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solxamber · 3 months ago

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Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

Life used to be normal.

You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought “ghosting” only applied to dating. Cute times.

Then the gates showed up.

Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAM—mystical rift to MonsterLand™ opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are “fight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.”

And that would’ve been it for humanity—extinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.

Cool, right?

Except—Espers are dramatic. They're the “I’m fine” as they bleed out types. The “I didn’t sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibes” types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.

That’s where you come in.

You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.

It’s like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.

Is the job dangerous? Constantly.

Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.

Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.

And does it pay well? HAHAHA.

Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, you’ve somehow become really good at this.

Which is great, because your next assignment?

Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)

It’s raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? You’re bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.

Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Another’s shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.

You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.

“Sorry losers,” you say cheerfully, “get on my level.”

Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers return—bloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.

Chaos erupts.

Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, “Catch him, he’s falling—OH GOD, HIS ARM,” and “Who packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!”

You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.

Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.

And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.

“I am not getting soaked again,” he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.

You blink.

“Uh. Hello?”

Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.

And now he’s under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and he’s your tsundere warlord boyfriend.

He side-eyes you. “Aren’t you gonna guide me or whatever?”

You panic a little. “I—I’m not certified for SS-Class. I’m just S-Class.”

He snorts. “Didn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.”

What does that even mean??? Is this… Esper code for “I like you”? Or “I won’t kill you today”? Who knows. He’s already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.

And just like that, you’re guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like you’ve been chosen by some eldritch force.

Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.

Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.

You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. It’s soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.

You keep going. Until—

He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You blink. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?”

He scowls. “You’ve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and you’ll fry your nerves. Can’t stabilize anyone if you’re unconscious in a puddle.”

You try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine, Leona—”

“I need you alive, herbivore.”

You freeze.

Your brain does a little Windows error sound.

And then he’s standing, still holding your umbrella like it’s his now, yanking you up by the wrist like you’re the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.

“Your car’s this way, right?”

“…How do you know where I parked—”

“Because you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You don’t even lock it.”

You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.

And that’s how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.

You’ve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice – Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.

You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.

So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.

The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.

And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.

You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize it’s Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t ask how you are. Just nods his chin, “Keep up, herbivore.”

You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. “Leona—what the hell is this? Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. “Told ‘em I only want you.”

You short-circuit. “What?!”

“They asked if I’d take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told ‘em to transfer you instead.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “You… requested me?”

He shrugs like this isn’t causing you a spiritual meltdown. “Whatever. You’re not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You don’t treat me like a bomb about to go off. You’re fine.”

And then—like this conversation hasn’t just rewritten the structure of your career—he dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.

“Wait, that’s it?” you call after him. “You’re just—leaving me here?”

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “See you tomorrow.”

You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.

You don’t understand what’s going on. But let’s be honest—you’ve never understood anything and that’s never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.

So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of “just wing it and hope no one dies.”

And then Leona walks in.

No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the place—which, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.

You’re ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.

Leona?

Leona lays down on the office couch like it’s a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.

You blink. “Um. Hello? Sir?”

No response.

You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.

So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.

The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leona’s energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and it’s honestly the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.

When you're done, you gently nudge him. “Hey. Nap time’s over, sunshine.”

He grumbles like you’ve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like it’s his birthright.

“Hey!” you cry, scandalized. “That was mine! That was my life juice! That’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!”

He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. “You can get another.”

And then he leaves.

You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.

This job is going to kill you.

But you’ll die confused and employed, and that’s the best you’ve got.

You’re at the farmer’s market. Living your best domestic fantasy. You’ve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like you’re the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.

Then a gate opens.

Right there.

Next to the cheese stall.

The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAM—there's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.

You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.

You’re cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be it—death by demon at a farmer’s market—when a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.

Leona.

He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. “Why the hell are you here?”

You, still holding the leek like it’s a holy weapon: “I don’t know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!”

He groans like you’re giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like he’s swatting a fly, and before you can say “gluten-free honey loaf,” he’s grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.

You’re trying to catch your breath. You’re covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And you’re shaking.

“Okay,” you say, trying for calm but sounding like you’ve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), “let’s get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.”

You reach for him—but your hands are trembling too much. You’ve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.

Leona notices. His brow furrows. “Tch.”

Then—softly, carefully—he pulls you into his chest.

You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like he’s not sure how to comfort but he’s trying anyway.

“You don’t go in the gates,” he murmurs. “I go in. I’ll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look at you like that—not annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.

You nod into his shirt. “Okay.”

And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.

You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because let’s be honest—your energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in man’s clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.

Leona didn’t even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, “Took you long enough.”

Now, you’re guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest you’ve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are “certified emotionally soothing.”

You’ve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesn’t even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like it’s routine, and is unconscious within minutes.

You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). You’ve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.

You are, shockingly, thriving.

Every now and then Leona’ll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, “You’re getting better.”

Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.

Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.

But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.

The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a “Good luck lol” from your supervisor. You’re standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like it’s a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.

Then—bam—some random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like you’re the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like “there, there, emotionally damaged soldier,” when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.

Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from “I need a nap” to “I'm about to commit a felony” in zero-point-three seconds.

Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.

"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.

You don’t even get the chance to complain. He’s already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.

And you? You’re stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.

Just another day in your life.

You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says “I pay taxes and win arguments.” The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.

You’re weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags when—

SWOOSH.

The jackets are gone.

You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.

You whirl around and see Leona—yes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnate—casually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:

• The jackets

• The socks you forgot you picked up

• A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"

• A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)

You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. “Excuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Leona doesn’t even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.

“You were taking too long,” he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.

“I was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!”

He pays. Effortlessly. Doesn’t flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.

You arrive at the register breathless and confused. “I didn’t ask you to buy my—my impulse garments.”

He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. “Didn’t say you had to ask.”

You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. “Are you—are you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?”

“Can’t have my Guide dying of hypothermia,” he mutters. “Especially not because they can’t pick a jacket.”

“That doesn’t explain the mug, Leona!”

“Sure it does.” He turns, smirking slightly. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“For what?!”

“Come to the gate.”

And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.

You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.

Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitude—even while passed out.

It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesn’t get back up. You wait—he always gets up. Even when he’s cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like he’s just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.

You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.

You can’t leave him there—not sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would do—you throw all logic out the window and start dragging.

Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that you’re certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine won’t sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.

Finally—somehow—you make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driver’s seat, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon. And then—because fate is a comedic little gremlin—you have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.

You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.

Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.

Because he still isn’t waking up.

You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesn’t react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You don’t drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before it’s an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.

Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, you’re just about to commit to panic when he stirs.

He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.

“You absolute menace!” you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. “You scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good track—”

He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like you’re background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand and—pat pat—smooths it over your head like you’re the one that needs comforting.

“‘m fine,” he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like you’re a weighted blanket.

The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.

He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but haven’t said.

“Leona,” you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.

“Sleeping,” he grumbles, completely unmoved. “You should too. You’re loud.”

So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towel—but you stay.

And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.

It’s not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeah—but they’re not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.

You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, and—

You freeze.

It’s a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like it’s auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.

And blood.

So much blood.

You see espers fighting—familiar ones, ones you’ve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.

You step forward and your stomach lurches.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You’re a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.

That’s when you feel it—warmth behind you, a solid presence—and then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.

“Don’t look, herbivore.” Leona’s voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything you’ve clung to today. You don’t even flinch at the touch—just close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.

You breathe out, finally.

When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.

He doesn’t say anything else—just places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.

Leona sits you down first.

You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. He’s watching you the whole time, like he’s memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You don’t say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.

“Herbivore,” he mutters. “You okay?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But I’ll do my job.”

And he doesn’t argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about “stupid guides forgetting they’re human too.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

You lasted longer than most would’ve. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

But it doesn’t make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesn’t make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesn’t make it easier when the manager doesn’t even try to talk you out of it—just looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like they’ve seen a thousand others do the same.

And it really doesn’t make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.

It’s not that you don’t love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach… after seeing what happens when you’re too late… something inside you cracked.

You can’t keep holding people together when you’re falling apart.

So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.

You don’t expect the knocking.

Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

You open the door and Leona’s there—disheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple “I don’t care” speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.

You look at him. And you break the news gently.

“I quit.”

He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.

You try to explain—how you can’t take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friend’s body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.”

You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.

But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, “You happier like this?”

You blink. “...Yeah.”

He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.

You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then he’s lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t even sit far.

You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didn’t leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.

You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.

Maybe the world can wait a little longer.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're retired. Done. Free. You’ve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.

But the moment the alert flashes across your screen—“Category Red Gate Breach”—your blood runs cold.

You tell yourself you’re just going to check. Just to make sure. You don’t bring your badge. You don’t bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someone’s tired suburban mom.

When you arrive at the site, the street’s already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaos—Espers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.

You’re not supposed to get involved. You’re not.

But then you see him.

Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coat’s half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edges—like he’s running on fumes and sheer attitude.

You run to him.

“I told you to take care of yourself!” you shout, more out of panic than anything else. “You absolute menace—what the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like you’re a dream he’s too tired to question. His breath stutters.

And then he’s pulling you forward—no warning, no words—just grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasn’t ended yet because you showed up in time.

And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.

You guide him—not with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way you’re pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every “I missed you,” every “You idiot,” every “Please be okay.”

And slowly—slowly—his breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Knew you’d come.”

You hold him tighter.

It happens on a normal, sunny day.

Leona’s in your apartment, lounging like he lives here—which he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. He’s flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.

“You’re wasting perfectly good yarn,” he mutters. “This thing looks like a limp sea anemone.”

You throw a cushion at him. “Shut up. It has character.”

He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and it’s riding up just a bit at his waist.

And you—you’re just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.

You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, “I want to form a permanent bond.”

The room stills. Leona doesn’t move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.

“What?”

You swallow. “I want to bond permanently. With you.”

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You sure this isn’t the post-massacre adrenaline talking?” he says, voice flat. “People say weird shit after trauma.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.”

Leona’s quiet for a long time. Then he sits up—really sits up—and leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.

“You don’t get to change your mind after this,” he says, low. “It’s a one-way door.”

“I know.”

“You’ll feel what I feel,” he says. “You’ll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.”

You smile. “Leona, I’ve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.”

He groans like you’ve physically injured him and slumps back again. “You’re gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.”

But there’s a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.

He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You don’t. You reach out and link your fingers through his.

And he exhales shakily. “Okay then.”

He presses you back into the couch—your stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergent—and his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.

He looks at you, eyes bright. “You’re stuck with me now, y’know.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, you’re not just a guide and an esper anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours. Permanently.

Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dream—a chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.

He’d been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didn’t need a guide. Didn’t want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.

And then you happened.

He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.

Instead, they got you.

You must’ve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.

And then—then—you had the audacity to guide him.

It wasn’t the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. He’d cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something you’d regret.

And you? You pulled his ear.

Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.

“Sit still, I’m working,” you’d snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.

And then—

Then it all bled away.

The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your aura—bright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadn’t earned yet, but hell, it worked.

By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.

He had to ask someone your name.

It pissed him off for weeks.

Because you hadn’t even realized who you’d grabbed. You hadn’t known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadn’t cared. You’d just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.

And somehow… it had worked.

He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rain—gray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.

The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.

The rain hadn’t touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadn’t just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.

And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his ear—he didn’t even hear it anymore.

It was you.

The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses to know it was you—the one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.

He’d spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.

And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.

You didn’t even flinch when he stepped up to you.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t bow like the others.

Just blinked at him and went, “I'm just an S class guide.”

And that—

That pissed him off.

Because you didn’t recognize him.

After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?

You didn’t even remember.

Leona’s eye twitched.

No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.

He’d just have to remind you.

He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d forget me, herbivore.”

Still blank.

“Oh?” you said, sipping your coffee like he wasn’t radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. “Should I have?”

Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.

Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. He’d just put himself on your schedule. He’d get stabilised. Regularly. By you. He’d show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.

He’d make sure you remembered.

And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.

He remembered that day like a fever dream.

The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didn’t remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.

And you—

You were pacing.

Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for help—and that was when it hit him.

You were scared.

For him.

You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.

Leona would never forget that look.

Wide-eyed. Raw. Like you’d just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.

He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reaction—Sevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close you’d come to losing your “life juice thief.”

And something in his chest broke a little.

He didn’t say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.

You didn’t argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.

He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.

And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of you—panicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of him—was burned into his brain like a brand.

He thought: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

And maybe that’s when it happened.

Maybe that’s when he stopped running from what you meant to him.

Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.

Not because it was the bloodiest he’d seen—though it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.

No.

He remembers it because of you.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.

He’d spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.

Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.

You didn’t flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.

"Don’t look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.

You made a small sound—shaky, half-choked—and he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.

And he knew, right then, that he’d never forget your expression. The look of someone who’d seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.

He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.

You guided him there—your hands still trembling, voice quiet—but you guided him all the same.

He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, you’d disappear. Like if he wasn’t careful, you'd shatter.

And he swore—

If he could help it, he’d never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.

Leona had felt fear before.

The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.

But none of it—not once—had made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.

Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said “Espers are drama queens” was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.

“Transferred?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nah,” someone said. “Resigned. Burnout, probably.”

His vision tunneled.

Burnout.

You’d burned out—and you hadn’t said a word.

Leona didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

And you smiled.

Small. Tired. But real.

It wrecked him.

You explained in soft words—words that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said “I needed a break.”

And Leona… he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

“Come back?”

“Let me fix it?”

“I need you?”

No. He wasn’t good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.

And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.

Leona didn’t sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.

He stayed until morning.

Because if you couldn’t carry the world for a while, he’d hold it up for you instead

Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.

They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.

He didn’t want calm. He didn’t want pristine.

He wanted you.

And it wasn’t like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it looked—how reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, he’d shrug them off like their hands burned.

Because letting someone else guide him after you?

It felt like cheating.

Even if you’d never been his. Even if you’d never called him yours. Even if you’d left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadn’t just ripped something vital out of him.

He endured. And endured. And endured.

Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.

Scolding him for not taking care of himself.

You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like he’d carved a hole in your chest and left it open.

He barely heard the words. He couldn’t think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.

So he kissed you.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like you’d been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he could breathe again.

You were his fate. You always had been.

And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.

Now, you're permanently bonded.

Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartment—but to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because “she’s sensitive to cold.”

He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.

Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like he’ll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.

But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, “Welcome home, dumbass,” with that soft tone you always save just for him.

And it hits him again: you’re his.

You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.

Leona doesn’t care for sentimentality. But he knows—knows—he’ll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.

Because something about the way you touched him… the way your hands didn’t shake… the way your voice didn’t flinch…

He hadn’t felt fear. He hadn’t felt chaos. He’d just felt—settled.

Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before he’d ever earned it.

He comes home to that now.

To you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesn’t feel like he’s enduring the world.

He feels like he’s living in it.

You’re both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, “Hey… why me?”

Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. “Why not you?”

You nudge his side, unconvinced. “No, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Our first meeting. It wasn’t during that gate in the rain.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. “It was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.”

You squint, thinking hard. “You mean—?”

“I was a mess,” he says, lips twitching at the memory. “Raw, half-feral. I’d just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “stomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to ‘stay put,’ like you weren’t terrified I’d snap your arm off.”

And then it clicks. It clicks.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “That was you?!”

He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.

You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.

Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugs—gentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.

He thinks, this.

This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldn’t possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the country—this is what he wants every damn day of his life.

You’re still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.

“I pulled your ear,” you murmur, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “No wonder you’ve been so whipped since day one.”

“Watch it,” he warns, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You grin, and he kisses it right off your mouth.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x you #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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niennanir · 2 years ago

Text

Listen to your elders

So last week I posted abut the importance of downloading your fic. And then three days later AO3 went down for 24 hours. No one was more weirded out by this than I was. But while y’all were acting like the library at Alexandria was on fire I was reading my download fic and editing chapter eight of Buck, Rogers, and the 21st Century. And also thinking about what I could do to be helpful when the crisis was actually over.

So first off, I’m going to repeat that if you’re going to bookmark a fic, you really need to also download the fic and back it up in a safe place. I just do it automatically now and it’s a good habit to get into.

But let’s talk about some other scenarios. Last October I lost power for over a week after hurricane Ian. Apart from not having internet or A/C I did find plenty to do, I collect books so I had plenty to read, but maybe, unlike me, your favorite comfort reads aren’t sitting on a bookshelf. So let’s do something about that, shall we?

In olden times many long years ago around 1995 we printed off a lot of fic. It was mostly SOP to print a fic you planned to reread and stick it in a three ring binder. And that’s totally valid today too, but you can also make a very nice paperback with a minimum amount of skill and materials.

Let’s start with the download; Go to Ao3 and select your fic, we’ll be working with one of mine. This method works best with one shots, long fic tends to need a more complicated approach. Get yourself an HTML download

Open up the HTML download and select all then copy paste into any word processor. Set the page to landscape and two columns, then change the font to something you find easy to read, this is your book, no judgement. This is all you have to do for layout but I like to play a little bit. I move all the meta, summary, notes to the end and pick out a fun font for the title:

No time like the present to do a quick proofread. Congratulations, you’ve just created your first typeset. On to the fun part.

Now you’re going to need some materials: 8.5x11in paper ruler one sheet of 12x12 medium card stock (60-80lb) scissors pencil pen or fine tip marker sheet of wax paper white glue two binder clips 2 heavy books or 1 brick butter knife

You’ll also need a printer, if you’re in the US there is almost a 100% chance your local library has a printer you can use if you don’t have your own. None of these materials are expensive and you can literally use cheap copy paper and Elmers glue.

Print your text block, one page per side. Fold the first page in half so that the blank side is inside and the printed side out:

use the butter knife to crease the edge. Repeat on all the sheets. When you’ve finished, stack them up with the raw edge on the left and the folded edge on the right. I used standard copy paper, because you’re only printing on one side there’s no bleed to worry about. Take the text block and line everything up. Use the binder clips to hold the raw edge in place.

Wrap the text block in the wax paper so that the raw edge and binder clips are facing out. I’m going to use my home built book press but you don’t need one, a brick or a couple of books or anything else heavy will work fine.

Once the text block is anchored down, take off he binder clips and get out the glue.

You can use a brush but you don’t need one, smear some glue on that raw edge.

Go make a margarita, watch The Mandalorian, call your mother. Don’t come back for at least an hour

In an hour smear some more glue on there and shift your brick forward so that the whole book is covered. This keeps the paper from warping. While glue part 2 is drying we’ll do the cover. Get out your 12x12 cardstock

Mark the cardstock off at 8.5 inches and cut it. Measure in 5.5 inches from the left and put in a score line with the butter knife (the back edge not the sharp edge)

Carefully fold the score line, this is your front cover. You have some options for the cover title, you can use a cutting machine like a cricut if you have one, you can print out a title on the computer and use carbon paper to transfer the text to the cardstock. I was in a mood so I just freehanded that beoch. Pencil first then in pen.

Take your text block out from under your brick. Line it up against the score mark and mark the second score on the other side of the spine

Fold the score and glue the textblock into the cover at the spine. Once the glue dries up mark the back cover with the pencil and then trim the back cover to fit with your scissors.

Voila:

I’m going to put this baby on the shelf next to the Silmarillion.

The whole process, not counting drying time, took less than an hour.

If you want to make a book of a longer fic, I recommend Renegade Publishing, they have a ton of resources for fan-binders.

#fanbinding #fanfiction #Nir paperback

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lostintransist · 3 months ago

Note

Would love a continuation to your gym antics with maybe possibly Simon meeting Reader and seeing her deliver 23 psychic damage to every creep in the gym.

Then MAYBE they all realize that they’ve all been interested in (respectfully obsessed with) the same person (reader). They witness The Ultimate Douchebag Takedown and watch her do reps with said douchebag’s max weight with so much spark in her eyes. Then they see her be super sweet with a younger beginner or the gym’s dog that roams the shop or some shit

So sometimes stories get away from me and I couldn't figure out why they would all be at a public gym at the same time. My brain kept going, but if they are all together why wouldn't they be on base?? Anyway, my incessant need to answer the unspoken why has led us here. Enjoy! ☺️

If the damn desk jockeys would get off their asses and finish dealing with the fucking problem they would be able to go home. Two weeks in this hotel because the paper pushers wouldn’t approve something more than an economy room in a relatively cheap option. The core of Task Force 141, Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap were nearing blows.

Two queen beds made it hard for any of them to get enough space to stretch out. Everyone took turns rotating who shared with Soap. The man rolled. He didn’t just roll, he would cuddle and then end up sideways in the bed over whoever happened to be sharing with him. Made sleeping rough.

The piss-poor gym/pool set up on the first floor became an outlet for every man. They went in shifts. It wasn’t discussed so much as whoever was the closest to sending a brother through the wall between the bedrooms and the bathroom would nip out to run down their anger on the treadmill or splash laps in the pool.

Now due to the lack of overlapping none of the men knew they had their eye on the same bird. It wouldn’t have helped if they had known.

Price and Ghost ran into you more than once in the hot tub. They would slip into the chilly water and push until their muscles burned and then join you who read or watched something on your phone. Gaz and Soap found you on the treadmill singing quietly as you walked at a speedy clip. Every time the door opened to the gym you stopped singing.

Gaz spoke to you first.

“You can keep singing, don’t mind me. Feel free to turn up the volume on the music too.”

Instead of complying you laugh. Kyle stands near the door, arms folded as he squinted at all the equipment.

“Na, I get a bit shy. Thanks, though.” You offer a smile that is reflected in your eyes. “You here long?”

Gaz laughed through his nose, “Who knows? Trying to get home but the paperwork people at the job are apparently not in the same kind of rush.”

“You too? Damn. What is with them? Do they think I like sleeping on the cardboard they call a mattress?” The animation in your face pulls Gaz in. Bright expressions that show not an iota of mistrust or hiding something.

“They must not travel much for work or they would get us home faster huh?” He crosses the room and points to the treadmill next to you, “Mind if I join you?”

“Go right ahead,” you gesture at the machine. “Conversation would be a nice change.”

The two of you laughed through the last twenty or so minutes of your workout.

Price met you next.

He was one more stupid pun away from unloading his service weapon into his men. He had slammed into the muggy air of the pool room. Without even a glance around he stripped down to his speedo and stomped down the steps into the water. Fucking hotel pools were never deep enough for diving. Five laps and his shoulders burned enough to slow down. Pushing back against gravity he stood. Running a hand over his hair, face, and head, to clear some of the water he looked around for the first time.

There you were, eyes carving lines long his muscles from the hot tub.

“Need something, sweetheart?”

The time it takes you to drag your gaze from the water lapping at his stomach to his eyes sends chills down his spine.

“Na, just enjoying the view. Not often I get a strip tease by accident.”

Price couldn’t help but laugh. He had to have several years on you but the way you look at him has him wishing he were here alone.

“Sometimes a man forgets he might not be the only person in the pool.”

Snorting, you step back and sink lower into the bubbling water.

The bubbles dissipate as you become a floating head.

“Shit,” straightening you look to the wall where the timer is.

“If you don’t mind company I can fix that on my way over?” Price offers, lifting a brow and his cheeks in a smile.

“I would love some company, in fact,” you give him a sultry smile.

Since your face firmly tracks his motion up and out of the pool and to the timer by the time he steps into the heated water his cheeks are as red as his speedo. He is pruned when he finally leaves. You left twenty minutes before he could stand straight without the pressure of his speedo cutting the blood supply off to his everything.

Soap is neck deep in a maladaptive daydream about having a wife and three bairns screeching across the heath as the wind plucks at them when you enter the gym. He moved at a light jog. Feet falling lightly on the belt he isn’t breathing hard.

A clang and ringing of metal is enough to pull Soap back to his body. Glancing over he sees you wincing and pressing your massive water bottle to your chest to stop the metal from singing.

“All good over there?” He lifts both brows as his head tilts slightly.

Your tongue makes an appearance under your top lip as you push a lung full of air from your nose.

“Ever just have one of those days where the seconds take too long to pass?” You looked at him so earnestly that Soap reached out and slowed down to a walking pace.

“Too many damn times. Would a chat help reset the clock watching?”

The fight to keep from your face crumpling had Soap pulling out his threadbare handkerchief and passing it over.

“Time does tricky things to me too,” Soap offered softly.

You pressed the fabric to your nose and coughed to clear your throat and eyes.

“Thanks.” Sniffing you take a shaky breath, “Watching anything interesting lately?”

“Can’t sit still long enough for TV but been seeing the wildest one-person skits on my socials. Favorites have to be a girl’s group chat gone wild and an enemies-to-lovers story with family drama and an ex who won’t get out of the way.”

You light up, hand flying away from your face as you lean toward him.

“Oh my god! Do you think she is the other woman and that’s why she didn’t tell anyone what the hell was going on?”

The time is spent passing back and forth thoughts on stories more interesting than what writers’ rooms had put out in decades.

Ghost meets you last. Well. Yes, he was last but he didn’t really meet you so much as wake trying to avoid being smothered to death.

Falling asleep in the hot tub is not recommended. Even if he could keep his nose above water while sitting at the bottom of the small pool, he shouldn’t fall asleep. He had been the one to share a bed with Soap last night. Instead of swaddling the man like a newborn Ghost had given up on sleeping through the night. Haunted him now.

Eyes snapping open he glares up at you. His head is pinned between your hand and the floor. A quick external assessment tells him that his mask is still on, and the bubbles have stopped. He must have passed out hard.

“Hi,” you study both his eyes before blinking and taking in him. “Since you woke and have normal pupil reactions, I am going to assume you don’t need any naloxone?”

“No.”

“Okay.” The odd look you give him is overshadowed by your fingers sliding off his skin. Damn. Why did that feel so good? “Can you move your long ass legs then so I can enjoy some time in the water?”

Snapping into a sitting position Ghost curses the fact his ears are out. He gets pink in the tips of his ears when embarrassed.

“Sorry.” Ghost ran a hand through his short hair, surprised by the wetness there, “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

A jet caught him in the back. With a grunt he shifted. The pressure from the blasting water left his skin itching. The bubbles were nice though. Stretching his arms along the curve of the tiles he notices your eyes follow his wingspan.

“Do they even make beds big enough for you here?” You question as you step in with a hiss and hand clutching the balance bar.

He doesn’t know why he replies. He isn’t normally this chatty. The lack of sleep must be stealing away his senses and filling him up with a bevy of words.

“I’m not that big.”

You sit across from him. He can feel the drift of your legs in the water above his where they stretch along the bottom.

The glance you send him lands somewhere particular, even with the barrier of the moving water. A slow bob of your head and the lift of your brows accompany your disbelieving tone.

“Must have been the water distortion.”

“Lots of things about me are distorted,” Ghost mutters.

The sputtering laugh you let out has you covering it up with a cough.

“That was terrible. Are all of your jokes that bad?”

“Worse.”

“Ooh, honesty. Well then, let’s hear them?”

Ghost narrows his eyes at you as he tells you the tank joke.

“I see your tank joke and raise you one of my own; two soldiers are in a tank; one looks at the other and says blub.” The waggling of your brows is what tipped him over the edge into snorting.

Back and forth it went until you rub your fingertips together and proclaim yourself cooked. With a smile and a nod you disappear. Ghost spends far too long staring at the ceiling thinking about your hands on him.

They run into you day after day after day. Sometimes in the coffee shop within walking distance or a cafe. But they always run into you alone and never mention you to the others. When orders finally arrive that they can return home each man searched the building over twice looking for you. No luck.

Check-out runs smoothly, leaving them loitering with their gunny sacks in a pile by the complimentary couches and chairs in the lobby. Was there an actual purpose for these couches other than decoration? No one ever seemed to use them. This was the discussion happening between the men that seemed to conveniently forget that their asses sat on the decorations.

Ghost’s eyes widening have everyone looking.

There you are. Backpack over on shoulder and a small suitcase wheeling

Not one of them is confident enough to approach you with the others watching. That leaves all of them waiting and hoping you stop and say hello and here is my number before goodbye.

“Thanks! I had a good stay,” your voice carries over your shoulder to them. Each man tightens up like they were about to breach a building.

Turning a saccharine smile settles on your face as your eyes connect to each man in turn. Striding up to the chair placed neatly between the two couches they sat on you settle both hands on the back, the luggage near your leg.

“Gentlemen, thank you for making the say endurable. I will be sending your warmest regards to Colonel König when I get back to base.” Lifting your hand to your forehead you flick them a bastardized salute and stride out the front door.

The only sound following your pronouncement is the ringing of the phone behind the front desk.

“Did we get fucking honey potted?” Gaz looks at Price, aghast.

“It’s only honey potting if you spill state secrets,” Soap chimes in as he pops his neck slowly.

“Says the man who has been honey-potted before,” Ghost snarked, fingers digging into the weave of his jeans.

“It wasn’t Soap,” Price mutters as his fingers begin to work his mustache, “That John wasn’t SAS.”

“Wait,” Soap looks at each of them with a sharp gaze. “She got all of us? How the hell did she manage that?”

“Looks like KorTac has gotten a better hiring manager,” Price slaps his hands to his thighs, standing. “We will not be discussing this again.”

A chorus of ‘agreed’ and they consider the matter closed.

And other than the time they run into you in the field, that is.

Masterlist

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap cod #john price x reader #soap mactavish #price x reader #kyle gaz x reader #gaz cod #kyle gaz garrick #captian john price #johnny x reader

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tangyneon · 14 days ago

Text

inky, tawny, teddy!

Your tastes might be ridiculous... but Gojo's weakness for you?

Now, that's a whole new level of ridiculous.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: teen!gojo; teen!reader; tooth-rotting fluff; humor; gojo and you have been engaged since childhood because of an agreement between his clan and yours; neither of you really knows what that means now; pining looks so cute on gojo; denial too looks good on him; vaguely unestablished relationship; vaguely long-distance relationship; word count—895. warnings: none. this is a sequel of sorts to 'lychee pops!', but please feel free to treat it as a stand-alone if you wanna!! notes: many people asked me to write more for these two, so here it is, my loves!! hope you'll enjoy reading this, babes!! ❤️❤️

It's 10:30 at night, and Gojo Satoru finds himself standing in front of a vending machine.

But not for a snack, nor for canned coffee, and certainly not for that disgusting hot corn soup Shoko loves to sip, as if it isn't some crime against humanity.

No—this is the kind of machine that feels like it should be in a forgotten corner of a forgotten festival. Or maybe in one of the small shops that sell foolish knickknacks—things people don't really need, but they buy anyway.

Lit up by a single neon light—flickering, at that—the machine hums. Gojo feels a chilly breeze rush through the alley, sending a shiver up his spine and lifting his hair a bit. The night smells of rain on asphalt, of exhaust and smoke, of city life and its restless hubbub.

All the while, the boy—who should technically be asleep in his dorm right now; who could be anywhere else in this large, loud city—stays standing before the vending machine. Staring at the capsules filled with cheap things, idiotic things, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets and his mouth tugged down into a frown that is not quite a frown anymore.

This is stupid, he tells himself. Very, very stupid.

And yet, he stays right there.

He lets his eyes scan the chart of little plastic prizes—frogs, hearts, cats, stars—until something catches his eye.

A tiny teddy bear keychain.

White as snow, with round ears, stubby arms, and two black bead eyes that somehow seem to be staring right back at him.

Oh, wow, he thinks dryly.

Because the second he sees it, he thinks of you. His mind goes to the way you'd tilt your head, smiling softly because it'd remind you of the teddy bear you lost when you were a tiny kid. Even without you here, Gojo can already picture your fingers wiggling in that ridiculous little wave, a silent "I want it".

You would lose it over this thing.

The thought makes his lips twitch. Only a bit. Before he heaves a sigh as though he is being forced into something painful—even though no one is watching, and nobody is making him do it.

Nearly reluctantly, he digs a handful of coins from his pocket, then feeds them into the machine one by one—carefully listening to each sharp clink of metal—as if he is paying some kind of penance, eager for it to be over.

Soon enough, the coins are gone. And the capsule drops with a light, hollow, echoing thunk. He sighs again, then squats, pops it open and lifts the keychain by its thin gold chain.

It looks even stupider up close—this tiny white bear, dangling in the air, catching the glow of the neon light above.

Gojo stares at it for a moment.

Then—only because he feels the need to, for some reason—he mutters under his breath, "You better love this, dummy."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Gojo wraps it up the next morning.

He's not any good at this kind of thing, though. But then again, it isn't like you are either, so he does not really care—not that the boy would have cared, were you good.

He simply scrounges up a bleak envelope, shoves the keychain inside with a bit of tissue he finds at the bottom of Geto's bag, then studies it. He grimaces, then adds a folded scrap of paper.

don't get weird about it. just saw it and thought of you. it's stupid—just like you.

Sealing it, he scrawls your name and the address of your clan's estate on the front in messy handwriting, then goes to drop it off in a nearby red post box before he can change his mind.

And then—well, Gojo heads to his classes and forgets about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Gojo does not actually forget about it.

He thinks about it, all day and all evening—until the moment he is sitting down with his dinner, and his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Half-eager, and half-ready to feign distraction and indifference, the boy flips it open—then pauses.

Your face fills his phone's screen—you and your bright grin, your shining eyes, and the tiny bear you're holding up beside you. As if it has made your entire day. As if it is already the most precious thing you own.

Gojo just stares at the photo.

For one beat. For two beats. Maybe for a whole minute—he is not sure, nor particularly bothered, truth be told.

His thumb hovers over the keys. He wonders if he should send back some smart remark. Or a joke.

Eventually, Gojo moves his thumb away, finding himself smiling—not his usual wide, mischievous ones, but something smaller. Maybe even realer. The kind of smile that sneaks up on the boy, softening his whole face without him meaning it to.

"Ridiculous," he mutters—but the word comes out unbearably fond, more a soft little laugh than a complaint.

He stares at the bear's dumb face for a second more. Then, shaking his head, he slides his phone back into his pocket, and leans back in his seat, eyes drifting to the inky sky outside the window.

Wondering already—already—what he can send you next.

Because if this is what it takes to see you smile so brightly from so many kilometres away, Gojo reckons he'll buy out the whole stupid vending machine next time.

#jjk x you #jjk x reader #gojo x you #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #jjk fanfic #gojo fanfic #jjk #gojo #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #[tangyneon's works]

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sixeyesonathiel · 29 days ago

Text

in which you, the sharp-tongued president of the journalism club, declare war over a stolen layout, and satoru, the insufferably flirty photography club president with a camera full of your secret candids, decides he’s having the time of his life.

highschool au | wc — 1k | next. | masterlist.

the meeting room smells like ink, film, and freshly laminated passive aggression.

the overhead lights flicker with the kind of fluorescent buzz that makes everything feel more hostile. satoru props his legs up on the table like it’s his personal recliner, one ankle carelessly balanced over the other. his reading glasses—thin, silver-framed, and infuriatingly stylish—glint under the cheap lighting, slipping a little too perfectly down the bridge of his nose. he chews idly on the end of a red pen, the cap tucked behind his ear like some kind of pretentious artist. his white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a constellation of old ink smudges near his wrist. the top two buttons are undone, just enough to make the faculty advisor twitch.

the click of your heels hits the linoleum like gunfire. you walk in like you own the air, a stack of mock-up spreads clenched in your hands. your brow is pinched, lips already curled in a frown, and there’s war in your eyes. one of your earrings swings with each step like a warning bell, catching the light with every calculated movement. behind you, two juniors from your club trail in silence, wisely scattering to opposite corners like soldiers avoiding crossfire.

“you stole my layout.”

he doesn’t even glance up. his gaze stays fixed on a spread of black-and-white prints, one finger tapping the margin absently as he exhales a sigh that’s more theater than actual exhaustion.

“i improved your layout,” he replies, voice drawling like warm honey, every syllable laced with calculated apathy. “you should be thanking me. i made it… tolerable.”

you bristle, one corner of your mouth twitching with the effort not to scream. your grip on the mock-ups tightens enough to crumple the edges. the laminated surface of the table reflects the clench of your jaw.

“i will be thanking you in court.”

finally, the president of the photography club looks over his glasses, pale blue eyes flicking toward you with all the weight of someone examining a particularly amusing page in a novel. his grin spreads slow, lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun. he shifts in his seat, boots thudding against the wood as he plants both feet firmly, clearly settling in for entertainment.

“you always this dramatic, sweetheart? or is it just me who gets the full opera?”

you drop the folder onto the table with a satisfying smack. papers fan out, sliding perilously close to one of his prints. his feet don’t move, but his fingers pause mid-flip.

the tension crackles. a freshman from the debate team peeks through the glass pane in the door before backing away like they saw two lions about to brawl. somewhere outside, the vending machine hiccups and spits out a half-stuck can.

“you know what, gojo?” you hiss, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “one of these days, your camera is going to mysteriously go missing. maybe it’ll be a tragic accident. maybe the journalism club just decided it’s not photogenic enough to live.”

he lets out a low whistle and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. his sleeves slide up farther, baring more skin, as if he’s flaunting his comfort just to get under your skin.

“such violence from such dainty hands. should i be scared, or turned on?”

your eyes narrow. “i’ll make you a headline.”

“make me your centerfold while you’re at it.”

his voice is light, but there’s a glint in his eyes now—sharp, fascinated. your lips purse. your fingers twitch against your arm, like you’re debating whether to throw something. he watches the motion closely, the corner of his mouth twitching.

the truth is, he’s annoying. impossibly annoying. but he watches you like it’s a compulsion—like if he blinks, he might miss something vital. like you’re the only person worth photographing in color.

he always gives the worst pictures to the press. the ones where your mouth is open mid-lecture or your hair’s caught in the wind wrong. those go to print. but the good ones—the ones where your smile breaks slowly, or your eyes are scanning a page like it holds the world, or you’re caught mid-laugh with your nose crinkled and one hand over your mouth—those stay with him. those are his. they’re tucked behind his portfolio, buried in folders named things like “b roll” and “miscellaneous,” like he’s fooling anyone. he edits them late at night, adjusting brightness, cropping out noise, zooming in until your expression is framed perfectly.

he tilts his head, voice dipping just low enough to make the space feel smaller.

“by the way, new lipstick? not that i was staring. but it’s smudged. right here.”

his finger lifts, hovering near the corner of your mouth, too close for comfort. his tone is playful, but his eyes trace your features with an unsettling softness—one you pretend not to notice.

your breath hitches. then—smack.

your palm connects with the back of his hand, hard enough to sting. the sound echoes, sharp and final. he laughs, not even flinching. the sound is warm and low, like you’d just told him a secret. he rubs his hand where you hit him, still grinning.

“worth it,” he murmurs under his breath.

you storm out, heels clicking faster than when you came in, the door creaking open and slamming shut behind you with a force that sends dust motes dancing in the light. one of your juniors rushes to collect the scattered pages, her face pale.

he’s still smiling when he watches your reflection disappear in the dark tint of the window, glasses now pushed up fully onto the bridge of his nose.

he’s still smiling when he slips another candid of you—half-turned, sunlight catching your cheekbone—into a folder buried beneath three layers of encryption on his hard drive. the photo’s file name is a random string of numbers. there are dozens of them.

journalism club’s president is going to be the death of him.

and god, he’s going to die so happy.

#gojo satoru #gojo fluff #gojo crack #gojo drabbles #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader crack #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk crack #jjk x reader

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ohlawdthevoices · 1 month ago

Text

12 hours | Bakugou x reader

tags : strangers to lovers, angst/no comfort, death, reader is terminally sick, gn!reader, bakugou is bad at feelings, pro-hero bakugou, reader is 18, cross posted on ao3

song : kingston, faye webster

w/c : 3.3k

Hour 0 — 10:57 AM

"spend the day with me"

Katsuki looked at the stranger before him confused. he was previously sitting on a waiting chair in the buzzing station, scowling at his phone already pissed off the world wouldn't shut up.

And as if he wasn't already bothered by the simple existence of the world around him. You deciding to talk to him only served to fuel his frustration. He looked up at you, annoyed. "Huh..?"

You're standing there with the stupidest smile he has ever seen, the wind gently running its fingers throught your hair, the collar of your shirt that seemed to be cut hanging loosely around your shoulder, holding a plastic bag in one hand and the strap of your scruffy backpack.

“You look like you need a break from life.”

“…What the hell does that mean?”

You don’t flinch at the edge in his voice—just shift the plastic bag to your other hand, something inside it clinking faintly, like you’d stuffed it full of cheap convenience store treasures.

Your backpack strap’s slipping off your shoulder, frayed at the edge and scribbled over in a white-out pen. One of the zippers hangs open slightly, a folded piece of paper sticking out—like you packed in a rush. Like you didn’t plan to stop moving today.

Katsuki narrows his eyes, he’d been stewing in his own irritation ten seconds ago, jaw tight, thumb scrolling mindlessly through shit he didn’t even care about—until you showed up like some hallucination in a faded t-shirt and secondhand shoes.

“A break,” you repeat. “From everything. Just for today. You in?”

He stares.

The station buzzes behind you—heels clicking, kids crying, announcements echoing overhead—but somehow, your voice cuts through it all like the only thing that matters. There’s something off about you, he notices. Not in a dangerous way. Just… not normal. You look like someone who stopped caring about expectations a long time ago.

Or maybe like someone who doesn’t have the time to.

He folds his arms. “Why me?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got,” you shrug, and there’s a flicker of something behind your eyes. Not quite desperation, but something heavier. Lonelier.

And even though every logical thought in his head is screaming walk away, he finds himself holding still. You look like trouble, sure. But not the bad kind. The kind that forces you to feel something.

“…Tch.”

He sighs, pushing off the waiting bench like the universe just dared him to do something reckless. and Katsuki never backs down from a challenge, althought his mind was screaming at him to not do it, it was stronger than him, he didn't what it was, but it was pulling him in as if he had no control over it.

But you’re already walking, and Katsuki is already following, and by the time he realizes he’s made a mistake, it’s too late.

You’ve already dragged him into your gravity.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, the pressure in his chest lifts—just a little.

Hour 1 — 11:23 AM

The city air is cold for spring. Sharp enough to bite through his skin, soft enough not to chase the sun away.

You walk a few steps ahead of him, the plastic bag swinging lazily at your side, humming some off-key melody like the world’s background music was yours to control.

Bakugou keeps half a step behind, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing holding him together. He doesn’t know where you’re going. He hasn’t asked.

And that’s the part that pisses him off the most. He doesn’t care.

You lead him through back streets lined with shuttered stores, vending machines humming against cracked walls, graffiti blooming like rebellion on every corner.

He’s watching everything and nothing. Mostly you. “How old are you, anyway?” he finally grumbles. You glance over your shoulder. “Eighteen.”

“Seriously?”

“Why? You were hoping I was thirty-two with three kids and a criminal record?”

“…I was hoping you were sane,” he mutters, and you laugh again.

That laugh. It’s not soft. It’s wild and untrained and alive. Like something that would’ve gotten shushed in a classroom. He thinks he hates it. But only because it makes his chest ache.

Hour 2 — 12:15 PM

"being a hero must be so fucking cool, do you get like parking privileges ?"

You say this with your mouth already full, powdered sugar on your nose, and a strawberry half-hanging out of your overloaded mess of a breakfast.

Bakugou stares at the plastic table between you, skeptical. “This shit looks like a health code violation.”

“You look like a health code violation.”

He glares. You grin. You push the second crepe toward him. “Come on, live a little Katsuki. You can go back to being broody after.”

"It's Bakugou." He crossed his arms

"Katsuki."

With a grumble, he takes a bite just to shut you up.

It’s good. Of course it’s good. Damn it.

You sit across from him, legs swinging beneath your chair like a child, staring out at the quiet street corner clearly staring at something he couldn't figure out. The morning sun is catching in your lashes, and for a second, he forgets he’s supposed to be annoyed.

“You do this often?” he asks. “Pick up strangers at train stations and feed them sugar?”

You shrug. “Only the ones who look like they're allergic to fun.”

“…Tch.”

He doesn’t deny it. You lean forward then, suddenly serious. “Is it that bad?” He blinks. “What?”

“Your life.” He’s quiet. Because yeah. Maybe it is. But he doesn’t want to say it out loud. Not yet.

You seem to get the message anyway. You don’t push. Instead, you stand. “Come on.” He raises an eyebrow. “Where to now?” You smile like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this part. “To steal the street cone that's outside”

Hour 4 — 2:48 PM

"Why the fuck would i do that ?" Katsuki crossed his legs over the grass, it was probably still damp from the morning rain but did he even care at this point ?

He had finally discovered what was hidden in your plastic bag. You had bought a disposable camera and sticker. He had found it ridicilous, but again, alla of it was ridicilous

You peel a rainbow heart sticker and place it right on the front of the camera. Then a silver star. A cracked smiley face. You work slowly, deliberately, tongue poking out the corner of your mouth in focus.

After a moment, you hold up a peeled sticker toward him. “Here. You pick one.”

He stares at it like it might explode. Then, grumbling, he takes a small red ‘BOOM!’ comic-style bubble and slaps it near the flash. Crooked. You look at it and nod solemnly. “Perfect.” A laugh bubbles up from your throat — quick, bright, unstoppable. You click a shot with the camera before he can flinch.

“Hey—!”

“First memory of the day,” you grin. He scowls. But his cheeks are a little pink. You lean back against the tree, camera resting gently in your lap now covered in clashing stickers, and sigh toward the sky. “You know,” you murmur, quieter now, “people think taking pictures is about remembering things. But I think it’s about proving you were there. That you lived.” He doesn’t say anything.

But this time, when you raise the camera again and hold it up toward the sun, he doesn't stop you.

He lets you take the shot, like you’re preserving pieces of the world no one else bothers to notice.

You don’t just look like someone who’s living for the moment.

You look like someone desperately trying to keep it.

Hour 8 — 4:28 PM A stolen bike, two slushies, and one near-death experience.

“This is a bad idea,” Katsuki says, gripping the handlebars of the too-small bike as you balance behind him, arms around his waist, giggling like you’ve already accepted your fate.

“It’s only a bad idea if we get caught.” He grits his teeth as the front tire wobbles over a pothole. “If we die, I’m haunting you.”

“You’d get bored. I’m a terrible roommate.” He doesn’t laugh. But he doesn’t let you fall, either.

You swerve through side streets, wind in your hair, the sky blurring above in streaks of fading light. You press your cheek to his back, and for a minute he thinks he hears you whisper something.

Maybe his name. Maybe goodbye.

He doesn’t ask.

He just keeps pedaling.

Hour 10 — 6:56 PM “This place is sacred.”

It’s a dingy arcade at the edge of the city. Broken machines. Buzzing neon lights. Everything smells like dust and soda syrup.

You light up like it’s a shrine. “This is where I beat a kid in dance dance revolution so bad he cried and threw up.”

Katsuki stares. “You’re weird.”

“You’re just mad I’ll beat you next.”

He scoffs—only to get dragged into a match two minutes later. The camera clatters onto a nearby bench, still blinking with the last shot of the two of you, smiling into a reflective window. He tries to win. Really.

But you’re glowing, wild, limbs everywhere, laughing like you have nothing to lose.

And he’s never seen anything more alive in his life.

Hour 11 — 7:13 PM On a rooftop, watching the sky bleed into pink and orange and almost-purple.

You’re lying on your back on the warm concrete, legs stretched out, arms thrown over your head like you're trying to catch the sky. A half-eaten ice cream cone sits forgotten between you, melting down the side of the wrapper. The sugary air buzzes with distant traffic and the hum of evening settling in.

Katsuki sits beside you with his knees up, elbows resting lazily on them, eyes locked on the horizon like it’s daring him to move. But for once, he doesn’t.

It’s quiet. That rare kind — not awkward, not heavy. Just… still. Like time agreed to pause. He hasn’t touched his phone in hours. Hasn’t thought about hero work, or press, or what the world expects him to be.

He almost forgot he could breathe like this.

Then you say, almost too softly, “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.” He scoffs under his breath, but doesn’t look at you. “Tch. You’re dumber than you look.”

You smile, even though he’s not looking. “Yeah. Maybe.” A breeze runs between you. Your fingers twitch against the concrete. His hand shifts just enough that your pinkies brush. You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn't care.

But something is different now.

You sit up slowly and turn to him, resting your palms on the concrete. "Hey."

He finally meets your gaze. It’s the first time he really sees you—not just your energy or your chaos or the fire you’ve dragged him through all day. But you.

Your eyes are glowing in the sunset. And for a second, everything slows.

“You’re gonna miss me,” you say quietly, almost like it’s a joke. But your smile fades just a little. Just enough to show that you’re serious. Just enough that he can feel it pressing into his ribs.

“Shut up,” he mutters, but his voice is softer than it should be. You lean in, barely. And when he doesn’t pull away, you do it — slow, like you’re giving him time to run.

But he doesn’t.

So you kiss him.

It’s short. Warm. A little clumsy. A little too honest. full of everything unspoken. A culmination of all the little moments that came before it.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since sunrise. Like he’s just now remembering what air tastes like.

You pull back, but you don’t move far. Just rest your forehead lightly against his.

And then, you say it.

“I wasn’t supposed to leave today.” His brows furrow. You’re still close. He can feel your breath. “What?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m sick. Not the kind that goes away.”

You sit back, huggin your knees close to your chest, blinking up at the sky like it might hold you steady.

“I’m dying, Katsuki.”

He doesn’t speak. Not at first.

He’s still holding onto the warmth of your lips, and now it feels like it’s draining through his chest, leaving something cold behind.

You’re not looking at him. You couldn't.

But when you finally do, you offer a small smile — brave and messy and tired.

And that’s when it hits him. You weren’t running from life. You were racing it. Of course...

Hour 12 — 8:14 PM

The city sleeps below them. And for a while, they just breathe.

It’s been hours since you told him.

No more running. No more chaos. Just the truth, finally out in the open, hanging in the night air like smoke. Neither of you speaks much.

There’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been said — in the way he looked at you afterward, in the way you didn’t flinch, in the silence that followed and never once felt cold.

You’re lying side by side on the rooftop, the concrete beneath you warm from the sun that’s long since disappeared. A blanket of stars spreads above like it might swallow everything. It almost feels peaceful. Almost.

Sometimes he turns his head and finds you already looking at him. Sometimes you do the same. And each time, neither of you pretends it’s coincidence.

There are small smiles. Quiet, almost shy. Like you’re both realizing how quickly this thing between you turned raw, soft, and terrifying.

At one point, you shift closer. He doesn’t stop you.

And when your fingers brush, neither of you pulls away.

A while later, you kiss again. Slower this time. No rush, no adrenaline. Just lips that linger and the slight tremble of your breath when you part. He cradles your jaw like you might break, and you kiss him again like you already have.

More silence.

A car horn in the distance. A dog barking. The city stirs a little, but the rooftop remains suspended in stillness. Safe. Untouched.

Then your phone rings.

The sound is sharp, invasive — ripping through the space like a crack in the sky.

You sit up slowly.

He watches as you pull the phone from your pocket and answer it without a word. The call is short. You nod once, even though they can’t see it.

When you hang up, you don’t look at him right away. But when you do, it’s with that same gentle expression. Brave, even now. You don’t try to explain. He already knows. “Thank you,” you say, and your voice is soft but steady.

Then you reach for your bag and pull out your camera — the disposable one, covered in faded stickers and smudges from the day. You place it gently into his hand.

It’s heavier than it looks. Almost like the memories were filling it

“Don’t forget to check the photos,” you say, smiling like you know he won’t for a while. Like you know when he does, it’s going to hurt.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

You lean down, press one last kiss to his temple, and whisper something he barely hears — “I’m glad it was you.”

Then you rise, sling your backpack over your shoulder, and walk toward the rooftop door without looking back.

He stays frozen on the concrete, the camera resting in his lap. When the door closes behind you, the rooftop feels impossibly quiet. He looks up at the stars. And suddenly, they feel too far away.

Hour 22 — 7:02 AM A letter with his name on it. Left at the front desk. Delivered by a nurse with tired eyes.

He doesn’t open it right away. It sits in his hands like it’s made of fire — light and harmless until it touches skin. He stands in the lobby of the hospital, the sterile air too quiet, too bright. The world feels wrong now. Like it kept moving after you stopped.

Like you’re missing, but everything else forgot to care. That made him angry.

The envelope is a soft off-white. His name is written in your handwriting — messy, looping, like you wrote it too fast, like you were scared you wouldn’t finish.

Bakugou stares at it, jaw clenched. Then he walks out.

He doesn’t remember how he ends up on a bench outside the building, hands trembling and heart thudding in his throat. The sky is just waking up, streaks of dull pink cracking over the horizon. It looks nothing like the sunset you watched together.

He tears it open.

Inside is a single piece of paper. Folded, still warm at the edges from where you held it.

He unfolds it.

And then he reads:

“If you’re reading this, I’m dead.”

The words blur almost immediately. But he keeps going. His hands tighten, crumpling the corners. His eyes burn.

“You looked so alive, Katsuki. I don’t think you realize how beautiful that is. You were so angry at the world when I met you, like you didn’t believe in anything but survival. But I saw the way you kinda laughed when I dropped my ice cream. The way you looked up at the sky. The way you let go — even just for a second.”

His lip trembles. He clenches his jaw so hard it aches.

“I wasn’t trying to escape. I was trying to give you one day. Just one. So you’d know what it feels like to breathe without pressure sitting on your chest. So you’d remember what it’s like to be more than your image, your title.”

He can’t hold it in anymore. His breath hitches. His head drops forward. And then the tears come.

Hard. Silent.

Painful.

Not loud, not dramatic. Just the quiet kind that steals air and leaves nothing behind except a knot in his throat.

He grips the letter like it’s the last piece of you.

“I wanted to tell you I liked you. More than liked you. But I was scared. Scared that if I said it, it would become real, and I wouldn’t be able to walk away, Because i thought love wasn't suppose to happen so fast. But you should know I never lied. Everything I did, every picture I took — it was for me. But it was also for you. Because maybe now, when the world feels too loud, you’ll look at them and remember you don’t have to carry it all the time.”

His body curls forward. Shoulders shaking. Hair hiding his face.

He remembers your stupid smile. The stickers. The bike ride. The arcade. The kiss. The way your fingers gripped your shirt on the rooftop when you told him the truth.

He remembers not saying anything back. He remembers being too scared to give you the words.

“You were my favorite adventure. Thank you for being my last one.”

At the bottom, a tiny doodle: a cartoon explosion, labeled BOOM! in shaky handwriting. A joke. A goodbye.

Bakugou crushes the letter to his chest, biting down on a sob.

He’s never hated silence more than now. And in that moment — on a hospital bench, with morning breaking around him and your final words sinking into his skin — he finally stops running from it all.

He loved you.

He didn’t say it.

And now, it’s too fucking late.

Later, he develops the camera film.

There’s a photo of you — hair wild, laughing with your head thrown back.

And one of him — caught mid-scrowl, eyes crinkled, focused on not falling over with the bike.

He puts those two on his wall. The rest are left on his bed side table.

Every year after that, on the same day, he vanishes.

Some say he takes the train south. Others swear they’ve seen him at a rooftop in Tokyo with a bright orange cone beside him.

No one knows for sure.

But wherever he goes, he takes the camera.

And the memory of the one who made time stop — even if only for 12 hours.

The one that saw him for him.

#my hero academia #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou katuski x reader #pro hero bakugou #bakugou angst #katsuki bakugo mha #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki angst #mha angst

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cafeconbrujeria · 1 month ago

Note

You must stop holding out on us. Where did you get your green ocean binder/note cover?

Chicken! I'm flattered and delighted.

It is the hokusai wave journal from Oberon Designs in the teal color, and it is built like a TANK.

Many years ago, I lost most of my material possessions to flood damage. The journal cover, which was my bullet journal setup at the time and not my grimoire, was covered in disgusting skunky gunky disgusting flood water. After throwing out the inner contents, I figured I had nothing to lose, so I tossed the journal cover into...the washing machine. With some dr. bonner's liquid soap. On a normal cycle. I think I put it through the dryer, too, for a little, on low, though I ultimately dried it in the sun. Somehow, this was fine. Then I reconditioned with straight up coconut oil, and it's somehow both lusciously soft and still absurdly sturdy. This was years ago and this baby is still going strong, and I am not easy on my working items. I mention this because Oberon Designs did a limited release a while back with the Rider Waite Smith Fool card on it, and I bought it to make a more obvious grimoire, but because it's new it feels so stiff and like an entirely different product. But it isn't! It just hasn't had the shit beat out of it yet. So my point is: these things take a TON of abuse. They're absurdly well made. They're pricey, for notebook covers, but like. Worth it, imo.

More caveats: I don't actually use it entirely as intended because I have it set up midori traveler's notebook style, because I love a modular set up. Because it's the American half latter size and I have several elastics in there, I can just fold paper in half and scribble away on my makeshift notebook insert. Or I can print things out booklet style, and put that in there. And I buy those slim cheap roughly 5.5 × 8.5 kraft cover notebooks in bulk and burn through them as necessary, because for me, the grimoire is more a lab notebook and less a coffee table book, though the covers are so nice that they probably deserve a fancy grimoire.

in THEORY, the modular grimoire is also an all in one travel altar and all I need to pack for witchcraft while traveling. in actual reality, I've never travelled light in my life.

and now, because I've been given an excuse, thank you so much...here are some example pages. still sandy from last time I took The Book to the beach.

Starting with bookmarks:

For operative reasons, there is an antique key in there. I found a flat one, so that's nice, for the notebook format. The moon and stars charm is also from Oberon Designs--they tend to throw in a little freebie with their orders. I was trying to DIY a little in grimoire black mirror for a while, and none of my attempts really worked, and then i just made the St. Cyprian chaplet with the black mirror there, so--I'm not sure why this is still in here but why not. Why are there pressed flowers in here sometimes? It's a working item, baaaaebeee. All kinds of shit happens here.

reference materials:

like I said, I wanted a written by hand/printables for ease of use hybrid format so that's what I have. pictured: some sigils and reference notes for the dia de los reyes workings I always forget about until the absolute last minute so that I'm frantically running around the house very January 6.

etc

but fundamentally this grimoire is my grimoire so there's silly things in it because I am a silly person with ADHD who is also in a rush everywhere absolutely at all times. here is an origami dragon who lived in my wallet for many years--extremely effectively, so witchblr really does sometimes offer some fun yet useful ideas. also here are some fruit stickers? also my dog. also on the opposite page pictures I do not wish the internet to see. the big red envelope came with uhh...a mini waffle iron? shaped like a heart? and now houses a paper based charm. It's sturdy enough to take out of the grimoire and toss into a purse when necessary. also: kraft notebook with painter tape label.

further etc

I love journaling and notebooks in general so I have a lot of purchased and DIY folders and stuff in here, obviously. fu talisman from when I was reading the tao of craft. absolute banger of a talisman; very strong for what I needed/need it for. see also: pocket playing card meaning thing I do not use at all whatsoever. st jude card from seraphin station. ruler in case I need to make straight lines.

storage (and etc)

and here is my very DIY storage solution, which is: a slider ziploc bag and some medical tape. dr jose gregorio hernandez wallet card from, again seraphin station, who is also on here as @karmazain. background photo print of a Baron Samedi veve, for ritual focus or you know, whatever. big holy card of la caridad del cobre, aka our lady of charity, who is also Oshun or at least Oshun's catholic mask, depending on who you ask and how they look at it (maferefun oshun, of course, forever and ever). packet of black pepper and unseen similar packet of salt for some REALLY on the go magic, if necessary. big sticker / feng shui amulet of the three celestial guardians, which is usually tucked into the pocket flap meant to secure a notebook.

and ta da! far more information than you asked for! but I love witchy gear, i love talking about our gear, I LOVE LOOKING AT PEOPLE'S BOOKS, so.

#grimoire

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raainberry · 2 years ago

Text

Studious Confession

« Done deliberately or with a purpose in mind. »

Yunjin x gn!reader

Fluff

synopsis - you and your friend yunjin get sidetracked while speed running revisions for finals

wordcount - 1.8K

A/N - save me scholar yunjin, save me…

Absolute academic weapons.

That’s what you and Yunjin aimed to be when you scheduled a study session at your campus library. Exam season was breathing down your necks, and you ignored it for as long as you could, taking each other on the most impromptu hang-outs instead.

Convenience store runs that lead to mukbangs, walks around campus that somehow turned into treetop adventures, late night drives after a long day of classes you spent screaming to whatever she played on the aux… Risking your education (and probably your future) had never been so fun, but all good things must come to an end.

As the end of your junior year approached you were the first one to bring up studying, suggesting you should probably pump the breaks on the distractions. She only called you a nerd, but gave in when you proposed to study together.

The time itself wouldn’t be fun at all, but at least she’d spend it with you. “A win is a win.”, she’d said over the phone, and it only took a few more days to actually motivate yourselves. Reserving a study room was a step in the right direction, but what happened in there would only make you take two steps back.

“That doesn’t even look like me.” You said after she revealed her doodle in the corner of your notebook.

She spent the last five minutes trying to sketch your features out on the bit of blank paper left on your notes instead of focusing on her own.

“Yes it does, look!” She gestured at the messy drawing. “That’s your eyes and your mouth.”

“I am looking, I’m just not seeing.”

It actually did look like you, Yunjin was too talented for it not to. You were just looking at it upside down as you sat across the table from her.

“Well look harder!”

“I don’t want to, stop distracting me!” You whined, switching your pen for a highlighter.

“You’re so mean! Give me my airpod back.” She whined back, actually catching your attention this time.

“What?”

“I don’t want to share my music with you anymore. I need to listen to sad music alone because you’re so mean to me.” She argued, her hand out waiting for the airpod in your ear.

“Are you serious?” You asked, and she only stared at you, retreating her hand only to fold her arms over her chest. “If I say it does look like me, can I keep it?”

“You can keep the drawing, yeah.” She scoffed and you sighed.

You were unsure whether she was serious or not, so you decided to try something that could only have a positive outcome.

“Coffee break?” You proposed, and just like that, her smile was back.

Relief washed over you when her hand found yours, dragging you down to the nearest vending machine. The latter was familiar, it has seen your faces more times than the study rooms as you sometimes only came by to get a coffee from the machine right next to it.

That’s where you met Yunjin, on one of the rare nights she dedicated to her due projects. You’d offered her one of those cheap paper cups, a hole in your student wallet but nothing compared to the world she invited you in afterwards.

Her own little world, the person she was within it, the things she saw and built… It was all so beautiful. You’d get her a thousand of them if it meant learning one new thing every time.

Sometimes you brought her here in hopes for it, and it never failed. The same thing would happen: you’d get her a coffee, she would fight you, try to pay for yours, and you’d ask her about something you’d noticed about her to change the subject. Small details you’d noticed; a pretty necklace, some new earrings, a new hairstyle or the way her makeup looked. Sometimes her mood stood out to you, had you curious. She’d soon forget about her self-imposed debt, getting caught up in the excitment of whatever had caught your attention that day.

“I like your glasses today. How many pairs do you have?” You asked after she sighed out your name. “This is like the fifth pair I’ve seen you wear.”

“Thank you. I have a few. Even more back home.” She said, making you raise an eyebrow.

Her answer was shorter than usual. No spilling over to another subject that your question reminded her of. No squealing about where she got them from, holding your arm as she practically begged for you to come check the small store out with her next time.

Her hands stayed put in her pockets, below the sweater you’d asked about a few weeks ago. It looked comfortable and cozy, and she seemed to grow fond of it based on the way she pulled her hands into the sleeves so often.

“Do they even help you see?” You asked, joking around in an attempt to pull a little more out of her.

“Only two of them do. These aren’t one of them, though.” She giggled to herself, and you could only shake your head at her absurdity.

“Do you even want to pass?” You chuckled as the machine made all kinds of mechanical noises, signaling that the coffee was ready.

She rolled her eyes, getting her hands out of her pockets to grab the cup from yours. The heat emanating from it was the last thing she needed on this fair weather day, but the taste of that coffee was just too good to pass on.

The taste wasn’t the only thing that pushed her to accept each and every one of the cups you offered her. She didn’t even pay attention to it at first, but as time went on, she started looking forward to it. Sometimes to the point of craving it.

Caffeine was dangerous, sure, but she’d come to realise it wasn’t what she had become addicted to.

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

She broke the small silence that had taken its place between the two of you. One of your favorite songs was playing at a faint volume from the airpods you were still sharing, filling in for the lack of words. Your mind had drifted off, long gone and barely listening to your favorite melody as thoughts of her occupied the back of it.

The sound of her voice brought you back, all conscious and hiding how crazy you felt thinking about someone standing right next to you.

A curious hum resonated from your chest, and your eyes met her questioning ones.

“The coffee. When are you gonna let me pay you back?” She asked, and you smiled.

“You don’t need to.”

“But I want to. You spent like a hundred dollars since the beginning of the year.” She frowned.

“That’s a bit excessive. I’d say 30 dollars at the most. It’s really cheap coffee.” You pointed out.

It took everything in her not to call you a smartass. It seemed like a terrible way to confess her feelings. Especially when what she felt, the light she saw you in painted you as far more than a smartass. The opposite, or maybe a more positive and kind alternative.

“You really don’t want me to pay you back?” She insisted, and you shook your head, amused.

This wasn’t the first time she was asking, and you didn’t expect it to be the last, but your answer would remain the same.

You didn’t want her money.

“You could at least admit you want something in return.”

Her words wiped the delectation right off your face. The lighthearted atmosphere suddenly vanished, replaced by a heavy and uncomfortable one.

You had trouble finding the right way to breathe, scared it would shift the conversation into a much too unpredictable path.

“Wh—what?” You stuttered, furrowing your eyebrows in the most natural way you could.

Yunjin wasn’t having it, although in a simpler moment she would have laughed at your poor attempt.

“Come on, Y/n.” She probed. “No one gives out that many compliments out of pure kindness only.”

“There probably are a few people—” You started, but the way she stared at you kept you from rambling further.

There was no escaping it, she obviously knew what was going on. In theory, you couldn’t be surprised as you hoped for your actions to be obvious, or at the least for her to notice them.

Now that she did, you weren’t sure what to do. Hell, you didn’t even know where or how to stand anymore, you hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Well—I mean, I kind of have been doing this to get to know you a little more.” You mumbled.

One of her eyebrows furrowed, and you sighed. This wasn’t exactly ideal for the embarrassment you felt.

“We’ve been friends for months, is it so difficult to do that? Am I that hard to read?” She wondered, amused.

“I don’t know, it feels easier this way… For me at least.” You looked down, eyes sweeping the floor as you did your best to avoid her gaze.

Embarrassed was only the start to describing how this whole thing made you feel. Everything you did, everything you told and asked her in order to find out more, as sincere and truthful it all was… It all seemed so silly. Collecting all those bits of her personnality, of her mind; piecing them all together in sercret and falling behind closed doors…

What was the point of putting yourself through so much if it would all come to light anyway?

Would it even be worth it?

“Right. Well…” She trailed off, and your eyes were pulled by the sudden movement of her hand between the two of you.

You watched as it hesitantly approached yours, waiting to see if it would welcome it only for you to wrap your fingers around her palm in a heartbeat— that was to say it happened fast as your heart had picked up the pace for a while now.

Yunjin kept her smile to herself, hiding her appreciation behind treacherous eyes that she focused on your joined hands. The spark she held in her gaze whenever she looked at you was hard to erase—she couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed it.

“Let your wallet rest a bit.” She joked, finally looking up at you. “Whatever you want to know, next time you can just ask.”

“Do you like me?”

“Oh.” Her eyebrows raised in surprise as you shared a laugh over the sudden, bold question.

It wasn’t exactly unlike you, but judging on the past couple minutes, neither of you really expected it.

“I do like you.” She admitted, a shy smile letting you know she wasn’t as cool about it as she tried to be before adding. “When you’re not nagging me about finals.”

“If this is one of your ways to get out of studying I’m gonna be so mad.” You half-joked.

It would be a pretty insane thing to pull, but you wouldn’t put it past her. She loved to avoid schoolwork, no matter the excuse.

“If it was I wouldn’t ask you to get back to it.”

“You haven’t.”

“I am now.” She smiled, tugging on your hand the same way she had to bring you here.

You could only follow as she jogged back to your study room. Whether her excitment came from studying or the progression of your relationship, you had a small idea. It put a smile on your face that you wouldn’t be able to get rid of for as long as she was the one holding your hand.

And wherever she’d lead you, you’d follow.

#lesserafim x reader #huh yunjin x reader #yunjin x reader #huh yunjin #le sserafim #yunjin fluff #le sserafim fluff

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shewokeonmywillytil · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter One - Are You Ready to Start the Show?

short summary: non-linear plotline involving the introduction and the beginning of william and henry's relationship. it's about as healthy as you expect.

warnings: n/a

word count: ~2.6k words (2,598 words, to be exact!)

extra notes: i'd like to thank mod dogg for editing the dialogue and various other friends who offered me writing advice throughout the development of this chapter. i'd also like to thank you guys for your patience!

July 10th, 1955 - 11:43 PM - Big John’s Tavern

A young marine, still in uniform and fresh into his post-deployment phase, was effortlessly adjusting to the civilian lifestyle. His cheeks flushed feverishly as his head tilted into the passionate kiss he exchanged with another man who was possessively cornering him against the brick wall. The marine sniveled as he reinforced his grip on the other man's cheap purple jumper through hesitated, labored breaths. He leaned forward to kiss him again. Then again. And again. Eventually, they both pulled away to share a look that read nothing but shock and devotion. Before another kiss was shared between them, the marine panicked as he pushed the stranger away from him and ran out of the door, never to be seen inside the bar again.

The stranger stands alone in the empty bar. He stares at the wooden floor and begins to constantly lick at his dry lips as a look of realization passes in his eyes. It wasn't just the faint taste of rum and coke or the remnants of the cigarettes the marine smoked that he was missing. He dug into his right pocket, pulling out a crumpled cigarette pack to pull one of the cancerous sticks out with trembling hands. He took a sharp breath and held it between his slightly yellow teeth, tightly closing his eyes for a few seconds as it burned. It was plastic-wrapped with tears. As he strikes a match he found in his other pocket against the bar table, he swallows something rough in his throat and holds the flame to the end of the cigarette. He took a long drag from it.

He immediately had to sit down on one of the stools, coughing the inhaled smoke while clutching his chest. A new feeling of desperate longing weighed heavily against it, squeezing it to the point he felt suffocated and unable to function. The nicotine and tobacco running through his veins did nothing to soothe his nerves. He couldn't ignore it. Suddenly, he was seven again. He overheard the terrible news about his parents while eavesdropping on the conversation in the downstairs parlor. Similar to that night, he hugged himself tightly as he began to sob quietly. He was convinced that he was dying. His world was ending again.

July 10th, 1955 - 0936 - Charleston International Airport

In time, when tears didn't completely obscure his vision, the stranger's eyebrows furrowed deeply as he angrily grabbed the folded-up piece of paper in his pocket. He couldn't pinpoint the visceral emotion that he was feeling, but at least he had a name to blame on his vulnerable state, along with a wasted cigarette he barely smoked: Henry Emily.

The rows of polyester recliner chairs in the cramped space dedicated to the airport’s lounge were mostly unoccupied. Its visitors preferred to flock near the lounge’s dedicated bar that served watered-down cocktails and overpriced vending machine snacks to anyone willing to pay for them. Currently, a small group of marines slowly huddled around the bar to hurriedly order drinks whilst holding their military identification cards towards the bartender's face for the slight chance of redeeming a discount. The outlier from the group kept to himself in the corner of the lounge. He was covering the flame produced from his zippo while lighting his cigarette, glancing down at the two-inch television set that was attached to his chair's armrest.

The only thing playing at the moment was a broadcast of last night’s football game. He didn't care for football. He didn't even care for sports. However, the young private was willing to take any form of civilian entertainment considering he had just landed from an eighteen-hour flight from Korea. He rested his face on a propped fist as he watched the players dash across the small screen with lidded eyes. Cigarette ash landed on his ironed-out uniform, which mildly ruined his outward appearance of being the physical embodiment of those cardboard cutouts of a masculine, attractive marine outside of recruitment offices. If he had it his way, the young private would easily fade into obscurity while his peers went on about their lives. Being naturally quiet and reserved, this was such a common occurrence in his social life that he was convinced that his role as a wallflower was essential for the natural order of things.

However, things were going to be different this time, whether he liked it or not. A peculiar sight snapped him out of his dissociative state, causing him to turn his head to figure out where it came from. Its owner looked to be an eccentric character with his Technicolor clothing of nearly every color somehow finding a way to compliment his piercing brown eyes and dark brown mullet that barely fell past the collarbone. The highlight of his appearance was his smile. It seemed so practiced and approachable that it gave the impression that he'd go for the neck if one wasn't too careful. This is when the private realized that the stranger had been silently observing him while he had been absently watching television for a few minutes, which unnerved him. Both men were in an unintentional staring contest until the stranger began to talk.

“You must travel a lot," admired the stranger, whose natural English accent poked through certain syllables. “Lucky duck.”

"Lucky?” The private repeated incredulously.

“Of course! You know, I’ve always wanted to travel, never had the chance for it, but you must’ve gone everywhere.” The stranger explained with a slight chuckle as he leaned further in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other as he pulled out a cigarette to hold between his teeth.

"Yeah, well, it's not exactly a vacation,” The private scoffed politely. “You try being stuck in the trenches of some foreign country for 20 months. Lucky duck…” He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms to look at a random spot on the wall silently. The stranger looked understanding, allowing a brief moment of silence for the tension in the air to dissipate as he lit his cigarette with a lighter he pulled out of his left pocket from his yellow trousers.

A low, rumbling chuckle escaped the stranger’s throat. “Lucky or not, you must have done some good for your country, sir,” The stranger saluted the private, which was followed by a once-over. The private was unsure if the gesture was genuine or mocking. “I'm sure you'll be in the history books, Emily.” The private’s last name was read aloud slowly as the stranger’s eyes followed the yellow embroidered letters against the rectangular leather patch on the uniform’s right breast.

“Private Emily." The private corrected him by emphasizing his rank with a noticeable growl in his tone. The stranger paused for a few seconds as his face fell with eyes that studied the private’s now stiff posture. He didn't look intimidated, however. Just amused. Emily’s thick eyebrows furrowed as the stranger’s cackle cut through the commotion of the lounge for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger said through his laughter. When he noticed Emily’s furious expression, he suppressed his hysterics through a forced fit of coughing. He hit his chest a few times as he cleared his throat and straightened himself up in his chair. “I’m sorry, I do apologize. I should know better than to offend someone in uniform” Emily noticed the stranger trying to fight back a smile and simply turned his entire body away from him to look at the bar with crossed arms. It was getting increasingly busy with more marines huddling around the area to hound the poor bartender for another round of beers.

“Drink?" The stranger offered out of the blue.

“... Drink?" Emily echoed.

“Yes, drink. Would you like to have a drink with me?” The stranger clarified as he paused to take a moment to study Emily’s expression as he flicked the excess cigarette ash away from him. “Somewhere more intimate, of course."

Emily’s response was a pregnant pause. He looked exceptionally conflicted, silently loathing the idea of dedicating more time towards an individual he found to be mildly infuriating. The stranger’s subtle smile grew as he silently acknowledged the private’s hesitation. He could tell he couldn't explicitly tell him no out of being polite.

“I… I can't.” Emily mumbled.

“You can't?" The stranger tilted his head for a second.

“‘Fraid so."

"Why not?”

Emily internally began to choose his words carefully. “I…. I’d probably be a bore. I’m a lightweight, horrible at small talk…” Emily insisted, stumbling over his words, noticing the stranger smiled at him with eyes that showed that he was just getting more interested in him. He had to think of a quick alibi to get out of the situation.

“I have to be home soon, anyway. My mother and all…”

“Yes, your mother," the stranger nodded sagely, standing up with a sigh. “What a shame. It could've been my treat." Even in his brief disappointment, he was still smiling.

Emily stubbed out the cigarette he wasted on the ashtray with a guilty expression. “Let's make it a date. I'm going to a tavern with friends tonight. Perhaps we can set up a time to meet there.” The stranger looked towards nothing in particular before smiling. “I'd like that." He sat down next to the private, who pulled out a piece of paper. The stranger handed him a ballpoint pen to write his name and phone number on it. Once he finished, the stranger glanced over the note quietly.

“It's official then, Mr. Private Henry Emily."

“You don't have to call me that… at the tavern, I mean." Emily scratched behind his head.

“Of course. You’re off the clock, I get it." The stranger chuckled again. The private smiled for a few seconds as he simply stared at the stranger. He couldn't help being charmed by him.

“Thank you," Emily smiled. “Mr…"

“Afton.” The stranger completed his statement politely. “But you can call me William. Mr. Afton was my father."

"Thank you, William.” Emily corrected himself, silently wondering why his cheeks began to grow hot. William simply nodded.

"A pleasure.”

July 11th, 1955 - 2:35 AM - The Emily Household

For the past three hours, Henry could not sleep.

He had been silently studying the scattered, textured pattern of the popcorn ceiling. He noticed how it changed dramatically when the occasional passing car introduced a light traveling through his window’s blinds for only a few seconds. The clock ticked quietly in the background as Henry rolled over on his side, sinking into the cheap, twin-sized mattress of his bed to let out a sigh he had no idea that he'd been holding for a while. His eyes were plastic-wrapped with tears as prolonged rage was growing in his stomach. He hated how the entire night at the tavern unexpectedly ended after his feelings got the better of him. He longed for the attention of a man he didn't particularly like.

William was infuriating. He was the human embodiment of a mosquito bite that would only heal if you stopped scratching it, but you can't. Henry had never kissed another human being before, but he was convinced that William was an abysmal kisser. In fact, William was horrible at most things. He had no reason to crave his presence.

He rolled over to his other side.

Up to this point, he was comfortable sleeping in his empty room that was a part of his childhood home that had been frozen to time ever since he enlisted from the military. He was happy with eating with his parents at dinnertime, spending the rest of the night reading a book and going to sleep with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him. Henry was content with this life up until last night. He blinked furiously to try and keep the tears burning his eyes from rolling down his face. Henry sniffled. The young man whimpered as tears began to stain the fabric of his light blue pillow case. There was a pain that stung terribly in his chest. He wanted to curl up in a ball and die. It would've been a kinder fate compared to his current emotions. How pathetic.

The sound of the landline in the kitchen pulled him back into reality. He quickly climbed out of bed and ran towards the kitchen, as he didn't want to risk waking his parents up. The phone didn't have a chance to ring again as Henry picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, speaking in a strained whisper.

“Hello?"

“Oh, so now you answer." It was William.

“Now…? I was asleep. It's…” he let the air linger as he glanced at the cat-shaped clock in the kitchen. "... two in the morn—”

"I am aware.” His tone wasn't nearly as bright compared to a couple of hours ago. It was just ice cold. Henry paused, twirling the curling receiving cord nervously with his index finger.

“Listen. I know you're upset over what happened last night. I shouldn't have left you there like that. I'm sorry.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The silence was deafening to the point Henry could only hear his heart rate accelerate and his throat close as he waited for a response. William finally broke the silence with a forced laugh.

“I’m sorry," He was always condescending, but now there was venom in his words. “You’re sorry? Is that supposed to make me feel better? Everything is just fine and dandy?”

"Well, no, but I figured—”

"I figured a man whose job is to be loyal to his country would know better than to treat a friend like that.”

"I was scared!" Henry raised his voice, before looking around the kitchen. “I was scared. I never felt that way before.” He repeated in a hushed tone.

"So you leave me high and dry because you were skittish.”

"William. Please.”

"No,” William took a short pause. Henry could hear him take a swig from a glass bottle. "You are pathetic, do you know that? I probably felt the same way that you did and you left me there. You left me there all alone.”

His voice was breaking. Henry stood there, holding the receiver to his ear with both of his hands as he breathed heavily. Both men were on the verge of tears. He blinked a few times, sniffling.

"I-I’m sorry, I don't know… I…I want this to work out. I want to be your friend," Henry wiped a few tears from his eyes. William didn't say anything. “I need to have a friend in my life. The other guys don't give a fuck about me. You made me feel special. I need you in my life…. I need you.”

William didn't speak. He sounded choked up on the phone. There was a long moment of silence, tension growing in the air as their relationship, undefined at the moment, was on the line.

"I…. It's fine. You can make it up to me, right?" William sniffled.

“Yes, absolutely." Henry's eyes widened for a few seconds out of slight desperation.

“Then it's settled. We can try again… you can try again,” William clarified after a brief pause. "I… tolerate your presence. It'd be a waste to let this friendship end after a simple mistake."

Henry could hear his smile through the phone. Although the air was still tense, the thought of pleasing his friend made him feel comforted.

“Thank you. Maybe we can discuss plans in the morning?"

“Sure, let's sleep on it. Good night, Henry."

“Good night."

#fnaf #fnaf au #woke willy #william afton #henry emily #willry #fnaf fanfic #fanfic #mod paradise #mod dogg #kinda weak towards the end but its fine

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mandalhoerian · 7 months ago

Note

what could’ve been

some time to breathe, nttd au

genre: fluff summary: In a different world, they both make it to some shitty motel outside of Raccoon City, take some time to breathe. Or, perhaps, entertain thoughts that are entirely too inappropriate to be brought up in these circumstances. But, who could blame them for wanting to forget, even for just a moment? note: @mykobirb this brainrot is your fault. Thank you so much for talking to me and all the effort you put into these beautiful pieces, hope I was able to give back somehow 😭

[read on ao3]

The motel room is cramped and dim, the kind of place that feels forgotten by time, neglected and left to decay. The wallpaper peels at the corners, curling in brittle, yellowed strips, while dark water stains spread across the ceiling like bruises that never quite healed. Above, a single flickering bulb sways, casting uneven, trembling light that makes shadows skitter along the worn carpet. The carpet itself is threadbare, its faded pattern barely visible beneath the stains of years of neglect. The ceiling fan rattles with each slow turn, a faint, rhythmic sound that barely masks the low hum of a vending machine in the hallway. The air is thick with the mingling scents of cheap soap and damp linens, underscored by the sharp metallic tang of dried blood that stubbornly clings to the corners of the room. It's not much—far from comfortable, far from safe—but for now, it will do.

In the corner of the room sits an ancient, wooden table, its surface scratched and scarred by decades of careless use. Two mismatched chairs sit before it, their backs curved and battered from years of support. Upon the tabletop is an open first aid kit, the supplies hastily strewn about as if someone had searched the box for something in particular only to leave empty-handed. To one side rests a half-eaten bowl of lukewarm chicken noodle soup.

In one chair is Vera, sitting hunched forward, her arms folded over her knees and her chin resting upon them, her black curls damp and frizzing slightly from the shower. The oversized shirt she wears swallows her frame, the fabric soft but smelling faintly of detergent that doesn’t belong to her. Before her lies the open folder she took from Umbrella's NEST facility, displaying photographs of documents and records and scribbled notes in messy handwriting—her collection of evidence regarding Raccoon City. But tonight, she looks on listlessly at the papers and photos, too exhausted to focus on the information they contain, her brow furrowed in thought. Beside her rests her fat backpack that she's given up on sorting through, contents falling out and haphazardly dropped on the ground because it doesn't feel important right now. It had been like trying to make sense of a storm after it’s passed—futile and impossible, her brain too scrambled to connect dots with anything tangible.

She doesn't want to close her eyes, because when she does, all she can see is the undead remnants of Raccoon City. Bodies piled atop bodies, flesh ripped apart, rotting bones sticking from burst stomachs, milky cataract-covered sunken eyelids staring emptily into nothingness.

The worst is the one flier with her father's face--Marvin Branagh, officer of the month--that she found in that godforsaken lab is sitting right in front of her just beside the folder. Because she needs something to torture herself with like it's not enough having already seen what those monsters did to him. The lively, energized image of her father staring back at her from a suspended moment in time leaves her gut aching in pain with fresh grief every time. She can't stop replaying the final moments with Marvin, trying to cling onto memories instead of remembering burying her dead dad's body just hours ago under the rain pouring relentlessly onto her while feeling more alone than ever.

She knows she should rest—they both should—but even the mere idea of sleeping sends icy shards of dread skittering down her spine. Closing her weary eyelids brings vivid visions of bloody teeth snapping in a ravenous frenzy, of claws reaching out, scrabbling for purchase. So instead, she focuses on her surroundings, forces herself to remember where she is—in a motel, far away from Raccoon City, trapped between the endless desert and sprawling highways, safely tucked away from harm.

Across the room, the bathroom door opens with a long, weary creak. Leon steps out, hair damp and curling at the edges, droplets still clinging to his skin, wearing a pair of grey sweatpants they picked up at the motel’s sorry excuse for a market, but his torso is bare, left only with the dirty bandages wrapped around his left shoulder and across his ribs. The sight makes her chest twist, a tangle of emotions she can’t quite untangle—relief, guilt, something else she refuses to name.

He looks… better, though. Exhausted, but lighter, somehow, like some of the weight of Raccoon City has been stripped away. His eyes find hers almost immediately, and there’s something fragile in his gaze, as if he’s afraid she might vanish if he looks away. It tugs at the knot of tangled emotions deep within her gut. She wonders if that same fear haunts him, too, if he worries that she, too, will simply disappear without warning. After everything, she can hardly blame him, if it were true. She's still worrying about Claire and Sherry even though they're right next door, not knowing when they'll wake up and whether or not they're going to be safe.

Her eyes drop to his bandages again, fresh blood from his irritated wound under the shower already staining the dirty gauze, and then at the supplies sitting abandoned on the table in front of her. Some things are easier to talk about than others. Easier to dwell on.

She straightens in her seat, motioning toward the empty chair across from her with a tilt of her head. "C'mere."

At the sound of her command, Leon moves automatically, padding over and sinking into the chair, the worn cushion groaning beneath his bulk. Her limbs feel restless, fingers itching to clean and redress his injuries. A compulsion she can't explain, an ache she can't shake. After everything she saw tonight, this—this she can fix. This she can control.

Once he takes the chair, Vera leans over, turning the first aid kit sideways to reveal its hidden treasures. Bandage rolls, ointment containers, packets of antibacterial wipes, several sizes of gauze squares. It isn't much, but it'll have to do until they get help tomorrow. Help she can't quite bring herself to trust.

"Those bandages need to be changed," Vera says quietly, selecting a few items. The roll of clean gauze, the container of antibacterial cream—the wipes she decides to forego because the damage is done. That cut on his temple from Annette Birkin needed them anyway. What he needs now are clean bandages and relief for the pain, which won't happen overnight. She doesn't dare ask if he remembers anything of her last patchwork attempt, nor does she look into his face as she turns back to him.

But despite her best efforts at professional indifference, there's no missing the slight hitch in Leon's breath. The memory hangs between them like a ghost, eerie and incomplete—an echo of a nightmare neither wants to acknowledge. They haven't talked about that fleeting moment in the sewers—not directly, not truly. To do so would mean giving life to those haunted fragments. To put a name to this newfound... shared trauma-fueled something between them that neither dares define aloud. And maybe that's okay. Vera wants to forget about it. It would be twice as better if Leon also did so. If he did, she could pretend nothing happened. Yet his silence speaks volumes, hanging between them like an unspeakable truth that neither knows how to parse out or move beyond.

His wound begins to bleed more heavily from agitation. Blood seeps from beneath the dirtied gauze covering his shoulder, wetting the edges and beginning to trickle down his skin in thin crimson trails. Vera's nose scrunches in displeasure, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth in disgust, before rising to her feet and plucking one of the towels off the dresser top.

Without another wasted second, Vera draws nearer and starts dabbing carefully at the wounds with the cloth. The fabric comes away stained pinkish red, leaving bloody marks behind. Her touch is light and dexterous, quick but thorough as she swabs away most of the moisture. Not a perfect job—hardly professional, really—but it will suffice, just for now. Enough to stave off infection and keep him comfortable during the night. Tomorrow morning, however, requires a different approach. One they'll worry about later, once everyone else wakes up.

With practiced motions, she smooths out a new square of clean gauze over the punctures on his shoulder, fastening it securely. Satisfied with her work, Vera reaches for the medical tape—a stretchy rubber band used for wrapping larger dressing jobs, stored neatly in a paper wrapper inside the medkit. The band snaps back easily as she removes it from its packaging, then holds it between her teeth to keep her hands free. With a small grunt of exertion, she begins pulling at both ends until the elastic gives way. It stretches thin between her clenched teeth, resembling something like taffy, before finally coming undone with a resounding snap. Vera winces reflexively, anticipating the sharp sting of the impact.

Instead, she catches Leon staring at her from beneath dark lashes. She pauses briefly, her breath caught in her throat and heart skipping a beat, before quickly averting her attention elsewhere. From somewhere outside, tires squeal across pavement, followed by muffled music blaring through open windows.

Leon lifts his right hand and gently plucks the length of elastic from between her lips. "Got it," he murmurs. His palm brushes hers, rough and calloused but warm. There's a rasping edge to his whispered apology, low and almost imperceptible, the sound sending goosebumps racing along Vera's skin. Heat rushes to her face, her ears burning hot as embarrassment washes over her like a wave, bringing forth a bout of uncomfortable prickliness. She musters an awkward smile, hoping that the poor lighting hides her flush, and tries not to linger too long on the way his touch lingers.

With ease, Leon secures the stretchy band around the clean gauze, locking it in place, the material sealing tightly around the perimeter of his wounds while Vera prepares the bandage roll. Somehow, going around him to bind the remaining exposed part of his torso makes her heart thump louder in her chest, she can feel him watch her carefully the whole time she wraps. There's nothing to pay this much attention about, but perhaps telling herself that him being half-passed out in the previous incident makes Leon want to watch.

As soon as the last piece of the bandage roll disappears from sight, Vera releases a ragged exhale she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. Her fingers fumble with the strip of cloth, hastily knotting it into place. Despite her efforts to remain calm and collected, she's forced to wipe her palms on the sides of her pants in order to avoid perspiring any further. When she steps back to survey her handiwork, she finds herself unexpectedly proud of what she's accomplished.

But all of a sudden, there's the disorienting realization that the light in the room feels too identical to the stark fluorescent glare of that sewer corridor, that harsh white light reflecting off the industrial walls, making everything seem colder, crueler. Leon looks up at her, his blue eyes catching the dim light, and something about the way he meets her gaze—exhausted but steady—pulls her back to a memory she’s been trying to suppress since they got here. But it surfaces anyway, vivid and unrelenting, and she feels the shame bloom in her chest, hot and aching like a stab wound.

The sewers had been a nightmare—cold, wet, and stinking of decay. The walls seemed like they were closing in around her after Leon had dropped down like a puppet with cut strings, every echo amplifying the fear that they wouldn’t make it out. Leon had taken the hit, and she’d dragged him to an alcove, her heart pounding as his weight slumped heavily against her. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and slick beneath her fingers as she fumbled for anything in her pack that could help. Her hands were shaking, the supplies meager—a few bandages, a roll of gauze, and some painkillers that she couldn’t get him to swallow properly.

His breaths were shallow, each one rattling in his chest, and his face was pale, bloodless, his eyelashes fluttering weakly against his cheeks. Vera wouldn't be able to remember with a gun to her head what she did to keep him alive. It was all a blur. She knew she just begged and begged, tears streaming down her face as she gripped Leon's collar, tugging frantically on the fabric with sticky, wet hands as she worked--saline, gauze, bandages, everything in that damn med kit--willing him to hold on. Stay with me, come on, please just stay awake... don't die. Please, just, don't leave me behind.

She almost lost him there in that narrow, foul-smelling alcove, his blood spilled across the filthy concrete floor, and the sheer terror of that possibility had left her trembling like a newborn deer in the aftermath of patching him up. She doesn’t remember when exactly she started crying—if she even stopped at all. She can only recall Leon lying there, unconscious but breathing, as she wept over him with hands that were used to creation rather than healing, wiping the blood away as best she could. Then her fingers came away dry and stained with dirt, and the hysteria subsided into a numb sort of helplessness, exhaustion settling deep into her bones.

Slowly, cautiously, Vera had placed two shaking fingers under Leon's nose—just checking to see if he was breathing, that was all—and his breath tickled against her skin, warm and real. That sensation became all she could focus on for what felt like a lifetime, the rise and fall of his chest confirming he was alive, the physical proof that he hadn’t slipped away from her.

She remembered just stroking the hair of this stranger as if petting something delicate and precious, tracing the curve of his cheek with trembling fingertips before tucking a strand of golden blond locks back behind his ear, brushing the tender shell of it. Like she'd known him for more than a day. It had frightened her how deeply the sight of him laying there bleeding affected her—to know someone she cared about was hurting and know she didn't know why. It wasn't even just the pain radiating from his shoulder where he was wounded—something more personal, deeper, cutting to her very core. She found herself overwhelmed, wanting nothing more than to protect him, take care of him, and maybe indulge in wanting to feel that he was alive. She felt more at peace holding on to this man who was little more than a stranger, than she'd felt in weeks.

That scared her, made her anxious, afraid of feeling weak and vulnerable. She tried to bury it under denial. Tried to justify the momentary lapse in judgement, whatever strange comfort she had gotten by doing that. Told herself it was the adrenaline, the panic, and the pressure she was facing. She had to believe it, or else lose her mind, lose her grasp on reality in the chaos, lose her drive and conviction to survive and get through the nightmare.

But, as soon as his eyes blinked open, the world seemed to hold its breath. It was like everything had frozen—suspended in that fragile space between unconsciousness and awareness, where her hope had spilled through like a broken dam. The harsh sounds of the sewers—the dripping water, the distant, guttural growls of whatever monsters lurked in the dark—they all faded into nothingness. All she could focus on was Leon, his soft, disoriented eyes locking onto hers, as if she was the only anchor in a world gone mad.

Before he could even say anything, her hand found his face, cupping his cheek with a tenderness that surprised her, feeling the texture of his skin beneath the pads of her fingers, the subtle warmth of his body heat, the slight bristle of stubble along his soft jaw. For the briefest of moments, she stroked his cheekbone with her thumb, letting the pathetic sigh of relief escape her parted lips. This man was alive. He was here with her. And they were going to make it through this together.

And then he reached up, covered her hand with his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. Such a simple, meaningless gesture meant to reassure—his grip weak, but solid. His fingers trembling against hers as if seeking an anchor in the storm raging around them both. Maybe he felt that, too—that odd kinship forming between them. That same fierce determination to survive no matter the cost.

There was no thought to the action that followed, only a desperate desire to feel something real in the midst of her panic. Without hesitating, she bent forward, closed her shaking lips against his, and tasted salt and copper on his mouth, the tiniest of noises escaping her. There was the fluttering movement of his blinking eyes tickling the apex of her cheeks, but before he could respond in any way, she pulled back abruptly, realizing what she'd done, mortified by her reckless impulse. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest like a trapped hummingbird, wings beating a frenzied rhythm that threatened to burst through her ribcage. How could she be so careless? So stupid? She didn't even know him, yet somehow, without warning, she...

"Sorry," she muttered lamely, looking around feverishly. "I'm sorry, it's just— I'm—"

But she couldn’t bring herself to finish. Because the truth—that she was relieved, grateful, terrified, angry, tired, confused, all at once—was far too complex a concept for such a feeble apology. A thousand things hovered at the tip of her tongue, but none of them could be expressed verbally.

"Hey," he croaked, his face pale, blood seeping through the layers of gauze as he attempted to reach for her again. He looked concerned, almost worried. She hated the way he seemed to always put her before himself; it made her chest hurt to think about.

"Don't," she whispered softly, grabbing his hand with hers before lowering it gingerly against his side. She watched him wince at the contact, clearly trying hard to mask his discomfort. It pained her to see him like so. "I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry—you scared the shit out of me, and... I dunno, my emotions were all over the place, but I swear I'm not that kinda person—"

"Vera." His low rumble caused her to pause, her heart fluttering a bit inside her chest. No one said her name quite like him, the way it rolled off his tongue, smooth and warm. "It's okay."

That simple statement caught her completely off guard, the sincerity of it catching her completely off guard, freezing her in place, rendering her unable to breathe, let alone speak. Instead, she gawked at him like a deer in the headlights, dumbfounded. But it was true—he had forgiven her in an instant, the moment she kissed him. At least, he seemed to have no qualms with it now. Although, given everything they'd been through, maybe she shouldn't have been surprised.

He sat upright, grimacing at the pull of his wounds. With trembling fingers, she brushed aside a lock of damp hair plastered across his forehead, and realized she shouldn't have simultaneously. It was weird to touch someone she got to know that same day so casually like this. And he was letting her.

"Let's just forget about it, okay?" he continued, sounding earnest enough. It gave her a twinge of guilt. He would never fully understand how much she regretted kissing him.

"...yeah, let's do that," she breathed.

And that had been it.

Though, through everything that came next in the sewers and the NEST, she was sure as hell thinking about it whenever her traitorous mind allowed her to rest for even a short minute.

And now, in this dingy motel room, under the same lighting and re-bandaged, Leon in the flesh, living, breathing, existing before her very own two weary, sunken-in purple rimmed-eyes, it's nearly impossible for Vera's mind to settle down.

It's disgust, she realizes. At herself.

Disgust that she let herself get swept away by the emotional trauma of that moment to the point where it compelled her into kissing someone. Some guy she met a few hours prior. A rookie cop she doesn't even know or love in the aftermath of so much loss. Having trouble coming to terms with what's happened to her hometown and family, the desperation to fill that hole she feels eating away at her soul with something else to ease the pain was disgusting. Trying to distract herself, taking advantage of somebody who needed help instead of being there for him, who trusted her to help him.

Vera suddenly can't bring herself to look directly at him anymore, her stare stuck on the bandages wrapping around his ribs. Her face burns with shame. God, he probably hates her and is too polite to tell her to fuck off. She's disgusted that she thinks he may tolerate her because he cares, and the mere idea makes bile rise in her throat, she wants to run and hide.

Instead, she busies herself with gathering the wrappings scattered on the ground, stuffing them hastily into the nearest garbage bin. "Sweater's over there. Hope it fits." She tilts her head toward the bed where the black sweater rests atop a pillow.

To her surprise, she hears the springs groan behind her, signalling him getting up. His footsteps creak quietly across the old wooden panels. There's the rustle of plastic as he retrieves his new sweater. Then the quiet whoosh of fabric against skin, followed by the faint hiss of discomfort that betrays just how much pain he's still in.

"Hey, uh," he says softly after a pause. "Sorry to ask for help after you did all that, but. Could you...?"

Of course. He can't fucking lift his left arm. What was she thinking dismissing him like that?

Tossing the ball of wrappers into the trash bin beside the table, she turns around and walks over to the bed he's sitting on the edge of. His hands are folded neatly between his knees, back hunched and shoulders curved inward. There's something raw about him right now, laid bare in front of her, stripped down to nothing but nerves frayed by exhaustion. The sweater is crumpled in his grip, pooling onto the floor like melted wax. Her slipping between his spread legs is innocent enough, she takes the sweater, helping him slip in one arm at a time, careful that he isn't raising his arms. Once over his head, Vera smoothes out the wrinkles as best she can.

"Thanks," he whispers, rubbing nervously at his nape. The top of his head reaches her shoulder level and Vera has the urge to poke the whorl of pale brown hair atop it just to mess with him, but resists. Just.

"How are you feeling?" Vera asks. Her stomach growls and they both freeze in place. A hot flush warms her cheeks.

"You didn't eat?" Leon points out. Righteous indignation begins bubbling up inside her. Of course, he'd focus on her instead.

Vera sighs wearily and plops herself down next to him on the bed, dropping her head into her hands. "Didn't have the apetite."

The mattress creaks as he shifts position, moving closer to her side, their elbows brushing. She keeps her hands firmly covering her face. That's the only thing keeping her away from being perceived.

"Look," Leon says softly. His fingers wrap delicately around her wrist, pulling it gently away from her face. Reluctantly, she looks up. Staring directly ahead at her own reflection in the mirror across the room, she can just glimpse his shadowy form perched on the bed. It's far enough so that her features are indistinct, hidden behind a curtain of messy hair, but clear enough that she can still discern his intent stare burning holes into her. "I know tonight hasn't been easy for either of us. You've dealt with a lot..." He pauses, as if uncertain how to continue. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

She scoffs under her breath--it seems ludicrous for him to worry about her, of all people. But then she catches his frown in the mirror, eyebrows drawn together in concern, and the snarky retort dies in her throat. For a moment, they sit in silence, neither one daring to move lest they disturb this precarious stalemate.

"I don't think I ever want to," she finally confesses after what feels like an eternity has passed. Her shoulders slump forward, muscles aching from strain as all strength leaves her. Exhaustion weighs heavily upon every fiber of her being, bones growing heavier by the second. "It's all fucked. Everything."

A deep ache settles somewhere deep within her gut, gnarls coiling tightly around her innards until she can scarcely breathe. Something sharp stings her nose and stifles her throat; she quickly blinks furiously to blink away unshed tears before he notices. She swallows thickly and looks away, willing the emotion away, afraid that any second now she'll dissolve entirely into sobs.

"Yeah," Leon murmurs quietly, sounding almost lost, drifting away from their shared moment of honesty, leaving her adrift in unfamiliar territory. A part of her is terrified by his vulnerability, fearful that something within him has snapped irreparably after enduring hell, that maybe he really won't be able to come back from it. Perhaps he won't recover from his own traumas even after making it out alive. Another, much larger, part wants desperately to reach out, cling tight, anchor them both firmly in this new reality—together. To fight tooth and nail against this insurmountable darkness bearing down on them. "Me neither."

Her hands fidget in her lap, fingers twisting anxiously into knots. She's tempted to place a comforting touch, just to reassure him, but restrains herself. This isn't some clichéd drama-romance movie where everything will work out perfectly fine when the main protagonists decide to get together and live happily ever after.

"Can I..." he starts, hesitates, glancing at her for a fraction of a heartbeat before turning away again. "Is it alright if... Can I ask you something?" His posture grows rigid, stiffening as if preparing himself for rejection, awaiting her inevitable response.

Vera's eyebrows knit together, confusion flickering briefly across her face. Despite her fatigue, she sits up straighter, peering curiously over at Leon, who continues staring resolutely straight ahead. His shoulders seem drawn tight beneath his clothes, fists clenched tightly at his sides as though expecting something terrible. But whatever fears plague his thoughts remain unknown.

Her curiosity grows stronger by the second, prodding at her to answer despite knowing full well this conversation might lead nowhere productive. But she does anyway. "What is it?"

For several long seconds, nothing happens except for silence hanging heavily in the space between them, weighing like stones wrapped around her feet dangling over a body of water, crushing down upon their already fraying spirits. Then he exhales audibly through his nose, releasing pent-up energy built up within him.

"Why did you do it?" He breathes quietly, his question echoing loudly within her mind until Vera finds herself paralyzed.

The memory of what she thinks he's referring to replays itself vividly in front of her; lips pressed together in a ghostly parody, lingering sensations sending shivers through her body as though experiencing it again. Her mouth opens but no sound emerges, unable to form coherent responses while caught in the wake of the memory.

"The kiss, I mean," he elaborates quietly without missing a beat, like reading her mind. "I thought you might want to talk about that, at least."

Just talking. About the kiss. Like they're not actually addressing the real issue underlying this whole thing--but maybe that was the point. Was this something friends could even discuss comfortably? It didn't seem likely, especially considering how nervous Leon appeared when asking this question aloud. And it wouldn't make sense for him to try avoiding what happened outright in order to prevent further awkwardness... Unless, of course, he knew better than she did exactly what she needed. Either way, whether intentional or not, she appreciates having a distraction to focus on besides wallowing in self-pity.

"I guess so." Her palms sweat a little. "If... if you need answers, yeah."

The sentence sounds clumsy and unnatural, like an afterthought thrown out as a last resort to convince herself everything'll be okay. But judging by the way his features light up marginally when nodding reassuringly at her makes her think it works well enough.

So she forces herself to relax against the cheap mattress below them, hoping her hands aren't trembling as visibly as she fears they might be. She inhales deeply, ignoring how shallow her lungs feel while filling with oxygen, holding it close before allowing herself to let go slowly. "I don't know why I did it. I just went for it. And I wish I hadn't." The admission hangs in the stale, motel-room-quality scent, and Vera winces internally at how stupid and cowardly that probably sounded.

She steals another glance toward him; his head tilts sideways as he contemplates her comment, a bit disappointed perhaps but more pensive than anything else, seemingly mulling over her response carefully before speaking once more.

"Because I wasn't expecting it. At all," he admits softly, turning his head towards hers, the warmth in his blue irises striking something within her core. "Even in a world without zombies crawling around. Wouldn't've thought you'd... want me in that way."

His shy grin sets butterflies loose inside her chest. She bites her lip as those winged creatures flap frantically against her rib cage, threatening to escape if she opens her mouth too wide. "You're great at distracting me," Vera deflects lamely. When he chuckles lightly beneath his breath at her flattery attempt, she cracks a tentative smile. "This is really working to make me feel lighter."

His features soften almost imperceptibly at her quip, although he retains that amused edge to his grin even after breaking into quiet laughter. "Glad to hear it," he says easily, flashing adorably crooked teeth in a tired smile, looking pleased despite himself. A pleasant rush flutters within Vera's veins like alcohol flowing freely throughout her body as she watches him. "To be honest..." He clears his throat awkwardly, causing her stomach to flip at the possibilities behind what he may reveal next. "I liked it. I really did."

A rush of blood fills Vera's cheeks, heating them until they burn bright crimson underneath his intense stare. Suddenly unable to meet his brilliant blue-eyed regard any longer, she glances downward at the sheets lying crumpled in the space between them instead.

"...really?"

"That's fucked up, isn't it?" Leon laughs bitterly, sounding ashamed as if confessing some terrible sin rather than admitting he enjoyed the way a girl threw herself at him after risking death. "Makes me feel horrible. Knowing everything we witnessed today."

"Imagine how worse it is for the initiating party," Vera mutters dryly and regrets opening her mouth instantly when he flinches away from her bluntness. But it wasn't intended to hurt him, only to break some of the gloomy mood and keep them from getting sucked back into despair. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with enjoying it," she hastily adds, reaching out for his hand without thinking. "Or wanting to forget about your trauma. Even if just for one moment."

Leon blinks owlishly, caught completely off guard by her sudden earnestness. "That's the case for you?" he echoes. She nods solemnly. His grip tightens on hers, giving her courage enough to continue.

"It was impulse for me. But if I were given the chance, I would have wanted to experience something good for once that night," Vera mumbles. Heat rises in her cheeks again as embarrassment takes hold, knowing she probably made him uncomfortable with such a bold confession. "So, there's nothing wrong with you."

Leon grunts noncommittally, seemingly unconvinced yet unwilling to argue any longer. So they sit together silently side by side, observing each other from across the mattress until they eventually relax somewhat against its creaky support system, sharing an oddly companionable silence despite all that transpired during the events following. Until, finally, Vera breaks it first.

"And I would have done it if tonight never happened and you were just the new guy at RPD, too." She leans towards him so that her knee bumps against his thigh. She nudges him playfully. It feels good trying to cheer him up. Confessing doesn't feel half as bad like this. "I was literally dying to ask you out on a date."

He responds with another tired laugh which brings about an instantaneous grin plastered onto Vera's face. She giggles as well, relieved beyond belief that her attempts at lightening up the atmosphere appear successful thus far, if not completely dispelling altogether.

"That's not true," he huffs through another chuckle.

"What?" she snorts. "Don't believe me?"

"You wouldn't have bothered, I'm sure," he muses lightly.

"Well... You are cute, so..." Vera shrugs. She ignores the heat climbing up her neck, fighting not to blush any harder than she already is, especially after seeing the smirk tugging at his lips. "Kind, considerate, pretty—"

"—green to get anywhere—"

"—determined, thoughtful—"

"Okay," he stops her gently. Her heart pounds furiously against her rib cage at how soft his features turn. He smiles sweetly as his thumb rubs tiny circles along the back of her palm. It sends a jolt through Vera's system. "You made your point."

Despite his bashfulness, Vera cannot deny that the redness staining his cheeks is endearing in its own way.

"Just saying I would have snatched you up when I had the chance." She bites back the urge to say something cheesy about stealing him now. Instead, she settles for leaning forward, poking his chest with her finger. "You're too nice to not take advantage of, officer."

In spite of the poor lighting surrounding them, Vera catches the way he rolls his beautiful eyes skyward. Still, the teasing has a positive effect—he remains smiling, albeit sheepishly. "No guy would feel good about being told they're easy, you know."

"I love to chase if you're into that," she returns shamelessly, earning a shocked laugh from the man beside her. The sound reverberates within her chest, warming something deep inside her guts. She likes the sound of that. "I would have bought you flowers, too."

"Really?" he drawls sarcastically. When Vera gives an enthusiastic nod accompanied by an innocent grin, Leon groans audibly and covers his face with both palms. The gesture fails miserably to hide how much brighter those blue eyes shine behind the cracks of his fingers. She can practically see him imagining her buying him bouquets galore.

"Yeah!" she affirms brightly. If her flirting borders on ridiculous at this point, neither one seems capable enough of caring right now. "I'll have you know I'm one hell of a lover."

"Sure," he teases. This time, a genuine grin stretches wide across his handsome face. There is no hiding the rosy hue tinting those perfect cheekbones either, however hard he might try—not that Vera plans on letting up anytime soon. Not when they are having fun. Not when it helps him forget the pain throbbing throughout his body.

"Honest. Flowers everywhere. Heart shaped chocolates, candle-lit dinner dates—" She pauses briefly, considering for a beat. Yeah, no. She isn't making it weird by sexualization. "—fluffy little puppies waiting outside your apartment complex with leashes in their mouths."

"All at once?"

"Everything at the same time," Vera confirms without skipping a beat. "You have no idea what these hands are capable of."

He coughs loudly, catching his breath abruptly. Maybe he choked on his saliva? "Wh—" Another cough interrupts his stuttering, he looks startled, turning even more crimson than before.

She laughs at him, watching his flustered state intently. When she recovers sufficiently to calm down enough to respond properly, she notices Leon regarding her curiously, his head tilted at an angle so that his golden locks fall over his brow attractively. And then suddenly she realizes just how close they've gravitated towards one another while laughing, nearly cheek-to-cheek as if drawn irresistibly closer by some unseen force; close enough for Vera to smell the soap sticking stubbornly to his skin from the quick shower earlier. He smells sweet and citrusy—a faint trace of mint lingering around his neck where tendrils of damp hair curl loosely.

She turns away quickly, embarrassed. Maybe this is enough distracting, she decides firmly to herself. This bubble of intimacy is dangerously enticing and threatening to burst at any moment should they continue dancing around whatever this strange pull between them is. Because right now, all she wants to do is lean forward and bury her nose against Leon's skin, hide her burning face in the hollow of his throat and feel warm and safe with him forevermore.

But then again, this might be exactly why they must stop their silly banter. To avoid creating false promises between themselves under dire circumstances. All they were connected by was this strange bond forged from the same hell they were subjected to. They weren't friends or lovers or anything else. Just partners brought together temporarily by fate and circumstance. Bound to separate after finding safety, when the world around them calms down and there wasn't really any reason anymore for either of them staying by each other's side. The more she ponders that grim prospect, however, the faster her heart rate climbs until she feels sick inside.

"What was it that you said?" Leon whispers, all of a sudden too serious for her liking. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to forget your trauma." He hums thoughtfully, reaching to gently brush back a strand of black locks falling across her cheek. His fingertips linger longer than necessary; Vera hates how wonderful it feels being touched. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt to indulge just this once?"

It sounded innocuous enough coming from him, uttered almost shyly into the stillness surrounding them. Yet something within those three simple sentences resonates within her very soul nonetheless—something intimate shared exclusively between two individuals lost in darkness seeking solace in familiar territory. A longing building within their chests for human contact... Something gentle, comforting, grounding. A temporary shelter provided freely without strings attached nor conditions placed. No obligations owed on either ends, merely allowing each other to breathe easily for the time being as their demons retreat momentarily back into shadowy corners of their minds.

Vera blinks owlishly, stunned momentarily by his candid admission. As he retracts his hand, however, and leaves the spot tingling from his tender caress empty, she finds herself wishing for more. She has to bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep herself still when Leon scoots even closer and wraps one arm tentatively around her waist. She doesn't even register leaning in automatically until her forehead bumps against his collarbone, resting atop it lightly. Then something clicks inside Vera's brain; a spark igniting deep within her gut as she surrenders willingly to his embrace without hesitation or resistance. An involuntary gasp escapes her when a warm hand settles upon the small of her back, applying slight pressure to pull her forward eagerly into him again. "Oh. Okay."

Their bodies meld perfectly against one another. Her chest burns white hot wherever they touch—the planes of his muscles brushing lightly against her breast bone where it lies pressed against his torso. His breathing tickles against her nape, causing goosebumps along her neck and downwards. But above everything else, something within Vera seems to relax instantly, melting away whatever lingering apprehension held previously onto her heart.

"Fuck," she sighs contentedly. His arms tighten around her briefly, encouraging her further into his embrace, leaving little room left for her mind to wander aimlessly elsewhere except here—exactly where it belongs. How long has she dreamt about something like this? Having someone to cling onto desperately, seeking out affection beyond mere platonic friendship. It's been so damn long since anyone touched her so tenderly.

"You doing okay?" he mumbles quietly.

"...yeah." A tremulous smile curves upwards her lips despite herself. She allows her eyelids shut close while listening closely to their joined breathing synchronizing, reveling in how much thinner than him she feels tucked safely against his broad form. A sense of security fills Vera as though enveloped within thick blankets during winter days.

"Good." His breath ruffles against the hair at her temple; she shivers involuntarily at the sensation of the cool exhale caressing heated skin. "Because I could actually sleep like this if we tried."

She cracks an eyelid open halfway and peers up curiously past dark lashes to find Leon grinning boyishly, all traces of earlier awkwardness apparently dissipated into thinning fog. He stares intensely back into her widened pupils before dropping his chin down onto top her head again—

"I think we could arrange that," she manages to croak out somehow, the idea so pleasant to think about.

Somehow, falling asleep in his cozy presence makes it feel like no nightmares would find her tonight. Like maybe this whole mess isn't as hopeless as she imagined. That perhaps she won't be haunted constantly by dead children crying for parents lost to monsters, or corpses shambling forth seeking flesh, or faces twisted into unspeakable abominations tearing at her limbs with sharp fangs ripping apart skin. Or her father.

She doesn't want to move her arms to nudge him, so making their bodies rock together slightly is the next best thing. And that's enough cue for Leon to start backing up against the headboard, taking her along for the ride, dragging both legs underneath the bedspread. The fabric pulls out from under them as they slide backwards until fully cocooned inside the comforter's fluffy interior. When she twists a bit to get comfortable, a pillow falls on her face. She swats blindly at the offending object, accidentally punching Leon square in the chest instead. The resounding grunt draws a sheepish giggle from somewhere within Vera. She moves accordingly until she's on her side and facing Leon; who shifts until they're forehead to forehead like children telling stories in their beds late at night, staring intently into each other's curious expressions.

"This okay?" Leon breathes softly. She can smell peppermint from his toothpaste mixed with antiseptic wash. His breath ghosts over her parted lips, causing them to tingle pleasantly from his proximity, bringing heat to bloom beneath her cheeks. He seems satisfied with her answering nod, giving one himself.

A brief silence hangs between them, neither daring speak just yet, lest it disturb the delicate balance between them now settled comfortably on its axis. Eventually though, Leon reaches upwards, wrapping an arm around Vera's shoulders gingerly and pulling her closer into him, resting her head on his collarbone. It scratches an elusive itch, dissolving it into words that read, Ah, I wanted to be held, after all.

And sleep hits Vera like a ton of bricks once she relaxes against him. Even through the haze, she doesn't miss how gentle he's being—his grasp loose enough for escape should she change her mind later on, yet secure enough that it won't break away unless intended. With the rest of Raccoon City in ruins beyond those stained motel walls, it feels almost sacrilegious to accept comfort like this while so many others suffer unimaginable terrors. But she does anyway. Letting go would be too difficult otherwise, when she wants to cling tight and stay here forever wrapped up in his scent, encased within his protective hold where no harm will come her way. Just clinging to this bit of sanity for dear life until morning comes, when reality awaits to end all possibilities for their futures, and they perhaps part ways for good—but not tonight.

Tonight, everything exists solely within these four walls where there isn't anything worth mentioning but the steady pounding beneath Leon's ribcage pressed against Vera's ear. A faint rhythmic melody drumming softly amidst chaos itself, reminding her that right now, they're still alive... Allowed to be human again for a while longer yet.

#this won't make sense if you don't read “no time to die”#leon kennedy x oc #leon s kennedy x oc #resident evil oc #era: no time to die #leon kennedy

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