#getting me back into the swing of writing

[bitterballad]

10 Things you hate about Clark Kent.

━━━ © bitterballad

PLOT! You had just moved to Metropolis from Gotham after quitting the Gotham Gazette. You thought it would be a breeze. But there's 10 things about your coworker that irk you more than you ever thought.

WARNINGS! corenswet!clark. gotham!reader. clark is kinda submissive in this... sorry. overstimulating. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v (wrap b4 u tap). kinda service top clark? but he gets submissive.

NOTES! i watched superman with my boyfriend and i need to dick down clark with every bone in my body. i had sm fun writing this. thank you to my baby girls out there, i see u. word count is 7.2k btw!

1. You hate that he’s always late.

Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom. 

You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Clark Kent.

He’s late.

Every. Damn. Day.

You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.

You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”

Clark wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels. 

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”

There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it. 

You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Lois. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Lois laughs it off. Perry yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Cat calls him “Smallville” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his incompetence. 

But you?

You are not charmed.

You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.

Again!

“You’ve been late every day this week, Kent,” you mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” he says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask. 

Almost.

Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”

He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.

And most of all?

You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.

2. You hate his 'aw shucks' act.

If Clark Kent’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it. 

Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Carol from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.

People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him. 

You do not.

Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Kansas” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.

You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.

So when he chuckles nervously after Lois slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:

“Oh, give me a break!”

Clark turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”

You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”

His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”

You scoff. “Of course he did,” you mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”

“I’m from Smallville,” he says, like that explains everything.

You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Smallville. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”

Clark shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” he offers gently.

You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”

He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.

He is harmless.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Clark? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Clark is very good at it.

You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.

And that makes you want to scream.

3. You hate how he somehow always got the exclusive.

There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman

But somehow, Clark Kent just gets them.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Perry’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.

It’s infuriating.

You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Lois couldn’t get close. And she's Lois!

But the next morning?

There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Clark Kent.

You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.

“He said that?” you asked Clark across the bullpen.

Clark blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”

Clark smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”

You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.

A few times?

Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Clark Kent.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Perry still passes them over in favor of Clark’s Superman exclusives.

You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.

Clark just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”

Trusts him.

Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.

You stare across the bullpen now, watching Clark quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird. 

And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.

You hate it.

You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up. 

No one sees Clark talking to Superman.

And yet Clark knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Clark Kent is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.

And you don’t believe in luck.

4. You hate that he doesn't talk shit.

Newsrooms run on gossip.

That’s just a fact.

You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.

Except Clark.

Clark doesn’t talk shit.

At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.

Lois stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Clark, ready.

Nothing.

He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”

You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”

Clark smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”

You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed, Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”

He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.

It keeps happening.

Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Clark to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.

When Jimmy blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Clark hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jimmy a coffee the next morning with no explanation.

You don’t get it.

You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.

Clark? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.

It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite. 

You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.

Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.

He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?

Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.

When Perry has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Clark doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Perry to breathe.

When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.

You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.

You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.

You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.

You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.

You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.

You shake yourself.

No.

This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.

It’s not.

You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.

5. You hate how he remembers everything you say.

You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.

You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.

Clark Kent doesn’t see it that way.

You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolise comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.

The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”

You blinked at him

“You remembered that?” you asked, caught off guard.

Clark shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”

You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.

Because the pattern kept happening.

You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”

You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”

You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that one one’s used the word since.

He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.

You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Clark? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.

And maybe that’s what bothers you most.

Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.

Not really.

Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Clark listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of your in his head, one brushstroke at a time.

And you despise it.

You hate that it makes you feel seen. 

You hate that it makes you feel real.

You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.

You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped Kansas mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.

You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.

You remember that his middle name is Joseph, but he doesn’t like it because it was his dad’s.

You remember way too much.

So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.

6. You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.

There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.

Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.

But that’s not how Clark looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.

Just you.

And it drives you batshit crazy.

Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.

And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.

7. You hate how nervous he makes you.

You’re not nervous around people.

You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.

But Clark makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.

Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Clark stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose. 

And lately… you’ve been messing things up.

You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.

You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.

You called him Clark and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.

When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.

You like him.

God, you like him.

You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.

You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.

You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.

Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.

8. You hate how he’s Superman.

You almost died today.

Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.

You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.

But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.

It didn’t.

It was coming right for you.

And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.

He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—

Him. 

Superman.

He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.

He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.

He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.

That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.

You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?

It rattled you.

And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.

The way he looked at you.

Like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And then your fingers stopped moving.

Because you’d seen that look before.

Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar. 

Clark had looked at you like that.

You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.

You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jimmy had taken at Lois’s birthday last month. Clark, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.

Your heart sank.

No.

You looked again. 

You zoomed in.

And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.

Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.

You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Clark. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Clark. Now you’re not sure where Clark ends and Superman begins.

And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.

9. You hate how he touches you.

You told yourself it was for the story.

That inviting Clark over to your apartment — late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual — was journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”

But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Clark knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.

He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”

“An article,” you said, breezy. “About Superman.”

And God, you said his name like a test.

Clark blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.

You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there — not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew — knew — it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.

You kept waiting for him to lie.

He didn’t.

So you forced his hand.

You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”

Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t laugh it off.

He just looked at you.

And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.

“You’ve known?” he asked quietly.

“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something — or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.

“I never meant to lie,” he said. “Not to you.”

“But you did,” you replied. “Every day.”

And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.

Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you — really saw you — even before you ever knew who he was.

And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own — gentle, grounding, warm.

You hated it.

You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“I should be.”

He swallowed. “Are you?”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.

Clark Kent. Superman. Both. All.

And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.

You stood.

He stood too.

You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.

But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours — when he hesitated, like he needed your permission — and when you didn’t stop him—

His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.

You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him — and not just the cape. Not just the secret.

Him.

Clark.

You pulled him closer.

And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable. 

But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.

Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.

No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.

You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.

You push him toward the bedroom.

He lets you.

You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your helps down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”

His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.

“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate that you touched me like I mattered, like you meant it.”

“God,” he breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”

“I hate you, Kent.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.

“Tell me where you want me,” he rasps.

You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”

His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.

His mouth is on you in seconds.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.

“Fuck—Clark—”

He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”

He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you.

The thought makes you whine.

It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.

He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.

“You’re close,” he whispers against you. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you pant.

“I’ll die happy.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Clark doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.

You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” you manage.

He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”

And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.

And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.

You blink. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”

You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. 

You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.

“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”

You’re still trembling from the first wave when Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.

You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone, chest—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.

You whimper, and the sound sends a shudder right through him. He nips at your inner thigh, then drags his tongue over your clit again, slower, more torturous. You didn’t even notice that he pulled out. Your legs shake uncontrollably, and he groans. A ragged, desperate sound, a whimper escaping past his lips.

“Please,” you breathe, and he smiles like you just handed him the universe.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down.

His fingers slide inside you, circling, pressing that one perfect spot that makes your back arch and your breath catch in your throat. “God,” he pants, his mouth pressing wet kisses along your hipbone.

You’re drowning in pleasure, desperate for release. But Clark pulls back suddenly, his eyes dark and gleaming. “Not yet.”

You glare at him, frustrated and needy.

“You’re going to remember this,” he promises, voice low and intense. “Every damn moment.”

His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin. 

Another wave crashes through you, your body shaking with the force of it. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, he keeps licking, sucking, teasing until your hips buck wildly and you're crying out his name, desperate and undone.

He hums—a deep, satisfied sound—as he pulls you into a long, slow kiss, tongue swirling around yours, possessive and needy.

“Round three,” he whispers against your lips, voice shaky but still full of hunger. “I’m not done with you.”

You shiver, heart pounding as he slides his hands under your shirt again, fingertips tracing fire trails across your ribs. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. Your body still singing from the last orgasm Clark coaxed out of you. But he’s not done. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.

He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.

His fingers shake as they ghost over your hips, then he trails a slow and reverent path back up his own body, touching himself briefly. You watch, breath hitching, as his hands work, fingertips teasing, tentative.

He looks up, eyes pleading.

You reach for him, your hands bold now, fingers wrapping around the hard length. He whimpers, a soft and needy sound, and his hips jerk forward, pressing into your grip.

You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you tug his jeans down just enough to free him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.

Clark’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.

You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”

His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.

He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.

“Please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice breathy and broken. 

Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.

He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.

Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry. 

You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.

10. You hate that you love him.

You told yourself it wasn’t possible.

Not with Clark Kent—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.

And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.

You hate him.

You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.

You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.

He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.

 You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”

He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” he says. “Superman’s on vacation.”

Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”

He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”

You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”

He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”

He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.

“We should get breakfast,” he says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”

You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”

He scowls in mock horror. “Not real humans dislike cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”

He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”

A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.

But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.

You clear your throat. “But seriously—I hate that I love you.”

He stills beside you. Heartbeat thunders under his palm.

“You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”

Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”

He nods. “In five seconds.”

You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Clark. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.

In that moment, all the hate evaporates.

“We’re a mess,” you laugh softly, looking away.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”

He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.

And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

taglist: @ickbite @halfwayhearted @pedriache @n4wst4r @crs6n

[kaitlyn-imagines]

Any thoughts on the Saja Boys X protective reader? Like, they’re normally calm, chill and soft but the minute someone tries to fight or start a problem, they’re ready and will swing if necessary.

This reader isn’t afraid to throw hands and the Saja Boys have to hold them back.

Hopefully I interpreted this right, sorry if not! Genuinely loved writing this tho hehe, I'm not super confrontational myself, so it was fun writing a reader who'll serve up knuckle sandwiches... >:) (Also cracking up w/ this cover image, I'm just imaging rage-baited reader as the water demon FQJDSKFALS HAHA)

Saja Boys w/ a hot-headed / 'take no shit' reader:

Jinu:

He was used to seeing you carry yourself with a calm and collected composure. You were always nice and friendly to him and others, so he never really thought twice about it.

That is, until the grocery store incident.

You were reaching for the last package of your favorite snack—your hands were already around it, picking it up—when some middle-aged woman snatched it from you, nearly ripping it open in the process. Needless to say, this did not fly with you.

Jinu was stunned to say the least when you snatched the package right back, your expression suddenly confrontational and fierce as you told the woman off.

Things started to escalate when the entitled woman wouldn’t back down, and Jinu was jolted into action once the shock of your personality-switch wore off.

Cue him trying to mediate, a little panicked by the stares you all were getting with this public scene. Finally, he just mutters a stiff apology to the woman, dragging you—and the snack you were death-gripping—away.

Once you’ve cooled off a bit, he’ll try to lighten the mood, teasing you for being ‘hangry.’

“Remind me to stay on your good side…”

Abby:

He genuinely thinks it’s so funny when you get all riled up! Has half a mind to just let you kick whoever’s sorry ass was foolish enough to tick you off.

He’ll let you go off on anyone, but the moment it starts to look a little hairy, he’s pulling you away before a punch gets thrown. He’s not about to let things get physical and risk you getting hurt.

He’s pretty strong, so he has no issue hauling you away even as you’re fighting tooth and nail to go claw your opponent’s eyes out. If you’re particularly feisty, he’ll even heft you up on his shoulder to physically carry you out of the fray.

He’s grinning the whole time though, loves that you can hold your own in an argument.

He trusts you to take care of yourself, but don’t expect him to just stand by if some jerk starts messing with you. He’s intimidating, so you’ve got scary dog privilege.

Because he’s an ass, he’ll annoy you when he’s bored just so you might snap at him with that fire he loves so much.

Baby:

He’s fairly indifferent and nonchalant to most things, not really giving much weight to those who might try to set him off kilter. On the contrary, he’s usually the one who’s getting under people’s skin with very little effort, much to his infinite amusement.

Though, despite his affinity for mischief and goading people, he tends to do it less so with you. The perks of him liking you, I guess.

If someone manages to tick you off, he doesn’t really bother trying to step in—he’ll just watch with mild interest. He’ll only pull you away or intervene if he senses you might get yourself hurt or in some hot water, otherwise he’s content to just let you loose and watch the chaos unfold.

He thinks it’s funny when you give someone a verbal lashing…you’re good at it too!

You could step in and slap a drunk asshole at the bar for harassing some poor girl, and when some panicked stander-by runs up to Baby like “don’t you know them?! Do something!” Baby’ll just shrug and be like “eh, the guy kind of deserved it.”

Romance:

He enjoys both sides of your personality—the soft and calm parts, and the fierce and aggressive parts. It’s like fire and rain, and he thinks the contrast is something to admire.

That said, he’s pretty good at avoiding your wrath, and at helping to deescalate things. He can talk you down with practiced ease, and help you decide when a confrontation is worth it or not.

He’s thankful for this superpower of his, because he definitely worries that you might get in over your head one of these times.

Not that he doubts you can’t handle yourself…but what if you run into the wrong person? The other day, he heard on the news about some road rage that turned fatal. There were crazy people out there!

He’s plenty content to just listen to you rant with his cheek leaned against his palm, watching your cheeks get rosy with agitation as you recount how your coworker kept acting terrible and getting on your nerves.

After a while, you’ll notice that he has this dreamy smile on his face, and it’ll catch you off-guard. “What?” you’ll ask, confused and thrown by the expression.

And he’ll smirk and sigh adoringly. “Nothing,” he’ll say, and then ask you to continue.

Mystery:

He can read your emotions pretty easily without you having to tell him anything. Your body language, your tone, your expressions…he knows them all, intimately. He also tends to feed off of your emotions…so when you’re calm, he’s calm. When you’re riled up, he’ll get riled up too.

It’s not something he consciously does—but he’s attached to you, and this will come with certain peculiar behaviors. He gets protective, so if someone disrupts your peace, he’s quick to go up to bat and defend you.

Deescalation? Huh? What’s that?

Heaven forbid you get into an argument with someone, because the second he senses you tensing up, he’s going feral. Growling, hackles raised, physically putting his body between you and the perceived threat…

If your wrath isn’t enough to scare off the poor soul, Mystery’s unhinged behavior in addition is definitely going to have them backing down and turning tail.

His show of solidarity comes from a good place, but he’ll usually end up even more agitated than you by the end of it… and you’ll have to compose yourself and calm down for the both of you.

This can get tiring overtime, since you just want to feel upset sometimes without having to worry about how he’ll react.

[machinemonstrosity]

DOWN, DOG | gasharpoon!john doe x reader

WARNINGS - MILDLY SUGGESTIVE(???) , descriptions of blood and violence , canon-typical violence , she/he used interchangeably for john ahab , potentially ooc ahab , reader is a sentinel , crazy old woman alert

You have an up close and personal encounter with the Captain.

w/c - 784

a/n - i have been seeing more fics pop up for gasharpoon on tumblr and ao3 within the last few days, and it finally pushed me to try writing a little bit for her myself :] i love that evil whaling captain............

Her unmistakable command rings in your ears.

“Fight me.”

Captain John Ahab looms over your huddled form, sword clutched tightly in your hands and back pressed firmly against the wall. Blood drips from her coat and claws, leaving a macabre trail of evidence of the recent massacre. It was after narrowly escaping her clutches three or so times and witnessing the mangling of your teammates did you manage to get cornered, lungs burning for air and sweat beading down your forehead.

You entirely expected her harpoon to have impaled your skull by now, gutted and thrown aside like the rest before she moved on.

So why was she asking — demanding you to fight?

Raising your sword, a wary expression crosses your face. Tongue swiping across your dry lips, another harsh bark cuts you off right as your mouth opens.

“You can't even stand up straight.” John laughed, extending a clawed finger to your blade. It drags along the edge with a grating shriek, causing you to squint your eyes in disgust. “And here I thought you were meant to protect your little teammates. How pathetic.”

Trying to swallow the lump in your throat, your voice eventually finds purchase, climbing its way to brief freedom from Ahab's scrutiny.

“What do you want? Why haven't you killed me?”

He laughs again.

“I already told you what I want. After all, what use is wielding the blade if you cannot muster the courage to use it? Have your friends died, fought in vain, because of your cowardice?”

Taking a step forward, his metallic peg leg thuds loudly on the shipwrecked floor. How ironic; getting hunted by a sailor on Pirate Bay.

As he stalks closer, his jarring height becomes apparent. She's huge — much larger than any normal person has any right to be. Just her hand alone could cover your entire face, maybe wrap a decent way around your midsection if you excluded the length of her claws. Your generous estimate was at least eight feet tall.

The slam of her palm laid flat on a splintered support beam snaps you back to reality.

“They're dead.” Ahab sneers. “They're dead, and it's your fault.”

Her body shifts, heaving her giant harpoon up to your chest. The tip is poised straight at your heart, already threatening to tear the fabric of your shirt. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume your heart was trying to willingly become a kebab with how hard it thumped against your ribcage.

“Go on. Slice my head off. Flay me alive. You know you won't.”

Blood drips onto you, staining your clothes and trickling down your arms. Your grip tightens on the hilt of your sword, nails grinding into the wedges of the intricate carvings.

And then — finally, finally, in a blur of motion, you swing.

You swing with all your might, aiming for the neck. Yelling in both anger and desperation, the blade glints faintly under the flickering lantern light, swiftly cutting through the cold air. Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself to avert your gaze, awaiting the sensation of flesh giving to steel.

So when you felt the blunt pause of your sword, finding John to have caught it mid-slash…

“Foolish little creature.”

Your blade is roughly yanked away, held up high over your head. You almost thought he was going to use it on you before it's carelessly tossed aside, clattering to the ground. Instead, his hand shoots out, snaking around your wrists and trapping your hands in a vice.

Clicking his tongue in a similar fashion to a disappointed parent, he squeezes your restrained limbs just shy of pain, giggling whenever you yelp. Struggling only wasted stamina and made him grin wider, relishing in every helpless squirm and twitch. Your stone-faced facade collapsed like a house of cards under the weight of her strength.

“No wonder you couldn't save anybody! You're even more miserable than I thought.” Ahab croons, her voice taking on a mockingly soothing edge. It might've been half believable if she wasn't on the verge of breaking into a maniacal cackle.

“Although…”

She leans in, head ducking down to be level with yours. You feel her claws raking down your hands, coaxing another broken whine. Twisting your head back in an attempt to avoid the humid gusts of breath blown your way, a pair of lips find the perfect opportunity to rest on your fluttering pulse.

John's voice lowers to a dangerous whisper.

“Perhaps your Captain likes you that way.”

You hear a hiss of steam as her harpoon takes the fatal plunge.

And you could have sworn you felt the slightest caress of her lips on your heated skin through the explosion of pain.

[svtiddiess]

"Do you think they will like it?” “They will love it!”

Deokyeom (like could it be first time meeting his parents type of thing)

You could write anything tho whatever idea pleases you

"Do You Think They Will Like It?" "They Will Love It!"

Pairing: Dokyeom x afab!reader

Genre: fluff, established relationship, drabble

Rating: sfw

Word count: 0.4k

You fidget with the gift box in your hands, nerves crashing over you like waves. Your fingers keep smoothing over the wrapping paper, checking and rechecking every fold. You'd gone all out—sourcing the highest quality fruits and ginseng you could find, and even hand-making rice cakes from scratch. You couldn't afford to make a bad first impression on your boyfriend's parents.

Noticing your anxiety, Dokyeom reaches over from the driver's seat, resting a reassuring hand over yours.

"You'll be fine, sunshine. My parents already love you," he says with a soft smile, glancing at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road.

"I know…I just—what if I mess up and they hate me?" you mumble, frowning.

He lets out a quiet chuckle, then lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it.

"You won't. I promise," he says, voice full of warmth. "They're really excited to meet you. Honestly, I think they might end up liking you more than me."

You manage a small smile, though the nerves still swirl in your chest. "I just hope they like the gift…Do you think they'll like it?"

"They will love it!" he says confidently. "My mom's obsessed with ginseng—says it's her secret to staying young. And I already know your rice cakes are amazing. They'll fall for them, and you, in seconds."

That earns a soft laugh from you, and your shoulders relax just a bit.

Soon, you pull up to his family home. You inhale deeply before stepping out of the car, clutching the gift box tightly. Dokyeom walks over and gently takes your hand, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

The front door swings open before you even reach it, and his mother greets you with a huge, radiant smile.

"There you are! I've heard so much about you—it's so wonderful to finally meet you!" she says, pulling you into a warm hug.

You let out a surprised chuckle, touched by her kindness. So that's where Dokyeom gets his sunshine-like energy from.

"It's so nice to meet you, too," you say, hugging her back.

She ushers you both inside, chatting excitedly. Her eyes widen when you hand her the gift box.

"Oh, sweetheart! You didn't have to!" she gasps, clearly touched. Her smile is contagious, and you find yourself mirroring it without thinking.

The rest of the day flies by. His parents treat you like you're already part of the family—warm, welcoming, and full of praise. When they try your rice cakes, his mom beams and declares they're some of the best she's ever had. You feel your cheeks warm as compliments are showered your way.

Dokyeom leans in, nudging your shoulder with his and flashing you a grin.

"Told you they'd love it."

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour @iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina @theidontknowmehn @toplinehyunjin @gyuhao365 @mysticfairies @cherrylovescheol @cookiearmy @4shypotato @lxnnrobin @sashaaahh @xueisaaa17 @aeriyell @eshia16 @dreamingofpcy @archivistworld @kyeomiis @iwannakisspoutycheol @foxiesgf24 @livelaughloveseventeen @kwanniehae @ateez-atiny380 @junnhuisworld @horangipower17 @cheolsbb26 @scoupshawty @shuas-winnie30 @amaranthar @cherriecsc @shadowkoo @winterisnt @combinatoright-blog @my-neurodivergent-world @chugging-antiseptic-dye @senxgwha @mangssunshine @abibliolife @poutsoonie @smiileflower @cherriecsc

[ddreamhhollows]

⋮ ⌗ ┆ SPIDER-MAN KISS ,, bachira meguru

⸻ 𝘩𝑒’𝑠 𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙-𝑢𝑝 𝑏𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝘩𝑒’𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑙 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑒

𖹭.ᐟ bachira meguru xx gn﹗reader 𖹭.ᐟ established relationship,, fluff,, gym shenanigans,, spider-man kiss,, dumb love,, fluff fluff fluff 𖹭.ᐟ word count :: 1,196 ౨ৎ 【bllk masterlist】

you only looked away for one second.

just one.

you two were at the gym, and you had been adjusting the weights, maybe checking your phone. and somehow, in that time, bachira meguru (who had been doing normal push-ups beside you not even a minute ago) managed to suspend himself upside down from the gym’s pull-up bar like a raccoon (i looooove raccoon) on energy drinks and romantic delusions.

you blink. “just... what are you doing.”

he grins back at you, upside down and unbothered, legs hooked over the bar like this is the most natural position in the world. “training.”

his shirt has ridden up half his torso, exposing toned abs and the drawstring of his sweatpants. he swings slightly with the aircon breeze, like a human pendulum of chaos.

“also i’m upside down,” he adds.

“i can see that.” you deadpanned.

“i’m blood rushing to my brain right now. it’s all part of the plan.”

“…what plan.”

“the plan where you kiss me like that one spiderman scene,” he says, fingers wiggling toward you with glee. “come onnnn. be romantic.”

you stare at him. “you want a spiderman kiss.”

“mmhm. this is my official request.”

“in the middle of the gym.”

“yeah. it builds core strength and love.”

you let out a sigh, slow and dramatic, like you’re long-suffering. and maybe you are. but the smile pulling at your lips betrays you.

because of course he’s doing this.

this is the same man who once sang a love song with your name in it during cool-down stretches. who made you a bracelet out of leftover pre-wrap and declared it “bondage of fate.” who calls his protein bar “dessert” and insists you kiss him before every workout or else he’ll miss his sets “from emotional starvation.”

you cross your arms. “you’re gonna fall.”

“only into your arms, baby,” he singsongs, voice sugary and eyes glittering.

“if i kiss you, will you stop?”

he shrugs, which comes off more like a dangerous spine twitch. “depends on if the kiss is good.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re unbelievable.”

“unbelievably in love with you.”

you give him a look. he doubles down with puppy eyes and a crooked little grin that makes your stomach flutter.

“please?” he adds, dragging the word out with a lilt that makes your knees a little soft.

you groan but step closer anyway. “you’re lucky i like you.”

“i’m so lucky,” he agrees, beaming. “i hit the love jackpot. you’re the rarest gacha pull.”

“don’t compare me to a gacha pull.”

“you’re 5 stars. ultra shiny.”

“you’re insane.”

“and in love,” he reminds you cheerfully.

you stand in front of him, adjusting your stance like you’re prepping for a dental procedure. “if you drop on my head, i swear—”

“just kiss me,” he pleads, eyes sparkling like he’s about to write poetry about this moment.

so you do.

your hands gently cup the sides of his face, with your fingers sliding into the messy ends of his curls. he’s warm and soft and slightly damp from sweat, and his lips are dry but eager, parting with a little gasp as you press yours against his.

his fingers curl in the air like he’s desperate to hold you, and the angle is weird, and your neck bends a little uncomfortably, but... it’s sweet. stupidly, dizzyingly sweet.

he makes a noise halfway between a giggle and a sigh, and your stomach flips like you’re the one hanging upside down.

you pull back after a second, face flushed. “there. happy now?”

his eyes are wide and golden, pupils blown with wonder. he looks like he just saw heaven and it kissed him back.

“one more,” he breathes.

“nope.”

“pleaseee?”

“no.”

“i’m dying.”

“you’re not.”

“you’re breaking my heart.”

“get down, bachira.”

“not until i get another one.”

“you are literally upside down. you’re going to pass out.”

“worth it.”

“you are so dramatic.”

“only for you.”

“meguru.”

he laughs, breathless, and finally unhooks his legs from the bar. he flips in the air, lands with a soft thud, then immediately wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you off the ground.

“what are you—!”

“hug tax,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “also you kissed me. i’m high on serotonin. i’m unstoppable.”

you smack his shoulder lightly. “put me down.”

“never.”

“meguru.”

“fine,” he pouts, setting you down slowly. “but only because your feet are cute and they deserve to touch the ground.”

you stare at him. he blinks.

“…did i say that out loud?”

“yes.”

“oops.”

you bury your face in your hands. “i hate you.”

he kisses your temple. “no you don’t.”

you peek at him through your fingers. he’s still got that stupid, dazzling grin, like you’re the greatest thing in existence and he’s been kissed by a miracle.

“i’m telling isagi about this,” you say flatly.

“he’ll be jealous he didn’t get to see.”

“he’s going to block your number.”

“he already did.”

you snort. he clutches his heart like it’s been mortally wounded. “ruthless. cold-hearted. you and isagi are working together, huh.”

you ignore him and start heading toward the lockers.

bachira chases after you like a golden retriever on a leash made of love. “i’m still serious about the titanic kiss, by the way.”

“meguru—”

“i’ll find a treadmill long enough. we’ll make it work.”

“i swear if you try to reenact that scene mid-warmup—”

“you’ll fall in love with me all over again.”

“you say that like i ever stopped.”

you don’t even turn to see it, but you know he’s beaming.

you change in the locker rooms, come back out expecting him to be scrolling his phone or stretching.

instead, he’s standing on a bench with a water bottle in his hand and a towel tied around his neck like a cape.

“i’m batman now,” he declares.

you blink. “didn’t you want to be spiderman.”

“i’m multifandom.”

“get off the bench.”

“kiss me and i’ll consider it.”

you walk past him and he hops off dramatically, landing with a pose. “fine. rude. villain arc begins now.”

“i’m still not kissing you again.”

“not even if i offer you my last gummy worm?”

you pause.

he grins, dangling the gummy in front of you. “tempting?”

“…maybe.”

“ha! weakness found.”

he ends up giving you the gummy anyway. and a forehead kiss. and another hug. and then tries to climb the squat rack and nearly gets banned from the gym.

you drag him out by the hood of his sweatshirt, half-exasperated, half-fond.

and the whole way home, he swings your hand like he’s a kid on a sugar high. every few seconds, he goes “that kiss was so good. i saw the stars. i transcended.”

you roll your eyes. “you almost passed out.”

“from love.”

“from low blood pressure.”

“same thing.”

you don’t bother arguing. not when he’s looking at you like that. not when he leans in at the stoplight and kisses your cheek again, gentle and warm and totally uncalled for.

he nudges your side. “next training day: upside-down and on a yoga ball.”

“you’re going to die.”

“at least i’ll die loved.”

and honestly?

he's not wrong.

i just watched spiderman and had the idea lolllll

[loganwritesprobably]

But, why? (T.F.)

Synopsis: Toji comes home with a revelation Tags/Warnings: Toji/GN!Reader, angst? Kind of?, hurt/comfort, Toji gets vulnerable, established relationship Word count: 785 Notes: I sat down to write something else completely and then this happened

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“What have you done to me?” The words caught you off guard, making you look up from where you were hesitantly chopping vegetables. It wasn’t that you were scared of your lover - he would never hurt you. But, you wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to use the knife in your hand to hurt the walls, and managed to hurt you in the process. It had been a long time since you saw him this riled up, and he didn’t deign to tell you anything about why exactly he was pacing the living room of his apartment, huffing like an angry bull. “What?” You asked softly, stabbing the knife into the wooden board so you could step away, moving through the space until you stood in the open doorway between the kitchen and living area. “I-” Toji grunted and in a few fast, large steps he was directly in front of you.

His large hands gripped around your upper arm, looking down at you. If you were to attempt to use a word to explain his expression you might say lost, but still it didn’t accurately capture the array of emotions swirling in his eyes as he looked down at you.

“I can’t- stop thinking about you. Ever. You’re in every moment of my day. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing, I’m thinking about you or hearing what you’d say or imagining your goddamn shampoo-” he cut himself off by stepping away from you, going back to the pacing he’d been doing before. “Toji-” “No! I ain’t done,” he took a deep breath, clenching his hands at his sides so you wouldn’t notice the way he trembled, “you are everywhere. Your shit on the sink, your clothes in with mine in the machine, half the time you’re already here when I get home makin’ dinner even though you don’t live in this shitty ass apartment that’s fallin’ apart - fuck you even started fixing it up!” He yelled, swinging as if he was going to slam his white knuckled fist into the wall, but he stopped just short of a spot you’d already filled in and fixed, a hole created before you walked in and made yourself a space in his life.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” You whispered, hands pushed into the pockets of your joggers to prevent you from fidgeting, uncomfortable, but more than anything scared. Scared that this meant he was going to send you away and his would be the last you saw him, that this would be the final conversation of the best thing that ever happened to you.

“I don’t know either. I just- fuck. I don’t know- how ta deal with it, doll. You just fuckin’ waltzed in here and acted as if I was normal and- worthy of all this. Cause I ain’t and we both know it. I’m- fuck I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole to you too. But instead of walking out like you should’ve from the first fuck, you stay and you keep staying, and when I say stupid shit you just laugh and give back as good as you get. I don’t-” he hesitated, breathing deeply to steady himself, like saying the next words would shatter him entirely, “I don’t deserve ya. Don’t deserve none of this shit you’ve done. Don’t- you’re so soft, I ain’t like that. But you don’t care, and you stay soft anyway. And all I do is think about ya and how I just.. Hope you’re still here when I get home cause I don’t know what I’d do without ya anymore.”

Toji couldn’t look at you. He remained staunch, shoulders tense and fists clenched, staring ahead at the front door as if it would somehow come and save him. You, in sock clad feet, padded softly across the floor to wrap your arms around him from behind. “Because I love you, To. I love you so much, and I don’t want to be anywhere but here.” Your words were so soft, and yet they seemed to echo across the empty walls of Toji’s crumbling apartment, one you’d been making into a home slowly through the months that you’d been dating. “I love you too.” He said, and though his voice broke as the words fell from his lips, like it was a confession ripped from him by force, you didn’t comment. You stepped back slightly, and slowly guided Toji to turn to face you. With a kind smile, that Toji was so sure he didn’t deserve, you reached up to cup his cheek and wipe away a rogue tear. “I know.” You said, laughing softly as he leaned down to smash his lips against yours.

Tag list: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @hyperfixationthingss @queenmimi2817 @villainousace @skullfacedlady

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[creepycranberry]

…With melancholy (part one)

Bob Reynolds x single mom! Reader

Warnings: drugs, alcohol, pregnancy loss, abuse, sickness, throw up (this is not a pregnancy trope I promise), Lettie gets lost for a minute, not proofread

A/N: thank you for all the love on this series! There is going to be a part two to this last part and then possibly an epilogue depending on how much I write at the tail end of this

Series masterlist here!

Word count: 13.2k (can you tell why this ended up being so many parts?)

—————————————————————————————————————

You hadn’t expected this to be the outcome of you calling him. You weren’t sure you expected anything. You feel embarrassed now, cheeks burnt pink at the thought of your desperation.

You don’t remember much of the call, just you crying and ranting endlessly as you felt like the world was falling onto you and making you bear the brunt of its weight.

You remember his voice vaguely, chanting in the back of your head, “I’m here. Lean on me if you can’t take it.”

It played in your head like a broken record, his voice, smooth and kind of miry as your mind muddles it further when you remember it now.

You woke up while it was still dark. Your house was at the back of town, down a longer driveway on some land your great grandparents had left to your mother. The house had sat there for ages which is why it was so run down when you first moved in.

Your grandmother was peeved that it hadn’t been left to her but she didn’t fight it. She would rather live in the bigger house because she had raised children there.

The porch steps creaked and the old bench swing yawned when you sat on it. There was a rose bush on the side of the driveway that grew deep blood red roses. Your great great grandfather planted it when your great grandmother was born.

The porch light was off when you fell asleep, at least you think it was. It was on now, the familiar groaning of the swing repeating itself over and over.

You sit up from your spot on the living room rug, where you decided you were comfortable before sleeping. Right in the corner of where your sectional couch meets itself.

You look out the window and see a patient figure, phone in hand, rocking back and forth on your porch swing.

You tap on the glass and Bob jumps out of his skin, his face resting into a sheepish smile. He gives you a small wave and you wave back. You stand up and step back, groaning at the pain in your neck and lower back, the back of your thigh stings. You were getting too old to sleep on the floor, no matter how comforting it may be.

You unlock the dead bolt on your door and twist the handle, craning your head to see him through the screen door, “weren’t you in New York an hour ago?”

His expression relinquished any tension it was carrying previously, “more like five.”

“Why are you here, Bob?” Your voice carries the cadence of a whisper but it’s louder than that.

He just shrugs, staring at your vague figure through the screen, “I felt like you needed someone.”

“Did I tell you that?” You ask, genuinely wanting to remember, all of it lost in the middle of emotion and sleep.

He looks at the blank screen of the phone in his hand, “you didn’t have to.”

You both sit there for a minute, now aware of the other's presence and your energies in the space.

“How are you going to fix it?” You mutter, staring at your bare feet.

“Just try and be what you need, I guess.” He says like it’s obvious, like it’s easy.

You sit with his response, basking in the warm feeling of someone wanting to be something you need.

“Would you like to come in?” You ask softly, unlatching the screen door and pushing it open a smidge.

He stands, hoisting a duffle bag onto his shoulder and standing in front of the door until you open it wide enough for him to step through. You turn on the standing lamp by the couch and sit down on it, wincing slightly as you register the burn from a cut on the back of your thigh.

“Are you okay?” Bob asks softly.

You become a shallow shade of pink, “I- I sat on broken glass. And I forgot.”

Bob shakes his head a little, dropping his bag by the couch and reaching for your hand. He pulls you up, peeking behind you at the back of your thigh, hissing quietly, “it’s not that bad.”

He sounds entirely unconvinced of his own statement.

“I can deal with it.” You mutter, knowing you can’t but willing to figure out a way to if it saves you from this discomfiture.

“You can’t even see it. You'll stab it with the tweezers and make it worse.” He says soberly, letting go of your hand and searching for your eyes.

You hide your face in your hands, and you hear him chuckle breathily, gently placing, but not holding, your wrists. You separate your middle and ring ringers to peer at him through them. He’s smiling, his eyes alight with a quiet sort of affection.

“This is mortifying.” You whisper, your words muffled into your hands. That makes him laugh, “it’s not funny.”

You remove your hands from your face, keeping them poised to hide again.

“It’s a little funny. It doesn’t have to be a big thing, you got hurt, you need help. That’s all.” You drop your hands now, trying not to feel pathetic as you look up at him, “where are your tweezers and first aid things?”

You lead him down the short hallway to your bathroom, he follows you patiently, looking at the pictures on the walls.

He waits in the hall as you look through drawers and under the cabinet, finally coming out with tweezers, bandages, some ointment and a wet rag.

He follows you back to the couch and you both stand there awkwardly for a minute before he stumbles through a suggestion that you lay on your stomach on the couch.

“Do you have any alcohol wipes?” He asks, inspecting the tweezers.

You gesture to the side table and he opens the drawer to find a few little packets of wipes.

He disinfects the tweezers and then places his hands on your thigh on either side of the group of cuts which includes one gash that still has a piece of glass embedded into it, “this might hurt a little. Do you want something to hold onto or…”

He’s being almost overly careful as he applies pressure to either side of it, making the glass piece jut out a little.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t just go to the doctor or do it myself or something?”

“It’s not too deep, it should be deeper given that you sat on it and slept with it in there for however long, but I can handle this.” He’s rambling slightly like he doesn’t believe it.

“If I need to go to the ER you are more than welcome to drive me.” You sigh, resting your cheek against your arm and closing your eyes.

“No, I-I’ve been helping in the medbay a lot and Alexei is very accident prone so I’ve- I can handle this.” he sounds like he’s convincing himself even as he begins to gently press around the skin once more, “do you want a count down or-“

“Bob, just do it.” You almost laugh.

He very carefully, while muttering “sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry.”, pulls out the glass. He silently goes through the next first aid steps, hand smoothing over the bandage once he’s done.

“What do I owe you?” You quip after a long point of silence.

Bob smiles, looking down and folding the bandage trash into little strips, “first time’s free of charge. Next time it’ll cost you.”

You smile and turn over carefully, laying on your back with your head turned to look at him in his place on the floor.

“What happened?” He asks you.

“Dropped a bottle of wine, sat down on the floor-“

“No- I mean what happened that made you so upset?” He elucidates, reaching out to pick a piece of lint off of your shorts.

You don’t speak, just gather your thoughts for a few moments, eyes landing on his hands. They’re calloused and there are faint white scars on the edges of them. You know that if you reach out and run your hand over them it won’t feel the same as it used to, but it might still make you feel better.

“I had an argument with Meems.” You murmur.

“Oh, boy.” He susurates.

“She told me I was being selfish, letting Shane take Lettie up to New York and it spiraled into an argument about how she views me and my life and she told me I was desperate to have a fucked up life, that I wouldn’t know real pain because I’ve never lost a child.”

Bob's jaw sets against itself and he wipes at his mouth even though there’s nothing there, like he’s just trying to do something with his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

You just shrug, “it’s- it’s not great but I got a few words in this time at least.”

“She’s- that was unfair of her though. You lost your mom, grief isn’t comparable.” Bobs voice is mellow despite his indignation, “how did you respond?”

“I told her I did lose a child. I told her about our baby and she kept telling me I was lying. And then she didn’t believe it was yours. I don’t know why she won’t ever just believe me.”

“She just doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want your pain to be more valid than hers.” He says, like it’s obvious. It probably is and you just didn’t notice. You never seem to notice.

“What did I say to you? When I called you?” You ask, “did I ask you to come here? I was drunk and I-“

“You didn’t ask for me to come here, I just- you are alone down here. I just didn’t think you wanted to or- I didn’t think you should be alone.”

You nod, sitting up and sitting cross legged on the couch, “I’m really sorry, Bob.”

His whole face seems to open up, eyebrows quirking upward in a winsome expression, “Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to get so emotional and drag you down here. You’re- you’re so different, I feel like- like I know you too well but I’ve also never really known you. It feels like a loss, all over again.” You admit, smiling at him with such sorrow that it makes his chest ache.

“Then why don’t we start over? We can pretend I wasn’t who I was to you. I- I moved to get away from my dad and we lost contact and now I’m here again. Poof.” He makes a motion with his hand that alludes to an explosion.

“Poof.” You mumble, “but is that healthy? Just to leave it all unresolved?”

“You can say whatever you want to me. You can ask me any question and I will answer honestly. I’m here to give you what I can so that, eventually, we can be on level ground again. But until you figure all of that out we can just be different than we were. You can know me now like you want to and I can back off or be here depending on what you need.”

“Bob- I can’t ask you to be in and out of my life as I please. that would be- that wouldn’t be fair to you.” You tell him decisively. Holding a throw pillow in your lap.

“It’s what I did to you.” Bob shrugs, looking off to the side, eyes finding a baby photo of Lettie. It’s a professional photo, next to it is a photo of you as a baby. It’s almost a recreation. The only difference is that you were clearly crying before the photo, a pout on your little lips as you sit on a big letter block.

Lettie, however, is smiling brightly, radiantly.

“That doesn’t make it okay, Bob. If I just do to you what you did to me it just- it restarts everything over again.” You argue.

“But it’s different.” Bob mutters.

“How is it different, sweetheart?” Your voice is reduced to that sweet gentle tone you use when Lettie’s upset about something and doesn’t know how to explain it and you just want to know what’s wrong.

“It’s different because I loved you and you loved me and I used that against you so that you’d let me back in,” it seems like it hurts him to admit it out loud, that it was deliberate, that he hurt you on purpose, “And now, I love you and if you need me you can come to me but if you need me away from you? If you need space, you can ask and I will give it to you.”

He reaches out for your hands but then takes his away again, resting them in his lap and fiddling with the sleeve of the black hoodie he’s wearing. The emotion takes over you and swells in your chest, this blanket of warmth and affection for him that feels so familiar it’s terrifying.

“And if I need you right now? If I want you here now?” You ask hesitantly.

“Then I’ll be here. We can do whatever, watch tv and sit on opposite sides of the room or talk or not talk and just sit here awkwardly forever.” He suggests, grinning softly.

“What if I asked you to leave right now?” You inquire, leaning forward slightly.

Bob shrugs, “then I’d leave. No questions asked.”

You look at him for a moment, weighing the options in your head. You really don’t want to be alone, you want to feel seen, to feel like something worth caring about. He’s laying it all out in front of you. He’s showing you his cards and handing them over so you can make the calls for him.

“Don’t.” You mutter.

“Don’t?” He leans forward instinctively, eyes finding yours again. His eyes shine brightly, big blue depths that make you feel safe even as you fall into them.

You exhale shakily, “sit with me?” He simpers, pulling himself up and onto the couch next to you, “do you wanna watch cartoons?”

Bob titters and smiles softly, nodding, “sure.”

So you both sit together and watch Scooby Doo Mystery Incorporated. You don’t talk all that much, you just sit together, shoulder to shoulder. And you laugh together, and you feel okay. You finally feel okay.

————————

The next morning you wake up on the couch to the sounds of pots and pans and the sink running.

There’s a blanket over you, the tv is on. It takes you a minute to recognize the movie. It’s Homeward Bound.

You have the DVD because Lettie loves it, Sassy is her favorite and everytime she watches it she cries because she always thinks Shadow might not make it home, like the ending of the movie might change at some point without her knowing.

You get up and walk into the kitchen where Bob is washing dishes in different clothes than he was wearing last night. He’s in a loose black T-shirt and sweatpants and he’s washing dishes, placing them on the drying rack with the utmost care.

“Bob.” Your voice is low because of sleep but the intention in it is clear. You’re scolding him a little while also trying to express some sort of fondness.

He jumps and curses a little, shaking the water off of his hands, “you are walking in the oldest house ever. It should sound like your floors have gerd every time you take a step.”

You laugh and lean against the counter, craning your head to look into the near empty sink. It’s just silverware left.

“You could’ve woken me up.”

“Not worth it.” He says quickly.

“I’m actually a lot better at waking up now.” You respond, slightly offended.

“Tell that to my missing finger.” He smirks.

“You never lost a finger.”

“Oh yeah?” He holds up his hand, all five fingers accounted for, “what about this then?”

“You have five fingers, bob.” You point out, touching the tip of each one to show him that they’re all there.

“I know, that’s what’s so scary, I used to have six. And then one day I went to wake you up, very gently, with the utmost care, and the next thing I knew it was bitten clean off and you were already asleep again.” He muses, trying to keep his face completely serious but his grin is fighting against him.

You narrow your eyes, “that never happened.”

“Just because you don’t remember it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” He sings songs, rinsing off the silverware and putting it on the drying rack.

“Whatever.” you mumble, “why are you doing my dishes?”

He shrugs bashfully, “just- I changed and brushed my teeth and everything and I came back out and you were still asleep so I put on a movie but I-I got kind of bored and there were dishes in the sink so I just…” he gestures vaguely to the sink and drying rack.

You both stand there in a graceless sort of silence, you’re shifting your weight from foot to foot and he’s hovering his hands over the sink.

“Do you wanna grab breakfast?”

“S-sure. I’ll just finish this up while you get ready for the day.” His eyes trail over your clothing and his eyebrows knit together, “is that mine?”

You look down at your shirt, it’s just an old Radiohead shirt, the album cover to In Rainbows faded on the front of it. You don’t remember it being his, then again, Radiohead was always his band. Your shared CD collection contained an array of albums from an array of artists, and you liked Radiohead too, but the Radiohead CD’s in the collection that was in your apartment had been his.

You bought new ones after he left and put his old ones in storage.

So this shirt could very likely be his, “maybe? I- I thought I put all of your stuff up but maybe not.”

“You probably just wore that one often enough before everything that you forgot it wasn’t originally yours.” He reasons.

“Maybe. I’ll wash it and then put it with your things.”

If he doesn’t mind it staying with you he doesn’t say that, he just smiles politely and nods a little, “alright.”

You leave the room before it can get too much more awkward.

You take a quick shower, shave your legs, change clothes, brush your hair, and put on a little makeup. Not much, just some mascara and blush and lip balm. Enough to make you feel like you look alive.

And when you walk back into the living room he’s sitting on the couch with a book you didn’t know he brought.

“What are you reading?” You ask him, turning off the lamps as you walk through the room.

He holds the book up for you to see the cover. It reads Tweak: Growing up on Methamphetamines.

“My therapist wanted me to try and find people and charactersI related to. Bucky is friends with some of the AA and DAA group leaders near us and he asked if they had any recommendations and they recommended this book.” He explains, shrugging lamely.

“Yeah I- I watched the movie and I read that guy's dad’s book.”

“There’s a movie?” Bob asks.

“Uh, yeah. It’s really good actually. Heartbreaking and even more so when you relate. I- I watched the movie when it came out like a while after you left and then I cried for like an hour and then I picked up his dads book a couple days after.” You admit, “I read it and then decided that Tweak was probably a bit too much for me to handle.”

“I’m sorry.” Bob croaks.

You don’t acknowledge it, “is it good? Or- not good but-“

“It’s… I understand what he’s saying. I-I get it. Our circumstances were pretty different but it’s- it’s good.”

“Good. Uh, do you wanna head out now?”

Bob nods, eyes wide and fixed on you in a way that tells you that he’s nervous but you still have his full attention.

He sets his book on the coffee table and follows you out to the car. The drive there is quiet, your Dolly Parton CD plays quietly through the car speakers.

Bob grins when ‘Me and Little Andy’ starts. He waits patiently to see if you’ll start humming along to it and when you do he feels like he’s won a prize. He listens to you hum and mumble along to the song until it ends. And when ‘lovin you’ begins playing he starts humming.

He liked this song. As many times as he had to listen to the album he was bound to find a favorite and this one was his. He has fond memories of it floating quietly out of the stereo in your kitchen after good days, days that ended in dancing around the kitchen and making love to each other and then watching you sleep against his chest.

He used to find himself singing it to himself randomly. Or not randomly, it was always on those quiet days when his mood was at a high and so was he. Those days where he had no problem trying to make life easier for you.

And then later he would sing it when he was thinking about you, when he’d come down from a high and wish he still had your hands and your chest and your voice to sing the words back to him so that he might find some comfort in the fall.

And now he’s back in that space of peace with you. He’s sitting next to you in your car after he woke up with your head on his shoulder and he’s listening to you hum in that pretty airy way he just adored and he can’t help but sing along to Dolly telling the both of you,

‘I have been walkin all my streets alone

But I won’t keep walkin to keep from going home’

And he knows he will have to go home later and he knows this won’t be his life now no matter how hard he wants it but he can’t help letting himself pretend when you begin to sing along with him,

‘If you’ve been wondering what I’m gonna do

While you are sleeping am I sleeping too?

Well, I’m just sitting here loving you

I just close my eyes and loving you

I’m just sitting back, sitting here, loving you’

And he is.

And he does.

As you eat brunch together and he lets you vent and as you drive back home and he listens to you laugh along to ‘love is just a four letter word.’

And especially as you tell him stories about Lettie as a baby and your smile is the widest even as you begin tearing up because you just miss her so damn much.

And even as you tell him it’ll be okay for him to leave in the morning and you apologize for keeping him and calling him.

And you find yourself just loving him and him being here even as you sit on your couch with him and tell him what all of the people from your high school have been doing. Even as you help him pack and drive to the airport as something tugs low in your stomach and makes you feel kind of heartsick.

————————

New York is nice to a certain point. Bob enjoys his routine, therapy went really well this week so he decided to do something nice for himself.

So he’s in Times Square, noise canceling headphones on. He normally doesn’t like it here very much but he likes looking in the big stores sometimes. He’s in a good mood, he has his headphones, Ava is in the lab but she isn’t busy so if he needs to call someone to calm down he can call her.

He ends up in the Disney store, looking at the plushies and figurines, feeling the fabrics on them. He likes going into stores and feeling things, the textures are nice. He gets stuck on a figment plushie, holding it up and looking at it. It’s very soft.

Something pulls at his pant leg and he looks around for a moment before looking down, and there’s a little girl, looking down at an Eeyore plushie, and then she looks up at him and it’s Lettie. Her eyes are wet with tears and every time she takes in a breath her little shoulders shake.

“Sponge-Bob?” Her lip wobbles slightly.

“What are you doing here?” Bob asks, moving one of the ears of his headphones back to hear her. He crouches to her level and looks around to see if Shane’s anywhere nearby. There’s no sign of him, at all.

“Daddy- I don’t know-“ she hiccups out the words, tears threatening to spill over.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t cry. You’re safe. Who do you have there?” Bob says, trying to calm her down.

She sniffles a little more, “it’s Eeyore.”

She holds the plushie up for Bob to see.

“Oh yeah, it is. Do you like him?” Bob asks.

Lettie nods, wiping her eyes, “he’s my favorite, mommy really likes him too. Who’s that?”

Bob looks at the plushie in his hands, “oh this- this is figment.”

“He looks silly.” Lettie sniffles and Bob smiles, nodding a little.

“He’s very silly. Do you like him?” Lettie nods, “well maybe your dad can get him for you? Where's your dad? Is he in the store somewhere?”

Lettie shakes her head, tears spilling over onto her cheeks as she starts hiccuping and whining.

“That’s okay, it’s alright, I’ll help you find him.” Bob tells her, wiping the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. He stands up and reaches his hand out for her and she takes it, holding Eeyore and following Bob around as they look for her dad.

Eventually Bob asks the cashier desk if they can make an announcement. They do, and Bob waits at the front desk with Lettie for a few minutes before sighing heavily.

“Sir, would you like us to call the police?” The manager at the front desk asks him.

“No, I can call her mom, I- I know her.” Bob assures the employee, looking at the upset Lettie, “but can I get both of these?”

He reaches for Lettie’s plushie and she hands it up to him hesitantly, “I’ll give him back.”

Bob pays for both of the plushies and hands the Eeyore back to Lettie. They head out of the store and Bob tries to ask Lettie where she last saw her dad but she seems really overwhelmed with everything happening around her.

So he calls you and he doesn’t get an answer right away, he leaves a voicemail, “hey, I’m in Times Square and Lettie came up to me and Shane isn’t here and I have no idea what to do. Call me back please.”

Lettie’s clutching his hand tightly, the crowd is moving too fast for her. She pulls at his hand and he looks down at her. She reaches up for him and he picks her up, carrying her and taking her from store to store, looking for Shane.

Eventually he gives her his noise cancelling headphones and she rests her forehead against his shoulder, holding both plushies.

After fifteen to twenty minutes his phone rings and it’s you, “Bob, what’s going on?”

“I have her, she’s okay, we’ve been going into stores looking for Shane but I can't find him. I- do I bring her to the police station? Do I bring her back to their apartment? Do you know the address?” Bob asks.

“Mommy?” Lettie mumbles, looking at Bob and training her eyes on the phone.

“I’ll call him, are you- are you sure she’s okay?” Your voice is thick with panic and frustration.

“She’s alright. I got her two new stuffed animals and she’s not crying anymore.”

“Can I talk to her?” You sniff.

“‘Course.”

Bob holds the phone out to Lettie and walks around the M&M store while she talks to you. Lettie calms down more as she talks to you, leaning her head against bobs shoulder, her forehead pressed to his neck.

When she hands the phone back you thank Bob and reiterate that you’re going to call Shane.

When Shane calls Bob it’s from the police station, he’s upset which Bob at first thinks is just a normal reaction to finding out that you lost your child but instead Shane’s upset that Bob called you.

“You totally finked on me. Now her moms going to think that I can’t take care of her.” Shane says insistently.

Bob responds easily, “What was I supposed to do? You left your child in Times Square alone. That’s not my fault.”

“Why not call the police?”

Bob can’t tell if Shane’s being serious or not. When Bob speaks again his voice is firm but not so forceful that it might upset or disturb Lettie.

“Because I can call her mother. I’m sorry, but if your main concern from this situation is that you might get in trouble with her mom, then you shouldn’t be a dad. Your daughter was in Times Square, alone. That should be the most concerning part of this to you. Get your priorities straight. Now where do I bring Lettie to get her back to you?”

Now Shane sounds really mad, “I- you’ve got some kind of fucking nerve telling me how to parent-“

Bob's really starting to hate this guy, “and you have no nerve. You have the backbone of an insecure sixteen year old boy. Where do I bring your kid to get her back to you?”

Shane wants to say more, wants to find some comeback to put Bob in the place Shane feels he belongs.

But he also doesn’t want to prove Bob right.

“Take her to the Watchtower.”

“Why not the police station or your apartment?” Bob asks.

“Because I don’t want to scare her and I don’t want you knowing where I live.” Shane responds and Bob bites his tongue.

He just hangs up, he doesn’t have any more patience for this. He gets on the subway, carrying Lettie the whole time. He’s pretty sure she falls asleep on the way but he can’t really be sure because he doesn’t want to move his head and wake her up.

He knows you probably wouldn’t want her alone with him, so he takes Lettie home and up to Yelena’s apartment. Yelena absolutely glows when she sees Lettie.

“Hello, gorgeous!” Yelena exclaims reaching for Lettie who hugs Yelena happily, “what do you have? Did Bob get you these?”

Lettie tells Yelena about being lost and Bob finding her and getting her the plushies and talking to her mom. Bob sits on the couch in Yelena’s apartment and watches Lettie and Yelena interact.

Yelena takes a pack of gushers and sits with Lettie on the floor, sharing them with her. Lettie stands up after a minute to hold one out to him. Her hands are sticky with multicolored dye and given that she was just in Times Square and could have touched god knows what he probably shouldn’t accept it but he does, holding it on his tongue.

“Thank you, Miss Lettie.” He grins, leaning forward on the couch to hear what she’s telling Yelena about better.

“…and dimetrodons are not dinosaurs, they’re mammals. But they look like dinosaurs and I like them ‘cause they remind me of puppies because they look kinda chunky. Mommy says that makes them cuter…”

She just babbles about any and everything. She’s perfectly content. Yelena ends up making her some Mac and Cheese and Bob turns on Courage the Cowardly Dog. You mentioned she liked it when he was there.

He watches her watching tv and it catches him off guard how much she looks like you. She sits on the couch between him and Yelena and leans against his arm, smooshing her chubby cheek against his sleeve.

She has Shane’s hair color and the same hair texture as you, and she has your eyes. They shine the same ways yours used to before you lost that teenage exuberance that everyone loses at some point.

It’s like sitting with you before everything made you so far from yourself.

He wonders in the back of his head as he watches her, if your baby would have looked as much like you as she does. What of yours would he be able to see looking back at him?

Lettie is entirely too comfortable with him. She leans into him slowly until her head is rested in his lap and her feet rested in yelena’s. She keeps talking to Yelena, telling her the basic plot of the cartoon like they aren't watching it right now. Yelena listens and responds like it’s brand new and pertinent information.

She has one hand resting on Lettie’s stomach, tapping or stroking her fingers back and forth against it like she’s trying to soothe her.

They get through multiple episodes of the cartoon before the elevator dings and Shane steps into the living area. He looks relieved when Lettie stands on the couch cushions to look over the back of the couch at him.

“Hi, daddy.” Lettie smiles, attempting to climb over the couch before Bob and Yelena jointly reach out to make sure she doesn’t.

“Hi, baby. Are you okay? You having fun?” Shane asks, lifting her over the couch to hold her, resting his chin on the top of her head and rubbing her back.

Lettie nods, “Lena made Mac and cheese.”

“Oh yeah? Are you still hungry? Do you wanna grab something before we go home?” Shane asks her, moving her bangs from her forehead.

Lettie shakes her head, “daddy?” She whispers, like she’s telling him a secret.

“Yes, baby?”

“Can I come back tomorrow?” Lettie asks, laying her head against her dads shoulder.

“Um…” Shane looks between Bob and Yelena, who in turn look at each other.

“Lena’s busy tomorrow but maybe we can figure something out another time?” Bob suggests.

Lettie nods and yawns. Shane looks at Bob for an interminable moment, “actually, why don’t you sit with Yelena for a minute and I’ll talk to Bob about it. Okay?”

Lettie sits up and nods enthusiastically, dropping her weight so she halfway falls onto the couch before Shane slowly, delicately drops her onto the couch.

Bob stands up, brushing his hand over the top of Lettie’s head before following Shane into the elevator. Shane presses the close elevator button and for a minute they just sit there awkwardly.

“I- I don’t want you around her alone.” Shane admits.

“Well then don’t lose her in the middle of Times Square. She’s safer with me than she would have been in any other universe where that situation played out without me there.” Bob says simply, leaning against the back wall of the elevator, “and your behavior was foul, by the way. Would you just not have told her mom if I hadn’t been the one to find her?”

Shane narrows his eyes, “I don’t need an ex-drug addict abuser telling me how I should react to things.”

“Really? Because I’ve very clearly been to ten times the therapy you’ve ever even been aware of.”

“I don’t need the amount of therapy you do.” Shane scoffs.

“Are you sure? Because you seem very threatened by me and I don’t think it has anything to do with my past. I am very respectful of yours and her moms wishes when it comes to her. I haven’t been around her since her mom made it clear to me that she wanted to get to know me better first. And you really weren’t this much of an asshole to me until you found out about the miscarriage.”

Bob's so measured, cool headed and put together that it just serves to piss Shane off even more.

“That’s not the point-“

“Shane. I want to like you, I think you’re doing a great job as a coparent, taking on the brunt of the parenting responsibilities so that your kids mom can get better. It’s really commendable, but you are just as bad as the other people in her life that have just used her and hurt her if she’s doing something that’s helping her and you’re trying to make her stop because you feel threatened by that person's presence in her life.”

“She needs therapy because of you, man. I’m doing all of this because of you, that doesn’t make any of it my fault.” Shane insists, crossing his arms and stepping closer to Bob.

“She needs therapy because no one in her life values her as more than what she is to them. None of you care how you treat her so long as she treats you how she treats everyone. I will admit that I took advantage of that but I’m trying to fix that now, and you were okay with that until you learned more about our past,” Shane listens in spite of the overwhelming urge to disagree with everything coming out of bobs mouth, “she can’t get better if you’re still treating her like she belongs to you. If you’re expecting her to act like something more to you than a coparent while you treat her like she’s not a person outside of that. And Lettie deserves parents who are happy and supportive of her and each other. I-I know I am not the person you want to hear this from and I know that in your mind everything you know about me makes everything I say seem less credible, but it’s because of everything I’ve done and been through that I know this. Treat her like a person, not just a mother.”

Shane’s jaw ticks, “she told me to say thank you. For finding Lettie.”

“Of course.” Bob shrugs. It’s not a huge deal to him, he found her and kept her safe. It’s the least he could do.

Shane seems to hate the taste of the words as they come out of his mouth, “And I want to thank you. And if- if her mom is okay with Lettie being over here, so long as Yelena is around, and if you both want to obviously, then Lettie can be here. I- I’ve realized that this is really hard to do alone. I don’t have any family out here, so I- I need to have people to ask for help.”

“If Lettie’s mom is okay with it then we’d be happy to help you out. Yelena has work a lot, but it’s rare that I’m the only one here. There’s always at least Alexei or Mel. Once you meet them, I mean.”

Shane hates how good Bob seems to be. He wasn’t supposed to be this okay of a person. He was supposed to be terrible. He hates that he can see why you think Bob might be worthy of a second chance.

————————

The next week you were in New York, ready to straighten up whatever was going wrong at Shane’s. You were staying at Shane’s while you were here but you decided to stop by the watchtower first.

Bob seems surprised to see you, you told him you’d be in New York so you weren’t sure why.

But you’re there, standing there like an apparition, a beautiful magnificent apparition. And you hug him, you reach out and wrap your arms around his neck and he savors it, Arms wrapped firmly around you and a smile spreads across his face that probably couldn’t even be wiped off his face with a missile.

When you pull back you don’t even fully let go, your hands pressed against his sleeves, “thank you. Again, thank you so much.” You mutter to him.

“Stop thanking me. What else was I gonna do? Leave her there and let her live in the Disney store? Have her sleeping on a pile of stitch plushies?” Bob responds, eyes trained on a stray strand of hair that he doesn’t fight the impulse to fix.

“She might have preferred that.” You laugh.

Bob shakes his head and wrinkles his nose a bit, “I don’t know about that. She was just about to start bawling her eyes out when she found me.”

You frown, “don’t tell me that…”

“And then when she heard your voice over the phone she got that pout on her face and she was so focused on the phone until I gave it to her. I swear she was working out a master plan to steal my phone right out from under me.” You push him away from you playfully and reach for your bag. Bob pushes your hand away and looks at you like you’ve personally forsaken him.

He puts your bag on the couch and opens the fridge, “are you thirsty or hungry or anything?”

“I’m okay.” You laugh.

“Are you sure? I made some creamy garlic chicken last night and I have leftover rice.” He turns from the fridge to face you.

You concede with a sigh and a half giggle, “okay, fine. If you insist.”

“I do, actually.” He hums, taking various glass containers out of the fridge and making up two plates.

It feels easy, pleasantly enjoyable. He sets your plate in front of you and you take a bite, moaning and then laughing around the sound.

“This is really good.” You grin, covering your mouth.

“I can tell by the audio porn happening over there.” He says, setting his plate next to yours.

“Audio porn was never my thing, I’m pretty sure that was more up your avenue.” You respond while taking another bite.

Bob grimaces, “let’s please end this discussion about each other's respective porn habits please.”

“You started it.” You mumble.

“Why’d you stop here first?”

“Because I need a buffer between traffic frustration and the ever loving hell that is dealing with Shane. And you’re nice to me and you’re not as annoying as you seem.” You shrug, setting your fork down and wiping your hand down your face.

“Well, if you need a hide out or he’s being too dumb you can come over here and keep me company.” Bob suggests. You rest your chin in your palm and shake your head wistfully, “what?”

“You’re so likeable. It’s equal parts annoying and endearing.” You take another bite of rice.

“I’m showing you basic decency.” Bob shrugs.

“Basic decency is not offering me a place to stay if I’m afraid I’m going to murder my kid's dad out of sheer frustration.” You say, bumping shoulders with him.

“You’re not gonna kill him.”

“No. But I’ll feel like it, I’ll imagine it, I’ll act it out when his back is turned.” You whinge, stabbing your chicken with your fork.

“As I was saying, my door is always open. Or yelena’s if you’d be more comfortable there.” Bob gestures generically with his fork.

You look back at Bob, eyes shining with reserved affection, “I’m plenty comfortable with you, Bob. Plus by the looks of your hallway doors I don’t think I’d end up on the couch.”

Bob screws his face up like you just said something outrageous, “even if we didn’t have a guest room you wouldn’t end up on the couch. What?”

You shrug, “I’m sleeping on the couch at Shane’s.”

Bob just stares blankly for a second, “why?”

“Because it’s a small two bedroom apartment in New York? And he has a single bed and Lettie refuses to sleep in a bed that isn’t ours or her toddler bed even though she’s grown out of it.” You explain, chasing the last remaining grains of rice on your plate.

“But you’re a guest?”

“I’m his child’s mother.” You titter.

“Believe me, I’m aware. He wouldn’t shut up about it.”

That makes you laugh, “I’m getting the feeling that you don’t particularly like Lettie’s dad.”

Bob just stares at you with a sort of ‘no duh’ expression that you find amusing, “I think it’s a wise choice. I’m trusting my gut.”

You just shrug at that, like you can’t disagree with that logic.

You get up, walking over to the couch to grab your bag, “Okay, I’ve eaten, we’ve talked, now I wanna see my baby.”

“I’ll walk you out. How excited are you?” Bob grins, grabbing the bag from you and following you into the elevator.

“I’m about to escape hell, Robert. I’m ecstatic. I can’t wait to smell her scalp.”

Bob gives you a weird look.

“You will understand when you have children. It’s the best, especially when they’re fresh from a bath and they’re sleepy and they just wanna be held.”

“If I have kids I will keep that in mind.” He says, pressing the lobby button.

“If? Do you not want kids?” You haven’t really asked his opinion on this. According to both him and a begrudging Shane, he seems to be pretty good with Lettie.

“I- maybe with the right person? But I’ve got a lot of issues that I don’t think I could even consider passing down if my kid wasn’t gonna have a support system they could totally and completely count on.”

You consider the question, hesitating for a moment before you let it slip past your lips, “was that a concern of yours when we were having a baby?”

“Kind of? I hadn’t thought of it as in depth back then but- I mean I knew I wasn’t gonna be great. It was pretty obvious but I thought- I thought that for you and him that It would motivate me to get better. And it was happening so even if I was shit you would have been amazing. You- you would have loved him enough that if I needed to leave to- to figure myself out, that you’d be okay. It was a selfish thought, but I did think it.” He admits.

“You’ve always had so much… faith, in me.”

His gaze is dripping with a loveliness too scary to let yourself register it fully, to let yourself think about it for too long, “you’re the closest thing to an honest god I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

The both of you just let his words marinate, let them wash over the space between you. When the elevator doors open in the lobby you follow Bob to the door. And then you face each other and stand there, looking at each other. The admission is like a door he’s placing in front of you with the key already in the lock.

Always everything is on your time with him, you know that eventually, if you wait long enough and for the right time, these little moments and admissions of his will build into a house. You’re scared that if you push it too early you’ll decimate the frame of it, but if you take too long will he burn it down himself?

And then, gaze intent on his eyes, floating in the integrity and probity he seems to be made of at this point.

You reach up to hug him around the neck, forehead resting against the warmth of his collarbone which is peeking out of the neckline of his T-shirt. He holds you there, close to him, pretty much against him. He warms up noticeably, his eyes shimmering lightly, like the sun finding freshwater and shining off of it in hopes of warming it up.

It's over all too quick and then you’re walking away and he’s blinking back the chorus of impulses that tell him to reach for you again.

————————

The couch isn’t the most comfortable but you don’t mind it. You’re watching Whisper of the Heart and snacking on pretzels, Shane is out with a girl he met at work. If he hadn’t had it planned prior to losing Lettie and subsequently having you move your entire trip a week earlier you would have ripped him a new one but you let him have it. He’d officially been a totally single parent for two months so you just let him have the break.

It’s later at night so when you get a call you’re expecting it to be Shane saying he’s gonna stay the night at his date’s house or something, “get your dick wet, just be here in the morning- not the early afternoon, or the late-“

“I’m sorry?” Bob's voice coughs through the phone speaker.

You smack your forehead instinctively, “I thought you were Shane.”

“Ouch.” Bob mutters.

“What can I do for you, Robert?” You blurt through the embarrassment.

“I just… just checking on you.” He’s a little muffled, like he’s talking into his blanket.

“Just checking on me?” You grin.

“Y-yeah I thought you might want to tell me about yours and Lettie’s day.” His voice is an octave higher than usual, you wait a few seconds and then he lets out a big puff of air, “I can’t sleep for shit.”

You smirk to yourself, sitting up a little further on the couch, “why not?”

Bob makes a noise like he’s stretching, “I don’t know. I was thinking though-“

“Oh, you were?”

“Yeah, I was,” you can hear his grin in his voice, and then his voice gets slightly more serious, “and I was thinking- well, I don’t know if Shane’s talked about it with you or not- but after Lettie ended up with me and Yelena, she asked to come over more and Shane asked if we’d be okay babysitting if you were okay with it…”

“Okay? He mentioned that to me.” You respond, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Okay, well I was thinking that maybe on Sunday the both of you could come over and hang out and she can play with Yelena and the other members of the team and John’s son will be over, and then you could join us for dinner, that way you can see how we interact with her and if she’s comfortable and then you can see if you’d be okay with her being over here.” A moment of silence serves to make him anxious, “I-is that okay?”

“Bob?”

“Yeah?”

And then there’s more silence, and a kind of shaky exhale, “if I say something can you promise not to get upset or… offended?”

“Of course.” Bob responds automatically, there’s rustling as he sits up.

“Do you remember the time when we were sixteen, and you were regularly smoking and taking pain meds you didn’t need and so you were high all of the time but you were still not a total jackass, and we took my seven year old cousin to the zoo so my aunt could take her newborn to an appointment?”

“Vaguely? I- I remember the lion exhibit and explaining to the kid why having a lion for a pet was a horrible idea?”

“That was actually quite helpful but you did scare him. You were fine for part of the day and then out of nowhere just everything he did started to piss you off for some reason and you kept snapping at him and then your mood leveled out but he was already apprehensive about you from there and then you got really really sad and you hid behind me like a toddler for like twenty minutes. And then after that you were happy again, talking to him about lions and all of those animal facts you knew for some reason and you bought him ice cream when I told you he didn’t need any and then he puked and I got fed up with you and I told you to go wait in the car while I cleaned him up but instead-“

“Instead I took the car and stranded you there for an hour before coming back.” His tone is reserved and his mouth feels dry as he speaks and the memory comes back to him.

“C- I want to believe that because you are sober things like that won’t happen but, I- just as things come back to me I just- I’m not scared of you, or anything like that I don’t want you to think that. I just- I am scared of something happening or going wrong- and it’s unfounded at this point, as I know you now-“

“But it’s your kid, and your brain is automatically jumping to the worst case scenario.” He finishes for you.

“Yeah, but, Lettie was talking about you today and she showed me her stuffed animals and she knew figment by name, and she said that you did the M&M voices for her at the M&M store? And from what Shane told me that day she was totally safe with you, when he got there she had been fed and you were all watching one of her favorite cartoons. So, I’ll give you a chance Sunday and if I think it’d be safe and… okay, and then maybe we can give it a shot. But if I feel for any reason it might not be a good idea-“

“Then it’ll be cut off at the knees and any contact from there will be approved by you outside of an outlandish situation like when she got lost.” Bob says like the answer comes easily to him.

“That was a good answer.” You mutter.

“Ease your worries a little bit?”

You pick at the threads on the blanket you’re wearing, “Just a tiny amount. I- it’s scary but I trust you. I’m starting to trust you more now and I’m just forcing myself to be cautious.”

In the movie Seiji is telling Shizuku about the violin making apprenticeship in Italy. You always liked this scene, the last scene that surmises in a guileless love confession and a promise of marriage between these two young people who are full of potential and have big dreams that they might just follow through successfully.

“What are you watching? It’s- is it something Studio Ghibli?” Bob asks softly, recognizing the music.

You hum in response, “it’s Whisper of the Heart.”

“Is that the one where the husband does the planes and the wife is sick?”

“No. That’s The Wind Rises, which is one of the more recent ones so I’m surprised you remember that.”

“It came out over a decade ago.” Bob laughs, “and I’ve watched it somewhat recently.”

“What’s somewhat recent?” You inquire, tucking your legs under you.

“About six months ago?” He says it like a question, like he’s asking you how long ago it was.

“Six months, as in after you got home from that first visit?” You grin.

Bob groans a little, “somewhere around then, yeah.” That makes you laugh. And then he laughs too. “Well what is the Whisper of the Heart movie about then?”

“It’s about a girl who reads a lot and she recognizes the name of this same person on all of the library cards in the books and she ends up following a cat into this antique shop and meets an old man who ends up being the library card kids grandfather and there’s a whole fairy tale about these cat figurines and the grandson and the girl get close and he goes away to study violin making and in the time he’s gone she challenges herself to write a book.”

“What happens to them?” Bob asks from there.

You hum a little, “I think you’re gonna have to watch it yourself to figure that out.”

A door creaks open down the hall and little feet pad their way towards you, “mommy?”

The phone falls away from your ear and your focus turns to Lettie who is sniffling and has shiny tear streaks down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong baby?” You ask, stretching your arms towards her. Lettie starts to climb up the couch and you pull her up into your lap. She feels warm through her clothes.

You press your lips to her forehead and it’s warm.

“Had a bad dream.” She mumbles, “who are you talking to?” She asks, looking around the room.

“Just Bob.”

“Bob? Sponge-Bob?” She perks up a bit, “Can I talk?”

“You can talk, I’m gonna go grab something from the kitchen okay?” You kiss her forehead and she reaches for the phone, burying herself in your blankets and starting to speak into the phone.

“Bob?”you don’t hear what he says on the other side, “a dog was chasing me.” She mumbles, rubbing her eyes. You hear him say something over the phone. You know he’s using that soft voice he seems to reserve for Lettie, “I know. Mama says that,"Another moment of silence, “g’night, I love you.”

You smile fondly, trying not to laugh. In the kitchen you search cabinets for a thermometer or medicine or something and there aren’t any. So you head to the bathroom, and in the cabinets you find a yellow thermometer but still no medicine.

When you come back Lettie is on the couch, watching the credits roll.

“Bob said goodnight.” She yawns, leaning against you the moment you sit next to her.

She’s been attached to your hip all day, you’re more than happy about it. You’ve felt like you were missing a part of your brain these last couple months. Having time for yourself to figure things out was nice at times but mostly you just miss your baby.

“Well goodnight to Bob. Can you open?”

Lettie responds immediately, opening her mouth in spite of her slowly closing eyes. She closes her mouth around the thermometer and you rub her back until it beeps.

Her fever is 100 degrees at this point but it’s just a fever, she doesn’t seem to be feeling super sick or anything. So you take the blanket off of her once she falls asleep and just let her sleep, turning on another movie.

An hour later she wakes up again. She’s crying and telling you something hurts and then she just starts gagging, so you try and carry her to the bathroom, moving quickly but not quick enough when she piles all over the bathroom tile.

She starts crying and saying ‘I’m sorry, mommy’ over and over again.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re not feeling good, that’s okay.” You respond, rubbing her back and then looking around for a wash cloth, wiping her face and hands, “I’m gonna clean you up and then I’ll clean the floor and we can camp out in the hallway for a while. We’ll build a fort and everything.”

You set her up on the couch with the movie still playing and some water. You clean up her puke and start running a cool shower. You take her temp and it’s gone up a little, so you start looking for children’s Tylenol to absolutely no avail.

Shane doesn’t pick up when you call him at first and you consider just going to the store yourself but it is three am.

And then you look some more, in the kitchen, Shane’s room, the bathroom again, and then you are sure that there’s no children’s medicine in this apartment at all.

So you call him again, no answer. So you put her in the shower and let her sit on the shower floor for a while, while you start on her fort, stealing the sheets off of Shane’s bed and using the chair from Lettie’s room and the coffee table. You make a little pallet inside with her Eeyore plushies and the iron man plushie she insisted on you getting her like three years ago.

You’re trying to figure out what to do about the medicine when you remember that bobs friend has a kid, and probably children’s medicine then.

So you take the chance and call Bob, the phone rings one and a half times before Bob answers.

“Does your friend with the kid have any children’s Tylenol?”

His voice is rough and groggy with sleep, “I can check? Is everything okay?”

“Lettie has a fever and she puked and Shane has no medicine in the house that I can find and he’s not answering his phone-“

“Okay, okay. I’ll check, do- we have Gatorade, do you want me to bring anything else?” You can hear him getting up on the other end of the call, a click that’s probably a lamp or something because he is very anti-big light. The lights in your apartment were rarely ever turned on because he claimed that turning the big lights on made places seem less comfortable to be in.

“No, the meds will be fine. Thank you.”

“Yeah, course.” He mumbles, you hear him knock on someone else’s door, they groan, he says something to them, they respond groggily, and then he’s talking to you again, “send me the address and I’ll be there in a little bit.”

You wash Lettie off and grab her some new pj’s, helping her change and putting a cartoon on your phone for her to watch while she laid down on her pallet.

She’s half asleep again when Shane calls you back. The call wakes her up and she seems visibly upset at the interruption. You just run your fingers through her wet hair repeatedly to soothe her.

“Yes, Shane?”

“You called me.” He responds quickly, “what do you want? Everything okay?”

“No, Lettie’s sick and I can’t find any medicine.”

“I have Tylenol in the kitchen cabinet.” He says like you didn’t already think to check there.

“You have adult Tylenol, you have infants Tylenol, which I’m pretty sure is expired but no children’s.” You inform him and he sighs heavily.

“Well- I was gonna stay the night with Dani but I can pick some up and head back over if you need?”

“No, it’s fine. I couldn’t reach you and it’s really late to go to the store and if she puked while we were out that would have sucked so I called Bob and his friend with the kid has some so he’s just gonna bring it over.” You explain, rubbing your eyes to try and stay awake.

“Why didn’t you just wait for me to call back, I really didn’t take that long to respond.” He complains.

“Our daughter has a fever of 101 and she just puked everywhere. I want to make her feel better as fast as possible and I really don’t want to clean up throw-up again tonight.” Your tone is flat and slightly scolding.

“Right, is she sleeping or…?”

“She was almost there before you called but the ringing got her up. After she takes her medicine she should be out like a light though.”

“Good, that’s good. Can I say goodnight?” He asks and you smile faintly. You liked that he wanted to say goodnight to her, it was small but you still found it sweet.

“‘Course.”

You put the phone on speaker and he says hello and goodnight and Lettie tells him all about her being sick and about her nightmare and about the fort you made her. Shane listened with genuine interest and kept interrupting with little ‘yeah’s so she knew he was listening. A woman’s voice calls out faintly and he responds with a ‘just a minute’ before saying goodnight and sending his love and then hanging up.

You turn Lettie’s cartoons back on and lay back next to her on the floor, she’s half asleep once more when someone knocks on the front door. She groans frustratedly and looks at you with a sort of ‘mommy save me’ look that makes your heart constrict.

“It’s Bob with your medicine, I promise after you take your medicine you can sleep as long as you want, okay?” You tell her, kissing her forehead and carefully climbing out of the fort you’ve made her.

You look through the door eyelet to see Bob and a blond man standing outside the door, all distorted from the fish eye lens effect you’re seeing them through.

You unlock and open the door, smiling gratefully at Bob and hugging him quickly as a greeting.

Him and his friend step into the small living area of Shane’s apartment.

“This is John.” Bob informs you.

“Hi,” you grin at John, closing the door behind the both of them.

John reaches a hand out and you take it. Once your attention returns to Bob it’s like neither of you can see much else, “I have medicine, some leftover chicken and dumplings John made yesterday, Gatorade and ginger ale.” Bob grins, holding out a tracery tote bag.

“Thank you. I did mean it when I said you didn’t have to bring anything other than the medicine.”

“Well John insisted.” Bob shrugs, figuring that if it were John that wanted to bring the stuff you might protest less.

“Well than, thank you, John.” You grin.

“It’s no problem, he woke me up for this and I had to drive him anyway.” John grimaces in a way that would probably look more like a smile if he didn’t also look tired.

“Bob?” Lettie’s little voice pipes up. She’s climbed out of her little fort and she’s dragging a blanket behind her and rubbing her eyes.

And then Bob's focus is no longer entirely on you. His blue eyes widen with affection and concern and he crouches down to Lettie’s level.

John’s not entirely surprised, Bob was surprisingly good with Elijah. He was good with the stuff that John sometimes found challenging, things that took patience John struggled to have.

Bob was better with tantrums and nap time and negotiating when Elijah was being difficult and his calm demeanor meant kids were comfortable with him too.

Bob sits on the floor fully, legs crossed under him. Lettie sits in his lap and you wince, “I don’t know if you wanna get too close, she’s got a fever.” You warn him.

“Eh, I don’t mind. I don’t really get sick much since the whole serum thing,” Bob shrugs, attention still on Lettie as he waits for her to situate herself into a more comfortable position on his lap, “how’re you feeling, Miss Lettie?”

“Tired.” She yawns.

“I bet. This has not been a fun night for you.” His arms wrap around her slightly, hands resting on his calves and leaving enough space for her to climb off of him if she’d like.

She nods, resting her cheek on his arm, “mommy says I can go to bed after my medicine.”

“Well then why don’t we get to work on that so you can go to bed, huh?” Bob responds, pressing his wrist to her forehead and grimacing a little.

“Working on it.” You go into the kitchen, finding a medicine cup and reading the label on the bottle to double check the dose.

Lettie looks up at John and waves a little. John smiles and waves back, looking between her and Bob and back to you in the kitchen, “I’m gonna go wait in the car.”

“I thought you had every right to come up here with me because you had to wake up at an ungodly hour?” Bob retorts, grin on his face.

John rolls his eyes, “well, I did, and now I’m here, so I am going to go back to the car now, warm it up and all.”

John calls out a goodbye to you and you thank him one more time before he leaves.

“Daddy’s with his girlfriend.” Lettie tells Bob, completely unprompted.

“Girlfriend?” Bob asks, looking to you for context.

You come in with a Gatorade bottle and the medicine for Lettie. You kneel down on the floor next to them and hand Lettie her medicine, opening the Gatorade for her.

“She’s not his girlfriend,” you shake your head, “not yet at least, she’s a friend who he's going on a date with.” That last part is more pointed to Lettie.

“Well if he’s not home yet I’m guessing it’s going pretty well.” Bob mutters and you bite back a smile.

Lettie exchanges the now empty medicine cup for the Gatorade and then lays her head back down on Bob's arm.

Bob looks at her for a minute and then back at you, “I don’t think I’m ever allowed to move again.”

You hold back a laugh and stand up to go rinse out the medicine cup.

He sits there patiently while Lettie uses him as a pillow, you come back to sit next to him and busy yourself with closing her drink and setting it on the coffee table and cleaning up the fort because you’re tired and you’re probably going to put her back in her bed after this where she will hopefully sleep in in the morning.

Every now and then you glance over and see Bob sitting there, not moving an inch and just waiting until he’s definitely sure she’s asleep.

And even then he sits and waits for instruction, only looking to you when you sit down next to him again.

“How are you?” He asks softly.

“Exhausted.” You admit, leaning your forehead against the top of his arm. You stay like that for a while, appreciating how soft the fabric of his hoodie is.

In his mind this is the epitome of a perfect moment. Peace has been rare in his life and even when he feels like he’s drowning in it it’s like he’s actually drowning in it. He feels undeserving of such calm, but this, right now?

He’s not drowning in this, he’s not being suffocated by it. This is like walking into a warm house when it’s cold outside, like a reprieve from who he is, supplemented by who he’s trying to be.

So he sits and enjoys it, savors it. He takes in every detail. He commits to memory the rhythm of Lettie’s breathing against his chest, how it warms up the space over his heart. And he relishes in the weight of your forehead against him, and the little humming noises you make as you finally let yourself relax.

“Is she asleep?” You murmur after a while.

Bob nods, “out like a light.”

“I really don’t wanna carry her to bed.” You groan.

“I can do it.” Bob offers.

“You sure? She’s heavier than she looks.” You hum, looking up now to meet his gaze.

He narrows his eyes but the smile that breaks his lips makes his expression void of any offense, “don’t patronize me. I’m quite strong.”

“Oh, you’re ‘quite’ strong.” You mimic and he chuckles low, “just don’t jostle her too much.”

“I won’t.” His voice is so quiet that you barely even realize he responded.

He shifts Lettie in his arms so he can carry her more comfortably, he stands up slowly, face scrunched tight like he’s bracing for her to wake up upset. She stays asleep and you follow him down the hall to her bedroom. You stand in the doorway as he lowers her onto her bed, pulling her blankets over her and ceasing all movement when she starts to unconsciously make herself comfortable.

And then he sneaks out of the room, walking past you just enough to evade the doorway. You close the door and lean against it, closing your eyes once more.

When you open them he’s standing in front of you, his blue eyes that were normally this dark convoluted color that was so deep you could fall into them and never come back, were clear, and shining.

“Hi.” You whisper. The warmth radiating off of him seeps through you completely because he’s so close, closer than you’d let him linger in a long time.

Somehow he smelled the same and the warmth of him made the smell stronger, like freshly baked bread.

And he just looked at you, it was a look you knew, one you recognized.

It was the look he gave you the first time he met you. He’d dived out of the way of your bike and landed in a rose bush at the end of one of your neighbors lawns. The first thing you noticed after jumping off of your bike was the huge bruise on his neck and then, a healed scar on his knee as you scanned his body for possible injuries.

“Are you okay? Did I do that?” You’d asked him, gesturing to his cheek. You pulled him up to a standing position and fretted with the T-Shirt he was wearing as it had leaves stuck to it.

As you looked at it closer you realized the bruise was too old for you to have just caused it.

“Oh, no,” he’d chuckled, hiding his face behind his hand and not quite meeting your eyes, “I’m alright, really. I can take a lot of pain, easy.”

That made you smile tightly, worriedly. You scanned his skinny arms, he was so lanky back then.

“My house is just down the road? I can patch you up?”

Then he smiled, his hand moved away from his face and you got your first good look at him. He was pretty. Not handsome in that typical masculine way but he was pretty.

His hair was short, but grown out just enough to wave and somewhat hide his forehead. His thin lips were pressed into the most bashful smile you’d ever seen, even now years later, and then there were his cheekbones and his eyes. His warm blue eyes that were shining in the sun despite the shadow his eyelashes were casting on them as he looked down at you.

So you took him home, like he was a stray puppy you’d injured. The first time your mom saw him was that night when she got home and saw him.

She knew immediately somehow, how he was treated at home. All it took was a question about the bruise on his face and a singular hesitant answer and then she invited him over for a pool day the next weekend.

But that first day, when you’d patched him up, you looked at him once, it was barely a look. It was more of a glance, but the way he looked at you then was the way he was looking at you now.

His eyes are clear and worshipful. He looks at you like you were gold he had struck, like you were a net and he was an acrobat with two left feet.

“Thank you for calling me.” He says sotto voce.

“Thank you for showing up.” You reply demurely.

His eyebrows move together, “why wouldn’t I?” You shrug, “all of the work I’ve been putting in since I met you again was for this. So that I could be the person you called when you needed, like you always were for me.”

Something about that makes your stomach drop and your heart soar all at the same time, “Is that how you saw me? Is that how you still see me?”

His face breaks into that nervous expression you’re now so familiar with, “I mean- back then- I love you genuinely, I always have I just- I had nothing together and I was stupid and I never took care of you the same way you did me. My point is that I don’t see you as someone I just call when I need help, I didn’t even really back then I just needed you so often that that’s what ended up happening.” He says it all quickly, as if he only had this one breath to tell you.

“But now… Bob, I don’t want to just reverse that. I want it- this- our friendship, I want it to be mutual and I want to trust that it is clearly, that we’re on the same page-“

“I don’t want to flip it, I just want you to think I’m dependable-“ he clarifies.

“I do.” You say, louder than you should have, and somehow it surprised the both of you.

You move away from Lettie’s door and back in the living room.

“Bob, you flew all the way down the coast because I was upset and alone. I- I don’t know when I started to again, but I- I do trust you. And I think you’re dependable and sturdy and I- I’m having a really hard time holding myself back from making that obvious anymore.” You admit diffidently, wringing your hands.

“Then don’t,” he blurts, “hide it, I mean. We can- I want to be your friend. I miss being your friend. You were my best friend and then I fucked everything up like I always-“

“You don’t always fuck everything up, Bob.” You mumble earnestly, eyeing him affectionately.

“But I did. I took you for granted and I fucked shit up for you, but I’m not who I was then. I’m- I’m closer to who you knew at first now than I was at the tale end of everything and who I was then- he missed you.”

“But I’m not who I was then.” You murmur timidly, looking at him like you feel guilty for it. It makes him panic, makes the world vibrate dishearteningly.

“But you’re still you. At your core you’re still you, you always have been. You’re softhearted and easily overwhelmed at times but never rude, just stern and fretful. I like you, how you were and how you are. All of it.” His mouth feels dry admitting it, admitting that he values who you’ve been at your core for as long as he’s felt your presence in the world with him.

“All of it?” You inquire selfishly and he grins fondly.

“Yeah. All of it. Even the all of it where you always steal the corner pieces in a batch of brownies and how you have to stop to fix displays at stores you don’t work at or how you only ever eat soup out of a mug.”

You wonder how you never in all your years of knowing him, noticed him noticing you.

“Well I like all of your ‘its’ too.”

“What ‘its’?” He grins.

You just shake your head, “I’m not as forthcoming as you, Robert. Nice try, though.”

That makes his grin break into a smile, and then, when he stops fighting it, a laugh, “naturally.”

You look at each other for a moment more, and then Bob's phone starts vibrating and he looks at it and curses under his breath a little.

“You leave your dog in the car?” You titter.

Bob rolls his eyes and restrains his smile, “something like that. Get some sleep, okay?”

He stands there for a minute like he doesn’t know whether to hug you or not.

In the end he does, and you almost fall asleep there, resting your head against his collarbone and breathing in the fresh baked smell of his skin.

He almost doesn’t want to let you go when he feels how you relax against him but he knows John will get pissy if he takes much longer and he really wants you to get some sleep.

“Goodnight, honey.” He mutters as he lets you go.

You don’t respond, you don’t want to say goodnight and that feeling tugs at the space between your lungs like it won’t ever find home.

—————————————————————————————————————

Tag list: @yagurlannastasia @silas-aeiou

[skeltnwrites]

I absolutely inhaled your knight Steve series and I looooooved it, I’ve loved the concept since @stevenose brought it up and then the Post Animal photos were released omg and then I was reminded of it again when they released their album and I’ve been craving more knight Steve content, he just looks so good so thank you so much!!! ❤️❤️❤️

I was shocked in Day 6 when they kissed so would love to know how their first kiss came about!! And in the lake drabble, you wrote that Steve knows about your feelings for him so I would love to know when both of them knew the other had feelings for them!

thank you back! ❤️ reader had a crush on him from the start but i'll probably write about steve's realization in a separate fic. also this is not the fluff you were probably hoping for so i apologize haha

to the stars knight!steve x princess!reader 1k

It’s kind of magical the way it happens— or at least, that’s what you thought when you went for it, ramming your teeth into Steve’s. 

You’re sparring in the courtyard. The one behind the crumbling stone chapel that no one prays in anymore. Ivy coils up the walls now, thick and greedy, swallowing much of the stone. The old fountain’s gone dry, choked with vines and fallen leaves. And tree roots have buckled parts of the cobbled floor.  It’s a playground more for ghosts than congregants at this point. 

But you and Steve have made it your own. Straw mats are spread across the yard, there’s a training dummy stitched from old armor Steve outgrew, and a rusted chest full of weapons buried beneath the dying thicket.

He’s teaching you to defend yourself. Because a war brews, and because scars still whisper the memory of your attackers, a constant reminder of the fragile shell beneath your crown. Hope doesn’t change the truth— danger always shadows royalty, and Steve may not always be there to protect you.

Rumors of war slip through taverns and palace halls alike, and though no one speaks the word aloud, everyone’s begun to prepare. The Queen’s council meets behind closed doors too often now, and the King’s men train long past dusk. Even the servants keep their eyes lowered, ears sharp for the wrong name in the wrong mouth.

Steve’s a great teacher, at least. He’s got this quiet kind of confidence, like he knows what he’s doing but doesn’t feel the need to say it out loud. He’s more humble than any other man you’ve ever met. A curious thing, when he is perhaps more capable than the rest of them combined. 

Two weeks of training have taught you things no royal tutor ever did— grim, practical things, like which organs you can’t live without, and how to fall without snapping your wrist. It’s brutal knowledge, but it sticks and hardens like clay does with a teacher as pretty as yours. 

Your favorite thing to practice is sword drills. Wooden ones, for now— since you’re apparently a death wish holding the real deal. You’re getting used to the feel anyway, the weight, and the way it rubs your hands raw with every swing. Steve’s quick, but you’re getting quicker each day. 

“You call that a block?” you pant. 

He chuckles. You’re too mouthy, lacking focus today. “Getting arrogant, are we, princess?”

“You hesitated.”

“I did.”

“Don’t go easy on me, Harrington.”

“Who said I was?”

Sparring with him is like a dance— measured, intimate, electric. Every step, every strike, is part of a shared choreography, built on instinct and trust. It’s exciting in a way that makes your pulse trip, not just from the movement but from the nearness, the tension, the way he reads you without words. There’s give and take, push and pull, and when you’re locked in that rhythm, it’s easy to forget you’re supposed to be fighting at all.

Especially now, with that stupid smirk across his mouth. You’ve got one of your own so you can’t complain. But still, it’s irritating how much you love it when he bests you, his heel sweeping your ankle from behind. You squeeze your eyes for impact, for a new bruise for the collection, but you never hit the floor.

Steve catches you, strong arms bent around your waist. You’re draped over one of them like something out of a fairytale, chests rising and falling in tandem, and way too aware of how handsome he looks from this angle.

You surge up without thinking, lips catching his in a clumsy press. It’s not your first kiss, but you can’t say you’re all that practiced. 

Steve doesn’t move— not away, not forward. Just still. His hand finds yours at his collar, and gently he untwists your fingers from his shirt. 

When you open your eyes, you find his already waiting— wide and steady, like they never shut in the first place. His brow is furrowed, lips parted like he’s about to speak but doesn’t. His face doesn't hold judgment, but it doesn’t hold much hope either.

“I—” You feel a sudden onslaught of nausea, so much so, you’re afraid any other words will congeal into vomit. 

Steve’s gaze trickles down to your mouth and back up again. “I can’t,” he pleads. 

You nod, shake your head, and nod again. “Foolish of me.”

“I’m your knight.” 

“I know.” Your nostrils flare, embarrassment searing up your throat like poison. Before the ache can reach your eyes, you rip from his hold. 

You’ve been rejected before— by councilmen, knights, even your own blood. Just a girl, they say. A pretty face to move across the chessboard. But none of that ever hollowed you out like this does.

Your apology is soft, a whispered sorry that gets swept away with the wind. A hot tear slips down your cheek, but you turn just in time to smear it. 

Not that he doesn’t know. His hand reaches for you but stops short, suspended behind your shoulder. He aches to apologize back, to wrap you up in his arms, anything to soften the blow. But you must understand the weight of his refusal. One touch like that could cost him everything.  

Steve stands there useless as you wipe your face and collect your wooden blade off the ground. “I’m finished for today,” you say. He catches a slice of your face, and it guts him. 

“You have to understand— you are my duty,” he explains. 

You look up at him. 

“You deserve someone who can love you back.”

You nod, the smile on your lips a poor template for what it should be. “Right.”

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.5 (Verbena) a3d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 3,288

TO THE UNAWARE: THIS IS A PROGRESS UPDATE OF A CHAPTER NOT REMOTELY CLOSE TO DONE! PLEASE DON'T EXPECT A FULL OR POLISHED PRODUCT HERE

Notes: Listen. I'm sorry, ok? I got hit with, like, four servings of the fanfic author's curse all at once. It's ok. We're getting back into it. slowly.

You might notice there's a lot of lore missing from this chapter. I scrapped it. It was a fun concept, but I don't think it matched the tone or themes of my fic. It was causing me a real roadblock, y'know? It's fixed now, it's fine.

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: She/Her Reader, Mentions of panic attack, Reader is processing her feelings </3

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Main Part (Unfinished </3)

 By some miracle, you make it home without incident.

You slam open your front door for the second time in as many days, and make straight for your room. You're determined to scream out all of your frustration, and panic, and weird, tangly emotions into an obliging pillow. That’ll fix you, surely.

And maybe you should slow down, compartmentalize and shove all the messy shit in your head into a tiny little box and just go to work, pretend to be a functional human being, but you can’t. You really, just honestly and truly can’t.

You’re already late for work at this point anyway, having intended to go straight from the gym to your office, so it’s not like a little detour to scream into the void would hurt anything. You’re a firm believer that if you’re going to be late, you should make it count.

You couldn’t work in this condition anyway. Still shaking with leftover adrenaline, tear tracks on your face and so deeply shaken that you think your soul might leak out from between your bones. Anyone who looked at you could tell you were unraveling at the seams.

You never had handled stress well.

You hear the door to your room creak open slowly, your screaming session having died between your teeth the moment you’d slammed face-first into your bed. You can practically see Taylor’s stupid considerate blond head peeking in cautiously even from your position laying face down on your mattress trying to suffocate in your pillows.

He takes the lack of soft objects being flung at him as welcome and invites himself further into the room.

Taylor had always seemed to have a sixth sense for when you were falling apart. He had a habit of appearing nearby like some sort of well-intentioned apparition, and as much as you wanted to, you’d never been able to refuse his soft concern.

You feel the bed dip under his weight as he settles carefully at your side, a warm and heavy hand tracing soothing shapes into your spine with a distinct lack of soulmate-tingles. You melt into the familiar comfort, feeling mighty sorry for yourself.

Your roommate lets you marinate in your misery for a bit, moving his hand up to run his fingers through your hair, and just being a silent comfort. Eventually though, he gets tired of your pity party and tugs lightly at the strands between his fingers.

“Alright, out with it.” He demands softly, “Who am I killing? Where are we hiding the body? I need details.”

You huff a soft laugh into your pillows and roll over to the side of your bed, arm wildly swinging about in search of the gym bag you’d haphazardly flung to the sided in your dramatics. You find it after a moment or two and fumble around to unzip and pull out that atrocious hat.

You take satisfaction in flinging it at Taylor’s face, even if he manages to catch it before it hits him.

“No murder,” You answer at last, face once more smooched between pillows, “Just hate myself.”

There’s a moment of silence as Taylor studies the hat, and you’d bet the mix of disgust and puzzlement at the offending item would be priceless if you could bring yourself to look at him. As it is, you reject the thought of receiving any sort of joy and remain prone.

You can tell the moment he realizes what exactly he’s holding, because he sighs heavily and drops his full weight onto your back.

Ignoring your pained grunt and weak struggle to free yourself Taylor asks, “So, what happened? Whose signature is it?I can’t murder my favorite group, but I’m sure I could start some sort of fan war if I needed to.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You sulk to your pillows, giving up on freedom and going limp. The pressure is soothing anyways, and Taylor knows it. Stupid omniscient blonds.

Taylor gently raps against your skull with his knuckle in reprimand. “C’mon now. I know that’s not true. You’re here instead of work.” The blond gently points out.

You feel the resistance build up in your chest, ready to emerge from your throat, but you really can’t argue. You know just as well as he did that you’d gone to work in worse states.

You’d always been the type to bury your woes, to bury yourself in familiarity and routine, to lose yourself in work and stresses much more shallow than what really bothered you.

It was something about this being a soulmate issue, you think. Something about the inevitability, about fate and so called love that made your stomach drop to your toes. It was childhood dreams of being spirited away, teenage anxiety of a much more sinister version of the same, a lifelong sword of Damocles making good on it’s threat.

Everything about your current situation made something deep and shriveled and hurt scream so horribly from the middle of your chest. You just can’t figure out if it’s screaming for relief, or damnation.

It just wasn’t something you could hide. The ugly mass of emotions in your chest keeps exploding outwards like you have no more room for it, and Taylor is far too experienced at picking up your pieces to miss the signs.

Without an argument to make, you whine and squirm beneath him a moment longer, but Taylor easily keeps his seat on your back, and you quickly give up again.

“I had a panic attack in front of him,” You admit, shifting to more fully bury yourself, hoping the words will be too muffled to make out. You can’t help the rush of hot shame that shoots through you as you recall your loss of composure.

Usually you’d at least make your way to somewhere more private, brushing off stray tears as allergies and any stuttering as nerves, but you’d just been hit so quickly with the bond, struck so violently by how gentle it felt, you’d been helpless to anything but crumple where you stood.

“Yeah? You doin’ alright?” Taylor coos gently, a hand coming up to knead firmly at the base of your neck, another grounding technique you’d taught him.

You grumble childishly as tension you didn’t realize you were carrying slowly leeches out of you at his ministrations, leaving you boneless and desperately holding back tears again.

You sniff quietly, your voice thick when you reply, “I don’t know.”

“C’mon love,” Taylor cajoles, “tell me all about it.”

“I- I just.” You stutter and gulp quietly, tears finally spilling over, “He was way too nice to me,” the words crawl out of your throat on a high whine, unbidden and thoughtless, and you finally let everything you’d been carrying overflow.

“I keep running from ‘em, an’ makin’ them sad, an’- and I’m a terrible soulmate but he was so kind and he helped me through the panic and he has to hate me now and I don’t know why I can’t just not want them when they scare me so bad,” You blubber out, curling in on yourself when Taylor moves off of you to give you the space you need to breathe through your tears. Huge, gasping, sobs escape you between words, and you can’t seem to get your shit together no matter how hard you try.

Your roommate lets you get your feelings out, holding you through it and rocking you gently as you sob and babble. It doesn’t take long for your tears to run out though. You’d never been able to let go of yourself for long.

When your sobs are reduced back to sniffles Taylor smiles kindly at you.

“You’re kinda dumb.”

You gasp in offense, trying to turn enough to smack him, but Taylor just giggles and holds you tighter so you can’t retaliate.

“I mean it!” He asserts through his laughter, “You keep acting like it’s the end of the world to have trauma, be nicer to yourself,” He scolds lightly. “Any decent person would understand.” He meets your eyes, soft and severe, “You just have to explain.”

“That’s the hard part.” You mumble. Truly, you wouldn’t even know where to begin. You’d never explained your hang-ups to anyone before. Never put words to the nebulous fears and anxieties that brewed in the back of your mind until they took root in your heart.

You’re sure Taylor has guessed some of it, but you’d never really, truly, properly talked to him about it. He had some idea that it had to do with your parents, had known your mark was something you kept desperately hidden prior to this whole mess, but you’re not sure you’d ever given him anything besides.

He gets it anyway. He’s not on good terms with his family either.

Silence yawns between the two of you for a moment, before Taylor lets out a contemplative hum.

“I’m not sure why you thought they’d be anything but nice, though.” He says, releasing you at last so that the two of you could settle against your headboard.

“They’re super well known for being absolutely delightful people, you know? Those guys are basically the golden standard.” He pauses to let out a long, agonized groan. “UGH! I’m so jealous of you, i really am! Why can’t I have eight hot, kind, rich, soulmates? This is discrimination!”

Taylor flops sideways dramatically, not getting far with your shoulder in the way, but you let him shake you in his exaggerated despair, giggling along to his lamentation.

When he calms again, you just shrug at him, “I don’t know. I just feel like I don’t deserve it. I was actively running away from him, yknow? But he still tried to help to the very last second.”

Taylor hums an acknowledgement, but doesn't respond. Silence settled between you again for a long, comfortable moment.

“They’re basically made of love, if you ask me.” He says eventually, “They love like they breathe. as a fan, it’s easy to see in everything they do.” He looks up at you from where he’d settled on your shoulder, “And you’re easy to love. You’re the only one who thinks differently.”

You hum noncommittally, leaning heavily against him. You’re not sure you believe him, though his words soothe something in you, like aloe on a burn. You just don’t think you can forgive yourself for treating your soulmates so cruelly so far.

These men had helped you and Taylor both through your worst nights. Taylor though music, and you through your mark. And yet...

“I don’t know, Tay.” You whine, “I just don’t see how they could forgive me for treating them like this.”

Taylor shoots you the filthiest side-eye he’s capable of for that. Which, rude, but you probably deserve it for being so stubborn about this.

You can tell he has more to say. Taylor would probably try to cure your poor self-esteem through argument alone if he could. But maybe he sees the utter defeat you feel. Maybe he can tell nothing he says right now would get past the haze of self-hatred and doubt. Maybe he’s tired of you rejecting his advice. Maybe he’s simply using his stupid emotional intelligence to force hope into your heart.

Whatever the case may be, Taylor simply sighs into your hair. He smacks an obnoxiously loud kiss to the top of your head and gets up, leaving you to your thoughts. His parting words ring in your ears.

“Don’t underestimate those boys, love.”

Eventually, you do make your way to work.

You’ve never been the type of person who was able to call off, even when you desperately needed to. Something about the guilt of leaving others to pick up your slack, you guess. So you make your way into the office regardless of the fact that you feel like an over-wrung wet paper towel.

It’s way past your usual start time, but your manager takes one look at your haggard appearance and tsks at you for coming in at all. You assure that you’re not sick, just stressed, and she lets you take to your desk regardless of her better judgment

Or yours, for that matter.

Your office is small, and your boss and coworkers are literal angels, so you find your queue empty of tasks when you finally do settle in.

Apparently, since you’d finished your major projects before the concert (and hadn’t had the opportunity to take up any new ones, what with everything), your coworkers had taken it upon themselves to split the petty little things assigned to you in your absence between themselves.

Ostensibly, a very kind thing to do. You’re grateful to them all, truly. You’re the youngest person on your team, and several of the older ladies have taken to doting on you during your time there. You wouldn’t have survived the past year without their guidance.

In practice though, having a clear queue means that, when the self-important curator of a local gallery calls in to schedule an urgent meeting that just has to be in person even though they couldn’t possibly leave their gallery unattended, you’re the only one free to go.

And that’s how you find yourself trudging through the summer heat, office attire suffocating, face blotchy from your earlier emotional outbursts, and makeup that was already only barely letting you hold onto a semblance of a facade of composure melting in the afternoon sun.

Honestly, even though you’d grumbled about it when you’d realized you’d have to leave the office (and you were definitely grumbling about walking in the heat), you weren’t actually too mad about it.

The curator you were on your way to meet owned a small local gallery of debatable prestige. They definitely hosted some big names in the local art scene, but you’d be surprised if any of those ‘big names’ ever made it out beyond the city limits. It was the pretentious kind of hipster place you normally wouldn’t set foot in.

However, if you recalled correctly, this month they were showing collections themed around flowers. And, well... Needless to say, you had a very personal interest in floral artworks.

If you had any luck your meeting would be quick and, since you’d dragged your feet getting there, you’d have no time to make it back to the office before the building locked it’s doors for the night. You could finish any other work assigned to you while you’re out from your laptop at home, surely.

In other words, you’d be free to peruse the gallery to your heart’s content as long as the meeting didn’t drag on past the gallery’s closing time.

The universe seems to (finally!) be on your side, because the meeting does go mercifully smoothly. So much so that you’re convinced that it could have been an email, and you’d been dragged out of your office for nothing, but whatever. Free admission.

In fact, the curator offers to tour you through the exhibits on display themself, only leaving you to your own devices when a wealthy-looking someone-or-other approaches about purchasing a piece.

It’s much better this way, in your opinion. You can take your time staring blankly at the art, judging how well they’ve depicted the flowers precious to your heart, and sit with the storm of feelings in still crashing around in your chest without having to listen to some man tell you how each painting should make you feel.

As you make your way around the first room of three, a certain painting tucked away in the back corner catches your eye.

Your feet carry you forward almost unconsciously, entranced down to your very soul by a watercolor still life of a bench framed by delicate purple fronds. ‘Wisteria’, you recognize.

The bench is empty, wear-worn and half-devoured by the plant life around it. The trunk of the wisteria tree rises up wobbly and whimsical behind it, offset to the right. The flowers are in full bloom, swaying gently in an un-felt breeze, the very ends trailing delicately over the corners of the bench. The tree almost seems bowed over the object, reverent. Patient.

Almost like it knows you’re thinking of it, a similar image rising up your spine tingles with awareness. Like the tree on the painting, the wisteria guarding your back bows ever so delicately above your other marks. Though, yours remains mere buds for now. With any mercy, for at least a few more days.

You hardly notice the stranger sidling up next to you as your soulmark gives one more reverberating ‘zing’ along your spine before falling silent once more.

You’re in the middle of giving yourself a little shake to brush off the odd feeling, when the stranger speaks.

“It seems kind of lonely, doesn’t it?” He says to himself in Korean, like it personally affects him. His voice drips with sympathetic sorrow, eyes melancholic when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

A face mask covers the majority of the stranger’s face, a black beanie shoved low over long blond hair. You decidedly ignore the pit in your stomach that reminds you of your recent encounters with mask-wearing, Korean-speaking strangers.

Surely even you couldn’t be that unlucky... Right?

Trepidation aside, you can’t just ignore his question, so you answer the stranger with a contemplative hum, tilting your head to study the painting again.

Certainly, you can see where the stranger is coming from. The subject of the painting is very obviously the bench. It’s front and center, the metal brackets rusted, half consumed by nature. It’s been there for a long time, and nothing has disturbed it. The colors are a bit washed out, like a fading memory, even as they communicate a sunny day in their brightness. The framing is melancholy, the delicate purple wisteria trailing longingly over nothing.

Still, you can’t help but disagree.

“I wonder if it’s not just waiting.” You comment back in the same language, ignoring the little noise of surprise at your words. You study the painting again, soft eyes tracing quiet details.

Two indents in the bench where many bottoms had made their mark. Warm sunlight filtering through the overhang. Tiny sprouts of new grass where feet had once wore the ground beneath the bench to dirt.

Love permeates the image, and you once again can’t help the way your eyes glue onto little purple streaks brushing against sun-warm wood.

“It’s kind of like...” you trail off, trying to find your words, a little self-conscious of the way this stranger’s eyes have latched onto you, “The fading echo of a laugh.” You finally decide.

You glance at the man beside you, trying not to blush at his focus as he tilts his head in question. You shoot him a grimace of a smile, wincing at the thought that maybe you shouldn’t have butted in. You acquiesce to the silent request to elaborate anyways.

“Clearly, it was filled with joy once,” You explain, trying not to shrink in on yourself, “And the memory of joy is still there. And there will be joy again. It just takes a little patience.” You shrug, diverting your eyes back to the painting when you can’t take the stranger’s gaze any longer, “I think it’s longing, more than it is lonely.”

The stranger hums a little impressed sound, and turns to the painting with new eyes. You’re still not sure he sees what you do, but you’re met with a cute little eye-smile when he turns to face you again.

“I like that interpretation better.” He says simply.

You offer him a sheepish smile and a shrug, and the two of you separate to explore the exhibit some more.

The 'Everything Always' Tag List: @chancloud8 , @sh0dor1 , @thatgirlangelb

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To the readers who come across this: If you want to be added to the progress taglist for just this fic, let me know in the replies here or on this post!

(If I've missed anyone I'm so sorry, it's been a minute since I updated the tag list)

[firefly--bright]

ˋ°•*⁀➷ 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧!

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern smau.

⁀➷ episode four ; rats!

⁀➷ warnings➷ as the title suggests - rats. reader is a rat girl thru n thru so if you dont agree with those ideals....you might be in the wrong place/please sit thru this one </3 mentions of killing said rodent also. anyway! tw for VERY awkward conversation, i cant help it. youre going to get secondhand embarrassment. also connie might be a little ooc, im working on writing him better with other fics as practice :') but if you guys have any suggestions please feel free to message me about them!

➷ episode soundtrack.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

➷ Tuesday, 6:27 p.m.

there was a squeaking nearby. in the main living area, with the couches pushed against each other to create a cozy space, there was a squeaking - rustles.

you should've known. An apartment where three guys lived with each other in a somewhat cramped space, you should've known hygiene would be an issue; even with marco around. of course there was going to be a rogue rat thinking this was its home as much as it was the actual inhabitants of the place. 

Connie flinched from beside you, back sitting up straight, eyes scattering across the room widely; like laser beams, scanning every wall and hinge at the sign of the noise. 

“did you hear that?” he asks, making you glance over at him in half amusement and half curiosity. 

“sounds like we got a rat in the walls-” “don't. no we don't what do you-” his paranoid sentence is broken up by an equally nervous laugh, more adjacent to a scoff than anything, “-what do you mean? ha. we don't….have those.” his voice diminished just as the sentence did, turning down its pitch until it was barely heard.

oh but you heard it. “are you scared of rats?” you ask, your laptop shifting from its position over the blanket that only half-covered your legs, elbow resting on the back of the couch. 

his head whips around at you as if you're the culprit of the squeaks. “and you're not?” 

you open your mouth, ready to defend all rodents - to become a voice of the needy - when the needy voices spoke for themselves. another squeak. a couple whimpers, really, that bled into the whimpers coming from your friend as he huddled closer to you, placing the heels of his feet on the cushions of the couch. He pulled his shirt over both his knees, wrapping his arms around them.

you try not to laugh. Really, you do, but he looks like a shiny ball with his freshly dyed grey hair as he shakes back and forth, and a snicker escapes you regardless.

fatal mistake. the bald ball - Connie - turns to face you. slowly. 

your  assignment is only half complete, his prop designing assignment is only in its initial experimental phase (as he likes to describe it), as Connie jumps at the sound of the door opening, his experimental prototype of what's supposed to be a half eaten sandwich made out of silicone and sponge jumps along with him, falling to the floor with a thud.

“why is Connie rolling around?” marco asks from the door frame, bag of groceries in his right hand, swinging the door wide open with the other. jean, without missing a beat or even looking at the guy, mutters in a tone loud enough, “I think it's second nature to him.” his own hands hold bags of groceries and a stack of toilet papers - the list of which had been stuck to the fridge door for the past three weeks, a pure product of its procrastination. 

you sigh as you stand up, placing your laptop gently on the couch unlike connie’s project. 

“he heard a rat in the walls,” 

both the other men fell silent. staring at you dead in the eyes, Jean's features turned gaunt, while marco sighed heavily, eyes screwing shut in frustration. 

“this happened last year too….god, it's like they migrate every single time.” 

you shrug, trying hard not to find humor in the situation, but jean’s usually guarded and somewhat cocky spirit had vanished completely, replaced by a corpse. It was haunting, really; he stood as still as a statue, almost waiting for another noise to break him out of his stupor. 

“maybe they like your home-” “I'll kill them.” Connie mutters, unconvincingly, his back now pressed against the bottom, cushioned legs of the couch, still rocking back and forth. marco sighed again, burden heavy on his shoulders, as he half-turned around, ready to head out of the door again,”I'm gonna go get the rat traps from the store,” he declared meekly, trying to push jean out of the way. he remained steady. 

“wait, no need, I have one in my closet.” you call out, making all of them - well, marco and Connie - look at you. jean hadn't taken his eyes off of you since you'd confirmed a non-existent suspicion, and the invisible yet tangible contact made you want to squirm under his attention.

“you do?” marco asked.

“SAVIOUR. THE RAT GODDESS HAS COME UPON US,” Connie shouted, no longer rocking, head poking out of his burrow, eyes gazing up at you. was he….crying? his eyes were glassy, you noted, before jean took your attention away, no longer cosplaying as a statue of himself. “don't…call her that, it doesn't sound right.” 

“why are you speaking on a woman's behalf, jean?” Connie asked, all previous anxiety replaced in favour of pure enjoyment. 

“i didn't - I'm not- I just…if anything, she's, yknow,” jean says, not finishing the sentences, to which you tilt your head in question. 

“i don't know, jean. I'm what, exactly?” 

there was a brief silence, one in which jean stared at you, mouth gaping open and close like a bored fish, before he sucked in a breath and groaned, “mumble mumble mumble, you get it,” before moving to his room without a second glance, grocery bag and toilet paper still in hand. 

“is he planning to use all of those?” you ask, marco not paying full attention as he placed all the groceries on the kitchen counter to organize, while Connie yelled, “jean kirstein, your ass is not fat enough to hoard all of those for yourself! i deserve some charmin’ love, c'mere baby boy!”

apartment 201 was never quiet. you allowed yourself to enjoy it.

➷ Sunday, 2:02 p.m.

In the bustle of jean cleaning the dishes left from lunch and connie snoring - somehow through the noise - on the undeniably comfortable couch with half his body hanging off of the furniture, it was easy to not hear the continuous squeaks.

Oh, but they were there. You knew it. Polo’s ears twitched at the sound, and marco turned around from packing the leftovers to greet his furry best friend. “You want a treat, bud? You just had lunch,” he said, wondering out loud. 

From your crouched position at Polo’s paws, you spoke, “i think he can sense the rats,” 

Jean stumbled with the dish in his hand, slipping it into the bubbles involuntarily. Clearing his throat, he murmured an apology and an excuse, none of which you actually bought. Stuffing the box of Tupperware into the too-full fridge that was as old as your grandmother, marco also crouched beside you, his knees snapping.

Scratching polo behind his ears, he said, “we should do something about that before connie has another panic attack.” his voice was a few octaves higher, as if he was having a conversation with polo and not the kitchen.

You breathe out a laugh, watching them interact. “I can take care of it,” you tell them, tilting your head so you can see polo better. His eyes are closed at the gentle caresses from his owner, mouth open with his tongue sticking out, pleased. Patting him on the head, you get up to help jean.

He’s about elbow deep in soap, pink gloves covered in suds. “Need help?” you ask, resting you hands on the counter.

he looks at you as if he wasn't expecting you to be there. You haven't had a lot of luck with him after last week - though you’ve connected a little more with connie and marco, especially after the latter brought polo back into the apartment - Jean mostly either stayed to himself or on campus, finishing up work that required bigger materials. You wanted, desperately, to see what he was working on, what kept him so busy, but you couldn't walk into the architecture building and claim the studio space as your own. You weren't close enough to jean for that, and for some reason, you were back to square one. 

With his hair coming undone across his forehead, you blink up at him as his mouth opens and closes, searching for an answer. “Yeah, yeah… uhm, you can grab the towel over there-” he nods at the napkin “-and uh, dry these, i guess.” 

You nod once, set on your task. Every dish had its own story, with it’s scratches set in ceramic, wiped clean from any visible grime. Marco stepped next to you to make some after-lunch coffee and flashed a smile at you, one that you returned. “Want one?” he asked. You shook your head, muttering a small thank you anyway. Glancing at jean to ask him if he wanted one too, you saw him wiping his forehead with his shoulder, trying to get his hair out of his face with a scowl, obviously failing. You said nothing, instead averting your eyes and going back to wiping dishes. 

Red. blue. A murky green, and then a bowl that was more of a plate, decorated with thin blue stripes that you had used for your lunch today. Swiping your napkin over it, placing it aside to be kept in its home in a bit. You gleaned at jean again after marco left the kitchen, polo scurrying behind him like a golden shadow.

“I can-” you said, hesitating. His attention turned on you - “i can help with your… your hair, if you want.” you said pointing to your own forehead, napkin still held in your fist. Jean’s eyebrows shot up his now completely covered forehead, “oh. I mean…im not-” “-not like, with my hands if that, if that creeps you out,” “-oh?” “yeah…uhm, i can…. Try it with a…fork?” you say, wincing at your own statements, face scrunched in visible regret.

Maybe that does the trick, because he cracks a small smile, with an even smaller laugh. 

“With a fork?” he says, amused. You roll your eyes, only a little annoyed. “Hey, man, let me have this.” he laughs a bit louder now, his smile enough to touch his cheeks instead of just his lips. He nods, convinced but hesitant.

Grabbing the nearest, newly wiped fork, you hold it in your hand like brandishing a sword, and point at his hair. He flinches backwards with a “woah,” to which you reply, “i’ll be careful.”

And you are, to your credit, as you gently lift his hair and push it back behind his hairline, making sure that the prongs don't graze his skin. 

A daunting task. You step back to observe your work. “Yeah?” you say, with a smile that's half approval and half question. He nods, “yeah,” while avoiding eye contact. “Youre surprisingly good at that,” he adds, pointing to your fork with a pink-gloved hand, water dripping on the floor from it. 

“It's my years of practice. Im… a mermaid?” you say, unsure of every word that comes out of your mouth, and he barks out a surprised laugh. “Right,” “yeah, that’s why im not touching the water. I’ll just… grow a tail-” “-grow a tail, yeah, no i get it. Sounds… magical,” he says, playing along with your terrible attempt at a bit. “A little weird, too”

You scoff, a little humorous, “coming from the guy who likes to avoid people,” 

There's only some regret that comes tumbling out of your mouth at a form of, “i mean, i didnt mean to say that,” half-heartedly, but jean nods, his lips sealed into a thin line with guilt.

“No, youre right.” he starts, “Its just…i get too in my head about this, like- dont get me wrong, you’re a nice person, it’s just that we havent been friends before you moved in, y’know?” he says, his hands - gloves and all - making animated figures in the air, articulating his point with silent drawings. 

“I get that,” you say, softly enough for connie’s loud snores to almost drown your voice. But jean gets it, and his hands stop fidgeting, instead finding peace at his sides. “But… you can start to be my friend, too, yknow? So im not a stranger living under your roof?” 

His eyes finally meet yours. “Yeah,” he says, just as softly as you, “i’d like that.” 

There's a beat of silence where you can feel the weight of something newer, out of control but still close enough to be called yours. He clears his throat, glancing at the fork that lays still in your hand, waiting for it’s story to be told. 

“As long as we clean that fork,” he says, pointing at the object. You lift it up with a cheeky smile, “nah, i cant touch water, remember?”

He laughs. 

➷ Monday, 8:12 p.m.

“So, is the rat situation under control?” sasha says, almost scaring some of the patrons that you're meant to be serving as she sneaks up at the register. 

“Thank you, you can collect your drink after your name’s been called up. Have a great night!” you say, politeness clipped into your tone, before turning around to face your friend. “Dude, youre going to make the customers think we have rats.”

Sasha waves her hand dismissively, “they’d drink the coffee anyway. College students dont care about that.” 

“I think they do very much care about it, considering how connie and jean were acting,”

Sasha barks out a laugh at that, her hands moving swiftly on the espresso machine, cleaning up the stray coffee grounds that had escaped from the portafilter, flinging them into its dedicated can. “Jean likes to act all nonchalant about it, but i swear he’s losing sleep. Connie’s just a scaredy cat, plus he has history. I had to take care of most of the bugs when i was living with them.”

You shake your head with a laugh, “beating gender stereotypes one rat at a time,”

She points to you with a smile, her tone approving, “exactly. So when are you going to meet mr. squeaks?” 

You hum thoughtfully, “my long lost twin,” to which she laughs, brewing hot espresso into a glass shot. “Luckily, i still have my rat trap from the last time this happened at my own place, so i can set it up tonight and hopefully, tomorrow, i’ll meet the famous guy,” 

“Fame-mouse little guy,” she says, elbowing you in the ribs, forcing out a laugh from you. 

“Yeah. fame-mouse. The moment i get a place of my own that allows pets and isnt a glorified dungeon, im buying a white rat.”

“Hmm, will that be Pip or Squeak?”

You snort. “It’ll be Pip. The cat will be Squeak. So its ironic.”

“Of course. How could it not be. Youre a poetic genius.” 

“So ive been told,” you say, holding the warm cappuccino in your hands and calling out the order’s name.

Noor waited for you outside the steps of the cafe, keenly observing something rustling in the bushes, her arms kept to herself, tucked under her leather coat that she had proudly stolen from her mother during summer break. When she hears you stepping out, however, her shoulders drop in relief. 

“I think there’s something in the bushes,” she says, shaking her head towards the subject. You hand her a cup of your concoction - raspberry cold foam tea. Nothing too experimental tonight, considering you weren't the one closing, leaving the rest up to sasha, who had claimed there were some tricks she’d learned from nicolo for closing up faster. You trust her. 

“Must be rats,” you shrug, looping your arm into hers as she leans against your side, shuddering in disgust. “Why would you say that to me. I was having a normal da- actually, i wasnt.” she says, and you feel your cheeks lifting at her shift in mood, your feet moving at a slow speed to match with the pace of her story as she recounted her day. 

“You will not believe who was in our textile class today. Dont even start guessing, actually, because i wanna say it. Baldy fucking springer. Constantinople. Whatever his name is.” “he seems like a conrad,”

“ew, thats worse. Loser white boy name. Anyway, he was there, right, which is crazy because what job does he even have here? Apparently he wanted the professor's advice for one of his prop projects which i call total bullshit.” she says, glancing sideways at you, waiting for you to confirm. 

You nod vigorously, “oh yeah, i dont think making some fake food needs a deep dive on textiles.”

She scoffs. “And then when i walked into class he immediately came over to my desk to bother me and namedropped the prof as if they were old buddies. God, i hate that.”

“Me too,” you say, half agreeing with your ears fully peeled for her voice. Undoubtedly, connie had started growing on you, especially with the whole rat fiasco. Everytime he heard the squeaks, he would glance at you as if waiting for you to translate the sound into something that made sense for his human mind. You'd catch him leaving treats for the mouse, and when asked, he said he was doing the “opposite of white fang. Black toothing.” the literary ramifications of which you weren't even going to unpack. To fuck with him, though, you did make a soundtrack with over three hours of the ratatouille soundtrack interlaced with Mouse Squeaking sounds so he’d be jumpscared by it.

You think you accidentally desensitized him instead.

But now was not the time to disclose that. 

“He just gets on my fucking nerves. He wouldnt let me concentrate the entire time. His fucking perfume, too, god, it’s like he bathed in it. Smelled like a macho-man version of what he thinks could be vanilla.”

“Oh, i think that might be jean’s, actually.” you say, an amused smile playing at your lips. “He’s very pretentious about his…smells. I think he has an entire space in the living room for it like a display,” 

She takes another sip before laughing. “So stupid. Hows that going, by the way? I mean… like, living with practical strangers and a manchild?”

“You could be talking about either of the three and i’d agree with you. Except for marco.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely.”

You sigh, looking back ahead. Only a couple more minutes for her awaited apartment, and then a couple more for yours. You didnt mind leaving her at her place before yours - you preferred it, in fact, because her goddess of a room-mate would always give you something from the fridge or the pantry, asking you to stay for longer. 

But not tonight. You had a mission tonight. 

“Its… i mean, he did awkwardly ignore me for almost a whole week? But then it was fine because i called him out on it yesterday. We’ve been…chill? I think? I dont think i’ll ever know where i stand with him.” you say, shaking your head.

Noor hums from beside you, something you feel more than hear, your shoulders touching hers, a natural rhythm settling over your bones. It was easy with her. Not having to second guess, always knowing the jokes would land because she’d be the ones catching the stray ones that don't usually stick. 

“God. that fucking sucks,” she says plainly, and that’s all you needed. No solution to ‘talk it out’ (something your mother would recommend, not that you’d told her that you were living with two strange men, one normal one, and one dog. She’d make you give up and move back home), no patronising ‘i know how you feel’, either. Just a fact that was laid for observation and attention, something she provided tenfold. 

Her thumb traced a familiar warm pattern on the sleeve of your arm where her hand rested - a silent acknowledgement. 

You rest your head on her inviting shoulder.

She rests her head on yours - muscle memory. “Wanna spend the night at mine?” another warm invitation, this time said out loud and open.

You hum, “I wish. I need to get the rat out of our place, though. Dont know how connie-” she fakes a gag at that - “will sleep tonight if i dont,” 

“Youre going to put a trap up only for him to be the one to get trapped in there.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Are you saying he’s the rat?”

“No, I'm saying he’s stupid enough to do that as a human being.” 

You agree.

➷ Monday, 10:31 p.m.

Dinner was had. The preparations were set. Connie wore his old blue basketball helmet that you were sure was too small for his head.

“What are you even trying to protect?” jean asks connie, sitting on the couch, observing your moves with precision, almost like he’s noting them down for future reference.

Marco sits next to you on the floor, holding a piece of the crust of a slice of bread smothered in butter. “is this… are you sure about this?” he asks as you open up the rat trap, opening the cage.

“Yeah, dont worry. Ive done this many times.” you mutter. You try not to let the rust of the cage bother you - it was one of the items you had been given by a rather kind old neighbour from your old place after you had asked her about the rat problem. 

She told you about leaking pipes and moldy food. Something about capitalism and the rat race? You couldnt remember the details of the conversation, but you remembered the absolutely delicious watermelon she had cut up for you that day. 

With your tongue poling out of your mouth in concentration, jean and connie sitting on the couch stiffly - the former clutching a pillow to his chest and the latter clad in his helmet, chest and knee pads along with a bat - murmuring their arguments to each other, marco sitting next to you, leaning in close to view your work, and polo sleeping on his dog bed on the opposite end of the room, it seemed like the whole room held its breath, walls contracting in anticipation.

“Done!” you exclaimed with a smile, standing up and cracking your bones. “Now we wait.” 

The anticipation lies still within the apartment. “....we wait?” connie asks, voice small. You almost cant make his face out of the bars that conceal it. You nod to his question, plopping down on the cushioned chair yourself.

All three of them are looking at you. “What?”

“So i dressed up like this….for nothing?” connie asks, a little broken-hearted. Jean’s grip on the pillow loosens. “Thats a you problem, nobody told you to dress like this.” “im trying out a new type of fashion,” 

“Speaking of fashion,” you start, and connie looks at you - or so you assume. “Noor was telling me you were in her textile class today?” you ask. Not really meant to be a tease or a threat, more of a simple prod of his intentions. You wiggled your eyebrows, “whats that all about, man?” 

“Oh my god,” marco said, still on the ground, his hand now covering his face in embarrassment. 

Jean just groaned while rolling his eyes, back relaxing into the couch.

“I was just trying to talk,” connie says, voice anything but innocent, but he shrugs like its not a big deal.

“Why are you hellbent on annoying the poor girl?” marco asks, and you nod in agreement. 

“Hey! Im not annoying her-” “-i dont think he can help being annoying, to be honest-” jean mutters. Connie pays him no mind “-i was genuinely trying to talk to her. I think she’s a nice person, and you know me, i always want to make friends!” he says, convincing no-one but himself.

“Right,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. 

He doesn't say anything for a second, lost in thought. Then, “why? Did she say something about me?” he asks. If you knew him better, you might assume he was hopeful.

You try to break the news to him gently, “well…she thinks…” you trailed off. Catching jeans eye, he nods with a smirk, egging you on. “She thinks youre… persuasive.”

“Yes!” connie cheers. Jean scoffs from beside him. Marco just shakes his head in disbelief, a smile on his lips.

“I didnt mean that as a compliment,” you inform, which simmers his spirits down.

“Dude, im telling you, apologize to her first.” jean says, patting connie’s back placatingly. Marco nods in agreement, but your face twists in displeasure, catching jean’s eye again.

“I dont think that’ll work, but youre welcome to try,” you speak. “I mean, she’s amazing and kind but she might need more than that,” 

“I can get flowers. What flowers does she like?” “thats not-” “or i can get her coffee! Whats the one she always gets?” “i dont think you should-” you try, but jean cuts you off with a quip of his own. “Yeah? With whose money? Besides, buying your way into forgiveness isnt going to work.” 

Connie settles back down with a groan. “Okay. i guess i’ll say sorry.” he concedes. 

“Wait, so when do we catch the rat?” jean asks, diverting the topic.

You shrug. “We just have to leave it where we think the rat is and hope it gets lured in by the toast.” 

“I guess polo’s going to sleep in my room tonight.” marco says, glancing at the mop of golden hair in the corner of the room. Jean nods in understanding. Connie shivers dramatically, “ugh, i can feel him crawling on me.”

“It could be a her,” you say.

“Nah, all rats are men.” jean snorts at connie’s confidence, “yeah, youd know wouldnt you?” 

“What the hell does that mean, horsey?” 

“Fuck you.”

“Youd like that, wouldnt you?” 

The rest of the conversation is blocked by your ears, making your way to your room with a shake of your head and smile, muttering an exhausted goodnight to marco and lightly petting polos golden fur. 

➷ Tuesday, 7:47 a.m.

You crouch next to the prison that traps the rat, who scurries around the limited cage. Waving to it with your finger, you smile at it.

“GET THAT FURBALL AWAY FROM ME.” connie shouts, refusing to step out of the threshold of his room. Jean stands a couple steps behind you, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Marco made himself scarce this morning after sending the text, claiming he needed to tend to polo’s needs. 

“Thats a slur.” you joke, raising your head to look at your room mate. He clutches the door frame with white knuckles, his helmet and pads still adorning his body. He seemed to have slept in them, and you wouldnt doubt the fact that he slept with the bat he had been clutching last night either.

Jean’s brows were twisted in slight concern, slight amazement and worry, his face showing his emotions more than his demeanor or words could. “You…. you need help in… killing it?”

You whip your head towards him, eyes wide. “We’re not killing this guy,” you claim, shaking your head. There was no way you could allow something other than natural causes to bring any misfortune upon this little creature. It must already be so scared being in an unknown trapped environment.

“Sorry bud… we’re not killing you, i promise.” you address the rat - Squeak, you’d named him, as sasha had pointed out the other day - and then turn back to jean. “We’re gonna let it go downstairs. Besides, logically speaking, there's no way we can kill Squeak. He’s pretty big.” 

Jean hums thoughtfully, “fat ass rat.”

You breathe out a laugh at Squeak’s expense. He seems to hear you, stopping his needless pacing. “Can you grab the door real quick?”

jean leaves your side to do as instructed, finding it very easy to be as far away from the rat as possible in his current state. He hadnt even gotten the chance to eat breakfast or comb his hair back when connie’s relentless screeching woke him up. How you slept through it, he had no idea. With what jean can only define as pure bravery, you hold up the cage by its handle and walk out of the door, leaving his eyes to trail after you. The rat seemed to have calmed down and patiently awaited its release, staying in place as the cage softly swung in your grasp. 

“Jean,” you call out, snapping his attention to your eyes instead of the load in your hands, “can you-” your head motioned for the elevator doors. He scrambled to open it, ensuring the doors wouldnt close by shielding the opening with his back pressed against cold metal. 

squeak. squeak.

the rat seemed to almost speak it's excitement to leave the cage - and subsequently also their apartment - as the elevator creaked into action. “so when you said you'd do this often…” jean started, trailing off when he found himself lacking the words to makes coherent sentence while the gremlin in your hands stared at him with beady eyes. he'd never vocalize it, though, because the slight smile on your face was enough to not speak about his fears. 

you shrug, an easy expression on your face. you'd also just woken up, and clad in your shirt that was splattered with different blotched of bright paint against the stark background of the fabric with shorts to match, you didn't look disgruntled. somehow, you still looked put-together to your best possible efforts, and jean felt a little out of place knowing he probably looked like shit.

“there were a couple in my old apartment.” you said. jean nodded, listening. “did you ever name any of them?” 

that seemed to get your attention to his eyes, smile growing slowly

on your face, soft and present. 

“there was one that I named Tuna.” you said, reminiscent. “for ironic purposes.” you added. there was a pattern there - easy to read and open for jean to see - that you liked to name things ironically. he'd have to ask you why some other time, he notes, opting to continue the non-hesitant back-and-forth you have going on.

“purr-poses,” jean says, almost out of instinct, and before he could apologize or correct himself, you laugh. 

he counted it as a win. first laugh of the day, and it had only been accomplished about twenty minutes in. score.

“that wasn't bad,” you comment. 

jean shrugged with a smirk that bordered on being genuine, “eh, I've done better,”

“sure you have.”

“what does that-”

the elevator doors opened before jean could argue with your statement. he swore he could see your teasing smile as you escaped the cramped four walls, and jean breathed out a sigh of relief.

the birds were chirping almost too loudly when he stepped out behind you, following your lead as you made your way to the edge of the sidewalk.

“well, Squeak, this is it,” you said, setting the cage down and crouching next to it. jean simple watched you with his arms crossed over his chest, the same expression adorning his face from before - slight amusement and slight concern. 

“be brave, bud. make sure to stay away from traffic.” you said. if jean didn't know any better, he could've assumed you were talking to your own pet. you turned your face enough to glance at him, “do you wanna say anything to him?” 

he blinked. “uhm… best of luck? thanks for not eating our food unless offered. I'll….miss your squeaks,” he said, nodding in satisfaction after he was finished with his goodbye speech. he felt like he was giving a eulogy. 

turning back to the cage, you waved at the rat before opening the door. it seemed confused at first, but soon after sending his freedom, rushed out of the cage, scurrying away from the pair of you.

you stood up. jean observed as Squeak ran with his tail dragging behind him, in search of the nearest drainage inlet. 

“i hope he finds his way.” he hears you speak, and if he wasn't close

to you, he'd probably wouldn't have heard. 

“i think he will. seems like a smart mouse.”

“i knew it, you're warming up to him!” you say, turning to jean with the same teasing smirk as before. this time, jean can see it in full bloom - against the morning sun, your eyelashes created shadows on your under eyes. 

jean scoffed, “a little to late for it,”

“but you're admitting it, though. that you like Squeak.” you push. 

he does. He thinks he might just actually miss squeak. or maybe that's because you've convinced him to. Either way, he did grow to care for the rat, and it was easier because he was comfortable admitting it to you more than anyone. 

“im not admitting anything,” he counters. he saying it just for the sake of argument, but his resolve had already crumbled. 

you hum knowingly, “sure, jean.”

the way you say his name would've made his heart stop in a different context. maybe in a public setting, or if you were to whisper it the way you just said it, he would've dropped his drink. 

“you’ll miss him and you know it. and I know it too,” you say, turning around to head back into the building, your hair lighting up with the rays of the sun. 

his mind works its way through various loops, the cogs in his brain turning to provide a suitable quip to your sentence.

“you think you know everything, pip?” he says after a bit. it's his turn to retain a teasing smirk now, as you look at him with eyes that seem to have laughter etched into them. “Pip?” you ask, but he knows you already know the answer.

“like, yknow… Pip and Squeak. your hypothetical rats. i think it suits you.” he says, his eyes refusing to meet yours because he's making a very important point that he cannot stand being refuted.

but you don't refute it. instead, you laugh softly, nodding to the new proclamation as if you're feeling out the name. “is that what you're gonna call me now?”

jean hums in agreement. “yeah. can't change it.” 

“right,” you say, smile still present, “I like it.” 

jean smiles too. you like it.  

ˋ°•*⁀➷

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⁀➷ a/n ➷sorry for lowkey abandoning this (can be said about a lot of my fics tbh) im trying to work on it!! its just that these fics take a lot of time to with edit all the pictures and making sure theyre perfect to post. its p hard to do it all in one sitting :( anyway! hope you guys liked this one! :) also please leave any and all constructive criticisms you have about this fic! im swimming out of my comfort zone with this one, so if anything can be made better or changed, id love to do that to the best of my abilities <3

⁀➷ comments, likes, reblogs are always appreciated!

line dividers by @peachesofteal

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Hi! I really liked your corrie x teen reader fic! Would you be willing to write another fic that’s similar but w/ torrent company? Same teen reader but maybe reader is a refugee who gets picked up by the 501st? Thanks pookie 😁

“You Bit a Droid?”

Teen!Reader x 501st / Torrent Company

The first time Captain Rex saw you, you were throwing a hydrospanner at a battle droid.

And then—gods help him—you bit it.

“Why—why did you bite the droid?” Kix had asked later, blinking in disbelief.

You had spat a chip of plastoid plating out of your mouth and shrugged. “Didn’t have a weapon. Had teeth.”

That was… not wrong. But it also wasn’t how most people handled themselves in an active combat zone.

You were barely thirteen. Covered in dust, blood (not all yours), and attitude. A refugee kid who’d slipped through the cracks when your settlement got shelled. Somehow, you ended up smack in the middle of a frontline skirmish on Felucia, swinging a bent pipe like a youngling gone feral.

And Torrent Company found you.

⸻

“Are you sure we have to keep it?”

Fives had crouched next to you as you sat on a crate eating rations like a starving Tooka with a grudge.

You looked up at him, mouth full. “I can hear you, Bantha-boy.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes said you amused the kriff out of him.

Rex crossed his arms and sighed. “We’re not keeping them. We’re escorting them to the evac transport and dropping them with Republic Relief.”

“…So not keeping, just delivering. Like cargo.”

“I’m right here,” you barked around a mouthful of food. “Not deaf. Or property.”

You had sass. You had bite. You had… absolutely no filter.

Torrent Company was doomed to adopt you within the hour.

⸻

“So… what’s your name?”

Jesse asked while he patched your busted knee.

“Dunno.”

“You don’t know your name?”

“Dunno what you want it to be.” You squinted. “You wanna real name or the one people yell when I break stuff?”

“…Okay,” Jesse muttered. “They’re gonna fit in just fine.”

⸻

You were supposed to be dropped off at a refugee shelter in the next sector.

But every time they tried, you found your way back. Clinging to the side of the gunship. Hiding in the supply crates. Once, they caught you curled inside a spare trooper helmet storage bin like some gremlin-shaped secret stowaway.

“You again?!” Rex groaned as he opened the container.

“Hi,” you beamed. “Nice crate.”

“You smell like thermal oil and disappointment.”

“You smell like bad decision-making and sleep deprivation.”

That one earned you a high five from Fives and a full-on cackle from Hardcase.

⸻

Eventually, Anakin Skywalker himself had stepped in.

He gave you one look — disheveled, bruised, buzzing with nervous energy and reckless defiance — and said, “Yeah, okay. I see why they like you.”

“You’re not gonna throw me out?”

He’d shrugged. “You bit a droid. You’ve earned some credit.”

So the 501st made it official. You weren’t a soldier. Not yet. Not really. But they gave you a bunk near the back of the barracks and a tracker bracelet “so we don’t lose you again,” Rex said.

And somehow, you were home.

⸻

But Trouble Followed You Like a Lost Tooka

Because of course it did.

You hotwired a speeder to impress Tup.

You tried to reprogram a training droid and made it violently obsessed with Kix.

You snuck into a war room meeting once, and when caught, claimed you were “just the entertainment.”

You were chaos. You were tiny. You were loud.

And yet—

When you had nightmares, Jesse sat beside your bunk and told stories about stars.

When you got sick, Kix smuggled real soup in from the officer’s mess.

When you wanted to learn to shoot, Fives taught you with a patience no one knew he had.

And when someone tried to take you off-ship without clearance?

You screamed bloody murder and headbutted the officer in the gut.

You had to sit through three lectures after that.

Rex paced the floor like a dad trying not to yell. “You can’t attack officers.”

“They were gonna take me.”

“I told you we wouldn’t let anyone take you without saying so. You have to trust us.”

You looked up, defiant and scared all at once. “Everyone always says that. Then they leave.”

That stopped him cold.

Rex crouched in front of you and said, gently but firmly, “We’re not leaving.”

You didn’t cry.

But your hands shook when you finally nodded.

⸻

The fact you once bit a droid became legendary.

It was whispered in training drills. Joked about in mess halls. And whenever you walked into a room, someone from Torrent Company would call out, “Watch out — it bites!”

You grinned every time.

Because for the first time in your life…

Someone was watching out for you.

[kaitlyn-imagines]

Your writing is great!!!

Hey, can I request a Saja Boys x Magical Girl Reader. Precure style and I mean pretty transformation, an animal mascot (it would be fun if it was a lion but it's not necessary) and she can fight like this:

Okay so I tried to give each of the boys their own unique little scenario for meeting the reader! So we got some fightin', some flirtin', and some clothes getting ripped off in canon typical fashion HAHAHA Everybody say it with me: I WANT TO BE A MAGIC GIRL, I WANT TO BE A MAGIC GIRL, I WANT TO BE A MAGIC GIRL, I WANT--

Saja Boys w/ a Magic Girl! Reader

Jinu:

Jinu is stalking through the night, making small preparations for the next steps of their plan to destroy the honmoon. He’s just about to finish up and head back, when all of a sudden, a diamond dagger pierces the wall next to his head.

He fully yelps, jumping a little before whipping around to look in the direction of his assailant. What he didn’t expect to see, was an adorable girl dressed in skirts and bows with—was that a tail?

He has just enough time to duck out of the way as you hurl another crystal dagger, a battle cry on your lips. He’s instantly on the defense, waving his hands out in front of body as you come at him, swinging and slashing.

“Hey hey, woah, easy there, no need for the claws, kitty,” he jokes, teleporting behind you as your heel kicks the air where his face had just been. “Seriously though, are you a cat or something? What’s with the tail?”

Him not taking you seriously was beginning to tick you off. “It’s my theme,” you snap back, slicing the air with practiced discipline. And yet, the infuriating demon wouldn’t stay still. “Go back to whence you came from, hellspawn!”

And Jinu laughs—laughs! Despite your attempts to banish him back to the underworld via a sharp blade, Jinu decides to make these little sparring matches with you a nightly routine.

At first, he found the whole thing entertaining, but overtime, he began to admire you. Your beauty, your fire, your dedication to justice…it drew him in like a moth to a flame. Maybe one day your quick slashes will hit their mark…but until then, he’s content to have your company.

Abby:

There’s nothing Abby loves more than looking good while doing things, whether that’s performing or fighting. A little flash of his abs here, a flex of his bicep there, fisting his hand so the veins bulge…Yeah, he’s pretty much perfected the art of allurement, so much so that he can look effortlessly handsome during even the most menial tasks.

That said, he can appreciate a fellow connoisseur of the art. Watching you kick ass in those kitten heels, with bells and ribbons tied around your dress? Finally, someone who’ll put up a real fight!

He’ll definitely pull out the big guns with you. He practically tears off his shirt, so you get two big eyefuls of his chiseled muscle.

Understandably, you are completely thrown off by this, because tearing off your clothing is a bizarre thing to do in the middle of a fight and, frankly, it’s freakish behavior.

But hey, it worked! You’re thrown off your game, and he’s grinning each time you slip up and make small, foolish mistakes. You were distracted by the strangeness of the situation, mortified at his brazen display, and…shit, he was hot.

 “Put on your shirt, you weirdo!” you shrieked as you threw a punch with your heavy, golden clawed gauntlets.

“Not my fault you keep looking at me…” he taunted back. “But hey, why don’t you just take yours off too? Make things even.”

Baby:

Baby’s out and about late one night, needing to get away from the guys and be alone for a bit. He’s strolling along the moonlit roof tops, hands in his jean pockets, when all of a sudden, he feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

He feigns another few steps forward before his intuition triggers again, and he whirls around. His hands fist into soft pieces of fabric, and with inhumane strength and speed he’s slamming the person down onto the floor of the concrete, a deadly glare on his face.

He expected to see some petty thief or sloppy drunk, but there at his feet was…a girl, dressed up in frilly clothing and…cat ears? He steps back, a little caught off guard. The sharpness in his expression dulls, and he looks at you warily as you rub at your throbbing head.

“What are you doing, stalking around up here?” he asks, taking in your full appearance. He doesn’t miss sight of the sword cast aside near you. You must have dropped it during the scuffle.

He watches you compose yourself, tense and still for a few seconds before you make a lunge for your weapon. But, having anticipated you would pull a move like this, his uses his toe to kick it away out of reach.

You look up at him and fix a mean glare at him, your eyes slitting in a way wholly feline. He feels the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smirk despite of himself. Regardless of your evident hostility…he was curious about you, and intrigued by this turn of events.

“Most would start out with a ‘hello’ and introduce themselves,” he says drily, and at your continued silence, he grins. He wondered how far he could push you before you snapped…

Romance:

Battling with you is like a dance—flowing ribbons and pleated fabric catching the wind as you move with feline grace.

He almost regrets having to fight with such a hypnotic beauty such as yourself…Then again, he has little choice in the matter. Though he does decide to take it easy on you, and tries to have some fun in the meantime.

As the battle between demons and humanity’s defense rages, you both twist around a game of cat and mouse… He’ll drop little flirtatious comments, opting to go on the defense in order to drag out the interaction.

But then the tide shifts, the demons are falling back. And in a moment of distraction, your magical weapon is piercing into his form. He only has a moment to feel surprised before his body bursts into blue ribbons of flame, and he is sent back to the demon realm below.

The next time Romance pays a visit to the surface, the honmoon has been refortified and everything is balanced once more. He’s here purely for pleasure—after Gwi Ma’s defeat, he has no further business to attend to.

Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true…there is a certain leonine girl he’s hoping to run into again… if not to settle the score, then maybe to reintroduce himself under these better circumstances.

Mystery:

People have been disappearing at an alarming rate, no thanks to the boys helping Gwi Ma with his dirty work. In light of this epidemic, there has been talk online of a new, local vigilante who’d recently been taking to the streets at night.

Mystery hadn’t really thought much about it, dismissing the whole thing entirely. There were more pressing things to worry about, like preparing for their next event and trying to stay one step ahead of the Huntrix girls.

Though, it appears the rumors might’ve been more serious than Mystery initially thought. Gwi Ma began to complain that a large amount of his demons were being sent back to the demon world after experiencing altercations with this new vigilante. So, naturally, Gwi Ma made it Jinu’s problem…who promptly made it Mystery’s problem.

Mystery groaned out a soft sigh, prowling the streets in hopes of running into the rumored phantom hero soon. It wasn’t how he’d have preferred spending his evening, but there was no use in arguing about it.

Halfway down the street, he paused, a tingling sensation prickling his skin as he sensed some a nearby conflict. He listened for a moment, straining his ears, before he suddenly made a hard right into the nearby alley.

He moved quickly, rounding the corner of a closed mom-and-pop bakery, arriving just in time to see you swing your weapon into the abdomen of a water demon. The creature screeched and writhed before it was exiled back to the fiery hells below. You panted slightly, wiping the sweat off your brow as you stood up straight, relaxed your taut muscles.

Mystery stared through his bangs, his mouth slightly open as he watched you wipe off your blade on your pretty little skirt and sheathe it into the scabbard strapped at your hip.

After a moment, you catch sight of him in the corner of your eye and yelp, startled. Your eyes were blown wide, a small panicked look on your face. “I-I swear, this isn’t what it looks like!” you said quickly, waving your hands in front of you placatingly.

He blinked, surprised by your reaction…until he realized—you didn’t know he was a demon. You thought he was some civilian who just stumbled upon you stabbing somebody.

…yeah, he could work with this.

[mandyluvsharmon]

hey idk if you're down to write non romantic fics, but if you are, would you write something for tryst from fakes where the reader is one of becca and zoe's friends (hence why not romantic) and is talking to him after they've had a really bad day? (especially if they're a people pleaser/perfectionist) and tryst comforts them and gives advice?

i miss fakes, and i'm still mad that they gave me my favorite trope of "local man accidentally adopts dumbass teenagers who see him as a parental figure" and then cancelled the show right when it was getting good.

Life Lessons With Tryst!

It's Four thirty on a Thursday afternoon and Tryst comes crashing into the penthouse like a hurricane.

"Hola Chica's I brought lunch!" He announces loudly

He looks around in confusion.

He can hear sobbing but, can't quite locate its source.

"Hello?! Oh, god! Please don't tell me this place is haunted because that's the last fucking thing I need right now!"

He turns the corner and sees a young blond girl all curled up on the sofa.

"Um, who are you?" He asks.

The girl looks up. Her eyes are all puffy and red.

"Katie." She replies. " I'm a friend of Becca and Zoe. Who are you?"

"I'm Tryst. Tryst with a Y. Speaking of Becca and Zoey...where are they?" He asks

"I don't know. They were here a few minutes ago."

She answers. She's starting to sob again.

"Well they couldn't have gone far. Let me see if I can go find..."

"Will you stay with me until they come back?"

She asks.

"Um,okay." He replies as he stands there awkwardly. "Want a cookie ?" He asks as he reaches into a bag.

"Okay " she says as she takes the cookie.

"I can't believe I'm going to ask this" he sighs

"What's wrong?"

He cringes and braces himself for the copious amounts of teen drama that was sure to be headed his way.

"This has been the worst day of life!" She squeals

"Somehow I doubt that but, go on."

"First my boyfriend breaks up with me.Then this!" She holds up an exam. "I got a B!...a B!!! I never get B's!"

Tryst lets out a long sigh before going into one of his famous unsolicited life lessons.

"First of all worst day of your life is a little dramatic don't you think? You're like 16. Which means there will be so many more boys... or girls. I don't judge. Probably dodged a bullet with that guy anyway. And, a B is pretty damn good! It may not be what you’re used to but, that’s okay. You should always strive for continuous improvement instead of perfection. You’re going to be fine Cami!”

“It’s Katie.” She corrects him

“Close enough! Here have another cookie.” He says handing the bag over to her.

“I guess you’re right. I only knew that guy for about a week and i could have gotten a B- that would have been so much worse!”

“Life shattering.” Tryst replies taking a bite out of his cookie.

“Thanks Tryst! I feel a lot better now.” She sniffles

“Hey, don’t mention it. Teen therapist Just happens to be another one of the services I provide.” He replies while grabbing another cookie

“Wait..You brought cookies for lunch?” She asks.

“Hey! don’t get all judgey on me especially after I just helped you out with your mid-teen crisis.” He laughs

Just then the door swings open. It’s Becca and Zoe.

“ Tryst!!!!” They both exclaim at once.

“Hey ladies. Perfect timing. I just got finished talking Kimmi here off a ledge.”

“Who’s kimmi?” Becca asks

“Later Chica’s ! I have some business to tend to”

“Bye, Dad!” They both chime in unison

A muffled “Ugh! Don’t call me that!”

Can be heard from the hall.

🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪

[anxiousalienwriter]

Daily Fic: Oldest Age

SDCC is over!! I can finally, hopefully get back in the swing of things. I feel like this shouldn't be called daily anymore but I'm not changing it now. So I guess it's here to stay. Anyway, warnings for this, it is angsty and does not end the happiest. It's more of a first chapter because I had so many ideas while writing so cool. Have another wip.

Word Count: 1,927

Other fics and facts

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Eddie shouldn't have come.

He loved his cousins. He appreciated them throwing him this party. But this just really wasn't his scene.

Or maybe it was? He didn't know.

It was his 21st birthday. He was sure other 21 year olds loved this. Didn't they?

He looked around the bar. His cousins were at a table in the back, talking to another group. He was able to slip away under the excuse of getting more drinks. They hadn't even fully noticed he left, too inebriated to really care about anything.

The designated driver on his own birthday. That was sad. Wasn't it?

He felt like he wasn't always this unsure of himself. He couldn't have been, right? It was just the way his life was going right now.

Pregnant girlfriend - or ex-girlfriend now he supposed. He tried to do the right thing - or what his parents insisted was the right thing - and marry her. But she refused, instead breaking up with him. He was still determined to be a part of his kid's life but he felt adrift. Who was he if he couldn't provide for his family? If he couldn't be there for them?

"You don't love me, Eddie. Not in the way I need you to. And I don't love you the way you need me to. I love us too much to do this."

Shannon was always smarter than him.

He took another sip of his whiskey. It burned going down but that helped ground him. Maybe he could convince his cousins they should just go home.

"Did you know the oldest recorded age anyone has ever reached is 122?"

Eddie blinked, turning to the unexpected voice next to him. A man, around his age, sat on the stool next to him, staring at him expectantly. Eddie wasn't entirely sure what to say, caught off guard. "Uh. Excuse me?"

"I assume you're not that old. And if you are, you look great for your age." The man gave him a once over that had Eddie squirming slightly in his seat. It wasn't that the attention made him uncomfortable. He just knew he shouldn't want it. Not from a man.

"No son of mine is going to live that kind of degenerate lifestyle."

That's what his dad always called it. A degenerate lifestyle. Because of that, Eddie refused to acknowledge how the man filled out his leather jacket. How his thighs were stretching the seams of his pants. How blue his eyes were. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter.

So instead, Eddie turned away, taking another sip of his drink. Maybe the guy would get the hint.

"Not much of a talker, huh? That's fine." The man shrugged, waving the bartender over. He ordered a beer, winking when the bartender brought it over with a flirty smile. So it was like that. The man just flirted as he breathed. Good to know.

"It's your birthday, right?"

Eddie looked at him, startled. "How did you -" He stopped as the man gestured to his chest and head. Right. Eddie lifted a hand to feel the fuzzy headband with the number 21 on it and the bright pink sash around his chest that said 'B-Day Boi' in lopsided sparkly letters. "I forgot I was wearing these," he sighed.

"Lose a bet?" The man asked before taking a sip of his beer.

"More like I have two little sisters at home that were sad they couldn't come. They made these and insisted I wear them." His mom was not pleased that this was how he was leaving the house, but seeing his sisters happy faces made him not care.

"That's cute." The man flashed him a smile that had Eddie looking away. It was boyish, sweet, and way too much to look at. "I think you could take them off now, though."

Eddie glared at the man in annoyance. "I'm not doing that. I told them I'd wear it tonight so until I get home, they're staying on." He fixed the headband pointedly and straightened out his sash. Why was he even still trying to talk to this man?

The man held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa, easy there cowboy. I was just saying you could take them off. They would be none the wiser."

"Yeah, but I would know. And I'm not doing that to them."

The man's face softened into something a little more real. "That's really sweet." Eddie turned away, busying himself with another drink to ignore how the man's voice was so sincere. Gentle. "My name's Evan, by the way. Nice to meet you." He stuck out a hand.

He shouldn't keep talking to this man - Evan. It was dangerous. He knew it was dangerous.

He shook Evan's hand. "Eddie."

"What's that short for?" Evan asked as he pulled his hand back. Eddie tried not to miss the warmth of his calloused palm. "Eduardo?"

"Everyone guesses that," Eddie replied with a shake of his head. "Edmundo."

"Edmundo," Evan echoed. Eddie would not outwardly react to his name in that rasp. "You know, I have a sister too. So I get you doing anything for them. Including wearing embarrassing things."

He should not engage. He should not keep this going. He could still back out.

"Older or younger?"

Goddammit.

Evan grinned around his beer bottle. Eddie knew he could tell he got him, the glint in his eye smug. "Older. I was basically her baby doll." He rolled his eyes but Eddie saw the fondness in his smile.

"You must be pretty close with her then?" He finished his whiskey, waving the bartender over and ordering a beer. He realized Evan had been quiet when the bartender brought over his drink. He looked over as he took a sip to see Evan looking down, thumb tracing the condensation rolling down the side of his bottle. "Evan?"

Evan flinched as if startled, and met Eddie's eyes with a fragile smile. "Sorry. Uh. No. We aren't as close as we used to be." He took a long drink of his beer, avoiding Eddie's gaze. That was interesting. Gone was the flirty, seemingly confident man from before. In his place was someone much more vulnerable. Much more compelling.

Much more dangerous.

Eddie found himself turning more towards Evan in his seat. He didn't want to pry but he wanted to see more of whatever this was. It was useless to think at this point that he didn't.

"It's obvious you care a lot about her. Do you still talk to her, at least?" He couldn't imagine not talking to his sisters. Not being as close with them as he is now.

Evan took another long drink of his beer. Eddie figured it was him stalling for time, trying to decide if he wanted to answer the question or not. After a few moments, Evan gave a half-shrug, half shake of the head as he said, "Not really. She married this asshole who insisted she needed to give me 'space' to 'grow up.'" Evan rolled his eyes. "Apparently she was babying me too much, and not paying enough attention to him or something. I don't know. The guy's just a dick. But Maddie says he's different with her, and refuses to leave him so..." He trailed off with another shrug and finished off his drink.

Eddie didn't know what to say. He could see how much this affected Evan, even if he was trying to hide it. The sadness in his eyes made Eddie's heart ache for him. "I'm really sorry, man. That's rough."

"It is what it is." Evan stared at his empty bottle, twisting it between his hands. "I've accepted it. And now, I get to travel the world without anything holding me down." He flashed Eddie a smile that looked so fake, Eddie wanted to hug him. Tell him it was okay to break down. To accept that this wasn't what he wanted.

But he also just met this man. All of this was crazy. The way Eddie was feeling was crazy. He needed to exit this conversation. He needed to go back to his cousins.

"So you're just passing through, then?" Eddie could hear the disappointment in his voice.

Apparently Evan could too as his smile grew a little happier. A little softer.

A lot flirtier.

"I might be convinced to stay." He leaned more towards Eddie, voice low and husky. "Everything's bigger in Texas, right? I wouldn't mind seeing if that was true for myself." He glanced down to Eddie's crotch, licking his lips. Heat sprung to Eddie's face, blooming across his cheeks. He tried to take a sip of his beer to calm down, only to choke when Evan laid a hand on his thigh.

"Do you want to maybe -"

"Hey, Eddie! What's going on here, where are our drinks?"

The voice of his cousin had him sitting up straight, pushing Evan's hand off his thigh. He missed the searing warmth immediately. He now felt so cold, like a bucket of ice water was dumped on him.

He could see the hurt on Evan's face, which only made him feel worse. But, to his credit, he recovered quickly, giving Eddie's cousin - Diego - a friendly smile.

Diego smiled back, but it was a little guarded. He put his arm around Eddie, shaking him slightly. "So, who's this?"

"Stay away from me, fag!"

"I can't play on the same team as a homo."

"Don't be such a disappointment, Eddie. Don't do this to us."

"Oh, uh. I don't know, really. Just some guy." Eddie shrugged, trying to play it off as cool as he could. He hoped the panic wasn't obvious on his face. "I don't think I even really caught his name?" He looked over to Evan, hoping he would play along.

It was a mistake.

He watched as Evan's face completely shuttered. Gone was the flirty nature to his smile. Gone was even the friendliness in his eyes. In their place were walls upon walls. This was the first time all night Eddie had seen him like this. He felt cold with the warmth now gone from Evan's demeanor. He wanted to take it back. But he couldn't.

Evan pulled himself up, taking a deep breath as he got his wallet out and laid some bills on the counter. "Yeah, I was just making some conversation. I'm gonna head out now, though." The smile he gave Eddie was the worst one yet. Plastic. Cold. Distant. "Thanks for talking with me."

And with that, he was gone.

Eddie felt horrible, wanting to run after him and apologize. But he couldn't.

"No son of mine is going to live such a degenerate lifestyle."

Diego shrugged, ordering the drinks when he waved the bartender back over. He coaxed Eddie back to the table.

The rest of the night was miserable.

All Eddie kept seeing was Evan's hurt face. He seemed like a good guy, he didn't deserve Eddie's dismissiveness. This was a man who had obviously been burned so many times before. And now Eddie just added to that list. He finally allowed himself to let loose, drinking everything his cousins put in front of him. They had to call a cab at the end of the night, and when he got home, his mother was not impressed. But Eddie didn't care.

He stumbled to bed, not even bothering to remove his headband and sash. Instead, he just let himself crash, dreaming of hurt blue eyes and a fragile smile.

He wished he didn't dream at all.

[misc-obeyme]

prompt: Mammon

a/n: I know, I'm late. I had... a lot going on yesterday. So you get Mammon late. I was going to do Levi today too but I can't find the notes I wrote for his anywhere. So you'll get Levi at some point, maybe tomorrow? I dunno, I might just be a day late forever now, too lol. Anyway, I'm sorry for the low quality of this, like I said there were extenuating circumstances. @om-adventcalendar

Mammon x GN!MC

Warnings: more fluff~

It was the end of a lovely night out, courtesy of Mammon winning big at the casino for once. He insisted on spending it all on a date and who were you to refuse him?

You followed him out into the parking lot after finishing a delicious meal at Ristorante Six. When you reached his Demonio, Mammon put a hand in his pocket for his keys. You watched him as he frowned and checked the other pocket. Then he looked at you in confusion as he began patting down the pockets of his jacket, clearly checking for keys that he couldn't find.

Finally, he peered into the driver's side window, his hands on either side of his face to block any glare.

"Let me guess," you said, after watching this play out. "The keys are locked inside?"

Mammon pulled his head away and looked at you forlornly. You pressed your shoulder against his so you could put your face where his had been between his hands. Sure enough, the keys sat alone and discarded on the driver's seat.

"How did you lock the car without the keys?" you asked.

"This car is top of the line, MC," Mammon said. "It locks automatically."

You moved away from the car and saw Mammon rubbing at his face beneath his sunglasses for a moment. When he looked at you again, it was with the most defeated expression you had ever seen. It was so cute, you couldn't help but laugh.

“Oi!” he protested immediately. “It ain’t funny!”

You tried to suppress your laughter, but it it was difficult. "Don't you have a spare key somewhere?"

"Nah, this is the only key," Mammon said, folding his arms and pouting at your poorly concealed amusement.

You laughed again and took his arm. "Come on, don't look like that. You have to admit it's a little funny."

“I don’t gotta admit anythin’,” he grumbled.

You pulled out your D.D.D. "All right, let's call a locksmith."

Mammon didn’t say anything as you found a number for a locksmith and called. You gave them your location and told them your predicament. You had to wait only a short time before the demon showed up.

The demon gave Mammon a slight bow, clearly recognizing him as the Avatar of Greed.

Then he saw you and smirked. “This human causing you problems, huh?” he asked. “Coulda told you humans are dumb.”

The air around Mammon began to crackle, making you suck in a breath. He took a few steps, getting real close to the demon. He looked him dead in the eyes and said, "I'm the one who locked the keys in the car. Are ya callin' me dumb?"

The demon back pedaled immediately. “N-no, of course not!”

“Good,” Mammon said. “Now apologize to my human.”

The demon looked like he was about to shit himself. “S-sorry,” he stuttered in your direction, unable to meet your eyes.

Mammon backed off, returning to your side. He grinned and it was a little bit unhinged. “Now can ya unlock the door or not?”

The demon quickly unlocked the door, handing Mammon the keys and insisting there was no charge for the service. He got into his own vehicle and drove off so fast you thought he might take flight.

You turned to Mammon. “Was that really necessary? You scared that guy half to death.”

Mammon grinned at you, escorting you to the passenger side and opening the door for you. “Nobody insults my human.”

You rolled your eyes, but got into the car. Mammon closed your door then went around and got into the driver’s seat. He leaned over the center console toward you. “Ain’t it my duty to defend your honor?”

You snorted. “Pretty sure I’m the one defending your honor all the time. But I’ll let you see how it feels, just this once.”

You met him over the console with a gentle kiss, teasing his bottom lip with your tongue before pulling away.

Mammon's eyes were glazed over for a moment before he cleared his throat and started the car. You noted how he took the quickest way back to the House of Lamentation with almost no regard for speed limits. He parked the Demonio in its usual spot in his room, but it was a long time before either of you got out.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[the-palelady]

YAY REQUESTS ARE OPEN! :D can I please have a lil smth with Simon and his squadmate? I thought about this and ho boi now I feel all sorts of emotions.

I feel like Simon is the type of person to sometimes lose it and push himself to his limits, especially during training. And so he would be ok, but Y/n sees through the facade. And so BAM! Simon is laying down from exhaustion, with the summer heat making everything worse. He desperately needs water, but cant move and every recruit is staring.

We see Simon and imediately go Mama Bear ™️, almost scolding Simon for this despite being lower ranked than him. We bark orders at others to look away, while we give him some water behind his mask.

When Simon gets better and remembers, he is pissed that we might have looked at his face, and says so. We sass back that no tf we dont and that next time he should take care of himself. Simon can only be flustered by us, because 1. We are right and 2. We took care of him in the heat of the moment. He can only sit there like a scolded puppy

Guess who has a bigger crush on us now :)))

i’m so so sorry this took so long!! i drafted this up twice and never got it where i wanted it to go, but we’re finally here!!

It had been a week since he had collapsed in front of a group of recruits, and the whole thing replayed clear as day in his mind. A broken record repeating itself in his mind as he did anything and everything to try and forget about it.

Ghost could still feel the exhaustion that seeped into his bones that was somehow worse that day than it ever had been. The sweltering heat felt more like molten lava than anything. It didn’t help the recruits also seemed to get under his skin more than usual, primarily you, your already defiant nature seemingly ten times worse. Yet for some reason that day you were different. Your sarcastic remarks were instead replaced with quizzical expressions, eyes narrowed, assessing him. He could still feel your eyes watching the way his steps faltered, the twitch of his eye when his balaclava seemed to become one with his skin because of the sweat underneath.

He felt like an open book under the scrutiny of your sharp gaze, his patience dwindling at your rare silence.

Until everything went quiet, for just a moment.

Admittedly, Ghost could hardly remember who he was speaking to or what he was saying, likely terrorizing some poor recruit who had messed up their stance during training. All he could remember in that moment was one second he was standing, and the next he wasn’t.

His eardrums rang for a beat, then it was replaced by a voice.

Your voice.

You shouted to some recruit to grab some water, their rushed footsteps padding off somewhere Ghost couldn’t see. His vision was blurred, your figure above him just a shadow in his eyes even as you bent down at his side, grabbing the base of his neck and holding him up.

You mumbled something, your voice soft, caring, a contrast to what he was familiar with when it came to you. Then he felt the push of damp fabric underneath his jaw, moving its way up and over his nose.

At the time, Ghost didn’t register that you had lifted up his mask. Instead, he laid against the ground, neck comfortably cushioned by the palm of your hand that seemed so cool despite the heat that threatened to suffocate him.

“Hey!” He didn’t react to your screaming, only mentally begged that you’d hurry the hell up and press the bottle of water to his lips.

“What did I say? I said turn the around! Gawking like this is a fucking zoo.”

It was like heaven found home within that single bottle of water when it finally pressed to his lips, the cool liquid making Ghost’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head. He barely paid any mind to your annoyed grumbling.

“I have half a mind to kick your ass you know?”

What?

“Our Lieutenant, our superior, supposed to be an example for us, but instead you’re wearing yourself thin. I mean look at you: bags under your eyes, boots hardly tied when you showed up to training. Barely pushing 0900 hours and you’re already on your ass trying to catch a quick fucking cat nap.”

You continue to dig your own grave as you go on about how he isn’t taking care of himself, how he is supposed to be leading you and the other recruits. If Ghost weren’t on his ass he’d throw you off base himself.

However, that’s what he thought at the time.

Rather than ponder on the rage he felt at your words, he instead realized two things, the first being you were right. Ghost always put the job before himself. Things were easier that way. Instead of living in his mind he dedicated his entire life to his career even though it was as physically taxing as it was mentally.

The second thing he realized was that you had seen his face.

At least half of it. 

And for some reason this ate him alive more than the rest of the situation.

A week had gone by and he had done nothing, but allow his anger to grow. Admittedly, you were right. He didn’t take care of himself. Even so, he couldn’t live with the fact that you had seen something that was meant to stay hidden under the shroud of his mask. You had seen the man underneath Ghost, the man he had pushed down and kept hidden for so long.

The anger grew, festering like an untreated wound, puffy, hot, and seething red, blood boiling. Ghost knew anger could lead people to make stupid decisions, and yet here he stood in front of your door, chest rising and falling, fists clenched tight at his sides. His nails left crescent indents on his palms, those same fists coming up to bang heavily on your door.

The sound echoed throughout the hall. Ghost didn’t even notice some people had peeked their heads outside of their doors before retreating back inside. He finally heard the click of your lock before your door slid open.

You wore the usual military issued attire, grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. Your hair was damp, a hand running a towel through it to catch any excess water. Your expression was neutral even when your eyes met Ghost’s, and for some reason his words got stuck in his throat.

“Lieutenant?” He continued to stare at you, almost completely forgetting why he was here, “What do you want?”

The words were caught in his throat. What did he want? Why the hell was he here exactly? It was like all the hatred he held for you suddenly packed its things and vanished. Although he couldn’t say he necessarily hated you. There was just something about you that got under his skin.

The two of you never exactly got along. You questioned authority, his especially. Despite your ability to outperform the other recruits, your behavior was contentious. You were a thorn in Ghost’s side. You’d roll those sparkling eyes of yours when he’d have to adjust your hold on your gun, a rare occasion. He’d bark at you when you’d run ahead of the group during your morning runs. Your head would tilt back as you’d let out a laugh, a sound that made his fingers twitch, a song that he could get used to hearing. You always saw light in a world you knew was so full of darkness, and that just-

“Hellooo? Lieutenant?”

“M’face.”

Your eyebrow arched almost immediately at his words and lack of context, the confusion written all over the way your eyes darted from where his lips would be underneath the mask to his eyes.

“Other day, during training. When I collapsed, you saw m’face knowing damn well I keep what’s underneath hidden for a reason.”

The tone of his voice was accusatory, and he couldn’t help the way he took a step closer towards you. Even so, you didn’t make a move, hip pressed into the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. When Ghost continued to remain quiet, the only thing you offered him was a scoff, looking down at the floor beneath you as you crossed one ankle over the other.

“Didn’t see a thing, actually.”

There it was. The sass. Ghost could already feel a blood vessel coming to the surface right above his eyebrow, twitching, desperate to burst.

“Ya lucky I didn’t take ya arse to the curb the moment ya decided to mouth off, but looking at something ya have no busin-”

“For Christ’s sake…I didn’t see your damn face, Lt!”

Your shout echoed throughout the hall, but this time no one peeked out. Ghost’s searched your face, your eyes closed. Your hand came up to massage your temple.

A sigh left you, “What’s underneath…it’s none of my business. I would never step over a boundary like that no matter the situation. Kept my eyes closed…”

Ghost could still detect the annoyance laced within your tone, but your voice was softer now.

“Just wanted you to understand the gravity of the situation,” your gaze was resolute when you finally looked up at him, “Everyone here knows how…incredible you are at what you do, Ghost, but none of the dedication you put into this job will matter if you don’t take a step back.”

His ribs vibrated with the beat of his heart, his ears pulsated wildly, rendering him practically deaf as you spoke. Johnny and Price had told him a few times to take a break from work. He knew their concern was genuine, but this was different.

You weren’t them. They didn’t pry open a piece of his mind and make a spot for themselves there as you had, insistently taking up his thoughts like some clingy house cat. That anger he felt slowly dissipated into a forgotten mist, evaporating off of him as he deflated right before your eyes.

“But next time you want to accuse me of something, at least ask first before almost ripping the damn door right off the hinges, hm?”

You raised a brow when he failed to answer you, something foreign fluttering within the pit of his stomach when he failed to maintain eye contact with you. Rapidly blinking to disguise his sheepishness, he nodded.

“Y-Yea…”

He chose to ignore the smirk he was met with when he finally looked back at you.