#it's something he's not expecting and he's not sure how to handle it

[silkensago]

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ jason todd x fem reader. fluff & comfort. ⭑ some people just can’t take a hint. your boyfriend (bodyguard) comes to your rescue.

“I have a boyfriend,” you say. For at least the fifteenth time. You’re getting tired of counting.

The guy who’s been hitting on you for the past ten minutes while you wait smirks. Gross.

“Bet he doesn’t treat you right.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. As if. Just flat-out leaving the café right now sounds really, really tempting. But you also just paid for your drink, and you really, really don’t feel like abandoning it because some weirdo with no self-awareness can’t handle being rejected.

A voice cuts in, flat. Dangerous.

“She literally had pancakes in bed this morning. Talk to my girl again, and I’ll cut your tongue off.”

You bite your lip to hide the rush of relief that spreads through your chest.

Jason.

You forgot you were sharing your location with him. Of course he’d notice when your order took ten minutes instead of six.

You’re mentally doodling little hearts around his name as your beautiful, big, grumpy, scary dog of a boyfriend steps into place beside you like your personal bodyguard, hand sliding around your waist—warm and sure, grounding you.

It’s possessive, but not like the way strangers look at you. Not expectant or entitled. His touch says I’ve got you. Like he already knows your worth and never needed you to earn it. Never looked at you and thought prove it. He just sees you. All of you.

You’re not just someone pretty to look at, not just a face.

Someone he loves in all your quiet, tired, messiness. No less breathtaking when your hair’s unbrushed and your makeup's off, and your socks don’t match, and you say something incredibly nerdy that makes him roll his eyes fondly and you forget how to make eye contact.

Someone who stays in his chest long after you’ve walked away, leaving him for work with the ghost of your kiss and lip gloss on his cheek, needing to be on your tiptoes to even reach him, even in heels which he always teases you for.

You’re someone to come home to. Someone whole and infinite and more.

“Was wondering where you were.” Jason mutters. His voice is calm, but you can feel the tension humming under his skin, sharp as a drawn wire, as his hand settles firmly over your lower back—right where the guy’s eyes had been.

The creep mutters something and slinks off, at least he had the awareness to sense danger. He’s lucky Jason doesn’t even spare him a second glance.

His focus is on you.

You’re still standing too still. Your fingers locked too tight around the cup of your drink. You haven’t taken a single sip.

Jason tilts his head and lowers his voice. “You okay?”

He rubs slow, small circles on your back, and some of the pressure inside you finally starts to ease. Your shoulders sag a little more.

"Maybe I shouldn't have worn this today."

You glance down at your outfit, fidgeting with the hem. You had felt cute, when you put it on at least. Now you just feel small. Exposed.

Jason’s hand stills, then smooths down your spine with deliberate care. 

"No," he says firmly. "You look beautiful. Don't ever let some asshole's behavior make you question that. You're not the problem, sweetheart—they are." 

After all the stares that make you want to crawl out of your own skin, his hand feels like water over flame. Quiet. Steady. Like he’s cleansing you of every word, every glance, every inch of attention that never came with the kindness that you deserved.

You nod. Then shake your head. The laugh that slips out is small. Fragile.

“No matter how many times this happens,” you say, “I can never get used to it.”

Jason’s eyes soften.

His hand rises to your cheek, brushing along your jaw with careful fingers like he’s afraid to hurt you even by accident.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Baby. You shouldn’t have to. Look at me."

You hesitate, then look up at him.

His eyes—a gorgeous clear, deep teal—meet yours, steady and soft. His gaze quiets the noise in your head. There’s no judgment there. No pressure. Just him, looking at you. Because you’re the most important thing in the room.

“This isn't your fault,” he says gently, thumb stroking your cheek.

Your lips twitch. “Mhm.”

Jason shakes his head a little, and leans in just enough for his forehead to almost touch yours.

“I want you to say it with me, sweetheart,” he says.

You take a shaky breath. Your voice is quiet, but there. “This isn't my fault.”

“That’s my girl.”

The corner of his lip quirks up in a proud little smile just for you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he says.

“You’re here now,” you whisper.

Jason leans in and kisses your forehead. 

“Damn right I am.”

He glances toward the door the guy vanished through, then back at you.

“If he even looks at you again,” he says, voice low, “he’s not walking. Like, ever.”

You huff a soft laugh, the first real one, and he smiles at the sound.

Jason wraps an arm around your shoulders this time—holding you close, not just guarding you, but keeping you warm. You bury your face in his chest and let his comforting scent wash over you. The smell of home.

He nudges you gently toward a table, like he’s steering a ship back to harbor.

“Come on, sit. Drink your sugary, overpriced caffeine. I’ll be right here the whole time."

You sit, finally, and Jason doesn’t let go. His thigh brushes yours under the table. His hand stays tucked around the back of your chair.

You sip your drink slowly. It's lukewarm by now, but somehow still tastes better than it would’ve without him next to you. His leg is pressed to yours under the table, solid and steady. Like an anchort, keeping you from drifting too far out.

Jason’s thumb brushes the back of your hand where it rests on the table, slow and absent like he’s not even thinking about it—but you know he is. Jason thinks about everything. Especially you.

“I like your socks,” he says after a while. Voice low, coaxing. “The little strawberries. That’s new.”

You glance down. Smile faintly. “Bought them last week.”

He hums, leaning in until his shoulder brushes yours. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve worn mine too.”

“You don’t have strawberry socks.”

“Don’t underestimate how far I’d go to match you.”

The laugh you let out comes from your chest this time. A real one. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he shifts just slightly to let you settle there.

When you finish your drink, Jason takes the empty cup from your hands and tosses it for you.

“You ready to go?”

You nod, still leaning into him. “Only if we can stop to get books at the library.”

His hand finds yours again. Squeezes. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

And for the first time that morning, you feel safe again.

[snowstormarts]

hiii can u write more hcs or whatever about cam… there’s literally nothing for him and i want that stinky man >:3

Holding your hand as we spin in a circle with Cam who's not impressed. All to say is I love this trash man, the only reason I didnt get his romance route is because of the Empathy Block...But enough of that and more to headcanons for him! [If anyone else has Cam stuff please let me know, I need this man on such a deep level]

Reblogs & Likes are appreciated and feel free to send Requests, Questions, ect to my Inbox ^^

🗑 Cam Headcanons 🗑

[Divider Credit]

- He can't & won't stand for anyone bullying someone for something they can't control. He had his own experiences with bullying for being born as a trashcan so he will often step in and scare the bullies away before leaving [he has to keep his reputation as the silent guy who hates everyone]

- He has a opossum plushy that he keeps hidden away, it's his support & vent buddy when days are especially hard and he just needs to let it out somehow

- Don't let his clothes trick you, he might not look the strongest but underneath it all he has some muscles. Carrying trash around and creating a home with it is going to take some strength, it's like a free work out for him

- If you're dating him get ready for him to be the sweetest guy ever, you can literally walk into a room and see him make someone cower in fear only to turn around and face you with a smile and a huff. Before walking like nothing happened up to you, cupping your cheek and letting your foreheads touch as he asks if you were looking for him. ["Did I keep you waiting my little opossum? Yeah? Then let's get out of here and I will make it up to you, how does cuddling and snacking sound while we bitch about your ex-boss?"]

- Knows a ton about "pest-animals" like pigeons, raccoons, opossums & different kinds of bugs, you ever need some background noises or need to be grounded? This man has your back!

- If you ever propose to him/ask when he's gonna tie the knot he will be shocked, he never expected to date anyone let alone get married to someone who truly loves him for who he is.

"Is this some kind of cruel joke, maybe one of those challenges online? Or are you serious about this? Just in case you've forgotten I'm a trashcan, you sure you can handle that? That also means having to deal with me and my shit dai-huh? Y-You're serious, you even got the ring...Well then, I guess I might have a ring here somewhere for you just let me go find it... Oh, and doll? I love you, I really do. Thanks for choosing to stick with me even when I have my shitty moments, you're the best future spouse anyone could have wished for."

[skzjiiiii]

The Bad Boy Hypothesis pt 5

pairing: rock band felix x academic achiever reader! 🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆

texting smau!

genre: group project partners to lovers? kys/kms jokes, cursing! college AU, reader and felix are literally the complete opposites of each other. felix is lowkey like a fuckboy type of guy. Actually it's so highkey now because he's acting like a MANCHILD but who knows he might actually man up and redeem his ass. There's a bit of actual writing in here! summary: what happens when you're paired up for the campus "bad boy" lee felix for your biology class? will thing end well or are you just another toy for him to play with.

bad boy hypothesis: a bad boy will always be bad — charming at first but bound to break your heart.⭑.ᐟ

“bad boys are just a distraction wrapped in a leather jacket”

wc: 1270

Later that night:

You weren’t sure why you agreed to meet him.

Maybe because part of you needed to see if he’d lie to your face. Maybe because despite everything, a small, stubborn part of your heart still wanted to understand why. Why he pulled you in like a tide and then wrecked you like a storm.

Felix stood in front of you, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes tired and red-rimmed. He wasn’t the usual confident, cocky Felix you met in BIO 350.

He looked… wrecked. And not because you were watching. But because he knew he broke something precious. “Thanks for meeting me,” he started, voice hoarse. You didn’t respond. Just stared.

He took a step forward, then stopped himself. “I don’t know where to begin. You probably don’t want to hear it. But I need to say it anyway.”

You crossed your arms, keeping your face still. “Say it, then.”

Felix looked down at the ground, like it was easier to confess to the pavement than to you.

“I kissed her. I was drunk and stupid and… scared. Scared of how much you mean to me. Scared of how real you felt.”

His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept going.

“You make me feel like I’m not some messed up cliché. You looked at me like I was more than the rumors, more than what everyone says. And that… that scared the shit out of me.”

He looked up, eyes meeting yours, guilt and desperation swimming in those deep brown eyes.

“I’ve never had anything like this before. No one’s ever seen me the way you do. You brought me back to life in ways I didn’t think were possible. Before you, I didn’t think I deserved good things. I didn’t think I deserved love.”

You looked away, your throat tightening.

“I didn’t kiss her because I wanted her. I did it because I wanted to destroy something before it could destroy me,” he admitted. “I was self-sabotaging. But when I saw your face after… when I saw what I did to you… I’ve never hated myself more.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“You were the one who made me believe in love again. Real, soul-warming love. I’ve never felt safer than when I was next to you, hearing you ramble about biology over matcha lattes, or laughing with my band like you belonged there all along.”

“I know I messed it up. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I just need you to know… I love you. I’ve loved you for a while now. And I’m so sorry that I didn’t know how to handle that.”

Silence stretched between you like a thread, thin and fragile.

He took a breath. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I couldn’t let you think you weren’t everything to me. Because you are.”

You looked at him then, not the bad boy, not the campus heartthrob. Just a boy who was scared of love until it stared him in the face and he blinked first.

And suddenly, that silence didn’t feel so heavy anymore. You stayed quiet.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say, but because the words in your chest were all tangled up, like wires that once carried music but now only sparked and stung when you tried to untangle them.

Felix stood there, waiting. You hated how familiar he looked. Hated how your heart still ached toward him like a bruise touched too soon.

“I believed in you,” you said softly. “I defended you when everyone warned me. Told them you were different. Told them you’d never hurt me.”

He flinched. His shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

“And then you kissed someone else. Not just anyone. Chaewon. At a party you invited me to. And I had to watch. Do you know what that felt like?”

Your voice cracked. The tears had been sitting in your throat since that night. Now they spilled, hot and silent.

Felix stepped forward, but you held up a hand. “Don’t.”

He froze.

“I showed up for you. Over and over. I made time for you when you forgot about me. I sat through your rehearsals, studied late into the night, waited outside your classes just to walk home with you. I let you in. I made space for you in a life I worked hard to build.”

You looked up at him, heartbroken, but still burning with a kind of quiet strength. “And I guess I wasn’t worth the same kind of fight.”

Felix shook his head, quick, desperate. “You are. You are worth everything. I was just— I didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone who saw through me. Someone who made me feel like I wasn’t broken anymore. And I ruined it.”

His voice trembled, but you weren’t sure if it was guilt or grief. Maybe both.

“I’m not asking you to forget what I did,” he said. “I wouldn’t forgive me either. I just—I need you to know it wasn’t meaningless. You weren’t meaningless.”

There was a long, aching pause. The kind that happens when two people know they’re standing at a fork in the road and nothing will ever be quite the same again.

Finally, you whispered, “I never needed you to be perfect, Felix. I just needed you to be honest. To try.”

“I’ll try now,” he said, stepping closer, slower this time. “I’ll do it right, if you let me. If not now, then someday. I’ll earn it back. All of it. Even if you never want me again, I’ll still become the kind of person who deserved you.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what came next. You didn’t know if healing would look like walking away or choosing to stay.

But one thing was clear: Felix wasn’t running anymore. He had finally shown up, not just with words, but with everything broken and bruised inside him laid bare for you to see.

And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, you saw it all.

The soft-shelled boy underneath the bad-boy persona. The quiet warmth. The trembling heart. The one who baked you cookies at midnight and wiped your tears when the world was too loud. The one who called you “sunshine” like it meant something sacred.

But also the one who broke you. The one who let fear ruin something tender. The one who kissed someone else when you were starting to believe in forever.

Your throat tightened, but your voice stayed steady. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Felix.” He opened his mouth, but you shook your head gently. “I’m not saying it didn’t mean something. I know it did. But I’m also not someone you come back to when you realize the other option didn’t feel right.” His eyes glossed over, but he nodded.

“I’m not gonna make a decision right now,” you said. “I need time to think. To feel. To breathe.”

His lips parted. “So you’re saying there’s still?”

“I’m saying I’ll text you.” Your voice wavered, but the truth in it held. “When I’m ready. When I know what I want. Not just what I feel right now.”

He blinked, like those words had knocked the air out of him.

You gave a small, broken smile. “Goodnight, Felix.”

Then you turned and walked away, and for once, he didn’t try to stop you. Because sometimes, love isn’t proven by the chase.

Sometimes, it’s proven by waiting.

[kitkatscabinet]

SILENCE IS GOLDEN

requested by: the bestie @robinvomit

pairing : guy gardner x fem! reader

summary: guy gardner has the most irritating mouth in the galaxy. Someone really should do something about it.

You were being punished for something, you weren't sure what, but you had to be. Why else would you be stuck training rookies with Guy Gardner of all people?

Whatever it was you'd done to offend the Guardians, you needed to find out and rectify, expeditiously, before you flew off the handle and did something stupid, like strangling Guy.

Physically, he might have been your type. It was just too bad that every time he opened his damn mouth it was like he was trying to set a new galactic record for 'The Most Irritating Man You've Ever Met'.

“Nice one, Rookie, keep that up and you'll nearly be as good as me, nearly.” Guy praised earnestly, as arrogant as ever.

From the sidelines, you roll your eyes, nails tapping irritatedly against your crossed forearm. You hated that despite his boastful behaviour, Guy was admittedly an excellent teacher.

He was patient and provided numerous tips that you wouldn't have thought of. Guy was a good Lantern, one of the best if you allowed yourself to be honest, handsome too, it really was such a damn waste.

You watch dispassionately as he calls his next unfortunate victim to the centre of the training room. One-on-one spars, 'to build combat experience', you think he just wants to show off.

To the newbie's credit, he doesn't look nervous, oozing confidence that definitely hadn't been earned. Great, a mini Guy.

Perhaps that was a tad too harsh. Guy had at least proven himself as reliable in the heat of battle and —

“This one’s for you, baby girl!” You nearly choke on the lollipop you'd been using to stop yourself from snapping at Guy with a less than savoury remark in front of the baby Lantern's.

Guy was winking at you, pointing as if he needed to make it abundantly clear who he was flirting with—the sweet taste of bubblegum is overpowered by a sudden bitterness on your tongue from his words. 

“Infant woman?” One of the bewildered aliens to your left mumbles. 

“Oh! I know this one; it's a, how do you say? Pet name? Common amongst human mates.” One of the younger recruits buzzes, floating a little in her excitement, which quickly turned to shock as she faced you. “I was not aware you and Lantern Gardner were mates.”

“We aren’t.” Your left eye twitches, teeth gritted so hard you were lucky you’d taken the lolly out of your mouth lest you fracture something. 

“Then why would he—”

“Because he’s an idiot!” You snap, your voice a little shrill, already stalking towards where Guy was standing cocky and victorious. 

“Hey babe, d’ya see me? Come to congratulate me on the win? How about a kiss, huh?” He mockingly puckered his lips, positively radiating smugness as he took in your anger. 

“You—” he leans in closer, expectant grin never faltering, and it's enough to make you pause for a moment, eyes narrowed as you assess the situation. You and Guy were the centre of attention, all background chatter abruptly ceasing as everyone tuned into the live drama. 

Forcing yourself to take a calming breath, you step closer, placing a palm over his chest, barely preventing yourself from gasping as you feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. Interesting, and the confidence booster you needed to continue with your current plan of action. 

Guy’s cheeks have pinkened, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he unconsciously leans closer to you. 

“You keep running that mouth, Gardner, and I’ll have to find a better use for it.” You whisper, biting lightly on his earlobe and tugging as you pull away. 

“Yeah? Like what?” His attempt to be suave was thwarted embarrassingly when his voice cracked.  

Your grin is saccharinely sweet as you bite down on the impending fit of giggles threatening to slip through your lips. 

“This.” You whisper, pushing the lollipop between his parted lips, putting the lightest bit of pressure against the stick as you send him to his knees with only an ounce of pressure. 

For the first time in days, there’s silence. Blessed, golden, silence. “Good boy.” You pat his cheek, “You really are so much prettier like this.”

The pink lollipop falls from his gaping mouth, forgotten on the floor as you turn and walk away. You can practically feel the way his his eyes are glued to your ass and you hold back a sigh. 

Such a damn waste.

[mattslilies]

Long Day - M.S.

"it's okay, i'll help. you're exhausted." or... the one where you're wiped out from work, and the energy to take care of yourself just isn't there. luckily, matt steps in. warnings: just exhaustion, really! mentions of dehydration. word count: 945 a/n: requested by anon! divider credit to @saradika-graphics! remember to take care of yourselves! nothing is worth burning yourself out. if your home is going through a heat wave, be safe!! stay hydrated!

you were normally better than this. you were usually able to handle much more, but it had all quickly caught up to you.

you'd worked the past six days in a row, pushing through, holding on to the one day off at the end. you had plans to absolutely cherish it. sleep in late, get food with your friends, binge watch a show, spend time with matt, but none of that was going to happen.

you'd finished work that evening, and by the time you got home, you felt like your legs were the consistency of jello, and you were going to drop. the adrenaline of having to do so much and get everything done at work had kept you going through the entire week, but now that your brain had realized you didn't have to go back tomorrow, you were crashing.

it was also recognizing the ache in your legs, the dull throb in your head from not drinking enough water throughout the day, the sting in your hands from fighting to open things. everything seemed to all hit you at once, and tears filled your eyes as you parked your car in the driveway, sitting there for a few moments before going inside.

trying to compose yourself the best you can, you walked inside, giving matt a soft smile. you weren't angry, or upset, just tired, and you wanted him to know that he wasn't the cause of your tears. regardless of this though, he jumped up, immediately walking over to you and holding your face in his hands.

"what's wrong, baby? did something happen at work?"

you shook your head, a laugh leaving your lips at the ridiculousness of the situation. you were done with work for the week, and you were crying. you should be celebrating.

"no, no, i just realized i'm really tired. everything went fine at work."

matt nodded, giving you a hug, and a soft kiss atop your head.

"you worked so much this week. i'd expect you to be tired."

you nodded, sighing.

"i'm gonna go take a shower, and then i'll come fix something for us to eat."

he hummed in agreement, allowing you to walk off towards your shared bathroom. however, he wasn't going to let you make yourself food after such a long week.

he quickly disappeared into the kitchen, beginning to cook up something simple. he decided on pasta. it would be good for your energy, as well as make sure you were full, but not take too long to cook. it was straining as you came back down the steps, a slight look of confusion on your face.

"matt... you didn't have to do that."

he smiled, putting the food onto a plate and grabbing you some fruit from the fridge to go with it.

"yes i did, baby. and i don't mind. you had an long day, the least i can do is make you some food."

you smiled back, giving him a quick kiss before sitting down to eat, the smell of the food made you realize just how hungry you were, devouring the plate in a few minutes, flat. you got up to put the dishes in the sink, but matt stopped you, taking it from your hands.

"it's okay, i'll help. you're exhausted."

you didn't even argue, too tired to have the energy for it. you nodded, relenting before sitting back down, yawning. matt walked up next to you, placing a hand on your back and encouraging you up.

"c'mon, sweetheart. let's go upstairs. it's late, and you're tired."

you went, walking hand in hand with him the whole way, rejoicing in how lucky you were to have such a caring boyfriend. you sighed in frustration, a small groan leaving your lips as your hand caught a tangle in your hair.

"ugh. i forgot i have to brush and braid my hair tonight."

matt shook his head.

"no. i'll brush and braid your hair tonight. do you want to change into my clothes?"

you nodded, stifling a yawn with your hand. you'd hastily thrown on a set of clothes after showering, but matt's clothes to sleep in sounded much more appealing. he walked over to his dresser, pulling out the softest, largest shirt he could find, and a pair of shorts.

"let me help you."

he got no disagreement from you, you bracing your hands on his shoulders as he helped you step into the shorts, easily sliding them up your legs. he softly removed your shirt, feeding your arms through the sleeves in his and dressing you in it.

"that's gotta feel better, hm?"

you hummed in agreement, moving towards the bed and sitting down on the edge. matt grabbed your hairbrush and a ponytail holder, sitting behind you and slowly beginning to brush through it.

he was always so careful with it. much more careful than you ever were. but that was how he always treated you. carefully. not like you were fragile, not like he didn't trust you, but like he wanted to protect you at all costs, despite knowing you could stand on your own two feet.

dragging the hairbrush through your hair, you felt him begin to twist the three strands into a loose, but solid, braid. over the time you had been dating, his hairdo skills had greatly improved, now taking less than five minutes to get it all done.

snapping the hair tie around the bottom of the braid, he kissed your shoulders before setting the braid on one of them.

"i'm gonna change, and then we'll lay down, okay?"

by the time he turned back around, you were already asleep.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

So I know nothing about Loz but I imagine Stan defeats Bill and gets teleported away to be killed by the sword but Emma-May finds him and saves him. However this causes him to lose his memory’s so Emma and Stan are kind of just wandering while Ford and Fidds are trying to save Stan. (Also I had the horrible idea of the sword actually physically hurting him with vines or something slowly digging into the hand he uses to wield it, and when Emma finds him, the earth is trying to consume him) :D

Oho! I do like that route in the 'Stan disappears' timeline. Hmm. Ford gets there just as Stan drives the Super Master Sword through Bills chest, there's a flash of light, and then Stan's gone, sword still pinning Bills corpse to the ground. Now it's Epic Quest time to find Stan and maybe fight the goddesses? Ford will figure it out later.

This got long lol, and a little less angsty.

Meanwhile Stan has a meet up with one of the greater spirits (Axolotl) who thanks Stan for rising up to the challenge despite being a regular, not fated being. Everyone's very impressed with him, but sadly his normal person, not descended from the goddesses or reincarnated soul couldn't handle the strain of wielding the Sword that Cuts the-

Stan: Super Mega Master Sword

Axolotl: what?

Stan: it's the Super Mega Master Sword. Or Maybe the Ultra Master Sword. I'm still work-shopping it.

Well, Stan's successfully charmed the spirits (which he'd already done, but his inability to take any of their grandstanding seriously is so new and fresh they just love it), and due to his blessings and the favor of the goddesses he's been given a choice. The sword requires great power to use, one that Stans soul couldn't handle. He can either let go and allow it to heal in the great cycle of reincarnation, or go back and-

Stan: second one

Axolotl: but you don't know the price? What if its-

Stan: don't care. I'm going back, I'm going to shove my victory in Fords face and eat just. So much food. I'm so hungry. I could eat a burger so fast, you wouldn't believe.

Well, if Stan's already decided then that's that on that! Good luck hero!

And Stan wakes up. Hes in a lovely field, surrounded by flowers at the foot of a statue to the goddess. Birds are singing, bugs are chirping, the sun is shining through the trees and he can sort of make out where the walls of a temple once stood.

He has no idea who he is.

But! He found a stick! It's a pretty good stick, and he's pretty sure if he whacks it at something, it'll break, and then! He'll have two sticks :D

Emma-May, wandering scholar, finds this wandering adventurer in the woods who must have gotten hit in the head or something and lost almost all his gear, all he has is the leather armor he had on him and a few empty pouches. He's got twigs in his hair, is stuffing a leaf in his mouth, and looks so amazed when she shows him that he can pick up rocks it's endearing.

She can't let this guy die. She's pretty sure he's a spirit that's possessing a dead body actually. There's no other explanation on why he doesn't know what anything is or how anything works. It's up to her to take care of him. This is a test by the goddesses, and she's determined to pass all expectations. (Stan is link from botw basically. Everything is ??? To him).

Meanwhile the Fords are on a Quest to find Stan. Unlike the other timeline Fords not super pissed at Stan (well, he is, but his worry for his brother is overriding it), and he's yelling at anyone who listens about how Stan slayed Bill and vanished in golden light and if Ford doesn't find him he's going to do..... something. No one likes the desperate look in his eye or how riled up he gets when they try to thank him for his good deeds because no, that was Stan too. Don't they know Stan's a hero now and might be dead? Fords a failure and he failed and Stan's dead!

Finally has a dream where the spirits are like 'you need to chill out your bro isn't dead. Just go look for him'. So off he goes, Fiddleford staying to lead the search from the castle and get his kingdom in order.

It either takes ten years or ten months to find Stan. Angst demands years but the comedy and angst of Ford finally finding Stan when he's still pretty into his 'life is beautiful and what is this Emma-May? :3' phase is appealing to me. Maybe even ten weeks.

Emma-May is traveling on the outskirts of Hyrule looking at ancient ruins and studying her spirit friend who's incredibly good with a sword and who can see and talk to spirits for her. They love her new assistant/godly trial and he's making her research a lot more fun.

She named him Hal, on account of him only responding to the word Help for the first week or so and Hal being an easy transition from that. Her and Hal are an amazing duo, finding lost temples and clearing them out, finding lost artifacts, slaying new and terrifying beasts. It's a thrill. She's living her best life, and teaching Hal is part of the fun. It's like if a kid was also.. an older teen? He's still got baby fat huh. Yeesh.

Anyway.

Then Ford rolls up, following their trail and coincidentally discovering that there's some other, ancient evil stirring under the land now that Bills gone. He's slaying monsters no one's seen in years, rescuing civilians, finding lost temples that! Have already been cleared.

Temples he knows Stan hadn't touched in his journey to rescue Ford. It's both a sign he's on the right path and incredibly annoying. Especially since it means Stan's walking around somewhere with like. The pieces of the key that'll let an ancient horror loose upon the land.

No wait. Scratch that. I've got another idea.

Its been ten years since Stan disappeared in a flash of light, and Fords been scouring every obscure library and tome for any kind of hint on where Stan could have gone. None of the spirits have confirmed if his brothers dead or alive, so he must be alive. He has to be, because if he's not then Fords going to strangle him.

Then some kind of Event happens, and Ford gets a hint on how to figure out how to find Stan. Turned out it took the spirits ten years to fix Stan's crumbling soul to a point where he could semi function, and Stan's just now waking up ???? at the world and meeting who he's pretty sure is the smartest person on the planet. Who else would have such a great idea like putting a bomb under a shield to launch himself higher? No one, he's sure.

When Ford eventually catches up to them he is very obviously of Stan's statement that Emma-May's the smartest person ever and also his best friend :3.

Anyway, since there is no scrapbook or young twins to rekindle Stan's memories, the three of them instead follow Stan's original journey to try and job his memory, after like. Stan's ready to brush off this stranger who has his face, but Ford holds up his hand, yelling at him to wait, and Stan gets slammed with a memory of them as kids, smiling and high sixing. Blinks out of it to find him holding Fords hand, and well he does know this guy actually! Sure he'll go on some kind of journey with him, and Emma-May can go look at a bunch of other ruins and it'll be great :D.

It is not great. All those old temples have been re invaded by demons. The ways Stan originally went through are blocked off or doors broke and relocked, so they need to clear out each one and fight the newer, badder version of the final boss. Turns out the price of Stan coming back isn't his memories getting snatched, its that Bill gets to come back too, and he's not a puny mortal who needs ten years to get back to business. Maybe Bill's actually partially responsible for Stan's missing memory?

Anyway as they clear each temple and defeat each boss they get a fragment of Stan's memory. Ford's not only clearing the newly re corrupted temples, now he's reliving the memory with Stan, seeing how much harder everything is as a normal, not destined person. He's finally seeing Stan's perspective here, how Stan didn't just breeze through everything to shove it in Fords face, but actually struggled and cursed and screamed his way through an army of demons.

They're also uncovering Bill's plot to surprise strike at Hyrule while its two heros are occupied. This whole things been a diversion to get the Stans' as far away as possible, and now Ford's faced with a choice.

He can chose to abandon his quest to restore Stan's memories, as through Drama they're now on a time limit and if they don't get the last fragment there's a high chance it'll fade and Stan's patchy memory could either fade away with it, or he could go to defeat the last boss and finally get his brother back, but abandon Hyrule in its hour of need. Sure he could save them later, but who knows how many casualties there could be, what could happen to Fiddleford.

Does he want to be his brother's hero? Or the peoples? Save Stan, or save all of Hyrule. He might be able to do both, but who knows what kind of damage could happen to the other he doesn't prioritize in the meantime. Stan doesn't have enough of himself yet to weigh in on either one, and Emma-May is a scholar and Stan's friend, but understands the importance of the greater good. She won't make this choice for him.

What does it mean to be a hero?

If this were a video game the first one would be you playing as Stan becoming an unlikely hero, fighting the odds even though everyone's telling you to wait for the guy who's job it is to beat up the demons. The underlying message would be something like 'you can't just sit around and wait, if you want to see a change you have to make it' kind of thing. If Stan hadn't gone on his hero's journey then the kingdom would have been much worse off waiting for Ford to break out. You're a hero, not because someone told you you were, but because you've chosen to take the harder path and make yourself one through fighting evil and helping those in need (after all, even if the reasons are selfish, all anyone sees is your actions. Stan's a hero, even if just because he needed to be one to save Ford).

So the sequel would be this, but as Ford. Now you're the chosen hero, but what does that mean to you? Who has the higher priority, why are you a hero? Because you slay monsters? Because you defeated the bad guy? Because the Goddess said you were? Because you have special powers, wield a special sword? Stan was a hero without any of that, so why does Ford need it? Ford has the Hero's spirit, but in the end he's his own person. He's not going to save the kingdom because someone told him to do it.

He's going to do it because its the right thing to do, even if it means Stan might never be the same. A hero make sacrifices, takes the blows so others don't have to. Ford was born with the Hero's spirit, but he wasn't born a Hero, its something he has to choose to do, something he has to prove himself as.

Whew. that got away from me a little. Now that that's done,

[foxtrology]

inertia (1)

reed richards x reader

star sailor series | ao3 link

notes: hi. so i’ve been writing this fic over the last three weeks (yes, three entire weeks, i know) and honestly it would not exist in its current form without my best friend, who is a literal physics major and walked me through so many of the equations and techy parts so reed didn’t sound like a fraud. i love her for that.

also, fun fact: reader is neurodivergent (i borrowed some of my own neurodivergent tendencies to shape her), so if you pick up on that... you’re right. thanks for being here!

word count: 12k

─────

You’ve always preferred rooms with humming machines to those filled with people.

It wasn’t shyness, not really.

Just an overwhelming awareness of your own rhythm, too far removed from the world’s noisy metronome. You knew early on you understood things differently—less about feeling out what someone meant, more about isolating the structure beneath their words, the pattern in their tone, the physics of an interaction.

Most people called it brilliance. You called it survival.

The Baxter Foundation didn’t feel like survival at first.

It felt like exile.

A postdoctoral placement handed to you like a sealed fate—"promising," "potential," "gifted." Euphemisms for "difficult," "obsessive," "odd."

They said Reed Richards might know what to do with you.

You assumed they'd meant “handle.”

But he didn’t handle you. He saw you.

Reed Richards wasn’t what you expected.

The name carried weight: prodigy, theorist, treasured in the scientific community. You imagined arrogance, an aging wunderkind with a room full of accolades and a voice like static.

But the man who stood waiting for you at the base of the Baxter Building's elevator looked almost misplaced—rumpled in a navy button up, absent-mindedly smearing graphite on the sleeve as he scribbled into the margin of a battered notepad.

He had those lines around his mouth—the kind that softened a face rather than hardened it. A sharp nose, brown eyes, and that unmistakable streak of grey curling through otherwise dark hair.

At first, you assumed it was dyed—it looked too perfect. But it was real. Of course it was.

You hadn’t realized you were staring until he tilted his head.

“You're early,” he’d said, voice warm and textured. Then, a smile that lit up his whole face—eyes first. “I like that.”

That was two years ago.

You’ve since learned Reed keeps a second toothbrush for you in his private quarters upstairs, though he’s never pointed it out.

You discovered it one night after a double shift, when he gently steered you towards the bed in his guest room instead of letting you fall asleep under your desk again. He didn’t say, “Stay with me.” He just adjusted the pillow, handed you a glass of water, and made sure the bathroom light stayed on.

It’s quiet love. A sustained frequency. A knowing.

On Tuesdays, you both eat lunch in the server room because it's the only place in the Baxter Building that maintains the kind of white noise you can disappear into.

Reed brings you a sandwich without tomato—he learned after the first week that you can’t stand the texture—and sets it beside your research without interrupting your thought process. You don’t thank him out loud. You just leave the crusts in the pattern he finds funny, concentric squares, always precise.

Sometimes, he laughs at that. Sometimes, he files it away like data.

Today, the two of you are working on a stabilization algorithm for experimental gravitational anchors—Reed's theory, your math. The simulation keeps failing, and Reed mutters something under his breath about quantum decay before turning to you.

“Show me again how you’re quantizing the drift interval,” he says, pushing his chair slightly closer to yours.

You don’t flinch. He always asks to see your work like this—not to correct, but to understand. He thinks your brain is a mystery worth mapping. And maybe it is.

You pull up your calculations, annotated with your usual shorthand that no one else in the lab pretends to follow. Reed doesn’t blink. He reads your annotations like they're a shared language.

“You inverted the modulus,” he says quietly, quite in awe. “God, that’s...elegant.”

You look down. Compliments still stick to you like static. You’ve never known what to do with them.

“It was obvious,” you murmur, tapping the screen once to clear the render.

“Not to me.”

His voice carries something like reverence. Not the kind people fake when they’re talking to someone younger, or different. His is heavier. Sincere. Measured.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Can I show you something?” you ask.

That’s how you always start, even though Reed never says no.

The observatory lab is empty when you both arrive.

He unlocks it with his palmprint, but you go in first, navigating in the dark by memory. You’ve had an idea simmering for days—a tweak in boundary calibration using harmonic frequency overlap, something even Reed dismissed initially as too unstable.

But last night, at 2:43 a.m., your model ran clean for the first time. No drift. No bleed. Pure coherence.

You bring it up on the projection wall, fingers moving fast. Words tumble when you’re excited—sharp, fast, too much for most people. Reed doesn’t interrupt. He never has.

When the model stabilizes on the fourth run, you glance over your shoulder.

Reed is watching you.

Not the simulation. Not the math. You.

You freeze.

He steps forward slowly, like if he moves too fast you might vanish.

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

You look back to the projection. “No. But it was worth it.”

He exhales a soft breath, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of it on your temple.

“You can’t burn like this all the time,” he murmurs, but his voice doesn’t hold judgment—only concern.

“I can,” you reply simply. “And I do.”

He lets out a low laugh, almost involuntarily. Then, more gently, “Let me take care of you. A little.”

He says it like a hypothesis. Something untested.

You don’t answer. Not out loud. But you lean into his shoulder—not quite a nod, not quite an invitation—and he stays there. Long enough that the simulation cycles again, quiet and steady in the background.

Later, you’ll find that he’s updated the cafeteria schedule in your calendar to make sure no one disturbs you between 12 and 2 p.m. on Tuesdays. You’ll notice that he’s ordered extra noise-cancelling panels for the lab, without ever saying why. That the lights outside your lab space dim slightly when you stay past midnight.

All Reed’s doing.

He never says it out loud.

But this is how he shows you.

In recalibrated thermostats. In cups of tea left cooling on your desk. In letting you be silent when silence is the only thing that fits.

The world outside moves too fast. New York never sleeps, never softens. There’s always construction in the distance, always an ambulance shrieking down Fifth, always people spilling from cafés and rooftop bars like they’re late for something invisible.

But in the Baxter Building—six floors above the ghost of the old Avengers Tower—the hum of your controlled environment remains undisturbed.

For now.

It’s the kind of phrase that hangs in the air longer than it should, like steam after the kettle's been lifted, like the echo of a chord when your fingers already left the strings.

You don’t hear it, of course. Not consciously. But the sensation trails you anyway, ghost-like, as the day folds open and the building shifts around you.

You return to Lab B-3, where a data stream from the gravitational anchor prototype pulses in pale blue on the screen. You prefer this room to the others—less foot traffic, colder air, fewer variables. The walls are lined with the modular panels you installed yourself, after three months of fighting sensory burnout from the old fluorescents. The air purifier in the corner hums at a frequency you can tolerate.

It smells faintly of dust and ozone, like a server farm on a rainy day.

You’re cataloging the last ten hours of micro-interference logs when the door hisses open behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn. It’s a mistake, maybe, but you assume whoever it is has entered the wrong lab.

You’ve put the sign up: DO NOT DISTURB — QUANTUM MODELING IN PROGRESS. A laminated shield between you and the rest of the building’s noise.

The voice cuts through again, sharper. Louder.

“Hey—don’t ignore me.”

You blink at the screen. Your heart doesn’t race. It clenches, tightens like your ribcage is shrinking inward. You turn slowly.

It’s Dr. Ian Delmont. One of the senior engineers. Jacket unzipped, badge swinging loose around his neck like a noose that can’t make up its mind. His face is already red, already pulled taut around the mouth.

You recognize the body language...shoulders set forward, hands ready to gesture. Angry people always move in patterns. You learned this years ago, the way some people learn fire drills.

“Why the hell did you rewrite my core schematic without logging the revision?”

You stare at him.

“I didn’t rewrite anything. I optimized the redundancy logic. It was bottlenecking the chain reaction model.”

“That’s rewriting.”

Your voice stays steady, your mouth forming the words in the exact order they should go. “No, it's not. It’s a correction. The existing code couldn’t handle parallel iteration under dual-load conditions.”

“You didn’t clear it with me.”

“It was a bottleneck,” you repeat.

Ian’s voice raises. “I don’t care if it was a goddamn chokehold, you don’t get to touch my work without authorization.”

He says it loud enough that it ricochets off the walls. Too loud.

Your neck goes hot. You feel it in your jaw, down your arms. Your hands twitch just enough to knock your stylus from the table and you bend down to retrieve it—too fast. You bump the corner of the desk, hard. The pain doesn’t register, but the sound does.

Too loud. Too loud.

Ian takes a step forward.

“Every time I turn around, you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—”

“I was fixing it.”

“You were showing off.”

That does it. You freeze.

This isn’t about the code.

You blink. You don’t blink. You can’t remember. You try to open your mouth, but your tongue sits wrong in it. The sound you try to make stalls halfway up your throat. Your hands curl into themselves like you could fold out of sight.

The lights feel wrong. The texture of your sleeves is wrong. The hum of the purifier is gone, replaced by the jagged, ugly timbre of yelling.

“I don’t care what Richards says about you,” Ian mutters. “You don’t run this place.”

“Hey.”

The sound comes from the door. Not a shout. Not sharp. But it cuts through everything like glass through butter.

You both turn.

Reed Richards steps into the room like he’s always belonged there, like his presence is not new or sudden or charged with a heat you’ve only ever felt in gamma pulses and untested energy chambers.

His mouth is tight, drawn. There’s nothing soft about his expression now.

“I suggest,” he says slowly, like each word has been smoothed against the edge of a scalpel, “you take your tone down. Immediately.”

Ian hesitates. Then his jaw sets. “With all due respect, Dr. Richards—”

“No,” Reed interrupts, walking further into the room, voice calm and sharp all at once. “Don’t. Don’t try to play seniority. This isn’t about protocol. This is about how you just cornered one of my lead researchers and yelled at her while she was running live code on a multivariable anchor model.”

“I was confronting—”

“You were posturing,” Reed cuts in. “And you were wrong.”

Ian blinks. Reed’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

“She didn’t rewrite your schematic. She corrected a critical flaw that should have been caught weeks ago.” He stops beside you. Not in front of you, not shielding—beside. “The only reason that anchor hasn’t destabilized is because she stepped in.”

Reed turns his head slightly, glancing down at you. His eyes soften, fractionally. He doesn’t touch you, but he lets the silence hang, as if waiting for you to reclaim your voice if you want to.

You don’t. Not yet.

“Ian,” he says without looking away, “I want you out of this lab. Now.”

Ian’s mouth opens, then shuts again.

Then he leaves.

You’re still breathing too fast. You know you are. You can feel the microtremors in your fingers, the irregular skip of your pulse. But the room feels real again. Your body is slowly remembering where it ends.

Reed waits until the door hisses shut.

Then, “Can I sit?”

You nod, once. He pulls a chair close—closer than he usually would in a shared lab space—and sits beside you with the kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything from you. His knees are angled toward yours. His forearms rest loosely on his thighs. His whole posture is a quiet question you don’t have to answer.

You stare at the screen. 

“I wasn’t showing off.”

Reed lets out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. Not at you. With you. “I know,” he says gently.

“I just…saw the error. It was obvious.”

“I know.”

He pauses.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone in this building. Least of all him.”

You press your thumbnail into the meat of your palm, grounding.

“I’m not good at…tone.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“I always think I can just fix it quietly and not deal with the…other part. The confrontation.”

He nods once, his eyes still fixed on you. “The way the world expects communication isn’t the only valid way to exist in it.”

Something in your chest cracks open at that. Quietly. Invisibly.

You lean back against the chair, your breath finally settling into a rhythm.

Reed stays where he is. His presence doesn’t press against you—it anchors. He’s always been like that. Dense and still, like a planet with just enough gravity to make sense of things.

You glance over at him.

“Thank you,” you say finally.

He shrugs. “I don’t like mean people.”

You look down at the table. You trace a line in the condensation ring your tea left behind earlier.

“Are you going to fire him?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I’m going to make it very, very clear who’s indispensable here.”

You don’t ask who he means.

You already know.

Later that night, you’re still in the lab, long after the rest of the building has gone dim.

Reed comes back with a takeout container—your favorite, though you don’t remember ever saying it aloud. He doesn’t mention the incident again. Just passes you the food, leans back in the corner chair, and starts updating his lab journal aloud, knowing you like to listen to the way he thinks.

Outside, New York glitters like a malfunctioning galaxy. Inside, the lights are low, the air quiet, the world small and manageable.

Just you, your notes, and the man with the grey streak in his hair who watches you like you built the constellations from scratch.

A quiet love, not yet named.

But it’s there.

Always has been.

It’s late now, nearly eleven, but the labs on the upper floors of the Baxter Building don’t abide by clocks. Here, time stretches. Pools. Slows down when the work is good. Speeds up when the math gets too beautiful to let go of.

You and Reed are the only ones left.

Everyone else has long since clocked out, their departure announced by the usual symphony of zipping backpacks and elevator chimes. The security team downstairs knows better than to check on you. You’re a known variable—an equation that balances best in silence, after dark, with only the man beside you and a cooling takeout container between you and the void.

Reed is sketching something in his notebook—a systems flowchart annotated with arrows that curve and overlap like a child’s drawing of a galaxy.

He’s humming, under his breath. Just a few bars of something he’s probably not even aware of. It’s familiar, not because you recognize the tune, but because you’ve heard him do it before, under the same kind of fluorescent moonlight and the same clean, ticking quiet.

You finish logging the day’s simulation data, close the terminal, and pull up your schedule for the upcoming weeks. The glowing display casts faint shadows over your face, which you don't notice but Reed glances at, once, over the edge of his notebook.

Monday. Field trip.

You hadn’t forgotten. Not exactly. It had just sat at the bottom of the week like a pebble in your shoe—felt but not seen.

You stare at the words for a beat too long.

VISITOR OUTREACH: 9:30–11:15 — RICHARDS / YOU

Group: PS 22 — Grade 2

Your fingers twitch at your side, a muscle memory of anxiety without the adrenaline to match. You don’t say anything, but your mind is already running the old loop, quiet and tight, like rewinding a tape you didn’t want to play in the first place.

You’d been paired with high school seniors last time.

They came in loud, late, and bored. One of them had a vape pen tucked into their hoodie drawstring.

You remember the boy in the back who asked if you “did anything real” or if you just “sat in rooms with graphs all day.” Another mimed falling asleep when you began explaining atmospheric coding inputs for small-scale gravitational fields.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t snapped. You just shut down the projection early and handed the rest of the presentation off to the intern whose voice sounded like she smiled even when she didn’t mean it.

Afterward, you’d sat on the roof of the Baxter Building and stared at the clouds. Told yourself they were just kids. Told yourself they didn’t know.

But it stuck. The way they laughed when you said you worked on electromagnetic resonance feedback models. The way one of the girls whispered “so basically nothing” to the boy next to her like you weren’t even there.

They didn’t know.

That your work stabilized quantum harmonics in the kinds of silicon they tap on all day, every day.

That your programming makes the screen light up when their crush texts them back.

That the interface delay they complain about in video games used to be twenty seconds instead of two, and you helped design the equation that closed that gap.

They didn’t know you once pulled Reed out of a theoretical blind alley and into a breakthrough he’d later call elegant, a word he doesn’t use lightly.

They didn’t know how much you cared. That the caring was the point.

So after that, you asked to be reassigned.

“Elementary school kids,” you’d told Reed in his office one morning, already chewing at the inside of your cheek. “They’re too small to be cruel yet.”

He didn’t laugh, but you remember his eyes. How they softened. How he nodded and said simply, “Okay.”

And now here it was. Monday. Second graders. A classroom full of kids with juice boxes and velcro shoes and hands that still shoot up when they’re curious.

You can handle that. Probably.

You close the schedule tab. The screen goes dark.

Reed looks up from his notebook. “Everything okay?”

You nod once.

He doesn’t press. But he waits.

You speak without looking at him. “Monday's outreach.”

He leans back in his chair, notebook on his lap. “Right. You’re with me.”

You nod again.

“I asked for the younger group this time,” you add quietly, almost like you’re confessing something. “The older ones were…”

You trail off.

You don’t finish the sentence, but Reed catches the thread anyway. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say they were cruel. He doesn’t say you didn’t deserve that. He doesn’t fill the silence with anything easy.

Instead, he says, “You’ll be good with them.”

“Because they’re not old enough to be bored yet?”

“Because you care,” he says, looking directly at you. “And kids remember that. Even if they can’t say it.”

You pick at the corner of your sleeve. You’re still thinking about Monday. About the fear that your voice will tremble again. That the wrong word will come out. That your quiet will make them fidget and giggle and whisper.

But then you think about the last time a kid visited the Baxter—seven years old, wandered away from the main tour. Found his way into your lab by accident. You showed him how magnets repel in zero gravity fields and he tried to high five you with both hands at once.

You’d smiled for hours after that.

Maybe Reed is right.

Maybe caring is enough.

By the time you both shut down your stations and gather your coats, it’s nearly midnight. Reed holds the elevator for you without asking. It’s just the two of you, the soft gold of the lights reflecting off the brushed metal doors as they slide shut behind you.

You watch the numbers tick down.

Reed stands beside you, shoulder not quite brushing yours. Quiet, like always. Present, like always.

“Do you want me there?” he asks suddenly, softly, as the elevator hums downward. “Monday. With the kids.”

You blink. “You’re already scheduled for it.”

“I know,” he says. “But do you want me there?”

It feels like a trick question. But it’s not. It’s just Reed, offering steadiness in the places you don’t always know you need it.

You nod.

He nods too.

Outside, the city glows like it’s forgotten how to sleep. Yellow cabs streak past in lazy arcs. Rain clings to the pavement like it’s not ready to let go.

You stand under the awning of the Baxter Building, both of you half-heartedly pretending to check your phones, neither of you quite moving to go. It’s a ritual now—this lingering. Like the day doesn’t want to end, so you don’t let it.

Reed finally speaks, his voice low and near your ear.

“You know…you do more than keep this place running. You are this place.”

You glance at him. He’s looking at the sky like it might answer back.

“And if some bored teenager can’t see that, it’s only because they’re too young to understand the shape of things.”

You swallow. The city smells like damp concrete and neon and early summer.

You don’t reply. But the words lodge somewhere behind your ribs.

And they stay.

In the space between you and Reed, that sentence hums like background radiation—silent, but measurable.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly, but the softness in his posture says enough. The kind of softness he reserves only for you. For late nights and unsaid things. For quiet field trip fears and tired bones after thirty-seven straight hours in the lab.

You shift your weight from foot to foot under the awning, fingers fidgeting at the edge of your sleeve. The city is wet and warm and humming in that uniquely New York way—trash trucks groaning down Sixth Avenue, a taxi horn blaring three blocks over, the subway beneath your feet thrumming like some subterranean heartbeat.

Reed checks the time on his phone, but it’s performative. He’s not really looking at it.

“You can stay upstairs if you want,” he offers. Voice neutral, like he’s suggesting you borrow a pencil.

You know what he means.

His quarters above the Baxter labs—spare and quiet and clean, like an extension of his brain. You've stayed there before. Once after a storm knocked out the subway, once when you got a migraine so bad you couldn’t walk home without throwing up. The guest room is always ready, with a weighted blanket you know he ordered just for you. The lights dim at 30% automatically, and the fridge always has tea.

Still, you shake your head.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You shrug one shoulder.

“But I’d feel like I was bothering you.”

There’s no irritation in your voice. It’s just a fact. A line drawn lightly in pencil, not ink.

He doesn’t argue. Reed knows better than anyone that pushing you when you’re already overstimulated only drives you deeper into the quiet.

“I’ll walk you,” he says.

You almost tell him it’s not necessary.

That you’ve done the walk a hundred times alone. That it’s late and he must be exhausted too. But something in the way he says it—low, certain, without any edge—stills your protest before it can take shape.

You nod once.

The streets are emptier than usual, rain thinning to a mist that catches in your hair and softens the world around the edges. You button your coat up to your chin. Reed tucks his hands into his pockets, his long strides slowing instinctively to match yours.

You don’t speak for the first few blocks. You don’t need to. It’s not awkward—it’s companionable. Your silences have always been functional. Built like scaffolding. Structural.

You pass a late-night falafel cart and the warm, oily scent of fried chickpeas folds around you. Someone’s playing Miles Davis through a cracked open window above a bodega. A cab splashes through a puddle without slowing down.

You glance at Reed. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, curling a little at the edges. The grey streak catches in the streetlamp glow and glints like metal. He looks tired, but the good kind—brain-tired. Soul-deep contentment worn like a worn-in coat.

There’s something in the way he carries himself now that feels looser than it used to. Since you.

You think about that sometimes. The before of him.

You’ve seen the photos.

You’ve read the papers.

The man with ideas too big for gravity, with headlines like The Modern Da Vinci and Richards' Law stapled to his name before he was even out of his twenties.

You used to resent those profiles.

How they smoothed over the things that mattered.

How they all insisted on brilliance and ignored what he really was...careful. Constant. Gentle in ways that science rarely rewards.

He wasn’t always like this. He told you, once, in a rare moment of openness, that he used to believe love would only slow him down. That affection dulled the edge of genius.

He doesn’t say things like that anymore.

But he doesn’t say the other thing either.

You know what you are to him—friend, confidant, collaborator.

His mind matches yours, nearly. But not quite.

You run faster. Not always more elegantly. But faster.

You see the equations before he does.

You make intuitive leaps he can only reconstruct in hindsight.

He admires that. You see it in the way he watches you work, the way he lets you lead without hesitation.

And still, he hasn’t said the thing.

Because once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid. And Reed Richards has never risked a variable he couldn’t account for.

“You know,” he says softly as you cross Park, “when you rewrote that module today… I think that was the first time I felt—” He pauses. “Old.”

You glance at him. “You’re not old.”

He chuckles. “My knees would disagree.”

“That’s not science.”

He smiles. “No. But it is gravity.”

You snort.

He watches you carefully. Then says, “You don’t realize how good you are, do you?”

You look down at the sidewalk. The rain has turned the concrete slick and mottled.

“I do. I just don’t know how to be proud of it.”

He nods like he understands. “Because pride implies…audience.”

You don’t answer. But your silence agrees with him.

A block later, you say, “You’ve taught me how to be better without making me feel small.”

It slips out before you realize it. The kind of truth that rarely finds a voice.

Reed stops walking.

You look back at him. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“You’ve done that for me too,” he says quietly.

It should be more than that.

But it isn’t. Not yet.

Your building is a brick structure tucked on a quieter side street. Sixth floor, walk-up. Rent-high, because New York is cruel and physics has been paying you back a lot recently.

Reed’s been here before—once when you locked yourself out, once when you were sick with a stomach bug and couldn’t get out of bed to pick up your prescription.

He always waits at the foot of the stairs.

Tonight is no different.

You fish out your keys and glance back at him.

“I’m okay,” you say.

He nods. “Text me when you’re in.”

You hesitate. Then, a beat later, “Thank you for walking with me.”

“Always.”

You step inside. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click.

Reed watches the rectangle of light shrink until it’s gone.

Only then does he turn.

He walks back slowly, hands deep in his coat pockets, rain heavier now. The city is hushed, its noise folded in on itself. His shoes splash through puddles he doesn’t try to avoid.

He thinks about you.

The way your voice tightens when you talk about the things you care about.

The way you never apologize for being brilliant, just for being visible.

The way you notice every small thing—every decimal, every gesture, every change in temperature—and store it away like evidence that the world can be read if only you learn its language.

Reed Richards has spent his life searching for patterns. For the math behind miracles. He’s found some. Lost others.

But you?

You remain his favorite unsolved equation.

He doesn’t say the thing. Not yet.

But it lives just under his tongue, waiting.

The next morning you wake up earlier than you meant to.

Not by choice. Not by discipline.

But because your upstairs neighbors, despite living in an apartment complex with allegedly soundproof walls, have spent the last six and a half hours making the most expressive use of their vocal cords.

Moans.

Laughter.

Something you’re fairly certain was a vase being knocked over around 3:12 a.m.

You’d counted.

You’d logged the minute it started—12:49 p.m.—and the moment it finally slowed to quiet again, or at least to something muffled enough that you could hear yourself think.

There was nothing logical about it, and therefore nothing you could fix. No formula to solve thin drywall. No algorithm to isolate human behavior into something quiet, contained, reasonable.

So you’d stared at the ceiling. Then at your wall. Then at your ceiling again.

And now it’s 5:47 a.m., and your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.

You sit up.

The air in your apartment is slightly too warm—residual heat from the radiator you can’t adjust. Your mouth is dry. The muscles in your back ache in the specific way they do when your sleep’s been interrupted just enough to confuse your circadian rhythm but not enough to explain it to anyone else.

You don’t bother lying back down.

Your morning routine is exact. Not out of compulsion, but out of necessity. A lattice structure of steps that keep the rest of the day from collapsing.

Boil water. Black tea, no milk.

Brush teeth—no mint toothpaste, only the kind with baking soda, because you hate the artificial sweetness.

Shower. Warm, not hot. You step out and wrap the towel tightly around you like armor.

Dressing is harder. The shirt you wanted to wear feels off today—too scratchy, too bright. You change into the navy knit Reed once said brought out your eyes.

That memory shouldn’t matter, but it does. You feel steadier when you put it on.

Bag. Notebook. ID. Keycard. Noise-canceling headphones, just in case.

You skip breakfast.

You always do when you’ve been overstimulated. It makes your stomach feel like wires have been crossed.

The subway is half-empty this early. The kind of silence particular to Friday mornings—the city not quite buzzing yet, just flickering. You stand near the doors and stare at your reflection in the opposite window, your face hovering over the tunnel blur outside like a ghost.

You think about the model you left open in Lab B-3. About the field trip on Monday. About whether or not you remembered to reroute the final data loop in the harmonic anchor sequence.

You think about Reed, and then try not to.

By the time you arrive at the Baxter Building, it’s just before seven.

You enter through the side entrance, swiping your badge through the sensor and waiting for the familiar mechanical click. The lobby is dark except for the ambient lighting that glows along the baseboards. The city hasn’t reached in yet.

And then you see him.

Reed.

Sitting on the bench just inside the front hallway like someone who forgot what time it is��or didn’t care.

He’s wearing the same navy coat from the night before, his hair still slightly damp from whatever morning shower he took before stepping into the day. His notepad is on his lap, open, but untouched.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

“Hey.”

You blink.

“You’re early,” you say.

“So are you.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

He stands slowly. “Your neighbors again?”

You nod, already tugging your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

“I’m thinking of writing them a formal request to conduct their mating rituals at a lower decibel range.”

That makes you snort, despite yourself.

“They’d probably just find that hot.”

Reed’s laugh is soft. “You’re probably right.”

He falls into step beside you without needing to be asked. You head toward the elevators together.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you say as you press the button. “You're never this early unless there’s a test run.”

“I was hoping you’d show up early,” he admits, sheepish but not apologetic. “You didn’t text last night.”

You look down. “I forgot.”

“Neighbors really did a run on you, huh?”

You ket out a breathy laugh meeting his eyes.

Soon the elevator arrives. You both step in.

He doesn’t say anything else, but the quiet settles around you like a blanket. You don’t have the words for it, but you know he does this often—positions himself near you, close but not invasive, like a planet finding the right orbit. Something about it always makes you feel tethered.

The elevator stops on your floor.

As you exit, he doesn’t turn toward his own lab. He follows you.

“I figured I’d sit with you for a bit,” he says simply, “if that’s okay.”

You nod. You don’t say thank you, but your body does—shoulders uncoiling, pace slowing, your breath evening out.

Your lab still smells faintly of ozone and the synthetic lemon Reed always insists on using in the electronics-safe cleaning spray. You flick on the under-lighting instead of the fluorescents. It’s quieter that way.

He watches you unpack, the same way he always does when he’s not pretending to be distracted by his own work. You can feel his gaze—clinical, affectionate, reverent.

You settle at your station and glance over.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some.”

He sits across from you at the small corner table, flipping open his notebook. “I kept thinking about the field trip Monday.”

You groan softly.

Reed smiles. “You’ll be fine.”

“They’re going to ask me if I built Fortnite.”

“Just say yes.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s unethical.”

He shrugs. “You do kind of power their world.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I know you’re dreading it,” he adds, more gently. “But you’re going to surprise yourself. I’ve seen you explain quantum turbulence to a twelve year old. You used two chairs, a glass of water, and a slinky. It was borderline performance art.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile.

He studies you for a beat.

“I waited this morning,” he says, voice lower now. “Because I wanted to see you before the day started. I figured if you didn’t sleep, you’d need a buffer.”

You look up at him.

“A buffer?”

“For the noise. The world. Everything.”

You don’t answer for a long moment.

Then, “You’re good at buffering.”

Reed closes his notebook. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Only for you.”

You look away too quickly. Your stomach flips, your thoughts scatter like dropped dice.

This happens sometimes.

The intimacy of Reed. The nearness of what he doesn’t say.

The feeling that he’s handing you something fragile and invisible, and asking you to decide whether to name it or leave it untouched.

You pull up your simulation model and begin reviewing last night’s logs.

He watches you for another minute, then opens his notebook again and starts annotating something beside you, close enough that your knees brush once, and neither of you moves.

The morning settles.

Quiet.

Unspoken.

Waiting.

The building wakes slowly, like a body stretching into motion. The light outside the lab windows tilts, warmer now, brushing across your workstation and catching on the rim of your teacup. You don’t drink it, but it’s there—heat fading, a symbol of routine more than comfort.

One by one, the others begin to arrive.

Keycards beep. Footsteps echo off tile. The rhythmic click of heels and the soft, buzzing shuffle of rubber soles on linoleum fill the air in the way only a scientific institution ever sounds. Conversations start up in clipped, caffeinated tones. Someone’s talking about a failed simulation in Lab A-2. Someone else is complaining about the elevator skipping floors again.

You don’t look up.

You’ve already built a wall of focus, exact and methodical—three simulations running in parallel, an error log cycling in your periphery, two graphs comparing harmonic distortion levels under varying environmental noise inputs.

Reed hasn’t moved far from you since you sat down.

Every now and then, he leans slightly over to ask a question—never invasive, always curious. He taps the edge of your screen to point out something and waits for you to explain it in full before speaking again. His voice stays low. His body language remains small.

He is very, very careful with your space.

At some point, you adjust the variables in one of the testing loops. Reed notices before you explain why.

“You brought down the feedback tolerance?”

You nod. “I think it’s overcompensating for impulse drift. If we calibrate to a slightly lower resilience threshold, we might expose the weak nodes in the structural harmonics.”

He lets out a low hum of appreciation.

“I wouldn’t have caught that.”

You glance at him.

“That’s because you were trained to trust the tolerances.”

Reed raises an eyebrow, amused. “And you weren’t?”

“I was trained to notice what doesn’t belong. Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with something just shy of awe.

That’s when the others start to notice.

There’s no whispering. No gossip. That’s not the culture here. Baxter doesn’t reward spectacle.

But still, people look.

It’s subtle—an extra second of eye contact, a glance exchanged between postdocs in the corridor. Even in a building dedicated to research and theoretical physics, attention has a shape. You feel it.

You’re used to being watched when you speak, but this is different. They’re watching him.

They’re watching how Reed stays near.

How he lowers his voice when he speaks to you.

How he doesn’t interrupt when you’re mid-thought.

How he laughs at things you don’t mean to be funny.

How he tracks your gestures with the full, unguarded focus of a man trying to memorize not just the content of what you’re saying, but the rhythm of it, too.

You register the attention. You don’t engage with it. You would get too flustered.

Instead, you pull up a different dataset.

Across the room, someone’s looking at you over their glasses. You minimize the screen and adjust your chair slightly so your back is to the rest of the lab.

Ben Grimm arrives around 9:15, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled up like armor against the morning.

You like Ben.

You liked him even before you knew him—when all you had was a list of his mechanical engineering contributions and the curious note in his file that simply read “Reed’s oldest friend. Trustworthy. Not academically inclined. Smarter than he lets on.”

He sees you before you see him.

“Hey, Doc,” he calls out, his voice gravelly but warm.

You glance up and, for the first time since the building really began to fill, smile openly.

“Hi, Ben.”

He walks over slowly, avoiding the edge of the test rig you have set up. His eyes sweep the table, reading the mess of wires and calibration notes without actually processing them, which is part of his charm—he doesn’t pretend to understand your work. He respects it anyway.

“You eat today?”

You blink. “Not yet.”

“You want half my bagel?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“It’s everything seasoning.”

He grins. “You’re too sharp for your own good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just observant.”

Reed, still beside you, chimes in dryly, “She’s also allergic to sesame.”

Ben winces. “Oh, right. My bad.”

You wave it off. “It’s not lethal.”

Ben hands you a sealed granola bar from his pocket instead. “From Alicia. She said you looked pale last week and told me to keep snacks on me in case I ran into you.”

Your mouth twitches.

“Tell her I said thank you.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s coming by Monday.”

You nod, then return to your screen, not rudely, just efficiently. Ben doesn’t take offense. He pats the table lightly and leaves you to your work.

Once he’s gone, Reed glances at you sidelong.

“You like Ben.”

“He doesn’t talk to hear himself speak,” you reply.

Reed smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “So I guess I should be worried.”

You don’t answer. But something in your cheek lifts. A small, unspoken response. Reed ntoices it. Files it away like he does everything about you.

By late morning, you’re too deep in the math to notice anything else.

Three out of five anchor simulations fail—but not catastrophically. The new feedback threshold is revealing the pattern you hoped it would. Reed asks if he can run his own version of the loop. You nod without turning, already exporting the baseline parameters to his terminal.

You hear someone outside the glass wall whisper, “Is Richards still in Lab B-3?”

And then, “I think he’s shadowing her today.”

“He shadows her every damn day.”

You pretend not to hear. You shrink slightly into your collar. Not from shame. Just to stay small.

Reed doesn’t respond to the comment. But you notice that he reaches over and very quietly pushes the door shut.

Not to hide.

But to give you quiet.

The rest of the morning passes like this—like a film spooling out in perfect rhythm. Reed occasionally types beside you. Sometimes you work in parallel, other times in sync. You don’t speak unless necessary, but the air between you is charged in a way you can’t name. Not love, not yet. But a proximity to it.

And even though others look—at him, at you, at the space between—you don’t notice anymore.

You’re too busy trying to catch the shape of something hidden in the data. Something just out of reach.

Like truth.

Or a confession.

Or gravity.

Fridays at the Baxter Building settle into their own kind of orbit.

Every lab has its rhythm—Lab A-2 always wraps their protein sequencing early, because Dr. Lyman likes to jog at 1:15 on the dot. Tech Ops syncs their systems for overnight updates before noon. Environmental Engineering runs its daily dehumidifier diagnostic with exaggerated ritual, a kind of inside joke no one explains to the interns.

It’s been that way since you arrived. It wasn’t written anywhere, but you learned it all the same.

And the unspoken tradition...Reed Richards forgets about time.

By now, everyone has made peace with it.

On Fridays, he’ll get caught chasing some quantum trajectory through a dozen notepads and open tabs, muttering to himself about temporal flux interactions or pattern resonance mismatches. If someone reminds him what time it is, he’ll blink, check his watch as though it’s betraying him, and then wave his hand vaguely in the air—“Take two hours, go. Ben, order something greasy.”

And everyone will. With relief. With a kind of reverent affection for their slightly scattered, brilliant leader.

Except you.

You stay.

Always.

It’s nearing 12:45 when the lab thins out. Ben claps his hands once, loudly, to announce, “Twenty-four-inch from Mario’s. I got half with olives, don’t fight me about it.” Someone cheers from the hallway.

You don’t look up.

The simulation in front of you is finally stabilizing under increased pressure loads, and Reed’s scribbling new hypotheses across his tablet at a manic pace—“If we compensate for decay acceleration by adjusting the sequence resolution window down to 10 seconds, the cross-bridging might resolve on its own—”

You hum without meaning to, fingers typing out the updated code.

“I’m serious,” he says, pushing his chair closer to yours, legs brushing under the desk. “We’re so close. This could finally solve the vibration decay issues in the dynamic anchor builds.”

“It won’t,” you reply calmly, running the next set. “Not unless you account for the spectral density shift around the 170 Hz mark. It’s going to collapse again.”

Reed pauses.

“You already ran this model.”

You nod.

“When?”

“Last weekend.”

He looks at you like you’ve handed him a paradox.

You let the silence stretch, then: “Try adjusting the constraint to reflect a Gaussian distribution, not linear. The peaks are too soft, and the algorithm’s compensating for noise that isn’t actually noise.”

Reed exhales slowly, reverent. “How does your brain do that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have the words for how you see things. You just do.

He smiles like he’s in the presence of something sacred.

He leans in again, close enough that his shoulder presses lightly into yours. You shift slightly to give him access to your terminal, and he doesn’t pull away.

He’s always been tactile like this—with you, at least.

Hands brushing yours when you pass equipment.

A palm steadying your wrist when you’re assembling small, sensitive components.

Once, you found yourself gripping his forearm without realizing it during a particularly volatile magnetic resonance test. He didn’t mention it. Just let you hold.

But today, it’s different.

Today, something lingers.

You're both staring at the screen. The simulation is stabilizing now, running longer than it has all week. Your throat tightens with something like triumph, or relief, or maybe just fatigue disguised as euphoria.

Then, softly—soft enough that it catches you off guard—Reed reaches up and brushes his thumb across your cheek.

You freeze.

Out of disbelief. Out of awe.

His hand is warm. The pad of his thumb gentle.

The touch isn’t performative. It’s not even decisive.

It’s hesitant. Like he needed to check that you’re real.

That this moment isn’t just one of his half-formed ideas scrawled into the margins of a late-night notebook.

Your eyes flick toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

Something unspoken and heavy passes between you. It hums underneath the fluorescent buzz of the lab lights, underneath the whirring fans of the machinery, underneath the working theory you’ve spent days fine-tuning.

You don’t lean in.

But you don’t lean away.

He doesn’t move his hand.

You don’t say a word.

Ben opens the door a few feet down the hall, holding a pizza box in one hand, a Coke in the other.

He sees you.

Sees Reed.

The hand. The closeness. The moment.

And just as quietly as he entered, he steps back. Sets the pizza down on the nearest desk. Walks away without a word.

You and Reed don’t notice.

The simulation pings complete. For the first time in eleven models, it doesn’t fail.

You blink.

Then breathe.

Reed drops his hand, slowly, like it doesn’t want to leave but knows it has to.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

But something has shifted.

In the lab’s stale, climate-controlled air. In the simulation still pulsing faintly on your screen. In the trajectory of two minds moving dangerously close to each other’s center of gravity.

You get up first, walking to the sink in the corner to splash water on your face. The cold helps. Reed stays in his chair, scribbling, though you can tell his mind isn’t entirely on the notes.

You find the pizza box. It’s already cold. You bring two slices back to the workstation.

You don’t mention the moment. Neither does he.

But all through the second hour of your “break,” you work with that electric tension still threaded between you.

You pass him a slice. He accepts it.

He says your name, once, softly, like an answer to a question you haven’t asked yet.

And you don’t look up. Not yet.

You’re afraid that if you do, everything will change.

Or maybe—it already has.

“Hey,” Reed says again, this time your name folded into it, spoken low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking it. Like he’s afraid of breaking you.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you know what he’s asking without asking.

And you know that if you answer—if you meet his gaze now, if you name the thing humming between you—it won’t go back in the box. It will take shape. It will have mass. It will alter the gravitational field between you forever.

You chew the edge of your lip and keep your eyes on the simulation results, blinking too fast.

He doesn’t push. Reed Richards never pushes.

But he stays there, watching you like a question he’s been trying to answer for years. Like a proof that’s always been just outside the edge of comprehension.

He wants you.

You can feel it in the heat of his gaze, in the way his hands twitch with unspent energy, in the way he shifts closer every time he speaks. He wants you the way he wants knowledge, reverently. With hunger and hesitation in equal parts.

But more than that—he respects you. And that respect builds a boundary he’s too careful to cross without your invitation.

So he doesn’t speak again. Not yet.

Instead, he clears his throat gently and leans back into the moment he knows how to inhabit best—the work.

“You were right about the Gaussian window,” he murmurs, eyes returning to the data on your screen. “The mean deviation narrowed just enough to stabilize the micro-vibrational bleed. Look.”

He tilts his tablet toward you.

You peer at it, grateful for the anchor. “The variance dropped below 0.0003. That’s lower than the threshold for secondary echo.”

Reed nods. “It’s still not perfect. But it’s holding. For now.”

You echo it before you can stop yourself. “For now.”

He smiles at that—soft, and only for you.

The tension doesn’t break. But it shifts. Warms.

You pull up the residual energy pattern charts and begin comparing them to your older models. Reed swivels his chair to face you fully, chin resting lightly on his knuckles as he watches you work.

Your voice steadies.

“I think we can reduce the decay rate even more by using a layered harmonic buffer. Not just a single envelope. Something like... like a tri-modal stabilization frame.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Using phase-offset looping?”

“Yes,” you say, eyes lighting up. “But slightly desynchronized. So each frequency compensates for the loss in another—like an algorithmic relay. Less like a barrier, more like... a conversation.”

You feel him watching you, not the charts.

There’s a kind of electricity in your blood now, not from caffeine or adrenaline but from being understood, seen at the level you need to be.

And for once, the way you talk—fast, disorganized, precise, too much—feels like the exact shape of something he’s been waiting to hear.

You meet his gaze finally.

He’s smiling.

That soft, quiet, wrecked smile of his. The one he only wears around you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you say I taught you how to be better without making you feel small. But you make me feel like I don’t have to be better all the time. Like just being...with you is enough.”

You don’t know what to do with that sentence.

It sits too heavy in your chest. It rearranges your molecules.

Reed notices your hands twitch—how your fingers twitch at your sleeves when the air gets too loud inside you. He leans forward just slightly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you say too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Then, after a breath, “It’s just... I don’t know what to do when people say things like that.”

“Okay,” he says. “Then we don’t have to do anything. We can just stay here. With the work.”

But there’s softness in the offer. No withdrawal. No hurt.

Just the way he always gives you room.

It’s quiet again.

The others are still gone. Outside the lab, Friday spills forward in lazy arcs—someone arguing about where to eat next week, a song playing faintly from someone’s portable speaker. You can hear Ben laugh somewhere near the stairwell.

Inside, Reed starts sketching again. You realize, after a while, that it’s not a schematic. He’s drawing the harmonic layering you suggested, but not in code—in lines and waves, almost like music. It’s abstract and a little chaotic and not how he normally works.

It’s your method. Translated.

You watch him for a moment. Then you reach over and pick up a stylus of your own.

You add to it without asking. Adjust one arc. Shade one line.

He doesn’t flinch.

This is your intimacy. Shared language in waveform. A courtship of the mind.

The pizza gets cold. No one bothers you. Not even Ben, who peeks through the glass once more and then nods to himself like he's witnessing a rare solar event—better not to interfere.

And Reed…

Reed reaches over again at one point, softly, thumb brushing your cheek once more. This time he doesn’t look away when he does it. And you don’t freeze.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you both feel it coming.

Not like a crash.

Like a calculation converging.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

Friday settles into its soft descent.

Outside, the city shifts into its end-of-week hum. That specific kind of tonal change—less frantic, more languid. Like the buildings are exhaling.

But in the lab, the world is still quiet, contained in the steady blinking of data streams and the near-inaudible whir of cooled processors.

You sit on the floor now, legs crossed beneath you, a cluster of components spread around you like offerings. The modeling station sits nearby, quietly compiling your last run.

Reed is at the console, sleeves rolled up, hair curling faintly at the temples from the humidity that’s crept in through the vents. He’s biting the corner of his thumbnail absently—thinking.

You watch him.

And then you remember.

“Did you finish the sensory-feedback demo for the field trip?” you ask, voice soft but cutting clean through the air between you.

He blinks up from the console, eyes going immediately bright.

“I did. Mostly. I was going to test it tonight.”

You tilt your head. “Can I see it?”

He smiles—a real one, unguarded and boyish. The kind he only wears with you.

“You can help me run it.”

He gets up, walking to the supply cabinet in the corner, pulling down a heavy black case the size of a carry-on. You follow, standing now, hands folding in the sleeves of your sweater as you watch him unlock the case with the smooth familiarity of a man who designs entire universes and still finds joy in the click of good mechanics.

Inside, a scatter of wires, motion sensors, a series of spherical objects that look like oversized ping pong balls, each one patterned with conductive filament and dotted with touch points. You recognize the layout—a modular, reprogrammable interface system with haptic feedback, originally built for mobility therapy.

“You modified the base algorithm,” you say, eyes narrowing with appreciation.

“For kids,” he replies. “It runs a simplified tactile-reward loop. Kind of like a visual puzzle—kinetic memory reinforcement. Color-coded neural feedback.”

“Accessible interface?”

He nods. “Built for neurodivergent learners. Adaptive texture mapping. It reacts to the user’s input in real time. No static pathways. No performance grading.”

Your chest tightens a little. Not painfully. Just precisely.

“You built a toy.”

Reed shrugs. “It teaches basic physics concepts. Friction, acceleration, force vectors. Just…disguised as fun.”

“That’s not just a toy,” you murmur.

He watches you closely.

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

You set it up together on the floor of Lab B-3, moving the tables back, laying the tiles out in careful rows. The modular touch-nodes blink softly as they come to life—first red, then green, then a low, pulsing blue.

The algorithm kicks in after calibration. Reed holds the interface tablet, flipping through the menus. You hover close behind him, watching how he reprograms the environmental variables on the fly.

“Want to try it?” he asks.

You nod.

He sets it to manual mode. The first node lights up in your periphery. You move toward it, tap it lightly with your finger. It flashes yellow, then blue, and vibrates beneath your touch.

You laugh, just once—quick, surprised.

“Positive reinforcement,” Reed says softly. “Each node has a different tactile response depending on approach angle, velocity, and touch pressure.”

“So they learn physics by playing.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You test the next one. And then another. As the nodes light up, the floor becomes a low-lit constellation, flickering gently around your movements. It’s beautiful. You crouch down near one, tracing your fingers across the filaments, letting the haptic buzz hum beneath your fingertips.

“Reed,” you say quietly. “This is... really, really good.”

He kneels down beside you.

“I just wanted to build something that made them feel like science was listening back.”

You look over at him.

That sentence hangs there, too delicate to touch.

Your hand moves before your brain registers the decision—slowly, instinctively—and you reach for him.

You had reached for his hand but landed on his thumb.

Just his thumb.

You wrap your small hand around it gently, like it’s the only part of him you can hold without consequence.

Reed freezes.

Not from discomfort. From something else.

He turns his head toward you, slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too quickly. His smile is soft, stunned. As if he can’t believe you’re doing this. As if he’s afraid that if he acknowledges it too directly, it might stop.

You don’t look at him. You just hold his thumb in both your hands, watching the floor blink beneath you.

It’s a strange gesture, almost childlike in its simplicity. But to you, it’s everything. It’s grounding. Permission. Trust.

Reed lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years.

He doesn’t move his hand away.

Instead, he uses the other to reach forward and adjust a setting on the control interface without looking. The lights shift. The nodes pulse in a new pattern. You follow them without letting go of his thumb.

He’s smiling now, wide and quiet.

Completely and utterly gone for you.

You test every mode together—gravity simulation, frictionless slide, kinetic echo. Reed talks softly through each setting, explaining how he rewrote the original code to simulate Newton’s Laws in modular intervals, adjusting for sensor latency so kids could trigger reactions with slower or less precise movement.

You ask questions. Not because you don’t understand. But because you do. You want to understand it his way.

He answers everything.

By the time you’re done, the lights in the lab have dimmed into their evening cycle. Reed packs up the demo system slowly, like he’s folding something sacred.

You’re still holding his thumb.

Finally, gently, he uses it to tap the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to hold back around me.”

You look at him, expression unreadable. You squeeze his thumb once, then let go.

“I’m not,” you say.

And you aren’t.

Not anymore.

The lab is dark when you both leave.

Outside, the city has begun to cool. You walk beside him in silence, shoulders brushing once, then again. Not by accident.

You don’t talk about the moment on the lab floor.

You don’t have to.

It happened.

It exists.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

The sky has turned the color of television static. Not black, not gray, just faded. Soft enough to feel unreal. Streetlights flicker on in stuttering intervals. A breeze curls up the avenue and catches at the hem of your coat.

You and Reed stand just outside the Baxter Building entrance, neither of you moving to leave, as if there’s some invisible membrane between the lab and the world you’re not quite ready to pierce.

You should go home.

That’s the next step, isn’t it?

That’s what people do when the day ends. They go back to the place with their name on the lease and try to remember who they are when no one’s asking them questions.

Except your place has neighbors.

And thin walls.

And you're too tired to pretend your own exhaustion doesn’t vibrate at the same frequency as their pleasure.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, knuckles tucked deep into your sleeves. You can feel the buzz of the day behind your eyes—not anxiety, not anymore. Just too many thoughts stacking on top of each other like tetris blocks, and you don’t have the energy to make them fit.

Reed stands beside you, hands in his coat pockets, quiet as ever. The edge of his sleeve brushes yours every so often, an unspoken rhythm that makes you feel here.

Not tolerated. Not managed.

Just here.

Ben soon exits the building. Hoodie zipped to his throat, a half-eaten brownie in one hand. He slows when he sees you both.

“Well, well,” Ben says, raising an eyebrow. “You two finally gonna leave the building or should we start paying you rent inside the lab?”

You glance at Reed.

He shrugs, noncommittal.

Ben smirks. “Alright. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then he gives Reed a look. “Which ain’t much.”

Reed doesn’t respond, but his smile is quiet. Affectionate.

“Goodnight, Ben,” you say softly.

“Night, genius.”

He walks off into the dark.

You stay.

Reed doesn’t ask if you’re going home.

You don’t say anything for a while. You just look at the sidewalk. The cracks in it. The faint smudge of oil near the curb. The headlights of a cab bending light across Reed’s cheekbone, catching on the streak of gray in his hair.

Finally, you say, “Can I stay?”

You don’t explain. You don’t need to.

He doesn’t ask why.

He just turns to you, and for a split second, something in his expression softens so completely it’s almost painful. His eyes widen like he’s been caught off guard, but then his entire face warms, lips parting slightly, like you’ve just handed him something fragile and beautiful and unexpected.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, of course.”

You nod once, eyes down, and he opens the glass doors for you with his keycard.

Reed’s private quarters are located on the top floor, built into the architecture like a quiet secret.

The space is sparse but intentional. One long wall is lined with windows that overlook the city—lights shimmering like data points, static and alive at once.

You’ve been here before. The air smells like him. The surfaces are all smooth, clean, designed for function rather than comfort—except the guest bed, which he quietly upgraded after the second time you stayed, replacing the stiff mattress with something memory foam, orthopedic, weighted blankets in navy and grey.

He never mentioned it. But you noticed.

Now, you step out of your shoes and move instinctively toward the small kitchen alcove, placing your bag on the counter where you always do. You hear Reed behind you, taking off his coat, the soft clink of keys being set in the ceramic dish by the door.

“I didn’t want to go home,” you say, very quietly.

“I know,” he replies.

He fills the kettle without asking. He doesn’t ask if you want tea. He just knows that the ritual helps.

You settle on his couch while he prepares everything. There’s something deeply intimate about watching him move in this space—not as a scientist, but as a man who’s built a life designed for quiet. For stillness. For you.

“Did you finish that secondary circuit loop in the interface?” you ask, voice small.

“I did,” he says, turning toward you with two mugs. “Replaced the original buffer with a superconductive braid. Reduced the thermal variance by thirty percent.”

You take the mug with both hands.

“That’s going to make it more stable in hands-on mode.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You sip the tea. It’s perfect. Rooibos, no caffeine. Subtle and warm.

You look down at your knees.

He sits beside you, not too close, not too far. Just right.

“I’m still thinking about that tri-modal stabilization relay you suggested,” he says. “It could actually be used in more than just the interface model. If we layer it into the resonance prototype, it could compensate for secondary harmonic bleed without adding mechanical dampeners.”

You glance at him. “It wouldn’t even need a power supply. It would just borrow from the existing vibrational field.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

You smile faintly. “We should test it this weekend.”

“We should,” he agrees.

But neither of you move.

You sit there in the dark, the city lights flickering behind the glass, the tea cooling slowly between your palms.

And then, Reed shifts slightly closer.

His fingers brush the side of your hand where it rests on the couch cushion.

You don’t pull away.

“I’m glad you asked to stay,” he says, quietly.

“I don’t always know what I need,” you admit.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not with me.”

You turn your hand palm-up.

He hesitates—barely a second—and then sets his own hand into yours. Warm. Long fingers. Calloused thumb.

You wrap your hand around his thumb again.

It’s small. Stupidly small. But it feels like precision.

Like the alignment of orbitals in a new chemical bond—unexpected, improbable, but somehow inevitable.

He stares at your hands like they’re a proof he’s just solved.

And you can feel it now, radiating off him.

That Reed Richards is completely, irrevocably in love with you.

It sits in his stillness.

In the way he lets you hold him without needing to be held back.

In the careful cadence of his breath next to yours.

In every half-finished sentence he doesn’t speak because he’s still calibrating the right moment to say it.

You close your eyes.

The lab can wait.

The world can wait.

Because here, in this quiet room on the top floor of the Baxter Building, the noise of the city fades into static, and two brilliant minds sit side by side, slowly, carefully falling into something that even physics doesn’t have language for.

Yet.

You’re still holding his thumb.

The weight of it feels small and ordinary and terrifying, in the way intimacy always is when it sneaks in sideways—quiet, soft, patient.

The tea between you has gone slightly cold, but neither of you moves.

Reed glances at your hand in his again like he’s not sure it’s real. Like he’s afraid any shift in air pressure might break whatever this is.

He doesn’t want to lose it. You can feel that. It lives in the quiet of his body. In the way he breathes more carefully now, like your closeness has changed the atmospheric composition of the room.

You can’t explain it.

Not exactly.

But you know the moment has arrived—like a threshold has been crossed without either of you noticing when.

You lift your eyes.

Reed is already watching you.

And then you kiss him.

There’s no warning. No lead-in. No poetic pause.

You just lurch forward and kiss him like your brain caught fire.

You cup his face with both hands—awkward, determined, imprecise. You feel the stubble on his jaw beneath your palms. You feel the soft surprised puff of his breath as you press your mouth against his with more force than you intended.

Reed makes a startled noise.

You pull back slightly, embarrassed, but he surges forward like a current finding its charge.

His hands find your waist, anchoring—not possessive, not demanding, just present. And then his mouth is on yours, properly this time. He kisses you with a slowness that makes your skin buzz, then deeper, until you forget how to think.

You chase it.

You chase it harder than you meant to.

You end up half in his lap, straddling his thigh on the couch. He grunts softly in surprise as you pull him closer by the collar of his shirt. Your hands roam. One settles in his hair, the other at the base of his neck, grounding yourself in the shape of him. His body is warm and solid and older than yours in a way that feels deeply comforting—experienced, steady.

“Wait—” he whispers into your mouth, breathless but laughing.

You pause.

“I—God, I didn’t think—” he tries to say, and then you kiss him again.

It’s clumsy and desperate and real. Your teeth bump once. Your nose is probably smushed too hard against his.

But Reed groans quietly like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Because it is.

Because it’s you.

Eventually, you slow. Not because you want to. Just because you run out of breath. You ease back a little, your forehead resting against his, both of you flushed and dazed.

His fingers trace up your spine, slow, careful, reverent.

You say nothing for a while.

Then, softly, eyes still closed, you murmur, “I need to take a shower.”

He blinks, dazed.

“Oh,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You make no move to get up.

He doesn’t push.

Then, without looking at him, you say, “Will you come with me?”

Reed stills.

It’s not a seductive invitation. Your voice is too quiet. Too vulnerable.

You mean with you. Not to see you.

There’s a difference.

A difference he understands immediately.

He exhales once, very slowly.

“Yes,” he says.

The bathroom in Reed’s quarters is clean and understated. No clutter. Neutral tones. A single towel folded perfectly on the heated rack. The kind of space made by someone who needs things to stay quiet, even in private.

You peel off your clothes with your back to him. You don’t ask him to turn away. You just move, deliberately, like someone trying to stay present in their own body. You don’t rush.

He undresses behind you.

You don’t look.

Not because you’re afraid.

Just because this isn’t about looking.

When you step under the water, he follows. The spray is warm. Steam begins to rise immediately, curling around your shoulders, softening the edges of the room.

You don’t speak for a long time.

He helps you rinse shampoo from your hair.

He rubs a towel gently across your upper back, washing you between passes of the water.

You stand in the quiet, eyes closed, while he reaches for the soap, his hands careful and broad. You’ve never felt so heldin a room without touch. Even when he does touch you, it’s so measured. Like he’s calibrating pressure in real time.

He never touches more than he needs to.

He never looks longer than you let him.

You begin to wash him in return—his arms, his back. Your fingers map the ridges of his shoulders. The plane of his chest. 

He smiles at you when you look up at him.

You smile back.

Afterward, you towel off side by side. You slip into the oversized sleep shirt he keeps in the guest drawers—the one you claimed without asking the second time you stayed over. Reed pulls on a soft cotton shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp, curls a little unruly.

You both brush your teeth in silence. The kind of silence built on trust, not absence.

You spit and rinse and then, leaning over the sink, you say, “You’re not what I expected.”

Reed glances at you in the mirror.

“I’m not?” he asks, toothbrush in hand.

You shake your head. “You’re a better equation.”

He stares at you for a moment, then leans over, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers, “So are you.”

You fall asleep in his bed, facing each other.

You don’t touch—not at first. But at some point, your foot slides across the sheet and brushes his calf.

He doesn’t bother to move.

You drift off like that.

And he stays awake for a while longer, just watching you breathe, memorizing the sound of it, calculating the half-life of the moment in real time.

He doesn't think there's a formula for this.

But if there were, he’d already be solving for you.

taglist: @totallynotshine @the-curator1 @christinamadsen @imaginemixedfandom @randomuserr330 @princess76179 @little--spring @mielsonrisa @he-is-the-destined @in-pedros-smile @aysilee2018 @stormseyer @or-was-it-just-a-dream @strawberrylemontart1 @lovetings @peelieblue @just-a-harmless-patato @lizziesfirstwife @princessnnylzays @stargirl-mayaa @vickie5446 @everandforeveryours @jxvipike @sukivenue @neenieweenie @i-wanna-be-your-muse @sonjajames2021 @fxxvz @indiegirlunited

[justmeexistinghere]

W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T

pt.7 Transition

*⁀➷Masterlist

Summary: As if the day hadn’t already left you reeling, you find yourself alone at the Unit’s meeting spot—though solitude never lasts for long. Seongje drifts unexpectedly close while Baku slips further away, leaving you caught between warmth and distance in a world that refuses to make sense.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: smoking, violence/bullying, swearing/strong language (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: 2.767 -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first series — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

As you step outside, your mind is still with Baku. Will he be alright? You can’t shake the worry, even as the cold night air hits your face. It feels fresh—a sharp contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside the bowling alley, where breathing felt like trying to inhale underwater.

Before you can enjoy the pleasing change, you hear slow, sloppy footsteps approaching. You look up, only to meet someone’s eyes. A teasing “Hey, pretty face,” greets you.

Your shoulders drop a fraction when you recognize him— you’re not sure if it is pure annoyance or maybe a bit of relief—relief that it’s not some random Unit asshole, but someone you kind of know and can handle. As he flicks away his cigarette—damn, you’re still amazed at how he does that—he comes closer, leaning against the same wall. He’s far enough to not call it “next to you,” but close enough that you can feel his presence.

“Woah, not even a hello?”  He tilts his head, eyebrows raised, waiting—almost daring you to break the silence. You just stare at him, silent for a second, before a “Hey, idiot,” slips out.

The shadows work in Seongje’s favor, but you’re sure his lips curved into a smile—even if just for a second.

“Seems like you’re looking for trouble, huh? You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice almost worried—almost.

“Maybe. But why is it always you who ends up here with me? Guess that's our thing.”

You can see how he tenses up, unsure if it was your words or the cold that starts to sting your bodies. You cross your arms and grab at your sweatshirt tightly, hoping that the warmth you still had would be caged up— unable to leave, just like you are right now. Your knuckles turn white from the cold— when will Baku finally come out, and why the hell is Seongje still here? Your breath mingles with the smoke of his newly lit cigarette, swirling in the night air. You feel his gaze on you, and sometimes, you catch yourself glancing back.

The door bursts open, shattering the silence you’d grown to treasure. Laughter and voices spill out. Two guys—neither of them Baku—step outside, lighting cigarettes. On your right, you can hear Seongje pushing himself from the wall, placing himself in front of you. His posture shifts—tense, protective, just for a second. His eyes flicker, checking faces, measuring threats.

Once they’re far enough away, you shoot Seongje a questioning look. What the hell was that? Before you can ask, he slips out of his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders—too quick for you to protest.

Sure, let's just stand here and pretend this isn't weird at all. If he decides to do something like that again, oh god, you have to start charging rent for personal space. But hey, at least it's warmer than before. That's definitely a plus.

“Don’t pass out. I’m not dragging you home again,” he mutters, but his voice is softer than usual, almost lost in the air. You roll your eyes, but your hands curl into the warmth of the jacket. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t expect you to.

He leans back to the wall closer than before. Silence. Neither of you says anything. There is nothing to say— is there?

So that's why you both just stand there again, this time shoulder to shoulder, the world narrowed to the glow of the neon and the scrape of his boot on the ground. You catch yourself glancing at him, watching the way his jaw works, the way his eyes flick to the alley’s entrance and back to you, always alert, never fully relaxed. The touch of your shoulders is slightly warm and comforting. Not sure why you just let it happen— even kind of enjoy the closeness.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

"I will say it again, you shouldn’t be here. Not alone with people like them around." His gaze shifts to where the Union members disappeared. His hands slip into his pockets, his body tense. Is it the cold or your presence? You'll never know.

You snort, forcing a smirk. "People like... you?" Ironic. "Guess what, I don’t really care."

He huffs out something like a laugh, but it’s more breath than sound. For a second, his eyes flick up to meet yours, something unreadable there before he looks away. “Yeah. Maybe one could say that.”

The door to the bowling alley swings open once again. This time Baku steps out—not injured, but visibly shaken. His eyes avoid yours, and he doesn’t answer your questions. He doesn't notice you at first, standing some steps away. But as he moves to look at you, for a moment, his gaze lingers on Seongje. His jaw tightens, lips pressed into a thin line. You catch the way his hands clench at his sides, knuckles pale. There’s a flash in his eyes—anger, maybe, or something rawer, tangled up with surprise. He looks at Seongje like he’s just spotted something dangerous where he least expected it. The air between them thickens, but no words are spoken. Neither of them says a word. The silence stretches, heavy and brittle. You feel it in your chest, a pressure that makes it hard to breathe— oh damn, you thought you escaped that feeling.

You want to say something, maybe even say goodbye to Seongje, but it all happens too fast. Baku silently pushes you aside, a wordless signal to keep your distance. His hand finds your arm, firm and cold, and suddenly you’re moving. No words, just the rough nudge of his shoulder, a silent demand to keep up. The city peels by in fragments: neon reflected in puddles, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by narrow alleys until he finally loosens his grip. But he doesn’t say goodbye... he just turns and disappears into the night. You stand there, stunned, Seongje's jacket still draped over your shoulders, words caught in your throat.

Seriously? That’s it?

Great. If someone could just hand out a script for this mess, that’d be fantastic. Because clearly, you missed rehearsal for whatever the hell this is.

Your phone vibrates—missed calls from Gotak. You call back, barely waiting for the ring to end. “Something’s not right. We need to talk, but let me get home first.” Your voice comes out clipped, sharper than you meant. You hang up before he can answer.

You stare at the screen, the dim light reflecting in the glass. Everything feels colder, more dangerous. You know this is just the beginning.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The moment you step into your apartment, you lock the door and lean back against it. The lights are low, the apartment has it's specific warmth. In the living room, your dad’s asleep on the couch, TV still murmuring some late-night news. A half-empty mug sits on the table, forgotten.

Usually, it annoys you—how he always falls asleep there, snoring with the TV on. But tonight, it’s oddly comforting. Like nothing’s changed. Like something in the world is still safe, still normal. At least someone in this house knows how to relax. Must be nice.

You glance at Seongje’s jacket, still wrapped around your shoulders. The smell of smoke clings to the fabric, sharper now against the familiar scent of home. It lingers—unmistakable, almost grounding. You should probably take the jacket off. Really. Or maybe burn it, just to get rid of the smell. But of course, you just stand there, clutching it like it’s some kind of security blanket.

The phone buzzes again—Gotak: “Where are you? Finally home?”

You switch off the TV, careful not to wake your dad, and carry the half-empty mug to the kitchen before leaving to your room.

As you get there, you drape Seongje’s jacket over the back of your desk chair. For a moment, you just look at it, taking in the weight and shape of it in your space. Your fingers trace the name tag at the chest part—his name, bold and unmistakable. You can’t help but smirk as you run your finger over the letters.

And then it hits you.

He said he wouldn’t drag you home again.

Again.

...

Your mind flashes back—blurry memories, the feeling of someone’s arm around your shoulders, the faint smell of smoke, the warmth of being taken care of. Was it him? Was Seongje the one who brought you home that night when you could barely stand?

You stare at the name tag, heart thudding, and suddenly the pieces start to fit together.

You lie awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together that night—the one it seems like Seongje dragged you home during your blackout. Awesome. Nothing comes. Just static, blank spaces where memories should be. Frustration boils up and you smack your arms and legs against the mattress. The dull thud is embarrassingly childish, but whatever. At least the bed takes it without complaint.

Your thoughts on the other hand do their nightly gymnastics—vaulting from Baku’s unusual stone-faced glare to Seongje’s annoyingly persistent smirk. Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: a front-row seat to the world’s most confusing emotional circus, starring you as the unwilling clown.

What happened back there, anyway? Why did Baku look at Seongje like he’d just found a cockroach in his ramen? And why, out of everyone in this city, does your brain insist on rerunning every single moment with Seongje like it’s some kind of late-night drama marathon? Honestly, if it was, you would love to switch off the TV in your brain. Instead your gaze drifts to the chair in the corner. It’s too dark to actually see the jacket, but knowing it’s there is enough. Hunted by a piece of fabric because of his jinxed owner... fantastic.

Sleep finally drags you under, but not before your mind does a few more laps around the track. Gold medal for overthinking: awarded, again. But it doesn't take too long for your alarm to drag you out of sleep—no mercy, no snooze button strong enough to save you. You pull yourself together, manage to look almost presentable. Kinda proud honestly, but not that anyone else would care.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

A soft knock sounds at your door, but your brain, still fogged from sleep and last night’s thoughts, files it under “background noise.” It’s only when the door creaks open and your dad’s head appears— looking ready for a shoot for the next energy drink ad, but with gentle and a little worried eyes.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you that look—the one that’s equal parts “good morning” and “please tell me you’re actually going to school today.” His nose wrinkles, but there’s no judgment, just a silent check-in. You know he’s noticed you’ve been prioritizing… well, anything but classes lately.

Right. The jacket. The one currently radiating Eau de Ashtray from your desk chair. Perfect. Just what you need: to reek of cigarettes before breakfast, courtesy of Seongje’s generous lending habits. Now you also get to explain to your dad why that fragrance lingers in your room. Thanks, Seongje.

You shove the jacket into your backpack, grab your stuff, and head to the kitchen. Your phone lights up: Gotak has apparently decided to break some kind of world record for most frantic messages before sunrise. The screen glows with his name, your stomach twisting a little at the urgency.

typing...

...typing

coming!

The scent of coffee hangs in the air, rich and grounding. Your dad’s already gone, but he’s left a mug for you on the counter. You wrap your hands around it, letting the warmth seep into your skin, hoping it’ll chase away the chill clinging to your bones. You down it in record time, the bitterness scraping your throat awake.

You pause at the door, backpack heavy on your shoulders, and take one last breath—smoke, coffee, worry—all tangled together. Then you step outside, bracing yourself for whatever the day decides to throw at you.

The morning air was brisk against your cheeks—a shock after the stale warmth of the kitchen. The city hasn’t quite woken up yet; the street is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the faint clatter of someone’s garbage bag jittering in the air. You adjust your backpack, feeling the awkward lump of Seongje’s jacket pressing against your books, as if he always had to make himself noticeable. Even if it’s just his damn jacket digging into your spine like it has a grudge. Oh well.

You’re halfway down the block, mind already rehearsing what you’ll say to Gotak, when you hear footsteps matching your pace. You don’t bother turning around—yet. Whoever it is, they’re not exactly subtle.

“Stalking me before a proper breakfast? Bold move,” you call over your shoulder, voice dry. A familiar chuckle answers, low and lazy.

“Relax, pretty face. I figured you might need an escort, considering your track record with trouble.” If you speak of the devil...

You glance back. Seongje is there, hands in his pockets, hair still a little messy, like he didn’t bother with a mirror this morning. Of course, he looks annoyingly good anyway. Wait, what? Whatever... You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch.

“Wow, early morning heroics. What’s next, you gonna carry my bag too?”

He grins, falling into step beside you, just close enough that your arms brush as you walk.

“Depends. Is there a reward? Or do I just get to keep rescuing you for free? Getting a glance at your good looks today? Bet you knew, you would see me today, am I right?"

You snort, but your heart thuds a little faster. "You'll actually get something. Even without escorting me to school. Great deal, huh?" Totally ignoring the last two sentences...

You reach into your bag, pull out his jacket, and hold it out to him with two fingers.

“It’s seen better days, but take it back before my dad files a complaint with the health department.”

He grins, taking the jacket, his fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary.

“Didn’t know you cared so much about air quality. But thanks, I thought i might need to file a missing report.”

You shake your head, but can’t quite hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“Just trying to keep my lungs intact. Some of us have plans for the future, you know.”

He laughs, low and genuine, and for a moment, the weight in your chest eases—just a little. "Sure, but i bet you'll miss it. I mean, you were holding it so tightly yesterday i almost could hear it scream for help." You arch an eyebrow, smirking.

“Of course. I’ll light a candle in its memory. Better than the jacket itself, right?”

You bump his arm as you walk past, pace picking up again. You’re still in a hurry. You have to be. No one—especially not him—gets to slow you down. “Bye,” you toss over your shoulder, not looking back. But your chest feels just a bit lighter anyway.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

“Finally, y/n,” Gotak greets you. He sounds casual enough, but you know that edge—he’s been waiting, probably counting every second. Juntae flashes you a quick smile, a patterned plaster on his cheek. Cute.

Gotak tugs your sleeve, guiding you to sit next to him on the mural wall. His knee bounces, fingers drumming a restless rhythm. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the way he leans in, expectant, tells you everything: he’s just waiting for you to finally spill the tea.

Even Sieun seems unexpectedly unsettled today. Instead of his usual stiff, unreadable posture, he sits forward, hands pressed against his knees, eyes wide and searching. There’s none of that practiced blankness—just a quiet tension, like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say.

You trace the edge of the mural with your finger, stalling for time. The paint is chipped, cool beneath your touch—something solid to hold onto while your mind spins. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. What are you even supposed to say?

You shift your weight, shoes scraping against the concrete. Maybe if you stare hard enough at the mural, the right words will appear, like graffiti only you can read.

Your finger keeps moving along the wall, tracing the same crack over and over.

You wish someone else would just ask the first question—break the silence, make the decision for you.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued... ˏ*⁀➷previous ˏ*⁀➷next (coming soon)

picture generated by AI

Thank you for reading once again! I hope you still enjoy the series, I really like writing it ❤

Taglist @slovesyouuu @quaff-le-science @4ria790

[caitchercatlady]

Sleeping Over at Ramshackle w/Kalim

Though you don’t remember much of parties from your world, Kalim’s parties at Scarabia do help you in coming out of your shell. Despite his extroverted nature, Kalim always makes sure that everyone, including you, is having the time of their life. You’re so appreciative that you wish you can do the same for Kalim.

Then, the idea hits you.

Over the course of the school week, you organize the spare bedroom with spare sheets that you have and do some cleaning. On that Friday, you are nervous out of your wits, but you finally gather the courage to ask him to have a sleepover at Ramshackle Dorm. In his chipper and excitable way, Kalim is very honored to accept your invitation. He will see you after club activities that night.

Hearing Kalim accept your offer should help tame your nerves, but it only makes them more rattled. Maybe Kalim has high expectations of you. Oh, you feel sick to the stomach.

Thanks to Jamil being able to keep secrets, he offers you some recipes that remind Kalim of home. They’re basic, but they won’t break your bank either.

At least it will give Kalim something to be impressed by.

You are finishing the cooking, which makes Grim droll like crazy, when you get the anticipated knock at the door. You cover the pots and pans to keep the heat of the dishes (and to ensure that if Grim tries anything funny, he’ll get a warning burn touch). You take deep breaths before you answer the door, and when you do, you catch Kalim with beaming eyes and a full luggage trailing behind him.

He greets you with a hug. “Hi, Prefect! Thank you for inviting me over to your dorm. The place looks great! Wait…You’re cooking something? It smells wonderful in there! May I come in?”

“Yes, yes, you may,” you reply, stuttering and moving away to give your guest room to enter.

Yanking his luggage behind him, Kalim makes his way to the living room. He asks if he can sit his things by the couch. When you answer his questions with permission, Kalim leans his things against the couch and immediately wants to know where your kitchen is. You guide him over there and handle the freshly made meal, thanks to Jamil’s instruction. Kalim’s eyes sparkle at your hard work.

“Prefect! These are my favorites! How did you know?”

“Oh, uh.” Your cheeks flush, and you scratch the back of your head. “A little bird told me,” you reply metaphorically.

“Well, please give that bird friend of yours my thanks. This will go great with the snacks I brought over. Oh! I’ll be right back!”

Before you can respond to his sentences, Kalim makes a mad dash back into the hall. You can Grim side-eye each other, not because of what Kalim has brought, but with how much. He doesn’t return just as swiftly, which makes you concerned but Grim drool. Kalim does come back with an arm’s hold worth of sweets, much to your dismay. When he reaches the kitchen counter, he lets the bags and boxes fall onto it like an avalanche.

Kalim wipes his brow and sighs heavily. “Gee! I kinda forgot how much I brought over until I opened my suitcase. No wonder it looks so much emptier now.” He lets out his cheeky laugh.

“If you think about apologizin’, don’t,” says Grim. “This is the buffet of my dreams.”

You grab Grim by his collar before he’d dive into the pile. “Grim, don’t be such a hog. Kalim put so much thought an effort for us. This is sharable.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Kalim replies. “I wanna try your cooking since you worked so hard on it.”

“As you are the guest, Kalim, you can pick first.”

“Oh boy! I can’t wait!”

The dinner may not be the Scarabia usual way of sitting and eating, but Kalim is very respectful towards your dorm and  your things (Much more than Grim is on a typical day). Along with that respect, he is incredibly pleased with the cooking, praising your gifted talent.

“I always wanted to learn how to cook, but everyone says it’s too dangerous for me.”

“Not if you know how to do it right,” you encourage. “If you’d like, I still have some spare ingredients for bread.”

“You want me to make bread with you?”

“It’s quite easy…if you want to, of course.”

Kalim giggles and latches onto you like a baby monkey to its mama. “Prefect, you’re the best. I promise I’ll be a good pupil. Where do we start?”

To say that baking the bread is quite the adventure is an understatement. Yes, Kalim is the Deuce of food instructions, but all ends well when the delicious bread comes out of the oven. Though Grim confirms how scrumptious the bread is, he pretty much eats anything. Kalim’s and your opinions matter the most, and you both concur with smiles and piece swallows.

The clock is striking late, and you figure that you need to get ready for bed. If not for sleep, at least to get comfy. You are heading from your bedroom to the washrooms to wash up and change, only to be intercepted by Kalim on his way from getting himself clean.

“Prefect! Glad, I caught ya!” He latches onto your hands and pulls you towards the guest room, where he will be sleeping for the night. As you enter, your let out a heavy sigh to the mess that Kalim’s already made with his belongings. He sees your face and his eyes widen. “Oh, I’m sorry! This will be clean by the time I leave, I promise.”

You smirk. “Thank you, Kalim.”

He quickly hugs you before he makes a swift walk to his luggage, retrieving a bow-wrapped-only present. Kalim shoves the gift into your arms excitedly. “I figured you’d like a new set of pajamas to where. Something for when it gets hotter here on campus…Not that I think you didn’t have any, but you never know.”

(Describe the pajamas after Kalim’s card drop)

Kalim swallows nervously. “Do you like them?”

Your face is washed of color as you admire Kalim’s present, gracing your fingers across the fabric. “Kalim…I love them. No one has ever given me anything like this before.”

Kalim’s starry eyes beam at your compliment. “Really? I’m glad to hear it, Prefect. Let’s go and have you try them on! What do ya say?”

You don’t get time to respond as Kalim pushes out of the guest room and down to the washroom. He fortunately leaves you to do that by your lonesome while he waits out in the hall. These pajamas act like outerwear with how many straps you have to tie to look appealing and practical. Nevertheless, you manage through it, impressing Kalim once you model your new night clothes to him.

He wastes no time in dragging you back to his room. It astonishes you still how Kalim can make a conversation out of anything. You let him speak his piece, but his sunshine energy doesn’t help your eyes stay perched open as they should. It’s nearly midnight by now.

Kalim notices this (how can he not?). His smile still plastered, he says, “Prefect, thank you for hosting your sleepover and thank you for inviting me.”

Your cheeks flush. “It’s nothing really.”

“Nothing? It’s not nothing. I’ve been having a great time.”

“Though I don’t have all of the animals and a buffet for a sultan?”

“You think those are the most important things about a sleepover party, Prefect?”

“Well, I…”

Kalim snickers. “Prefect, I know my own parties are unlike others, but a party is not all about how many things you can make or get. Parties are for having your friends to hang and have fun together. They’re about seeing people smile, cheer, and laugh. Does that make sense?”

You blush again. “You’re so kind, Kalim. I don’t know what to say.”

“Hey, it’s what friends do for each other, am I right?”

You nudge his arm. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And friends know when it’s time to get some sleep.” He yanks on the sheets and burritos you in them like the topping stuffings.

You attempt to protest about sleeping in the guest’s bed with him only for Kalim to massage your temple with his pointer finger. He’s not going to let you stress out over the little things. Well, for him, it may not be the little things.

Does he have any idea? you ask yourself.

The answer arrives swiftly when Kalim snuggles against you and yawns, “We should do this every week,” grinning against your cheek.

[lazilyambitious23]

I need to add this as well.

(I’ll treat this like Delano wanted/could have addressed it more but comics, especially back then didn’t allot for the space to do it and the people in charge maybe pushed back so he trusted his readers to think critically about it.)

I’m just really passionate about this stuff as someone who wants to write and wants to use gritty realism but be careful with things dealing with minors.

So my biggest issue is just how unsafe that commune is was for kids/teens.

And sure they are hippies and it’s a different way of life and we can say they didn’t know…..but I also don’t fully buy that. I think it’s an excuse. In this run we see children (Mercury) being treated with an adult lens constantly. (Her age isn’t explicitly stated either form what I remember)

Her mother does not look like a safe adult to me. If mercury was there would she have been expected to participate in that orgy? Would her mother have protected her from that or just assumed that because her daughter is an “old soul” (a convenient term used to give minors more responsibility than is developmentally appropriate) she could handle it? Was the environment that they cultivated a space where consent was respected truly? Could someone (minors) say no and not be side eyed and looked at as less enlightened or involved in the commune?

Maybe yes. Right? Maybe it would have been okay. Maybe Marj wouldn’t have let Mercury participate. We don’t know and that’s my point. That’s why I want to discuss this.

Delano went out of his way to state that the boy “couldn’t have been more than sixteen”. So he could have been younger. So I’m going to assume this was placed to make us uncomfortable and to start a conversation. That’ll be my takeaway from. Delano was a trailblazer and was attempting to try new things in comics. That’s how I’ll choose to engage with his material from now on. (Because I know my previous comments came off as just fully judgmental and honestly it lowkey was. But writers should be given the benefit of the doubt unless otherwise proven)

And as for John, would he have participated with minors present? Love his character. But I expect more from the man who is traumatized by what he saw in Newcastle (a little girl being actively groomed and hearing from her own mouth the CSA she experienced) would have hated this. But it’s not stated. I’m going to head-canon that he wouldn’t have participated.

(fml totally forgot about Newcastle and Lester. Different discussion if anyone’s interested.)

Again, maybe Delano wanted his readers to do this, think critically and discuss it. Totally valid.

It’s just something that has been making me twitchy to talk about more.

This is the last time I’ll bring up this panel. But I had to get it out!

I’m reading issue #18……I think someone said the comics were a product of their time…..

Idk im having a hard time with Delano’s run. A lot of serious topics are treated as “edgy” and not given the proper thought and respect.

This is my first time truly getting into comics, the media I’ve ingested from DC has always been their animated shows.

I know Delano’s run is like sacred but I don’t know, im having a hard time with it. Ruins the vibe for me.

[necrotic-nephilim]

JayTimCass

https://www.tumblr.com/marvellouslymadmim/762105451884298240/i-trust-you-with-my-life-because-you-are-good-and?source=share

i feel like this is how Jason feels about both Tim and Cass bc they're both self-sacrificing idiots and they are bad for his blood pressure

(linked post) oh YES you're so right. the number of times both Tim and Cass have walked into a mission fully believing they would die and being okay with it makes me unwell. and it'd so deeply piss Jason off to have them constantly try to kill themselves over this thankless job. they're so noble and he loves them for it but man do they get on his nerves. atp Jason should keep both of them on a leash.

i think it's especially fun from the angle that Jason has died and doesn't want either of them to have to go through that too. bc he wouldn't really have any clue that Cass has died and been revived by the Lazarus Pit too, it's not like she broadcasts it. and for Cass her death was never a big deal and bc of that she never takes death as seriously as she should when she faces death down. Jason thinks it's a very cruel irony that Cass and Tim have the most headstrong morals about killing and yet they're the *most* self sacrificial of the whole Batfam. it reminds me if that BruDick panel where Bruce very angrily tells Dick that Dick trying to kill himself still goes against the killing rule and it's just as bad? like that being the argument *Jason* of all ppl has to resort to is so good. he never thought he'd be arguing *for* a no kill rule but if it makes them listen then fuck it.

i also think it's fun if Jason goes to questionable lengths to stop Tim and Cass from going out when they're hurt, or going on missions that would get themselves killed. Cass wants to face down Shiva? Jason is drugging her and tying her to their bed. Tim has a concussion and three cracked ribs? Jason's straight-up handcuffing TIm to Jason's wrist so he can keep an eye on him. bc he loves them. he does not trust them. loving them means knowing he can never trust them and he has to go to any lengths to keep them alive. and he will not listen to them argue about it whatsoever. sometimes love comes with control, yk. it's such good food.

[sysig]

No go on please (Patreon)

[misfits-of-zaun]

“Kinda late for that now. The dam’s broken. You threw up everywhere and I broke Mr. Macho’s face. We’re both having a bad day.”

Ekko let out a breathless sort of sound that was half-laugh, half-groan - and promptly retched again. Oh. Oh no. Oh shit. Laughing was a terrible mistake while feeling this nauseous.

Fortunately, there was nothing really left for his stomach to expel. His throat burned, though, and the taste in his mouth was vile. Self-consciously, he wiped at his mouth with a rag, and took another moment to catch his breath.

"...It's still early," he managed to quip back, albeit with a very tangible tiredness weighing down the attempt at an optimistic outlook.

"The day's not - not done yet. We've both got time for things to improve."

Granted, Jinx had more control over the trajectory of that than he did, right now. Hell, he'd still be willing to counted this day a good one, in spite of how unwell he felt, if he could just see her make a single small step of progress on her own merit. Something - anything - to avoid ending her first morning without him on such a sour note.

The bile on his tongue wasn't nearly as bad as that.

“Wasn’t expecting you to give me a free pass outta here. Your buddies worked kinda hard to get me in here, y’know.”

Ekko slowly straightened, slanting her a weary look.

"Yeah, I know."

He'd seen pretty much the whole thing. It had been very difficult to not try and intervene, even in his weakened state. But he couldn't really fault how Scar and the others had handled it - especially given how Jinx had drawn first blood, and had clearly been past the point of talking things out. Their options for dealing with the situation had been limited. At least it seemed like the darkness and the quiet of the Timeout Tunnel had helped Jinx calm down, rather than agitating her even further.

If anything, she seemed almost reluctant to leave now. Odd. Ekko had assumed she would have been itching to get out on sheer principle - after all, while this wasn’t a prison cell, it still had a lock on the outside.

“How about I come check up on you? Make sure you’re not still green later. You’ve already chucked up in fronta me, so it’s totally less embarrassing now.”

Was that her way of saying she wanted to stay here and take a break from everything for a little longer? Or was she simply seeking something to look forward to - some reassurance of routine? Ekko supposed it hadn't been fair to leave her with the others this morning, without giving her a proper heads up about his sickness and the subsequent change to the schedule.

"...Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

@f1shbonez

"Wanna tell me what happened back there?" (Ekko to Jinx)

The fight was over. Jinx knew it the moment she was dropped into a cold, dark tunnel. The memory of knees, arms and elbows throbbed long after the people she’d fought so hard against were gone. As the binds around Jinx’s wrists were cut, she began to flex and release her fingers, coaxing the blood back into them. She remained motionless as Scar cut the last of the binds and darted from the room. There was a heavy thrumming noise as the steel door was pulled shut and then she was alone.

Why was her heart still pounding like the fight wasn’t over? Aching from where she lay plastered to the floor, Jinx began to push herself back to her feet. At first it was hard to do anything but drift through the space. A hollow sense of resignation began to swallow up the bottled screams and sobs that were only just beneath the surface.

The tunnel was blocked up and full of heavy shadow from the dim light inside. Unfamiliar with the space and her predicament Jinx began to pace, slow and lost. Just out of reach, two white eyes followed her every move.

“--Don’t. Say. Anything.” Jinx growled under her breath towards the apparition, feeling herself turn rigid under Mylo’s stare.

“Yeah, like that’ll make any difference.” The retort was swift to do its damage, earning a wince from Jinx as she turned to pace under the brightest patch of light in the dark. Sure, she’d already screwed up. Was talking to people only she could see going to undo today’s screw up? Not exactly. It didn’t usually make her feel any better, either.

Jinx’s blood continued to boil at the memory of Scar, the rope and being manhandled into a pretty large, but obvious cage. Everything was ruined; the second chance, the progress she’d been making, Ekko starting to trust her. Gone. Even Scar himself didn’t hide the fact that there was no real benefit to holding onto her. There was no coming back from this…was there?

The thought stirred a mixture of fear and shame within Jinx. If she’d MEANT to do damage to Scar, a mug to the face would never have been the plan! Somehow it didn’t even feel worth raising that when defending her case. How long were they gonna leave her in here anyway? What was going to happen next? The look on Ekko’s face flashed through Jinx’s mind again, punctuating the raw, mournful sense of hurt taking root in her chest.

“Why can’t I do anything right?” She breathed, sinking to the ground again next to Claggor in a wordless plea for an answer. Claggor didn’t speak. He never did.

Bowing her head, Jinx felt silent tears begin to run down her face. It didn’t take long for the ugly feeling to bleed through the cracks in her composure, building to quiet sobs. She stayed like that for a long time before the ache of dead eyes became too much to bear. The faint noise of life on the other side of the tunnel door was a reminder of everything bad. No. Quiet. She needed quiet.

Retreating to the furthest point of the dead-end tunnel, Jinx hunkered down in the dark. A broad, empty shelving unit sat unused in the pitch black, offering a refuge from the wide open mouth of concrete. Ignoring the ache in her muscles, Jinx clambered onto the shelves, coiling in on herself once she reached the top. It was safer up here. Better. Not immediately reachable when Scar and his cronies came back.

It felt like hours until the outside world came knocking. From atop of the shelves, Jinx flinched, throwing a hand out in front of herself to ward off the light and whoever was coming with it. From behind her arm, she squinted, feeling her muscles bracing themselves at the sight of Scar before he stepped aside, allowing Ekko to enter.

Freezing for a moment, Jinx watched. No weapon. No crowd. Scar didn’t seem to be coming in either. Slowly, with no shortage of hesitation, Jinx lowered her hand.

"Wanna tell me what happened back there?"

Silence.

Blue eyes danced between Ekko and the door. It’d be pretty hard to overhear everything they said from way back here. A wounded silence stretched as Jinx dissected the question. Yeah right, like Ekko cared what she had to say.

“You saw for yourself.” Jinx muttered, knowing the futility of trying to defend something she couldn’t put words to. Why bother? The Firelights had every reason to think the worst of her. Trying to say anything to disprove that would just be a lie.

Sore, bloodstained arms coiled tighter around her body as Jinx shifted, avoiding Ekko’s gaze. She didn’t want to look at his face. She didn’t want to see him angry at her, or upset, or disappointed. She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen!

“I couldn’t do it.” The simple words tumbled from her mouth, but there was pain in the admission. It was a fuck up so big, that it no longer mattered that she’d tried.

[dduane]

Peter Morwood

I am so sorry to have to tell you all about this. None of you, I suspect, will ever have any idea how sorry.

I am in utter shock and terrible pain to have to inform everyone that our friend, my dear husband and creative partner of nearly forty years, Peter Morwood, passed away suddenly early this morning after a brief illness that as late as yesterday (when his doctor saw him) had seemed to be on the mend.

I'm not in any position to say much more about this situation now, as you'll understand my current mental state is not up to the task. (I keep expecting to wake up from a bad dream, but it shows no sign of breaking.) I will let people know more about this in coming days.

There will be a postmortem shortly to determine the exact cause of his death. I'll share what details of this are appropriate as they become clear.

Meanwhile in the short term I'm very much going to need assistance with the expenses that in the days that follow will inevitably surround what's happened.

ETA: Those expenses are now handled.

And I want to thank EVERYBODY who so incredibly generously has stepped up to assist. You are all, every one of you, in my heart right now... not least due to the many, many kind things you've had to say about Peter. Current events mean I'm going to be backed up on the thank-yous for some days yet. Please bear with me.

For those who feel inclined, the Ko-Fi account here is naturally open as usual for those who might simply want to drop something into the pot tagged "GNU Peter Morwood." I'm looking into notes about his preferred charities so that I can split all such donations in those directions. (For example, P. lost a beloved cousin very young to childhood leukemia, so I'm looking around for appropriate cancer charities. ...But more of that later.)

My love will wait for me, I know, however long it takes. He's never minded waiting. (the saddest smile) My job now is to make sure he's not forgotten while I go on.

Meanwhile, can I just say to all of of you: I thank you all ahead of time for all the support and fondness for Peter that I know so many of you will express. He'd blush over it, I know. (He always did.) Please forgive me for being unable to do much in the way of answering messages, just now, in the wake of having to get to grips with this sudden and awful change in my world.

But also let me say, so urgently: Hug your loved ones now, while you can. Eventually a day will come when, expected or not, your opportunities end.

Thanks, friends.

--DD

[grace4867]

My mom always does shit like this istg

[flvvffy]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐅 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

wc: 431. not proofread

older bf!toji who just loves carrying you in his arms whenever he can. mostly just to show you how mush bigger and stronger he his compared to you. "i like lookin' down at you, but this view just seems better", he says pulling your lips into a kiss while a stupid grin etched on his face.

older bf!toji who never lets you walk near the road and he makes sure of it. sometimes he pulls you to the other side or other time he discretely walks behind you and shifts to the other side. if you give him a confused look, he just pinches your nose and says, "don't worry about it"

older bf!toji who loves to play games with you, especially ones where you have to compete. be it mobile games, video games, board games, card games you name it. he just loves seeing your competitive side, the way you smirk and curse at him, it just does something to him. "that's my baby", he whispers to himself when you win the nth round against him.

older bf!toji who finds joy in tickling you when you least expect it. smiling widely when he hears your shriek followed by your giggles and gasps for air as you try to fight him off of you. swinging your fists weakly at him and failed kick attempts, only stopping when he starts seeing tears.

older bf!toji who let's you shave his beard, of course if you ask politely. you're sat on the counter, the razor sliding down his face along with the shaving cream, turning it with every corner as his hands are placed on your hips, eyes never leaving your focused ones. and once you're done, he washes it off and looks at himself in the mirror before placing a sweet kiss on your cheek. "thank you, mama"

older bf!toji who carries all the shopping bags everytime you go shopping. he will never...ever let you carry any bags. its doesn't matter whether there is only one item, or if it looks like he's having serious constipation. "it's alright princess. you're big strong boyfriend can handle it"

older bf!toji who drives you wherever you need to be at when he's available. why should you drive yourself when you smoking hot presonal chauffer is right here for you.

older bf!toji who loves squishing your cheeks together and mocking you while you try to speak. "what's that baby? i can't understand you. maybe a kiss will help...hmmm?", he asks and leans down stealing a kiss, long and breatheless.

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝐅𝐋𝐕𝐕𝐅𝐅𝐘