#i have nothing left to say for myself other than i’m right and they deserve it

[starrysillhoutte]

the noble and most cunty house of slutty waists

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[devnmon]

𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑

eddie x reader x volt

summary: eddie and volt treat you right in the back room of the breaker box.

warnings: grinding, fingering, clit play, some light electricity play (i couldnt help myself), being pampered n praised the breaker box back room, eddie cums in his pants (teehee)''

a/n: good morning. drops this. runs away. dont know how far writing characters from date everything will take me but here goes nothing!

wc: 967

-

The breaker box was nothing if not notorious for the drinks, performances and the gorgeous host. But after so many nights, you left thinking of both Volt, and his counterpart, Eddie.

Strikingly gorgeous, you couldn’t choose just one of them. Especially not after Eddie caught you as you fell from the ladder. Catching him blushing over your kind words and willingness to help out around the bar sealed you in to the deal.

Finding out both dangerously electrifying men felt mutually towards your reciprocated feelings, they reacted by giving you some deserved pampering.

There you found yourself in a back room of the breaker box, four hands exploring your body.

Eddie held your waist while you sat in his lap, his hips bucking into yours from below ever so often. Other than the occasional grunt and huff of his breath, he remained quiet for the duration of your weight on him.

Volt on the other hand, was all over you. His jacket placed on a chair behind him gave you a perfect view of his muscles outlined by the cloth of his shirt.

“Sure you don’t want a turn, Eddie?” Volt's alluring voice asked.

“Not this time. I’m good right here.”

But how you wish he'd break the rules and run his hands up your back or at least give your neck a good massage. Eddie was so, so good with his hands.

“Whatever you say,” the English man replied.

Eddie’s voice was enough to spur you on, much less the hot breath on the back of your neck. Volt’s live hands traveled over your torso, sending jolts of electricity down your spine.

"Mmm.. that's so good, V."

"Isn't it? You're just a bundle of fun. But what if I... did this?" He continued, shoving one hand into your pants. By the look on your face, he can tell you're just aching to be touched. When he finds what he's looking for, two of his fingers swipe through the abundance of arousal between your legs.

"A cheeky one, you..." The vibrato of Volt's voice lowered, his eyes going dark. "Our pet here is so overly excited, I can't believe you hadn't jumped on us upon the club door opening."

"There were guests—" you're cut off by a light electrical shock to your clit, catching you off guard. "Volt~"

"Ah ah, I would've taken you right over that stage if Eddie wasn't so adamant about wanting to keep you all to ourselves."

All you could do was moan in reply, Volt's words perfectly set to throw you off guard. He did it to you without even trying.

Another roll of Eddie’s hips underneath you did nothing to help the case.

“E, please touch me… I need you…”

“But I thought you were having fun with Volt. Is he not enough for you?” Eddie’s condescending tease in that gruff voice against your ear had you biting back another moan threatening to fall from your lips.

“You’re the reason I couldn’t choose just one of you. Please…” you whimper.

“Come on, Eddie. Give them what they want.”

“Fine. Only because you asked so nicely.”

“Thank you… thankyouthankyou…”

Eddie’s hands started up your back, just like you’d imagined, pressing his fingertips into your back to massage your muscles. The callouses only added to your pleasure, sighing with content at how each man’s hands moved on your body.

Volt’s fingers moved downwards, prodding at your entrance.

“May I?” He asked, familiar smirk on his lips.

“Yes, please, Volt…”

“Hm. Such a good pet.” The white haired man hummed, pressing two of his fingers into you so, so easily.

Just as he curled them against your most sensitive spot, you dropped a moan of his name that would transcend any sound you’d made before in their presence.

“Ah, there we go. You like that, don’t you?”

Instead of replying, your sounds continued, noting Eddie’s hands movement from the muscles of your back to the front of your chest. Ever so softly, his palms grasped the plush of your breasts and massaged again.

The dark haired man felt your nipples harden under his touch, chuckling to himself with pride. Another press of his hips into yours from below. His length grew hard as time passed, half wishing your brain hadn’t shut off from the mind blowing pleasure you were receiving.

“Ed…” was all you were capable of whimpering as your hips gyrated against his.

“I know, I know. Another time. Tonight is about you, babe.”

Volt, feeling a tad left out, quickened his fingers inside you and added his thumb on your clit to the mix to throw you off guard.

There you were again, putty in his hands. Your head fell forward, catching on his broad shoulder, chuckling to himself. His laughter in general sent you soaring, like he was mocking you for being so sensitive. You weren’t used to attention from two men at once— what you were experiencing was so overwhelming.

As each of the four hands worked your body closer to release, a slew of moans and curses fell from your lips. Both Eddie and Volt found this so amusing and continued their movements to spur you on further.

“I’m gonna—“

“That’s it, sweet one. Come for us… there you go.”

You couldn’t hold back any longer, your chest heaving while each of the men’s hands worked you through your release as it washed over you. Eddie’s hips stuttered along with yours, a groan of release washing over him as well.

Volt reached to cup your cheek, those sweet, fucked-out eyes of yours locking with his.

“Live wire, how could we survive without you?”

“We couldn’t.” Eddie panted.

You remained in their arms until they both decided to carry you to bed for a nap and then eventual round two.

-

tags: @hailsweridspace

[sahisan]

— third door on the left, marked "debate club"

two professors. one office door away from kissing or killing each other. maybe both.

featuring . theoretical philosophy professor!anaxa x practical philosophy professor!fem!reader.

tags . university au. nodern au. suggestive. semi-public sex mentioned/referenced. (you make so many) sex jokes. fluff. ooc. soft anaxa. comedy. mild language. academic rivalry but make it professors. mentions of alcohol use. workplace romance. bickering as a love language.. flirting. so many philosophy terms (that i barely understand). wc 3.1k.

a/n . a friend dabbed me into philosophy and i folded. the handjob joke was initially hers but i couldn't help myself. im not a philosophy major so if you are please forgive me for any mistakes, my friend who actually majored in it helped me a small bit and im still confused. lmk if there are any typos. enjoy <3

"your handwriting is offensive," you mutter, turning the paper sideways, then upside down.

anaxa doesn’t look up from his tea. "you still read it, though."

"barely. is this supposed to say 'conscious' or 'conscience'?"

"both."

"no."

"well, that’s why i'm a philosopher."

"i also am one. your last footnotes gave me a headache."

he finally looks up, raising an eyebrow. "then my work here is done."

"so you’re telling me," you, crossing your arms. "that again, you rewrote the entire reading list after midterms?"

"no," he replies, not looking up from his notes. "i rewrote it because of midterms. frankly, your students deserve better than whatever you assigned them. i read the discussion boards."

"you’re on the discussion boards?"

"i moderate three of them. and i banned a user who called you hot. you’re welcome."

you pause and tilt your head. in the end, you mumble "...that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me."

"don’t get used to it," he mutters, knowing you're exaggerating. "they spelled ‘epistemological’ wrong."

your bring in tea and fruit for your students. anaxagoras brings nothing and cancels half his office hours because, quote, "philosophy isn’t learned in panic, it’s metabolized in silence" (half the admin hates him).

his and your students are in quiet (jealous) war. campus hallway signs include:

"vote: whose exam will kill us with more dignity?

team prof [name]: understanding through application

team prof anaxagoras: no multiple choice, only anguish"

you and anaxa both pretend you don’t see the posters.

you end up stealing one and taping it to the wall in your office. anaxa responds by using it as part of a pop quiz question.

the students get back by gifting both of you matching mugs that say: "#1 philosophical threat". anaxa mutters about not joking with philosophy majors anymore. (they're literally his students and he's starting to get scared)

him and you sit on opposite ends of the philosophy department’s couch like it’s some kind of contested ground.

you're reading ethics of desire upside down. he’s pretending not to notice.

"why do you hate me?" you ask, out of nowhere.

"i don’t."

"then why do you argue with me in faculty meetings like we're at the fucking olympics?"

"because you like it," he looks over, holding eye contact.

"and," he adds after a beat. "because you're brilliant. and you're wrong about kant."

"i’m never wrong about kant," you frown.

"see? fun."

the dean told you it's mandatory to be in the department-wide group chat. anaxa has notifications off, your have them on, and neither of you participate until absolutely necessary.

today, someone sends a meme about faculty budgeting. it evolves quickly into... something.

@ecologywillsurvive_vaelis: what if we held a bake sale for chalk

@anaxagorastheory: what.

@cai_NaOCl: maybe we should sell naming rights to the new ethics wing. welcome to the ‘crypto.com moral foundations lab’

@anaxagorastheory: if you sell naming rights to a lab about ethics i will personally remove my eye patch and stare into your soul.

@praxis[name]: we’ve talked about this, the patch stays on in public spaces

@praxis[name]: and cai i'm going to rename your organic chem wing to 'half baked molecule lounge' if you bring up the ethics wing again

@anaxagorastheory: i’m just saying. the thread of reason is fraying.

@praxis[name]: your self-control is fraying

@anaxagorasthery: say that in office hours.

@epiphany_uni_admin: hi everyone! just a reminder that this is a professional chat

"you're late," you say without looking up from your laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard like you've been waiting specifically to outpace him.

"i was grading," anaxa responds, setting down a stack of painfully annotated printed philosophy 201 essays with a grimace. "your TAs let them write in first person and i nearly hemorrhaged."

"they’re freshmen, let them think they matter," you reply, finally glancing up at him.

"dangerous ideology for a praxis professor."

you hum. "dangerous man to say it."

"you’re wearing my coat," anaxa notes when he opens his office door and finds you there.

you blink once. then, "i spilled tea on mine."

he steps aside to lt you in, utterly unsurprised.

"also," you add as your shrug the coat tighter. "yours smells nicer."

he doesn’t say anything for a moment.

"would it be weird if i told you i hope you spill more tea tomorrow?"

you smile, mischievous.

"depends where."

"you always write in pen," your mutter, flipping through the latest draft of his paper with red ink bleeding into printed black. "only pen."

"i trust my convictions," anaxa replies, deadpan.

"you misspelled 'epistemological' three times after getting distracted by me."

"i was testing you."

"were you?" you ask, eyes narrowing. "you wrote 'epistomagical' at one point."

he shrugs, takes a sip from his coffee. it's black and bitter and you know he hates it.

you bite back a smile. "idiot."

"your handwriting is worse," he mutters. "at least i try."

"i write in runes," you say, prim.

"those are hearts above your i's."

"...runes of war."

"do you always grade with red?" you ask, leaning over his desk, some random paper in hand that you forgot about long ago.

anaxagoras doesn't look up, "of course. red forces clarity. confrontation."

"you wrote 'source?' in all caps across a paragraph about love in greek tragedy."

"and?"

you smile, as if holding back laugter. "it was a quote. from you."

he looks up. slow. silent.

you set the paper down with calmness he swears one can only see in fiction.

"next time, check your own citations, professor."

wednesdays are mostly alright. you walk into the staff lounge and there he is: anaxagoras. at the coffee machine. holding two cups.

"brewing double today?" you raise an eyebrow.

"i had to offer the students a choice," he says, pressing the start button. "do you want to study logic, or do you want to study… your soul?"

"you’re so terrible," you say with a sigh, taking the second cup from him. "you know no one really wants to study their soul?"

"not true," he replies, smiling smugly. "they want to study it, they just don’t know it yet."

he takes a sip of his coffee, watching you. you narrow your eyes.

"and what's this 'quiz' you’ve decided to torture them with?"

"it’s not a quiz. it’s a philosophical challenge," he says, moving to the small whiteboard. "i ask them to define their own existence without using ‘i think, therefore i am'.

"you’re evil," you raise an eyebrow.

"i'm not," he argues. "they tiktokified descartes!"

"they what?"

anaxa finds a note slipped into his bag.

it’s folded on thick paper, smells like your hand cream.

in that unmistakable handwriting, hearts a constant above the i's like it's a love letter (maybe it is):

"you didn't have breakfast this morning, so i left a little something in your office

<3"

he stares at it for five minutes straight. then folds it again and tucks it into his coat pocket. the 'little something' ended up being a bento of salad and two bacon sandwiches.

he won’t ever admit it, but he carries it for the rest of the week (and he will absolutely not start mimicking your handwriting later).

it's a faculty party. you're in black silk and sipping terrible wine. anaxa's next to you, lecturing someone on metaphysical paradoxes. again.

"you could’ve worn a bow tie," you murmur when he leans in.

he looks at you like he’s already undone. "and you could’ve worn less loud heels if you didn’t want me distracted."

your fingers pause on the stem of your glass. "hm. touché."

"that’s french."

"you speak french?"

he leans closer, "i learn languages for spite."

you lick your teeth to hide a grin. "is that how you learned to say je veux te baiser in the hallway last week?"

anaxa chokes on his wine.

"you're in my office," he says, arms crossed, glasses half-lowered.

"your sign says 'office hours clpsed unless it's a crisis'. this," you say, dropping a thick bundle of papers on his desk, "is a crisis."

he glances down.

"this is… a peer review."

"your peer review. you cited a wikipedia page in a footnote."

anaxa doesn’t look even remotely sorry. "it was cited ironically."

"you teach epistemology, anaxagoras."

"and irony is a form of knowledge."

you blink. “oh my god. leave."

"it's my office."

"i don't care, leave."

obvious enough, your offices share a wall (god bless the dean and the department chair). it’s the point of thus where, sometimes, you hear anaxa recite passages of obscure texts to himself aloud; sometimes in ancient languages.

today, it’s greek.

"…lógos eikós," he says. "reason is likely—"

"and so is the fact that your argument on practical virtue is still wrong," you call through the wall.

"it was metaphorical!"

"so is your whole career!"

you hear the sound of a book being thrown at the wall and smile.

"you rearranged my bookshelves," you say flatly, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.

"i reorganized them by author. the fact that your copy of moral letters to lucilius was next to the hungry caterpillar is—"

"—educational range."

anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not really, just sips his coffee like it's the antidote to your nonsense.

"you’re impossible."

"and yet you still broke into my office to alphabetize my praxis."

"it was unlocked."

"it was not."

(it was.)

anaxagoras gets sick and refuses to take time off. you physically remove him from the building.

"i’m fine," he rasps.

"you’re a hazard," you say, throwing his bag over your shoulder. "you coughed on three students and almost knocked over aristotle's bust in your auditorium.

he slumps into your car without protest. later, you make him him soup and read aloud from his own research while he’s half-asleep just to see if you can make him correct your pronunciation mid-fever. he does.

"you’re ridiculous," you murmur.

"you’re warm," he mumbles, drifting.

"i’m human."

"keep being that."

@epiphanyconfessions

"i’m just saying. if prof [name] leaned over my desk the way she leans over prof anaxagoras’s desk i too would forget how to spell my own name"

@epiphanyconfessions

"anybody remember that one time she called him 'anaxagoras' during a rare joint lecture and he straightened up like a victorian man seeing ankle for the first time. someone sedate them."

@epiphanyconfessions

"i heard prof anaxa say ‘consent is the highest form of logic’ and i haven’t been the same since. like sir i just wanted to pass intro metaphysics please don’t take me apart like that"

you're the one who finds the twitter account. it's an automated bot which quite literally posts all the gossip in the university. unsurprisingly now, 70% of what you've seen include you and anaxa.p

you scroll for three minutes in silence, then turns your phone around so he can see it.

"i think your students are obsessed with me."

anaxa doesn't look a single bit impressed.

"well, at least i've managed to teach them something about attention to detail."

you end up paired for the damn symposium panel because someone in admin has a cruel sense of humor.

"just be civil," the dean says, sipping bitter coffee as the two of you stand on either side of the projector.

"civil as in—" you start.

"no blood on the mic."

anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not quite, but there's a twitch of something near his mouth when he says "i'll keep my composure if she does."

"i never lose my composure," you shoot back.

his eyes go to your mouth. "you have. once."

your silence is thin and sharp and full of fuck yous that do not get spoken.

the dean groans. "if either of you fucks the other on the mic, i swear to god i'm retiring."

you're walking out of the symposium together, the cold air catching your hair just right.

"they misquoted kant four times," he mutters, voice slightly hoarse

"only four?" you tease. "you’re mellowing."

"i’m trying not to ruin our evening."

"oh?" you glance at him. "are we having an evening?"

he stops walking and you take two steps before realizing he’s still behind you.

"…yes," he says. "if you want."

your expression warms without looking at him. "i do."

he doesn’t say anything else, just walks beside you the rest of the way, hands close, not touching.

it's christmas eve and everyone’s a little tipsy in the lounge, even the department chair.

anaxa is holding a glass of deep red wine and trying not to react when you make a joke about morals and oral fixation in the same sentence.

later, outside under the garden lights, you speak.

"cai told me your students think we're sleeping together," you say, watching the breeze catch your own hair.

"we are."

"they suspect, anaxagoras."

"then they’re late to class."

you laugh, quiet and unguarded, the kind of laugh that makes his shoulders drop. he reaches out to fix the collar of his your coat.

"you're soft when you're smug," you murmur.

"you're smug when you're soft," anaxa retaliates.

"you’re in love with me."

"that too."

youre both tired. the grading deadlines loom and the campus heating is out again.

"sit down," anaxa mutters, patting the seat next to him on the floor of his office.

"your carpet has chalk dust on it."

"so do your pants, professor."

you sigh as if you're bearing the weight of the world on your lone shoulders and sit.

there's no light in the office but the blue glow of his screen, and the soft static of the heater humming through the vents.

"i'm not rewriting the conclusion," you murmur, almost asleep on his shoulder.

"i know."

"but i miiight let you footnote me."

he hums, head tilting against yours. "if you do, i'll stop quoting you out of context."

"...maybe don't. i sound smarter when you do it."

"you are smart."

you hum, noncommittal. anaxa sighs.

anaxagoras is having a deja vu; a really strong one.

you're seated across from each other at another faculty mixer (he complained about seeing too many people outside his lectures in the past three months on the way to this one). you're wearing black, sharp eyeliner, and a gold pin in the shape of a crescent. anaxa is halfway through a whiskey and trying very hard not to look impressed.

"you know they’re calling us ‘the debate club’?" you say, lazily stirring your drink. "it’s not flattering."

"they only say that because you get louder when you’re wrong."

"you’re still upset i said plato would’ve folded if someone gave him a nice handjob."

he tried to mask laughing with accidentally choking on his whiskey.

he definitely is having a deja vu. (he loves it with you.)

you kiss once in the archives.

it’s a study break, technically.

you're sitting on the dusty desk. he’s standing between your legs. you're surrounded by books about love and logic and ancient epics, and you don’t speak about the copy of whatever book you were supposed to help him with looking for.

later, as you fix his messed up hair again for him, when he’s too flustered to do it straight, you murmur,

"you lose arguments better than anyone i've ever met."

he leans into your palm where it cups his jaw.

"i only lose to you."

"i hope so."

he sees you grading in the courtyard and sits beside you, uninvited.

"your first-years are circulating a petition."

"ah. is it about the essay extension?"

"no. they want you and i to 'just publicly kiss already and not torture us anymore'. their words."

you don't pause your hand. "did you sign it?"

"...maybe."

you're more often in his office than you're not.

"if we get caught—" he starts, breathless.

"it's your fault. stop kissing me like you’re too lazy to drive us home," you cut him off, sliding your hands into his hair.

"i’m not built for scandal," he breathes against your mouth.

"you’re wearing an eyepatch, anaxagoras."

"...it’s academic."

"so is this," you say tilting his head back, climbing into his lap as your hand loosens his tie. "let me study you."

"you’ve been reading the same sentence for five minutes," he murmurs.

you don’t look up; your head is resting against your palm, pen slack between your fingers. "because it says 'therefore, subjectivity is inherently sus'."

anaxagoras blinks. "they submitted that in ink?"

"typed," you sigh. "with a footnote that just says 'as per amongus'."

he leans over, eyes scanning the page, then: "…expel them," flatly.

"i can’t expel them."

"i can."

"you teach philosophy, not moral hygiene."

"same thing, if you ask the right philosopher."

you're sprawled on the old couch in his office, shoes off, his coat folded under your head, flipping through his notes. your eyes hurt. you flip the papers upside down.

"you really wrote a thirty-page rebuttal on the concept of divine intervention just because i said some gods might have been hot?"

"you said apollo could get it in front of our students."

"and you wrote a philosophical hitpiece," you counter.

"i cited my sources," anaxa grumbles, tired.

"you are absolutely insane."

"we're pretty much equal in terms of that, i believe."

he brings you coffee exactly how you like it before every morning seminar. you make his lecture slides look presentable. you pass post-it notes through interdepartmental mail—yours are gold-trimmed, his are so painfully neat. once, someone intercepted one. it just said:

'you were right about that footnote. bring your smugness and your mouth to my office at five. i need to be convinced again.'

you're reading in the living room. anaxa's half-asleep next to you, head on your lap, one hand absently tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"what are you annotating now?" he murmurs.

"your latest essay."

"and?"

"you cited yourself fourteen times."

"i trust my sources."

you hum. "sure you do."

"if we were set to constantly teach a class together," anaxa says quietly, "we’d probably get fired."

you yawn. "i think we’d start a cult."

"that too. if we didn't already."

a hum. “a sexy cult."

he laughs, soft and tired and you want to kiss him until your lips remember his skin for the rest of your life. "you’re the one who brings up sex every time we talk about curriculum."

"it’s integral to ethics and aesthetics."

"and not philosophy?"

"it is philosophy," you grumble. "do you talk about pleasure in your lectures?"

he pauses. "…not directly."

"coward."

he squeezes your hand. "i love you."

"i know," you say. "even if your syllabus doesn’t include eros."

he smiles into your hair. "next semester."

[messylxve]

BLAMED TENSION ──CLARK KENT!

2025!clark kent x reader 1.6k rivals to lovers

!spoiler-free for the 2025 Superman movie!

prev part ; next part series masterlist main masterlist

Everything was weird now and it was all your fault. Tension through the office was high, both you and Clark walking eggshells around each other and everyone else feeling the ramifications of it. 

“So um,” Lois mumbled from behind her coffee mug. “What’s up with you and Clark?” 

The breakroom was empty save for the two of you. You were in there first, likely to get away from the conversation that hung not too far from your desk between Jimmy and Clark. Lois came soon in after, making herself an entirely too sugary cup of coffee and leaning up on the counter behind you. 

You paused your mindless invisible doodles on the old worn table. “What do you mean?” 

Looking up at the woman, she already met you with a single raised eyebrow and another sip from her mug. “Don’t play dumb with me. It’s below you.” 

You looked upward, not quite rolling your eyes but definitely wishing you were anywhere else right now. “Nothing ever gets past you, huh?” 

“Yup,” she quipped with a hint of smug left in her smile. “I can be just as stubborn as you. When I want to, that is.” 

You sighed. Looked left. Looked right. Then peeked out the doorway before motioning to the seat in front of you.  

The woman circled around you before pulling out the chair and settling in it, meeting you in the middle of where you leaned in. 

“I fucked up Lois. Bad.” 

The woman frowned, not expecting those words to fall from your mouth. The guilt in your eyes, the way your shoulders hung uncharacteristically. 

“What did you do? Clark’s…well Clark, it can’t be that bad.” 

You sighed, thinking about your words. “You remember when Perry sent me down to the basement like two weeks ago to help him with that janky old printer?” 

Lois’ brows burrowed down. “Yeah?” 

“I pretty much told him to fuck off.” 

You watched as her mouth fell open in shock before readjusting. “Why?” 

You shook your head with a shrug. “I panicked and freaked out. Like I always do. I can’t do anything right, especially when I’m like this.” 

“Like what?” 

You sighed, nibbling down on your bottom lip with hesitation. “Like…this is so dumb,” more silence came from you before you finally just pushed it out. “I think I have…feelings…for Clark…outside of the usual ‘I hate his stupid face and great interviews.’ I got stupid and didn’t know what to do with myself and my mouth moved faster than my brain and…I didn’t mean what I said.” 

Lois set her mug down on the table, visibly processing your words . “Have you considered just talking to him? Clark is one of the most forgiving people I know. I get a little worried about him because of it if I’m honest.” 

You shook your head. “I can’t. Everytime I’m around him I freeze up and over think everything and I end up saying or doing something stupid. Even if I did manage to say the right thing, maybe this is a sign or something.” 

Lois frowned. “A sign?” 

You shrugged, taking another anxious sip from your cup. “If I’m messing up now maybe it’s a sign that I’ll do it again. Clark’s just so sweet, he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves better than–,” 

Me. 

You swallowed the final word on your tongue, pulling back from the table to lean back in the chair. 

“I’m a mess. Clark doesn’t want that, trust me,” you forced a laugh, attempting to lighten the air. “I can barely deal with me.” 

Lois let out a small chuckle but it wasn’t real and you knew that. It was rather one of concern for you. A thousand words at the tip of her tongue that never made it out before she was interrupted. 

“I’m so sorry,” you looked down at your phone. “It’s my mom.” 

Lois smiled halfheartedly before nodding, taking her exit from the room. 

“Hey mom.” Your voice was tight while you seemed to wince, already coiling back from the conversation not yet had. 

“Hey sweetie, your father says I should apologize because I was apparently rude the other night, so” you heard her take a sigh, as if she was reciting something on a page. “I understand some of my words may have come across as harsh and your feelings were apparently hurt—even though what I had to say was true.” 

The line went silent for a moment outside of the quiet sound of her breathing as you waited for her to finish. But she never did. 

“Was that…all?” 

You heard her sigh from her end. “Yes. Was there anything else you wanted to hear?”

“...no Mom…thank you.”

“Mhm,” she hummed before her voice perked up suddenly. “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about your brother’s wedding coming up next month. I was wondering if you had that plus one you promised me, a boyfriend maybe?”

“Mom,” you exclaimed, ducking your head away from the door as if anyone were to listen in. “I didn’t promise anything.”

You could practically hear her disappointment through her sigh. “Sweetie, I’m a little worried about you. When I was your age I was already married to your father and pregnant with your brother. At your rate you’ll be dying alone and me without grandkids.”

“Mom!”

“What,” she exclaimed, feigning innocence. “I’m only being realistic, dear.”

You bit the inside of your cheek contemplating something really stupid. The kind of stupid that left you already regretting your decision before it was even made. 

With a roll of your eyes and drawn out sigh, you push out your words with little care and great hesitation. “I have a date. I just–” you paused, already mentally punching yourself. “I just forgot to RSVP with a plus one.” 

There was some murmuring from her end, likely talking to your father before her voice returned to your ear. “That’s wonderful to hear, I can barely believe it!” 

You could feel the twitching of your left eye again. “Thanks mom,” you replied with a deep deadpan. 

“No really sweetie! Between your career choices and the way you present yourself, I thought this day would never come.” 

Your eyes glanced over to the window, wondering how much of a challenge it would be to leap through it.

 “I need to go.” Your response was short, eager to wrap up the conversation as any of them would end between your mother. “My boss is calling me.” 

“Right right, go back to your celebrity gossip. I’m sure it’s much more important or exciting than your little ol’ mom.” 

You clenched your jaw, holding back the urge to scream or even throw your phone. The window was becoming more and more enticing with every second of this interview. “Bye mom.” 

Hanging up, you were forced to meet the silence of the room, making you really marinate in this stupid and impulsive mood you pulled just to please your mother. 

“If only I were Superman,” you muttered, massaging your temples. “Superman would—,” 

The sound of your name split up your mutterings. You whipped your head up to the doorway, seeing the one person you had been avoiding all week. 

“Clark.” 

You startled yourself out of your seat, nearly knocking down your chair in the process all while he just kind of stared at you, like a deer in headlights: wide-eyed and somehow looking more startled than you. 

Then it settled in on you how long you had been in the break room. At least fifteen to twenty minutes now. 

Sure an intern or two or maybe even Jimmy were known to take a long break but not you. Never you. “I wasn’t supposed to break for this long, I’m heading back.” 

You were quick on your feet, taking your mug with you as you squeezed past the man out the door before you felt the gentle grasp of his hand holding yours. “Wait!” 

You paused, the two of you on either side of the doorway stuck so still it resembled a freeze frame. 

Clark looked to where your hands met, how your hand naturally curled into his without your knowing it. 

But he was the first to pull away. His ears tinged with the lightest hue of pink.

 “I mean…Perry wants us in his office…he didn’t say what for.” 

But neither of you moved for that moment. All you could feel was the intensity of his gaze and the tingling of your hand where he touched you. 

“Let’s not keep him waiting then.” 

The two of you moved in stride, unreadable expressions clear on your face. From your side, you clenched your hand open then shut, hoping to shake off the feeling he left behind. But he didn’t see. All he could see was your blank face avoiding his. 

And when he held the door open for you into his office, you didn’t see the way his eyes trailed after you. 

When the two of you walked into his office, Perry sat in his chair, inspecting a black slip off paper and its golden envelope. 

“You asked for us sir?” 

Looking up at the two of you, he turned the paper over for the two of you to hold. 

“Yes. As you know there’s the upcoming Wayne Charity Gala that’d usually include one of us there, standard business.” 

Your brow twitched down, looking at the invitation in Clark’s hand, unsure of where this conversation is going. 

“It seems, Mr. Wayne is extending exclusivities. He specifically wants the two of you there.” 

Clark dipped his head down in question. “As, as journalists, sir?” 

“As personal guests.” 

“...I’m sorry what?”

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[callsign-rogueone]

Ridoc to the rescue

Ridoc Gamlyn x flier!reader

words: 2.1k

🏷️: set in iron flame, the only major warning is descriptions of blood / heavy bleeding, and some minor gross medical procedures performed by Brennan to save you, nothing too much worse than canon, nobody asked for this, it just came to me in a vision and I had to execute it. never written flier reader before, nor Ridoc pov, but I think I did okay, poorly formatted because I’m posting from my phone, okay that’s it bye!

“Incoming,” Sawyer says quietly, nodding across the table — Cat is headed straight for us.

I file through my inventory of snappy remarks, prepared to turn anything she says around on her, but it’s not Violet she’s here for.

“Ridoc,” she pants, “we need you. One of ours hasn’t come back from patrol, and the storm is too strong for us to go look for her.”

“Why me?”

“We think she’s trapped in a snowbank. And you can make it melt, right? You can get her out of there?”

I may have been part of a very short-lived plot to kill her yesterday, but the genuine worry in her eyes is compelling. Whoever this girl is, she deserves my help.

“I can try.”

———

This search and rescue mission is damned difficult with the amount of snow that’s still falling, despite me being able to direct it away from us. It’s too hard to see anything, and the wind is blowing straight at us.

Aotrom decides to land in a clearing by the edge of the forest, the unexpected drop having me yelping in surprise. He lets me slide down, and continues walking, sniffing the frozen ground intently — and then I see it.

There’s a trail of blood leading into the forest, and clawed footprints that look like they could be a gryphon’s. They were dragging something, from the looks of it. Or someone. Sure enough, fifty feet away from the tree line is a gryphon, with the blurred shape of a human beside them. I step closer until it finally notices me, and makes a sound between a screech and a hiss, which undoubtedly means “back the fuck up”.

“Easy,” I soothe, putting my hands up as I continue to step closer. “I’m here to help. She’s going to freeze to death if I don’t do anything.”

The bird appears to consider it for a moment, casting a glance down at their curled-up, bloodied flier, and then back at me… nodding?

Alright.

“Hey,” I prod.

No response. She’s breathing, at least — breathing is good. Breathing means she has a chance of making it back to the house. And Cat probably wouldn’t ever forgive me if she died, especially not after what happened on that gods-awful hike two weeks ago.

Forget Cat’s opinion of me. This is just the right thing to do.

If I can get her out of the forest, then Aotrom can give us both a lift back to the house, and Brennan can mend whatever injuries she has. I hadn’t realized I’d been talking to myself — the gryphon makes a squawk that probably translates to “no way in hell are you putting her on the back of a dragon”.

“Are you going to carry her back there in that snowstorm? Can you? — Don’t snap your beak at me. I’m trying to keep your rider — flier — alive. And you, too.”

She stirs, making a soft, pained sound, and turns enough that I can see her face. There’s a cut across her cheekbone, bruises along her temples… I can’t see much more skin than that, but I’m sure this isn’t the extent of her injuries.

“Hey,” I try again, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She gathers up the strength to crack open her eyes, which immediately widen with panic — she’s near defenseless, and a rider is standing over her.

“It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Cat sent me to help you get back to the fortress.”

She considers it for a moment, then nods, attempting to sit up — and immediately squeezes her eyes shut, lying back down against the gryphon’s wing with a soft swear. “My side.”

“Can I check it?”

She nods, letting me unbutton her jacket and pull up her shirt. There’s a bruise on her left side the size of a watermelon, darker than any other bruise I’ve seen. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s internal bleeding, and it’s bad.

Evidently I press too hard as I check for broken bones, because she yelps in pain, flinching away. The gryphon’s eyes narrow, ready to bite, but she calls it off. “S’ okay, girl,” she reassures, struggling to keep her eyes open and her breathing even. “Not his fault.”

“What happened, anyway?”

“Storm was too strong,” she wheezes. “I got thrown, and landed on a — fuck — bigass rock.”

There’s only one rock in sight that I would consider to be in the bigass category, and it’s fucking huge. And not at all flat. It easily could have killed her if she’d landed differently.

It might still kill her anyway.

“That one?” I ask, nodding back to the open area.

“That one.”

There’s a gust of freezing wind that has her shuddering, tugging her shirt back down and twisting up her sleeves to tighten them to her arms. Right. Other people are bothered by the cold. I have no idea what her signet — gift — is, but it clearly isn’t anything to do with fire or ice.

We can talk about that later, once we’re not in the middle of a snowstorm. “Let’s get you out of here. Brennan can fix you when we’re back at the house.”

She nods, even as I realize that she probably has no idea who I’m talking about. She doesn’t really have any choice but to trust me. Well, I guess she does; dying here, or trusting me.

“Do you think you can stand?”

Another nod. I reach down, extending my hands, and she takes them, struggling to hold on — she’s probably lost feeling in her fingers by now. She gets upright, her boots sinking into the snow underneath us, and immediately turns away from me, dropping my hands, and doubles over, retching — red blood splatters against the pure white of the snow.

“Fuck,” I breathe. “Okay. C’mere.”

She doesn’t respond, still blinking slowly at the brown sleeve of her jacket, which is now stained crimson from her wiping her mouth with it.

“C’mere,” I coax again.

She follows without question, letting me put an arm around her waist to steady her, my hand on her good side. I do my best to keep both of us upright despite the wind and the way she’s stumbling — walking through snow this deep is difficult enough, but it’s clear that her vision is blurred, and her balance off-kilter.

She stops in her tracks, tensing, and I immediately see the problem; her eyes are locked with Aotrom’s. Another moment of instinct taking over, twenty years of considering us a threat setting off an internal alarm in her head.

“He won’t hurt you. He’s probably the chillest guy in the riot, honestly.”

I hope that’s reassuring. She nods again, trying to deepen her breathing. Is she just not the chatty type, or is it too hard to form words?

Aotrom lays down in the snow, flat enough that we can walk across his leg to mount up. I’m glad that he hasn’t been weird about taking her back with us. Tairn would rather die than carry a flier.

“He’d rather kill the flier,” Aotrom corrects.

That, too.

Getting her up into the saddle is surprisingly easy. It helps that she’s absolutely exhausted, and doesn’t fuss about having to sit in front of me, with my chest pressed to her back. She settles down easily, pulling up her flight goggles -- the left lens is cracked from her fall, but still in one piece. If the glass had broken all the way through…

“It didn’t, and that’s what matters.”

She’s a little limp for my liking, but she doesn’t seem to be in as much pain now that she’s upright and not moving. I’m sure each breath still burns like hell, though. I’ve never had a broken rib before.

“Yet.”

“Entirely unnecessary,” I fire back, but he doesn’t respond, just launches us into the air.

———

Thank the gods that whoever designed this fortress put the infirmary on the bottom floor, and close to the gates. It is, however, completely deserted. No healers came with us from Basgiath, nor any from Cliffsbane, and at this time of day, everyone’s probably in class.

I take the liberty of laying her down in the first empty bed I see, apologizing as the movement jostles her broken ribs, but she doesn’t complain, even as I get her out of her flight jacket and pull up her shirt to expose the bruise.

“You never told me your name,” she murmurs.

“Ridoc,” I say softly, smoothing a hand over her hair, because that’s the only thing I can do, and because it’s sticking up in every direction after flying in that storm.

“Thank you, Ridoc. Glad I get to die in a real bed.”

My response comes out more harshly than I intend it to. “I didn’t bring you all the way back here just for you to die on me.”

“M’sorry.”

She’s not operating at full capacity here, and she doesn’t know me — she must think I’m mad at her. And for some reason, that feels like the end of the world.

“Don’t apologize. Just keep those pretty eyes open, hm?”

What’s taking Brennan so long?

“Here!” he calls, out of breath.

Thank the gods. “He’s gonna fix you up, okay?”

She doesn’t respond. Her pulse is racing under my fingertips, but it’s obvious that she’s fading away, and fast. With the amount of blood that’s no longer flowing through her veins, but instead pooling under her skin… she isn’t getting enough oxygen, and her heart is going to run out of blood to pump.

Brennan seems to realize the same thing. “She doesn’t have time for me to mend it — it’s compressing her lungs. We have to do this the old fashioned way.”

Before I can ask what that means, he unsheathes one of his daggers, uncapping a bottle of alcohol and dousing it quickly — then sinks it into the center of the bruise, slicing down to the bottom. Immediately, blood flows out, so dark it’s almost black, spilling onto the bedsheets and dripping onto the floor. The sight is something from a nightmare, and the smell…

Forget that. Focus on her.

She hasn’t cried, hasn’t shown any signs of pain, despite Brennan having cut her side clean open, and that’s almost more concerning than anything else.

“Menders can block pain,” Aotrom reminds gently. “She doesn’t feel a thing.”

Right. He’d done the same for me, weeks prior.

I feel completely useless just standing here while he works, but I’m not going to interrupt him to ask what I should do. I’ll just keep holding her hand, I guess, try to warm her up. Her skin is still cold to the touch — she’d been lying in the snow for gods know how long.

“I found the problem,” Brennan announces. “Problems plural, really. But I can fix them.”

I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder to see what he’s doing, immediately turning back and focusing on her face. She doesn’t look as cold as she did outside, but she doesn’t look healthy, either.

Of course she’s not healthy. She’s bleeding buckets. But I don’t know how else to describe the look of her skin, the feel of it on mine. It’s somehow warm and cold at the same time, clammy and dull. But she’s breathing, even with the gaping wound in her side and Brennan doing… I don’t want to think about what he’s doing. She’s breathing. That’s the only thing keeping me calm, that she’s still breathing, and holding my hand.

“Done.”

I brave another look back, seeing the skin slowly start to knit itself back together, leaving only a thin scar behind.

Brennan produces a towel out of nowhere, and starts wiping his hands, but he’s still stained red up to his wrists. “I can’t replace the blood she lost, but the injuries are fixed. It’ll take her a while to wake up.”

All I can do is nod. I don’t know what to say, after seeing all that.

He extends a hand, and I blink at him like an idiot for a second before I realize he’s offering to mend her blood off my skin. I hadn’t noticed it was there.

I let him, because I don’t want to get up to wash it off myself, and because the sight of it under my nails and lining the creases of my palms is making me feel sick.

“You’ve never been squeamish about blood,” Aotrom observes, sounding as neutral as he can.

The response comes automatically. “It’s never been hers.”

Only then do I finally realize — I don’t even know her name.

[star-5truck]

A letter to you

Sypnosis:The final letter Dabi Touya sent you before the final battle.

Pairing :T. Todoroki x Reader

Two posts in a day? Its a miracle lowk

Dear [Name],

    By the time this letter reaches you, I’ll probably be dead. I plan on making sure this arrives unscathed at your side, since I’m aware you’d still be in a coma when it arrives. I’m a little disappointed I won’t get to see your pretty face on the battlefield, but it’s better than you getting hurt. To start off, I ask you to forgive me for everything. I know I wasn’t the one who put you in your state, but I still apologize for that nonetheless.

Now, this letter isn’t for me to apologize like some beggar. I just want you to know my thoughts. I’d rather I not die without giving you a clear conscience. I know when I left that night without a word it hurt you. You really shouldn’t forgive an asshole like me, I hurt you in ways words can’t describe when you’ve been nothing but understanding towards me. So, I hope that through this letter, you get to understand me more. Because in the one hundred thirty-six days, three minutes, and five seconds we’ve known each other, I never really opened up to you.

The first time I met you, I thought you were a lunatic. I was injured, on the brink of death, and about to pass in peace but then I saw you. I thought that ‘this is it; I die to the hands of some hero without putting up a fight.’ Yet my demise never came. You took care of my injuries, brought me to your home and treated me like a human being.

What hero tries to talk it out with a villain? Newsflash, you, apparently. I’d like to inform you that you have not changed my views on heroes at all. I still believe they are all self-serving assholes that don’t care about anything other than themselves. I loathe them all… except you. If anyone is going to make the hero society a better place, it’s going to be you.

I don’t think the hero commission took it well when they found out we were having rendezvous’, eh? I always told ya we’d get caught one day. I knew that if I stayed, you’d be in bigger trouble than you already were. I truly believe it was for the better good when I left you that night. Yet with that being said, I’ll never regret meeting up with you every now and then.

You were definitely one of the good things in this hell. I haven’t found myself enjoying someone’s company in a long time. You’re some sort of blessing- to me and the world. I’m not super religious myself, but if there is some God out there, I’m real grateful they made you a part of my life. I haven’t been good enough for the God’s to respond to me, but for some reason they sent me you and I don’t plan on letting you go.

But that’s a lie and we both know it. Technically- I am letting you go. I’ve done it multiple times, actually. Kept pushing you away again and again but you kept coming back. Why is that?

I don’t deserve a soul as kind as yours. You were my light in the darkness, or however the saying goes. I think somewhere along the way I dimmed that light. There are times where not even the brightest of lights work. It’s not your fault, anyway. Because you did get rid of the emptiness I’ve always felt. I ruined myself on my own terms. I’ve always been fucked from the start.

You almost succeeded with your goal on changing me. When you told me to hide away with you? I almost caved in. To tell you the truth, I could never say no to you. You’re everything to me, minus the L.O.V, but they aren’t important right now. You are the one place I’d call home.

It is incredibly selfish for me to say that I’d like to keep you at my side forever. I bring pain wherever I go, and you- dear hero, are too kind to be treating a villain like this. I’d rather you hate me than going off and trying to save me. We both know I’m too far gone. Nonetheless, I appreciate the fact you thought I was capable of change. At some point, you made me believe it, too.

You’ll be the only thing I’m going to miss after I’m gone- that and crashing at your place. The time I’ve spent with you is something I’ll cherish, which we know is rare coming from me. You’d be the seven minutes before my death. I would’ve loved to run away and hide with you, [Name]. You saved me in every way possible. But I am driven by hate that even I can’t escape. I will do anything it takes to take down Endeavor, even if it means bringing down myself with him.

So, for the first and the last time, I love you, [Name].

Love, Touya Todoroki.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Come Home

pairing: post apocalyptic joel Miller X Wife reader

It started small.

Little things. Short answers. Long silences. Joel snapping at you over nothing leaving early for patrol without a kiss, eating dinner without a word. You told yourself he was just tired. That he had a lot on his plate. That the stress of keeping Jackson safe was pulling him thin.

But it didn’t explain why he only looked at you when he was angry. Or why he hadn’t touched your belly in weeks.

It all came to a head on a Tuesday night, when you asked him if he could pick up more prenatal vitamins while out with Tommy.

“What, I don’t do enough already?” he bit out, slamming his jacket down on the table.

You blinked. “It was just a question.”

He muttered something under his breath and you had enough.

“Do you even love me anymore?”

“What?”

“You heard me, Joel. Do you love me?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

Your voice broke. “Then show it. Because you’ve been acting like you don’t.”

He didn’t follow when you grabbed your bag. He didn’t stop you when Sarah packed Ellie’s overnight things. He didn’t say a word when you slammed the door behind you.

One and a Half Weeks Later

Joel’s world had been loud. Now it was silent.

He still made coffee for two out of habit. Still reached across the bed, forgetting it was cold and empty. The house was too quiet without Ellie’s music blaring or Sarah’s pencil scratching her sketchbook. The silence was screaming at him.

He hadn’t even kissed your belly goodbye.

Tommy tried talking to him. Maria did, too. He brushed them off. He didn’t know what to say because the truth was worse than anything they could guess:

He missed you so goddamn much it physically hurt.

On the eighth night, he sat down on the bed you made together and finally broke.

The house had never felt like a home without you in it.

Joel went one week and four days without the sound of your voice, without the girls’ laughter bouncing off the walls, without the warmth of your hand reaching for his in the dark. And in that silence, he finally heard everything he hadn’t let himself listen to.

How he’d picked fights. How he’d looked right through you when you were desperate for him to just see you. How he’d been cruel when you were carrying his child and raising two daughters who called him Daddy.

So he went to your parents’ place hat in hand, flowers in the other.

He stood at their front door like a man with nothing left, knuckles scraped from a fence he’d helped rebuild that morning just to keep busy, his voice already trembling before he even spoke.

Your mama opened the door, arms crossed, no smile. “Joel Miller,” she said flatly. “You better have something real good to say.”

“Ma’am,” he rasped. “I know I don’t deserve a damn second of her time. But I..I’m askin’. Please. Just five minutes. I need to see my girls.”

Your dad said nothing from behind her, but he opened the door and motioned silently toward the living room.

You were sitting on the couch in an oversized sweater, Ellie curled against your side, Sarah drawing at the coffee table. Your bump was more visible now, cradled by your hand protectively.

Joel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “Darlin’…” he whispered.

You didn’t get up. You didn’t say his name. But your eyes filled with tears the moment you looked at him.

He knelt.

Right there in the doorway, he dropped to one knee like he’d done years ago when he first asked you to marry him, except this time, his voice was soaked in guilt and love.

“I’ve been an ass. A stubborn, angry, blind man who didn’t see the one thing that’s ever truly mattered to me.

I pushed you away when all you were doing was lovin’ me and this family.

You asked me if I loved you. I said yes, but I didn’t show it and I hate myself for that.

I just… things get loud in my head sometimes. And instead of lettin’ you in, I shut the door and act like you’re the enemy. You’re not. You’re never the enemy.

You’re my girl. You always have been.

And Sarah and Ellie… I miss ‘em. I miss their laughter. I miss your humming in the kitchen. I miss you yellin’ at me for leavin’ my boots by the door.

I miss touchin’ your belly at night, feelin’ our baby kick. God, darlin’, I’m so sorry I let myself get so far away from all of it. From you.

This whole week I’ve been sleepin’ in a house that feels like a stranger’s place, because my home ,my home is wherever you are. Wherever our girls are.

And I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m askin’… please, sweetheart. Let me try to fix this. Let me earn my way back to you.”

He placed the flowers on the coffee table like an offering.

“I miss you. I miss Sarah rollin’ her eyes at me. I miss Ellie yellin’ when I steal her toast. I miss talkin’ to our baby even if she can’t hear me yet.

I miss my wife.”

Tears ran down his cheeks, and your girls went quiet Ellie’s jaw clenched and Sarah’s eyes were wide.

You looked at him Joel Miller, your stubborn, complicated husband. You saw the cracks in his armor, the ones you’d been begging him to let show. And for the first time in weeks, he let you in.

You didn’t rush into his arms. You didn’t melt into him like in some dream. You simply looked down and said softly, “You can stay. For dinner.”

It was a start.

You were sitting on the back porch of your parents’ house, a blanket wrapped around your belly, cradling a warm cup of tea while the morning sun lit your face. Joel sat beside you in silence, like he’d done every day that week, content just to be near.

You finally looked at him and said softly, “I think we’re ready to come home.”

Joel didn’t say a word at first. He blinked once. Twice.

Then his hand reached for yours worn and calloused and trembling and he held it against his lips.

“You sure, baby?” he rasped.

You nodded. “I miss our home. I miss our bed. I miss… you.”

Joel closed his eyes. “I’ll go get your things.”

Joel hadn’t moved that fast since his patrol days. He borrowed your parents’ wagon and hitched it to one of the horses, riding into town with a strange mix of nervous energy and reverence.

The house was still exactly how you left it.

He walked through slowly, fingers brushing over the backs of chairs, the edge of the couch, the framed photo of the five of you at the community festival last spring.

“We’re gettin’ our girls back,” he whispered to the empty room.

Upstairs, he stepped into Ellie’s room. The bed was still unmade. Her jacket was thrown over the desk chair, and her favorite book was flipped open on the nightstand.

Joel folded each item carefully her comic books, her flashlight, the patched-up hoodie you had sewn for her all packed neatly into her backpack.

Then Sarah’s room. Her sketchbook was left open on a half-finished portrait of you. He smiled, ran a thumb over the corner, and packed it gently in her bag along with her favorite sweater and the green barrettes she always lost in the couch cushions.

He paused at the door to the nursery.

Your half-decorated baby room.

He stepped inside, picked up the tiny onesie that read “Little Miller” and swallowed hard. He placed it on the dresser and whispered, “We’re waitin’ on you, little one”

The girls squealed when they saw him.

“Dad!” Ellie grinned, jumping onto the porch. “You got my comics?”

“Every single one,” Joel said, chucking her under the chin. “Even the ones you think I don’t know you stole from the market.”

“You don’t know anything,” she teased, hugging him tighter.

“I know I missed ya, baby girl .”

Sarah came next, hugging him longer, wordlessly. He cupped the back of her head.

Then you stepped out, wrapped in that same porch blanket, tears in your eyes.

Joel came to you slowly, held out his hand like it was your first dance all over again. “Ready to come home, darlin’?”

You nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Joel helped you into the wagon like you were made of glass, one hand on your lower back, the other braced for any stumble. You settled between Sarah and Ellie while he drove the horse slowly back toward town.

As you pulled up to your house, Ellie gasped. “Did you clean the place?”

“Of course I did,” Joel said. “Even scrubbed the toilets. That’s how serious I was about gettin’ my girls home.”

That week, he helped your dad fix the barn doors. He drove your mama to the market. He sat with Sarah while she read aloud and played cards with Ellie, losing every round on purpose just to hear her laugh.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just showed up.

He ran you a bath one night after your back started hurting and waited outside the door just in case you needed help. He kissed your forehead as you fell asleep on the couch a barely-there press of lips, reverent and apologetic.

And slowly, your walls softened.

You came home together.

The house was warm again. Lived in. Ellie decorated the nursery wall with sketches of dinosaurs and fireflies. Sarah played music in the kitchen while Joel slow danced with you to a song on the old record player, one hand on your waist, the other resting over your belly.

“You feel that?” you whispered one night, guiding his hand as the baby kicked.

Joel smiled, eyes glassy. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “My little fighter. Just like her mama.”

Later, when you were curled up in bed, he kissed the stretch marks on your hips, your shoulder, your hand.

Joel started rubbing your feet, you looked at him through sleepy eyes.

“You did good, Joel.”

He pressed a kiss to your ankle, then your belly.

“I’ll never make you doubt it again,” he whispered into your skin. “Not ever. You’re mine, and I’ll love you every damn day ‘til my last breath.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

[paddockletters]

shattered hearts | lando norris

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: you break free from a toxic relationship, embarking on an exhilarating journey of self-discovery

warning: emotional abuse, infidelity, toxic relationship, angst

author's note:this was hard, so hard omg... as I always say, english is not my first language so sorry me if there are mistakes —feel free to tell me— and my requests are open!👀

I met Lando when we were barely out of high school. Back then, he was just a kid with dreams and a mischievous smile that made you feel like you were the only one in the world that mattered. For a while, I believed that was true. But as the years went by, I learned that Lando's smile wasn’t mine alone—it was shared with others, stolen moments behind my back. And somehow, I was always the one left picking up the pieces.

Our relationship was a whirlwind, the couple everyone thought would either crash or last forever. We did crash—over and over again. But somehow, Lando always found a way to convince me to come back.

“I’m sorry,” he’d say, voice low and pleading after one of his inevitable affairs. “But you know you’re my number one, right? None of them matter like you do.”

He’d wrap his arms around me, pull me close, and somehow, I’d believe him. I had to because after eight years of being with him, I didn’t know who I was without him.

The first time he cheated, I was devastated. It was in his early F1 days, just as his fame started to sink in. He swore it was a one-time thing that it didn’t mean anything. And like a fool, I believed him. But it didn’t stop. It never stopped. There was always another girl, another excuse, another lie wrapped up in the promise that I was still the "main one."

One particular night, I remember the argument that nearly broke us for good. Lando had been out late, and I found out through a mutual friend that he had been seen with another girl. Again. When he came home, reeking of alcohol and guilt, I confronted him.

“You said you were going to change, Lando!” I yelled, tears streaming down my face. “You promised me, over and over again, but nothing ever changes!”

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this? You always come back. You always forgive me,” he shot back, arms crossed, his face a mask of irritation.

His words stung like a slap to the face. I wanted to scream, to leave right then and there. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because a part of me still loved him, or maybe it was the idea of him—the boy I met before the fame, before the lies.

As the years rolled on, our friends saw the cracks. One night during a get-together at a bar, I tried to put on a brave face. I thought maybe if I acted normal, I could convince myself everything was fine. But when Jess pulled me aside, her expression serious, I knew I couldn’t hide anymore.

“Why do you keep letting him treat you like this?” she asked, frustration evident in her voice. “You deserve so much better, and he’s just going to keep doing this until you realize it.”

“Maybe he’ll change. I can’t just throw away eight years,” I replied defensively. “We have a history.”

“You mean a history of him cheating on you? You have to stop putting up with this, or you’re going to lose yourself,” she insisted, shaking her head.

I didn’t have an answer for her, not really. I just wanted to believe that things would get better. That Lando would see how much I cared and finally choose me over everyone else.

Our mutual friends began to pick sides. Some supported me, while others were loyal to Lando. It was suffocating, a constant tug-of-war that made everything feel so much worse. I felt more isolated than ever, even when surrounded by people.

Then there was the jealousy. Lando was incredibly possessive, especially with his fellow drivers. During one race weekend, I was talking to Charles, who had just finished his session. Lando walked in, and his eyes darkened.

“Why are you always chatting up the other drivers?” he snapped, pulling me aside as Charles walked away, giving us a questioning look.

“Because they’re my friends, Lando! Just because you’re in F1 doesn’t mean I can’t talk to anyone else. You’re not my warden,” I shot back, feeling the anger rise in my chest.

“Don’t act like I’m overreacting. You know how it looks,” he hissed, jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

I knew he was being unreasonable, but I was too exhausted to fight back. Our friends watched the tension build, hoping to intervene. I overheard Max once whisper to Lando.

“You need to chill, mate. You’re pushing her away.”

But Lando always had an excuse for everything, often deflecting blame onto me.

“You just don’t understand how this world works!” he’d shout, leaving me feeling small and defeated.

The cycle continued, and I found myself in the same painful arguments over and over. One night, after he came home late from a party, I had finally reached my breaking point.

“Do you even care about how I feel?” I shouted, my voice echoing through our apartment. “You’re always out with other girls! How am I supposed to trust you?”

“I told you, you’re the main one! None of them matter!” he retorted, but his words felt hollow to me.

We spent that night in silence, and I knew I had to make a decision. I just didn’t know how to let go.

The more time passed, the more I began to distance myself from Lando. Therapy helped. I began to see the truth behind his words and actions. The way he manipulated me, made me feel guilty for his mistakes. The way he made it seem like I was the one at fault for staying, like I was to blame for the pain he caused me.

During one therapy session, I shared my frustrations.

“I don’t know why I keep coming back to him. He’s hurt me so many times, and I just can’t let go.”

The therapist asked me one simple question: “Do you love him, or are you just scared of being without him?”

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t know the answer.

One evening after another brutal fight, I finally left. For good this time. I packed my bags while he watched, silent for once. Maybe he thought I’d come back, just like I always did. But this time was different. I walked out the door, leaving behind eight years of memories, both good and bad.

The nights were long and lonely, and I often found myself thinking about the happy moments we had. One flashback struck me particularly hard: it was the first time he had taken me to the paddock during a race weekend, and we laughed like kids as he showed me around.

“Can you believe this is my life now?” he had said, beaming with pride. “I never would have thought I’d be racing in F1.”

“I always knew you could do it,” I replied, squeezing his hand.

But now, those memories felt tainted, and I needed to focus on myself. It wasn’t easy. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I had made the right decision. But with time, and with the help of my therapist, I started to heal. I began to see that I deserved better, that I deserved someone who would love me the way I had always wanted Lando to.

One evening, after finally leaving Lando for good, I found myself at a racing event with friends. It was a chance to distract myself from the whirlwind of emotions I was navigating. As I wandered through the paddock, I was drawn to the sound of laughter.

“Are you lost, or just overwhelmed by all this?” a smooth voice asked. I turned to see Pato O'Ward, the charming IndyCar driver, grinning at me. His eyes sparkled with warmth, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of something hopeful.

“I guess a little bit of both,” I replied, smiling back.

“Come on, I’ll show you around,” he offered, his energy contagious. As we walked through the paddock, he shared stories about his racing experiences and the thrill of competing. It felt so refreshing to be around someone who was passionate and genuine, without the weight of expectations or drama.

Days turned into weeks, and I found myself spending more time with Pato. He was everything I had needed—funny, respectful, and utterly devoted. He listened to me, understood my past, and never once made me feel like I was in a competition for his attention.

One night, after a thrilling race, he took me to a quiet spot overlooking the track. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about how important it is to find someone who truly sees you. I see you, and I want to be that person.”

His words resonated deep within me, filling the void Lando had left. In that moment, I knew I had found something special with Pato, something I had longed for but never thought I could have.

Meanwhile, Lando had his own set of problems. He was still juggling relationships, using his charm to keep people around while juggling jealousy over his fellow drivers. I heard from our mutual friends that he was still stuck in the same toxic patterns, always in and out of relationships, always claiming that I was the one who got away.

I remember a race weekend when Charles and Lando got into an argument. I was watching from the sidelines with Pato when Charles approached me, concern etched on his face.

“Are you okay? I know things with Lando have been… complicated,” he said, his gaze shifting to Lando, who was across the paddock, still fuming.

“I’m fine, really. I’ve moved on,” I assured him, but I could see the doubt in his eyes.

Later that evening, I got a message from Lando, who had obviously overheard the chatter.

“I know you’re happy with him, but you’re still mine. You always come back to me, remember?”

It took everything in me not to respond. I had a new life now, a new partner who respected me and didn’t cheat. Lando’s words were just echoes of the past.

Fast forward to our wedding day. I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my veil, my heart racing with excitement. Pato had become my rock, my partner in every sense of the word. I knew this was the right choice, and my heart was finally at peace.

Then, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Lando.

“I heard you’re getting married. Just wanted to say, I hope you’re happy. But I still think about you. We could’ve had it all, you know.”

I stared at the message, my heart pounding. For a moment, I considered replying. But then I remembered all the sleepless nights, the tears, the heartbreak, and all the promises he had broken.

“Too late,” I typed back, hitting send before I could second-guess myself.

As I walked down the aisle, Pato’s face lit up with joy, and I couldn’t help but smile back. When he took my hands in his, I felt a sense of completeness I hadn’t known in years.

The ceremony was beautiful, I felt a sense of completeness I hadn’t felt in years. When Pato took my hands in his, I knew I was finally moving forward.

As we exchanged vows, Lando’s presence lingered in the back of my mind, but I let it go.

“I promise to love you through every challenge and to celebrate every victory,” he said, his eyes shining with sincerity.

“I promise to choose you every day for the rest of my life,” I replied, my voice steady and full of conviction.

We sealed our vows with a kiss, and I felt liberated. Lando was no longer my story; I was the author of my own life now, and it was a beautiful beginning with Pato. With him by my side, I was ready to embrace the future we would build together, thriving in a relationship based on trust, respect, and love.

As time passed, I learned to appreciate the small moments—the laughter, the late-night talks, the shared dreams of a future together. Pato supported my passions and encouraged me to pursue my own ambitions, something I had never fully experienced before.

One day, I received a message from Max: “Lando’s been a mess since your wedding. He didn’t handle it well.”

I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. He had always taken me for granted, and now, he was the one left behind.

I hoped Lando would find peace eventually, but I also knew I couldn’t go back to the pain of our past. Pato was everything I needed, and I was determined to focus on our life together.

As our first anniversary approached, Pato planned a surprise getaway. “I want to celebrate us, everything we’ve built,” he said, a bright smile on his face.

We traveled to a beautiful beach destination, where we spent our days relaxing, laughing, and simply enjoying each other’s company. One night, under a sky full of stars, Pato took my hand and said, “You’ve changed my life for the better. I want to keep building this amazing life with you.”

I couldn’t hold back my tears. “You’ve shown me what real love looks like, Pato. I’m so grateful for you.”

His expression softened as he leaned in, kissing me gently.

Then, one day, I got a call from Lando.

“Can we talk?” he asked, voice shaky.

“What do you want, Lando?” I replied, my heart racing.

“I just need to explain… things didn’t go as planned after you left. I’ve made mistakes, and I want you back.”

I paused, memories flooding back. “You had your chance, Lando. I can’t keep going back to the past. I’m happy now. I’ve moved on.”

“But I still love you!” he pleaded. “You were always my main one!”

His words echoed painfully in my mind, but I stood my ground. “You had your chance to prove that. You made your choice.”

The phone call ended, and I sighed with relief. I looked at Pato, who was sitting beside me, and smiled. I had made the right choice.

I felt a sense of peace wash over me. Lando was no longer a part of my narrative. My life was filled with the warmth and love Pato brought into it, and I was excited for the future we would continue to create together.

With Pato, I had learned to love again, not just him, but also myself. And that made all the difference.

Lando’s chapter had closed, and I was finally ready to start anew, with someone who truly valued me, not just as the ‘main one,’ but as the woman I had become.

[brainddeadd]

I’m not sure if you’re taking requests but I think Jack Abbott showing up at your apartment unannounced and slightly intoxicated saying he regrets how things ended between the two of you would be amazing. A rare moment/emotion but he doesn’t care because he doesn’t want to lose you.

I Shouldn’t Be Here

warnings: non detailed smut, angst, fluff

It’s almost midnight when the knock comes. At first, you think you imagined it. But it comes again—louder this time. You pad to the door in your sweats, annoyed, until you look through the peephole and your heart stutters.

Jack.

He’s leaning against the frame, head down, thumb grazing his bottom lip like he’s working through a thought he doesn’t quite know how to say. When you open the door, the smell of whiskey hits you—subtle, but enough.

He looks up at you with that crooked, lopsided smile he used to flash when he was nervous. “Hey.”

You fold your arms. “Jack. It’s late.”

“I know.” He takes a slow breath, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like he’s grounding himself. “I shouldn't be here. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. But I’ve had a few drinks and… that usually makes me honest.”

You step back just enough for him to take it as an invitation. He walks in like the air inside is easier to breathe.

“I regret how things ended,” he says quietly, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. “I told you I didn’t want to get in the way of your future, but the truth is, I was scared as hell. Of loving you. Of losing you. Of not being enough.”

You stay silent, watching the way his jaw clenches and relaxes, the way his eyes hold yours like they’re begging you not to look away.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits, raw. “And I know showing up like this is selfish as hell, but it’s killing me pretending like I’m okay.”

A long silence hangs between you, heavy with everything unsaid. And then, soft—so soft you almost don’t hear it:

“Do you still love me?”

Your breath catches.

You should slam the door on him—on the past, on the heartbreak, on every night you cried yourself to sleep wishing he’d say the very words he just did. But he’s here now, looking at you like you’re his last shot at something real, something right.

“Do I still love you?” You repeat, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

He nods once, like he's bracing himself for the blow.

You take a step toward him. "Jack, I never stopped.”

His eyes close for a heartbeat, like the weight of your words sinks too deep too fast. When they open again, they’re glistening. You’ve never seen him cry. You’re not sure he knows how to.

“I was such a goddamn coward,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “You were everything good in my life, and I pushed you away like it meant nothing.”

You move closer until you’re in front of him, close enough to smell the whiskey and cologne and everything that used to feel like home. Your fingers twitch like they want to reach for him, but you’re not sure if he deserves it yet.

“Why now?” you ask. “Why tonight?”

Jack laughs under his breath, but it’s sad, bitter. “Because I saw someone today who reminded me of you. She had your laugh. And I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out. I had to see you. I had to know if there was still a chance.”

He finally looks at you fully—no walls, no smirk, no mask. Just Jack. Just a man who looks like he’s unraveling at your feet.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers. “Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do it.”

This time, you reach for him. One hand on his chest, over his heartbeat. The other brushes the side of his face, gentle, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“Start by staying,” you say softly. “We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”

He exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken in months. And for the first time in a long time, you both feel like maybe—just maybe—you’re home again.

Absolutely. Picking up right where we left off—emotions running high, tension thick, and everything they've held back finally slipping through:

Jack doesn’t move at first. He just stands there, looking down at you like he can’t believe you’re real—like if he blinks, you’ll be gone.

But you’re not. You’re there, hand pressed to his chest, thumb brushing his jaw, heart thundering against your ribs.

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s not soft. It’s desperate.

His hands cup your face like he’s afraid to lose you all over again. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, until his body’s flush against yours and there’s not a single inch of air between you. The door is still wide open, but you don’t care. Neither does he.

You pull back just enough to speak, your breath brushing his lips. “Shut the door, Jack.”

He does—fast, fumbling for the lock with a smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth. But when he turns back to you, it’s gone, replaced by something deeper. Needier.

“God, I missed you,” he groans, walking you backward toward the bedroom. “Missed your voice, your laugh… missed this.”

Your back hits the edge of the bed. He’s already pulling your sweatshirt up, eyes locked on the bare skin he’s uncovering. His hands are reverent, rough with callouses, but careful—like you’re something holy.

“You still sleep in my shirt?” he murmurs, thumbing the hem. It’s one of his old Henleys, stretched and soft from too many washes. You nod, and it drives him a little insane.

“I thought about you every night,” you whisper, tugging his jacket off, your hands quickly finding the buttons of his shirt. “Wondered if you still thought of me.”

“Every goddamn day,” he mutters, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “No one else—fuck, no one else ever came close.”

The bed creaks as you fall into it together, clothes tossed aside with the kind of urgency that comes from long denial. His mouth is on your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach—he’s trying to memorize every inch of you again. Trying to apologize with every kiss, every touch.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a low, broken sound—like relief and ruin all wrapped in one.

Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and his tumbles from yours like a promise.

He moves slowly at first, forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your hips, eyes locked on yours. Like he needs to see everything. Feel everything.

“I love you,” he breathes. “I should’ve said it before. I should’ve fought for you. I’m not losing you again.”

"I love you." You kiss him, hard, nails raking down his back. “Don’t stop.”

His rhythm picks up, your legs wrapped around his waist, moans swallowed into skin and tangled sheets. There’s nothing careful about it now. It’s raw. Real. Years of tension and pain and longing unraveling in every thrust, every gasp, every whispered “I love you” against your throat.

And when you both finally come—shaking, breathless, wrecked—it’s not just release.

It’s forgiveness.

It’s everything unspoken.

It’s the start of something new.

Sunlight spills in through the half-open blinds, warm and soft against the tangle of sheets. The air smells like sleep and skin and the faint trace of his cologne still lingering on your pillow.

Jack’s arm is slung low around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, body curved into yours like you were made to fit this way. He’s still asleep—barely. You can feel the slow rise and fall of his breath, steady and calm, like his whole world’s finally stopped spinning.

You shift just a little, and his arm tightens.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, voice raspy and low with sleep. “Not yet.”

You smile into the pillow. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. Not really.” He nuzzles into the back of your neck, lips brushing the spot that always made you shiver. “Been lying here trying to convince myself this isn’t a dream.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s a mess, jaw shadowed with stubble, and his eyes—God, his eyes—look softer than you’ve ever seen them. Open. Real.

“It’s not a dream,” you whisper, fingers brushing his cheek. “I’m here.”

“I know,” he says, like he still doesn’t quite believe it. “And I’m never walking away again. You hear me?”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Good. Because if you do, I’m changing the locks.”

That pulls a low chuckle from him, rough and warm. “You always were the only one who could keep me in line.”

He kisses you slow this time—no urgency, no desperation. Just lips on lips, patient and full of everything he couldn’t say last night. His hand slides up your back, fingertips tracing lazy patterns across your bare skin like he’s memorizing you all over again.

When you finally break the kiss, you lie there in the quiet for a while. Just the two of you. Just heartbeats and morning light.

“Let’s stay here today,” he mumbles. “Forget everything. Just us. Just this.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer beneath the covers, your leg sliding between his.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s just stay.”

[daydreaming-nerd]

The Prophecy (Lucien Vanserra x Rhys! Sister)/(Azriel x Rhys! Sister) Part 2

Part 1

AN: Wow I just want to say I have been so overwhelmed by the love part one got. Thank you for all the comments! I truly cherish each one!This part is a little short, because if I end up doing two different versions (a Lucien version and an Az version) this is where they will probably split off.

If you're new here check out my masterlist!

Summary: The only thing worse than having Azriel not know about the bond is watching him and Elain carry on like she doesn’t have a mate as well. Lucien and you have been long time friends but things change after one fateful starfall celebration. It’s not wrong if both of your mates don’t want you right? 

Warnings: so much fluff, Angst, they be fightin'

Word count: 3485

“Are you sure you want to do this?  We can fully elope if you want to.” I whisper to Lucien as we stand in front of the double oak doors to my brother's office. 

At first I was confident that we had nothing to worry about. But now that I stood here, with only an ornate piece of wood separating us from the High Lord? The nerves had started settling in.

“I’m sure, an honorable male would ask your brother's permission before wedding you, and you deserve nothing but an honorable male.” he smiled, squeezing my left hand, the one his family ring currently found its home on. 

“But what if he says-” 

“Are you seriously doubting my silver tongue right now?” he smirked, cocking an eyebrow at me. “There’s a reason I was cursed to wear a fox mask for 50 years my darling.” 

“Believe me I know all about that silver tongue,” I laughed, nudging him with my shoulder as I recalled what that silver tongue did to me last night.  

“Shall we?” he asked, donning an unbothered face. 

“We shall,” I smiled before pushing open the doors. 

Inside the ostentatious study sat my brother, with his mate perched on his desk beside him with her back facing us. He broke his love sick gaze on her to see Lucien and I standing at the end of his desk. 

“Sister…Lucien, this is a surprise,” Rhys said, fixing some papers on his desk, as if to collect the thoughts swirling inside his head as well. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t knock, that was an oversight on our part,” I laughed thinking about the thousands of compromising positions we might’ve found them in. I silently thanked the cauldron for keeping that reality at bay. 

“I was hoping I could discuss something with you,” Lucien said regally. I was so taken back by his tone I couldn’t help but look up to him, his face was nothing short of the son of a High Lord. 

The air in the room stiffened as Feyre turned around to sit on the arm of Rhys chair, I suddenly felt like I was in a fishbowl. My brother and I had always been very close, I had shared everything in my life with him, there wasn’t a story of mine he didn’t know. But he didn’t know about Lucien, and I wasn’t sure how he would react to that. 

“Of course Lucien you can speak to us about anything,” Feyre smiled warmly,  placing her hand over Rhys’ as if to calm him down.

“With all due respect Feyre this is just between Rhysand and myself,” Lucien stated with the utmost respect, yet I still nudged his foot in warning. 

Rhys shifted in his seat a bit, placing his hand on Feyre’s hip, “Anything you have to say to me you can also say to my mate Vanserra.” 

This was not going according to plan. 

“Well, you see,” Lucien looked at me and I gave him a subtle nod to continue. “Y/n and I have been seeing each other for quite sometime now-” 

“And by seeing each other you mean?” Rhys interjected. 

Lucien cleared his throat, “We’re all adults here Rhysand I-” 

“You mean to tell me you’ve been fucking my sister?!” Rhys growled and I swear the mountains stirred in the distance. 

“Rhys calm down!” I shout but Feyre speaks up first. 

“How long has this been going on for?” Feyre asks, calmly. Her voice seemingly caused Rhys to lower his hackles. 

“Since Starfall,” Lucien answered truthfully. 

“Dammit I owe Cassian money,” she cursed looking at the door of the adjacent room. 

Rhys turned to look at his mate bewildered, “you had suspicions and you didn’t tell me?” he gasped. 

“Well Cassian thought they were going to hookup that starfall but I said there was no way,” Feyre said seemingly disappointed she lost a bet. 

“Guys?” I probe, turning both of their attentions back to us.

“What I’m trying to say is I admire your sister very much Rhysand, and I would like to ask for your permission for her hand in marriage,” Lucien said, giving my hand a squeeze. 

Feyre looked to Lucien, “But Elain is your mate?” she asks, confused. 

“And Azriel is yours y/n,” Rhys reminded me. 

“Come on Rhys, it’s been 400 years. If the bond was going to snap it would’ve happened by now. Azriel doesn’t want me.” I say honestly, and for the first time, the words don’t sting as much as they normally do. 

Lucien picks up my train of thought, “And Elain has made it perfectly clear that she wants nothing to do with me.” he says to Feyre, who gives him an apologetic glance.

I look over to see Lu smiling down at me, “We’ve been spending a lot of time together, and we get along well. I’m at my happiest when I’m with him,” I smile back at him before turning to my brother and Feyre once more. “Lucien is a good male, he’s kind and he takes care of me. I think we could make eachother really happy.” 

Lucien tugs on my hand to bring my attention back to him, “And y/n is a beautiful, smart, and charming woman. Any male would be lucky to call her his wife, including me.” his lips curl upward, and I can’t tear my gaze away from him. 

I had begged the Cauldron all my life to bring someone into my life who would choose me. I used to think that person was Azriel, but after all my years of flirting with him and trying to get the bond to snap I was only ever met with nothing. Yet here Lucien was, standing in my brother's office, saying I choose you. 

Feyre’s voice broke my train of thought and pulled both of our attentions, “Aww, Rhys they're so sweet,” she beamed grasping onto my brother's arm. 

Just like I had prophesied, I saw my brother's hard exterior melting under the ‘ooos’ and ‘ahhhs’ of his beloved High Lady. He stood from his desk and I felt Lu tense beside me as we both waited with bated breath for what the High Lord was going to say next. 

“Lucien Vanserra,” he said, holding out his hand. “Welcome to the family.” 

The tension in the air dissipated as everyone in the room smiled, Feyre was practically jumping for joy. Lucien gave Rhys a firm handshake over his desk and I could see that while the proposal was unexpected for my brother, he wasn’t unhappy. He knew just as well as I did that Lucien was a good male, that he would be good to me. 

“Oh we need to start shopping for dresses right now! I’ll grab Mor and Nesta and we can go out! We’re going to need a cake too!” Feyre squealed, hugging me tightly. 

“Uhh that’s the other thing,” I said hesitantly, not wanting to step on my sister-in-law's happiness. “We didn’t want a big wedding.” 

“We actually wanted to elope, and we want you two to be our witnesses.” Lucien picked up my sentence.

“Oh of course we will,” Feyre smiled looking at both of us before wrapping her arm around Rhys. 

Rhys looked more troubled than he did moments ago, like the idea of an elopement didn’t sit right with him. However if he did feel that way, he didn’t voice it. Not when the idea seemed to excite Feyre so. 

“When is the date?” Feyre inquired. 

I looked to Lucien who was already looking to me for an answer. We had never given the date a thought. I shrugged my shoulders at him, hoping he might take the lead. His eyes twinkled with mischief, it was that same look he gave me before he did something like wipe whipped cream on my nose or use his flames to singe my bum as he slapped it.

“The day after tomorrow,” he said with certainty. 

“The day after tomorrow?” the whole room gawked. 

Lu turned back to me, “Yes. We’ve never been conventional, why start now,” he gushed giddy with infectious excitement. 

I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face, “Okay,” I giggled. “the day after tomorrow.”

He leaned down to scoop me up in his arms spinning me around the room, Feyre’s laughter and my own bouncing off the ornate wood paneled walls. 

“But what will you wear?” Feyre asked, seemingly trying to figure out something in her head already. 

I pondered the idea myself before it hit me like a ton of bricks, “Oh I can wear mothers dress!” I exclaimed looking at Rhys.

“I’m sure that’s what she would’ve wanted,” Rhys smiled, tossing his arm around his excited wife. 

We parted ways with the promise of seeing them later this evening at family dinner. An event I typically despised, but now? Things didn’t seem so dull. I was walking in with my fiance, instead of alone. 

Lucien and I ran down the hallways hand in hand, laughing like teenagers getting away with sneaking out. 

“I can’t believe I just did that,” he laughed, backing me against a wall. 

“Did what?” I ask, out of breath from running. 

He leaned in close to my ear, “Told your brother how thoroughly I’ve been fucking you,” he smirks pressing a kiss beneath my ear. 

“Well you didn’t use language that graphic,” I snicker while playing with the ends of his hair. 

He pulls his head back from my neck to give me that mischievous look again, “I can always go back in there and tell him,” he teases. 

“Or…” I say low in his ear, “you could just show me.” I say suggestively. 

Lu’s lips curl upward brushing against the shell of my ear, “You little minx!” he growls hoisting me up, earning a squeal from me. 

“You are beautiful and amazing and charming and you are going to be my wife,” he gushes, placing a kiss on my lips for every tender word. 

Lu smiles at me before titling my chin up to meet his lips, the kiss warm and sweet. His hands pull my waist closer to him, and I bring my own from his chest to loop around his neck. He presses his forehead. 

This was the start of a new chapter, one where I was somebody’s first choice. One where I was chosen and loved. One where I didn’t come home to an empty home, or show up to solstice parties without a date. One where I had someone to kill the spiders in the house for me, one where I was chosen. 

As Lucien held me close to him, I could sense he felt all the same things too. It was a new start for both of us. A chance to be happy. 

That evening after much celebration from Lucien and I that involved some time between the sheets…and the shower… and the living room floor…we finally dressed for dinner. 

Dinner with the family was typically a laid back affair, it was the one time a week we could all see one another. Rhys would even make sure no one had any assignments during that time so that there were no interferences. My dress was nice yet laid back, nothing like what I would wear for starfall or a ball. 

Lucien came up behind me as I put on my earrings in the stand up mirror.

“You look lovely, my wife looks lovely,” he said, taking the earring back from my hand to place it on himself. Kissing my bare shoulder in the process. 

“I’m not your wife yet,” I smile, turning in his arms. 

“Maybe so but you’re going to be,” he reminds me, kissing my nose. 

“The day after tomorrow,” I say 

“The day after tomorrow,” he repeats back. “Now let’s go before our tardiness causes your brother to call off the wedding.” 

I laugh taking his hand and walking down the townhouse steps into the brisk night air. I checked to see that I had moved my impromptu engagement ring to my right hand before we got too far away. While I was excited about marrying Lu it was important to me that the wedding stay an elopement.  I wasn’t sure how the rest of the family would react. Despite our good humor and book swapping, Nesta may choose to rip off my head for taking her sister’s mate and who knew how Cassian might feel about me marrying a Vanserra, even if it was Lucien. 

As Lu held open the gate to the townhouse for me, the same way he did on starfall a year ago. I was sure that I had made the right choice. Not just in my future life partner, but in keeping the engagement secret for just a few days more. 

The family gathered around the table, each one of them placing a dish in the center to be shared. During dinners we didn’t like to have the maids do all the work, per the request of the Archeron sisters. They said it felt more homey if we all pitched in on the work and they were right. Lu and I parted ways and I gave Feyre and Nesta a warm hug before continuing to set the table. It seemed everyone was in high spirits as even when I passed by Rhys to lay down the potatoes he gave me a kiss on the forehead. 

Maybe everyone was in a good mood for once, or maybe things just seemed lighter because I didn’t walk in here by myself tonight. 

Dinner moved quickly, and Lucien sat next to me as he normally did, both of us thick as thieves kicking each other's feet all night. It was impossible to keep such a happy secret from the family, but it was also insanely fun. Every now and then I caught a knowing glance from Rhys or Feyre. But whenever Rhys looked at me his next glance was always to Azriel, who didn’t seem to suspect a thing.

When the meal was over we all took our goblets of wine and moved to the living room to drink, laugh and tell war stories, as we always did. Normally this was when I would make some half-assed excuse as to why I had to leave. The last thing I wanted to see was a bunch of mated couples all over each other. My heart still panged as Elain chose to sit on the arm of Azriel’s chair, but it was lightened by the brush of Lucien’s fingers against the back of my head as he went to sit across the room next to Rhys and Feyre. 

It wasn’t until Cassian started talking about going to war with the Valkyries for the one millionth time that I decided that I definitely needed more wine for this story. So I stood and marched my way into the kitchen with the promise of bringing back a couple bottles for everyone. 

The walk-in wine cellar in the kitchen was cold, so when I turned around with two bottles in hand and bumped into a very warm chest I nearly yelped. 

“Shhh it’s just me,” Lucien grinned, taking the two bottles from my hand to place on the counter beside us. 

“Lu you scared the shit out of me,” I say in a hushed tone as he hoists me onto the countertop. 

“I’m tired of watching them all cuddle up to one another in there, I want to cuddle up to you as well,” he smirked, placing kisses all over my neck. 

“Down boy,” I giggle, acting like I don’t feel the exact same way. I feel his lips curl against my skin as I run my hands through his hair.

“This is only going to get worse once you’re my wife,” he smiles, placing a slow kiss on my lips. 

“WIFE?!” 

I whip my head around from where I’m sitting on the counter to see Azriel standing in the doorway, a look of pure betrayal written all over his face. Lucien’s hands found my waist pulling me off the counter so that my feet were firmly on the floor. 

“You’re marrying him?!” Azriel shouts again and suddenly a smaller figure appears behind him, swathed in light pink and roses. 

“He’s my mate you can’t just take him,” Elain exclaims, seemingly coming into her own. 

I immediately see red at her words, completely disregarding Azriel in the room. Elain who wouldn’t give Lucien the time of day. Elain who knowingly entered an unethical relationship with Azriel and flaunted it. Elain who barely glanced at the pearl earrings Lucien had bought her for solstice. She had the gall to claim him, after the way she treated him.   

“Take him?” I scoff. “You don’t even want him.” I shout back, the words coming off a little harsher than expected. 

“She’s right y/n, Lucien is her mate,” Azriel interjected looking down at me, as if this situation didn’t benefit him in every way. Gods he would just do anything to make that girl happy. 

“That’s deft coming from you shadowsinger,”  Lucien snickered disdainfully, cocking his head at the spymaster. 

Azriel bristled, “What's that supposed to mean?” he snarled. 

I put a hand on Lucien’s chest to get him to back down, “It doesn’t matter, we’re happy. Is it really your mission to make everyone in this court miserable but yourself Elain?”

“HEY!” Azriel barked, taking a step towards me, his shadows rising behind him. 

Before he can get a step closer Lucien grabs his arm, “Easy,” he hissed, but Azriel’s eyes didn’t leave my scared form. 

Never in my life had Azriel raised his voice at me in such a manner. While I wanted to say I was unphased, the outburst had scared me.  As soon as he noticed my reaction to his behavior, a realization seemed to dawn on him, and he quickly stepped back.

“You’re taking my mate, was there a way I was supposed to react?” Elain sneered just as snarky as ever, as if this was just a cat fight among the females. 

The red I saw turned to crimson as I realized once more what she was doing. She didn’t want Lucien because she loved him. She wanted him because she felt entitled to him, she wanted both of them. My mate and hers. 

“You take my mate, I’ll take yours!” I seethed the words spilling out of me like venom, unstoppable and poisonous to those in the room. 

Elain’s eyes widened and I realized that the secret that I had kept for 400 years had finally come out. My stomach dropped and my blood ran cold, the world around me fading away as I discerned what I had done.  

“What did you just say?” Azriel said in disbelief, my eyes flitted over to his. 

Anger and hurt flashed in his golden eyes. I didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t know what to say. I had never prepared for this. 

“Azriel I-” 

“I’m your mate?!” he sneered, his voice tinged with malice.

 I felt a scarred hand grip my upper arm as if to winnow me away but Lucien was on Azriel in an instant gripping his arm right back. 

“Get your hands off my wife,” he growled, raising his own metaphorical hackles. 

“By the looks of it she’s not your wife yet. But apparently she’s my mate so I will handle her however I please,” Azriel said, getting up in Lu’s face, but to Lucien’s credit he didn’t back down.

It was as if after 400 years the bond snapped for Az. And every urge that came with that bond had snapped in place with it. The worst part of it all was that I didn’t know how to feel.   

“That may be true but I won’t allow you to touch her in anger,” Lucien stated glowering at the shadowsinger. 

Elain and I remained speechless and unmoving as Rhysand slid into the kitchen eyes ablaze at the scene before him. 

“What the fuck is going on?” he bellowed as he saw Azriel gripping me and Lucien gripping him. 

“It seems that Lucien has decided to wed my mate,” Azriel said with a smooth calm that sounded more like a warning shot. 

“You treat her as if she was-” Lucien snarled back before Rhys cut him off. 

“That’s enough!” he shouted and it was enough for both males to let go. “All of you get out of my sight and simmer down. We can talk about this when you can behave like adults!”

I think to protest my brother's orders, but he shoots me a glare so cold, so unyielding that I find myself sinking into Lucien’s embrace. I look to Azriel who wears his disappointment in me unnervingly well before winnowing both Lucien and I back home. 

to be continued...

Part 3

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[pinkolve]

A Spencer Reid Fic- The One Where He Reads Her Diary

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Summary: Spencer Reid gets pressured into reading your diary. How will things end after you find out...

Genre: Fluff, and a little angst

CW: Autistic coded!Fem!Reader, use of Y/N, a bit of dramatic? reader, sad Spencer :(, steamy kisses, slight artist!reader.

Word Count: 2,227

A/N: I'm not the best at writing in a reader's perspective!! I always write my fics with myself in mind, so y/n is usually very similar to myself. I hope you still enjoy this anyways, and let me know if you have any tips for writing x reader fics!! Thank you! <33

Y/N’s always been an honest person, she always tells people exactly what she thinks. She’s blunt, but still kind. Y/N believes that everyone deserves to know the truth, especially when specifically asking for it. But, she also has millions of secrets piled up. Some of them, people know. The others…No one knows, except her diary. 

Y/N had just turned twenty-two a few months ago. Some would argue she’s much too old for a diary, while others would say how beneficial it is for the mind. Like Spencer Reid, for example. He himself had a journal, he just hadn’t used it nearly as much as she did.

He used his journal to talk about important events or changes in his life, while Y/N used it for everything. She wrote everything she ever thought, and drew whatever came to mind. 

The one mistake she had made from the start was keeping her diary in her work bag…That she always left on her desk when she left for the bathroom. 

***

“Reid, man, come on. You need to tell her eventually.” Morgan bantered, standing right next to Spencer’s desk. 

“I’d rather not look like an idiot, Morgan.” Spencer slightly rolled his eyes, still focused on his paperwork. 

“You already do?” Morgan said, confused. Spencer looked up with a scowl. “I’m just messin’ with you Pretty Boy! Just ask her out for coffee, nothing wrong with coffee.” He shrugged. Spencer simply shook his head, staring back down at his files. Morgan shook his own head in disapproval before walking back to his own desk, passing Y/N’s in the process. 

As he passed by, his hip bumped the half-open bag on her desk, knocking it to the floor. Morgan immediately turned around and swore. He set his mug down on the desk and bent down to grab her bag. He took notice of a surprisingly thick notebook. He picked it up and reveled at how heavy it was. Morgan looked at the cover to read ‘Diary.’ His eyes immediately widened. 

A smirk took over his face as he placed the bag back on her desk and carried the journal back over to Reid’s desk. Once he was close enough, he threw the journal on the desk with a particularly loud ‘thud.’ Lucky for the two of them, the office was mostly empty so they were able to pull more shenanigans than usual. 

Spencer looked over at the cover and looked up at his friend with furrowed brows. 

“What is this?” 

“Y/L/N’s diary. Fell out of her bag.” He gestured behind him. Spencer’s face went white, his jaw dropping, and eyes almost bursting out of his head. 

“You cannot be serious! Put this back!” He jumped up from his desk, journal in hand, ready to bring it back to its rightful home. 

“Woah there, Pretty Boy!” Morgan put his palms against Reid’s chest, pushing him back in his desk chair. “You have a major advantage here. You read that, and you’ll probably know everything Y/N’s ever thought about you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. Spencer’s face was angry. “Look Reid, if Y/N finds out I’ll take all the blame. I’ll tell her I read it to you and you didn’t want anything to do with it.” Spencer looked down at the book in his hands, contemplating. 

“I can’t believe I’m letting you convince me into doing this.” Spencer sighed, shaking his head to himself. He hated the idea of invading his best friend’s privacy but he was also still a man. A man with a terrible crush on said best friend. How could he hold her very diary in his own two hands and not read a single word? “One page, that’s it!” Spencer groaned while Morgan ‘woo-hooed.’

Spencer took notice of just how thick the journal was before opening to the newest page. He held the book open gently, praying he wouldn’t break it since it was falling apart already. He looked at the left page, two messy sketches were drawn there in pen. They both were of him, the specific view Y/N had of him from her own desk. These are actually pretty good…He thought to himself. 

“Holy shit, Reid. Is that you?” Morgan practically gasped. 

“Yeah.” He whispered, too entranced by the book. The right page had an entry. 

11/10/24 Sunday, 6:22 pm

Dear Diary, 

Today hasn’t been very eventful. I came into work to try and finish some of my paperwork. Morgan and Spencer apparently had the same idea. I’ve been feeling so weird around Spencer lately. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Usually I feel fine around him, he is my best friend after all. I think it may have something to do with the wet dream I had about him last night…I can’t quite shake it from-

“Okay! That’s enough!” Spencer shut the book harshly, his face beet red. Morgan looked at him with a wide grin. 

“Why wouldn’t you keep reading? It was just gettin’ good!” He chuckled. Spencer glared at him. “Well, now we know she likes you.” Morgan smirked. 

“This doesn’t prove anything! People have wet dreams about other people when they don’t even like them, all the time!” Spencer almost screamed. Just then, Y/N came in through the large glass doors, letting out a loud sigh and stretching. She took one look at her desk and groaned. 

“Derek Morgan, I told you to stop leaving your coffee on my desk!” She complained, grabbing it angrily. She looked over at the two, their faces covered in guilt. “What happened to you guys?” She questioned. 

“Nothing. Nothing at all!” Spencer yelled, awkwardly covering the journal with both his arms. Y/N walked towards them while chuckling. 

“Come on guys, you look totally guilty. What’d you do?” She smiles at Morgan then looks over at Spencer, taking notice of the large lump under his arms. “What’s that? Did you accidentally buy erotica again?” She shook her head. She reached over to pry his arms away from the object. “I told you to stop-” Y/N cut herself off, staring at her own journal. Her face drained of any color and every feature on her face practically melted. 

“Y/N/N, I’m so-” Spencer started.

“Shut up.” She spit out. She tore her journal from him and slammed Morgan’s coffee on his desk, causing it to spill everywhere. She practically ran back to her own desk and packed her things. 

“Y/L/N, it wasn’t his fault. I’m the one who-” Morgan tried to reason. 

“I said shut the fuck up!” She screeched, her face red with anger and embarrassment. “I never thought you would do something like this to me. I trusted you with everything I had and you broke it like it was nothing.” She was crying now, looking between the two men. But all of them knew she was only really talking to Spencer. 

“Y/N, please-” 

“Don’t ever talk to me again you fucking asshole!” She sobbed out before running to the elevator and making a fast exit. Morgan looked over at Spencer and his heart nearly broke. Spencer looked like a wounded puppy, his eyes were wide and filled with unshed tears. He looked frozen in place, he couldn’t move a single inch. He begged any and every deity he could think of to make Y/N come back so he could explain. They hadn’t listened to any of his pleas. 

***

Y/N lay in her living room on her large corner sofa. The TV was on, playing ‘Gilmore Girls’ very loudly. She hoped to drown out any thought she had with the noise. So far, it wasn’t working. 

She hadn’t been to work in nearly a week, it was currently Saturday and no one had heard from her. She only called Hotch to tell him she wouldn’t be in for a while, sick with the flu. She sure as hell couldn’t admit that the real reason was because her crush read her diary. It felt stupid enough in middle school, she wasn’t about to say it aloud to her own boss. 

Everyone on the team was very worried, getting barely any information and zero replies from Y/N. Penny, Emily, Morgan and J.J had all come to her apartment on different occasions, begging to see her. She never let them in. The only thing she cared about was seeing Spencer, but at the same time, she never wanted to see him again. Funnily enough, Spencer was the only one who hadn’t come over. Y/N was partially glad for this because she knew if he was at her door, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from opening it. 

Spencer had of course sent about fifty-three text messages and made twenty-four phone calls to her. Once again, all of them were ignored. Spencer was the kind of person who liked to talk in person, apologize in person. All his text messages were him begging to talk to Y/N, to let him explain. None of them actually contained any excuses or apologies. She was clearly clueless on any reasoning he had, or how much he had read, because he didn’t want to say any of it in a meaningless text. He had been waiting since Wednesday for the weekend to come rolling around. He planned to show up and explain everything, but he needed to make sure they had plenty of time to talk, hence the weekend. 

Everyone on the team knew of his plan so they all refrained from going over themselves. They just hoped the two would figure everything out. 

*** 

Y/N had just gotten out of the shower when she heard a knock on her door. She rolled her eyes to herself and sighed, looking at the time. 

“Which one of them has the brilliant idea to come over at eight in the morning?!” She yelled to herself. She softly and slowly walked against the hardwood floor, careful not to make a single noise and alert whoever was behind the door. She wouldn’t answer it but she at least wanted to know who it was this time. 

“Y/N…It’s me.” Spencer’s voice rang out and she froze. “I know you’re angry but I really need to talk to you. Please let me in.” His voice was pathetic and sad, cracking occasionally. Within seconds the door opened in front of him. There stood the girl he’s been dreaming of seeing all week. Her hair was soaking wet and so were her shoulders and arms. A towel was wrapped around her body tightly, showing off her figure. Spencer watched a single droplet of water pass down between the valley of her breasts. 

“H-Hey.” Spencer choked out. 

“Hi.” Y/N greeted shyly. 

“I need to talk to you.”

“So I heard.” She nodded a little. “What about?” 

“You know what about…” 

“Okay, fine. What specific part of that interaction would you like to discuss? What, did you just come over to make fun of me? To ridicule me for the way I feel? Did you come over here just to humiliate me even more?!” Y/N’s voice raised the more she spoke. 

“No!” Spencer yelled, cutting her off. “I don’t want to do any of that!” He sighed to himself. “I…I never should have read your diary. Morgan convinced me, and I know I should have reacted better, and not listened to him. He just kept telling me how…Convinient it would be. I’ve been scared to tell you how I really feel for the last two years. He told me that reading your diary would be the perfect way to see how you feel about me before I confessed and made an idiot of myself. I just…I had a weak moment and I hate that I hurt you in the process.” A couple tears fell from the corners of his eyes. “I’m so…So sorry, Y/N/N.” 

She looked up at him with an expressionless face. Spencer looked back into her eyes with the saddest look on his face. He was about to ask her what she was thinking when she told him instead. 

“Do you like me? Romantically?” She asked, voice monotone. 

“Of course I do. I genuinely thought it was obvious, I can never stop how flustered I get around you. All I’ve dreamed about since we became friends is spending my life with you. Whether we spend it as best friends or more, I couldn’t care less. I just want you with me every step of the way” Spencer spoke honestly. 

“Kiss me.” Y/N blurted out. Spencer’s eyes went wide. 

“W-What?” He stuttered. 

“Please.” She breathed out. “Kiss me.” Her eyes were heavy and clouded. Spencer was quick to reach down and grab the sides of her face in his hands, pushing their lips together roughly. Y/N whimpered the minute his lips touched her own. Just as fast as the kiss happened it turned sloppy. Spencer’s hands travelled down to her waist, gripping tightly. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts pushing up against his chest. Their tongues collided and twirled against each other. 

“I love you, Spencer.” She whispered against his lips. 

“I love you more, Y/N.” He sighed.

[lostfirefly]

Today I went to the coffee shop to get some rest. Two adults attacked me, poring a hot coffee on me and saying offensive words. Went back home and was sad. Sad me = sad Buggy. Nothing special, just fluffy stuff. Reader gives Buggy comfort) I'm fine now :)

It’s well past midnight when the door slammed open.

“Fuck! Fucking fucking shit!”

You jumped, nearly dropping your book. The wind howls briefly behind Buggy.

“My love, is that you?” You asked.

“Yeah.. I have a surprise for you, Y/N.. Well.. DON’T PANIC. But I’m bleeding. A lot.”

“WHAT???” You bolt up from the couch.

Buggy staggered into the cabin, one hand clutched his ribs, the other held the edge of the doorway for dear life. There was a split on his lip, and his whole face was tight with pain. But he was trying to smile.

“You should’ve seen the other guy.” Buggy chuckled.

“Buggy..” You rushed forward. “What the hell happened?!”

“Just a friendly disagreement with a not-so-friendly Marine captain.” He tried to wave it off. “He had backup. And a sword. And maybe a cannon. But it’s fine, I’m.. oh, fuck. Okay, oh.. shit, sweetheart, don’t touch that side.”

You guided him down onto the bed as gently as you can. “Shut up and let me help.”

He winced but obeyed. You tugged off his jacket.

“Shit! The fabric soaked with blood on one side.” You whispered.

“Well...” Buggy hissed through his teeth.

“Damn it,” You muttered, grabbing the med kit. “You’re gonna need stitches.”

“Mmm, sexy,” He croaked, flopping backward. “You're stitching me up like some battlefield romance... Wait, are you mad at me, Y/N? I feel like you’re mad.”

“You’re lucky I’m not killing you myself.”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiled weakly. “What a beautiful evening it was.”

As you clean the wound, he groans and bit his lip but he never looked away from you.

“I really thought I had him.” Buggy said quietly.

“I know.”

“They laughed at my nose.”

“What?” You paused.

That soft, aching tone? It hit you right in the chest. You looked at Buggy. Really looked. The love of your life. Bloodied. Bruised. Still trying to make you laugh. Still trying to be bigger than the pain.

You pressed your palm to his cheek. Gently, slowly, and he leaned into it without hesitation.

“You didn’t deserve that,” you whispered. “Not the fight. Not the words. You did everything right.”

“You should’ve seen how fast I got back here. Soon as I hit the dock, I just thought: I gotta get home. I gotta see my sweetheart.”

You brushed a strand of hair back from his face. “You’re home now. Come on. You need to take a bath.” You took his hand.

“But I don't want to! I look like a hero! And heroes don't wash themselves.” Buggy said with a proud look.

“I don't care, I won't go to bed with a dirty clown.” You rolled your eyes and pulled Buggy towards the bathroom.

“I think I heard it last night. And then somehow you were naked.”

“Shut up!!”

You filled the tub with warm water, just how he liked it. Too hot for most people, but perfect for soaking sore muscles and melting drama off bones. Buggy sat on the closed lid of the toilet, half-naked and grumpy, and refusing to make eye contact.

“I don’t need a bath,” he grumbled. “I need revenge. Preferably with explosives.”

You set a towel on the edge of the tub and flicked the tap off. “You also need your left shoulder not to fall off.”

“It was barely hanging on.”

“Exactly. To the bath. Now!”

“Daaaamn!!” Buggy whined but let you tug him up. He climbed into the tub with a long hiss of breath. “Ohhh... Okay. Fine. This feels... criminally nice.”

You knelt beside him and started rinsing his hair, your fingers were gentle as they work through sweat, grit, and dried blood. Buggy was quiet. Eyes closed. Breathing evening out.

“You’re lucky I let you do this to me,” he muttered.

You chuckled. “And you’re lucky, I love you. Otherwise, I’d be scrubbing your scalp with a wire brush.”

“Kinky.”

“Behave.”

Buggy hummed under his breath. Not quite a song. Just a sound. Something low and tired and content. When you poured warm water over his head again, his hand found your thigh. Just rests there. No squeeze. No teasing. Just... grounding.

“Y’know...” He said, “When I got hit... all I could think about was this. You. This tub. Your hands.”

You glanced at him.

“Not ‘cause I was scared,” Buggy added quickly. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Just... knew where I wanted to be. If anything went bad. That’s all.”

You rinsed the soap out of his hair, then gently ran your fingers down his neck and shoulders.

“Got it,” You said. “Totally not fear. Just intense emotional attachment with a side of denial.”

“I want to respond, but I’m too sore to splash you.”

“Lucky me.” You leaned down to kiss his forehead.

“I'm gonna marry you one day, y’know.” Buggy's eyes fluttered shut again. “After I sleep. We'll go get married right away. As soon as I sleep...” He mumbled. “We’d look hot, Y/N.”

“Sleep, my silly clown. I'll be right here.” You sat near the bathtub, watching his breathing slow, his muscles finally relax.

And just as your fingers brushed his hair one last time, Buggy murmured.

“Thanks for loving me... even when I’m all messed up.”

[razorblade180]

9 Days of Lancaster Day 7: Only One Bed

Jaune:Ruby? You have a moment where deep in your bones you feel the need to prove yourself right? Not by doing something, but simply saying something? *rings bell*

Ruby:Don’t do this right now. *rings bell*

Jaune:Like convincing a friend not to to eat sketchy food or ya know…avoid a fight on a flying grimm? *rings bell*

Ruby:Can’t say I have those feelings. I do however feel motivated to constantly push myself. Recently I went so fast I caught a friend who was falling really fast. You should’ve been there. Oh wait…

She went to ring the bell again and hit nothing but wood as the bell was snatched up. A slighty annoyed and drowsy innkeeper looked at the two youngster who were covered in black feathers and damp clothes from the chaotic weather. Her gaze softened after assessing the situation.

Innkeeper:Huntsmen I take it? Must be rookies. Lots of steep cliffs around here. Makes nighttime really dangerous.

Jaune:Yeah we…actually started a job during the day. Things got a little…steep.

Ruby:And avian.

Innkeeper:Ah. Yeah we’ve been having a Nevermore issue around the area. Although if I remember correctly, a request and location of the nest has been posted. It’s a little ways away. More than simple walk here. How-

Ruby:Do you two rooms, please?

Innkeeper:Okay, okay. Sorry. *stretches* Late night encounters tend to have fascinating stories is all. It also means most places are booked. *looks at log*

Jaune:Yeah this is uhhh, our third inn attempt.

Ruby:Don’t tell her that!

Innkeeper:Hehehe, it’s alright. No offense taken. This place gets many people passing through. Even my humble abode gets her fair share. Like tonight. I can’t do two rooms, but there’s one left. Is that alright?

Ruby:It’s perfect! Thank you so much!

Innkeeper:*hands over key* Last room on the right. If yall stay around long enough tomorrow, free breakfast is an option. A courtesy to those in your profession.

Jaune:No wonder you see your fair share.

Innkeeper:Now you’re catching on. Enjoy your stay.

The security of a place to stay for the night cut all the tension in Ruby’s. She practically deflated as a long sigh left her body. Jaune came up from behind and started rubbing her shoulders gently. Looks like the tension between them was cut too.

Jaune:Sorry for getting on your case.

Ruby:No, it was mildly deserved. Do you think the others are okay?

Jaune:Considering we were the only ones that got yoinked into the sky and flown like a stork delivering children, yeah I’m sure they’re fine with all our things. Thank you, by the way. My landing could’ve been rough.

Ruby:I’ll rush to you any day of the week. At least we found shelter before the storm really picked up. Let’s get some sleep. What’s that saying you like?

Jaune:Tomorrow is a new day!

xxxxxx

It only took ten minutes before the trails of the night continued. They were thankful for the one room. It was actually rather nice. Just…they weren’t expecting the single bed that was easily smaller than the ones at Beacon by a fair amount.

Ruby:….That breakfast better be delicious.

Jaune:Take the bed. I can handle the floor.

Ruby:What? No way.

Jaune:*red* We can’t both fit.

Ruby:It’s not that small! It’s like a twin size. *red* We just can’t spread out much.

Jaune:I’m fine if you take it. I only need a sheet and a- a..achoo!

Ruby:Jaune, I’m not letting you sleep on the wooden floor of a chilly room after a long mission. You’ll get sick, or feel like shit tomorrow. I was being optimistic a moment ago. I don’t think that breakfast is gonna do much. It might be a small.

Jaune:*red* Are you sure?

Ruby:I saved your life today. You’ve saved my life before. Grabbing hold of each other and being incredibly close is a consistent thing for us. Sharing a bed is child’s play.

Jaune:You have a point….

Ruby:Yep! Don’t overthink it. *looks at bed* Hmmm, I’ll take the end closer to the wall. It’ll give you a bit more room. Huh, never thought I’d be glad to be so small. *turns head* Fair warning, I sn- eep!

Her heart nearly fell into her stomach as she gasped. Now she wasn’t expecting Jaune to sleep in his armor. That would be ridiculous. However, the last thing she expected to see when she turned around was him completely shirtless and his hands loosening his belt. Never has her face turned red so quickly.

Ruby:Why are you stripping?

Jaune:Because are clothes are we- were you going to sleep in wet clothes?

Ruby:I mean…they aren’t that wet.

Jaune:You literally just brought up how I could get sick on the floor, but you were going to take the bed in soaked clothes!?

Ruby:Listen, I may have overlooked the scope of this.

Jaune:I’ll take the floor.

Ruby:No! Stop it! *points at him* None of that. It doesn’t solve anything. We’re getting in this bed. And…yeah. I mean I can at least keep my hood on.

Jaune:That hood is currently the closest thing to a wet blanket until it gets on the bed.

Ruby:It’s not that wet. Look.

She wrings out the edge of it. Visible water drips out continuously…Silence steals the room again and Ruby lets out another sigh of defeat.

Without a word, Jaune turns around, giving Ruby all the time needed to disrobe and crawl under the covers. Logical or not, even he couldn’t help but turn red hearing clothes repeatedly hit the ground. He eventually heard footsteps move to the mattress and get in bed. Jaune continued taking off his pants, assuming Ruby was facing the wall now.

Once his boxers remained he turned around to see she was infact looking at the wall closest to her. He kinda wanted to snicker at the awkwardness of it all. Somehow Ruby made it cute. Jaune finally joined her in bed, his back against hers. The bed truly didn’t much space. Worst part, the chill and need for warmth made sure his limbs stayed under the covers.

Jaune:….

Ruby:….Please tell me your underwear is on?

Jaune:We got wet but not that wet. Of course.

Ruby:Cool. Cool…

Jaune:Is…yours on? (Why am I asking?)

Ruby:Pfft, duh. I mean…the bottoms are at least.

Jaune:*crimson* Ruby-

Ruby:You have seven sisters. You know for certain no girl is sleeping in a bra! Besides, it was kinda wet…

Jaune:Fair enough…

Raindrops, ticking clocks, and silence. It’s a perfect recipe for sleep. At least it would be if awkward didn’t come before silence. Every slight shift caused a small reaction from the opposite person; constant little shifts due to flinches or chills from a draft that seemed to attack Ruby specifically. Looks like the far end of the bed wasn’t as cozy as it looked. This went on for at least half an hour.

Jaune:..Still awake?

Ruby:Wide awake. I’m sorry.

Jaune:For what?

Ruby:This was kinda my idea. Not exactly showing the confidence in it.

Jaune:That’s normal. Don’t apologize for anything. Situations happen, and we do what we can. Plus we both get weird about normal things. This makes sense.

Ruby:It really shouldn’t feel as awkward as it does. I trust you with my life without question. You know that.

Jaune:Same. Even so, trusting me with your life doesn’t necessarily mean you trust me with your body. There’s differences.

Ruby:That makes sense I guess. I can see that being the case for some people. This is a new situation. I do though, by the way.

Jaune:Do what?

Ruby:*red* My body. I trust you. There’s no difference in my head. Just thought you should know.

Jaune:Oh. Thanks, I feel the same. I’d trust you. I am trusting you.

Ruby:*tugs cover closer* Cool. That means a lot.

Jaune:Are you still shivering?

Ruby:I wish I could shoot this draft.

Jaune:…Rubes, turn around. I can help.

Ruby paused for moment before taking a calming breath as she turned around. After she did, Jaune turned to face her. She already understood the solution. Her heart began beating like a drum as she felt his arms hold her closer for warmth. Any space they had was gone. Her body simply pressed against his, finally gaining a warmth that removed the goosebumps on her limbs now that they were tangled together with his.

Jaune looked down to see a face as red as his looking back at him. Beautiful pools of silver kept his embrace strong.

Jaune:Warmer.

Ruby:Much warmer. Thanks.

Jaune:Now I’ve rescued you from a draft. Maybe there really aren’t that many differences in our protections?

Ruby:Heh, told ya. One and the same for me. I know I’m in good hands. Literally in this case. Although if I’m being honest… sleeping is the furthest thing from my mind right now.

Jaune:*red* And the closest thing?

Ruby:Umm….

Jaune:S-Sorry. I don’t know why I asked that. Forget I-

Ruby:No. I…I don’t want to forget any of this. No matter what happens. Like I said, I trust you. So….if you have any suggestions on how we could get some sleep for tomorrow…

Was this too much? Did he feel the same, or at least think it? Ruby wouldn’t be surprised if steam left her ears at this point. Blue eyes never shied away from her. The smooth and gentle rubbing on her lower back only brought her closer than she thought possible at the beginning of this night. Suddenly the bed didn’t feel small anymore; not when Ruby decided to give Jaune all the room he could while she settled for laying on top of him. His breathing tickled her nose. Both her hands warmed her fingers through his hair while her own breathing slowly matched his.

The rain and ticking persisted. Not to mention the silence. However, awkward left the room. Tension might’ve entered again if it wasn’t for Ruby lowering her head, and trusting the her partner below with everything; just like she always did. Only now, that trust had a flavor and new warmth. One they explored together. Just like they did with many other things in their life.

xxxxxxx

Weiss:AH HA! THERE YOU ARE!

The equally worried and frustrated heiress points at her missing friends for the others to see. The fearless leaders everyone was worried about were on a patio eating french toast!? Ruby blissfully took another bite, not letting the sudden noise ruin the morning vibe.

Ruby:Oh hey.

Weiss: “Oh hey!?” Did you hit your head getting down from the Nevermore!? We were worried sick about you!

Ruby:I was the one stuck with the healer. Plus I pinged our location. French toast?

Weiss:No!

Yang and Nora:Yes! *sits down*

Jaune:Is the nest gone?

Ren:No. We did a number on it, but quickly changed priorities when you two flew away. Then the storm held us up.

Nora:I tried changing the weather for you guys.

Blake:I stopped her before every lightning bolt found us.

Yang:I had faith.

Jaune:In Nora changing the weather, or in us?

Yang:Both. Syrup please!

Ruby:*slides it* Well I’m glad you all made it here! This place is nice. Take a load off. We’ll all rest for today and head on back tomorrow to finish the job no problem.

Weiss:…You’re awfully calm; even by your morning standards. Are you sure you’re not concussed?

Ruby:Weiss, yesterday was a long walk in rain after a long fall. I’m just happy we found an inn. I need the rest. My legs are kinda done. I don’t think I can run if I wanted to, hehe.

Jaune:*red*….

Yang:Well I for one don’t mind the break. I’m tired of camping. I could use an inn.

Weiss:Are the beds nice at least?

Jaune and Ruby:Cozy.

[krirebr]

Caught Up in Your Trap

Pairing: dark!Andy Barber x f!reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Summary: You spend your first day in your new home. Part of the Trapped AU.

Warnings: Dark elements, kidnapping, human trafficking, drugging, training, punishment, isolation, injury, forced intimacy - Just trust me when I say that this is dark. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist

A/N: Oh my god, you guys. Uh, happy sin day, I guess?? 🤣 Because I am apparently incapable of just leaving a one-shot alone, this is a prequel to I Don't Want a Lot for Christmas spurred by some unhinged 4 AM thots. It is definitely the darkest thing I've written so far. Whoops.

Big thanks as always to @paperweight91 who was not only the fantastic sounding board she always is, and let me ramble on about all my research into furnaces of all things but also helped me figure out the title for both this fic and the greater AU it's now a part of (🤦🏻‍♀️ Seriously, Kris, just stop!). Hat tip to Bruce Springsteen for both, as well. I'm sure he'd be thrilled. 😂

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. Even if it's just screeching at me. As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

Andy pulled up at the address he’d been given, more surprised than he should have been that it was an abandoned warehouse. Of course, this sort of deal would be completed there. He should have known from the sorts of channels he’d had to go through to set it up. Connections left over from his days in the DA’s office. Well, that wasn’t the side of the law he was on anymore. 

He walked into the large open space that made up most of the building to find a man standing in the middle of a few folding chairs. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and was wearing sharp but tight clothing. He wasn’t who caught Andy’s attention, though. No, that was you, slumped over in one of the chairs, wearing the clothes you must have been taken in. Even like this, he could tell your pictures hadn’t done you justice. You were absolutely perfect. Or you would be, once he was done.

“Barber!” the man called out, a satisfied smirk raising his mustache. “How nice of you to join us!”

“Hansen,” Andy answered evenly. He nodded at you, “She ok?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Just on enough horse tranqs to move her across the country without her realizing it. She’ll only be out for another day or so.”

Andy walked over to you. “I’m sure you don’t mind if I check for myself. With the amount of money I’m paying you.” Hansen gestured for him to go ahead, so he placed a gentle hand on the pulse in your neck, pleased to feel that it was strong and steady. He took a step back and opened the untraceable banking app on his phone. He clicked the transfer button, moving an ungodly amount of money from his numbered account in the Caymans to the account Lloyd had given him. “Alright,” he said, “the money’s in your account.”

The other man snapped his fingers and someone appeared out of the shadows, holding a tablet. “And I’m sure you don’t mind,” Hansen said as the new man tapped his screen, “if I check for myself. With the amount of work I’ve done for you.”

They all waited in tense silence for the confirmation of the transfer to come through. Andy couldn’t take his eyes off you, eager to finally get you home. After everything he’d been through, this was what he deserved. The perfect wife, the perfect family, the perfect life. And he was going to do it right this time, taking full control until he had exactly what he wanted. Nothing left to chance. It was costing him a pretty penny, but it was worth it.

The man with the tablet nodded at Hansen, who clapped his hands together. “Alright!” he said. “Let’s get this done. My men will get her settled in your car while we finish up.” Two more men came out from the edge of the room and started to put their hands on you. Andy couldn’t help the growl that came out of him. Hansen laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. ADA, they won’t hurt your precious new wife. You have my word.” 

Andy gave a hesitant nod, as they carried you out of the warehouse, clicking the unlock button on his car fob so that they could get you settled. He didn’t take his eyes off you until you were gone.

Hansen reached down and picked up a thick folder. “Everything you’ll need is in here. Everything for her new identity, all in order, all immaculate. Marriage license. Anything from her old life you might need. Although I’d get what you need from those quickly and then burn them.” 

Andy took the folder and briefly paged through it. New birth certificate, social security card, IDs, passport. Everything he’d need to start your new life. He put the folder in his briefcase. “Thank you. Anything else?”

Hansen smirked again. “Eager to get started?” He leered in the direction you’d disappeared. “Can’t say I blame you.”

Andy cleared his throat, not appreciating the way Hansen was talking about what was his. “Yes, I would like to get us both home. Are we done here?”

“Sure sure. You have a good time now,” he smirked.

Andy gave him a curt nod and then exited in the direction Hansen’s men had taken you. There was no sign of them by his car, but you were laid out across the backseat. He opened the door and leaned in to brush a gentle finger across your cheek. He wouldn’t be able to relax until you were secured inside his home. It was so close now.

This wasn’t your room. You’d woken up some time ago (you couldn’t say how long ago exactly. There were no clocks, no windows) in the most comfortable bed you’d ever felt. You thought it might swallow you up, it was so soft. Luxurious. The whole room was that way. Beautiful. Rich. You were dressed in a satin nightgown that wasn’t at all like anything you owned. You tried very hard not to think about the fact that someone must have changed you. The door was locked from the outside, a small keypad right under the doorknob. You tried banging on the door. Yelling for someone. Nothing. A quick exploration of the room hadn’t yielded anything either – the two other doors were also locked, a dresser held only men’s clothing. So you’d spent the last who knows how long just laying in the bed, trying not to panic or cry. You weren’t very successful at either.

The most disturbing thing you’d discovered since you’d woken up here was the set of rings on your left hand. One featured a large diamond, the other was a simpler band filled with comparatively tiny diamonds. The bands were fused together like you remembered your mom’s engagement and wedding rings being. It took a long time to normalize your breathing after that discovery.

Just as you were about to drift asleep again, for want of anything else to do, you heard a few soft beeps, the lock click, and the doorknob move. You leaped up and huddled in the far corner of the room between the wall and the bed, holding a pillow in front of you. There was nothing else in the room to use to defend yourself. Even the lamps were bolted down – you’d checked. 

The door slowly opened and a man walked in. He was tall, over 6 feet, and broad. He had dark, soft-looking hair, and a well-kept beard. He wore a gray cotton tee and jeans. If your adrenaline hadn’t been spiking, you would have found him so handsome. But as it was, you pushed yourself further into the corner.

He was carrying a tray, which he set down on one of the nightstands. From your vantage point, you could see a glass of water and a bowl. You weren’t feeling inclined to take anything from this man.

Your eyes cautiously tracked him as he came around to the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice deep but gentle.

You didn’t say anything, just kept watching him. He leveled you with a stern look that sent a chill down your spine. His voice was much more rigid when he said, “I expect an answer when I ask a question, sweetheart.” 

You ignored him again, instead asking, “Who are you?”

He took a deep breath, flexing both hands. Extreme irritation passed over his face before it was replaced with a practiced calm. He sat at the foot of the bed and patted the space next to him. “Come sit,” he said. You didn’t move. “Now,” he growled. Something in his tone made it clear, not only that he would move you himself if he had to, but even more so, that you didn’t want it to come to that. You got up and sat on the far edge of the bed. He reached over and grabbed your arm hard, dragging you into his side. You cried out but he shushed you. “Alright,” he said, “I will answer your question once you answer mine. How are you feeling?”

This was the most scared you’d ever been. You had to take a few deep breaths before you were able to say. “I have a headache and I’m a little nauseous. And I’m very scared.”

He gently took your hand in his and cooed at you. “That’d be the drugs they used to knock you out. You’ll feel better when they’re completely out of your system. Eating will help. You can have some soup once we’re done talking.” He paused, for what you didn’t know. You didn’t say anything. He smiled. “You can ask your question now. Good girl waiting for permission.” 

Your head swung to look at him. That hadn’t been what you were doing. Had it? You were woozy and scared and just trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. That was most important, so you let his comment go and repeated your question. “Who are you?”

He squeezed your hand. “I’m your husband, sweetheart. My name is Andy.”

That was the answer you’d been terrified of since you’d seen the rings on your finger. He was fucking crazy. He had to be. The best you could do right now was to get as much information out of him as you could. “And where are we? Is this your house?” You were trying to keep your voice steady, but you could hear the tremor in it.

“This is our house, sweetheart. Just outside Boston.”

Your eyes widened and your heart rate picked up in panic. “Boston?? No– That’s– How did I get here?!” This was even worse than you thought. You were nowhere near home, nowhere near anything familiar.

He just looked at you for a moment with narrowed eyes. Then he nodded and said, “Ok, I’m going to be honest and explain it to you, because I think it will help you understand your place here. But in the future, you need to know that I don’t appreciate having to explain myself. Good wives don’t question their husband's actions. Now, since I’m going out of my way to make this clear for you, I expect you to sit quietly and listen. Can you do that for me?”

You clenched your hands into fists, wanting to rage at him for how he was speaking to you like a child, but you knew you needed this information. You needed everything you could get if you were going to get out of here, so you tried to control your breathing and nodded.

He looked at you like he wanted to scold you for something, but then visibly changed his mind and began. “I’ve had a hard life, the last few years especially, I’ve been through a lot. Things haven’t turned out the way they were supposed to. I wanted a family. I thought I had one, but– It wasn’t how it was supposed to be, and then I lost even that. I wanted to try again, but I couldn’t put in all that effort without a guarantee that I wouldn’t wind up with nothing again.

“I’m a lawyer. I used to work as an ADA and now I’m in defense. In both jobs, I’ve made a lot of connections with people from different walks of life. Through that, I found a man who provides a service – if you let him know what you’re looking for, he’ll find you a person who fills those needs. So I told him that I was looking for someone to build a family with, a good wife. He presented me with a few options, and I chose you. For a hefty price, his men picked you up and brought you here. They also put together all new paperwork for you, a whole new identity. The old you doesn’t exist anymore, do you understand? You’re Mrs. Barber now, property of your husband. I bought and paid for you. I own you, every part of you.”

You saw his hand start to move toward your thigh and you jumped up, quickly pressing yourself against the wall. You just stared at him for a moment and then the panic truly hit you, but this time, it was accompanied by blinding anger. “That’s human trafficking, you complete fucking psycho! The fuck is wrong with you?!” Once you’d started screaming, you couldn’t stop. “You can’t just buy a wife, you fucking cuck! I’m a person! People are going to look for me!” He stood up and came at you and you swung out with your fists, your nails, your knees, whatever you fucking could. You connected a few times, drew a grunt from him before he somehow pinned your wrists behind your back. You screamed as loud as you could, but it did nothing. 

He frog-marched you out of the room as he said, “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do this so soon, but you need a timeout, honey. Some time to calm down in the quiet room, and then we can try again and go over the rules. You just need some time to think by yourself.”

You tried to pay attention as he pushed you through what looked like a little apartment: a living room, a kitchenette. He stopped at an innocuous-looking door with a keypad on it, just like the one in the bedroom. He turned you away so you couldn’t see as he entered the code, one hand still keeping your wrists in a bruising grip. Before you’d even realized he’d opened the door, he was shoving you into the room so hard you briefly left the ground. The door slammed shut behind you. You hit the floor hard and groaned. You stumbled up onto your hands and knees. You heard another beep, then the grinding of a lock. Then nothing.

The room was pitch black. You weren’t even sure where the door was now, as there wasn’t any light coming through the cracks. You crawled around, trying to get an idea of the space. It was small and empty as far as you could tell. But there was a low rumbling noise that seemed to fill the room. You couldn’t pinpoint the source just from listening, it felt like it was coming from everywhere. The floor under your hands was bare, concrete. Your hands brushed through cobwebs and other detritus you couldn’t see. You cautiously held a hand out as you continued to try to map out the room, terrified you’d smack your face right into the wall. It made contact with something hot and sharp. You pulled it back with a hiss, pain radiating through your palm. You felt the first few wet drops. Shit. You were bleeding. You’d cut yourself. Fuck. “Hey!” you called out as loud as you could. There was no answer. “Hey!” you tried again, “I’m hurt! I’m bleeding!” No response. “WHAT THE FUCK?” You were screaming now. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! LET ME OUT!” Nothing. God, this room was already lightproof, maybe it was soundproof, too. He wouldn’t be able to hear you, wouldn’t know you were hurt. You couldn’t tell how badly you’d cut your hand so you raised it above your head, hoping that might at least slow down the bleeding. It was dirty you were sure. God, how long did it take for cuts to get infected? You hoped you wouldn’t find out. You didn’t even know what you’d cut it on. What if it was rusty? Shit, when was your last tetanus booster? You couldn’t remember exactly. Fuck. You really didn’t want to die from tetanus in some random basement in Massachusetts. A tear rolled down your cheek. He couldn’t leave you in here too long, could he? No. He would come get you soon.

You had no idea how long you’d been sitting in the dark, your knees pulled up to your chest, one arm wrapped around them, the other still held in the air. Your shoulder was so sore, but you were too worried to lower your hand. You wished you could see the cut, know exactly how bad it was. You wished you knew how much time had passed. With no frame of reference, no external indicators, you were afraid you’d lost the ability to tell the difference between hours and minutes. It’d been hours. It had to have been hours. How long was he going to leave you here? He had to come back soon. He had to. You took some perverse comfort in the fact that he’d spent a lot of money on you. That had to mean that he wouldn’t just leave you here. He’d want a return on his investment. You tried to ignore the chills that thought gave you.

You’d been crying on and off. It made you feel pathetic but what else were you supposed to do? The panic, too, ebbed and flowed. You’d been trying to keep your breathing even, trying to ignore how small the space was, how dirty, how dark. Deep breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth. It wasn’t doing much to calm you, but at least it gave you something to focus on. 

Just as a fresh wave of tears overtook you, a blinding light came in, directly opposite you. You squinted and raised your uninjured hand in front of your eyes, but that didn’t do much to help.

“Oh sweetheart,” Andy’s voice cooed, before gently lifting you by your arms and herding you out. He half-carried you through the finished part of the basement while your eyes continued to adjust. Before you knew it, you were back in the bedroom you’d started in. He gently sat you down on the edge of the bed and crouched in front of you. You felt dazed. The room was too bright. You didn’t know how you could keep breaking the record for the most scared you’d ever been. There had to be a ceiling, a limit. You’d hit it soon, wouldn’t you? 

You still had your hand raised and cradled to your chest. Andy touched your wrist and you flinched. He raised an eyebrow in question and you whispered, “I got hurt.” He sighed and gently tugged at your wrist again. This time you let him guide your arm down, moving your hand so you both could see it. It was a little grimy and definitely red, slightly swollen maybe. There was a little dried blood, but not much. The cut was so much more shallow than you’d imagined when you were trapped in that room alone. You felt incredibly foolish. You’d thought you were going to lose your hand over a glorified paper cut. 

Andy carefully moved his thumb over a raised patch under the cut that you now realized was a minor burn. “Did you touch the furnace?” The furnace – that’s what’d been making that noise. That’s what you’d cut yourself on. That’s where he’d thrown you. What the fuck? You were lucky you hadn’t hurt yourself even worse. You looked up from your hand to see him frowning at you. “Why would you do that? Sweetheart, you have to be more careful. That was a very stupid thing to do.” He got up and walked into the ensuite, opening a cabinet under the sink.

Was he seriously scolding you for getting hurt in a dangerous room he’d locked you in?? The rage from earlier was starting to return, but it was still tempered by your fear. You did your best to keep your voice even when you replied, “It was completely dark in there. I couldn’t see anything.” A little growl came through your words, but it wasn’t anything compared to what you were actually feeling.

He came back holding a small first-aid kit. “Well then that’s a good reason to keep your hands to yourself, isn’t it?” He sat down and opened the kit, pulling out a few wipes and beginning to somewhat roughly clean your hand. “Sweetheart, I’m here to take care of you. That’s my job as your husband. But I need you to be a good girl and not put yourself in harm’s way.”

“You threw me in there!” you said, your voice starting to get louder, despite your best efforts to keep calm.

“Because you were bad and needed a time-out!” he yelled back at you. He threw the dirty wipes into the trashcan beside the bed and took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. He grabbed an ointment from the kit and began applying it to your hand. “That’s why we’re going to talk about rules now. They’re there to keep you safe and both of us happy. When you don’t follow them, something like this can happen.”

You didn’t say anything. You had to be smart if you were ever going to get out of here and antagonizing him wasn’t smart. He didn’t seem to expect a response anyway as he just silently placed a bandage on your hand and then got up and put the kit away. He came back and sat right next to you, turning so he could look into your eyes. You tried to turn your head away, but he grabbed your chin and forced eye contact. 

“Alright,” he said, his tone already so fucking patronizing. “A good thing that came out of your little tantrum is that now we know the areas we need to focus on most for improvement – manners, respect, and attitude. I did some thinking during your quiet time too, and I’ve adjusted your training schedule to focus on these things. It’ll be good for both of us.”

What the actual fucking fuck? “Training schedule?” was all you managed to get out.

Andy nodded. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that we’re in the basement right now. I have a beautiful big house upstairs that I can’t wait to show you. But you’re going to have to earn it first, prove to me that you know how to be good, that I can trust you before we can go upstairs. That’s what the training will do. I’m going to teach you exactly how to be perfect for me, everything I want, and in return I’m going to give you a perfect life, so much better than what you had before. We’re going to be so happy together, sweetheart. I promise.

“Now, it’s going to take time. I understand that. And I’m going to be patient with you. I know what your life was like before. I know that you probably never expected that you’d ever get to have this. Change can be scary. Dreams coming true, it’s scary. But I’ll be here to guide you through it all. I’m going to give you everything and all I ask of you in return is that you be good for me. That’s all.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to sob. What the hell was this? How could this man, this stranger, be so completely deranged? Be smart, you chanted to yourself. Be smart be smart be smart. And if you opened your mouth now, you knew exactly what would come out. So you kept it shut and let him continue.  

“So first, let’s talk about your tantrum. I don’t appreciate being spoken to that way. The language and the names, it’s unacceptable. So, no swearing going forward. And I think a good rule for you while we’re downstairs will be for you to address me as Sir. Once we’ve moved upstairs, you’ll be allowed to call me Andy, but whenever we’re down here, it’s Sir. Do you understand?” He looked at you expectantly. You clenched your jaw and nodded. “I expect a verbal response when I speak to you, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you gritted out. He raised an eyebrow at you and his gaze hardened. It took you a moment to realize your mistake. “Yes, sir,” you corrected yourself.

“Very good. As your husband, I expect you to give me the respect I deserve. That’s something we’ll work on. It’s very important that you don’t question me. I know what’s best for you and you need to trust that I will give you whatever information you need to have. If I haven’t told you something, it’s because you don’t need to know, ok?”

He paused again. What kind of Stepford hell was this? What had you done to deserve this? You took a deep breath. Then another. And another. Then, finally, you were able to force out a “Yes, sir.”

He smiled. “You’re so smart, sweetheart. You’ll be upstairs in no time. Now, you’ll start learning your routine tomorrow. I’ve taken some time off work for our honeymoon, so I’ll have plenty of time to get you settled and acclimated. We’ll go over wardrobe and makeup requirements in the morning too. Now,” he slapped his thighs and stood up, “your soup from earlier went cold, so how about I go get you a fresh bowl while you take a quick shower and get all that dust and grime from the Quiet Room off you?”

You held back a grimace at him calling that room that, as he walked over to one of the other doors and unlocked it. He talked to you like you were a child. All of this was so fucked up. But a shower sounded incredible. You had no idea how long it’d been since you’d had one. So you just nodded and let out a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

He beamed at you. “Everything you’ll need is in the bathroom. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

You stood and waited til he was out the door, listening to the beeps and grinding locks once he was gone. Shit. You were really fucked. You went into the bathroom and closed the door behind you. There was no lock on the inside. Of course, there wasn’t. 

You didn’t waste much time in the bathroom, desperate for a hot shower. You vaguely registered that the counter was stocked with all sorts of beauty aids – expensive lotions and serums like he’d bought out a department store beauty counter. The shower too, was equally well stocked. So much fancier than the Target sale items you usually stocked your bathroom with. But the shower felt incredible and that’s what you chose to focus on. 

When you were finished, you came out of the shower to see that the bathroom door was open. You could hear Andy moving around in the bedroom. You shuddered and quickly wrapped a plush towel around yourself. There was a fresh nightgown waiting for you, soft pink, all silk and lace. You grimaced and wondered what you’d need to do to get a pair of sleep shorts and an old T-shirt to sleep in. Probably more than you were willing to do, if it was even possible. You dried off quickly and slipped the nightgown on. 

When you exited the bathroom, he was sitting on the bed, the tray of food sitting next to him. There was a bowl of soup and a cup of water, along with a small plate with a few crackers. The dishes and utensils were all plastic. Nothing you could hurt him with. You sat down and watched him carefully as you lifted the tray onto your lap. He didn’t say anything so it must have been allowed. Your hand shook as you brought the first spoonful up to your lips. The soup was warm, not hot, certainly not scalding. Another hope dashed. Throwing it at him would only result in him getting wet. And angry. Not worth it. 

As you ate, you realized just how hungry you actually were. The nausea from whatever drugs you’d had had covered it up, but you were starving. You barely even tasted the soup, you just needed to eat. God, how long had it been since you’d had food? You wouldn’t bother asking Andy. You knew he wouldn’t give you an answer.

After he watched you eat for a few minutes, he said, “What do you say, sweetheart?”

God, he used that word like it was your name. It made you want to scream. You swallowed down all your anger and a spoonful of soup before you said, “Thank you, sir.” 

He gave you a satisfied smile. “See,” he said, “I knew you had good manners.”

You shoved the spoon into your mouth to prevent any sort of comeback. This fucking asshole. Luckily he let you eat the rest of your meal in peace. But he never took his eyes off you.

Once you were done, Andy put the tray on the dresser and then declared it bedtime. You watched him cautiously, as he went to the dresser and took out a pair of boxers and a cotton tee. He changed right in the middle of the room and you turned your head away. You caught flashes of skin, that if he’d been anyone else, in any other circumstances, would have had you drooling. It was becoming hard to breathe again. What else would he demand from you tonight?

You chanced a glance back up at him to find him changed and staring at you. You swallowed nervously. “Come here,” he said firmly, holding his hand out to you. You slowly, so slowly, made your way to him. As soon as you were in reach, he grabbed your elbow and pulled you the rest of the way in so that you were nestled into his chest. “I know,” he said, stroking one hand down your back, “that we’re both thinking about our first time together, but I’d like to wait.” He ran the fingers of his other hand down the strap of your nightgown, slipping onto your bare skin. “Give you a chance to get fully adjusted. Give us both a chance to get to know each other.” His voice slipped down an octave as his fingers traveled across your chest. Your body bowed to get away from him, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “Give us a chance to enjoy each other.” His breath hitched as his hand traveled down to your breast, the other hand on your back had stilled, holding you close, stopping you from getting away. He moved his head as close as he could to yours and whispered, “I want it to be special.” Then, before you could try to back away, he was kissing you. It was firm and demanding, giving you no option but to let it happen. He angled his growing erection into your thigh, and with the way he was holding you, you couldn’t lean away from it. His tongue forced its way into your mouth and you couldn’t help the way you whimpered. It felt like it might go on forever, when he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m so happy you’re mine,” he whispered. 

And then he was out of your space, leaving you trying to breathe again, alone in the middle of the room, as he climbed into the bed. You just stood there, unsure of what to do, your lips still tingling. Once he was settled on the side of the bed closest to the door, he called your name. “Come to bed now,” he said, and there was no mistaking it for anything other than an order. You ducked your head and climbed onto the bed, terrified of what might come next, but also desperate for sleep. This day had left you exhausted and confused and scared and so angry. It was all too much.

You tried to lie down as close to the edge as you could, but he pulled you in close so that your back was flush to his front, his arm thrown over your waist. “I'm so proud of you,” he whispered into your hair, “getting through your first day without having to go to the punishment room.”

Your mouth went completely dry. A room you hadn’t been to. Somewhere worse than the quiet room. “What's–” your tongue struggled to form the words. You took a breath and tried again. “What's the punishment room?” You caught yourself at the last minute and added a quiet “Sir.”

His hand caressed your side. “You keep being my good girl and you won't have to find out.”

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[velvees-archive]

Making my case for ManoSouta, Ace Attorney’s token doomed yaoi

Bronco knew, and still he told nobody.

Ace Attorney Investigations 2 full game spoilers ahead!

Chalk it up to lucky guesswork or my expertly honed writer’s intuition (sarcasm), but so rarely do I latch onto side ships that when I found myself gravitating towards Bronco (Manosuke Naito) x Simeon (Souta Sarushiro, hence ManoSouta) simply because of this line, I knew something was up…

…and boy was I right.

Simeon Saint’s fall from grace was a direct consequence of subjection to a corrupt justice system and equally as corrupted individuals. There was his father, who saw Simeon’s existence as a means to an end (the end being a pharmaceutical “recipe” book that could cure Gusto’s affliction and a shiny world class confectioner title), his best friend, who kidnapped him and almost killed him on his dad’s orders, and—if that wasn’t enough to destroy someone’s psyche—there was the presidential assassination trio, who tormented, interrogated, and dangled their judicial and executive power over him like a special-brand curse.

This is a character who hit rock bottom so long ago he believes nothing is left of him except agony, paranoia, and anger. He crafts an intricate revenge plot that dishes Simeon-esque justice to everyone who wronged him. The acts are performed mercilessly, too, no hesitation, regret, or unnecessary feelings involved in the flawless execution of his plan.

Well, almost.

There was one person in the same boat—no family, no longstanding companionship (barring each other)—who set Simeon’s descent in motion. Ironically, it is also through this person that we’re shown what remains of his humanity.

For me to talk about Simeon’s feelings as shown before we found out he was the mastermind, though, we have to see how he reacted after the big reveal. Upon being fingered as the villain, Simeon makes it clear he does not feel remorse towards any of the people “he” killed. After all, they drew first blood; Simeon firmly believes retaliation was warranted.

That is, until Miles clarifies the following points surrounding Simeon’s kidnapping, his memory loss, and the fate of his and Bronco’s fathers:

The reason Simeon was kidnapped wasn’t so Bronco’s dad could kill Simeon’s; Bronco was only meant to stall Simeon so he couldn’t help his dad win the confectionary competition finale

When a murder did occur, the victim of the murder was not Simeon’s dad, but Bronco’s.

This is how Simeon responds:

“He deserved to die!…Didn’t he?”

This line, in conjunction with the contemplative flashback shown in the video, conveys Simeon’s uncertainty/regret about inciting Knight’s murder, though one could argue this is only in reaction to the revelation rather than a lingering attachment to Knight, who he “stopped thinking” was his friend 18 years ago.

But then he follows it up with this.

“Then what was all this…for…!?”

At this point, you have to ask yourself why Simeon is questioning his entire plan (keyword in the quote is all, not just Bronco’s death) because he realized whose father actually died. Technically speaking, Bronco did still kidnap him. On top of that, everyone else Simeon exacted revenge on still wronged him, so it makes no sense to say this unless Bronco’s supposed role in “Simeon’s” father’s death was pivotal in Simeon’s decision to proceed with his whole plot. In other words, the reason Simeon questions his plot after Miles’ clarification is because this fundamental misunderstanding was what pushed him to take revenge on everyone in the first place. Bronco’s betrayal weighed so heavily on him that Simeon had no choice but to kill him in line with his principles, but he didn’t actually want to.

I’m not saying he wanted to spare Bronco because of the power of friendship or some misplaced sentimentality. It was inevitable that Bronco would die by Simeon’s hand because Simeon vowed to get his revenge on everyone who hurt him. What I am saying is that Simeon’s resolve is clearly shaken once Bronco’s role in his suffering is cleared up. As soon as Simeon realized Bronco’s dad didn’t murder his dad, he regretted killing his only friend. This is the only time Simeon shows remorse.

You might think Simeon’s hatred for Bronco stems from his kidnapping and its consequences, aka setting off the chain of events that would ruin Simeon’s life outside of “his” dad dying. However, Simeon doesn’t hold a grudge over Bronco for anything other than the kidnapping. The statement, “If you hadn’t detained me 18 years ago…it wouldn’t have had to…end like this” is vastly different from “If you hadn’t detained me 18 years ago, none of this would have happened.” His “hatred” for Bronco was a personal grudge he had against his best friend, who also happened to be the son of his dad’s killer. Bronco was on Simeon’s list because his betrayal stung Simeon most. “What was all of this for” really meant, “I wouldn’t have gone through with any of this if I knew you weren’t involved.”

Had Simeon truly hated him, it’d be difficult to justify why he snuck away from his carnival preparations to talk to Bronco. Why did he pay such an incriminating visit when he’d already delivered Bronco’s chess set during visiting hours? And why did he tell Bronco he snuck something into it, leaving him vulnerable to counterattack should Bronco tattle?

Why did he bother saying goodbye?

Simeon’s actions betray logic because try as he might to hate Bronco with all his heart, he cared. Bronco Knight’s betrayal was the straw that broke the camel’s back, but imagine if the misunderstanding had been sorted from the start. Simeon's reaction to wrongfully killing Bronco was a stellar portrayal of his desire for genuine companionship, and a peek into what remained of his humanity before he was unmasked. He really was all alone.

If you’re still not sold on them being the doomed yaoi representatives of Ace Attorney, if a misplaced desire for revenge cutting their time short doesn’t make this tragic enough, then consider this: Bronco legitimately cared for and trusted Simeon, but unlike Simeon, he was left completely in the dark.

He’s legitimately excited to see Simeon’s performance. He happily awaited Simeon’s chess correspondences because he just likes being around him!!

Perhaps the biggest sticking point in all of this is that Simeon admitted he put something in his chess set, Bronco definitely opened his chess set, and yet when it came time for Fifi Laguarde to interrogate him (aka when she discovers the chisel), Bronco does not tell her he doesn’t own it, he does not tell her he’s been set up, and he does not tell her his best friend—who the precinct knows visited him—is the one who put it there. Why didn’t Bronco tell her?

That’s the greatest pull of their dynamic: we don’t know. Maybe everything happened too fast. Maybe he did try to protest. Maybe he ratted Simeon out but Laguarde was already in hysterics. Maybe Bronco didn’t understand why the chisel frenzied the warden so, and paid the ultimate price for it.

Or maybe, just maybe, Bronco already knew the moment he saw the chisel. Maybe he died a knowing victim of Simeon’s retribution. Maybe he thought it better that the knowledge of their past—Paul Halique’s ring and Simeon’s secret hatred— dissolve with his last breath.

Worse yet, maybe he couldn’t believe Simeon would do something like this. Maybe he continued to have blind faith in him despite the damning evidence. Maybe he believed in him.