#There’s just not much that supports it- if he was it’d have been talked about extensively | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ijustmissyouraccenths · 2 months ago

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Office Hours: Part One

✨ summary: where Harry is a professor, and she left with a degree and pieces of him he never got back.

📝 word count: 20.k total

⚠️ content warning: college student/professor dynamic, significant age difference (all characters are adults), explicit sexual content, strong language, and themes of power imbalance.

⭐️ part two

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It’s quiet in the hallway, the kind of dead-campus quiet that makes your nerves louder than your footsteps. You pause in front of the office door, fingers curling at your sides. The nameplate beside it reads:

Dr. H. Styles Department of History

You’ve stood here for almost a full minute.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re not even sure why you’re hesitating. It’s not like he doesn’t already know you’re floundering in his class. If anything, this is overdue.

You finally raise your hand and knock.

“Come in,” he calls out, voice muffled but distinct low, a little rough. You push the door open.

The office is dimly lit, with tall windows half-covered by old blinds that let in fractured afternoon light. Shelves line the walls, stuffed with worn hardcovers and faded spines. There’s a map of post-war Europe pinned behind his desk, corners curling. A single mug sits on a stack of papers, half-full with what smells like bitter coffee.

And then there’s him.

Dr. Styles.

He’s leaning over a folder, brow slightly furrowed, reading glasses pushed low on his nose. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, the buttons at his collar undone. His watch ticks softly as he scribbles a note in the margin of someone’s exam.

When he glances up and sees you, he lowers his pen. His expression doesn’t change much—just a flicker of recognition.

“Y/N, right?”

You nod, shifting your weight awkwardly. “Yeah. Um… hi.”

“Hi,” he says simply, and then nods toward the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

You sit, careful with your bag, and smooth your hands down your jeans.

He closes the folder and sets it aside, then leans back in his chair, eyes on you in that disarming, steady way of his. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

You almost laugh. Almost. “No. I wanted to talk about the midterm.”

He nods, slow. “You didn’t do well.”

You try not to shrink under the weight of it. “I know.”

“Sixty-two,” he adds, not unkindly. Just factual.

You wince. “Yeah. I—I’ve been trying. It’s not that I don’t care, I swear, I just—there’s been a lot happening. Work’s been crazy. I’m behind on readings. I’ve been showing up, but it feels like I’m always two steps behind.”

You’re rambling. You hate how small you sound. But you can’t seem to stop.

“I didn’t want to come in here and beg or anything,” you add quickly. “I just thought maybe if there was something I could do, like—extra credit or a rewrite or—”

“Stop.”

His voice is quiet but firm, and it shuts you up immediately. He doesn’t say it cruelly. Just… deliberately.

You look at him.

He exhales through his nose and leans forward, forearms resting on the desk. His eyes are piercing now, calm but sharp, like he’s already decided something and he’s just waiting to say it.

“You’re not failing because you’re incapable,” he says. “You’re failing because you’ve spread yourself too thin and you’ve got no system. You turn things in late. You half-answer essay questions. You skip discussion posts. And still, for some reason, I don’t think you’re lazy.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says.

There’s a pause.

Then: “I need a student assistant this semester.”

You blink. “What?”

“For the department. It’s funded, basic tasks. Filing, organizing lecture notes, helping sort quizzes or set up for discussions. It’s not glamorous, but it pays. And it’d put you in the material more often. Get you thinking. Give you structure.”

Your stomach tightens. “You want me to do it?”

His mouth twitches, just slightly. “That’s the offer. If you want a chance to pass this class and maybe keep your GPA from falling apart, I’d take it.”

“But why me?”

He leans back again, folds his arms. “Because I think you need someone to hold you accountable. And because, whether you realize it or not, you have good instincts. You just don’t trust them yet.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your throat feels tight.

He watches you for another beat. Then, with a final glance at the clock behind you, he adds, “Think about it. Let me know by tomorrow. I’ll send the paperwork if you say yes.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

As you gather your bag and stand, he looks back down at the folder he was grading before you walked in. Just as your hand touches the doorknob, he says, without looking up—

“Y/N.”

You turn. “Yeah?”

“Don’t waste this. Not with me.”

His voice is low. Measured.

It doesn’t sound like a threat. But it doesn’t quite sound like a promise, either.

Just something in between.

Your shoes are already kicked off by the time you collapse onto the couch, a half-empty iced coffee from earlier melting on the side table. Your bag slides to the floor with a soft thud, zipper half open, the corner of your graded midterm poking out like an accusation.

Sixty-two.

You cover your face with both hands.

“Bad day?” comes Rosie’s voice from the kitchen.

You peek out from between your fingers. She’s standing barefoot in front of the fridge in an oversized sweatshirt, a spoon dangling from her mouth like some kind of cereal pirate.

“You have no idea.”

She pads into the living room with a carton of ice cream and flops beside you, tucking her legs under her. “Let me guess. History of Modern Europe.”

You groan. “God. I’m barely keeping my head above water in that class.”

Rosie makes a sympathetic noise and offers you the ice cream.

You take it, digging in without hesitation. “I went to his office hours.”

“Oh?” She perks up. “The infamous Dr. Styles?”

You nod. “Yeah. It was… intense.”

She snorts. “Isn’t it always with him? I heard he made some guy cry last semester because he used Wikipedia as a source.”

“That checks out.”

“So what happened?”

You exhale. “He offered me a job.”

That makes her pause. “A job job?”

“Student assistant. For the department.”

She blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. Grading, organizing, probably hauling books around. He said it could help bring my grade up. And that it pays.”

Rosie narrows her eyes, like she’s trying to read behind the lines of what you’re saying. “That’s… weirdly generous for him, isn’t it?”

“I thought so too.”

There’s a moment of silence. She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin on top.

“Listen,” she says slowly, “I don’t know him, obviously. But I’ve heard things.”

“Like what?”

She hesitates. “That he’s… intense. A hard ass. Kind of terrifying, if you’re not on his good side. But also…”

“But also?”

She shrugs. “Hot. Like—annoyingly hot. Which somehow makes the whole thing worse.”

You give her a look. “Rosie.”

“I’m serious! You’ve seen the tattoos, right? And the way he wears those sleeves rolled up like he’s about to start a revolution? It’s confusing. You’re not prepared for that kind of academic trauma and sexual tension in one go.”

You cover your face again. “Please stop.”

She laughs. “I’m just saying. Be careful. He’s smart. And sharp. And he sees things.”

“He said I don’t trust my instincts.”

Rosie raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You stare at the ceiling.

That’s the problem. You’re not sure anymore.

Your life is already a mess of half-shifts, financial aid nightmares, and the gnawing fear you’re not good enough to be here in the first place. A job that pays and keeps you tied to the one class you’re barely holding onto feels like a lifeline.

But Dr. Styles? He doesn’t feel like safety. He feels like… pressure. Focused, heavy, exacting.

And something else, too. Something you haven’t named yet.

“Do you think I should take it?” you ask quietly.

Rosie pauses, serious now. “I think you already decided. You just want someone to tell you it’s okay.”

You swallow.

And for once, she doesn’t say anything clever. Just leans against your shoulder, warm and quiet.

You sit like that until the light fades through the blinds.

It’s nearly one in the morning when you open your laptop again.

The glow from the screen paints your room in that washed-out blue light that makes everything feel a little lonelier. Rosie’s long since gone to bed, the apartment gone still except for the occasional hum of the refrigerator.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, staring at the blinking cursor in your inbox.

Subject: Student Assistant Position

You’ve rewritten the body of the email five times.

You delete the whole thing and start again.

Hi Dr. Styles,

I wanted to thank you again for the offer today. I’ve thought about it, and I’d like to accept the assistant position if it’s still available. I could really use the structure and the extra help understanding the material.

Please let me know what you need from me to get started.

Best, Y/N

You hover over the send button. Then you press it.

It’s done. You shut the laptop and sink back onto the pillow, heart still thudding like you just did something illicit.

You don’t sleep well.

When your alarm goes off just after seven, you blink blearily at your phone and find a new email notification waiting for you. His name in bold.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Student Assistant Position

Y/N,

Glad to hear it. Meet me in my office at 2:30 this afternoon and we’ll go over everything—responsibilities, schedule, expectations. Bring your availability and any questions.

And don’t be late.

—Dr. Styles

You stare at the message for a second longer than necessary.

There’s no smiley face. No warmth. But it still makes your stomach turn over.

It’s official now.

You’re going to be working for him.

And something about that feels a little like standing at the edge of something, maybe an opportunity, maybe a mistake.

Maybe both.

The next morning you’re standing in front of your open closet, towel still wrapped around your head, when Rosie wanders into your room holding a spoon and what looks like leftover pasta straight from the container.

She leans on the doorframe. “Is this a first date or an office job? Because you’ve been standing there for fifteen minutes like you’re trying to manifest an outfit.”

You sigh. “It’s a meeting. To go over the job stuff.”

“With Professor Tall, Dark, and Historically Accurate?”

You shoot her a look. “Rosie.”

She grins. “What? I’m just saying—he’s hot. Like, war-and-peace-and-forearms hot.”

You groan. “You’re not helping.”

She shrugs and takes a bite of pasta. “Maybe you don’t want help. Maybe you want to look a little hot. Like… I know I’m your assistant now but I still understand the consequences of the French Revolution hot.”

“I will throw this hanger at you.”

She laughs and flops onto your bed, chewing thoughtfully as you pull out two options—one safe and neutral, the other just slightly more fitted than it needs to be.

Rosie raises her eyebrows. “Oooh. Choice B says, I respect your authority, but also… please ruin my life.”

You blush instantly and shove it back into the closet. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

She holds up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But for the record, if he weren’t your professor, I’d be rooting for inappropriate tension. It’s practically your brand.”

You tug on a soft, clean button-down and a pair of dark jeans, trying not to think about whether you’re dressing to impress or just trying not to drown.

As you tie your shoes, Rosie watches you quietly.

Then, softer: “You’ll be okay, you know.”

You glance at her.

“He’s intense,” she adds, “but you can handle intense. You just have to remember who you are in that room.”

You nod, tightening your laces.

But the truth is, you’re not totally sure who you are in that room yet.

Your morning class drags.

The professor, some adjunct with a soft voice and a half-broken projector, clicks through a PowerPoint about Cold War diplomacy while your pen taps restlessly against your notebook. You’re not really taking notes. You’re thinking about 2:30.

Well, him.

The way he said Don’t be late.

The way his eyes lingered just a little too long when you stood in the doorway yesterday.

By the time class ends, you practically bolt from your seat. You grab a sandwich from the student union, barely taste it. You’re too aware of the time, of the way your palms are already sweating, of how your heart starts a slow, nervous thud as the hour creeps closer.

At 2:25, you’re standing outside his office again.

This time, you knock right away.

“Come in,” he says.

You push the door open.

Professor Styles is behind his desk, sleeves rolled up again, glasses perched on his nose. He’s sorting through a thick stack of papers, flipping one page, then another, scribbling a note in the margin. His brow is furrowed like something’s already bothering him.

He doesn’t look up.

You hesitate just inside the door. “Hi.”

“Close it.”

You do, then hover near the chair.

He finally glances up.

“You’re early,” he says, voice flat.

“Thought that was better than late.”

He hums a dry, noncommittal sound and sets the papers aside. He removes his glasses and folds them with precise fingers before looking at you fully.

“Sit.”

You do.

The chair feels smaller than yesterday. Everything feels a little tighter.

He doesn’t ask how you are. Doesn’t offer small talk. Just grabs a yellow legal pad and clicks his pen once, sharply.

“This is how it’s going to work,” he begins. “You’ll assist me eight hours a week, two hours, four days. Monday through Thursday and maybe an occasional Friday if there’s still things that need to be done. You’ll report here unless otherwise noted. Your tasks will vary. Sorting exams, scanning articles, fact-checking timelines, prepping materials for seminar. You’ll also sit in on my upper-level History 416 class.”

You nod quickly. “Okay.”

“You’ll be paid through the department. Paperwork will go through admin, Jennifer, down the hall. I’ll email her. You’ll handle the rest.”

“Got it.”

He stops, tilts his head slightly. “Do you always agree to everything this quickly?”

You blink. “I—I just want to make sure I do it right.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Doing it right means paying attention. Not just nodding.”

“Right,” you say, more quietly.

He eyes you for another beat. Then continues.

“I don’t tolerate lateness. I don’t tolerate excuses. If you can’t keep up, you’ll be replaced. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He scribbles something on the legal pad. “You’ll start tomorrow. Four o’clock.”

You hesitate. “I thought it was earlier in the day?”

He doesn’t look up. “My schedule changed.”

You nod, unsure if you’ve done something wrong or if this is just how he is.

When he finally looks at you again, it’s with something colder. Detached. Not mean, exactly but distanced, like he’s trying not to see you at all.

You try to break the silence. “Is there anything I should read before—?”

“You’re not here to be spoon-fed,” he cuts in. “If you’re serious about improving, you’ll start by revisiting your own work. Find what’s missing.”

You sink slightly in your chair. “Okay.”

“And Y/N,” he says your name in that calm, clipped tone that makes your pulse jump “this is a job. Not a shortcut. Don’t mistake the opportunity for leniency.”

You meet his eyes.

He’s guarded. Tense. The way someone is when they’ve already decided to keep their walls up.

You nod once. “Understood.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, finally, he sets the pad down, straightens a stack of books at the edge of his desk, and says, “That’s all.”

You stand.

“Thank you,” you say softly, halfway out the door.

His voice stops you.

“I didn’t offer this position to be kind.”

You turn slightly. “Then why did you?”

He watches you for a moment. Then—coolly:

“Because I think people make better choices when someone’s watching.”

You don’t say anything. You just step out of his office, heart thudding harder than it should.

On your first day you knock at exactly four o’clock.

You’ve been standing outside the office door for two full minutes, checking and rechecking the time on your phone like a lunatic. You don’t want to be early. You can’t be late. So when the clock hits 4:00:00, you raise your hand and knock.

The door swings open almost immediately.

Professor Styles doesn’t say hello. He just steps back and lets you in.

He’s already in motion when you cross the threshold moving toward his desk, pulling a drawer open, rifling through a file folder.

“You’re on time,” he says, without looking at you.

“Of course.”

“Good.” He pulls out a stack of handouts and presses them into your hands without warning. “Start by alphabetizing those by last name. Should be fifty-seven. Don’t lose any.”

You nod and carry them to the spare table by the window. You can feel him behind you as you work, silent, watching. It makes your skin prickle. You try to focus on the names. Alcott. Bennett. Chen. Dalton…

A few minutes pass.

Then he speaks again.

“Do you always keep your head down like that?”

You glance up. “What do you mean?”

He’s leaning against the desk now, arms folded. Watching you, clearly not just talking about posture.

“In class,” he says. “In discussions. Even in your essays. You circle ideas but don’t claim them. You leave conclusions open. Safe.”

You shift your weight, uncomfortable. “I guess I just don’t always trust my voice.”

He studies you for a second too long. “That’s something you’ll need to fix.”

You nod, dropping your gaze back to the handouts. “Working on it.”

He moves around the desk again, opening another drawer, pulling out a spiral-bound course reader.

“I want you to read this by next week,” he says. “It’s not assigned to the class. It’s for you.”

You look up again, surprised. “All of it?”

“All of it,” he confirms. “And I want a one-page response. Your thoughts, not what you think I want to hear. No summaries.”

You take the reader from him. His fingers brush yours for a second longer than they should.

You pretend not to notice. So does he.

He sits down then, flipping open a notebook and scribbling something you can’t see. The scratch of his pen is the only sound in the room for a while. It’s strange, being this close to him outside of class. Stranger still that he hasn’t softened. He’s all edges, all precision.

You don’t know what you expected.

Maybe a smile. Maybe something human.

Instead, he finally says, “Have you thought about why you’re struggling in this course?”

“I’ve had a lot going on—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You blink. “Then… I guess I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” he says. “You’re bright. You write with instinct. But you don’t push. You don’t let yourself say anything dangerous. You’d rather float.”

You stare at him.

“That’s fine if you’re trying to pass,” he says. “But not if you’re trying to learn.”

You take a breath. “Is that what you want? For me to learn?”

Something flickers across his face. Then it’s gone.

“I want you to wake up.”

You’re quiet. The room feels heavier than it did five minutes ago.

He stands again, moves past you to a stack of books on the windowsill.

“Don’t speak unless you have something worth saying.”

You exhale through your nose, almost smiling. “You really don’t let people breathe, do you?”

That gets a reaction—barely. The corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. Just an acknowledgment.

“No,” he says. “I don’t.”

You nod. “Okay.”

You finish sorting the stack.

“Done,” you say, sliding it back onto his desk.

He glances at it, then at you.

“You can go.”

You hesitate.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

He leans back slightly in his chair, eyes unreadable. “Don’t wait for permission every time. Just do the work.”

You nod once. “Got it.”

You step out into the hallway, heart pounding a little harder than it should. You don’t know what just happened. Or what he meant, exactly. But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel invisible.

And that terrifies you more than anything.

The next few days fall into a rhythm. The kind that leaves you breathless and vaguely unsure if you’re doing it right.

On Monday He has you compile references for his next lecture—postcolonial economic fallout. You spend two hours digging through JSTOR while he circles the room reading a worn copy of Imagined Communities. He says almost nothing to you, except when your formatting is wrong.

Tuesday He hands you a stack of student essays and tells you to rank them, not grade them. “Trust your gut. Don’t overthink.” You second-guess every ranking anyway. When you pass them back, he flips through them with a furrowed brow but doesn’t correct a single one.

Wednesday He keeps the office door open. A few undergrads drift in and out for advising, but you stay in the corner, silent and observant. At one point, he says something dry and cutting to a senior about Cold War idealism, and you snort without meaning to. His eyes flash to you. You both pretend it didn’t happen.

And by Thursday, you’re exhausted. The good kind, maybe, but still frayed at the edges.

On Friday, one of the occasional Fridays he had mentioned, you mean to leave early. You do.

But your shift at the coffee shop runs long, and your manager throws a last-minute list at you, and by the time you’re racing across campus, it’s already 4:06.

Your heart pounds as you reach the third floor. The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

You stop in front of his office door.

It’s shut. The blinds are drawn. And worse—when you try the handle, it’s locked.

You knock.

No answer.

You knock again, softer this time, hoping he’s not deliberately ignoring you.

Still nothing.

You press your ear to the door, and just as you start to wonder if maybe he left for the day, the lock clicks.

The door creaks open slowly.

He’s standing there, jaw tight, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows again, a pen still tucked behind his ear. His eyes sweep over you once, flat and unreadable.

Then: “Inside.”

You step in. He closes the door behind you, the lock clicking again.

He doesn’t move toward his desk. Just stands there for a beat, looking at you.

“Sit,” he says.

You do.

The room feels colder than usual. Or maybe it’s just him.

He walks to his chair, lowers himself deliberately, and leans back, elbows on the armrests, hands clasped together in front of his mouth. He looks at you for a long moment.

Then he says, voice low and even:

“What did I tell you?”

You swallow. “Not to be late.”

“And what are you?”

“…Late.”

There’s a silence that stretches just a second too long.

“Six minutes,” he says. “That’s not traffic. That’s disrespect.”

“It wasn’t—” you start to say, but he cuts you off.

“I’m not interested in reasons. I’m interested in patterns.”

You sit straighter, every nerve in your body buzzing. “I really am trying. I just got held up at work—”

“And what did I say about excuses?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard.

He watches you closely, something flickering behind his eyes. Not anger. Not quite. More like… warning.

“You want this to work?” he asks. “You want this to mean something for your grade, for your place in this program?”

“Yes,” you say quickly.

“Then treat it like it matters.”

You nod. “I will. I do.”

He leans forward now, resting his forearms on the desk. “I chose you because I thought you needed structure. That you might benefit from someone pushing you.”

“I do.”

“Then act like it.”

The words land heavier than they should. Your chest feels tight.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then, softer almost reluctantly he says, “I locked the door because I didn’t want distractions. Not because I was angry.”

You look up at him. He’s not meeting your eyes.

“I just needed the hour,” he adds. “To feel like I had control of something.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you just nod.

“Let’s get to work,” he says finally, flipping open a notebook. “Start with the reading response.”

You pass it across the desk, fingers grazing his for the second time this week.

And again, neither of you flinch.

You don’t speak again for at least twenty minutes.

The silence isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either. Just taut. Focused. The kind of quiet that asks for precision.

You’re seated across from him now, sorting through a stack of photocopied articles. He’s given you a set of primary sources from his 416 seminar—old declassified memos from the Reagan administration—and asked you to mark anything relating to soft power strategy.

He doesn’t explain it. Doesn’t guide your hand. He just says, “Find what matters,” and starts working through a pile of graduate submissions with red ink and sharp eyes.

You highlight one line. Then another. You read the same paragraph three times before realizing you’re not absorbing any of it. Not really.

He’s too close.

His scent is somewhere between clean laundry and something more specific, woodsy, maybe. Expensive. His hand keeps raking through his hair when he’s focused. He’s got a habit of chewing the inside of his cheek when a sentence annoys him. You’re not watching, not really, but your eyes drift more than they should.

You finally ask, “Do you always grade this harshly?”

He doesn’t look up. “Would you rather I lie?”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

One of his eyebrows lifts—barely—and he flips to the next page. “You think I’m too critical.”

“I think you’re terrifying.”

“Good.”

That makes you glance up.

He doesn’t look at you, but there’s the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth.

You try to go back to your highlighting. You manage three lines before you ask, “Do you ever give A’s?”

He looks up this time, pen pausing in his hand.

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“Students who stop hiding behind safe language and actually risk something.”

You meet his eyes.

“And do they ever regret it?”

His jaw shifts slightly, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

“No,” he says. “Not once.”

You sit back a little, swallowing. The air between you is heavier now. Not tense the way it was before but full, somehow. A little too quiet.

He drops his eyes again and marks something in red. “You missed a reference in document six, by the way. The language mirrors a NATO communique from ’81. You should’ve flagged it.”

You nod, then reach for the document in question.

You’re halfway through reading it when he speaks again—quietly this time.

“I meant what I said. About control.”

You blink, unsure what prompted the shift. “Okay.”

“It wasn’t an excuse. I don’t use those.”

You nod. “I didn’t think you were.”

He looks at you again. There’s something more tired in his face now, softer at the edges. Still sharp, still watchful—but not so guarded.

He nods once.

And for the first time, you see something like approval cross his face.

You both go back to work.

Side by side.

No distractions.

No forgiveness.

Just a table between you and all the things you’re not saying.

Yet.

The next week unfolds slowly.

Not gently. Just… deliberately.

Every day at four, you show up.

And every day, he’s already there with a pen in hand, glasses on, one foot tapping steadily against the floor like he’s racing something you can’t see.

This Monday, he has you reorganize his research archive boxes and boxes of old syllabi, course readings, primary documents, some dating back decades. You spend most of the hour kneeling on the floor, covered in dust, while he paces behind you dictating labels in his clipped, exacting voice.

You ask him about one of the folders labeled Revolutionary Rhetoric. He tells you to read it—“Not tonight. When you’re ready to be angry.”

You don’t ask what that means. But you take it home anyway.

Tuesday, the air shifts.

He gives you an old lecture draft to edit. “Don’t fix grammar. Fix the thinking,” he says. “Tell me where it feels dishonest.”

You don’t know what to do with that kind of trust. But you read it. Twice. You leave a few notes in the margins, tentative, but honest.

The next day, he hands the draft back with your edits still marked. Nothing’s crossed out.

Just one small note at the bottom in his handwriting: Finally.

It makes something tug in your chest. You don’t know if it’s pride or danger.

Maybe both.

Wednesday, you catch him in a rare moment of distraction. He’s reading a New York Times op-ed at his desk and muttering under his breath.

You try not to laugh.

He glances up. “Something funny?”

You shrug. “Just—you’re so… intense. Even when you’re reading the news.”

He leans back in his chair, folds his arms. “History is the news. Just written after we’ve screwed it up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that on your wall at home?”

He smirks—barely. “No. But maybe I’ll get a mug made.”

The tension softens for half a second. Then it rebuilds. Always.

Thursday, you’re exhausted again.

You didn’t sleep. You read the Revolutionary Rhetoric file instead; twenty pages of speeches and letters that made your skin prickle. You show up early this time, notebook in hand, heart pounding.

He watches you read your notes at his desk and doesn’t speak for almost twenty minutes.

Then, when you finally say, “I think I understand what you meant now—about being angry,”

he answers quietly: “Good.”

It’s the softest word you’ve heard from him so far.

The hallway’s empty when you arrive. You knock. He answers the door like he’s been waiting for you all day.

The office is darker than usual. The blinds are mostly shut. His record player hums in the corner—low, slow jazz spinning on vinyl.

You raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you played music during office hours.”

He moves past you and shuts the door.

“Only when I don’t want anyone else to come in.”

You swallow.

He nods toward the chair.

You sit.

He hands you a single piece of paper, his seminar outline for next week and says, “This needs structure. Right now it’s just noise.”

You nod, scanning it.

But you can feel his gaze on you while you read.

You try not to shift in your seat. Try not to let your thoughts spiral.

But everything feels… louder today.

The silence. The music. The fact that it’s just the two of you again, no excuse of grading or filing between you.

You’re halfway through reading when you glance up.

He’s watching you.

Still. Focused. That quiet intensity simmering right at the surface.

You say, careful, “Is something wrong?”

He blinks once. “No.”

Pause.

Then: “You just look different when you’re concentrating.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

And for once, he doesn’t fill the silence.

Just lets it stretch between you like a wire pulled too tight.

That afternoon you barely remember the walk home.

Everything feels a little too loud—your footsteps on the pavement, the shuffle of keys in the lock, the creak of the apartment door as it closes behind you. It’s like you’re moving through water, still carrying the weight of his gaze in your chest.

You drop your bag in the corner. Kick your shoes off. Pull your hair out of its clip.

And then you microwave leftover pasta and curl up on the couch with a blanket over your lap, the bowl warm against your thighs and your mind still halfway back in his office.

He hadn’t said anything else after that comment. Just gone back to his desk, pulled open a book, and left you to edit in silence.

But the way he’d looked at you—that moment where it felt like the whole room stopped moving—that stayed.

You’re still thinking about it when the front door opens and Rosie breezes in, headphones around her neck and a canvas tote banging against her hip. She stops short when she sees you.

“Well, well, well,” she says, grinning. “If it isn’t my favorite full-time scholar-slash-historically oppressed underling.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Hi.”

She drops her bag, kicks off her shoes, and plops onto the couch beside you, lifting your blanket and wedging herself under it like she owns the place.

She glances at the half-eaten pasta. “You’ve been home long?”

“Just got in.”

She gives you a once-over. “You look weird.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean—like, dazed. What happened? Did he finally assign you to storm Normandy solo?”

You shake your head, staring down at your fork. “No. Just… a lot. He had me rewrite a seminar outline. Gave me this whole talk about structure and noise and then said I look different when I concentrate.”

Rosie’s eyebrows shoot up. “He said that?”

You nod, poking at a stubborn piece of penne.

She leans forward, voice low. “Okay, I take back everything I said before. That man wants to morally ruin you and then grade your soul.”

You let out a strangled laugh. “Rosie.”

“I’m serious! That’s not normal professor talk. That’s like… poetic tension talk.”

“He’s probably like that with everyone.”

She scoffs. “He absolutely is not. Have you seen the way he glares at people who breathe too loud in lecture?”

You sink deeper into the cushions, suddenly unsure what you want her to say.

Rosie watches you for a beat, then softens. “Hey. Joking aside… are you okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just—I feel like I’m always holding my breath in there.”

“Is that because he’s scary or because he’s…” she tilts her head, “something else?”

You don’t answer right away.

Finally, you say, “I don’t know.”

Rosie leans her head on your shoulder. “You’re allowed to be smart and still feel thrown off by stuff like this. You’re also allowed to not know what it is yet.”

You exhale, watching steam rise from your bowl.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

She smiles. “Anytime. But just so you know… if you ever need to have a morally ambiguous affair with a hot professor, I’ll support you. As long as I get the details after finals.”

You nudge her with your elbow. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re halfway in love with his syntax,” she mutters, grabbing a bite of your pasta.

You don’t answer.

Because maybe you are.

Spring break arrives, but it doesn’t feel like a break.

The campus is almost eerie without the usual noise—no student groups on the quad, no music blaring from open windows, no desperate undergrads fighting for study rooms in the library. Just empty walkways and overcast skies. The fountain in the courtyard runs all the same, but somehow it sounds louder.

You still have to show up.

Professor Styles had made that clear the Friday before.

“Your title doesn’t take time off. See you Monday. Four sharp.”

So you’re there. Monday. Four sharp.

And again Tuesday. And Wednesday.

By Thursday, it’s clear: he’s using the quiet to shift something.

It starts small. On Monday, he pulls out a book, Discipline and Punish, and places it in front of you.

“You’ll read this this week. Come ready to talk about surveillance theory by Friday.”

You flip through the pages. “Isn’t this more philosophy than history?”

“It’s both. That’s the point.”

Tuesday, he has you outline three different revolutions using a blank timeline and only primary sources. No internet. Just the materials he provides; pamphlets, speeches, manifestos, maps.

“You’re teaching me?” you ask, after two hours of scribbling notes and drawing arrows between centuries.

He doesn’t look up from his notebook. “I’m not interested in teaching. I’m interested in seeing what you do when no one’s watching.”

“Pretty sure you’re watching.”

That makes him glance at you, faint amusement tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re not wrong.”

Wednesday, he clears the table between you and sits beside you for the first time instead of across.

The distance feels like it shrinks to nothing.

You’re shoulder to shoulder, scanning dense theory, discussing revolution and resistance like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You tell him about something you read in a Marxist critique of education theory. He nods slowly, thoughtful.

Then says, “You’re sharper when you’re not trying to impress anyone.”

You smirk. “Who says I was trying to impress you?”

He looks at you then.

Fully.

It’s only a second but long enough for your breath to catch.

Thursday comes, and you’re the first one there. You sit in the hallway early, the cold tile pressing through your jeans. You don’t knock right away. Just stare at the worn nameplate.

When you finally step inside, he’s standing by the window, flipping through a small collection of documents in a thin file. His shirt is rolled at the sleeves again, collar open. He glances over his shoulder as the door clicks shut.

“Early,” he says.

You nod. “I didn’t want to be late.”

He hums. “You’re learning.”

He gestures toward the desk. You sit. He joins you, and for a while, neither of you speak.

The record player hums in the background—jazz again, soft and unintrusive.

Then he lays out three different texts: a declassified memo, a student protest letter from 1968, and a political cartoon.

“Tell me what they have in common,” he says.

You frown, leaning forward. “Context?”

“No,” he says. “Language. Imagery. Power.”

You read them again, slower this time. “They all rely on the idea of visibility. Like… watching is a form of control.”

He doesn’t move.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Keep going.”

You talk for almost an hour.

By the time you pause, you realize you’ve been leaning closer to him than you meant to. One elbow on the desk. Your knees almost touching.

You glance at him.

He’s looking at the papers still. But his jaw is tight. His hand flexes once, like he’s keeping something from spilling over.

You shift slightly away, trying to get air.

He notices.

But doesn’t say a word.

The office is dim now, the light outside slipping into dusk.

You’re still sitting across from each other—your chair pulled close, his elbows resting on the desk, one hand absently turning a pencil between his fingers. There’s a printout between you: an anonymous op-ed from a resistance group during the Chilean dictatorship.

You’re supposed to be analyzing it.

But you haven’t spoken in a while.

You’re too aware of how quiet it’s gotten. How close you are. How the air feels heavier with every minute that passes.

You clear your throat, flipping back to the beginning of the op-ed. “The phrasing reminds me of Fanon, a little. That kind of righteous violence—but here it’s all implied. No action, just threat.”

Professor Styles watches you as you speak.

He doesn’t interrupt.

But when you trail off, he says, “You surprise me sometimes.”

You blink. “Why?”

His gaze drops to the paper for a beat. Then back to you.

“You come across distracted in class. Easily overwhelmed. Soft, even.”

You shift slightly in your chair. “Thanks?”

“But then you sit in front of me,” he goes on, voice quiet but precise, “and talk like someone who’s either smarter than she pretends to be—or someone who’s never been taken seriously enough to realize it.”

You stare at him.

He doesn’t look away.

The words hang between you like smoke. You don’t know what he means by them. You’re not sure he does either.

Is it a critique?

A compliment?

A warning?

You feel heat rise in your chest, unsure if it’s from embarrassment or something else entirely. You want to say something sharp back. Or maybe something vulnerable.

Instead, you manage: “And which one do you think I am?”

He leans back in his chair, resting his knuckles against his mouth.

Then, with a faint, unreadable smile,

“I haven’t decided yet.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you’re unsure.

But because anything you say might reveal too much.

You pack your things slowly after that. He doesn’t tell you to go, but he doesn’t stop you either.

And when you reach the door, you glance back just once.

He’s still sitting there. Still watching.

Like you’re part of a puzzle he hasn’t quite solved.

He wraps things up on Thursday.

No Friday meeting. No final task. Just a brief nod as you gather your things, a quiet, “We’ll resume next week. Usual time.”

You leave his office feeling the weight of something unfinished, like he handed you a book with the last chapter torn out.

The weekend stretches long.

You spend most of it in your bedroom with books and notes piled around you, pages of Foucault and Fanon and a half-finished analysis of the Algerian War laid out across your floor. You try to focus, but your thoughts keep slipping back to his words.

Soft, even.

Smarter than she pretends to be.

You don’t know whether to feel seen or sliced open.

Rosie sticks her head in Sunday afternoon, takes one look at the mess, and says, “You good, or are you in the middle of some kind of academic break-up?”

You don’t answer.

You just keep reading.

By that Monday, you’re tired. Restless. Over-caffeinated and under-slept.

Class feels off. He’s back to his usual self—stoic, intense, razor-sharp in his lecture delivery. No glances your way. No acknowledgment of anything that passed between you during the break. You sit in the third row, scribble notes, and try not to feel ridiculous for thinking you mattered more than any other student in the room.

Afterward, you make your way to his office.

He’s already there when you knock—door unlocked this time. The record player is off. No music. Just the faint sound of his pen scratching over something on his desk.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up.

You glance at the clock. “Barely.”

“That’s still late.”

You set your bag down quietly and move to the small table beside the desk, where you’ve worked a dozen times before. He’s pulled out several student essays and a rubric. You sit and start marking them carefully, the way he taught you.

But it’s harder to concentrate today. You’re off balance. Everything feels… tighter.

You read one paper twice, make a small mark, then shift the stack a little too loudly. One of the pages slides crooked. You try to straighten it, but your sleeve catches on the corner of your water bottle and knocks it into the edge of the desk with a sharp clang.

His pen stills.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, voice low.

“No,” you mutter.

He looks up. Slowly. Sets the pen down.

“Then what’s going on?”

You blink. “Nothing.”

“You’re scattered. Sloppy.”

“I’m just tired.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze narrowing. “Do I need to fix that?”

You pause.

“…Fix what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you.

And now you’re aware of everything—how warm the room is, how loud your pulse feels in your throat, how infuriatingly good he looks. The sleeves of his dark shirt are rolled again, his forearms inked and tense. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable but his eyes are too sharp for indifference.

You drop your gaze.

“No,” you say. “You don’t need to fix anything.”

He hums.

Goes back to his pen. Makes a note. Says nothing else.

But the air stays heavy. Your skin burns. And you can’t help thinking—

You really, really shouldn’t find someone this maddening so attractive.

But you do.

And you’re starting to think he knows it.

You email him Tuesday morning.

Short. Careful. You read it three times before you hit send.

Hi Dr. Styles, I won’t be able to make it to your office this afternoon due to a personal matter. I’ll be back on schedule tomorrow. Thanks for understanding, Y/N

You don’t give more detail. You don’t owe him that. You just need a break.

Still, you half expect a reply within the hour. He’s usually prompt. Precise.

But nothing comes.

You spend the afternoon in bed, curled under the blanket with your laptop off and your phone face-down. You ignore two texts from Rosie, an email from your manager, and a notification about your bank balance you’d rather not see.

You just need a day.

One day to stop feeling like you’re being carved open by someone who barely knows you.

One day where his voice isn’t in your head, slicing through your self-doubt with something that feels suspiciously like interest.

The silence from him, though it doesn’t feel like space.

It feels like pressure building.

Wednesday — 4:00 PM

You knock on his door right on time.

He opens it himself.

Doesn’t step aside.

Just looks at you.

You force a breath. “Hi.”

He says nothing for a second. Then: “Come in.”

You do.

The door shuts behind you with its usual soft click. He walks past you, slow, to his desk. Doesn’t sit.

“You’re back,” he says.

“Yes.”

He picks up a folder. Sets it down again.

“Yesterday,” he says, “you missed our session.”

“I emailed you.”

“I know.”

You hesitate. “It was a personal thing.”

He looks at you then, sharply. “I assumed as much. The question is whether you expect that explanation to exempt you from what this position requires.”

You feel your jaw tighten. “No. I don’t.”

He nods once, deliberate.

“Because structure,” he says, “isn’t optional when it becomes inconvenient.”

You exhale slowly. “It wasn’t about convenience.”

He tilts his head. “Then what was it about?”

You blink at him. “Why do you care?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just watches you, eyes unreadable.

You go still under the weight of it.

“I showed up today,” you say finally.

He studies you for another second then two. Then moves toward the table and drops a thick envelope in front of your seat.

“Seminar evaluations. Type up a summary for each.”

You nod and sit. He stays standing for a while, hovering behind you like he’s deciding whether or not to press further.

Eventually, he returns to his desk and says nothing else.

But the silence feels colder now.

Not because he’s angry.

Because you know he’s not angry and that might be worse.

You missed one day.

But something about it shifted the way he looks at you.

And for the first time, you wonder what he’s trying to keep from unraveling.

You leave right on time.

No lingering. No glances.

You hand him the typed evaluations, he nods without looking up, and that’s it.

No comment. No acknowledgment of the missed day. Just the subtle shift in atmosphere—colder, tighter, more brittle.

You make it halfway down the hall.

“Y/N.”

You freeze.

His voice isn’t raised, but it cuts through the silence like a command.

You turn.

He’s standing just outside his office now. One hand braced against the doorframe. The other in his pocket. Jaw set. Shirt sleeves pushed up to his forearms again, the ink on his skin darker under the hallway lights.

The corridor is empty. Everyone’s gone. The building always feels abandoned at this hour; classrooms dark, office doors shut, nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

You take a breath and walk back toward him.

He doesn’t move aside.

You stop a few feet in front of him, caught in the narrow space of his shadow.

“Is something wrong?” you ask carefully.

He watches you.

Then: “Where were you yesterday?”

You blink. “I emailed.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your throat tightens. “I told you—it was personal.”

“I saw that.”

His voice is low, but not quiet. Not gentle. Measured, restrained but barely.

“I’ve shown you respect,” he says. “I don’t hover. I don’t check in. But when you disappear for a day without explanation—when you leave me sitting in that office waiting—you don’t get to pretend like it doesn’t matter.”

You stare at him.

His eyes are sharp, steady, but there’s something else behind them now, something hot and unspoken.

“It was one day,” you say quietly.

He steps closer.

Your back almost hits the wall behind you.

“One day,” he echoes, voice a little rougher now. “After a week of you showing up early, staying late. After sitting beside me like you wanted something you couldn’t name.”

Your pulse stutters.

“I don’t know what you think this is,” he goes on, eyes flicking between yours, “but don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“Then don’t vanish.”

He’s close enough now that you catch the scent of him—coffee and paper and whatever cologne he wears that’s all cedar and smoke.

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

For one breathless second, the hallway feels suspended like the world forgot to keep turning.

Then, abruptly, he blinks, steps back.

He turns and disappears into his office, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.

You stay there.

Staring at the floor.

Swallowing heat.

Because he was right.

You have been wanting something you can’t name.

And now?

Now you’re starting to think he does, too.

The test hits midweek like a wave you knew was coming but still weren’t ready for.

Modern European History: fifty multiple choice, three short essays, one long analysis on post-war cultural shifts. You sit through all ninety minutes with a knot in your stomach and your pencil clenched so tightly your knuckles ache.

When you hand it in, you don’t make eye contact.

You leave fast. Like distance might soften the sting.

You get the results back on Friday.

Seventy-six.

Better.

But not good.

You stare at the grade circled in the corner of the scantron, your name scrawled in his unmistakable handwriting at the top. He didn’t leave comments. Just a single line under the final essay: Closer.

It burns more than you thought it would.

You think about not saying anything.

It’s your day off but at four o’clock, you still find yourself knocking on his office door.

He calls out, “Come in.”

You step inside.

He’s at the desk, sorting through papers. A half-finished coffee beside him. His sleeves are pushed up again—always—and he doesn’t look up until you speak.

“I got the test back.”

He sets the stack down. “And?”

“Seventy-six.”

He nods once. “Better.”

“Barely.”

He tilts his head. “Still better.”

You hover, not quite sitting yet. “I don’t know. I thought I studied harder this time. Thought I did more of the things you said—slowed down, didn’t hedge my arguments, stopped trying to write what I thought you wanted to hear…”

“You did,” he says.

You blink. “Then why—”

“Because you’re still learning,” he interrupts calmly. “And because no one gets it all at once.”

You finally sit, slower this time.

He leans back in his chair, studying you with that familiar focus—but his tone is different now. Not gentle, exactly. But steadier. Grounded.

“Perfection doesn’t come overnight,” he says. “Especially not for people who’ve been trained to expect failure.”

You go still.

“Give yourself more credit,” he adds. “You’re not where you were two weeks ago.”

You look down at the test again. Seventy-six. A number that would’ve crushed you a month ago. Now… it just makes you want more.

“I just thought I was doing better.”

“You are.”

You glance up.

His eyes don’t waver.

And for a second, just a second, you feel something settle inside you.

You’re not sure what it is.

But it feels like trust.

And maybe—for the first time—it feels like he’s offering you something you didn’t ask for.

Belief.

Monday.

The storm from the weekend has passed, but the air is still heavy—damp, quiet, like the building is holding its breath.

He’s seated at his desk when you arrive, flipping through a thick binder of visual sources for the week’s seminar. Today, he doesn’t assign a task—he just gestures to the open folder on the side table and says, “Start with those. Group them by technique. Symbolism, repetition, fear-based messaging.”

You nod and settle into your usual chair. The one closest to the window.

It’s quiet as you work. His pen scratches faintly behind you. Pages turn. The only other sound is the creak of your chair every so often when you shift, leaning closer over the pile of posters and pamphlets.

Fifteen minutes pass. Maybe twenty.

Then you frown.

You hold up one of the pieces—a grainy reproduction of a war-era leaflet printed in harsh reds and blacks—and hesitate.

You turn slightly in your chair. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks up. “Mm?”

“This one—I’m not sure if it’s meant to be fear-based or patriotic. It feels like it’s trying to do both.”

You feel him rise from his chair behind you. Footsteps cross the room. And then he’s there, standing directly behind you.

You go still.

His hand reaches out, slow and deliberate, and he sets two fingers lightly on the edge of the page in your hand.

“Here,” he says, voice lower now, “look at the framing.”

He leans closer to see over your shoulder, and his other hand comes to rest—barely—against the back of your chair for balance.

You can feel him.

Not quite touching you, but close enough that the warmth of his chest is at your back, his breath just behind your ear. Your pulse starts to thud low in your throat.

He crouches slightly then, leveling himself to your seated height, and points to the center of the image.

“See this?” he murmurs. “The figure’s turned outward. Eyes locked on the viewer. That’s fear. The color does the rest.”

You nod—slow, dazed. “Right.”

His hand shifts slightly as he moves to stand again.

And it happens.

Your shoulder brushes his thigh. The back of your hand grazes his knee. The contact is brief, accidental—barely even skin.

But it lands.

Hard.

You look up at the same moment he looks down.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand still lingers on the back of the chair.

You can feel the air between your bodies shift—tighten.

Then, after a second too long, he straightens and takes a step back.

“That one goes under fear,” he says, voice even again.

You nod without looking at him. “Got it.”

He returns to his desk. Doesn’t sit right away.

You don’t move either.

You stare at the page in your hand like it holds a secret you just learned how to read.

On Tuesday, he’s different.

Colder.

Not rude. Not unkind. Just… distant. Controlled in that way you’ve only seen him when he’s trying not to let something show.

You knock at four. He answers like always, steps aside like always.

But that’s where the pattern ends.

There’s no banter. No subtle glances. No leaning over your shoulder.

He hands you a stack of materials, says, “Just file these by region,” and returns to his desk without another word.

The silence feels louder now.

You work quickly, your fingers moving through folders and tabs, but your mind keeps circling back to yesterday—to the way he crouched behind you, the low sound of his voice at your ear, the warmth of his body close to yours.

That touch—so quick, so small—keeps echoing.

So does the way he stepped back like he knew he’d let something show.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you work. You catch the way his jaw flexes when he writes. The way he avoids looking in your direction. The way he keeps adjusting his sleeves like he’s trying to focus on anything but you.

By the time the hour is over, you’ve barely spoken ten words.

He dismisses you with a quiet, “That’s all.”

You leave, stomach tight.

And you don’t sleep much that night.

Wednesday you show up five minutes early.

He’s already there, typing something on his laptop, but he doesn’t look up when you enter. He just gestures toward a folder on the edge of the desk.

You take it. Sit. Open it.

He stays quiet.

And you can’t help it—you start watching him more closely now. Every blink, every twitch of his jaw, every time he exhales like he’s holding something in.

He’s trying to be distant.

And that tells you everything.

Because he’s only ever pulled back from things that mattered.

You work in silence again. But now, you feel the space between you differently. It’s not avoidance. It’s restraint.

At one point, you catch him staring not at your face, but your hands. The way your fingers move as you annotate a passage. When he realizes you’ve noticed, he looks away fast. Sharply.

You pretend not to see the color rise in his neck.

He doesn’t speak again until the very end.

“I’ll need you here a little later tomorrow,” he says, still not quite meeting your eye. “Department meeting runs long.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Your voice is quiet.

But when yogather your things and leave, you don’t hurry.

And you don’t miss the way he watches you go.

The next afternoon the hallway is dark when you get there.

The rest of the building is silent—everyone long gone after office hours and the late faculty meeting. You walk quickly, adjusting your bag, your heart already tapping unevenly in your chest. You were supposed to be there at six.

It’s 6:04.

You knock once.

No answer.

You try the handle.

Unlocked.

He’s at his desk when you step in, sleeves rolled, collar open, glasses abandoned beside a half-finished cup of coffee. He doesn’t look up.

“Close the door.”

You do.

The latch clicks behind you like a gavel dropping.

“I told you six.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, standing suddenly. “Don’t come in here with sorry. I don’t want it.”

You freeze just inside the door.

He’s not yelling. But the sharpness in his tone hits harder than volume ever could.

“I was—”

“I don’t care if you were on fire,” he says, walking around the desk. “You don’t come in late and act like it doesn’t matter.”

You go still. Your throat tightens.

“I’ve given you more leeway than I’ve ever given a student,” he continues, voice like flint striking stone. “I’ve trusted you. Brought you into my space. My work. My time.”

He’s standing in front of you now. Close.

You can’t look at him.

“I don’t think you understand what that means,” he says.

“I do,” you whisper.

“Do you?” His eyes are burning into you now. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t walk in here acting like you get to float above the rules.”

You feel your face flush, shame hitting hard and fast. You drop your gaze to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, smaller.

And this time, you mean it.

You mean all of it.

The mistake. The imbalance. The need to be good again.

His silence stretches.

You shift, slowly walking to the chair by the table. You sit with your knees together, your shoulders tight, your hands folded in your lap. Your pulse roars in your ears.

You don’t look up when he circles the desk again.

You can feel him watching you.

Still. Quiet.

“Don’t do that.”

You lift your head just slightly.

“Don’t shrink,” he says, more quietly this time. “I know what that looks like.”

You keep your voice soft. “You’re angry.”

“I’m—” He stops. Exhales. “Not just angry.”

You glance up.

He looks wrecked.

Not messy. Not undone.

Just strained.

His eyes flick over your face like he’s searching for something.

“Do you want to be good for me?” he asks—low. Careful.

You nod.

Barely.

And that’s when something in him breaks.

265 notes · View notes

777bae · 6 months ago

Text

WITH YOU JACK HUGHES

Summary :: After a brutal injury, you’re left to navigate recovery on your own. But Jack, despite the distance, becomes your lifeline—calling every day, offering comfort, and doing everything he can to be there. When he finally returns, his unwavering love and support help you heal, proving that together, you can overcome anything.

Warnings :: description of injury

Word count :: 5.6k

It all started at an NHL-run community skate event. You’d been invited along with a few other women’s league players to skate alongside the NHL stars, giving young fans a chance to meet their idols in a laid-back, personal setting. You didn’t expect much from the event—just another community outreach, another day to interact with fans and grow the game you loved. But that was before you met him.

Jack Hughes had been one of the NHL’s rising stars for a while, and despite the buzz around him, he was surprisingly down-to-earth. Tall, with his bright blue eyes and easy smile, he was exactly as you’d imagined him—charismatic, charming, and somehow completely approachable.

As you laced up your skates, adjusting the blades on your boots, you’d heard his laugh first, a genuine, warm sound that made it hard not to smile. You hadn’t even looked up when you realized he was skating toward you until you felt the brush of a glove on your shoulder.

“You here to show us how it’s done?” Jack’s voice was playful, but there was a hint of curiosity behind his words. You glanced up, met his gaze, and for a moment, both of you seemed to just… stop. He wasn’t towering over you, but there was a light in his eyes that made you feel like you were suddenly the center of attention.

“Me?” You raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You’re the one who’s been stealing all the spotlight. I just came to get some practice in. You know, to make sure I don’t show you up.”

He laughed again, this time shaking his head as he lowered himself into a comfortable skating stance. “I’m not worried. I’ve seen how fast some of the girls on your team can skate.” He leaned in a little, his voice a touch quieter. “But I have to admit, I’m hoping I’ll learn something today.”

It was all playful banter, but somehow, there was a connection that flickered between you in that brief exchange. Something about his easy confidence mixed with a genuine curiosity about the women’s game. It wasn’t like the typical interactions you had with male players; there was no condescension, no weird power dynamic. Just a guy who appreciated the game and the players—regardless of their gender.

The rest of the skate went by in a blur of friendly competition and shared laughter, with Jack occasionally pulling you into a race around the rink. You couldn’t deny that his speed on the ice matched his charm off it. It was fun—refreshing, really—especially since you were used to competing against men who sometimes didn’t seem to understand the level of skill and commitment women brought to the game. But Jack, he didn’t seem like that at all. If anything, he seemed eager to learn, to listen.

Afterward, while most of the other players were heading off to grab something to eat, Jack caught up to you again as you were packing your gear away.

“Hey, you wanna grab some dinner?” he asked, his voice casual but with that little spark of hopefulness. “I promise I won’t make it weird—just thought it’d be nice to hang out, talk about the game… maybe see if you’re as competitive off the ice as you are on it.”

It was a little unexpected, but something about the offer felt right. You’d spent so many years in a world of competition, sometimes too focused on the next game, the next practice. The thought of having a simple, easy evening, talking about something other than hockey, sounded like a refreshing change.

“Sure,” you agreed, trying to hide the small smile creeping onto your face. “I could use the company.”

That first dinner was nothing extraordinary—just a low-key meal at a local diner, where you both dug into greasy comfort food and swapped stories about your respective teams. But the conversation never lagged. Jack talked about his early days in hockey, his family, his goals, and somehow, you found yourself opening up in ways you hadn’t expected, sharing things you usually kept locked behind a barrier of professionalism. It felt natural, easy, like you’d known him much longer than just a few hours.

By the time you were leaving the diner, you felt something click. It wasn’t just the conversation. It was the way Jack made you feel seen, valued. He didn’t view you as just a player; he saw you as someone who belonged in the same conversation as the men he idolized.

That night, as he walked you to your car, he hesitated before speaking.

“Do you think we could do this again?” His tone was soft, uncertain—nothing like the cocky attitude you sometimes saw from athletes. There was a real vulnerability in his question, an openness that you hadn’t expected from someone with so much attention on him.

You smiled, already knowing the answer before you even said it. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

The following months passed in a whirlwind. The connection you’d felt that night only deepened as you found yourselves spending more time together, whether it was over quick dinners after games or stolen moments between practices. The distance between your homes had been a challenge at first, but Jack made it work. His busy NHL schedule and your packed NWHL calendar had their limitations, but you made it a priority. Phone calls, FaceTime, and text messages became lifelines, bridging the gap when you couldn’t be in the same place.

And then came the moment when it all felt a little more real. One night, after a game where you’d scored the game-winning goal, Jack called you to congratulate you. As you chatted about the game, the conversation shifted.

“So, I was thinking…” Jack’s voice dropped a little, a teasing edge creeping in. “What if we make this official? You know, like, ‘dating’ officially. I mean, we’ve spent enough time together at this point, and I’m kind of starting to like you.”

You’d laughed at first, but when you heard the sincerity in his voice, you felt that flutter in your chest.

“I think I could be okay with that,” you’d said softly, feeling something in your heart shift.

And just like that, what had started as a casual meeting at a community skate turned into something real, something deep. The spark between you two grew into a full-blown flame, one that, despite the distance and the challenges ahead, seemed unstoppable.

That was how it all began. From a community skate to something much bigger. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t just fighting for your place in the game—you were fighting for something real, with someone who understood and shared your passion for both hockey and life.

It had been a few months since you and Jack had officially started dating, and even though the connection between you two had only deepened over time, the long-distance nature of your relationship had taken its toll. Jack was a rising star in the NHL, and your team’s season in the Women’s Hockey League was just as intense, if not more so. So, when Jack had to leave for a week-long stretch of West Coast games, the distance felt particularly harsh. But you both had your routines, and you had become experts at making the most of what time you had together.

The first night Jack was gone, you walked through your shared apartment, the silence of the space more apparent than usual. You had been here before, used to being away from each other for stretches of time, but it didn’t make the loneliness any easier. Still, you had your own games to focus on, so you pushed aside the feeling and settled into your familiar routine of stretching, preparing, and strategizing for your upcoming match.

That week, your team was on a roll. You managed to secure comfortable victories in your first two games, and no matter the late hours or time zone difference, you made sure to FaceTime Jack after each of your games. His voice was always a small anchor that pulled you back into a sense of normalcy. His tired face would appear on the screen, grinning with excitement or offering words of encouragement as you recapped your performances. The calls were a lifeline, a reminder that even though the miles between you stretched across the country, you weren’t alone in this. You’d FaceTime on his days off, too, taking solace in the familiarity of his presence, even if it was only a screen away.

But it was that third game that shook everything.

You had been feeling sharp and focused, your team’s momentum riding high. You were confident going into the match, your movements on the ice instinctively flowing with each pass and play. The puck was on your stick as you skated into the offensive zone, eyes locked on the net ahead, the crowd’s roars swelling around you. But just as you prepared to make your move, you felt a brutal shove from your side. The force was unanticipated, and before you could brace yourself, you were sent spiraling off balance.

The hit slammed into your leg, pain shooting through your entire body like a bolt of electricity. Your vision flashed white for a moment, the rink around you spinning as you crumpled to the ice, unable to register anything other than the excruciating ache in your lower body. You could hear voices, distant and muffled, but you couldn’t focus on anything but the raw agony. Your leg felt like it was on fire, every inch of it screaming at you in ways you didn’t think possible.

The next few moments were a blur. You were helped off the ice, each movement sending shocks of pain through your leg as your teammates rushed to your side. You were placed in an ice bath to try to numb the swelling, but it was clear from the first glance—the leg wasn’t just bruised. It was broken.

At the hospital, the diagnosis hit like a hammer to the chest. You had multiple fractures in your leg—some clean breaks, some more complicated. Surgery was the only option, and it needed to be done as soon as possible. You were too overwhelmed to process anything. The pain was all-consuming, and the physical shock of it was enough to dull your thoughts. The one thing that kept repeating in your mind, though, was that you hadn’t messaged Jack. You had forgotten. You had promised him you’d let him know if anything happened, but now, you couldn’t even remember if you had the energy to tell him.

You were rushed into surgery, the doctors prepping you quickly for the procedure, but you couldn’t shake the guilt of not reaching out to him. When you fell unconscious from the anesthesia, your thoughts faded, but that nagging feeling remained.

Meanwhile, in California, Jack had just finished his game. He had played well—scoring a goal and getting an assist—but his mind was elsewhere. His phone buzzed as he walked into the locker room to cool down. As he picked it up, his heart stopped for a second. It was a video message from one of his friends, a clip from the game he had just missed. It was you.

The footage was grainy, taken from the stands. He saw the hit happen in real-time, the moment when your body was slammed to the ice. And then, the terrible sight of you crumpling, unable to move as pain clearly overtook you. His breath caught in his throat, and panic surged through his chest.

Without thinking, he immediately called your number, but it went straight to voicemail. His hands were shaking now, his mind racing with worry. Why hasn’t she answered? He called again, and again, his anxiety growing with each unanswered ring.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself, growing frantic. He tried texting you, then calling your teammates and coaches, but no one picked up. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours as he dialed number after number, panic creeping up his spine.

Finally, one of your coaches picked up. The calm, steady voice on the other end didn’t help to alleviate Jack’s mounting panic.

“Coach, what happened to her?” Jack’s voice was tight, strained. “Is she okay? Why isn’t she answering? What happened? I saw the hit—she looked… she looked like she was in so much pain!”

Your coach’s voice was reassuring but firm. “Jack, calm down. She’s in surgery right now. She fractured her leg pretty badly. The doctors are taking care of her. They’re going to monitor her recovery closely. But she’s going to be okay.”

He froze, his heart still pounding. “Surgery? Is she awake? Can I talk to her? I need to talk to her.”

“She’s still under, Jack. They’re finishing up. She’ll be okay. You can’t be here right now, and I know that’s hard. But she’s in good hands.”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. “How long is she going to be in the hospital?”

“At least a couple weeks. They’ll want to monitor her closely to make sure everything heals properly.”

The words barely registered at first, but Jack’s mind finally began to slow, even as frustration and helplessness gnawed at him. He had a whole week of games ahead. There was no way he could be by her side—he would have to wait. And the thought of being this far away from her, with nothing but the distance and his uncertainty, felt unbearable.

After the call ended, Jack sat in silence for a long moment, trying to collect himself. He wasn’t sure how he would make it through the next few days, but he knew one thing for sure—he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. He would call her every day. He would check in, even if it was through a screen, and he would make sure she knew he was there for her, even if he couldn’t be there physically.

Hours after the surgery, you began to stir, the soft beeping of machines pulling you from the thick haze of anesthesia. Your body felt heavy, your head foggy, and the ache in your leg was muted but persistent, a constant reminder of what had happened. Blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, you slowly registered your surroundings—the sterile white hospital room, the IV taped to your arm, and the faint murmur of voices outside the door. Everything felt surreal, like you were caught between waking and dreaming.

The door creaked open, and your coach stepped inside. She offered a soft smile, her familiar presence grounding you amidst the disorientation. “Welcome back, kid,” she said gently, pulling up a chair beside your bed. “How are you feeling?”

You managed a weak laugh, though it sounded more like a croak. “Like I got hit by a truck,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s about right,” your coach replied, crossing her arms. “But the surgery went well. They said you’ll be back on your feet eventually—it’s just going to take some time.”

You nodded slowly, letting the information sink in. The details of the injury and the hit felt blurry, distant, as if they belonged to someone else. What you did remember, however, was the pressing need to call Jack. You opened your mouth to ask about him, but your coach beat you to it.

“Your boyfriend,” she said with a knowing smirk, “has been losing his mind. He’s been calling non-stop since he found out. I had to take one of his calls during your surgery just to calm him down. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone freak out that much in my life.”

Despite the lingering grogginess, you chuckled softly, though the motion tugged at your sore muscles. “Did I… Did I at least tell him I’m okay before I went under?” you asked, your voice cracking slightly.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head. “You were out cold before you could even grab your phone. But don’t worry—he knows you made it through the surgery. Barely, though. The poor guy sounded like he was about to hop on a plane mid-road trip.”

You smiled faintly at the image of Jack pacing in some hotel room, his phone glued to his ear as he pestered anyone who would answer. Your heart ached at the thought of how worried he must have been. You motioned weakly toward the bedside table, where your phone sat, its screen dark but promising missed calls and messages. “Can you hand me that?” you asked.

Your coach retrieved the phone and placed it in your trembling hands. As you fumbled with the screen, your fingers clumsy and unsteady, you saw the barrage of missed calls and texts from Jack. Over a dozen calls, countless messages—all timestamped from the moment he must have seen the hit. Swallowing hard, you tapped his name and brought the phone to your ear.

It barely rang once before his voice burst through the line. “Hey!” Jack’s tone was frantic, a mix of relief and worry. “Are you okay? Are you in pain? Is there someone there with you? Do you need something? God, I should’ve been there—I should’ve been with you—”

“Jack,” you interrupted softly, but he didn’t stop.

“I saw the clip. I saw it. That hit—it looked so bad. You just went down, and I—God, I felt like my heart stopped. I’ve been calling everyone, and no one was picking up, and then your coach finally called me back and said you were in surgery. Surgery! I should’ve been there—”

“Jack,” you said again, more firmly this time, though your voice was still weak. His words slowed, but the panic in his tone was still evident. “I’m okay,” you assured him, even as your own voice wavered. “The surgery went well. I’m sore, but I’ll be alright. I promise.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the silence filled with his uneven breathing. “You’re sure?” he asked finally, his voice quieter but still laced with worry. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m sure,” you said, your lips curling into a faint smile. “They said I’ll make a full recovery. It’s going to take a while, but I’m okay, Jack. You don’t have to worry.”

His sigh of relief was audible, but it was short-lived. “How could I not worry?” he said, his voice rising again. “I saw the hit, and then I didn’t hear from you, and I was stuck here, a thousand miles away, with no idea if you were okay or if you were—” He stopped himself, his voice breaking. “I hate this. I hate that I’m not there with you.”

The raw frustration in his voice was enough to bring tears to your eyes. “It’s just hockey,” you said softly, trying to reassure him. “Stuff like this happens. It’s part of the game.”

“Not to you,” he snapped, the sharpness of his words catching you off guard. “It can happen to anyone else, but not you. You’re the last person I want to see getting hurt, and now you’re stuck in a hospital bed, and I can’t even be there to hold your hand.”

“Jack,” you whispered, but he was on a roll now, his frustration spilling over.

“I can’t believe this stupid schedule,” he muttered. “I should be on the next flight home. Screw the games. They can deal without me for one night—”

“You can’t do that,” you said quickly, your voice firmer this time. “Jack, I need you to focus on your games. I’ll be fine. You’ll see me soon enough.”

He sighed again, the sound heavy with reluctance. “I just… I feel so helpless,” he admitted. “You’re hurt, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“You’re doing plenty,” you told him gently. “Just hearing your voice right now is enough.”

The conversation eventually calmed, though Jack’s worry never fully faded. He promised to call every day—and he did. Over the next week, he became your lifeline.

The first night after your surgery, Jack called you just as he promised he would. The moment your phone buzzed with his name on the screen, a sense of comfort washed over you. You answered immediately, his face appearing on the screen before you could even get out a greeting.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft but still edged with worry. His hair was damp from a post-game shower, and you could see the dark circles under his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you admitted, shifting slightly against the pillows propping you up. Your leg throbbed dully beneath the cast, but seeing Jack’s face helped dull the ache. “Sore, but okay.”

“You look pale,” he noted, his brows furrowing as his eyes scanned the screen, like he could physically assess you through it. “Are you sure you’re okay? Have you been eating? What about water—have you been drinking enough?”

“Jack,” you interrupted gently, your lips quirking into a faint smile. “I’m fine. They’ve been taking care of me here, and the doctors said the surgery went well. You don’t have to worry so much.”

His sigh was audible even through the small speaker of your phone. “How can I not worry? I hate that I’m stuck here while you’re dealing with all of this alone.”

“You’re not stuck. You’re doing your job,” you reminded him. “And I’m not alone. My team’s been in and out, and the nurses here are great.”

“It’s not the same,” he muttered, his tone low. “I should be there.”

You reached up and adjusted the angle of your phone, so he could see your reassuring smile. “You’re here, Jack. Maybe not physically, but this? These calls? They help more than you know.”

His face softened slightly, though the worry in his eyes didn’t entirely disappear. “I just wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing plenty,” you said firmly. “Now, tell me about your game. How’d it go?”

Jack hesitated for a moment, but when you raised an expectant eyebrow, he relented. “It went alright. We won, but it was closer than it should’ve been. I missed an open net in the second period, and the guys gave me hell for it.”

“Missed an open net?” you teased, your tone light. “Wow, Jack Hughes is human after all.”

He groaned, though you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’ll make up for it next game.”

“I’m sure you will,” you said with a grin. “You always do.”

The conversation shifted after that, Jack asking about your day in the hospital. He wanted to know everything—what you ate, what the doctors said, how much pain you were in. His questions were relentless, but you didn’t mind. If anything, it warmed your heart to know how much he cared. By the time the call ended, your eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, but the lingering sound of Jack’s voice in your mind made falling asleep a little easier.

The calls became your anchor over the next week. Every night, without fail, Jack would call you after his game, no matter how late it was. Some nights, he’d FaceTime you, propping his phone up on a stack of pillows in his hotel room while he lounged on the bed in sweats and a hoodie. Other nights, he’d call you during his downtime at the rink, his voice echoing faintly in the empty locker room as he checked in on you.

On the third night, after another win for his team, Jack’s call came through just after midnight. You answered groggily, your phone resting on your chest as you blinked sleepily at his face.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he asked, his voice soft with concern.

“No, it’s okay,” you murmured, shifting slightly to prop yourself up against the pillows. “How was the game?”

“Good,” he said, though his expression was a little sheepish. “I scored a goal, but I got into it with a guy on the other team. He cross-checked me, and I might’ve, uh, shoved him a little.”

“Jack,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “You can’t get yourself hurt. One of us in the hospital is enough.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Don’t worry, I can take a hit. But seriously, how are you feeling? Is the pain manageable? Do you need me to call someone for you?”

You shook your head, smiling at his endless concern. “I’m fine, Jack. They’ve got me on some good meds, so I’m not feeling much pain right now.”

“Good,” he said, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if trying to detect any hidden discomfort. “Tell me if that changes, okay? If you need anything—anything at all—you call me.”

“Jack, you’re on the other side of the country,” you pointed out, your tone teasing. “What could you possibly do from there?”

“Plenty,” he said stubbornly. “I could call your coach. Or your doctor. Or the president, if I have to.”

You laughed, the sound soft but genuine. “I don’t think the president can help with a broken leg, Jack.”

“Then I’ll find someone who can,” he shot back, grinning. “I’m serious, though. Just tell me if you need anything.”

“All I need is for you to win some games,” you teased, your voice light. “That’s all the help I need.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but you could see the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling back. “But you love me anyway.”

By the end of the week, the calls felt like second nature. Jack would update you on his games, sharing every detail with the enthusiasm of someone desperate to distract himself from his own worries. In turn, you’d tell him about the progress you were making in the hospital, even if it was slow. You joked about how the nurses were starting to recognize him just from the sound of his voice, and he teased you about how bossy you were getting with your requests for snacks and drinks.

Through it all, Jack’s constant presence—whether through a screen or a phone call—was what kept you going. And even though he couldn’t be there in person, he made you feel as though he was never truly far away.

Finally, after what felt like the longest week of your life, the day finally arrived when Jack’s West Coast road trip came to an end. He had called you every day, just like he’d promised, but it wasn’t the same as having him by your side. Through the screen, you could see the worry etched into his face and hear it in the tone of his voice. He hated being so far away from you, and every conversation ended with him muttering how much he wished he could teleport home.

The waiting had been agonizing for both of you. Jack barely slept, the guilt of not being able to be there gnawing at him, and you had spent your days in the hospital, frustrated by your immobility and longing for his comforting presence. So when you finally got the text that he had landed and was on his way, the anticipation became almost unbearable.

You sat up in the hospital bed, your leg propped up in a brace and wrapped in layers of bandages, staring at the door like a puppy waiting for its owner to return. You heard the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway, and then the door swung open.

“Jack,” you breathed, and there he was.

He looked exhausted. His hair was messy from the flight, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, but the relief on his face was so palpable it nearly brought tears to your eyes. He crossed the room in three long strides, not even bothering to set his bag down before he wrapped you in the gentlest hug he could manage. His arms circled you carefully, mindful of your injuries, but the embrace was so full of love that it made your chest ache.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands. “God, I was so scared. Watching that hit… hearing you were in surgery… I didn’t know what to do. I felt so useless.”

You could see the guilt swimming in his eyes, and you shook your head, resting your hand on top of his. “Jack, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“I should’ve been here sooner,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I hate that I wasn’t here when you needed me most.”

“Stop,” you said softly, your fingers brushing against his wrist. “You did everything you could. You called, you checked in—Jack, I knew you were with me, even if you weren’t here physically.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his emotions flickering across his face like a storm. Then he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’m here now,” he murmured, as though saying it aloud made it more real. “And I’m not leaving until you’re back on your feet.”

The first day of Jack’s visit was spent catching up—he pulled a chair close to your bed, his fingers intertwined with yours as he asked about every detail of the surgery and recovery process. He flinched when you described the pain of the initial hit and visibly winced when you told him about waking up after the surgery. His worry was written all over him, and it didn’t fade even when you assured him that you were healing.

But he didn’t just stop at sitting by your side. By the next day, Jack had transformed into a one-man care team. He brought you your favorite coffee every morning, carefully maneuvering around the hospital room as though he’d been doing it for years. He kept your water bottle full, adjusted your pillows to make sure you were comfortable, and even insisted on helping you wash your hair when you mentioned you felt gross from lying in bed for so long.

“Jack, you don’t have to do all this,” you said one evening as he helped you shift positions, your leg still immobilized in the brace. “You just got back from a road trip. You should be resting, not waiting on me hand and foot.”

He scoffed, his hands steady as he fluffed your pillows. “Resting? What kind of boyfriend would I be if I wasn’t here taking care of you?”

“A tired one?” you offered, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked, but his expression softened as he leaned down to kiss your temple. “I’m exactly where I need to be. Don’t fight me on this—I’m taking care of you whether you like it or not.”

And he meant it. Jack spent every moment he wasn’t at practice by your side, helping you with the little things that had become impossible with your injury. When you were finally discharged and sent home, Jack took charge of setting up the apartment to accommodate your limited mobility. He rearranged furniture, set up a cozy corner on the couch where you could elevate your leg, and made sure your favorite snacks were within reach.

At night, when the pain was at its worst and sleep felt impossible, Jack was there. He’d sit beside you, his hand resting on your arm as he talked you through the discomfort. Sometimes he’d read to you, his voice low and soothing, and other times he’d just sit quietly, his presence enough to calm your racing thoughts.

One evening, as you lay curled up on the couch with your leg propped up on a stack of pillows, Jack sat beside you with a bag of takeout from your favorite restaurant. The smell of your favorite dish filled the room, and you smiled up at him, your heart swelling with gratitude.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” you said, watching as he carefully plated the food for you.

He looked up, his face flushing slightly. “I’m just doing what anyone would do.”

“Not everyone would fly across the country after an exhausting road trip and spend every waking moment taking care of their injured girlfriend,” you pointed out. “You’ve been… incredible, Jack. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through this without you.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you, his lips lingering against yours as though he was trying to convey everything he couldn’t say. “You don’t have to go through anything alone,” he murmured. “Not as long as I’m here.”

In the weeks that followed, Jack became your rock. He helped you through the frustration of physical therapy, cheered you on as you regained strength, and reminded you every day that you were stronger than you thought. And though the road to recovery was long and grueling, the love and support Jack gave you made it feel a little less daunting.

As you sat together one evening, your head resting on his shoulder and your cast resting across his lap, you realized something profound: this injury, as difficult as it had been, had only brought you closer. Jack’s unwavering dedication had proven, without a doubt, that he was in this for the long haul. And with him by your side, you knew you could face anything.

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yuumenakaiser · 8 months ago

Text

Beneath the stars

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. Okarun (Ken Takakura) x reader

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. Pure fluff

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. Proofread and edited

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. I would love some support and reblogs! Thank you for everyone who took the time reading my fanfic

The summer night was cool, the gentle hum of cicadas filling the air as Okarun guided you up the hill. You followed him, slightly out of breath but unwilling to complain—after all, he’d been so excited about this outing, his usual nervous energy replaced with genuine enthusiasm.

“You’re gonna love this spot,” Okarun said, glancing over his shoulder with an honest smile. “Perfect view of the stars. It’s like... prime alien-research territory. You’ll see.”

You chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Alien research, huh? I’m starting to think this is just an excuse to drag me into the middle of nowhere.”

Okarun nearly tripped over a loose rock, his cheeks flushing pink even in the dim light. “W-What? No! This is serious! Do you have any idea how many UFO sightings happen in rural areas like this? It’s statistically proven—uh, I mean—” He stopped himself, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Okay, maybe that’s part of it... but I also know how much you love talking about stars and astrology stuff. You always light up when you mention constellations, so I thought you’d like it.”

Your steps faltered for a moment, warmth blooming in your chest. “You remembered that?”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the tips of his ears were red. “Yeah, well... I’m not completely clueless, you know.”

You smiled to yourself as he turned to keep walking, the soft sound of crickets filling the silence between you. When you reached the top of the hill, you stopped in your tracks, your breath catching in your throat.

The night sky stretched endlessly above you, a velvet canvas studded with countless stars. They sparkled like scattered diamonds, their light crisp and brilliant against the deep indigo. A faint band of the Milky Way arched across the heavens, its dust-like glow adding to the ethereal beauty.

The hilltop itself was peaceful, the tall grass swaying gently in the breeze, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers. Fireflies blinked sporadically, adding their soft glow to the scene. It felt like stepping into another world—quiet, serene, and untouched.

“Wow...” you whispered, unable to tear your eyes away from the sky. “It’s... perfect.”

Okarun sat down on the grass, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the stars with a contented expression. “Told you it’d be worth it,” he said softly.

You plopped down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. The faint hum of cicadas and the rustle of grass filled the air as you both took in the view.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” you said, turning to him with a playful grin. “This is pretty amazing. You’ve outdone yourself, Okarun.”

He ducked his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a shy smile. “I just…thank you for coming.”

“I should thank you for inviting me here!” You looked back up in the sky, admiring the stars.

“So, Okarun,” you began playfully, “which one of these stars do you think belongs to the aliens you’re so obsessed with?”

His eyes lit up, and he launched into an animated explanation about distant galaxies and potential life forms, gesturing at the constellations above. You watched him with a fond smile, not really following his rapid-fire speech but enjoying the passion in his voice.

“And then there’s the Drake Equation,” he continued, “which basically calculates the number of civilizations in the Milky Way galaxy that could—uh...” He trailed off, his enthusiasm faltering as he noticed your amused expression.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m rambling again, aren’t I?”

“Not at all,” you said softly. “It’s cute when you get all excited like that.”

He froze, his face turning bright red. “C-Cute? I—uh—”

A sudden streak of light cut across the sky, leaving a shimmering trail in its wake. You gasped, eyes wide with excitement. “A shooting star! Did you see it?”

Okarun nodded, though his gaze lingered on you instead of the sky. “Yeah... I saw it,” he murmured, his voice almost distant.

“Quick! We need to make a wish!” you exclaimed, clasping your hands together and closing your eyes, silently mouthing your wish.

When you turned back to him, your smile was radiant. “What did you wish for?”

He hesitated, his fingers fumbling slightly as they toyed with the grass beneath him. “I... didn’t make a wish,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost shy.

“Why not?” you asked, tilting your head in curiosity.

Okarun’s gaze dropped for a moment, his fingers clenching the hem of his shirt as though searching for something to anchor him. He took a deep, shaky breath before looking up at you again. When his eyes finally met yours, they held a vulnerability that made your chest tighten—a raw honesty that felt intimate.

“Because... I already have everything I could wish for,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re here with me... and that’s enough.”

The world seemed to fall silent, the stars above shimmering like tiny witnesses to his confession. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of cicadas and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

“Okarun...” you began, but the lump in your throat made it hard to continue. You saw him falter, his confidence cracking as his usual nervousness returned in full force.

“Sorry.. I uh that.. I'm just so sorry–..” he stammered, his words tumbling out in a rush. “That was stupid, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean to make things awkward or anything, I just—”

Before he could spiral further, you leaned in and pressed a quick, featherlight kiss to his cheek. His words died instantly, replaced by a stunned silence.

When you pulled back, his face was a deep crimson, his wide eyes darting between you and the ground. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but no sound came out. He lifted a hand to his cheek, brushing the spot where your lips had touched, as though trying to progress what just really happened.

“It wasn’t stupid,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the thick silence. “nobody ever said those words to me before so… it was perfect.”

He blinked at you, his lips parting slightly as if to protest, but the words never came. Instead, he stared at you like you’d just hung the stars in the sky yourself, his nervousness melting into something softer, something vulnerable and warm.

“I...” He trailed off, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

You smiled at him, squeezing his hand gently. The stars above continued to shimmer, their light wrapping the two of you in a cocoon of quiet magic.

Without a word, you softly laid your head against his shoulder, the warmth of his presence filling you with comfort. His breath hitched for a second, and his arm instinctively wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you just a little closer. Neither of you spoke, content to sit there, watching the night sky and basking in the shared silence. In that moment, everything felt perfectly still, and you knew—this was enough.

You’d remember this moment forever.

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4mrplumi · 6 months ago

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ZERO (iii) : SCAVENGERY . (ms/prev/next)

-> plot synopsis - you don't think you're as odd and horrifying as the news makes you out to be. but you have never much cared for the validation of others, and certainly not theirs.

-> batfamily x serial killer reader. playlist (wip) ask 2b added to taglist

-> tw; gn reader, guns, violence, child neglect, messed up legal system, mention of death, poor living conditions, bug taxidermy, everyone's a b, paranoia, ocd, full list on master list.

> a/n; the prologues are text heavy... i'll try more dialogue for the first chapter (next upload) and onwards. in the mean time, feel free to send asks and ideas, i'd love to discuss and tie up my own lose ends too. hope this suffices for the reader's relationship with the bat family!

“family business”, you squint at the sign, “12th sector conveniences, run by a family business!” the print on the plastic sign is misspelled, and fading away completely. red into pink, orange into pale yellow, and green into cyan. a lovely place to be at for what you’re doing.

family has always been an iffy subject for you, in your mind and verbal exchanges. you never humoured your friends’ prods at you to talk, and were especially vigilant about shutting down conversations about family.

you’d already brushed over the meaning of the word in your head, on terms with the fact that you would most likely never understand it in this lifetime, but the experience with it still stung. sometimes.

at ten years old, the landlord of your apartment, who’d let you stay for free since it was so horribly kept, passed away. it meant you had effectively no place to live, since it wasn’t legally in your hands anymore. nothing much about your situation was legal, but he’d argued your case for you for years, and the neighbours were supportive of it too.

gotham is a gritty place, and even with the varied dictionary of swears they used to poke away security, it was a little show of squishy softness from the people.

after he died, your friends’ parents and your neighbours shuffled you around in their homes, month to month to keep you around. no one thought of calling fosters, or the police, since you were their kid as much as their children were. “love” was an odd word to use, people in your alley married for benefits and children were kept about for that reason too. there were exceptions, but the reason for your staying was obligation.

at eleven, you got caught directly in between a scuffle on the streets. the guys must’ve been waiting to put off steam, since it got bloody way faster than you’d ever seen. but honestly? you could’ve gone past it, it was nothing unnatural for the city, and having grown up in it on your own, you would’ve been fine.

but gotham was a city full of interruptions. buses, classes, going to the store for chips or even walking back home, you would be interrupted. by a gun, a fist, or if you were especially unlucky, the big old bat and his big old car. you wonder if you could’ve saved yourself all the trouble, the tax on your mental state and the worry you keep everyday of your life now, if you had just been a bit faster, fast enough to avoid the batman’s interruption. maybe, you would’ve been in the stairwell with your friends now, eating chips or running from old mister ford on the sixth floor.

you’d been put in the police station down the road, the same one your friend had thrown a brick through last week, while the caped weirdo, batman, told you it’d be alright. alright? you were fine. what did he mean, alright?

you’d nagged the officers to let you go, lying that people at home would be worried (maybe they were, you never got to know), but they’d sat you down and expected forced, timid compliance from you. these guys are always expecting better. one lady even had the gall to put on a show for you on the tiny tv in one of the “comfort-rooms” and you’d gone biting, screaming and struggling.

‘radicalised’ was what your landlord-uncle had called it. gotham’s people, even those not submerged in the high of crime, couldn’t help but grow up to be hard and rough at the edges, hating the people who put them here. the divide between the common people and the socialites was so jarring, so far. you didn’t want to comply with what these guys were telling you to do. all the adults hated them! why wouldn’t you?

it had taken two hours of watching a few pink-haired girls run around behind the screen, in cold, cold anger before you were let out. “a new home,” the lady officer had said, “safer.” it wasn’t until later that you got to know the reason they didn’t let you leave or shoved you in a care-home you could've run from, and instead pushed you into the manor; was because of your lack of legal documents. most noticeably, your birth certificate and the absence of your parents.

you think now, that maybe batman had expected you to be broken, ruined and lonely like his other odd children. fact of the matter is, that you were fine. you were none of those things, until he intruded in your life. why he never let you go… perhaps he feared any resentment you held. you held none, until him.

the fight never left, you’d hissed all the way home at the old guy and the other man who’d come to pick you up, swiping at a hand offered to you. a new home? a new home? you had a home! they were waiting for you, you think, what do these people mean about a new home? why would you trust a badge and cap or a suit and tie, on their judgement of safety?

you want to go home.

the house they put you in was gargantuanly huge, your room the size of your old shared apartments. it made you sick. the ceiling was too high, and the corridors too long. admitting to fear was a sure way to get snuffed on the streets, and you didn’t admit to it, spending hours hiding in a bathroom alone, still too big for your liking. you hid and hid and you still hide. all the time.

when you got used to the place, pangs of loneliness and homesickness hit you. having never talked much, it was an unusual habit to reach out to someone. the flats you lived in used to be small enough for three people to have to sleep in the same bedroom. and the other four to crash on top of each other on the couch.

it’s different here, you’re alone. there’s no situation where everybody has to be together. you could tail along with the old guy while he cleaned, or stalk the boy who came to visit every month, but you avoided the man who got you here at all costs. you hate him, it would be betrayal to yourself to want to be around him. but seeking out company was too taxing, too new a thing for you. no one else came to you on their own, never needed anything from you. you were isolated. lonely. scared.

you weren’t forbidden from going outside, but always tailed by a security guard your “father” would set on you. the place where you grew up was blocked off your mental map too, a firm hand on your soldier from the boy, richard grayson, and his voice telling you it was off limits.

when you demanded a snarled “why?” with a dark, dark scowl, he’d just shook his head. an answer never came to you on its own, but it was quite clear you’d never be able to disobey. so you scuffled around, lonely, the shadow of the manor on you making street-kids you’d get along with otherwise frown at you, everywhere.

a few months after your glorified kidnapping, another boy came into the polished picture of your family photo; jason todd. he was about the same age as you, with a noticeable and heavy gothamite-accent that you recognised immediately. though you still didn’t much enjoy seeking out the company of anyone in the house, jason’s was by far, the easiest to go to.

he was a surprisingly tender little kid, you’d expected a meaner, more similar to you type of guy, but it didn’t matter much. you’d sit in the same room as him when he studied, listen to him whisper under his breath about some composition of something, watch him run around in the garden after alfred to help him, gain the favour of the man, and wonder where he’d gone at night when you tried to stay awake with him in either of your rooms. the two of you were unalike, but the comfort of knowing rags better than rugs brought you together, just a bit.

towards the… end, he’d become more biting. more snappy, on edge. the change had come suddenly, and made you conflicted. on one end, you were delighted at his hostility, seeing a familiarity of behaviour with him. he was finally growing into the hardened shell. the other end just made you sad. what happened to the kid? to your brother? what happened to him?

it’s safe to say his death destroyed any neutrality you had for this place. when you’d seen bruce one night, he’d looked absolutely horrible, and you hadn’t understood why. you couldn’t much bother to ask, assuming it must’ve been bitchy-bad billionaire-blues, and the shock, the blunt punch that came to your gut at attending jason’s funeral the next day made you sick.

dick had stood crying, his face in his hands, alfred had put an umbrella down to his face in what you assumed was sorrow, and bruce’s expression was unintelligible under the shadows that fell on it. you only stared, and stared, and stared at the stone of his grave, as though wanting to erode it, dig him out. jason. jason. a good soldier.

soldier?

you were livid, entirely unable to express your emotions in any way possible, no outlet among your family, no friends, no social circle or activities to let out even the smallest sliver of your anger out. you hadn’t cried, mourning was never one of your customs, but you were so horribly angry. he was gone. gone.

what probably made it worse was that you never knew how he died. he disappeared one day, and came back dead the other. your only half-friend in your whole life, was gone, the sweet, helpful little boy, gone. your brother. gone. you shut off entirely, unwilling to accept dick’s offers to spend time together, snarling that his attempts at being a better brother to you would never undo anything that he’d ever done. with no knowledge on the cause of his death, you blamed everyone for jason todd’s story.

dick had pulled away his hand, expression darkening, and did very pointedly avoid you from there on. thinking back, you wonder why he couldn’t excuse your grief. you were a child too. how did he manage to excuse everyone else?

tim drake’s arrival had been a thing of great disgust to you. he’d become an outlet for your fury, shoving past him in the corridors, muttering curses at him at the smallest issues, and flashing a scowl and a glare at his direction whenever he spoke. from the very beginning, tim knew about your distrust, your hatred of him, and avoided you in return to avoid trouble.

maybe you shouldn't have, and you don’t anymore to anybody, but you’d often go at him when you were at home. snarky comments on what he did, brushing off efforts he didn’t even present to you. you could see the slight effect it had on him, reclusivity, him thinking twice over his words. that on it’s own, and grayson’s narrowed glare and muttered “lay off, (name)” had almost made you guilty.

almost.

he’d come to eventually just spit back at you, or ignore you, and you’d leave him be too. it’s just that the impact that period of time had on the both of you was irrefutable, and harsher exchanges would come out much easier from your mouth now. again, you wonder, why he couldn’t excuse you. you would take any hatred back from him, face the consequences of your actions and accept what you did was terrible. even if he never forgave you for being so unwelcoming to the little boy he was, if it meant that one day, tim drake would look your way without a scowl. but why did he never excuse you?

around this time, you took up many things. jason’s death had soured you against the crime in gotham way more than your arrival at the manor did, so you took to listening to the news and skimming through pamphlets. the common figures of the batman and robin had created a semi-permanent furrow in your brow, and you pitied the robin-boy who’d have to work along the incompetent, interrupting, annoying bat-hag. batman.

the repetition of’ saves the day’, ‘exposes the scene’ and ‘back at arkham’ formed a slight obsession in you, and you had to know who these… geeks in costume interrupting everything were. if they could so skilfully weave through the riddler’s intricate puzzles, handle the joker’s lunatic schemes and avoid the bristling thorns of poison ivy’s attacks, how could they not put their minds to the little guy? the smaller problems?

from stalking tim and watching his work methods, without his awareness, you picked up a pin and a photo, and got to work. school was never challenging, maybe initially with your lack of an uneducated pre-teens, but easy to catch up to with your abundance of time. with all the hours freed up from not having to do homework you’d already finished, you made it a personal goal to find out who batman and robin were. the man and the boy who failed you, jason, and all the kids down the road.

and you found out. in february, wearing a short sleeved shirt ‘cause the heating was always up, with a final thread of glittering blue thread, you found out. the anger that had built up over the years had started to die out, and snapped with a fizzle when you understood.

you hate them. bruce wayne, dick grayson, tim drake and even, even jason todd. you hate them all. incompetent fools. idiots.

a sense of emptiness lingered in you for days, a morose sense of nothing to do. you came across a video of a girl stuffing a hollowed spider with cotton, and gently placing it’s dangly limbs on top of pins like they were footrests. the spider’s paws were limp on her sides, but she looked alive. she looked alive, even after dying.

maybe it would’ve passed on a fleeting interest, if you had not come to the terms with the fact that rich people could do just whatever. without asking anyone, you’d gone out to buy a board and some bob-pins, signed your name off as someone else on the shop record book and left. two habits, hobbies, created on the same day. taxidermy and paranoia.

you were not paranoid.

when you were now sixteen, bruce- no, batman, had gotten home troubled, more so that usual. it had peaked your curiosity, and you couldn’t help but eavesdrop through a micro communicator tim had so considerably left out in his room when you snooped through it.

the silhouette of a red hood trailed their conversations, troubling them with drugs and guns and knives. you’d found it all very amusing, minus the fact of his crimes. anyone who troubled the batman was amusing, but crime? you never excuse.

the relevance two months down that jason todd was alive, when you left the communicator on on a sleepless night, jolted you fully awake. a similar resurgence of not knowing, and fear, and worry engulfed you, much alike the same feelings you felt coming to the manor five years ago.

you wanted to demand for answers, weasel out how, why, where he was. why he wasn’t coming home and why bruce was so incompetent at getting him back to the manor. but you couldn’t. no one could know you knew, no one could know you had that information, of their identities on them, and have that leverage over you. you bit your tongue.

you never spoke to him, or saw jason face to face after his “rebirth”, catching glimpses of his voice on the mic’s that inputted into the oracle’s connected networks at night. you caught a glimpse of a large figure, draped in a leather jacket jumping out the window from the kitchen, but too late and too awkward to call out.

he’d gotten so tall. grown up. it hurts so bad, and you’ve never hurt before. never admitted it.

how had he managed to regain just the littlest bit of ties with the rest of the family, but not with you? you knew he snuck in on some nights, and he rarely ever came to the manor to talk to anyone, but how was it so easy for him to just, forget you? did he ever wonder where you were? did he ever want to see you again? you know he couldn’t, wouldn’t, but would he want to?

the pain that comes from seeing damian enter the manor is ten folds that. another little boy, falling to the bat’s trap of glory and growing up like jason and dick and tim, trapped. you want to warn him, but his kohl-lined eyes and scowling face makes it too difficult.

he reminds you too much of yourself, and that’s just about the scariest thing you know. self-importance and snarkiness.

the worst thing? their tolerance. their excuses. dick’s grin at damian a day after the loudest scuffle, the meanest words you’d heard come from a ten year old’s mouth, him being excused. tolerated. tim excusing him, and bothered to still talk to damian even after all the insults and demeaning of his work, the tolerance he received.

bruce wayne’s hand on his shoulder, showing him around to help him adapt to the new, unfamiliar place. why had no one done that for you? why did no one excuse you, see if you were okay? why were you like this? what had damian done that you hadn’t, and what had you done that he didn’t?

“the blood son”, he had declared at you the first time the two of you spoke, “has come to show his worth to the family. remain on the sidelines from your unimportant and tarnishing stain on father’s name, or struggle against my defense.” you didn’t respond to his edwardian monologue, and left despite his appalled scoff at your indifference. the blood son. he had a family. you could never compare to the concern or the trouble they put in to be with him, because he was family.

family.

you could’ve ignored damian if he didn’t come into your business so often. poking at the posters you’d put up to cope with the large, empty walls in your room, scoffing at the music you’d put on to drown out the ring in your ears from the silence and snapping your last nerve upon stealing a cricket from your board to bury in the garden.

you’d said nothing, quietly taking it back when he was faraway, straightening the legs of the insect with a motherly tenderness. he had soiled a lifeform put in your hands over his own sense of honour and humanity, effectively disgracing the ideals you had been raised on and live on now.

you knew of his upbringing, and you knew better his horror at your practice. but nevertheless, it was yours. he didn’t excuse you, he demeaned you, he didn’t consider you family.

he was not your family.

none of them were, and none of them will be. they’re self-prestiged vigilantes with overblown egos and no semblance of shame or understanding. they know nothing, and you can’t abandon a city so unfortunate to be in their care like this. they don’t know anything, because the ceiling they live under is too high to need to crouch and hide, and the corridor is too large for them to have to squeeze through when running.

a tap on your shoulder brings you out of thought, and your reply is a gruff “you’re late” at the girl in front of you. the salty green-white lights of 12th sector conveniences buzz on as you make your way inside, and garcia’s grin is too wide for someone so inconsiderate of your carefully mapped plans.

you hate your family, and their poor work. so you’ll have to scheme in different run-down hell holes to undo their messes. but order and control is important. if you’re in hell, why should you stop here? “one day”, your ‘girlfriend’ had said, “all these places you take me-” “you all,” you had interrupted, “i take you all” “-will be as clean as your nails, (name)”

you hope that she’s not mocking. and you hope she’s right.

> a/n; nothing much left 2 say! i notice my writing habits have switched up a bit, way less unnecessary words and stuffs. this is queued for tmrw so hopefully im not spamming anything. re-added the tags i left out for zero:ii too. idk when my next upload will be since my first exam is day after tmrw, but i wanna really write for the plot soon.

thanks for reading!!

taglist: @boredselkie @shirp-collector-of-fixations @randomlyappearingartist @bat1212 @maicenitas @xjesterxjacksx @heartjwonie @lucienneb1ue @vikkus-main @adornedlace @cuntiesweet @minorlyatfall @staarflowerr @ithoughtthinks @crazycaoticsimp

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g4rvez-r3id · 2 months ago

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We Only See Each Other At Weddings & Funerals

Ex!Spencer Reid x Lamontagne!Fem!Reader

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR 18x03 CRIMINAL MINDS: EVOLUTION ‼️ you have been warned!!

Summary: When your brother dies suddenly, your ex shows up to support you at his funeral. And you’re left wondering maybe if you two are worth trying again.

Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: oh where to begin- ‼️ MAJOR SPOILERS FROM SEASON 18 OF CRIMINAL MINDS: EVOLUTION ‼️ established exes, death and grief and crying, reader being a tough gorl, mentions of the prison arc, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of divorce, minor mentions of S13 and S15, lack of communication, reader left spencer a note when she left, lowkey mommy issues, angst angst angst, sadness, reader breaks down, spencer and reader have a talk, spencer and reader are also still in love with each other, kind of an open ending

Author’s Note: hey lovelies! consider this my comeback of sorts- i was inspired after last week’s episode 🤭 and this just came to be! shoutout to @thegloryofliterature emme, my wifey— for helping me with the idea AND the title hehe and thank you to @cerisereids belle, for proofreading this for me, don’t know where i’d be without you, love! 😘 anyways, pls enjoy this (or not because it is angst— also angst written by me is always tugging at the heartstrings so SORRY) i love you all <33

Never ever did you think this day would happen so fast. You’d hoped that maybe it’d be in the far, far future. Where you were old and grey and that it’d be in his sleep. And hopefully, you’d be right behind him in that bracket— maybe within a few years. But never ever did you think that you’d be here for your own brother’s funeral.

Will was still so young, still needed to be there to raise his boys, to spend so many more years happy with his wife and his family. He was your older brother by a few years and getting that phone call nearly destroyed you when you got it.

You don’t even remember where you were, just that you answered JJ’s call and she’d told you right then and there. You almost didn’t believe her, but JJ would never ever lie about something like that. Especially regarding your brother. You’d almost passed out hearing the news, remembering how JJ once told you that she’d frozen when she saw her sister’s body in the bathroom. You felt as if you reacted very much the same way.

It was a rare thyroid aneurysm— he’d collapsed in the kitchen at home and died shortly afterwards. You’d known about his health issues, but you knew that he was in the clear. He was seeing an oncologist, he was doing the checkups. He was being careful.

And today was the day of the funeral— you’d tried your best to hold it together, for JJ and the boys. They really needed someone right now and your mother certainly wasn’t helping. Since finding out that Will had health issues and being angry at you and JJ for letting Will keep it from her— she was making things more complicated than they needed to be.

You honestly had more things to worry about than her— like your brother’s funeral, for starters. You had no time for her shenanigans and childish antics, you’d much rather focus on the boys and JJ.

It’s times like these where you wished Spencer was here. He was your ex-husband of eight years. You’d met him at JJ and Will’s wedding all those years ago and well, you two just hit it off. You understood his hours, you understood how his job was important and work always came first. And you understood, deciding your career was just as important as his— you’d followed your brother’s footsteps, as well as your late father’s.

Eventually, you two got married and you moved in with him and you guys were happy.

But then prison happened. He was arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. But he’d spent a long and painful three months and it nearly destroyed him. You were there every step of the way. Even after when he got back and went through those night terrors and staying up all hours of the night with him.

But luckily, you’d had good news for him to look forward to when he got back from there. You were pregnant— nearly four months along. You’d held on for so long for him, giving your all and trying to keep him satisfied but no matter how much he said he was happy with the outcome, you could tell in his eyes he was scared.

Your rough patch continued, but you both faked your ways through it. You would do anything to keep him here with you, to be happy with you. And eventually, you guys would be how you were before, right?

If only you didn’t have the miscarriage.

You were utterly devastated. How could you miss someone you never met? Just two days prior of the miscarriage, Spencer was beginning to come out of his shell, talking to the baby for hours that day.

And somehow, when you lost the baby— it made him so close yet so far from you. You were in bed for weeks afterward. And he left you alone for the most part, afraid to hurt you even more than he had already— from his perspective.

You kept trying after that, surprisingly— but his job was another thing getting in the way of your marriage. He was reinstated after the whole situation with the prison and was supposed to take 30 days off after every case and you had been happy to spend more time with him when you had found out but Spencer seemed to be less than thrilled at the news.

You were tired of the same patterns over and over. And then, he was kidnapped by a cult. And that seemed to have been your final straw. You’d gotten into a big argument with him, completely frustrated at the fact that you had found out hours after the fact and that no one had told you a single thing. But Spencer was confused. Why were you making such a big deal about this?

Years ago, you’d talked about this. Communication was key in your relationship and you recognized there was a lack of that as of that moment. And it was then, it seemed like you were looking in the eyes of a total stranger.

You’d gone to bed angry that night and when Spencer woke up that next morning, he woke up to a cold bed, the closet nearly empty and a note on the marble counter.

I’m sorry.

You’d left him the way his father had. The way Gideon had. And he blamed himself for that. This one was on him.

He tried reaching out to you after that. But your phone number had been completely been out of service. Spencer later found out that you had crashed at JJ and Will’s for a few weeks before moving back to New Orleans.

Since then, you and Spencer had not talked. Or seen each other in years. Of course, you’d sent him divorce papers and you’d both signed them, finalizing it and leaving it as it was.

You’d moved on, going back to your old job as a detective at the police station in New Orleans, had a few casual hookups every now and then— but no one ever compared to Spencer. You’d actually loved Spencer. You thought about calling him every now and then, coming close to doing so one Christmas before stopping yourself. He was your person, through and through.

You’d called your brother once in a while, hoping for some scrap of news about Spencer since he and JJ were best friends. But nothing ever came up. Until one day, you’d finally asked.

And that was the day you found out about Max.

His new girlfriend— someone he’d been seeing for just a few weeks. And now you wished you hadn’t asked. He moved on.

And why were you sad about it? This was what you wanted, right? How could he be open to another woman after you? After how he treated you? You’d hoped he licked his wounds clean and you hoped he was happy finally but you wish he’d done it for you. Why couldn’t he do it for you? His wife of eight years? You didn’t ask about him again after that.

Eventually, you missed the city and moved back to DC when your lease ran out. You’d gotten a small studio apartment, keeping to yourself like a creature of habit, not wanting anyone except for close family to know you were back home here.

It was easier, especially knowing Spencer wasn’t working at the BAU as much anymore. So he wasn’t around too much. JJ had mentioned a sabbatical he was taking. A tiny part of you wondered why. What he was doing. But you kept that to yourself.

You’d mostly spent your days off, spending time with your nephews and your brother while JJ was off being a badass. And you were closer to them than ever.

Which was why it was so hard when Will passed. It was sudden. You didn’t prepare for this. It was your father all over again when he died in Hurricane Katrina. As if that wasn’t hard on you already, you had to lose your brother, too.

And as much as your heart ached and how scared and angry you were, you had to keep it together. You couldn’t afford to break down, not here and certainly not now.

You were exposed to the empathy and pity on everyone’s faces, something you were getting used to in these last few days— as much as you hated it. Penelope was probably more of a wreck than you, Emily became a mother figure of sorts— more than your own mother was, at least. Dave was always there if you needed to talk, everyone supported your family in every way. Just not the one that mattered the most to you.

Last you heard, Emily had told him about your brother. And he’d sent flowers. But that was it.

Eventually, Tara had come into the church, telling you your mother was still refusing to come inside and that you were the only person who hadn’t tried to get her to come in and to give it a try. With a deep sigh, you prepared for your mother’s antics and hoped she wouldn’t make a big fuss over this but it was your mother. You knew her better than anyone. And right now, she was your only person in your family still alive.

You walked outside, walking towards her as she remained seated on the bench she parked herself at, chin held high and that smug look on her face. You always hated that look. You crossed your arms as you approached her and stopped in your tracks, looking at her and it was funny, because she was barely looking at you.

“They told me you were still out here,” You spoke, the breeze flowing through— the silence of the wind more louder than the silence with your mother. You were tired of this, fighting with her like you had your whole life. You just wanted this day to be over already and with her acting the way she did, wasn’t any help. Rolling your eyes and poking your tongue into the inside of your mouth, you sigh— “Mama, I don’t wanna fight with you today, will you just come into the church?”

Connie silently shook her head and honestly, you were getting fed up. “Mama, you are not the only person that lost somebody today. It hurts and I know it does but you not going in there, dishonors Will’s memory and you’re just being childish. Like you always are.”

“Now, you’re starting to sound like JJ there.” Connie finally speaks. “You have no idea what I am going through. You have no idea how hard this is. To lose your child.” Oh, you knew just as well as she did what it was like to lose a child. You never told your mother about your miscarriage. The only person you did tell was JJ, since she’d gone through the same thing and she was the only person that understood.

You bit your tongue, wanting to tell your mother how wrong she was for this, how childish she was being. But you didn’t want to yell outside of a church and you didn’t want anyone to hear so instead, you shook your head. “Well, when you’re ready to get your head out of your ass, you will come in there and be there for your son. Because you know just as well as anybody that Will would want you there. So, come in, don’t come in— I could give less of a shit.” You wave a hand dismissively at her, walking away before she can even get a word in.

Walking back towards the church, you’re at the entrance and you take a moment to get yourself together when you feel eyes on you. You’re not sure what compels you to turn around but you do anyways. And you’re not sure if maybe your eyes are deceiving you or maybe you’re having some kind of psychotic break due to the death of your brother. That would be a better explanation than seeing Spencer Reid standing right there.

For a moment, you wipe your eyes and blink because maybe there is a possibility you are seeing things. After a few blinks, nope — he’s real. And he’s just as shocked to see you standing right there. Maybe not shocked, I mean, Will was your brother. Or maybe a little stunned, seeing you right here. And so soon, before he can even enter the church.

You both stand and stare at each other in disbelief. Your heart is beating out of your chest, dropped down to your stomach, you’re frightened— like a child on the first day of school. Of all days, for him to show up. You felt like you were dreaming. You had to have been, right? This was all just one big dream or nightmare you were living in. It had to have been, right?

And suddenly, he’s walking closer to you and it feels less of a dream now. He still looks the same as he once did in the past. You felt like you’ve aged five years in five days— meanwhile, he still looks the same as he did when he turned thirty. He still wears that same dopey purple scarf, that’s been torn and gotten smaller and thinner since the last twenty years he’s used it. His hair is still crazy and you wonder if he has mismatched socks underneath the suit he’s currently wearing. (The answer will always be yes).

Your heart pounds in your chest, thumping so loudly, you can hear it. Because he’s here— he’s standing in front of you. So far, no words are exchanged between the pair of you. You stare at him, eyes grazing every inch of him. He’s taller than you remember. He’s built more… adult-like, funny enough. Even in his fourties’, he still walks like a tall child.

Your mind floods of memories of when you two were together. Your firsts — first kiss, first date, first time together— then your lasts. Last kiss, last time you spoke, the last time you shared the same bed. Guilt still riddles at you with the fact that you left him in the form of a note. The way his father once had, he was so hurt about it when he once told you. And then for you to do the same? You’d hate yourself if you were him. You wouldn’t hold it against him if he had bad blood with you.

You open your mouth finally— “A-Am I… Am I dreaming?” It’s silly, the way that that’s the first thing that comes out of your mouth seeing him. You wondered what your first words would be to each other if you were to see each other again. Would he tell you to fuck off? Would he ignore you and walk in the other direction?

Who were you kidding? Spencer had enough class to not do this the day of your brother’s funeral. The person you were the closest to besides him for a long, long time.

“No, you’re not.” Spencer tells you softly and you stare at him, vision blurring but you try and hide it from him. He was the only person you felt the most vulnerable with. And now, he was here— on one of the worst days of your life.

You brought him inside of the church, met with JJ, Michael and Henry as JJ was helping with Michael’s suit. Henry was the first to see his godfather, nudging his head along as he told his mom— “Told you he’d come.”

JJ looks at her son, not bothering to look in your direction as she asks— “Who?” Henry nudged his head again and this time, JJ turned and was met with Spencer — standing next to you. She was just as flabbergasted as you, eyes blinking like you��d done, too.

“Spence…” Spencer moved forward as he went to give JJ a heartwarming hug. “You came.” You walk towards them as Michael and Henry say their hellos to their godfather and you stand behind as they hug in a group. You find yourself, pulling back from tearing up once more.

Eventually, Spencer excuses himself to go and find his seat in one of the aisles. JJ keeps a close eye on you— knowing it was most likely hard for you to see him again. But you kept a brave face, she gave you the credit for that.

You walked arm in arm with her down that aisle— Henry on your side and Michael on hers. You continued to keep your brave face on. As much as you were dying inside.

You sat in front of the BAU team— Dave, Emily, Penelope and newly joined Spencer beside Penelope— Spencer sitting directly right behind you. You felt his stares the whole time as everyone shared their stories and moments celebrating Will. You couldn’t even focus as Penelope shared her story of how Will asked her to let him help her move into her apartment— that was how your brother was. Sweet as he was.

Soon enough, it was your turn. You swallowed the lump in your throat as you held your paper of what you wanted to say in your hands. You take a deep breath as you stand up at the pew— looking down at your brother’s casket before looking up towards your audience. You almost wished your mother was here. But you knew better.

Looking down at your paper, you clear your throat— praying your voice wouldn’t sound as hoarse as it has been the last few days due to crying. You look down at your paper and examine your writing. Did you even mean any of these words? Were these even your words? You take a sharp breath before deciding to fold up the paper and look towards everyone.

“I remember when Will and I were little,” You start to go off-script. You had no idea where you were going with this, but it certainly had to be better than what you wrote down. “Uh, we used to live near a park. He and I would go on the swings and he’d push me and I’d push him. And one day, I fell off the swings, as I would— and I scraped my knee pretty bad. And Will, being the caring older brother he was— helped patch up my knee and even kissed it better. I think that describes the type of person he was.”

You look down at your hands before shaking your head. “I am just… so… angry.” You turn to his casket as you continue to keep holding on for the sake of everyone watching you. Spencer stares up towards you. You look so different now, you were the same but you were so different at the same time. Your exterior was guarded, more so than before he even started dating you.

Part of him wondered if maybe he should’ve even shown up today. He debated it over and over in his head. He didn’t want to stress you even more out than how you were before. You just lost your brother, and he had lost you a long time ago. He didn’t want to tear up old wounds. But the other part of him knew he had to be there. For JJ. For the boys. And for you. No matter what happened in the past, no matter what you gone through— he still loved and cared for you deeply. And he’d always be there, no matter what.

“Will, you were the best brother I could ever have. I knew one day I’d outlive you but I didn’t think it’d be this soon. It shouldn’t have been this soon.” You blink a few tears away. It really shouldn’t have been this soon. “You still have boys to take care of. You still have me to take care of. How could you leave like this? You were supposed to still be here.” Your voice catches in your throat and you feel a presence behind you. “I hate you.” You shut your eyes. “But I love you… and I hope that… wherever you are… you’re not hurtin’ anymore.”

Finally, you turn but you don’t see the person you thought it would be. That person being Spencer. But instead, your mother— who has finally decided to come in here and be the parent you wanted her to be all along during this whole thing. She holds your hand, assuring to you that you are not alone in this. That she is here. And that the moral of the story is that you’ve both lost someone that was important in both of your lives.

During JJ’s speech, the eyes linger on you. His eyes. You were still keeping it together, what was that? Spencer had known you to be a very emotional person— in all the years that he’s known you, you were. Maybe after your breakup, you’d had no tears left to cry.

He kept his distance as you walked out into the cemetery, arm in arm with your mother— as they laid Will’s body to rest. Even then, you still had dry eyes.

You stayed there.

Even when your mother left.

Even after your nephews did.

Hell, even after Spencer walked JJ back to the car, you were still there. And he wondered if you were ever going to move.

Then, there was a moment where you thought you were alone. You stood in front of the grave, numb to all of the events from the last few days. This didn’t feel the same as losing your dad when he did in Hurricane Katrina. This didn’t feel the same as when your pet hamster, Wubzy, died when you were eight. This death… was the hardest one you were ever going to face in your life, it seemed. No, nothing compared to this.

Although it very much felt like you were alone, you weren’t. Not really.

“I thought you left.” You spoke out loud.

You waited for silence. He couldn’t have been waiting there, behind you.

“I didn’t.”

Spencer’s voice echoed through the breeze and you stood still as you felt him gaining closer behind you. And when you finally turned around, he was at least six inches away from you. You looked up at him and took a small sigh.

“Will’s dead.” You stated, like you were coming to terms with it. You tried to take a breath again. You didn’t want Spencer to see you break. But you’d remembered something. He was the one person who saw you break over and over again. He was always there. So, when you looked him in the eyes… truly and completely crushed at the fact that your brother was gone— you broke down.

The barrier between pain and suffering had finally broken you down. And all because of Spencer Reid. He’d wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly like he remembered you liked when you were upset. You’d always felt safe in his arms. You told him that the first time he held you. You sobbed into the lapels of his suit, bawling like no one was watching. And he let you. Like he knew you needed.

Spencer worried the emotional you was gone. But no, you were just being strong for everyone. Like you always had been. You’ve hardened since the last he saw you. But he always knew you put other people above yourself. And sometimes, you forgot— you were only human, too.

And then, he’d stayed with you. The whole time. You’d found a bench nearby and he was your shoulder to cry on. You stayed like that for a while. You had the reception to go to after this, but… they could wait. Right now, they could. You needed this moment to yourself. And frankly, Spencer thought so, too.

He rubbed your back, stayed silent until you were ready to talk. Listened while you tried to talk through your tears. Eventually, you calmed down. And using his shoulder didn’t seem appropriate anymore once you gained the knowledge that you were doing it in the first place.

So, after that, you just sat there in silence— and that was better than anything else. He didn’t say a word, you didn’t either. But you knew you had to say something. I mean, you were married to the guy for five years. You at least owed him some kind of explanation. You hadn’t talked to him in years.

“You didn’t have to… be here, you know.” You tell him, in all honesty. And you didn’t just mean the funeral, you also meant here and now. You didn’t deserve his kindness after everything you did. Completely going AWOL in your marriage, without another word.

Spencer opens his mouth and nods, “I know.” He stated. “But I wanted to be here. For you guys.”

“Then you should be with JJ,” You stood. “She and the boys need you more than I do. And they deserve it more than I do.” Spencer knew what you were talking about the way you left.

When he found that note on the kitchen table the day you left, of course, for some time— he was hurt. He was angry, how could you leave like that without another word? But after time (and therapy) — he understood why you left. Why you couldn’t bring yourself to do face to face. He wasn’t exactly the easiest person to be around at the time. Hell, he would’ve left himself, too after how he treated things with you. How lost he was, how scared he was and how often he took it out on you. You deserved better than that and at the time, he wasn’t it.

Spencer stood behind you, walking towards you, grabbing your hand and making you turn towards him. Eyes locked on one another and never leaving each other’s gazes. “I was never mad at you for leaving.” He admitted. Sure, at one point he was — but what was the point in holding grudges anymore?

You shook your head as the tears brimmed in your eyes again. “I would be,” You said. “I would be mad at me.”

Spencer’s hand moves from yours to the apple of your cheeks. He didn’t regret you. Not for a damn minute. And standing here, right in front of you— opened his eyes once more. He still loved you and he was sorry. Things didn’t work out the first time and maybe they’d never work again but he loved you. He knew that much.

Of course, he didn’t want you to know that. Not today, not this week— certainly not anytime soon until you were ready to hear him. But standing here… with you— brought back everything he washed away instead of dealing with it. He dealt with it by leaving his feelings alone. And now, all of a sudden— everything he knew brought him back to you. Could you have been the missing variable in his life again?

“Y/n,” Spencer looked you in the eyes. “I was going through something I couldn’t wrap my head around at the time. And you were on the receiving end of most of that. I dealt with things… but so did you. Me going to prison, the miscarriage.” You pause at this. It’d been a long time since you thought about the miscarriage. How things fell apart after that. “I wasn’t easy to deal with. I know.”

“I still left.” You argue. You didn’t deserve him treating you with kid gloves— too bad he didn’t agree. “It doesn’t matter now.” Spencer told.

You sniffle, looking up at him— remembering him as he once was. The person you counted on, the person you were married to and wanted a family with. The person you loved— possibly forever.

“I don’t deserve you,” You admit, staring into his eyes. “I don’t think I ever did.”

Spencer tucks a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “You deserve every good thing in the world.” He tells. And he truly means it. He doesn’t want to open up those cans of worms so he seals the lid shut by wrapping his arm over yours so you can hold his arm. He always liked when you clinged to him in the past. And he was probably selfish to say that he still liked it now.

Spencer walked with you, your head resting on his shoulder as you made your way out of the cemetery, saying goodbye to your brother as well as saying goodbye to the pain, shame and guilt you’d had for years before finally talking to Spencer. Well, he mostly talked— you denied receiving anything from him because you felt as if you didn’t deserve it.

One day, maybe you’ll understand why he chose to forgive you. Maybe it was because of the day. Maybe one day, in the long run, he’d blame you. But for now, you could settle for being content— being in a good place with him. Like you yearned for over the years. You missed that. You missed him. And you missed how you two were.

And maybe one day, you’ll find your footing with him again. Maybe you two will get it right this time.

And if not? Well, you would just have to wait and see. And you were fine with waiting.

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fairestwriting · 6 months ago

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RAHHHH, I LOVR YOUR WRITING!!!!

Can I kindly request for Leona, Jade, and Idia with a Hyper! Reader?

Like, Reader is up for everything and anything and is always either preparing for shenanigans or doing them.

ah yes. the trio i am definitely not biased towards when it comes to writing stuff (TYSM im glad you like it!!! i hope you enjoy this too <33

𐙚 Leona Kingscholar

It’s a good thing that you’re so lively, you can just have energy for the two of you, is the sort of thing you’ll hear from him a lot. Always seasoned with his signature snarky feeling, sometimes he’s more exasperated, and other times, he can actually sound quite fond and sweet.

The “Herbivore” nickname isn’t going away anytime soon, that’s for sure. It’s more than just a little jab at how non threatening you come off— You honestly kind of remind him of a rabbit. If you ask him to elaborate he says it’s because you’re “always hopping around and sticking your nose into other people’s business”. If you ask him for further explanation he says you’re just proving his point by being too curious.

To anyone who knows how to read him, it becomes quite visible that he’s really very unsuccessful at concealing how endearing he thinks your antics are. He’ll never miss an opportunity to tell you he’s absolutely not going to join you on whatever you’re up to that day, and yet… he’s always there to say these exact words.

You might manage to convince him to take you out on some fun dates, things like going to amusement parks or arcades. He actually really enjoys it, despite always playing up that unamused, grumpy act. Most of the time he’ll just stand on the sidelines and watch while you have your fun, but it’s not that hard to bait him into following you to the roller coaster. At the end of the day, he tells you he hopes you’re satisfied because he won’t be indulging you again too soon— Something you can easily prove wrong in about a week or so.

𐙚 Jade Leech

He’s always not-so-secretly overjoyed to hear about any new troublemaker type that might pop up into Azul’s radar. These people are always the most interesting to observe, after all. So even before you two actually spoke, you’ve been keeping him more than engaged.

Jade has no desire to actively cause anything that might count as mischief… or at least that’s what he says. It’s not a full blown lie, but the key word here really is “actively” — Any antics of yours that he can support will be supported. Whether by conveniently making others too intimidated to get in your way, or sharing little hints of possible interesting things to do around school. It takes him some time to start actually tagging along, even if it’s just to stand around and watch you having your fun, but when he starts to do it, he’s pretty much become your new henchman.

While he mostly keeps to himself, if you show any interest in going on hikes with him, or learning about mushrooms and such, you’ll find that he can match your energy level quite easily. Jade is actually a bit surprised at your enthusiasm when it comes to that, he’s always wondered how it’d be like to explore the woods with a partner. Very quick to make new hiking plans, even quicker to think of multiple creative ways to use up whatever you picked while out.

He finds himself smiling and laughing a lot when he’s by your side. Of course, he already does both often in general, but it’s different when he’s with you. You always have some new, interesting topic to talk about, paired with a remarkable skill to find entertaining points about seemingly anything, it’s really contagious to him.

𐙚 Idia Shroud

Thinks it’s a miracle someone like you ever became interested in him. Shouldn’t a pessimistic, anxious introvert just come off as boring to someone who’s so bright and active? For a good while, Idia just couldn’t understand how you’d even fit him into your world. You two are just so different—

He would’ve probably rejected you out of sheer hopelessness if it wasn’t for the fact that… pairing a cheerful character with a gloomy one is, in fact, a pretty popular romance trope in anime. A part of him, sort of shyly and almost guiltily, hoped that he would get to have that in real life one day.

The fact you’re even open to indulging his interests definitely helps to bring you two closer. He was so anxious about showing you anything he liked, even if it was some popular game everyone in school is talking about, it’s just too nerdy for someone like you, isn’t it? Sometimes he’s still comically surprised whenever you mention liking a game or something like that. But he can get over his nervousness pretty quickly when you suggest playing together, even if it’s just on call.

When you’re messing with other people, he likes watching it from afar. Texts asking for updates on how your latest plans are going. If he can, he’ll even bail you out of trouble, it’s not like it’s that hard to make one of the school cameras just stop working for a little bit… And he really likes your reactions to him doing things like that, the way you praise his skills with so much enthusiasm. It really makes him feel like he’s won in life, honestly.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #jade leech #idia shroud #leona kingscholar x reader #jade leech x reader #idia shroud x reader #twst imagines #twst headcanons #lis writing

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ilickyautjas · 15 days ago

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Home

part two to Stranded !! This is the introduction post to readers new life, so if you have any blurbs you wanna see, shoot me an ask!

It had only been a few days since they brought you to their home planet. Of course, the others vehemently denied, but with the mother’s influence and explanation, they became… tolerant of your presence.

Of course, being brought onto a new planet where you were unfamiliar with the culture, people, and area (as well as the fact no one seemed too pleased with you), you were pretty stressed.

The mother, who you came to know as Ga'taya, could tell. You learned fast that they had very sensitive noses, and could practically smell your every thought. Okay maybe that was an exaggeration, but it truly felt like it. Atleast she was kind enough to remain by your side, easing most of your troubles… for the most part.

One thing you did come to enjoy was being able to take care of her son, the little thing was pretty cute. He had little nubs where his tusks had yet to grow in, his bright gold eyes peering up at you. You assumed the father wasn’t in the picture, mainly because of the absence of any other person in her abode.

Yet, you took care of her child, letting her have more time to do other things. Currently, you sat outside, legs crossed, watching the baby roll about on the ground. The soft chittering was almost soothing, warming your heart. Yautja babies weren’t too hard to take care of… of course until he got random bursts of energy. For a baby, he sure could swing those little fists.

A shadow casted over you, your head lifting from its lowered state to peer up at the person above you. “Ga’taya.” You greeted, a small smile rising onto your lips. You learned to smile with a closed mouth here, as showing your teeth made the poor woman cringe a little. You figured it was because… well… Xenomorphs had the same set of teeth as humans, obviously. It was probably just a little uncanny for them.

“Ooman.” She spoke, crouching down to your level. Despite this, she still towered over you, built like a boulder. Scary. “Bha’ta behaved?” She questioned, her fingers moving to the collar around your neck to turn it on once more. It was a translator, easier for her to talk to you through this way— human languages had too many sounds she struggled to replicate.

“Yeah, he’s been fixated on rolling around in the dirt for the past few minutes.” You spoke with a small laugh, trying not to squirm as her large hands practically engulfed your neck. “Good.” The translator sounded as she spoke in her language.

She stood, gesturing for you to follow. You climbed to your feet, crouching back down to pick up little Bha’ta. “He’s much larger than human babies.” You mumbled, leaning the babies body onto your shoulder for support. Ga’taya let out a rumble at this— her version of a laugh. “Go put him in his bed.”

You nodded, beelining for the babys cradle. You gently set him down, patting the top of his head. Thankfully, he didn’t fuss like usual, instead flopping over. “All settled.” You called out, turning to face her. Your body jumped slightly to be met immediately with her torso, the scales glistening up close.

“Good. I take you to bathe.” You could hardly make a noise as her hand settled between your shoulder blades, lightly pushing you. You knew she didnt mean any harm or to be forceful— this just helped you keep up with her long stride.

Thankfully, she only guided you to another part of the house. Part of you worried it’d be like some bath house— you didn’t like being around other Yautjas. I mean, it was awkward, knowing no one around you really liked you being there.

Ga’taya let go of your back, gesturing to the large tub in the floor, filled with steaming water. She was very… casual with the way she removed her loin cloth. You almost choked on your saliva, averting your gaze down to your tank top.

“You know, for humans this would be considered taboo.” You mumbled, pulling the shirt over your head, hesitant to strip down.

“You humans are odd. Are you scared of a little skin?” She chortled, climbing into the tub. You pushed your embarrassment to the back of your head, stripping down. You kicked aside your clothes, stepping into the tub. The water was hot for you, but you knew it was lukewarm for Ga’taya, meaning she was looking out for you, even over her own comfort. “Thank you.”

She watched you with curious eyes, scanning over your form. She was very… large and intimidating, and you weren’t used to this sort of stuff anyways. What did Yautja even talk about—? Hell, they probably didn’t even like small talk. “It’s no issue. You take care of Bha’ta. I take care of you.” She spoke her words carefully, making sure to speak formally so that the translator worked properly. You could always tell the difference from her inflection.

“You saved my life in a way, I do owe you.” You spoke, glancing down at the bubbling water.

“I did not save you. I took you.” She corrected, knowing that she could have dropped you off at Earth, or left you on that planet. She chose to keep you.

“If you knew how humans lived, you’d understand what I mean.” You chuckled, leaning back. There was a certain… sadness to your words that you recognized all too well. “I would’ve lived my entire life working for a company who couldn’t care if I died. If I had returned from my mission, i’d be in crippling life debt to them— lost assets. At least with you, I mean something.” You spoke, your voice fading off at the end. That sounded… cheesier and more intimate than you meant… god— you were a fool.

“I suppose I am generous. Could have kept you as a pet.” She teased, her words soothing your awkwardness. Although it was the robotic translator around your neck that spoke to you, you focused on the sounds that came from her throat, deep and soothing. Her language was… different, but it did sound nice.

“Would’ve been better than my old job.” You joked softly, your hand lightly swaying through the water to watch it ripple.

The silence was long and comfortable, before she finally rose. “Clean up well, human. I take you somewhere tomorrow.” She spoke, climbing out of the tub. You watched her dry off, leaving the room— and her small amount of clothes behind.

heres the second little blurb!! I plan on continuing this series for atleast a little longer, but please send asks of fun stuff to write as fillers between fic updates!! ♥️♥️♥️

#predator #yautja #predator x reader #yautja x reader #alien vs predator

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delusionsofgrandeur13 · 1 year ago

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girl, i wanna see you undo it

i wanna see you but you’re not mine.

how the other batboys react to a breakup

18+, mdni !!!!!!

readers can expect: a fem reader, lotttta angst, cursing, mentions of violence, sexually explicit scenes including mentions of penetration, oral, and masturbation. also tim drake being a creep via e-stalking but reader is aware of it and more or less okay with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, bruce wayne, was avoiding alfred.

his butler was insisting on signing him up for therapy, and bruce was dodging him, hard. he didn’t have it in him. he wouldn’t go pay a professional to hear how pathetic he was over the lack of you in his life. couldn’t. he’s found a much more effective way to get out his emotions.

one that involves his fists and a goon’s face.

it was probably cruel, these poor goons were just trying to feed their families, or something, but batman was indifferent.

he was now always nearing dangerously close to breaking his no-kill rule. almost always teetering over that edge. even with his own life. he’d head out in the batsuit, prowling the seediest streets of gotham, hoping, practically praying, for someone to do something illegal. he would put himself in the most deadly situations just to feel alive. wasn’t the healthiest solution, but.

did he care? no.

bruce was numb, unfeeling to those around him. he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, not at the stupid fuck who’d lost the love of his life. he’d lagged behind in his case solving, gordon was growing increasingly more concerned. he was rude to the paparazzi asking after you, almost able to hear your voice in his ear, telling him to be nicer to them, whacking him on the bicep. he’d throw his usual charity galas, sure, but would send dick or jason in his place to showboat. he didn’t have the patience to talk to reporters. didn’t want to show face if you weren’t there on his arm. you always made the social aspect much more bearable. would always help him relieve the stress of it all after the event had ended.

but did he still care about you? yes.

just like when you were dating, bruce taking care of you was second nature.

he wouldn’t dare cancel the flower deliveries he’d set up when the two of you were together. they appeared at your apartment door every week and a half, always something different, but always in your favorite colors. you couldn’t stay mad at them either, the flowers brightened up your kitchen so nicely. when you and bruce were dating, he’d merged your calendars, just so scheduling was easier. you’d since deleted the connection, but he somehow still knows when you have appointments, as you’ll come out of your building’s lobby to a sleek black wayne enterprises car. the chauffeur opening the car door for you silently. you’d take it over the subway every time, even if it was a little awkward.

the dating app you’d downloaded after the breakup kept glitching, never letting you text any of your matches back. if you cared more, you’d contact support, but it was so odd. everything else on your phone works perfectly fine! but you had a gut feeling it had something to do with your ex boyfriend.

bruce might’ve slipped oracle a few bills for her silence over that favor.

he tried not to think about the fact you were already willing to start dating again. he couldn’t fathom being with anyone else. could not possibly wrap his head around it. why would he want anyone when he could have you? when he had already had you? everyone else seemed..lackluster.

it’s the same reason he’d been celibate since the breakup. after you, he was tainted. he didn’t think he’d ever be able to have sex again without thinking of you. especially in his own house. the two of you had fucked on every surface possible, seriously. tried every position.

it’d been difficult just sleeping in his own bed when he used to share it with you. used to make your legs shake as you gripped at the sheets. would never make you beg for anything, eating you out until you couldn’t take it anymore. that’s when bruce would press you up against him, holding you up with his huge arms as he pounded into you, his balls slapping against your clit as you whined, barely able to form words.

he’d never been with anyone the way he had with you. so obviously he wasn’t even able to finish with his own hand. it was nothing, nothing compared to the way you felt. his imagination would never have him moaning the way you could. could never make him melt the way you oh so easily were able to, with just a look.

so he was numb. and bruce just figured that’s how he’d stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your ex boyfriend, jason todd, throws his book across the room, flinching when it thuds against the wall opposite.

annoyed at the surprise romantic subplot, he huffs out a breath from behind his hands. he has to get over his sudden aversion to romance, but it feels impossible after losing you. he can’t watch any of his favorite movies, can only read a select few of his favorite books.

he barely even goes out anymore, mostly to avoid seeing couples on dates. the two of you loved going out together, loved going out to community events like concerts in the park, fairs in the summer. he missed accompanying you to your nephew’s t-ball games, watching you cheer and beam up at him in one of his old baseball hats.

so he barely goes out. he doesn’t have you with him!

he saw an elderly couple strolling in the park the other day. jason had promptly turned in the opposite direction, to avoid crumpling into a ball and sobbing or throwing up into the nearest trash can.

he’d gotten back onto his bike and rode home, going way over the speed limit. he didn’t care about being safe on it anymore, not when you weren’t there to ask him to or be his backpack. he missed the way you’d hold on to him, your thighs bracketing his torso as the bike roared. how at stoplights you’d rub your palms over his chest, grabbing his pecs with your gloved hands. your resulting giggle was muffled through your motorcycle helmet, but it was still the sweetest sound in the world to him.

but jason stopped bothering trying to function out in public after that, only ever really leaving his place for missions and to train at wayne manor.

and boy, had he been training. ever since the two of you had broken up, he’d been working out to the point of exhaustion.

barely peeling himself off of the floor after each workout, always heading straight to the shower to rinse the sweat off while he zoned out into the steam. after his workouts was the only time he would relieve himself. he’d hunch over with one hand propping him up opposite the tiled wall, the other fisted around his cock as he thought of your pretty smile, your gorgeous eyes, the meat of your thighs, the curve of your ass. how you’d clench around his cock with yet another orgasm, moaning his name into the mattress.

he’d finish, hard, his body shuddering, leaving him to be ashamed with himself.

he wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to think of you like you were still his. all this and yet the pain in his muscles still didn’t ease the pain in his heart, the pain seeping into his bones whenever he thought about you.

jason was still hesitant to be around his siblings.

you had left your perfume in his bathroom, and while he knows it sounds crazy, he's been spraying it on his clothes. he misses the way they would smell like you after you’d borrow them. he still hadn’t touched one of his flannels, the one you loved to steal and loved to see him in. he didn’t see the point in wearing it if you weren’t there to see it.

the last time he’d seen damian, his little brother had loudly asked him why he “smelled girly.”

jason had turned bright red and mumbled something probably unintelligible before briskly walking away, bumping into the doorframe on his way out.

he’s been spraying your perfume on the pillow you’d always use too, snuggling it close to his chest like he used to with you while he fell asleep.

it’s definitely not the same, but it’s the closest jason has to the real thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tim drake, your ex boyfriend, swiveled in his desk chair, spinning back and forth. the monitors covering the wall above his desk were alive with various video feeds and social media websites.

@user892548276 was viewing your instagram story, a gorgeous selfie of you that tim had already screenshotted. he had plans for that later. @gothamite69 was liking your latest tweet, while @ilovedoggiess couldn’t get enough of your latest tiktok.

he knew he had to switch up the users so you’d think it was bots. you’d figure it out otherwise. too bad he had a thing for smart people.

he nodded, satisfied at the cctv feed of the street your apartment building was on, before throwing a hoodie on over his bare chest. tim strolled into the kitchen, his sweats slung low on his hips. he ran a hand through his hair, using the other to grab the coffee pot to refill his mug.

“hey, tim. whatcha up to?” jason leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

tim jumped, turning around.

“just some surveillance, nothing much.” he replied, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

“ohh, that case for bats?”

“mmhm.” tim cracked his knuckles, something of a nervous habit he’d developed after the breakup. and his serious lack of sleep.

“well, i won’t keep you. tell y/n i said hi!”

tim flinched at the mention of you as jason left in the direction of the garage. it’s not his brother’s fault. jay had been really busy with the outlaws lately, never home long enough to realize tim hadn’t brought you over in weeks. tim scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. maybe it was the exhaustion muddling things, but tim can’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. it was already difficult falling asleep. it only made it worse that every time he did fall asleep he dreamed about you.

but dick had noticed. he had slowly transitioned tim’s assignments to mainly desk work. his older brother was probably worried about him being too tired on the field and getting hurt. but he hadn’t told bruce. tim preferred it that way. he didn’t need a big fuss about if he was okay or his performance level as a hero.

tim grabbed his mug, making his way back to his bedroom. he caught a glimpse of a dark figure in the window, spooking himself. he was on edge so much worse than usual. his reflection stared back at him, his face skinny and his eyebags dark against the pale skin of his cheeks.

tim shook his head, heading into his bedroom. he swayed a little, locking the door behind him. he set his mug on his desk, sitting down in his chair just in time to see you heading down the street.

he stood up so fast his chair rocketed back, hitting the wall. you usually don’t go out on thursday nights. is everything okay??

he types frantically, finding different angles to effectively follow you down the street, physically recoiling to see you stop at a restaurant. just another date.

you stopped, looking around, waving when you spot a blond guy walking towards you. tim enhances the best he can, zooming in on this asshole who thinks he’s good enough for you. tim scoffs out loud at the wrinkled shirt your date has on, looking ridiculous in comparison to your beauty.

the sundress you’re in is one of his favorites, red and white and flowery. he gulps down a sip of coffee at his screen when you turn around, the fabric hugging your body. he blinks, snapping out of it as your date ushers you into the restaurant. tim cracks his knuckles. he reaches for his phone, pulling up your contact. he itches to call you, to pull you out of the date you’re on, to make you think about him instead of that tool you’re with.

but he can’t. he shouldn’t.

he pulls up the screenshot of your story instead, staring at the selfie of you in his favorite sundress. his cock twitches against the fabric of his sweats. he can’t even count how many times he’s had you rutting against him with that dress hiked up to your waist.

he tosses his phone onto his bed, sitting back in his desk chair as he palms his cock, his brain full of thoughts of you.

you pressed up against him in a slinky dress as you slow dance at a wayne gala. waking up in your bed how the two of you fell asleep, naked, limbs intertwined. dancing in a gotham nightclub together, your hair in your face as you throw your arms up and swivel your hips in his direction in your shortest dress. the texts and pictures you’d been sending back and forth after the breakup, unable to let each other go.

tim throws his head back as he finishes, your name on his lips. his body rigid, the warm liquid all over his hands. he cleans himself off, staring into nothing until his computer dings at the motion detected on your street. you’re strutting down the sidewalk, the street empty. before you head inside your building, you stare into the cctv camera across the street. you wave, smiling coyly. tim sits up straighter, holding his breath. you hold up your thumb, and tim groans. that guy??

but you flip your thumb down at the camera, shaking your head. bad date.

tim whoops, beaming.

he shuts down his computer before flopping onto his bed, burrowing under the covers. five minutes later, he’s fast asleep as his coffee grows cold where it sits on his desk.

1K notes · View notes

dreamwritesimagines · 10 months ago

Text

Sunshine [5] - Dusk

AN: My loves, thank you so so much for your wonderful support and lovely comments and HCs! ❤️ You’re amazing! ❤️

I hope you like this as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! 🥰

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female!Reader

Summary: Some evenings come with threats.

Word Count: 4242

CW: Violence, explicit language, blood, threats

Series Masterlist

“I have no idea why you don’t like him.”

“Well, that makes two of us because I have no idea why you like him.”

You rolled your eyes at Jamie as you grabbed the coffee pot, then filled his cup while he pointed at you with his fork. The diner wasn’t very busy yet; you had the time to focus your full attention on him after taking a couple of orders to the tables, so you leaned on the counter, then stole a fry off his plate.

“Logan is nice.”

“Oh Logan is nice?” he repeated with a scoff. “He’s a giant ball of macho bullshit with no brains, that’s what he is.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh come on Jamie!”

“I’m serious,” he said as you crossed your arms to shoot him a lighthearted glare.

“You know, I wasn’t like this when you introduced Nik to me.”

“Nik is my soulmate,” he said without hesitation. “I doubt the brute caveman is your soulmate.”

“He's not a caveman.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“He just…he doesn’t look very friendly,” you said in a rush to defend him. “I’m aware of it but he’s been to wars and stuff, so it’s kinda expected—”

“Which is another red flag, sunshine,” Jamie insisted. “When was he born, you said?”

“1832.”

“You have a crush on Dracula: Lumberjack Edition?”

“He doesn’t give off vampire vibes!”

“No, he gives off werewolf vibes,” he said. “And just in case a certain popular franchise has escaped your notice, they’re both equally bad.”

You scrunched your nose up at him, still leaning to the counter while he sipped his coffee.

“What happened to the guy Nik set you up with?”

“Oh that date was a disaster,” you said with a shrug. “He talked about himself the whole time. I barely got two words in.”

“I hate when they do that,” he grumbled, making you smile.

“I swear to you Logan is not a bad guy,” you said. “He’s the furthest thing from that—which by the way, we might be just arguing over nothing. I honestly doubt he sees me that way.”

He shot you a look of disbelief.

“Sunshine.”

“No I really don’t think—”

“A lot of people you cross paths with see you that way.”

“You and Julie both say that but that’s because you’re my best friends.”

“No, that’s because we see how people look at you,” he said. “Unlike you.”

“Yeah but Logan—”

“Logan will make a move on you one of these days, and I think you should turn him down when he does.”

You wiggled your brows. “It’d be a bit difficult to turn him down while I’m climbing him like a tree.”

“Fuck him once and leave him.”

“I already decided what our future cabin in the woods will be like.”

He let out a groan, burying his face into his hands, making you giggle.

“If Logan and I start dating and that’s a huge if, considering I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me that way,” you said. “We’ll go on a double date with you and Nik, and you will see he’s actually the nicest guy in the entire world.”

“I hope he’s terrible in bed so that you will snap out of this,” he motioned at you as his phone vibrated, making him check it before he took a huge sip of his coffee, then stood up.

“Thank you so much for letting me borrow your car by the way,” he said. “It’s just that, Nik’s grandma needs a ride to the airport and…”

“It’s totally fine,” you said with a wave of your hand. “Don’t even mention it.”

“I’ll bring it tonight to your place.”

“Like I said, it’s totally fine,” you said. “Tell Nik’s grandma I said hi.”

“Will do,” he said, leaning over the counter to kiss your cheek, then walked out of the diner. You grabbed his plate and mug, but as soon as you entered the kitchen, the boss’ office door opened and he peeked his head out.

“Hey,” he said. “Bad news, Stacey can’t make it, she has the flu. Do you think you could close tonight?”

Shit.

Of course you had to close when you didn’t have a car.

You pressed your lips together, then forced yourself to smile before nodding your head.

“Yeah,” you said. “I can close tonight, no problem.”

Today was not going as planned, at all.

Creepy customers weren’t exactly new to you. You were pretty sure that everyone in service industry had to deal with them at one point or another, God knew you did. But usually, once you turned them down, they finished their meals and left without leaving you a tip.

They didn’t just sit there at the booth, staring at you for almost an hour.

Paul was by the grill as you walked into the kitchen and heaved a sigh, pressing your palms into your eyes, your heart beating in your throat.

It was fine. If he stayed there towards the closing time, you were just going to ask Paul to handle him, he was pretty good at that. He would deal with him, and afterwards you would just call a cab and go home and forget about today.

“You okay?” Paul asked and you dropped your hands, then nodded, clearing your throat.

“Um—yeah. Just tired I guess.”

“You sure?”

“Uh huh,” you said. “Slow day but I went to bed late, so…”

He grinned. “Your new boyfriend is keeping you up late?”

You let out a small laugh. “It’s nothing like that.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t even know if he likes me that way to be honest.”

“What, he just came to drive you home the other day out of the goodness in his heart?”

You nodded again. “Yeah. He’s nice.”

“Honey, I’m terribly sorry to shatter your trust in the goodness of us men, but we usually don’t do that just for any girl.”

“Yeah but Logan is nice,” you insisted. “Not to mention, he’s out of my league.”

“Did you break all the mirrors in your place or something?”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Paul.”

“Take it from a guy, Logan definitely wants to…” he wiggled his brows and you grabbed the table cloth, then tossed it at him for him to catch it in the air.

“That’s absolutely not true.”

“So your crush isn’t keeping you up, then what is?”

“Have you met me?” you asked him. “I run on stress.”

“You know what’s good for stress, right?” he asked with a smirk but as soon as he stole a look out of the small kitchen window into the diner, then pulled his brows together. “Did I Beetlejuice this motherfucker or something?”

“What?” you asked, turning your head to follow his line of sight, then gasped when you saw Logan walking to the counter to sit on a stool.

At first you were surprised at the relief that hit you out of nowhere so fast that it made your head spin, because normally whenever you were around Logan, your heart would be making flips, adrenaline rushing through you. It took you a moment to understand what it was, and once you did, you let out a breath.

It was safety.

Somehow, something in your body knew Logan being there meant you were completely safe.

You let out a breath and pushed open the door to step outside, then approached the counter.

“Hey,” you said, still slightly dizzy and Logan’s hazel eyes searched your face, his frown deepening.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“I could hear your heartbeat from a mile away,” he said. “What’s going on?”

You blinked a couple of times. “You recognize my heartbeat?”

“Yeah,” he said as if it was completely normal. “And I smelled your fear. So what’s going on?”

“You what?” you asked. “I smell like fear?”

“Not normally, but you do right now,” he said impatiently. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, trying to focus as you stole a look at the booth the creep was still sitting in, Logan turning his head to follow your glances.

“He, um…” you said, lowering your voice. “He wanted to know when I get off work, and—and I said no and he’s been sitting there for an hour, just staring.”

Logan’s eyebrows rose as if he was surprised by the guy’s audacity.

“And I close the diner tonight,” you whispered. “And I gave the car to Jamie because his boyfriend’s grandma has been staying with them, and she’s really nice except for when she made that one comment about me giving it up too—” you stopped yourself. “Sorry. Um, I don’t—”

“How about I drive you home tonight?” he cut you off, making you pull your brows together.

“You’d do that?”

The look he gave you was almost reprimanding as if he was offended by you asking a question when the answer was clear as day and you let out a relieved breath.

“Logan I…” you trailed off. “I don’t know how to thank you, you’re—you’re amazing, really.”

“You have no reason to thank me, princess,” he said, making your heart skip a beat.

“I have many reasons.”

“No, and don’t worry about that asshole,” he said, nodding in the direction of the booth before turning to you, “but you need to call me when this sort of bullshit happens.”

“I don’t have your number,” you said and he paused for a moment as if he hadn’t thought about that.

“Right,” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket before holding it out for you and you smiled, then took it from him. You entered your phone number, then sent yourself a quick text before handing him the phone back.

��There,” you said with a grin. “Now we have each other’s numbers. Technology isn’t so bad, huh?”

He gave you a small smile and you cleared your throat.

“So what can I get you?” you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to other in excitement, and he frowned for a moment.

“Any chance you’ve got some of that pie from earlier?”

“Sure!” you said. “I’ll be right back.”

You went into the kitchen and made your way to the counter to get out the pie, then cut a big slice to put it on the plate.

“Look at that, your mood is fixed for some reason,” Paul teased you and you scrunched up your nose at him, then grabbed the chocolate sauce bottle. You carefully drew the shape on the plate, your tongue sticking out from the corner of your mouth.

“So let me guess, he’s still not your boyfriend?”

You gave him a chiding look. “Don’t.”

“Hey, I’m asking to see if I need to set you up with one of my friends.”

“Oh I’ve met your friends,” you said with a laugh. “I’ll respectfully decline, thank you.”

“They’re pretty cool guys.”

“I guess I’m not cool,” you told him and picked up the plate, then pushed open the kitchen door to make your way to Logan who was sitting on the stool by the counter.

“There you go,” you said and put the plate in front of him. “You may be curious about what that shape is on the plate is.”

“Was just about to ask you about that.”

“That’s a cigar,” you pointed at it. “And there’s an X over it because cigars suck. And that’s a frowny face right next to it because to repeat, cigars suck.”

“I see,” he said with a small grin. “A very clear message.”

“Isn’t it?” you asked, stealing a look at the booth to check on the creep but the booth was completely empty. You blinked a couple of times before you turned to Logan.

“Logan?”

“Hm?”

“Where did that man go?”

He grabbed his fork. “He left.”

“…Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Your frown deepened. “Did you say something to him?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Just a small warning, that’s all.”

You could feel the relief filling your system as a smile warmed your face, making you bite at your lip.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered as he dug into the pie while you leaned against the counter, crossing your arms on it.

“So you were around then?” you asked. “When you heard my heartbeat?”

“Mm hm.”

“How do you know it’s my heartbeat and not someone else’s?”

“I recognize it,” he said, making you raise your brows.

“Is that—” you started but were distracted by a customer asking for a refill, so you grabbed the coffee pot, went to refill his coffee and walked behind the counter again. You pulled out a mug to fill Logan coffee, then put it in front of him.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Is that what you did during the French Revolution as well?”

“To repeat, I haven’t—” he started but then his lips curled into a smile upon seeing the teasing glint in your eyes. “Right. Seriously, what is this fascination with French Revolution?”

“I was weirdly into historical documentaries while pregnant with Theo,” you said. “Kinda stuck.”

“Ah.”

“Speaking of all that though, what was 19th century like?”

Logan took a sip of his coffee. “Foggy.”

“…Very descriptive, Dickens,” you said with a nod of your head. “Professor X should have you teach literature, you’d do wonders in prose.”

That made him chuckle before he took his fork into his mouth, and you smiled at him before walking to another table to take their order.

As the sky went dark and the closing time got closer, you realized that you hadn’t even been paying attention to the time. Paul had left an hour ago, so had all the customers but you were so lost in the excitement of spending time with Logan that if it weren’t for your phone vibrating on the counter, you wouldn’t have even noticed it was past the closing time.

“But yeah, he literally brought a kitten home from the street,” you said with a smile as you walked to get your coat. “The said kitten is now Nik and Jamie’s beloved son, but—what are you doing?”

Logan pulled out his wallet and motioned at the empty plate and the coffee mug, making you narrow your eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Princess—”

“I will threaten you, I don’t care if you’re invincible and like 200 years old.”

He tilted his head. “You’re threatening me with threatening me?”

“Yes,” you said. “I will kill you with kindness and also this knife I found in the kitchen if you try to pay for it.”

“You’re terrible at threatening people.”

“I know, I’m working on it,” you muttered as you grabbed the plate and the mug to put it on the counter of the kitchen through the small window, and by the time you turned around he had already placed some cash on where the plate just was.

“Logan!”

“Technically I’m not paying for it, I’m leaving a tip.”

“That tip is more than the check.”

“Well that’s—” he started before his head whipped around, the playful smile wiping off of his face as a car pulled over in front of the diner. He gritted his teeth, making you pull your brows together.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he said. “Just do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll step outside for a moment,” he said. “Stay here.”

Your heart started pounding in your chest. “What—what’s going on?”

“I swear to you, it’ll take only a moment,” he said, his voice completely calm as he stood up from the stool. “Don’t step outside, okay?”

“Hey asshole, I don’t appreciate being threatened!” A shout came from outside and you took a step back, panic making you dizzy upon recognizing the voice; it had to be the guy from earlier. “So I brought some friends! How about we show you some manners and then entertain your girl?”

You could feel your blood freezing in your veins and you grabbed your phone. “I’ll—I’ll call the cops—”

“Don’t,” Logan said. “They’ll only get in the way. I got it.”

“Logan…” you started but a metallic noise reached your ears as metal claws sprouted from his knuckles, making your eyes widen.

“What…”

“Stay here.”

“I-but—” you stammered but he had already walked out of the door, making you cover your mouth. Fear pounded through your system, your eyes filling with tears as you sniffled, then grabbed the knife on the counter and took a step to the closed door, but blood splattered over the huge window, soon followed by the panicked yelling of the newcomers. Your stomach churned as you swallowed thickly, then you wiped at your eyes and rushed to the door with the knife in your hand before you swung it open.

The view you were presented with looked like something out of a movie. Two of the guys writhing on the ground, one of the crawling to the car while the other looked like he was crying. The man from earlier was also on the ground, holding onto his face but you could see the blood dripping through his fingers as Logan retracted his claws, then held him from the back of his jacket and lifted him up.

“You’ve got something to say to her?” he growled, and the man let out a sob, then lowered his hands, your breath catching in your throat upon seeing the gashes on his face.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he managed to whimper through pain and Logan dropped him on his face unceremoniously, then turned to you.

“What’s the knife for?” he asked and you blinked a couple of times, forcing yourself to drag your gaze from the man.

“I was coming to save you,” you told Logan, making the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Yeah?” he asked as if humoring you and you nodded, then took a look at the men on the ground.

“Come on,” Logan said, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Let me take you home.”

You felt like you were in a haze as you rushed inside to put the knife back, grabbed your phone off the counter, then shut down the lights and closed the door behind you, locked it and turned to Logan again.

“…Shouldn’t we call someone?”

“Nope.”

“But what if you get in trouble because of—”

“I won’t,” Logan answered, gently leading you to the motorcycle, his hand on the small of your back. He put the helmet on your head and you got behind him on the bike, wrapping your arms around his waist to hold onto him tight.

The road to your home felt almost surreal. The panic still hadn’t left your system yet, your mind going overdrive with everything that could have gone wrong, or would go wrong if those creeps had decided to press charges on Logan. Even though he didn’t look worried at all, you were beginning to think you worried enough for the both of you.

And if something had happened to him, if they had gotten to him before he could beat them—

No.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to think about it.

You hadn’t even realized that your cheeks were wet with tears when he pulled over in front of your house, his head turning to the side when he heard you sniffling. You swung your leg over the seat to sit sideways on it and he got off the motorcycle to help you take off the helmet but as soon as he did, you pressed your palms on your eyes, biting inside your cheek to keep yourself under control.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, sniffling again as you lowered your hands before a shaky sigh left your lips. He lifted your chin with a curled finger, your eyes shooting up to his, your heart skipping a beat as he gently wiped at the tear under your eye.

“I’m sorry for scaring you off.”

The change in his tone was impossible to miss. That growl that had spilled from his lips while talking to that man was completely gone and now his deep voice was soft like honey, making you feel all warm inside. You blinked back the tears and shook your head fervently.

“You didn’t,” you said. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“But you’re scared.”

“Not of you,” you said, shaking your head again as you bit at your nail. “For you.”

That made him pull his brows together in confusion and you let out a breath.

“Logan, there were three people there,” you insisted. “They could’ve easily overpowered you—”

“That’s impossible.”

“They could’ve killed you!”

“Also impossible,” he said, a small chuckle escaping from his lips as if the idea was too absurd. “I told you before. I heal.”

“I’m sure there are exceptions to that, if they came up with a way—”

“Unless those guys were keeping a fully functioning high technology lab underneath the diner, they couldn’t,” he said. “Me getting hurt was not a possibility there, and the only reason they’re alive is because you were there. That’s it.”

You sniffled again.

“But did I make you betray a principle or something?”

“What?”

“Because the secretary of Mutant Affairs held a press conference the other day and he—”

“Hank?”

“Hank McCoy, yes. You know him?”

“Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Well, he talked about how mutants have this principle—”

A dry chuckle climbed up his throat.

“I don’t have any principles when it comes to assholes like those,” he said, a shadow crossing his handsome face. “But nobody gets to hurt you or threaten you. That’s the principle here.”

Your head was spinning again for a completely different reason and you took a trembling breath, stealing a look at the building behind you before looking up to his hazel eyes, your heart beating in your throat.

“Would you like to—” you started but before you could invite him to your apartment, a car flashed its headlights at you two, making you turn your head to look at it.

Oh.

Your car.

Jamie was in the driver’s seat and he frowned slightly before he stopped the car and Nik leaned out from the open passenger seat window.

“Hey Sunshine!” he said. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

You closed your eyes for a moment before opening them again, then licked your lips.

“It’s on mute, I didn’t hear,” you said. “Uh, Logan, this is Nik, Jamie’s boyfriend. Nik, this is Logan, my…my friend.”

Nik gave him a grin as he eyed him up and down.

“Nice to meet you Logan,” he said before turning to you. “Get in, we’re taking you out to dinner. Your friend can come too if he’d like.”

You glanced up at Logan, biting at your lip and he took a deep breath, then cleared his throat as if trying to snap out of a haze.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am,” you said. “I just didn’t know they were coming—but um, would you like to join us? Nik is an expert when it comes to restaurants, he knows all the great ones.”

Logan shook his head.

“I’d better go,” he said. “It’ll be easier to track those guys down while they’re still bleeding.”

You blinked a couple of times. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll make sure they understand they shouldn’t cross paths with you ever again,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s all.”

You hesitated only for a moment before you stood on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck to hug him, resting your forehead against his hard chest, the scent of pines and smoke surrounding you in the most pleasant way. He cradled the back of your head with one hand while his other arm sneaked around your waist and he nuzzled his nose into your hair to inhale deeply, making your heartbeat faster. Even though you felt like you could happily spend your whole life in his arms, you knew you had to step back especially with Jamie and Nik right there, so you slowly pulled back to look up at him. His hazel gaze went down to your lips for a moment before snapping back to your eyes and you swallowed thickly.

“Thanks,” you managed to say. “For…you know.”

“No problem, princess,” he said softly and stepped back as well, then nodded in Jamie’s direction before getting on the motorcycle.

“Be careful,” he said and you let out a small laugh.

“Likewise,” you said before he drove off and you shifted your weight before making your way to the car. You opened the door and got in the backseat, then slammed the door shut as Nik turned to look at you over his shoulder.

“Hi honey.”

“Hi Nik. Hi Jamie.”

“So that was Logan?” Nik asked and Jamie scoffed as he started the car.

“Yep. That’s the asshole I told you about.”

“Well, neither of you told me he was that hot,” Nik pointed out, grinning at you. “Did we interrupt something?”

You wiped at your nose, then shook your head. “Um, no.”

Jamie took a look at you from the rear mirror, then frowned.

“If that asshole made you cry, I swear—”

“He didn’t,” you said in a rush and buckled your seat belt. “I’ll tell you on the way. What are we eating?”

6 - Middle of the Night

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #deadpool #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool 3 #wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan wolverine #logan x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #james howlett #logan howlett imagine #logan x you #james logan howlett

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lemonlover1110 · 2 years ago

Text

𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑

Toji Fushiguro

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: Ever since you spilled coffee on your co-worker, you find yourself getting in compromising situations with him.

Warnings: MDNI, smut, co-worker Toji, office sex, oral sex (m. receiving), gagging, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, praise, semi-public sex(?? they're in the janitor's closet in the first part and there's people outside)

*Finally the last one!!! thank you all so much for 10k again🥹 I'm almost at 13k now so thank you all so much for your support, I love you all so very much

10k Event Masterlist

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Apart from his name, you don’t know anything about the man you work with. Toji sits next to you eight hours a day, yet you’ve never gotten to properly know him. You have no idea if he’s married, if he has kids, a pet– What waits for him when he gets home? Does he have any hobbies? The only time you ever talk is about work, and you typically wouldn’t care about knowing your coworkers if it weren’t for the fact that you constantly find yourself daydreaming over Toji.

What you like the most about Toji may be the fact that he barely speaks since it leaves you questioning everything about his personality. You make a perfect version of your co-worker in your head which has you head over heels for him. It certainly doesn’t help that Toji is exactly the type of man who you want behind you, fucking you senseless.

You hate to have those types of thoughts in the middle of the day, and worst of all, you’re mindlessly staring at him, and it’s too late to turn away when he asks you what’s wrong. He clears his throat, and you feel your face burning hot when he asks, “Is everything okay? Do I have something on my shirt?”

“Oh– No! Sorry…” You can’t play it off much since you stared at him like a lovesick teenage girl. You try to ignore the awkward interaction by looking back at your computer, trying to go back to work, trying to ignore the very embarrassing fact that Toji caught you daydreaming.

You feel his eyes on you as you turn back to your work, and you swear you could crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before Toji turns his attention back to his own job. You don’t stress about it, completely forgetting about the awkward interaction after five minutes.

You work fine throughout the afternoon, and when you finally get out of your chair to take a break, you bump into him. Toji’s coffee spills all over his white button up shirt, making a gasp leave your lips. Toji doesn’t have much of a reaction even though the coffee looks hot. Your immediate reaction is to rub your long sleeve on his shirt to try to clean it up. You’re repeating, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I should watch where I’m going.”

“It’s fine. You’re fine.” Toji just holds his arms up as if he were being threatened by a gun. Toji isn’t a man that gets flustered easily but by the way you’re unintentionally touching him to clean him up, his cheeks burn. “It’s fine, really. I’ll just clean up in the bathroom–”

“I’m sorry.” You jerk back when you realize just how much you’ve been touching him without his permission. He lets out a chuckle, making it seem that it’s fine. It was an honest mistake, he surely doesn’t mind if a pretty girl bumps into him… Now, if it was one of the old guys that work in the office, it’d be a whole different story. You watch him walk away, mentally cursing at yourself for being so fucking dumb.

You notice the mess on the floor and you tiptoe around it to go to the janitor’s closet and get some stuff to clean it up. You enter the small room, turning on the light to look for some paper towels. You click your tongue, seeing that they’re on the top shelf.

You stand on your tippy toes trying to reach a roll but they’re too far back for you. Would it be too embarrassing to jump? Nobody is watching… Just when you’re about to jump, you feel a body pressed against your back. Your head slowly turns, and luckily, you find your handsome co-worker, grabbing the paper towel for you.

“Here you go.” He gives it to you when you turn around, and you awkwardly smile at him as you take it from his hand.

“Thank you, Fushiguro. Again, I’m so sorry.” You repeat. You feel your heart skip a beat when you realize just how close he is, hearing him breathe and feeling the warmth that his body gives. His dark green eyes are filled with lust, and he makes no effort in disguising it. You’re flattered, really, but this isn’t appropriate considering where you’re at.

“Please, call me Toji.” He licks his lips, and you feel as if you’re burning up. The heat his body emits really doesn’t help you cool you down either. Your eyes look at the door that’s closed for a reason… It’s locked.

You’ve imagined this scenario one too many times, and you always imagined yourself as the most confident woman in the world– But as it happens to you, you’re too shy to really do anything. “I’ve seen the way you look at me… And thought of a way your pretty face could make up for my ruined shirt.”

“Toji…” Is all that manages to leave your pathetic lips. You’re not scared, your body is practically begging for his touch. “It’s not appropriate to do what you want to do here.”

“Why not? The door is locked.” He says as he grabs your hand and puts it on his belt. His lips meet yours, his tongue going past your lips and wandering around in your mouth before it presses against yours. He’s just like you imagined, intoxicating.

Your hands begin to move on their own, undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. You can’t take too long since you have to get back to work soon, it’ll be quick, hopefully. You pull away from the kiss, getting on your knees. You pull down his briefs, letting his cock free from its confinement. It’s more than you expected.

You lick your lip before biting down and looking up at him. He has a smirk on his face as he waits for you to do more than just stare. Your tongue licks up from the base to the tip before fully wrapping your mouth around it, taking as much as you can get.

You bob your head slowly, starting off slow. And as Toji feels your pretty little mouth wrapped around his cock, he thinks that maybe this wasn’t his brightest idea. He lets out a breathy moan, feeling so good. Your bobs begin to pick up a bit of speed, and the man stops talking for a second to enjoy the feeling of your mouth wrapped around his cock.

“You look so pretty on your knees like that. You’re just a pretty little thing.” He sighs, relieved. He decides to bite his bottom lip, holding back moans so the whole office doesn’t hear him as you suck him off. “Your mouth feels so fucking good.”

You look up at him, pleased with what you’re doing. You’re doing what you’ve always thought of doing with him– But you’re in the office. You can’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be heard. But he got a bit too caught up, enjoying the feeling of your mouth and your tongue.

He grabs the back of your head and pushes your head so you gag on his cock. It’s your punishment for ruining his shirt. Your gagging is like music to his ears, the greatest melody he has ever heard.

“Fuck– Fuck-” He moans as a couple of tears leave your eyes. He begins to move his hips, which he finds more fun than just pushing your head on his cock. “God, such a pretty girl taking my cock.”

He’s completely forgotten about the fact that you’re in the office, and he’s getting loud. He’s staring down at you, admiring just how beautiful you look with your mouth wrapped around him. He lets out a groan, filling your mouth with his cum.

He finally lets go of your head, and you take your mouth off his cock. You swallow most of his cum, but some of it manages to escape and it drips down the corners of your mouth. Toji bends down to clean it up, pressing you to open your mouth so he can wipe the remaining cum on your tongue.

“You have to fix your makeup, by the way. I’ll see you out there.” Toji says, fixing his pants before unlocking the door and leaving you to fix yourself up.

You’d definitely be mad being left alone so fast after sucking a guy off, but you can’t be mad at him. If anything, it makes you want him even more.

“Hey, can you help me with this?” Toji asks, eyes focused on the new program that you’re working with. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t know how to use it– Not that you want to be rude but it makes sense.

After your little encounter in the janitor’s closet, Toji hasn’t really tried to do anything else with you. You were slightly disappointed but you managed to move on. What really worried you was any of your co-workers hearing how he moaned while you two just managed to be locked in the janitor’s closet. What really made things confusing was the fact that you came back with no paper towels even though you were going to clean up the mess you just made.

“Yeah sure.” You’re sure that it won’t take too long. You’re off in around thirty minutes, teaching him shouldn’t take longer than five minutes.

At least that’s what you thought, it seems that Toji isn’t smart enough to catch on with it quickly. Your co-workers begin to leave one by one, and when you’re the last ones in the office, you’re convinced that Toji isn’t even qualified for the job. Until you realize that Toji isn’t even paying attention, his eyes have been ogling your cleavage the entire time… It’s not like you can even blame the poor guy since your boobs have been practically on his face the entire time.

“Should we continue this tomorrow? It seems your eyes are elsewhere.” You point out, and he lets out a chuckle.

“I agree. We should continue with that tomorrow. I need help with something else though.” Toji says, clicking out of the program.

“Can we do it tomorrow–” You begin but he shakes his head. You furrow your brows in confusion as you watch him turn off the computer. What exactly does he need help with?

Toji stands up from his chair, taking two steps to get close to you before his hand goes under your chin and he makes you look up at him. It clicks right there and then. Toji didn’t need to learn how to use the program, he just wanted to get you all alone in the office.

“I don’t think this issue can wait till tomorrow.” His voice becomes husky, and you squeeze your thighs out of reflex. You’re not planning on fighting it. He’s been flirtatious with you all morning, and you’ve been thinking of him a million different positions he can put you in… Curse your dirty mind.

“Does it really? I thought you didn’t even want me after… Well, you know, the incident in the janitor’s closet. You didn’t even try to make a move on me after.” You point out, and Toji laughs. You don’t exactly find what’s funny about this. “What’s funny?”

“Maybe you’re just not available for me. You’re always going out with everyone else, what do you want me to do? Steal you from them? Let them know I want to fuck the shit out of you?” He answers. And maybe he’s right, you have been going out with your other co-workers after work to get a drink, and when it’s not that, he’s out of the office. You really haven’t given him much of a chance to ask you out or let him fuck you after work.

You won’t admit you’re at fault, therefore you decide to move your hands to the back of his head.

“Just shut up and kiss me.” You tell him, pulling him into a kiss. It’s not worth spending time arguing any longer since you two clearly want to do something that doesn’t involve much talking. While your tongues press against each other, his hands move under your ass to lift you up and put you on his desk.

As he kisses you passionately, his hand goes to your thigh, caressing the soft flesh that your skirt exposes. His hand goes up to your panties, toying with your clothed cunt, working you up. He moves your panties to the side, running his fingers through your already slick folds. He pulls away with a smirk on his face, only to say, “You’re already so wet for me, pretty girl. But I haven’t done anything?”

“Shut up.” You sound embarrassed, and you are. Just the thought of him fucking you is enough to make you go crazy.

He pushes two fingers into your cunt, his lips landing on yours again. His tongue glides over yours while he curves his fingers, searching for your sweet spot. He knows when he finds it, feeling a moan through your tongue.

His fingers toy with you, while his free hand frees his cock. He pulls his fingers out when his cock is free. He runs the tip through your folds, and he begins to tease you. You hold your breath in anticipation, waiting ever so patiently for Toji to bury himself inside of you.

You breathe in as he pushes himself inside of you. He lets out a breathy moan as your walls wrap around his cock. Fuck, he didn’t think you would feel so tight and warm around him… Oh fuck, this is too fucking good. How did he not fuck you in the janitor’s closet immediately?

His cock slowly stretches you out, and you bite your bottom lip, holding back from being loud. There’s no one around, but you still don’t want to draw any attention to yourself.

Toji starts off slow but quickly picks up speed. You’re taking him so well, and fuck, do you look beautiful. He’s surprised he hadn’t made a move sooner– But he couldn’t, he had no way of knowing that you liked him. Not until he caught you daydreaming while staring at him.

“You’re so fucking pretty.” He tells you as his head goes to the crook of your neck. He licks it before biting down lightly. His head remains buried on your neck, where he lets his moans out so they come out muffled. “And your pussy is so fucking tight.”

He’s too lost in pleasure to even have noticed how your hand had gone down and now you’re playing with your clit. He hears your sweet moans in the air, which is truly the best music that has ever graced his ears. Fuck, he could ask you to marry him right then and there just to hear that every morning and night.

“Oh fuck, Toji–” Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. Toji’s hitting just the right spot, and he doesn’t even know it. You’re squeezing around him as your orgasm nears. You had many ideas on how your work day would end, but you truly didn’t expect to be on cloud nine when it ended.

Thank the heavens for Toji. That’s all you can think about when you reach your high, loudly moaning his name which echoes in the empty office building.

Toji’s breath gets caught up in his chest, his thrusts getting sloppy as his release approaches. He doesn’t want this to end yet– But maybe he could invite you out to dinner and then take you back to his place. The night doesn’t have to end so soon…

His nails dig into the soft flesh of your thighs as he reaches his release, his hot cum filling you up. Toji remains buried inside of you for a moment, while you both take a moment to regulate your breath. He pulls out and fixes your panties quickly before his cum gets everywhere.

You’re both quiet as you gather your stuff to leave. You wait for each other to go to the elevator, and even when you’re inside the lift, you’re awfully quiet for a pair of people that just had sex.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” You smile at Toji when you get to your floor. He grabs your hand before you can walk away and he proposes,

“Let’s actually grab a drink.”

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