. I was just curious…" You interrupt quickly, rubbing your head as the headache threatens a resurgence. You push the pain aside. "Actually… I’m glad to see you relaxed."

A soft, fascinating purple hue washes over Beta’s face. You still marvel at your ability to elicit such a reaction from him; it's simultaneously hilarious and utterly adorable.

You sit in comfortable silence as Beta's hand resumes its slow, circular motions across your back and shoulders, gradually lulling you toward sleep. Your eyelids grow heavy, protesting the effort to stay open. Your body trembles slightly, the fever playing tricks, making you feel chilled despite your internal heat. But wrapped in the blanket, held securely in the arms of someone who cares, the world feels a little less harsh. More comfortable, warmer. And blessedly, you're not facing this alone in the cold silence of your empty home.

Beta glances aside, his expression thoughtful, distant. Perhaps he could make you some tea? Or order it from the café? Honey and ginger, he recalls reading somewhere, is good for a sore throat. And food? What do humans eat when they're sick? Soup is the only thing that comes immediately to his processor.

Lost in these considerations, Beta looks down and realizes you’ve already drifted off. His eyes widen slightly, and a soft, almost silly smile spreads across his features.

Humans look so cute and peaceful when they sleep.

He watches your finally relaxed face with fascination: the way your disheveled hair curtains your closed eyes, your lips slightly parted, breathing slow and even, though still a bit heavy. Your rosy cheek is pressed trustingly against his chest. Beta feels something akin to melting just looking at you as if you are the loveliest sight he has ever seen. And crucially, you allowed yourself this vulnerability, with him. He, a being who often feels like an outsider, is regarded with suspicion even by his creators. But you… You always manage to make him feel accepted, special, as normal as any human among them. Like one of your own.

Beta feels fortunate for that.

He gently traces your cheek with one fingertip, a subtle, exploratory touch, slowly mapping the contours of your face. Up across your cheekbone, towards the delicate skin of your eyelid, his touch feather-light so as not to wake you. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, studying your features – so different from his own – with intense care.

"So peaceful…" he breathes, the sound barely audible. "Precious…"

He notices a subtle shift in your expression – eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, eyebrows knitting almost imperceptibly, lips forming a vague pout – yet you remain asleep. The robot can’t quite interpret these micro-expressions, assuming humans generally look untroubled in sleep. But suddenly, you no longer look quite serene, and an uncomfortable static prickles through his circuits, a warning that something is amiss. Beta feels an urgent need to fix it.

"Poor thing… You’re in so much pain, aren't you? Your breathing is strained, your body tense, trembling…" he whispers, instinctively tightening his hold, trying to envelop you completely. "What should I do? What ought I to do?"

Panic begins to bubble beneath his calm facade. He's confused, terrified, but desperately trying not to wake you. Truthfully, he's never cared for a sick human before, striving with all his processing power not to overreact. But oh, he was sure your skin wasn't burning quite this intensely just moments ago.

"The infirmary… Maybe we should go back, hm? The painkillers don't seem to be working effectively…"

The robot presses his face briefly against the crown of your head, mimicking a sigh.

"Aha! There you are."

Beta’s head snaps up, gaze darting towards the doorway. Gamma stands there, greeting him with a wide, toothy grin, hands planted firmly on his hips, surveying the scene with mock judgment.

"What's that suspicious package you've got there?" Gamma raises a metallic eyebrow, sauntering closer. Beta offers a nervous grimace. "Yeah, it looks suspiciously alive!"

"Please keep your voice down; they're trying to sleep," the purple robot half-whispers, half-reproves, his anxious blue eyes flicking between you and his newly arrived companion. Gamma claps his hands over his mouth in mock horror, though the sharp grin remains visible beneath.

"I was wondering what I saw flickering on the security cameras."

"W-what?" Beta stammers, optics widening.

Gamma muffles a laugh. "Kidding! I don't have access to the cameras. Though, I won't deny, catching this would have been pretty damn funny." The neon-green robot teases, but his usual antics fail to truly rattle Beta this time. Gamma's gaze sweeps the room, landing on the couch with keen interest. "Whoa, didn't know we had one of these here. Quite the find." He stops beside the couch and crouches down, folding his tall frame close to the ground, an attempt to seem less imposing, even though you're asleep. He looks at you and tilts his head, his grin softening into something gentler.

"So," he asks, his voice lowered to an even, quiet tone, "what’s the issue? Sick or something?"

Beta adjusts the blanket around you, his expression pensive as he looks down at your sleeping form before nodding.

"I just thought… it would be nice to keep them company," he murmurs nervously, bracing for a potential reprimand. "I apologize if my absence caused any inconvenience."

"You're adorable," Gamma laughs, a genuine sound that makes Beta blush faintly purple again. "Relax. I'll tell them you were on a recharge cycle. No problem."

Beta looks genuinely, pleasantly surprised.

"Th-thank you."

"Uhm… Consider it a favor. Now you owe me," Gamma replies with a cheeky green smirk, eliciting a small sound of indignant surprise from Beta. "Seriously, though, you could have invited me. You two look ridiculously comfortable over here; I'm getting jealous."

The purple robot looks away, face flushing deeper, shoulders tense. Two of his hands fidget nervously with the edge of the blanket covering you.

"If… if you want to…"

"Aw, hell yeah. My actuators were getting a little stiff anyway." Gamma straightens up, looking down at you with those inscrutable, mismatched eyes. His smile softens once more. "Yeah, probably the only human around here I wouldn't actively wish a headache upon, y'know?" He strolls over to a nearby water dispenser, carefully filling a flimsy disposable cup, holding it with exaggerated care as if terrified of crushing the tiny object. It looks absurdly small in his large hand, but he manages to return without spilling a drop, simultaneously wheeling a small side table closer with one foot. He makes a show of checking an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Anyway, looks like we've got about an hour and a half before the café gets swarmed by hungry organics. Might as well take advantage of this wonderful couch and leave all the grunt work to Alpha."

"He’s going to be furious," Beta points out hurriedly, apprehension coloring his tone.

"Pretty sure he can handle it. Besides, that sounds like a 'future us' problem," Gamma responds dismissively, shrugging with a sly, cat-like grin. He settles onto the couch next to Beta, leaning in towards you, almost as if intending to scoop you up himself. Instead, he props his head on one hand, studying your face intently, whispering conspiratorially near your hair, "What's one or two wasted hours of productivity when you've got another eight thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight left in the year to catch up?"

Gamma places the cup of water on the small table, his mismatched eyes scanning your curled-up form with an expression that borders on tenderness. One long finger gently prods your cheek, lingering for a moment. His smile widens, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"Ah, see? Infrared vision is remarkably useful for diagnostics~"

Beta looks at him, eyes wide with surprise.

"I— I hadn't considered that!"

"That's because I'm the genius."

Gamma idly plays with a strand of your hair, tousling it slightly before smoothing it back. There's a subtle tension in his movements, suggesting a desire to be careful not to wake you, yet simultaneously wanting you to somehow know he stayed too, offering his own form of company. "Fever's dropped. Perfect, perfect."

Beta lets out a quiet sigh of relief at that, pulling you closer, protectively against his chest. Gamma watches him for a long moment, head tilted.

"So… you gonna hug me like that too, or do I have to beg?"

Beta would have choked if his respiratory system worked that way.

"I… Umm… I—I don’t know… I mean…" Beta seems utterly mortified, flustered beyond words. "W-why would you want to…?"

His reaction seems disproportionately funny to his companion.

"The real question is… " Gamma leans in, raising his eyebrows dramatically, " Why wouldn’t I want to?"

Beta makes a muffled, strangled noise, and Gamma finally bursts into unrestrained laughter, no longer bothering to keep his voice down. He wants to wake you now, eager to see the inevitably perplexed expression on your face when you find yourself sandwiched between two massive robots cuddling you like a shared teddy bear. So funny.

And, admittedly, adorable.

"Maybe I should—" Beta starts.

"Leave it to me."

Without any warning, Gamma grabs Beta firmly by the shoulders and gives a sharp tug. The motion jostles Beta's hood back, causing his purple rays to flare outwards, inadvertently smacking Gamma right across the face.

Gamma lets out an exaggerated yelp of pain, the sudden noise jolting you awake, while Beta dissolves into mortified sobs and a rapid-fire barrage of apologies.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Damn, Beta, you pack some serious hidden weaponry there!"

Meanwhile, you blink, consciousness returning like a slow-motion wave crashing over you.

You have never felt so utterly confused and disoriented in your entire life. Your small, blanket-wrapped body feels like the filling in a very strange, very large robotic sandwich. They’re being careful, you register dimly, not crushing you, but their towering figures loom over you as they seem to bicker about the recent assault, momentarily oblivious to your awakening.

"W-where the hell am I…?" you murmur, voice thick with sleep and confusion.

"In the paradise of my arms, obviously," Gamma replies instantly, his grin back in place, the earlier slap forgotten. Beta, however, still looks borderline traumatized by the incident. "Surprise!" Gamma continues cheerfully. "Decided I wanted my own human plushie too, but Beta here wasn't sharing. Rude."

The poor purple robot just gives you an anxious, apologetic look, optics wide, seeming perpetually on the verge of tears. You feel your face heat up again at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"Guys… this is… really strange…" You mumble, rubbing your temple. You do feel marginally better, though. The sleep, despite being punctuated by vague fever dreams, was surprisingly deep. You have hazy recollections of gentle pressure, comforting weight, large hands holding you with unexpected tenderness, and soft, murmured words that felt like a warm shield against the discomfort. It was strangely restorative. “You two are lucky that I trust you both enough.”

Beta is now a complete mess of embarrassment, looking like he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. Gamma, conversely, seems utterly unfazed, laughing heartily. He gives your head a few friendly pats like one might pet a dog.

"You're welcome!" he teases.

Beta shyly holds out a small pill and the cup of water Gamma had placed on the table earlier, avoiding direct eye contact. As you take them, he fidgets nervously with the edge of the blanket still draped over you.

"P-please drink this… before you go home."

You feel a pang of sympathy for him now.

Offering a small smile, you swallow the pill. It scrapes slightly against your still-raw throat but goes down easily enough. Gamma makes a sound like snapping his fingers.

"Alrighty! Now that our precious human is awake, I think it's high time you drank your magic robot tea and then skedaddled home to sleep in your own soft, warm bed, instead of being draped over the hard, cold chassis of two poor robots desperately craving validation and affection."

You raise an eyebrow at him, unable to tell if he's being serious or deeply sarcastic. Beta’s immediate, unbridled reaction, however, strongly suggests the latter might hold a kernel of truth.

He practically throws you into Gamma’s arms, scrambling off the couch and dashing towards the café area, calling back, "I’ll go get the tea!”. All you see is a purple and yellow blur disappearing around a corner, his two flexible grabber appendages flailing behind him like overexcited tails, narrowly missing several chairs.

An awkward silence descends as you realize you are now solely in Gamma’s lap. You sniffle, then sneeze, fumbling in your pocket for a tissue.

"What a weird day…" You whisper, mostly to yourself.

The silence stretches in response.

When you look up, Gamma’s mismatched eyes are fixed on you with an intensity you’re not accustomed to seeing from him. They gleam, a deep, assessing green; they seem to judge, penetrate, yet hold you captive, making it impossible to look away. His hand comes up, fingers firmly grasping your chin, tilting your head back slightly. His thumb traces the faint line of a scar near the right corner of your lower lip, a mark barely visible but not missed by his scrutinizing gaze.

"What was the point," his voice is suddenly low, resonant, cutting through the quiet room, "of dragging yourself here when you knew you’d only be inefficient?" The reproachful tone lands like a physical blow, stinging your chest. "Suffering, far from home? Why? Nobody pins a medal on you for martyrdom. Are you some kind of masochist?"

His words slice deeper than you expected, hitting a nerve you didn't know was exposed.

"I didn't come here… intending to be a burden," you manage, your voice trembling slightly. "I just…"

But the words die in your throat.

Gamma remains silent, his gaze unwavering, first on the tiny scar, then locking onto your eyes, waiting. All you can do is stifle a sob, hot tears welling up unexpectedly.

It must be the lingering fever, you tell yourself, or perhaps the accumulated exhaustion from the preceding days. But a sense of powerlessness washes over you – the dizziness, the melancholy that descends when you contemplate the tangled mess of past choices, the things that might have been, the decisions made and unmade. It hurts with a sharp, selfish pang because you know, deep down, that your actions often stem from a desperate search for something, anything, to fill the echoing void in your existence. Because, subconsciously, you ignored all logic and dragged yourself here, yearning for mere crumbs of the connection that feels so distant in your life. Because buried beneath layers of denial, you knew they wouldn't leave you alone. Because you crave the simple, fundamental comfort of affection and care.

Because at home, there's no one.

It’s a selfish desire, isn't it? To simply matter to someone. And even if this fragile connection feels illusory at times, who is the universe to deny you the right to cling to those who are here, offering solace, even if just for a fleeting moment? Who is to deny you the right to feel content and at peace?

Gamma’s intense gaze softens. His gloved thumb gently brushes against your damp skin, wiping away a stray tear tracking down your cheek. A small, conciliatory smile touches his lips.

"Foolish human," he grumbles, but his eyes now hold a mischievous glint, something that strongly resembles affection. "You’re damn lucky we all trust you enough."

Fresh tears spill over, fueled by embarrassment and a confusing surge of relief. Gamma lets out a chuckle.

"Thank you�� guys…" You manage between sniffles.

"Yeah, yeah. Now you owe me," he repeats, the teasing tone returning.

You snort, a watery smile finally breaking through. Whether any of this is 'real' in the conventional sense… You find you no longer care to dissect it. Whatever this is, whatever complex web of programming and emerging sentience is unfolding around you, it’s already more than you ever dared to ask for.

"B-Beta is taking a long time…" you murmur after a moment, wiping your eyes.

"Maybe he hasn't decided on the optimal tea blend yet," Gamma opines dryly, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

Meanwhile, unseen by either of you, the tall purple robot remains partially hidden. Peeking cautiously from behind a large column, a steaming cup held carefully between two large hands, his default expression of faint anxiety is starkly contrasted by the sweet, gentle smile slowly blooming across his face. Blue eyes gleam with an undeniable light as they fixate on you, a soft blush coloring his cheeks.

"If only you knew, Angel," he breathes to himself, adjusting his hood, "that all of us share the same dream… and someone just like you is the only data stream appearing in them."

______

[incorrectfmaquotes]

Alex Louis Armstrong is a Chad

do you remember sending this ask? i remember getting it. i was in japan visiting family before i set off to college that fall when i opened my inbox and saw this ask. and i thought it was funny. and true. Alex Louis Armstrong IS a Chad. and i wanted to come up with a funny reply to match. but being quick-witted cant really ever be considered one of my strong suits, and i had even less wield of that skill when still adjusting to a 17 hour time difference. so i told myself not to worry about it, keep spending this time with family members i rarely get to see, and surely when i get home in a few weeks, i could come up with an appropriately fun reply.

that was over 5 years ago. i had gotten back home since then. i had stayed home. virtually everyone was staying home for a good amount of time, a global pandemic happened. other global events happened. Personal Life Stuff happened. i had just graduated high school when i got this ask, and in a universe where maybe some things happened differently, i would have graduated college by now. my keeping of this blog fell more and more to the wayside until life got too busy that it was hard to manage even putting older quotes in the queue and i eventually stopped doing that.

yet a bit more than occasionally over these years, i have thought about this ask and what i could reply to it. still, a fun response has eluded me. but what could i even say as more time passes? that would make the wait worth it? this ask got buried deeper and deeper in my inbox and harder to reach as more asks and submissions were sent. it's entirely possible the blog that has sent it has since deactivated, as many blogs who have sent more recent asks have. the meme became more and more outdated. are chad/virgin jokes still being made? i dont know. even in my teen years i havent been on the rising tide of what slang and memes are currently popular. the gap of knowledge has only widened with age. recently a cousin who is around the same age i was when this ask came to my inbox had quizzed me on tiktok dances and was surprised that i didnt know any, dropping his jaw and exclaiming in all seriousness, "Wow! The generational gap is crazy." the social media i still use the most is tumblr, but more sporadic than it used to be, mainly just a tab i keep open on my desktop to, i dont know, feed some nostalgia? make it seem like im not completely rotting under the weight of adulthood by still keeping some of the rot of my teenage years?

over 5 years have since passed. i am back in japan right now, visiting the same family again, the first time since 2019 when this ask was sent. in the next year, if all things go according to plan, i will be back in college. it's funny, how life goes about in circles. but sometimes, maybe most of the time, those circles dont complete, and many things in life never get closure. or maybe closure does happen, and those circles do complete, but messily, unsatisfactorily, more resembling misshapen imperfect lumps than anything resembling a circle.

all of this to say:

the Chad Alex Louis Armstrong vs. the Virgin Roy Mustang. Discuss.

[sansaorgana]

Hello! Can you write one where there's a new pilot on the base who has a crush on the reader, not realising that she's dating Buck and Buck catches him flirting with her (maybe while he's dancing with Meatball) and he goes over to make sure that the new guy knows she's with him?

hello babes, I decided to combine these two requests ��� proceed with caution because it contains a forced kiss upon the reader so the subject might be triggering for some 🌹

I currently have quite a few requests in my inbox and I hope to work on most of them over the weekend 👌🏻

my inbox is open for blurb/short fic requests for major cleven 🤗

The new pilots were so cocky and sure of themselves, not yet experienced in the battle. Some of them haven't been up there at all. For them, the war was stil an exciting adventure. You were an archivist – to you, war had never been exciting. It was all about files, reports and copies of documents that had to be precisely organised.

But war – as terrible as it sounds – had brought something good into your life, too. Something so wonderful that sometimes you had caught yourself thinking that it just had to break out. You couldn't imagine the world without this war because it would be a world in which you would never meet the love of your life – Major Buck Cleven, one of the best pilots who was close to his 25th mission and your future life together without worrying about death every given second. That was the exciting part about your life.

Celebrating another pilot's successful 25th mission made you daydream of how it would look like when Buck accomplishes the same thing. You didn't even notice when you got exhausted from all the dancing but the music had stopped and so did your Buck, with his arms around you as his worried eyes searched for yours.

"Hey," he waved in front of your face and you smiled, "come back to me. Where were you?"

"Sorry, I've been daydreaming a little," you admitted with a giggle and he sighed. "I've been thinking of how the party for your 25th is gonna look like. About the decorations I'm gonna prepare and everything…" you stopped seeing how sad his smile became. He didn't like planning ahead so much. He wanted you to assume he would die any misison so you wouldn't have your heart as shattered. But it would happen anyway. Your whole soul would shatter if he died. "I'm sorry," you whispered and pursed your lips. "I'm exhausted," you added.

"No, don't be," Buck caressed your cheek and walked you back to one of the tables. "Get some rest, we've been dancing for two hours now."

"Really?" you glanced at your watch. "Woah, that sure counts as a training."

"Sure it does," Buck booped on your nose and you giggled. "May I have your permission to dance with someone else, very important to me?"

"Um…" you raised an eyebrow, "do you mean Bucky…? I'm not sure… As long as it's not a lady," you teased.

"It's not a lady," he assured you.

"Well, then, whatever," you shrugged your arms and watched him approach Bucky indded. But instead of asking his friend jokingly to dance, he crouched down and kissed Meatball's head before carrying him up and going back on the dancefloor. You laughed at the sight as Buck winked at you.

You leaned back on the chair and watched the dancing couples sleepily as your eyes seem to close themselves. Your legs were numb from all the dancing and your head was starting to ache as well.

"Hello," someone's voice made you turn around. It was one of the new pilots and he looked pretty awkward. His cheeks were flushed and you could smell some alcohol on him. However, his eyes were very soft as he kept staring at you.

"Hi…?" you greeted him and noticed a group of other pilots laughing in the distance. They were clearly watching your interaction. "Have you lost some bet, poor man?" you asked to make sure.

"No, not really," he swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry but… I know I'm not here for long, barely a few days but… Well, I had to drink a bit to gain the courage," he laughed nervously and sat down next to you. You moved uncomfortable in your seat. "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he confessed.

You widened your eyes at him. He clearly hadn't been told you were Buck Cleven's girl although it was no secret. You had to admit, though, that it felt nice to be told such a thing from a man you had barely known. Buck was way more subtle at flirting. This man was taking no prisoners, clearly.

"Have you not seen many women before perhaps?" you teased him.

"Seen and kissed," he smirked at you and you were taken aback by his words. Annoyingly, he was quite handsome. You wanted to tease him for a while longer.

"So you kiss and tell?" you crossed your arms with an amusing smile.

"Oh, if I kissed you, I'd tell everyone, surely," he moved a bit closer and you didn't even flinch. "What about… I kiss you and you decide if you want to continue this conversation or not?" he proposed.

"Well, sounds like you're very confident about your skills."

"I am," he suddenly was so close that you felt his breath on your skin. For a moment you didn't know what to say because you got lost in his extraordinary green eyes.

You were about to move away from him but he misunderstood your staring and joined his lips with yours. You squirmed and squealed, trying to push him away but he wouldn't stop, almost aggressively trying to make you kiss him back. He was a passionate kisser, sure he was, but he didn't want to stop.

Your squealing made a few men turn around. They laughed and whispered between each other. Buck turned around as well and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of his girl being kissed by another man. It didn't look like you enjoyed it but it also wasn't like you were pushing the man away as strongly as you could have. At least according to Buck.

He put down Meatball gently and scratched him behind his ear before fixing his uniform and approaching your table angrily. His jaw was clenched and his thoughts were filled with rage. He felt… betrayed. And humiliated since it was happening for everyone to see.

"Excuse me," he cleared his throat but the man kissing you didn't care. After all, he seemed to have no idea that you were Buck's girl.

Buck took a deep breath in and physically separated you from the young and overexcited pilot. You had never felt his hands being so rough with you like in that moment. You looked up at him, scared, with your lipstick smudged and eyes widened.

"I…" you started nervously, "I didn't want that…" you started.

"I'll speak with you later," Buck drawled out and you froze for a second. You definitely had never experienced him being so angry… Let alone angry at you.

"Major Cleven, is something wrong?" the young pilot stood up quickly. You heard his friends laughing in the background. They totally had known about you dating Buck and set the poor guy up. You wanted to punch them yourself.

Buck grabbed the young pilot's shirt and pulled him closer over the table.

"Stay away from my girl," Buck's eyes were fixed on his rival's with the most serious expression. Meatball could sense his anger and approached him while barking. Now everyone's eyes were on you and you felt like you would die of embarrassment any moment.

"Can we please… stop…" you tried but Buck laid his angry eyes on you for a second before staring back the young pilot. You knew he wanted you to stay silent.

"Shit, I had no idea it was your girl, Major Cleven…" the young pilot began to stutter and Buck's hand twisted his shirt to bring him even closer to his face. "You're my hero, I swear, I would never disrespect you like that… No one has told me…"

"Really? No one? Even her?"

You took a deep breath in because you didn't like the way they were discussing you, like you were an object. And you were sitting right there. However, you decided not to start a fight now and make it even worse. Instead, you stood up and approached Meatball to calm him down and hug him because you needed that to calm down as well.

"No, she did not, I swear. I didn't want to… I didn't want to do anything against your girl's will, Major," the young pilot shook his head and you chewed on the insides of your cheeks, trying not to say anything.

You had been basically pushing him away all the time but apparently for men it meant that you wanted them to continue.

"Get out of my sight," Buck gritted his teeth and let go of the slightly drunk pilot. He landed on the table face down but quickly got up and walked away as fast as possible.

You focused on kissing Meatball's head, trying to avoid confrontation with Buck. He was looking down at you in a manner you did not approve.

"I'm going to bed," you finally sighed and stood up, pretending that nothing had just happened. You grabbed your jacket from one of the chairs and left the room. You could see people staring at you and whispering between each other.

When the doors closed behind you, you heard someone's fast and loud footsteps following you. It was Buck. You started to walk faster but he grabbed your shoulder and turned you around angrily.

"Ouch, you're hurting me!" you squealed although it wasn't true. He was angry but he made sure not to actually hurt you. "Brute!" you gasped when you found yourself facing him.

"What the hell was that?" he asked and you shrugged your arms.

"Do you even care to hear my version of the story? Because you silenced me back there and seemed to believe what that guy had to say. I have nothing else to add," you told him and walked away again.

"For God's sake, you were kissing another man!" Buck wasn't convinced. This time he was a bit rougher with you as he turned you around and pushed you against the wall of an empty corridor.

You hated yourself for that, but you found it pretty hot. He had never been so possessive about you. And he had never roughly pushed you against the wall.

"He was kissing me and I was trying to push him away," you drawled out through gritted teeth with his face inches away from yours. "I admit, I was teasing him a little but I had no idea he would actually kiss me. I didn't want to tell him I'm taken the moment he showed up because I am not your property and you don't own me, understand me, Cleven? I won't tell every man approaching me that I can't talk because I belong to another."

"I don't expect that from you," Buck rolled his eyes. "But he was…"

"And you," you interrupted him, pointing your finger at him, "the way you spoke of me. Like I was an object. I didn't like that either."

"What do you mean?" Buck seemed to be genuinely surprised.

"When you were addressing me as her when I was right there as if I were too dumb to realize you were talking about me," you explained. "And when you called me your girl. It was nice but… You wanted him to leave me alone because I am your girl. Would you save me from him if I was a random girl and not your girl? Were you saving me from him or were you saving your property?"

"What are you on about, doll?" Buck seemed to be a little confused.

"Well, I've read some feminist pamphlets lately…" you confessed, "…and they suddenly made sense to me."

Buck blinked a few times, very slowly, like he was processing this information.

"Baby, I didn't mean to make you feel like an object. Or make it look like I believe him more than you… I was angry. I'm sorry," he shook his head.

You were surprised he didn't laugh at your feminist pamphlets, though. He didn't even comment on that.

"To be honest, even if you kissed him willingly, I'd probably forgive you anyway," he confessed as his eyes became a bit sadder. "I'm crazy about you."

"What…? No, no, no!" You gasped. "Oh, baby, I would… I would never…!" You cupped his face to bring him closer and joined your lips together.

Kissing him felt different than kissing that young pilot. It felt like going back home. His lips were warm and sweet, made you feel safe and dizzy from how much you wanted him. He was your Buck.

"Better," you whispered after breaking the kiss and he smiled at you lovingly, "so much better than that awful guy."

"At your service, little one," he winked at you.

MASTERLIST || BUCK MASTERLIST

[fabbyf1]

Hi Besties! 

I know I sort of just... disappeared, and I’m very sorry for worrying you.

To everyone who sent me an ask or dm checking on me: I really appreciate you. I'm not going to publish them, because I don’t think you sent them to me so that I would publish them, but thank you so much for caring about me and taking the time to send me a note of love and support. 

It means a lot to me to know that so many of you think about me and notice when I'm not around. I think we can all agree that that’s a really nice feeling. It says a lot about who you are as people and confirms the fact that we have built such a lovely little corner of the internet together. I'm a firm believer in the fact tumblr, and any other fan space or social media website, should always bring joy and positivity to your life. And if it's not, you should do something else. 

Nobody is getting paid to be here. We all choose to spend our free time here to relax, and unwind, and share a laugh with other people who share our weird little interests. I'm so grateful that my blog, and everyone who follows and interacts with me, has always kept it a light-hearted, supportive place. I know a lot of other big blogs can’t say the same thing, and they are constantly receiving hate and rude people in their inboxes. So thank you for helping me keep this a safe space where we can giggle and gossip and support each other.

Let’s address the elephant in the room. 

I disappeared from the internet for a lot of reasons, but mostly because... I am feeling very guilty and overwhelmed about my lack of writing. It's easier for me to disappear and avoid it altogether than to feel like I’m disappointing anyone. 

But let me be clear: these feelings are totally and 100% my own. Nobody is making me feel this way. Nobody is sending me anon hate, or demanding updates, or telling me that I've let them down. This is an expectation and standard I have put on myself, and I feel like I am failing myself when it comes to writing.

And that’s just something I have to deal with. 

Writing fanfiction has been a major part of my life since I was 12 years old (albeit, very bad fanfiction at 12 years old.) It’s a hobby that I will never move on from. And honestly, the older I get, the more I fall in love with it. I think fanfiction gets a lot of hate from people who don’t understand it or have never read it, but fanfiction is an important part of fan culture and brings so many people together. 

Some of the most powerful, impacting, and lasting words I’ve ever read were all from fanfiction. The words that haunt me, or that I think about over and over again are all from fanfiction. And I think that’s why I put so much pressure on myself when it comes to writing. 

I don’t want to publish something that is not my best work. I don’t want to update something just to update it; I want it to be exactly the way I envisioned it, if not better. I want it to mean something to you. I want you to love it, or laugh at it, or cry to it, or whatever that fic or that chapter is supposed to bring out of you. 

I haven’t opened my google docs for more than 5 minutes in... months. 

Just thinking about it overwhelms me because I feel like I’ve backed myself into a corner that I don’t want to be in. It’s silly and not as dramatic as I’m making it seem, but I wish I could go back and delete a few paragraphs at the end of the last chapter of the mastermind fic, so that the next chapter could be something... different. 

And I know that I technically could do that, but that doesn’t seem right either, because it would be confusing to everyone who is current with the fic and especially those who have read it multiple times and are expecting the next chapter to be something. 

Silly, right? 

But I feel very trapped by my wip right now.

When I wrote my other long fics like Long Live or Vapor, I didn’t post them as wips and I could go back and completely change the course of the story if I wanted to. But you can’t really do that with a wip. (Again, I know I technically could, but it would be very confusing.) I had this entire story mapped out in a timeline of how I wanted things to go, and so far have followed that, but I’m feeling very... trapped by it now. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. 

I’m going to find a way out of this writing slump I’m in. I promise you will. I have to. The fic, the characters, you, and I deserve this fic to continue and to grow into what I know they should be. I’m just struggling a lot with the idea of writing this next chapter because I wish it could be something different. 

I’m not sure any of that makes sense, but maybe you get it. 

I’m sorry I disappeared. 

When my fight or flight kicks in, I always choose flight.

I’m going to try and be better. 

Thank you all for loving me. 

[l00kingatthem00n]

━━ " COMPLIMENTS TO SMILE, A LIGHT TO SUN. "

━━ ABOUT.

hi! :] my name is west or crescent and welcome to my writing blog for oc x canon and x reader / yumeship shenanigans. here is a little bit about me!

i'm 18 years old and filipino.

i go by any pronouns, but he/him is preferable.

if you can't tell, i'm BIG into writing!!! i have an ao3 by the name of "inthemorningsun" i won't be posting tere as much as my tumblr, but you'll see me uploading my longer works on there.

my icon was made by my good bud @/enveelopes on twitter. please go follow them!!

━━ INTERESTS.

essentially, what i'll be willing to write for.

roblox: - block tales. - decaying winter. - frozen soul (dream game). - forsaken. - phighting. - regretevator. - starstruck.

project moon: - lobotomy corporation. - library of ruina. - limbus company.

━━ RULES.

please read thoroughly, if there are any questions just send them in my asks! they will also be updated accordinly.

first and foremost, this blog is more of a hobby and will not consume the majority of my time. i'll be taking 5-10 requests at a time. so, please understand that a select amount of requests will be taken. not only that, requests might take a while because i want to ensure it satisfies my standards.

while i will entertain instances of suggestive / smutty content, such as answering asks or writing works that involve it, please be aware that i am not currently willing to thoroughly write out actual smut. please be understanding of that- and don't worry, such content will be appropriately tagged "nsfw." regardless, feel free to peruse through posts that are "sfw" if you don't wish to come across those types of works.

whenever you request, it's completely optional, but i'd encourage you to be as specific as you can! other than whatever character(s) you want, please let me know whatever details you think are necessary! like if you want romantic or platonic, fluff or angst, or if you want headcanons or drabbles.

rapid-fire! what i will be willing to write: - fluff, angst, suggestive content. - romantic, platonic and queer platonic relationships. - headcanons, drabbles, and the occasional one-shot. - multiple characters x reader.

what i won't be willing to write: - romantic relationships with characters who are confirmed to be minors / children. - anything else that is problematic like incest, rape or anything non-consensual. - romanticized yandere. i can write it, but it will include how toxic and unhealthy a relationship like that is. - character x character / ships, but i do enjoy talking about them.

less of a rule, more of a heads-up, but sometimes i will write a character's appearance with my headcanons in mind, mainly to just add some more silly flares to their designs. this will most often apply to forsaken or phighting characters.

━━ TAGS.

sfw: self-explanatory

nsfw: also self-explanatory.

moonbeams: posts that are essentially anything that isn't writing! usual post stuff you'd see on tumblr hehe.

━━ MASTERLIST.

a compilation of all my written works.

n/a.

━━ QUEUE.

DO NOT REQUEST IN MY INBOX ANYMORE!!! PLEASE AND THANK YOU!! :'D

1x1x1x1 x reader fluff drabble.

survivors & killer!reader headcanons.

yandere!survivors & doctor!reader headcanons.

━━ " THIS FEELS NATURAL, NO SUBSTITUTE, NO ONE. "

[luvsturniolo]

hey girl i love ur stuff, do u think u could do a Matt imagine where the triplets are filming a baking video or smthn with the reader. There's a lot of speculation of whether Matt and reader are dating (idm if they're together yet or not) and reader minorly burns their hand or smthn and Matt makes a b-line to reader to comfort them? thanks ily<3

— ★ !! speculation

pairing : matt sturniolo x fem!reader

synopsis : desc is explained in the req !!

a/n : girl i'm SO sorry that this took forever. my inbox is literally so confusing & it stresses me out so bad to look at ; i need to organize it asap ! anyway im sorry this took so long, ur req got burried under a ton of others

anyway , i hope u like this bc u deserve it after waiting so long 😭 also, i'm trying a slighty different format for my posts (its so subtle idek if u guys will notice but i love it so wtv 🤞🤞)

wc : 1.8k

for the past few months, you and matt have been acting a bit differently on camera. normally, the two of you make an effort to stay decently apart so none of the his fans will notice that you're dating.

you've been friends with the triplets since middle school and you show up in their videos all the time. but last summer, matt finally asked you to be his girlfriend. you guys agreed to keep your relationship off the internet and since then, you two have been trying your absolute best to avoid eachother while on camera.

but it's harder than it sounds to keep a distance from the one you love. all you want to do it hold his hand, rest your head on his shoudler, or hug him. but you can't. and it drives you fucking crazy.

this morning, nick texted you and asked if you wanted to come over to film a baking video with them. seeing as you had nothing better to do, you happily agreed.

nick explained that you would be the one blindfolded. he and his brothers would be normal — able to speak, see, and hear freely. you were a bit nervous at first, knowing how horrible you are at baking. but you still agreed to film the video because you know their fans have been begging for you to participate in one of their cooking videos for years.

you're currently in the kitchen with matt as he sets out all the ingredients that will be used. across the room, nick is setting up the camera so you guys can film in a few minutes. chris is in his bedroom, searching for the bandana he set out for you.

"got it!" chris shouts excitedly as he rushes into the kitchen, waving the hot pink bandana around in the air.

you laugh at the sight of its bright colors before asking, "why the hell did you casually had that laying around your room?"

"don't worry about it." he responds, trying to be mysterious and dramatic.

he hands the bandana to you and you place it over your eyes. you wrap it around your head and end up fumbling with the ends of it, unable to tie it blindly. you sigh with annoyance but continue to struggle, too determined to ask for help.

suddenly you feel someone place their hands on top of yours. you immediately recognize them to be matt's. his fingertips are cold but his palms are warm, causing chills to wash over your skin like an ocean wave.

"you don't need to be so independent all the time," he tells you softly. "it's okay to ask for help every once in a while."

you feel his hands leave yours — meaning the bandana is tied. you turn around and blindly reach your hands up to find his face. you feel your hands graze his jaw and you smile, feeling the stubble of his beard brush against your skin.

you tip your head up and reach to kiss him. however, seeing as you can't see, you end up missing his mouth and kissing the corner of his lips. you feel his mouth pull upward with a smile before he moves his head to the side so you can kiss him correctly.

"i need to make this worth it." he says against your mouth. he pulls away to speak, but you lean forward to chase his lips. "i won't be able to kiss you until after the video is finished."

"then quit wasting your time talking and kiss me." you say. you feel his chest shake with an airy chuckle before he places his hands on your hips and pulls you closer against him, reconnecting your mouths to kiss you again.

"guys, what the fuck?" you hear nick's voice call out from across the kitchen. "you've been making out for the past three minutes."

"yeah," chris's voice agrees. it sounds like he's standing in the doorway. "we were trying to be nice and let you have your moment, but you just won't stop kissing."

matt lets go of your hips with a sigh. "whatever, let's get this over with."

"woah, kid!" chris exclaims dramatically. you can hear his voice move and his footsteps get louder as he makes his way over to where you and matt are standing in front of the counter. "don't sound too excited."

as unbelievable as this sounds, matt doesn't actually hate filming. he actually loves making videos for his channel. if he didn't, he would not be doing it as a job. what he hates is being away from you.

he's the literal definition of clingy. and you're like the exhausted mom who has to put up with his tantrums whenever you're torn apart.

"okay, the camera is set up." nick announces. "i'm gonna start recording, so get your coupley-ness over with so we can film."

it's kind of crazy how casual it's become for everyone to work around yours and matt's secret relationship. his brothers respect your guys' decision to stay private and they help you guys hide it from the media. it genuinely means a lot to you to know how supportive chrtis and nick are — even though they like to make jokes and tease matt for his clinginess.

"hey guys!" nick says to the camera. “today, y/n is going to be blind baking some santa-shaped cookies since it’s almost christmas!”

you can hear nick walk over to where everyone else is standing. he continues to talk to the camera when you feel matt’s knuckles brush against the small of your back — where the camera can’t see.

you smile, enjoying the physical touch. but you know how risky it is for him to do things like that. if you start blushing or acting weird on camera, the fans will easily put the pieces together and realize what it means. so you shift a little, causing matt’s hand to fall off your back and back to his side.

"okay," you hear nick's voice say. you jump at how close he is now.

"oh my fuck, nick!" you shout, turning to glare at him — hoping you're looking in the right direction. "you scared the absolute shit out of me!"

"i'm not nick." chris says.

you turn in the opposite direction and tilt your head dramatically, waiting for nick to apologize for scaring you. but instead of an apology, you hear matt say "i'm not nick either. sorry."

you huff out a scoff and turn to the last remaining direction where nick could be. this time you were finally glaring at the correct triplet.

you hear matt laugh from beside you and your stomach twists into a knot.

since you can't see, the rest of your senses have been heightened — meaning you're hyperaware of the sound of your boyfriend's laugh. everything in you is tempted to kiss and hold him and tell him how much you love him.

but. you. cant.

"as i was saying," nick continues, "matt set out all the ingredients before we started recording. so, everything is on the counter in front of you, y/n."

you nod in response, happily beginning your task. the first portion of the video is calm and kind of relaxing. you listen to the triplets' commands as you grab and pour random things into random bowls. honestly, you've lost track of what step you're on. it feels like you're just going through the movements of baking cookies rather than actually cooking a meal.

chris and nick have no problem with holding your hands or wrists to point you in the right direction. but matt? he hasn't touched you at all. he still talks to you and helps out when it's needed, but you both know better than to touch.

due to matt's intense clinginess, it's safest to stay apart. if not, nick will end up cutting out a large portion of the video where matt has to be pried off of you (it's happened before).

"now, you need to put the cookie tray in the oven." nick tells you. from the sound of his voice, you can tell that he's reading instructions off the back of the cookie box. you hear him set the box on the counter before he continues. "while you do that, i'll put the dirty dishes in the sink; chris will clean the counters so you can decorate the cookies when they're done; and matt can make sure you don't catch the house on fire."

"alright." you agree with the plan. you reach forward to grab the tray of cookies. you pat thepalm of your hands on the countertop, trying to find the metal board. but you can't find it. "what the fuck?" you mutter, knowing it was just right here.

"right here," matt's voice murmers against the shell of your ear. he reaches over you, his chest pressed against your back. you hear the cookies slide agianst the counter before you feel the cool material of the tray touch your hands.

you clear your throat awkwardly, trying not to think about him too much. "thanks."

"mhm," he hums. as he stands up straight, the warmth of his chest leaves your back and you're left feeling cold and empty without his presence.

you mimick his actions by standing up straight. you then carry the tray in your hands as you walk around the island to where you know the stove is. you're about to set the tray down to open the oven, but you hear someone come up behind you. matt tells you to just hold still and he'll open it for you.

you do as he says and wait for him to open the oven door. when you hear it unlatch, you reach down to slide the tray onto the rack.

apparently, you miscalculated the distance between you and the oven. because just as you were going to set the tray down, you felt a sharp pain in the knuckles of your pinky finger.

"fuck!" you shout in pained breath before dropping the tray to the ground.

"what happened? are you okay? are you hurt?" matt rushes out a string of questions, immediately taking your hand into his. he twists and turns it, examining the injury.

"yeah, i'm fine." you tell him. "i shouldn't have dropped the tray like that, it was kinda dramatic."

you hear him sigh, "what did i tell you? it's okay to ask for help."

"i didn't think i needed it." you tell him, dropping your voice to a whisper as you tell him your next concern. "plus, you might wanna get away from me. we're still filming."

"fuck the video, y/n." he says, pulling you into a hug. he holds you against him, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "you mean way more to me than a bit of speculation."

tags : @kasqnxx @lvrsparadise @prettysturniolo @strniolo @urmyslxt @cupidsturniolo @opheliaofficial07 @thetriplets3 @sturn1olo-ffics @uhnanix @deadxrx @kitaysworld @slaysturniolo @wilmalovegood @ladylokilaufeyson5 @sturniolopepsi @strnilolo @knowingnothingnoel @its-jennarose @lea0518

[skulla-rxcks]

Pushed away.

Paring: bang chan x afab reader

Rating: explicit

Genre: smut

Warnings: n0n c0n, drunk reader, reader takes advantage of chan while she’s drunk, angst, PIV

Ktober 27

Taglist: @f3lix00 @channiesgoodgirl @mal-lunar-28 @bangchans-gf5 @fun-fanfics @iwannabangchan @linosluver

Please dm me or use my inbox if you’d like to be added to the taglist ^^

!THIS IS PURE FICTION, NOTHING IN THIS IS REAL ITS JUST A STORY!

After having a few extra drinks at a bar with my friends I get a taxi ride back home. I look at my watch as I unlock the door. ‘Shit! It’s already 1am?’ I curse at myself as I realise how late I got home, Chan’s probably worried about me.

I sigh and walk inside our apartment, putting my handbag down on the kitchen bench before making my way to the bedroom. “It’s 1am, you were out long.” Chan chuckles patting the space next to him, gesturing for me to sit down next to him. I take a seat with him on our bed, looking into his eyes drunkenly.

“How much did you have to drink?” He asks me. “A few..” I respond, clearly in my own little world. “A few huh? Definitely seems like you’ve had more than that.” He sighs at me.

“Shut up..” i murmur, taking his phone out of his hand and hovering over him. “What are you doing?” Chan asks, a mixture of fear and confusion on his face. “You.. need you.” I mutter out.

I climb on top of him and begin taking his dick out of his pants before taking my panties off and lowering myself down onto his raw, unprotected dick, whimpers of pleasure and regret filling and leaving my mouth as I feel his length fill me up “Stop. I don’t want this right now. You’re not sober enough.” He sighs. But I don’t care, i start moving my hips, riding him.

“Please stop. Please.” Chan begs me. “No...” I reply, leaning over him to grab one of his hands. “I need… I need this… Fuck…” I cry, tears coming out of my eyes as i continue to assault him. “I can’t do this right now.” he groans as I ride him faster. “Please. Not here…. not now, not when you're drunk like this.” Chan continues.

“Chan...” I whine, gripping his shirt in my fists tightly as I feel myself get wetter as I bounce on him. “Please Chan. Just let me fuck you.” I say between breaths. But he doesn’t reply, instead just stares at me with fear. “Chan!” I yell grabbing his head so that we can make eye contact. His gaze is filled with worry and pity, but also pure lust. “I need you… Please Chan. Let me…” I see him nod, the scared pained in his eyes making me even more hungry for his cock, no matter how wrong this situation currently is.

“Im fucking serious! I really don’t want this.” he says in the nicest way possible, tears threatening to leave the corners of this eyes, but I don’t budge. We lay there, staring at each other in silence for some time, making me question everything in my fogged up mind. I eventually go back to riding him. “Please, don’t.” He pleads, trying to pull away but can’t due to my weight ontop of him.

“Just let me… please, Chan.” I beg once again, pulling him closer towards me by wrapping my legs around his waist as I continue to bounce on his length. my movements get more aggressive as I creep closer towards my orgasm. Not long after I reach my climax, cumming around his dick before pulling off and lying next to him, I try hug him but he pushes me back, ignoring me after what I’ve just done. “Chan? I’m sorry..” I mumble before looking blankly at the ceiling, clearly still processing that I assaulted my roommate