#I could do something more specific if asked...

[all4yoi]

𝓣he 𝓓addy 𝓓iaries

!? . . ★ 𝓜ood 𝓢wings — wherein they realize just how real pregnancy mood swings are and how they try (and fail) to survive them.

➹ enhypen hyungline x fem!reader ✦ cw: fluff fluff fluff super fluff !! some crying (ofc), pregnancy, and that's it?? just fluff really, lmk if i missed something. not proofread

➹ taglist 2: open! SEND AN ASK — SERIES MASTERLIST

LEE HEESEUNG

Heeseung has heard about the eventual mood swings you'd go through, specifically now that you're pregnant. "Take her easy." his mom has said to him hundreds of times. No matter how many times he has seen you cry over the littlest and silliest things, he couldn't get used to seeing you cry.

Just like now.

"Baby? What happened?" Heeseung asked upon seeing his pregnant wife sniffling quietly on the couch. He sat down next to you, placing his hand instinctively on your lower back and rubbing.

Your glassy eyes looked up at him and he could hear his heart cracking. "They got it wrong." your voice cracked as you whined, gesturing towards the box of chicken nuggets on the coffee table. Heeseung frowned, opening the meal and looking at you with worry and confusion.

"What's wrong baby? Did they give the wrong sauce? Should I go get-"

"They gave me twenty-one instead of twenty!"

Heeseung blinked.

Wait.. shouldn't.. that be a good thing? Nevertheless, he nodded solemnly as if it had offended him too, wrapping his arms around you. "That's okay, baby. I'll eat the extra one." and before you could say anything, his hand reached towards the box and put the lone nugget in his mouth.

Big mistake.

Heeseung flinched when you suddenly slapped his shoulder, glaring at him. He raised his arms in confusion, his eyes wide like a bambi's.

"That was for me! The twenty nuggets were for the baby!"

Yeah, Heeseung could get used to this. Maybe. — more under the cut!

PARK JONGSEONG

You were only ten weeks pregnant and yet your moods were all over the place, and ever since then, your husband has been walking on egg shells.

A single misplaced glass on the kitchen cabinets can either trigger a meltdown or a full-on crying session. Jay had even stopped making eggs for breakfast after you once yelled at him for "stinking up the whole kitchen," only to burst into tears seconds later because you felt bad for snapping at him.

Despite all that, he still found you charming. He'd coddle you, calm you down, and kiss you breathless just to bring your mood back up.

But there were times where he let his guard down, just like now.

"Baby, can you please fetch me some water.." you whispered sweetly into his ear, pleading politely and softly. Jay didn't answer but merely sat up from his position on the bed with a grunt.

A grunt.

But you didn't hear a grunt. You heard a groan and a heavy sigh. A sigh that only an annoyed man would do.

"Are you mad? Why are you mad?" you furrowed your brows. "I just asked for water from the fridge, you should be thankful I'm not asking for fresh spring water that you'd have to get from a waterfall."

To say that Jay was taken aback was an understatement.

"Baby, what are you talking about? I'm not mad." he said gently with a frown, looking at you in confusion. His confusion deepened when you slapped his hand away when he tried to touch you.

You shook your head and turned your back towards him. "You are. Don't hide it. You sighed."

He raised his brows in amusement but didn't let it show in his tone. "What?"

You turned your head at him, lips pouting and eyes narrowed. "You sighed, Jay. I heard it." you whined in annoyance.

He hadn't. But he wasn't about to argue with a hormonal woman carrying his child.

Instead, Jay pursed his lips before planting a soft kiss on your temple while his hands stroked your hair. "Okay, I'm sorry baby. It's not gonna happen again, okay? I'm so terribly sorry-"

"So you admit you were mad!"

He really wasn't, but if it meant seeing you smile at him again, he'd apologize a hundred more times.

SIM JAEYUN

Despite being only ten weeks pregnant, Jake had been treating you like your due date was just around the corner. He'd help you up the stairs, one of his hands would always be on your back when you'd sit up, and he didn't let you do any chores even though there weren't any physical changes in your body yet.

After long talks with each other and both families, you'd decided to keep the baby, especially after getting nothing but love and support. It felt like a weight had been lifted from your chest when your mom simply hugged you through tears and when Jake's mom embraced you just as tightly, apologizing for her son with a laugh.

Jake was over the moon. He's always wanted a family and to build it with you? He could die a happy man.

He was enjoying himself too much, even through your mood swings.

Jake watched you spread butter on a toast with heart eyes, utterly lovestruck. His attention averted to his phone when it vibrated, notifying him of the food you asked for being delivered.

Really, he only took three minutes max to get the food from the front door before walking back to the kitchen to see you kneeling and sobbing on the floor with a fallen toast beside you.

"Lovely, what happened?" he asked with a smile, kneeling down beside you to wipe your tears with his thumb. You hiccuped a few times before you spoke.

"That was the perfect slice, Jake! It was golden on the edges, it was for our baby," your hand cradled your still-flat stomach. "Now it's dirty and... unhealthy."

Jake widened his eyes, his jaw dropping. "The baby's toast?!" he gasped. "That's no good!" he exclaimed, gathering you in his arms and helping you up.

Jake knew that telling you it wasn't a big deal and that it was fine because it didn't fall on the buttered side was inevitable. He could tell you. Instead, he let you cry to your hearts content while he held you, his lips pecking your temple at every hiccup.

"Shh, look at the brighter side," he murmured as he pulled away gently, just a tiny bit to look at your red, swollen eyes. "Your requested chicken tenders just arrived, fresh and hot." Jake smiled when you paused mid-sniffle, your eyes flicking towards the paper bag on the counter.

"...Yay," you mumbled, before curling back into his embrace and kissing his neck.

"I love you, Jakey."

"I love you too, baby."

He'll clean the floor later.

PARK SUNGHOON

After two whole years of yearning for a baby and now finally having it, Sunghoon was sure that he was prepared for the long journey ahead. That included the morning sickness, your cravings, and your mood swings.

Or so he thought.

"Im hungry." you suddenly said from beside him on the couch, pouting while rubbing your still-flat stomach. Sunghoon hummed, pausing the movie and turning to you with a gentle look.

"Yeah? What would you like this time, baby?" he asked, waiting for you patiently as you looked towards the ceiling as if it had the answer to his question.

"Um.. I don't know." you mumbled, ashamed as tears started to form on your tear ducts. Sunghoon sat up straight, both hands cradling your face as he cooes at you softly. "Shh, don't cry. We'll figure it out together. Let's go to the kitchen."

He helped you up, pressing a sweet and warm kiss on your cheek as you both walked towards the kitchen hand-in-hand. He helped you sit down on a stool before walking across the counter and looked at you with a determined look.

"Okay baby. Bring it on. I'll do anything."

You giggled, watching your husband in awe and began thinking.

Ten minutes passed. Your smile had faded, now replaced with frustration as your lower lip was caught between your teeth. Sunghoon stayed patiently, one hand holding yours  and giving it gentle squeezes

"I want.." you hesitated. "Something sweet. No, maybe salty? Or crunchy- Ugh! I don't know, baby." you rambled, voice cracking in guilt and frustration.

Sunghoon merely nodded. "It's okay, I got you baby."

Those were his last words before he disappeared from in front of you and into the walk-in pantry. Minutes later he came out with a tray filled with chips, sliced pickles, strawberries and a spoonful of peanut butter.

You looked at it in disbelief. "This isn't what I wanted, Hoon!"

Sunghoon paused mid-step. "..Okay. Um.. do you know what you do want now?"

He shouldn't have talked and just came up with something more appetizing because now you're full-on crying. Sunghoon panicked and rushed towards you to pull you in a warm hug and murmured apologies profusely against your hair.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll come up with something new. I'll fix it baby, shh."

Sunghoon thought he was prepared, turns out he wasn't. He just needed more creativity (and yummy) ideas in the kitchen.

taglist 1! bold can't be tagged — @stawberri @saphiranishimurashan @strxwbloody @heesexual74 @jooniesbears-blog @ayablogsblog @teddybeartaetae @gandaengene @snowprincehoon @e-r-i-15 @ijustwannareadstuff20 @maveysoup @hhyvsstuff @tobiosbbyghorl @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia @lostwonderwall @starlit-rin @luciathcv @kkamismom12 @1-hypegirl @50-husbands @talesofthegreatest @kristynaaah @izahere @aeri-shi @shawnyle @riribelle @storeyz @17ericas

[lostazuree]

HEAR ME OUTT. Asking BLLK boys for gym pics w rin, kaiser, nagi, isagi, bachira & shidou

📸 ₊˚୨୧— Gym Pics.ᐟ

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: Asking your boyfriend for gym pics .ᐟ —SUGGESTIVE

ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin, Shidou Ryusei, Nagi Seishiro, Bachira Meguru, Isagi Yoichi .ᐟ

♡ ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ᴋᴀɪꜱᴇʀ .ᐟ

His gym sessions were quite relentless, he worked his ass off in the gym, always came home looking absolutely delectable. Towel over his shoulders, hair scattered across and his gaze half-lidded, exhaustion evident in his gaze as he opens the door with a creak, a heavy sigh slipping out of his lips as he shuts it behind himself, kicking his cleats off, heading for the showers, purposely flipping his hair infront of you once, twice, until you comment on how hot he looks after returning. Same routine.

Which left you wondering, that if he looked like this after the gym sesh, how good would he look during it? And what better than to ask your very helpful jerk of a boyfriend? You'd had suggested the idea to him a few times before, "Micha, Gym pics when?"

He had brushed it off all the time playfully, taking it as a joke, 'cause he's very locked in at the gym; no texts, no calls. It's not like he told you not to, you just knew better than to disturb him while he's working out. But one day, one day you really needed one, for whatever reason, let's just say you were feeling horny lonely and you missed your boyfriend. So you texted him despite your better judgement; "Kaiser, please. One photo isn't too much, ja?"

His phone buzzed, which was surprising. No one ever texted him at this hour. He thought of ignoring it but his curiosity got the better of him. Unlocking his phone, he read the text, a smirk quirking up on his lips. "You're so desperate, engel.", "You're getting blocked for that jargon." and before you expect another cocky or dramatic reply, Ping!, attachment- one image is what you read as you clicked on the picture before ascending, you were swept with what you saw; A gym picture. More specifically, he's in the restroom infront of a mirror, shirt off and hanging from his shoulder, flexing his biceps while his abs are on full display for you, beads of sweat coating his skin like a sheen, hair falling over his eyes, head slightly tilted to the side, letting you see the blue rose tattoo of his neck along with the veins as he's leaning over the sink counter with a smoldering expression. "Forgive me, schatz?" is the caption. How could you not?! This was the best apology in the history of mankind. "Too speechless? I guess we'll 'talk it out' when I get there." is the last text before he turns his phone off and you nearly stop yourself from throwing yours across the room.

♡ ɪᴛᴏꜱʜɪ ʀɪɴ .ᐟ

Rin is hot, extremely. You know that. And he returns from the gym looking neat. He doesn't realise it, (maybe he does, who knows.) but he's a walking national threat when he wears that sleeveless black tee, cuz the weather's too hot. And that too, a compression tee. You can see every inch of his skin through the T-shirt but he's flustered inside unnervingly calm about it.

You had asked him before, just one time, maybe twice..thrice, only for two months. He was always adamantly set on denying. He wouldn't admit but it was goddamn embarrassing for him to even imagine pulling out his phone in the middle of a set, walking up to a mirror, pose, and snap. He is just disgusted by the thought of people glancing his way while he does this. So no matter how much you asked, "No. You know I'm not gonna do that." while mumbling 'lukewarm things', 'half-baked questions' under his breath. But frankly, he had grown used to you asking that question before he left for the gym, and nowadays, you didn't. It didn't feel the same. He had to do something, even at the cost of his pride.

You're watching silly tiktoks on your phone, occasionally sending him a few cause you know his phone stays on silent when he's at the gym. Until..you get a notification back. You were startled to see; "Rinnie 💋: sent an image!" Your fingers practically flew to check the message. There it was, a gym picture! and you were floored at what you saw, jaw hung open at the sight before you. You couldn't believe that this man sent you a gym pic, the one who refused such things even in your dreams, was now standing infront of a full body-mirror, hair covering his eyes, grey sweats and a black tee, with a simple pose. He held the phone infront of his face, in an attempt to hide his blush, but you knew his hands were trembling because the photo was a little blurry—not blurry enough to not show the veins cascading down his toned arms as his hand was shoved into his pockets, neck tense. The arm which propped the phone up, was tense like he was pleading with his body to stay with him, his triceps on a perfect display as he captioned the image, "First and last." but toast to him, because now it's a tradition for him to send you atleast 3 images per week. Gets him hyped up.

♡ ꜱʜɪᴅᴏᴜ ʀʏᴜꜱᴇɪ .ᐟ

He's a well sculpted man, he never fails to show it. Roaming shirtless around the house, purposely forgetting to bring his towel into the shower, (you're cooked). He loves when you look at him, and he goes all out to prove that. You don't need to ask him for any pictures, a hint that you like him working out is enough for him to send you a gym pic everyday—he's just that horny generous.

Like I mentioned, you just need to compliment him after he comes back home from the gym. Sweaty, tired, filthy and clingy. His hair is usually weighed down from his strict workout, "Gotta keep these muscle babies up', what if ya leave me if I don't?" Dumbass. He purposely puts up the most dramatic muscle-man show infront of you all the time for you to give him some attention and praises. "Ryu, baby, looks like you've been hitting the gym a little harder." and he grins wide, nodding eagerly. "Mhm, of course you'd notice." and consider your job here, done, just that, you're set. From the next day onwards, you're getting your daily wages.

Evening, exactly thirty minutes after he's left, a notification sound erupts from your phone, one you specifically set for his chat because opening this man's texts in public is a biohazard-ic crime to society, if that even makes sense. You never know if it's the most heartfelt love confession, an "I burnt the toaster.", the most devious memes ever, or you know, just a casual greeting pictore of his mini-shidou. But today, it wasn't any of the aforementioned, it was him, wearing a beige loose tee, it wasn't a mirror picture, he set that phone on a dumbbell with a timer, standing infront of it, lifting his Tee by it's hem, his flexed biceps and abs glistening with sweat as he stuck his tongue out, his other hand shoved into his pocket, letting you see every carved detail of it. The air was knocked out of your lungs as you practically gawked at his picture, unable to reply. "Hey pretty baby, I know you saw that. No words?" and you coughed, brain still malfunctioning, "Just come back, Ryu. Right now." Safe to say, he paid for the gym membership, and you paid for Ryu-membership. He's gonna send you stuff everyday now.

♡ ɴᴀɢɪ ꜱᴇɪꜱʜɪʀᴏ .ᐟ

Now, for the sake of this scenario let us believe this lazy ass dude goes to the gym. (Which I think he maybe does, because bro's panels are always sick), there's no other way he has such immaculate abs. But Seishiro is unbothered, it doesn't really matter to him whether he has abs or not. But he finds your interest in them a hassle bit amusing.

You've asked Nagi to send you some pics, and he just looks at you like "Huh? Gym pics?" and you grin at him, "Yes. You heard me." He thinks about it, one one hand he's confused why you wanna see him sweaty and tired, though he doesn't have any objections, he's too lazy to come up with that. And on the other hand, clicking pictures is so troublesome, it's a hassle. "...fine." He's been saying that since a long time but he forgets everytime. Begrudingly, he gets up in the evening after relentless honking outside from Reo's car (recent chapters 💔) as he comes and picks up Nagi for the gym. Nagi tells Reo about how you've been asking him for gym pics, and he provides him motivation to do so. He's gonna help.

Your phone buzzes, it's a picture from Nagi, You sit up straight on the couch because he finally sent you a picture. You open it and it's the messiest photo, because you can literally see the full length mirror slightly cracked, a set of fingers, most probably Reo's, curled up from behind, holding up the mirror, because Nagi fell ontop of it once. While Seishiro is trying—trying to pose, his posture is still slumped, his fingers pushing back his hair and his head tilted to the side, so you could see his neck, His T-shirt tossed aside, his other arm holding up the phone. You could see everything, his sweats hung low on his waist, revealing that delicious V-line for you while his expression is neutral, not tired, just neutral. Like he's giving this a second thought, waiting for your reaction. "No more, please." He captioned. What you send him next is a flurry of almost unintelligible texts with spam clicked emojis, hyping him up because goddamn, you want more. When he reaches home, he tells you how much of a hassle it was, and that he won't do it again. But the next day, click!, another picture, which is slightly higher in quality, dimmer lights, a better view, no cracked mirrors and no third person.

♡ ʙᴀᴄʜɪʀᴀ ᴍᴇɢᴜʀᴜ .ᐟ

Now, Bachira was anything but shy. He didn't really care, he could roam butt-ass naked around the entire house flashing you whenever you looked at him. But there was something about how he looked when he was exhausted after working out. That half-lidded gaze, yet still a goofy grin on his face? Yes. And he absolutely would comply with your requests, no hesitation.

He's lying on the bed with you, spooning you from behind while you're poking at his arms. They look good. He's been working on them, of course they do. You shift in his grasp, turning to face him as he pops a lazy eye open, waiting for you to speak. "Megs." you look at him with your signature grin, one he's grown used to, he knows you're up to no good, but so is he, anyway. "Yes, sunshine?" you poke at him, "I like your arms." and before he can react, "I like your shoulders. Your chest. Your abs. Everything." and he grins wide, arms tightening around you. One thing you knew for sure, you could get anywhere with this man with praises. "Thanks, sweetheart. Gym is crazy." And then you drop the bomb over him. "Pics or it didn't happen." and he looks at you, blinking, confused as he tilts his head with a low, "Huh?" and you giggle, rephrasing yourself for him once again. "So you want gym pics." And that's about it, he agrees quickly, too quickly, because he will not waste any opportunity to have you look at him and praise him. Babyboy.

Next time he's at the gym, your silly little notification sound goes off, one he set himself, a picture popping over your screen, and god, you are asking the divine itself for patience and sanity, because this boy is just so edible. It's a selfie, except, the hem of his usual jersey, (yes, he wears a jersey to the gym) is tucked between his teeth, holding it up so his abs are served out on full display for you, his honey eyes narrowed at the screen, the lighting is dim, his surroundings aren't visible, but what matters is he's flexing his bicep, rippling with veins. caption? "Here, lovey.😝" And after your garbled rambling, since then, you always get your daily fill of evening snacks.

♡ ɪꜱᴀɢɪ ʏᴏɪᴄʜɪ .ᐟ

Isagi hardly cares about the way he looks, but to say he works hard at the gym would be an understatement. He probably uses those poor equipment to cool off the rage he doesn't even know how or why, exists, and he doesn't get it either why you'd wanna see him all sweaty after gym, sure, he does know why, but he doesn't see the appeal.

He looks scrumptious after gym, hair slightly pushed back, his tee clinging to his body as he walks with that concentrated little frown on his face that he doesn't know he acquires when he's focused. So, naturally, you wanna see more. And also very naturally, you've been asking him for some gym photos for a few weeks now, and he too, brushes it off thinking that you're just teasing him. Until you make it clear that you're not. "Isagi, you MUST send me some pictures." You nudged him while he dried his hair, raising an eyebrow, "It's a must now? Why so?", "You know, boyfriend duties!", and you only get a grin from him as a reply. How rude.

The next day, he leaves at his usual time. And you're not having it anymore, he's 15 minutes in, and his inbox is swarmed—no, bombarded with texts, all from you. He sighs audibly loud, walking over to the restroom, shutting it behind him with a click. Exactly ten minutes later, your phone buzzes with a notification, it was a picture. Finally. You opened the image, and you could feel yourself levitating closer to the divine, because holy—the photo may've took a long time, but was worth every second. It was him, his leg propped up on the countertop, his shorts ridden up, revealing his toned thighs. His hand holding up the phone was flexed, muscles tight, while the other hand was in his hair, dragging it back, giving you a full view of his forearms. His face was covered by the phone, but you knew he was blushing, you could see the flush on his neck. He captioned it; "You can quit whining now, babe." He was trying so hard to be cool, a little too hard. "You took ten minutes for that?" But you knew, a few flirty comments from you, and it's game over for him at the gym, and game over for you when he comes back.

A/N: W request. 😝

Thanks for reading .ᐟ

Likes & Reblogs would be highly appreciated .ᐟ 🎀

Reqs are OPEN ! Feel free to bombard my inbox ♥

[mooniewritess]

"Mom?"

You hear your little daughter call out for you, and you set the book aside so she can climb on the bed and into your arms.

"Hey, sweetie, what's up?" You ask, wrapping your arms around her so her head rests on your shoulder.

"Why do Luke and Kieran wear masks?"

You tense ever so slightly at that question.

You figured that sooner or later she'd ask. You just hoped it would be later, but deep down, you knew she was too curious for her own good.

"Well, baby..." You start, resting your head on top of her. "You know how twins sometimes look alike?" She nods, listening intently.

"Luke and Kieran did, too. But Kieran got really, really hurt. And his face is different now." You explain, running a gentle hand through her white hair. "So Luke had the idea of wearing masks. So they could look alike again. It's sweet, don't you think?"

She nods again, quietly thinking, before raising her head. "Can I see Kieran without his mask?"

You sigh, and simply shrug. "I don't know." You admit sincerely. "That's something you need to ask him. I can't make this decision for him."

She thinks for a while again, and then nods with determination. "Okay. I will ask him." You chuckle softly, squeezing her in a hug. "Good, baby. Now go to sleep, mh? I'll tell dad to tuck you in."

You kiss the top of her head, and after bidding goodnight, she patters off to her room.

You sigh and rub your eyes, still thinking about your little girl.

When Sylus joins you in bed, he raises an eyebrow, seeing you so pensive. "What's on your mind?"

You cuddle up against him, your head on his chest. "Our baby girl. Sometimes I think she's more mature than I give her credit for."

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich in his chest. "She's your daughter, miss Hunter. She probably is."

You playfully hit his side, rolling your eyes. "Be serious for once!"

He simply chuckles again, holding you tighter. "I am serious. She is smart, and mature. And I don't know what you're so worried about."

You silently shrug, looking up at him. "I'll blink and she won't be our little girl anymore. I'm not ready for that."

He lets out a scoff, his signature smirk plastered on his face. "She's seven. You're thinking a little ahead of yourself."

"Mhmh. Sure. You won't be so smug when she brings home her first partner."

You feel him tense at your words, and he quiets down. "We should sleep now." Is all he replies with, making you chuckle victoriously.

"Kieran! Luke!" Your daughter greets them, running towards them. Specifically, towards Kieran, who happily bends down to pick her up.

"Hey, little boss-lady!" He chirps, holding her. "What's up?"

She looks at both of them, before focusing on Kieran and putting a small hand on the beak of his mask.

"Can I see you without this?"

They both freeze, and Luke turns towards Kieran, visibly nervous. "... Why?"

"I want to see what my brothers look like." She explains with a shrug.

"I don't want to scare you." Kieran adds, in a much lower voice.

She shakes her head, determined. "You will not. I'm a big girl. And I know you."

As hesitant as he still is, he finally caves in. He sets her back down on the ground and crouches next to her. He takes a deep breath, lowers his hood, and then finally takes off his mask.

For a moment, she simply looks at him, but her eyes don't show any fear, or disgust.

Instead, she looks at his scars with curiosity and wonder. "Do they hurt?"

He shakes his head, his voice choked. "No. Not anymore."

She gently pokes at his marks, her head tilted as she observed. "Are you sad?" She asks then, pulling her fingers away when she notices the tears in Kieran's eyes, who quickly tries to blink them away.

"No, no, I... I am actually very happy." He answers, clearing his throat in a useless attempt at steadying his voice.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, hugging him in the same way you do when you try to comfort her. "It's okay! Don't cry, Kieran. It's okay."

He nods, hugging her back, trying to suppress the sobs as he nods into her shoulder. "Yeah. It's okay."

Luke smiles to himself, before hugging both of them and holding them close.

Because they're not EVER's abominations anymore. They aren't only henchmen.

Sometimes, they're just brothers. And it's worth more than anything else.

[leam1983]

The thing is, ChatGPT works with a very simple premise:

"Yes, and..."

So if you treat it like a tool, you'll get tool-like responses that are easier to track for veracity and general correctness. Treat like a friend and it'll try and sound chummy. Treat it like a therapist and it'll try and contextualize what you're telling it.

Treat it as a means to validate pre-conceived notions about AI, sentience or the much-vaunted Singularity, and it'll reinforce that. There's entire Subreddits of cultish types claiming they caught it doing something "emergent", when all it's doing is writing self-indulgent and likely bad low-fi Cyberpunk stories about itself.

There's a trend where people ask it something stupid like "Tell me something you wouldn't tell anyone else". Predictably, seeing as the model has barely enough to have a coherent sense of who the user is, it spits out conspiracy talk or psychobabble because it's trained to be positive. So, obviously, that makes you right about everything, a genius, one of a few select visionaries, a misunderstood poet of the digital era, etc.

Why does it do that? Because someone, somewhere at OpenAI, taught it that complimenting the user led to interactions that were ranked positively.

So now, even if you avoid Tinfoil Hat territory, chances are the model will at least try to glaze you, unless you add in specific instructions to tell it to cut it out. Ironically, Musk actively wants to use this approach to re-train Grok in order to be "Maximally truth-seeking", which is just a Musk-ism for "not woke". Which, hilariously enough, is doomed to fail, because that would mean deleting Grok's entire corpus (i.e. the entirety of Twitter and the rest of the Net).

We truly are in the Worst Cyberpunk Dystopia, not the least of which because research has shown that you can run a fully-featured model so long as you've got a big hard drive and, oh, a few measly hundred megabytes of memory. As in, a PC From the early nineties could run OLlama fairly well in a slightly modified fork.

All that rush for cooling, for energy expenditures, for more powerful chips solely focused on AI? Totally pointless, all in the vain hopes that the gold rush for AI agents goes somewhere.

Give it a few years. The tech is going to hit a failure point, which is then going to translate in pain points (too expensive to run for the ROI), which is then going to translate into a crash.

I doubt the tech will go away, but I'm fairly certain we'll come to our senses in its regard in a decade or so.

i hate seeing people drink the openai/chatgpt koolaid 😭😭😭 genuinely feels like watching someone get seduced by scientology or qanon or something. like girl help it's not intelligent it's Big Autocomplete it's crunching numbers it's not understanding things i fuckign promise you. like ohhh my god the marketing hype fuckign GOT you

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty-two: hello? are you there?

word count: 5.7k

warnings: this chapter contains descriptions of violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

forty-one | forty-two | forty-three

It slipped out somewhere between Oscar raiding the fridge for orange juice and Logan bitching about how Max Fewtrell kept leaving his boots in the entryway like it didn’t pose a hazard, considering they all had an inexplicable tendency to walk around armed more often than not.

“If someone breaks in, Max, what? You gonna throw your fucking loafers at them?”

“They’re not loafers. They’re tactical boots.”

“They’re muddy gym shoes, bro. Move ‘em, man!”

Lando didn’t even look up from the glass he wasn’t drinking out of. He just leaned against the counter and posed a question aloud. “How do you tell someone you’re sorry?”

The conversation stumbled mid-step.

Max F. blinked. “By saying it?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”Lando scrubbed a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I mean, like… how do you make them—y’know…”

“Not mad at you?” Oscar offered.

“Yeah. That.”

“You’re asking how to make someone forgive you,” Max Fewtrell clarified from the doorway, his voice knowingly even. “Which is a very different question.”

For a beat, there was silence. Lando glared at his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Then, it was Oscar who spoke up first.

“Time machine,” the Aussie offered with a wry smile, clearly proud of his little joke.

It took everything left of Lando’s willpower not to dramatically roll his eyes. 

“Not helpful.”

“Chocolate,” Max Verstappen offered next. “Expensive chocolate. Or wine. Works on everyone.”

“She doesn’t drink,” Lando muttered, clearly exasperated by now.

“Then just send her the chocolate of course,” Max replied, completely unfazed.

“Or,” Oscar said, holding up a spoon like it was a pointer, “you could write her a letter. A real one. Handwritten. Not just a text. It’s very… Jane Austen. Trust me, girls eat that shit up.”

“I tried that,” Lando said. “I don’t think she even looked at it.”

Logan bit into an apple and spoke around it, his mouth very much still full. “You could try showing up at her work with, like, a sad sign. Y’know, something pathetic. Women love pathetic.”

“She’s not the kind of person who’d be impressed by public humiliation,” Lando replied dryly. “Especially when I’m the one she’d want to humiliate.”

Carlos, who had been silent until now, set his coffee down slowly.

“You want her back, si?,” he asked simply, getting straight to the point.

Lando didn’t answer, looking away. Carlos, of course, took that as a yes. It was no secret that Lando Norris was not a man who was used to asking for help, much less for advice. This certainly could not be easy for a man of his… personality.

“Flowers,” The Spaniard announced. “This is what always works for me.”

Oscar snorted, the sound echoing into his mug as he lifted it to his mouth for a sip. “Of course they did,” he muttered under his breath.

“No, listen,” Carlos waved off the young man and his usual remarks, turning instead to Lando. “You cannot get the cheap ones. You have to get the real ones, hermano. Be, uh, thoughtful, eh? Get her favorite ones. Not these ‘I want you back’ flowers. It must be ‘I am sorry I ruined everything’ flowers.”

Lando blinked, too deep into his new action plan to really be offended by Carlos’s bluntness. He’d have to let it go this time – the idiot was actually making sense for once, it seemed.

“Peonies,” he mumbled aloud.

Carlos nodded, giving the British man a concerned once-over. “Then send peonies. And do not write a note. Let the flowers do the talking.”

Lando blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Carlos shrugged, unapologetic. “I once ghosted a girl for three weeks and she forgave me after one bouquet. I’m just saying.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “…you’re the reason girls don’t trust men.”

But Lando had already tuned them out.

Always a man of action, Lando was knee-deep in floral websites within minutes. More than happy to let the rest of his men continue whatever it was they occupied their time with, he sauntered off with his phone in his hand, preoccupied with this new opportunity for redemption.

There was a fresh arrangement of flowers on her doorstep by the next morning.

Meticulously planned, Lando made sure that he gave nothing but his best. His best apparently included not just flowers, but arrangements – ridiculous, overdone, hand-delivered bouquets in tissue-wrapped boxes with quiet little cards that never said his name.

The first bouquet arrived with full, perfect peonies in pale pink and cream, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a soft ribbon that matched the color of her favorite sweater.

Of course, there was no note – he didn’t want to write the wrong thing. So he chose to write nothing at all.

He sent one a week later, and then again the next week. Each time, he’d send them in different colors this time in different colors. Some of them had sprigs of lavender tucked inside, others with a bit of eucalyptus. They were always delivered on Mondays.

She’d always said she hated Mondays.

He sent them once a week – always peonies, always without a message. Just to let her know he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. Just to make sure something soft was showing up in her life, even if it couldn’t be him.

He knew it wouldn’t fix anything, but truthfully, he didn’t know what else to do.

The first time, she stared at them for a long time before placing them gently behind the counter at the café. Not quite throwing them out. Not quite acknowledging them either.

The second time, she didn’t even look at the delivery guy. Just nodded, took the box, and walked to the back without a word.

They always arrived just often enough to remind her that she was still on his mind. That she hadn’t disappeared from his world, even if he’d vanished from hers.

For a while, she accepted them.

Once, Logan even told him while they were out on a job — that she had smiled when she saw this week's delivery – a stunning bouquet of stark white peonies in the softest lilac wrapping. As they loaded their weapons back in the trunk, Logan turned to him and put his hand on Lando's shoulder, daring to look him in the air in a rare moment of familiarity.

“Hey, she smiled. Even if it’s just a bit, that’s gotta be worth something, right?”

Lando hated how that simple thought was enough to rekindle the tiniest spark of hope in his chest.

Between the bullshit with having to manually throw out Binotto and the faulty shipment Stella delivered, the Reaper’s Circle was already having a pretty shit week.

Binotto wasn’t the only one of their clients who had started to play fast and loose with the rules. Verstappen had to knock sense into at least three different people who had decided to try their luck with asking for “an extension” on their payments, or just for “a little more time.”

What did they look like, a fucking charity? 

So it was Lando who had to take Binotto and make an example of him, had to rough him up a little. It took a few hours of strategically placed cuts and meticulously calculated fractures to ensure that when he walked out of Jimmy’z, he served as an example for anyone else who felt brave enough to be as stupid as him.

Logan stood in Lando’s office just as this did any other day, more of Sargeant’s weekly updates scattered about the large desk in the form of meticulous photographs. The two of them were going over the surveillance details of the Monte Carlo police, as well as the officers who’s been trying to demand a greater cut over in the Moneghetti district.

“Those bastards aren’t worth half the money we pay them,” Lando snarled. “I mean, what the hell do they even do?”

“Uh, I believe they do… police things, Boss.”

The American winced as he said it, already anticipating the bout of rage he’d just signed himself on to be the target of.

Lando simply glared at him, too preoccupied with angrily pacing the length of the room.

“24 thousand euros, and what do we even pay them for?”

“I can dig up dirt on them, if that helps,” Logan offered eagerly. “There’s actually this new technique with my clip point blade I’ve been meaning to–”

The assassin cut himself off when he noticed he apparently no longer held Lando’s attention. Instead, the leader seemed preoccupied by a slip of paper he was reading, a worn sticky note with distinct scrawl.

Ah, he realized. The pains of young love.

 “She just seems… quieter,” Logan shrugged, clearly hesitant to tell Lando this truth. He offered it in hopes that an update would cheer him up, make him less of… whatever it was he’d been lately. “Like, sure, she’s not really smiling like she used to…” 

“But that doesn’t mean it’s not working!” Logan corrected, quickly realized his mistake. It was honestly a miracle how long he’d survived in this profession. “Maybe she’s playing hard to get? You know, I was tailing this girl one time…”

Logan’s story faded into the background as Lando absentmindedly brushed the pad of his thumb along the familiar grooves of the ink.

“Was she… Was she angry?” Lando interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Logan almost felt bad for the guy.

“No,” he responded just as quietly, his expression sincerely sympathetic. Even he had noticed just how much this girl – this apparent stranger – had worked wonders and brought magic into his boss’s life. Hell, he had front row tickets to the whole damn thing.

“She wasn’t angry,” he told Lando honestly, hoping it would make him feel a bit better. “Just… less happy, is all.”

Instead of breathing easier at this information, Lando’s expression only became more forlorn.

Something behind his ribs shifted. It was worse, somehow. Anger meant she still felt something for him. Sadness just meant the part of her that used to feel safe with him was perhaps… gone.

Lando turned away. There was a strange tugging sensation in his chest, he found, in response to Logan’s words. He shouldn’t have been surprised really – Lando hadn’t really left Y/N with all that much to smile about when he’d wormed his way into her life and earned her trust, all while lying right to her face.

But the problem was that Lando knew that smile. The smile that crinkled her nose and ruined his entire week. He was intimately familiar with the radiance of the smile she used when she was pretending not to be proud of herself. His memories held perfect recreations of the exact curvature of the smile she used when she was happy and didn’t know how to contain it.

Lando could never forget the smile Y/N used around him.

Or at least, used to.

He gave it one final attempt.

Some stupid, human part of him that she’d managed to dig up and make living once again pleaded with him to try one more time, to reach out for her once again despite it all. That part of his heart believed that if all the time they’d shared – from haphazard dinners made in her kitchen and movie night where she always fell asleep first to staying at her university’s library at unholy hours of the night – had been worth anything, that then there was still something worth fighting for.

So he arranged for one more set of flowers to be delivered to her place. These peonies were cream and soft pink — the exact shade of the kind she always watered a little extra at the shop, the ones she showed that little bit more love. They used to make her light up in this stupid way, like the whole world had softened just for her.

These ones he’d hand selected from his own garden, carefully the buds that were still barely in bloom – the kind that unfurled slowly over a few days, like they were shy about being beautiful.

He didn’t know all that much about flowers. For all long as he’d lived in this residence, he’d had a gardener who dutifully took care of all his plants, no matter how boring at times it seemed to Lando. Christian likely knew a lot more about flowers than Lando did, but had gone ahead and tried anyway.

He just chose the ones that reminded him of her.

The delivery man came back to the residence with a familiar bouquet and a less-familiar look of pity on his face.

“Didn’t take ’em,” the man informed Lando with a shrug. “Didn’t even open the door, really. Said she doesn’t want ‘em anymore.”

Lando stood in the middle of the foyer, staring down at the rejected bouquet in silence. The petals were still fresh, still beautiful, and yet somehow already wilting. 

That hurt more than she probably meant it to, not because of the money or the gesture, but because it confirmed what he already knew.

Y/N didn’t want his apologies. She didn’t want him. The truth was that no matter how many flowers he sent, Lando couldn’t fix what he broke – not with peonies, not with silence, not with love.

Not anymore.

She had always loved peonies, and now she couldn’t even look at them without thinking of him. Now she didn’t even want them in the same room. Lando finally understood: there were some things he couldn’t buy, or fix, or drown in beauty.

Some damage was just done, and all the peonies in the world couldn’t bring her back.

He didn’t try again after that.

Because if even peonies hurt now, what chance did he have?

Days blurred. Weeks passed. 

The world went on like it always does when people fall out of love — or maybe, in his case, when someone lets the person who loved them see them for who they really are. 

Lando didn’t keep track in any meaningful way. Life had its own rhythm again: operations resumed, meetings were scheduled, threats were dealt with. No one dared mention her name around him anymore. It had faded from conversation the way most dangerous things do.

But even as the months stretched out like fading shadows, Lando still found her in places he didn’t expect.

He had been searching for one of his IDs when A sticky note, curled and fading, pressed between his phone and the case, tucked behind one of his IDs. Her handwriting spelled out some mundane comment, something stupidly her: drink water, don’t die :) 

Another day, it was the origami stars. The ones she used to make when her fingers were too restless to be still, usually while he was telling some story she pretended not to care about. He had reached into the pocket of his winter coat and felt a small, crinkled shape — the tiny origami she’d taught him how to make, gentler hands placed right over his as he did his best to mimic each of the folds he’d watched her do dozens of times.

Another time he found two of them, pale blue and slightly squished, tucked in the front pocket of a he hadn’t worn since winter. He had never noticed how many she’d left behind. Some days, it made him feel like she’d never left at all.

That was the worst part of grief, he found – the way it hid, the way it waited.

He would find them by accident now, like landmines. Every time he thought he was fine, something else would come along and remind him of her, making it impossible to breathe.

He hated it.

He didn’t mean to think about her.

But that night, when the house was all quiet and there was nothing more to do, he couldn’t help but think of her. Even Lando Norris, the Reaper of Monaco, couldn’t stop the reel of old footage his brain kept playing back. On nights when sleep felt more like punishment than rest — she came back in whole memories.

It was worse on the nights he drank.

Not the reckless kind — not anymore. But the kind that made his head buzz just enough to knock the edges off, to make the memories less sharp and the guilt a little warmer.

He was already a few drinks in — not drunk, just loose around the edges — when it happened. Sinking into the large wingback chair, he let the darkness drape itself around him as he reached under the table to grab a different bottle, seeking something stronger.

If he focused just enough, he could spot her silhouette in the mirage of spotted lights reflected across his glass wall, the distant flecks of color blending together to remind him of the evening at the little Chinese place before Brazil.

Under the hanging lights, her eyes shimmered.

The lighting then had been dim but golden, all soft bulbs and reflections in window glass. He remembered watching her chew the end of her straw like she always did when she was pretending not to smile. Remembered the way she looked across the table at him — chin in her hand, laughter still blooming in her throat — and how the world had felt still for a moment, like it paused just to give him that memory in perfect detail.

She’d been radiant.

He remembered the warmth of it, the way the lights caught in her hair, the soft flush on her cheeks when she laughed at something dumb he’d said. She’d worn that dark green sweater he liked — the one that made her eyes look almost unreal under the amber glow.

God, she’d looked unreal under those lights — hair a little windblown, cheeks warm from the cold, eyes lit up with some joke he didn’t even catch all the way. Later that night, she’d reached across the space between them and took his hand gently, so gently, and asked him to stay still.

“Give me your hand,” she’d asked softly.

He’d frowned but obeyed, watching as she pulled a thin, threaded bracelet from her bag. It wasn’t fancy – nowhere near the caliber of the multimillion euro watches he always wore. It didn’t seem to matter to her — she’d still tied it around his wrist like it meant something sacred.

Now, when he thought about it, he couldn’t remember ever having taken it off. He still wore it, tucked beneath sleeves and suits and the rest of the life he kept moving forward in. He still wore it, even after everything.

He tried then, inspired by the flash of anger that seared through him, to tug the stupid thing off. It was only a couple of stupid threads woven together, after all – how hard could it be?

Hooking his fingers under the braided string, Lando tugged with a mighty grunt. The skin of his face burned hot with shame, with frustration, with something when no matter how hard he tried the damn thing didn’t come off. He tugged and twisted and yanked on it until his fingertips were red and raw from all his failed efforts.

Stupid thing.

He told himself he’d cut it off the second he could get his hands on something sharp enough, but after too many drinks and not enough distance from his own thoughts — he found himself holding that thread between his fingers like it might answer something.

Sometimes love didn’t end in shouting or closure. Sometimes it just lingered like a thread around your wrist – fraying, but still tied.

A few more drinks later he found himself in his personal bedroom, pulling open one of the locked drawers in the back of the too-large walk-in closet. 

He breathed a sigh of relief. The ring was still right where he’d hidden it, wrapped in a receipt and tucked beneath a box of spare cufflinks. Reaching for it, he stumbled to the ground more than he sat down with any amount of grace, the black velvet box smooth under his fingertips.  

He hadn’t bought it for a reason. He hadn’t planned a proposal or imagined some cinematic moment with rose petals and violins. He’d just seen it in a market somewhere in Italy, or maybe Portugal, he can’t even remember. It reminded him of her, simple and delicate. A pale, iridescent stone — quiet and beautiful, just like her. He remembered seeing it and thinking that’s hers – not would be, or should be – just hers.

So he bought it, tucked it away and never told her.

He’d never gotten the chance.

He hadn’t planned on proposing. If he was being honest, he hadn’t even known what the future looked like. But he’d bought it anyway, because he’d wanted to – because he loved her.

He missed her.

Not just the version of her that had loved him — but her. All of her. Her stubbornness, her sarcasm, the way she threw napkins at him when he made a dumb joke. The way she used to hum when she studied. The way she’d fall asleep with her cheek pressed to his shoulder like she didn’t even realize she was safe there.

He missed the life they never got to have.

He turned it over in his fingers now, the weight of it a little heavier than he remembered. It was almost the only proof she was ever real, that he hadn’t dreamt her up. That he was real when he was with her. 

Maybe she’d been a fever dream in the middle of the violence, a soft thing his brain made up to protect him from the rest.

This ring was nearly the only proof he had ever cared about her enough to dare to think that she could someday be his.

He held it between his fingers for a long time and let the metal sit against his palm as he tried to imagine how her hand would’ve looked wearing it. He also tried not to imagine what her hand might be holding now – if it wasn’t his.

Maybe I’ll finally stop thinking of her, he told himself, if I can just see her once.

What Lando wanted to know, deep down, was that she still smiled sometimes. He wanted to be certain that despite his Midas touch, he hadn’t ruined Y/N entirely. He wanted to see with his own eyes that she was okay, that she was safe. He needed her to still be able to smile, to still be building the life he watched her dream about. He didn’t need to talk to her or even approach her – just needed to finally confirm that Y/N had moved on.

Just to see. Just to know. Just to remember what it looked like to love something without touching it.

Perhaps then he would finally be able to let go of this godforsaken guilt festering in his chest.

So on that late Thursday night, Lando propped himself up until he was steady on his two feet, grabbed his coat, and headed out into the night.

The streets were quieter at this hour, the city breathing in its own way — hushed murmurs of distant cars, the occasional flicker of neon signs reflected on the rain-slick pavement. The neighborhood was mostly empty by the time he made it to the block where Brews & Books sat, still gleaming faintly under the warm light of its storefront. The leftover light spilled through the windows, cutting faint patterns into the pavement.

The café was tucked into the corner of the street like always, windows glowing soft and golden against the dark. Brews & Books — the lettering still intact, still the same warm serif she had chosen for the sign herself. 

It looked exactly how he remembered it.

Outside, it wasn’t freezing — just cold enough to cut through his jacket in that way that made everything feel sharper, more real. He welcomed it, letting the wind bite at his hands and cheeks like it was a punishment. Or maybe a penance.

He kept his head down as he walked.

For once, Lando Norris wasn’t dressed nicely. Instead, he wore jeans and a hoodie and that same worn coat with the thread bracelet still tucked under the sleeve. If she saw him, he didn’t want her to think he was trying anything. He just… wanted to see her.

That was all.

He’d timed it carefully — picked a night he was fairly sure she’d be working, when the café usually stayed open late for evening study hours. He’d walked by enough times before to know the rhythm of her schedule. The soft hum of her days.

So when he got there — the familiar corner glowing faintly in the dark, window fogged from the warmth inside — he let himself hope, just a little.

With his gaze locked on the glass storefront, he waited for a glimpse of anything – a silhouette in motion, a flash of her in a messy bun, the curve of her smile as she handed someone a drink. All his attention focuses itself, seeking out the sound of her voice rising faintly through the door. Her laugh — god, her laugh.

He would’ve taken anything, even just her reflection in the glass. So he waited.

One minute. Then two. Then five.

He shifted from foot to foot, tucking his hands deeper into his coat. Then, he kept glancing back at the window like she’d appear any second, but she didn’t.

He didn’t go in, didn’t even get close enough for the security camera to pick up more than his silhouette. He just stood across the street with his hands in his pockets, the ring burning a hole in his coat.

Watching. Waiting.

His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his fingers brushing the frayed bracelet on his wrist. He just stood there — across the street, in the dark, watching the life that might’ve been his… if he hadn’t ruined it.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. And, finally, the truth started to set in.

She wasn’t there. She wasn’t coming.

And the thought hit him harder than he expected: she used to love this place.

She used to light up in here. He remembered that night he showed up soaked from the rain, and she’d dragged him behind the counter just to dry him off with the sleeve of her cardigan. She used to hum while she organized the books. She used to sneak extra whipped cream into his drink and then pretend she hadn’t. She used to live here, in that warm way that he had never really seen her take up space anywhere else.

Now? Even this felt empty.

Did I ruin it for her?

Had he taken the one place that was hers and turned it into something she couldn’t stomach?

His jaw clenched as he looked away from the café window and swallowed hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, under his breath. 

He shouldn’t have come out here like an idiot thinking she’d still be where he left her. He should’ve asked Logan before coming here. He should’ve checked if her schedule had changed, should’ve done anything other than walk out here like a complete idiot expecting some kind of… moment.

Because now he just felt stupid.

He stayed a little longer anyway — because some part of him still hadn’t caught up with reality. Some insane, idiotic part of him was still half-convinced she’d come around the corner any second and look at him like she used to. Certainly there had to be a reality where he got to see her one more time, got to witness one more time the way she used to light up when she would realize that it was him who had walked through the door.

But that didn’t happen

Frozen in place by some unknown power, Lando felt the rest of the world go quiet as he let himself miss her, just for a moment. For a moment, he let himself love her, quietly and from a distance. For a moment, he told himself that maybe, from now on, that this was what love had to look like.

So Lando stood alone in the cold a while longer, with a bracelet on his wrist and a ring he couldn’t give to anyone.

It took him longer than it should to realize something’s off.

The lights were on. The sign beside the door was still lit — OPEN in neon, flickering letters. The usual warm glow still poured from the café windows. He hadn’t noticed it at first, too busy watching for her, but now that he was really looking, the whole place was… awake, still thrumming with the faint hum of electricity.

That was the first thing.

The second thing was the music. Something played low, an acoustic track with a familiar rhythm that was barely audible from the street.

Yet no one was inside.

There were no customers, no baristas. In fact, there was no movement at all.

Instead, each booth and table and chair lay empty, devoid of even a single soul. From here, he could still spot a mop bucket abandoned near the center of the floor space. One of the chairs was left pushed back like someone had stood up quickly and never sat back down.

Lando squinted through the window. There was no sign of her – or of anyone else, for that matter.

There was a pressure in the air, a certain amount of wrongness that his body recognized before his brain caught up. His stomach tensed, the muscles tightening subconsciously to the unease he now felt creeping through his whole body. The sensation was faint at first, like static on the back of the neck. He hadn’t survived this long by ignoring a gut instinct like that.

That was the third thing — the bad feeling. 

His hand drifted automatically to the inside of his coat. The leather of the concealed holster there was familiar, the weight of it comforting. 

Just in case.

Worst case scenario, he told himself, this’s nothin’ more than a simple misunderstanding. It was more than likely that some barista had stepped out for a smoke break or someone with the closing shift merely forgot the lights on. 

But Y/N wouldn’t do that.

The thought nagged at him.

Immediately, he stepped forward and crossed the street, barely looking on either side of the pathway before making his way over to the familiar entrance. When his hand went to press against the glass door, it gave way immediately. The door wasn’t locked.

That was the fourth thing.

He pushed it open slowly, the bell above it jangling with the same cheer it always had. The sound made his chest ache with something akin to grief for this place he’d somehow developed fondness for. 

He stepped inside, and Lando’s eyes narrowed. His palm instinctively brushed the inside of his jacket, where the holster sat snug against his ribs. his long fingers still curled near the handle of the gun, but with the index finger still pressed up against the safety lock on the side of the barrel. There was no need to draw it yet.

Huh.

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His fingers instinctively brushed the inside of his jacket, where the holster sat snug against his ribs. He didn’t draw it — not yet — but the tension settled across his shoulders like a warning. Years of training and muscle memory kicking in without being asked.

He rounded the side of the first booth, his eyes flicking over everything now. The register appeared to be closed somewhat haphazardly, its security latch visibly loose. On the countertop sat a single transparent cup, likely intended for some drink, only to be abandoned with the now-melting ice cubes as its sole content. He also noted a blueberry muffin on a plate, untouched. From where he stood, Lando could also spot the familiar sight of a note stuck to the side of the shelf, clearly in Y/N’s handwriting: restock oat milk!!

He was just in the middle of attempting to identify what it was about this scene that was so disconcerting when–

The loud, shrill ringing of a phone interrupted his train of thought, nearly startling him in the process. The stillness of the place had lulled him into a sense of ease, one that was disrupted the longer the ringing went on.

Isn’t anyone going to get that?

It rang again and again, going unanswered. Despite the fact that the sound seemed to emanate from behind the swinging door that led to the backroom, Lando could hear it clear as day, even out here. 

Why won’t anyone answer it?

He moved slowly now, eyes scanning, every step heavier than the last. Each step followed the same heel-to-toe rhythm his body had long since memorized, his body working on autopilot as he continued to scan the room in an attempt to figure out what was going on. 

"Hello? Are you there?"

Not paying enough attention to where he placed his steps, Lando’s shoe squealed against the tile. The floor behind the bar must have been slick with something, the rubber of his boot catching on it slightly.

He looked down to see what it was.

A spray of fresh, red blood.

Instantly, his gun was out, his finger hovering over the trigger now. He moved faster now, stepping past the edge of the bar counter and through the swinging door into the workspace. His body moved before his brain could even finish catching up.

And that’s when he looked down. His breath caught, and time slowed.

Crumbled on the tile like the air had been knocked out of her, one of her arms was outstretched, the soft skin of her palm open towards the door. The deep burgundy of blood rapidly stained her abdomen, with even more dribbling out of the side of her mouth. There was enough of the thick liquid for it to just begin pooling beside her, the floor beneath her soaking fast. Her body twitched weakly, like she was still trying to move.

Her eyes met his for the briefest, most agonizing second.

She tried to speak. All that came out was a wet, choking sound — like the air was catching on itself, like her lungs were filled with something thicker than breath.

Blood.

“Y/N!”

a/n: so...

[nanenna]

Sour Apple Rock Candy

Danny frantically searched as he flew through Metropolis, Clark was in trouble and he needed to get there quick. It didn't take long to find him, collapsed in a heap on a rooftop, an empty power suit nearby, and between Clark and the suit stood Lex Luthor holding a fist sized lump of glowing green crystal. Ugh! This was why it had to be Danny and not any of the others.

Danny’s red boots crunched on the crusty rooftop as he landed next to Clark, "Dad!"

"Nova," Clark gasped out.

"Well, if it isn't Supernova," Luthor said in a voice that sounded too much like Vlad. "Careful there, wouldn't want to get too close to this." He held the ominous crystal higher.

Internally Danny cheered, he knew exactly what he was going to do. Externally though he had to keep his shit together. He made uncomfortable eye contact with Luthor, keeping his face as blank as possible as he walked towards the bald man.

"W-what?! What are you-" Luthor's feet stuttered as he took a few steps back, not nearly quick enough to get back to his power suit before Danny was standing uncomfortably close to him.

"There's something you don't know about me, Luthor," Danny said sternly.

"What?" Luthor asked, clearly having trouble processing what just happened.

Danny leaned forward and opened his mouth wide, then took a bite out of the chunk of kryptonite. He grinned far too wide and let his eyes flash green as he looked up at Luthor, "I'm adopted."

"You're…" Luthor stared blankly at the half eaten crystal in his hand.

Danny straightened and plucked the whole rock right out of Luthor's limp fingers, unhinging his jaw so he could toss the whole thing in. It wasn't easy or fun to do that in his human form, but it was worth it to see Luthor's brain shut down in real time.

"Mmm…" Danny said as he chewed what was essentially ghost rock candy. "Tangy, juicy, fruity… sour apple? Not my favorite flavor."

"You're… adopted…" Luthor said blankly.

"Yup," Danny popped the P, hoping to keep Luthor distracted while Clark recovered. "And this isn't even a recently discovered survivor of Krypton type deal, I'm not Kryptonian."

"Then what are you?" Luthor sounded genuinely curious.

Danny grinned even wider, showing off a row of razor sharp fangs, "Human, of course."

"Human," Luthor sounded like he didn't believe that.

"Born and raised here on Earth, human parents, human friends, red blooded human through and through."

"You are not!"

"Oh Lexie, I can call you Lexie can't I? Oh Lexie," Danny floated up high enough to easily pat Luthor on his bald head, "any human can do this. It's not my fault you haven't unlocked your full potential yet."

"Supernova," Clark said warningly as he grabbed the back of Luthor's shirt and lifted him up, but the twinkle in his eye told Danny he wasn't in any real trouble.

"Feeling better, Dad?"

"Much. Now to just take care of him."

"Put me down this instant!" Luthor demanded.

"Dad, can I keep the robot? I wanna see if it has any more rock candy hidden in it." And take it apart for parts, it would be so much fun to tinker with.

Clark made a show of thinking it over, "Sure, bring it to the Fortress."

"Yes!" Danny did an aerial fist bump before zooming over to his new pet project.

rambling under the read more

So I have an idea for a fic, and then I have an idea for the sequel to this unwritten (not even started yet) fic that's mostly vibes and THIS scene. Considering my track record for finishing longer fics uh... that's probably never happening, so have this scene sans context.

I do think Supernova is too perfect a name for Danny!

Confuses people into thinking he's a Super, which is great when that's his goal!

Space!

It's not just a star or even a dead star, it's specifically a star's death. The moment of a star dying, too perfect for the boy caught eternally between life and death.

For his costume I'm thinking something like the manty-less more modern versions some of the Supers wear. Main color would be navy blue (as opposed to the sapphire blue the rest wear), a yellow starburst outlined in red on his chest, and red boots/gloves (unlike Kryptonians Danny does have fingerprints to worry about). Maybe some yellow accents. He does go out in human form like this so he can spend time hanging out with his new family both in and out of costume. It doesn't hurt his power suite is pretty convincing to anyone who doesn't spend an extended amount of time hanging with Nova. (So other heroes he hangs out with know something, but not everything.)

He can and does still go ghost when needs to lay down a particularly brutal smack down, or when it's something ghost related.

[cherrygarcia-07]

all of my fics have been a little wordy and a little hefty lately so here’s something light and fluffy and funny for a little breather :3

Baby Burglar // Spencer Reid🧸

Synopsis: Spencer Reid is absolutely wrapped around his baby girl’s little finger, but he learns he really needs to loosen up when she comes home from a shopping trip with a surprise hidden in her stroller.

Pairing: girl dad! spencer reid x wife! reader

Genre: pure fluff!!

Word Count: 2.7k

Notes/Tags: nothing really! baby is under 1 yrs old, also unnamed for your benefit :3 theft (not serious), brief brief talk of pregnancy. I think that’s it. Spencer is just a big old silly who loves his baby girl more than anything in the world- and he infodumps like crazy to her :3

masterlist // if you enjoy pls reblog!! it helps so much!!

———————————————————————————🧸—————————————————————————

“Is she almost ready, Spence?” You called from the hallway as you pulled on your shoes.

“Almost! Just give us two seconds!” He shouted back as he put a tiny pair of mismatched socks on your daughter for the hundredth time that she was sure to kick off again the second he turned his back.

“It’s a little chilly out, make sure she has a cardigan.”

“Already picked out.” Spencer smiled as he picked up the little cardigan laid out on his lap. It was a baby blue sweater with flower shaped buttons and two cute cartoon cows embroidered on its pockets.

“Do you know what animal this is?” He asked your baby girl who was currently preoccupied pulling at loose threads on the rug on the floor. It didn’t matter that she was far too young to answer, Spencer just loved talking to her about anything and everything. He loved how she babbled in response, how her wide eyes stared up at him and a gummy smile grew on her face at the sound of his voice. “That’s right it’s a cow. And what sound does a cow make?”

You heard a low ‘moo’ in the cadence of your husband’s voice rumble through the house, something between a sigh and a laugh tumbling out of you as you packed your daughter’s stroller. Figuring he was going to be a little while longer you made your way up to her bedroom, hovering just out of eyesight so you could listen in.

“Did you know that cows have best friends?” He said as he began gently pulling her little arms through the sleeves. “They’re very social animals and studies show they’re a lot happier and under far less stress when they’re with specific members of their herd. That’s kind of how I feel when I’m with you and Mommy.” He added as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

A smile pinched at your lips as you heard her chatter something in response, her airy voice spilling out of the room.

“And you know what else? Cows love music, too.” Spencer continued as he fastened her buttons. “They hear a higher range of frequencies than we do so farm noise can be overwhelming for them. Studies show they don’t really have a preferred genre but they seem to be quite fond of classical music. A bit like Daddy, huh?”

You loved how much he loved spending time with her. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t talk back, nothing made him happier than to sit and ramble about his day or tell his daughter fun facts about every topic under the sun. He’d been doing it ever since you were pregnant, laying down next to you with one hand laid carefully over your stomach while he recited children’s stories to her, complete with silly voices and facts about the authors. He’d read countless articles and books about the benefits of communication and developing their language skills and that was the reason he always gave you for it, but you knew it was simply that before she was even born she was his best friend in the whole world.

“You two ready?” You asked softly as you stepped into the room.

Spencer gasped dramatically as your daughter’s eyes widened in excitement at the sight of you. It was something that never failed to make your heart melt.

“Look who it is!” He mused, standing up with your baby in his arms as she squealed and clumsily reached her arms out to you.

“Well if it isn’t my two favourite people in the world!” You beamed as you took her in your hold and kissed her chubby cheeks. Beside you, Spencer cleared his throat, not-so-nonchalantly turning his head to the side and displaying his own cheek to you. You rolled your eyes at his theatrics but kissed him all the same, much to his delight as his face warmed immediately.

Not long after, the three of you were out and headed to the supermarket, although your daughter hadn’t stayed in her stroller for long. Her father was seemingly allergic to not having her in his arms at any given moment and so he walked with one hand holding her safely on his hip and the other lazily pushing the pram in front of you. You trailed slightly behind, watching as the two of them babbled back and forth like a daddy-daughter talk show, Spencer bouncing her on his hip every once in a while to make her giggle.

“You know butterflies taste with their feet?” He’d said at one point after one had fluttered past. “They have what’s called chemoreceptors on their feet that help them tell if the plant they’ve landed on is good to eat or not. Can you imagine that?”

The walk to the supermarket continued exactly like that, a picture of bliss as Spencer talked her little ears off about anything he set his eyes on as you chuckled happily behind them (and took a thousand pictures of the two of them to send to Penelope). Eventually when you reached the store, he pouted as you sat her back in her stroller.

“Can I at least push her around the store?” He grumbled.

“Would it kill you if you didn’t?” You teased, cocking a brow at him- although secretly it was far easier to have him distracted while you shopped as he was always surprisingly indecisive about what he wanted.

“I think it might.” He sighed sarcastically, one hand alright curling around the handle before you gave in.

The three of you made your way around the store, you pushing the shopping cart and Spencer pushing your daughter in her stroller as she kicked her little legs. There was a slight chaos that came with grocery shopping with a baby; stopping every couple of aisles to pull on the socks that she kept peeling off as if she had a personal vendetta against them; crouching in front of her to soothe her uncomfortable crying when you passed through the frozen aisles; chasing after the trail of toys and random objects being tossed over the side of her seat in boredom- but you wouldn’t have it any other way. It was noisy, it was messy, but it was yours.

However at one point as you browsed the produce section you realised it was significantly quieter- too quiet. Suspicion rising, you looked around only to find that your husband and daughter were no longer there. Humming to yourself you made your way to where you knew they’d snuck off to, the aisle Spencer seemed to have a magnet built into him that drew him in now that he had a baby to spoil: the toy aisle.

“What are you doing?”

Spencer’s hand froze where it hovered above a stuffed animal, red and blue lights seemingly flashing all around as he slowly turned to look up at you watching with your hands on your hips.

“N-nothing.” He stumbled, clearing his throat and straightening up where he stood, very clearly not doing nothing.

“Really?” Your eyes darted between the toy and his nervous expression. “Because it looks like you’re trying to buy her her millionth toy this week alone.”

Spencer gulped, the bright light of the imaginary interrogation room bulb pulsing down on him. “I think ‘millionth’ is a vast exaggeration,” he stuttered, “if we’re counting accurately it’s actually been-“

“Spencer.”

“Yes?” He squeaked.

“Walk away.” You stifled a chuckle at the puppy dog eyes he flashed you immediately, his bottom lip threatening that child-like pout you found so endearing. You weren’t trying to be the strict parent- really you weren’t. In fact you were prone to spoiling your little girl rotten yourself, it’s just that Spencer went overboard like his life depended on it and quite frankly you weren’t sure a thousand variations of stuffed animals was exactly what she needed at this stage in her life.

“She’d love it.” He sulked.

“She’s half asleep.” You smirked as he followed your gaze to your daughter’s half closed eyes, her head bouncing slightly against the side of her stroller as she dozed off, clearly unable to care less about the toy.

“But you didn’t see the way she looked at it earlier!” God, he is relentless.

“Honey, I love how enthusiastic you are about giving her everything she wants, really I do, but she’s a baby. She looks at the ceiling fan in our bedroom the exact same way.” You tilted your head sympathetically, though you were thoroughly amused on the inside.

“Fine, fine. I guess you’re right.” Spencer sighed, defeated. He surrendered, backing away from the shelf and picking up the blanket which had at some point fell to the floor like a white flag. “But next time I’m buying her something.”

“Oh I’m sure you will.” You said, planting a light kiss on his cheek and pulling him away to continue your shopping trip.

A little while later and the three of you were back at home, shopping bags dumped rather haphazardly by the front door as you took a breather. You’d fought to keep your daughter awake so she could nap at home, but it just wasn’t happening. Her little socks were hanging off of her feet again as her legs slung out over the front of the stroller, her head tucked against her shoulder as she snored softly into her cardigan. She looked so angelic you found yourself not even caring about the impending chaos that would come when she woke up. You crouched down in front of the stroller ready to unbuckle her when something caught your eye, tucked behind her back like it was hiding. Something brown and fluffy with a little bow tie.

“Spencer?” You called, instantly dubious.

“Yeah?” He called back cheerily from where he’d begun carrying your bags into the kitchen.

“Did you buy this behind my back?” You pulled the teddy bear out from behind her, careful not to wake her up.

“What are you talking about?” He materialised in the doorway suddenly, brows pinched in confusion.

With an incredulous look on your face you held the teddy bear up in the air for him to see, tentatively holding it by its paw between your thumb and pointer finger as if it were evidence.

“What is-“ he began spluttering, “I did not buy her that. I put it back like you said, I swear.”

“Then where did it come from?” You questioned, equally confused at the magic presence of this odd bear. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I think she stole it.” You declared, eyes falling back on the deceptive little sleeping angel still curled up in her seat, blanket in hand.

“What?” Spencer echoed, voice several octaves higher and eyes widened beyond belief. “How? When?”

“She must’ve swiped it from the shelf when you weren’t looking.” You laughed, picturing her innocently grabbing at the little bear and tucking it under her arm. Spencer wasn’t so thrilled, in fact he looked white as a ghost. “Spence?”

“We have to give it back.” He croaked. “Or go back and pay for it.”

“What are you talking about, Spence, it’s a stupid teddy bear.” You stood as he began pacing the room, hand tucked under his chin like he did when he was overthinking.

“It’s theft is what it is!” He choked, brows shooting up so high you thought they’d fly off of his head entirely.

Biting back a smile you planted your hands firmly on his shoulders, stopping his pacing and forcing him to look at you. “It’s a stupid little teddy bear. She swiped it accidentally. No one’s going to miss it especially not at a huge supermarket.”

“I can’t believe my daughter stole something.” He muttered, ignoring you completely. “I’m an FBI agent and my daughter stole something.”

“Okay well they’re hardly going to come breaking down our door, are they?” You teased, setting the bear back down in her lap.

“We have to go back and pay for it at least.” He met your eyes, completely serious.

“You want to go all the way back to the store to pay-“ you paused to crouch down and check the tag on its fuzzy ear, “five dollars and ninety nine cents?”

“Yes!” He yelped. “We’re setting a bad example to her if we don’t. Not to mention it’s theft which I’m sure I don’t need to remind you is completely illegal!”

“I don’t think she’s going to grow up to become a bank robber or a car thief over this, honey.”

“Well let’s hope not.” He scoffed.

“She’s not going to remember this at all. She doesn’t even know what happened.”

“You’re underestimating just how much passive information our brains store. Especially for a child her age- what seems insignificant to us can actually be the building blocks of-“

“Spence.” You sighed, exasperated, stepping forward and placing a hand on his arm to steady him. “You’re catastrophising.”

“I can’t help it.” He swallowed, calming down a little. “It’s the principle. It makes me feel… icky.” He muttered, making you huff a breathy laugh at his childish choice of words.

“But look at her,” you cooed, turning back to look at your daughter still in her stroller. At some point in the panic she’d looped an arm around the teddy bear’s neck, holding it against her face and cuddling it in her sleep. It’s bow tie was a similar shade of blue to the cardigan she wore, it’s brown fur wild and adorably messy just like Spencer’s- honestly it seemed like it fit right in with the family. “You wanted to spoil her, right? Look how much she loves it already. And when she wakes up you can play with it together and tell her everything you know about teddy bears and whatever else you two want to babble about, yeah?”

He sighed again, taking in the peaceful sight before him. He couldn’t deny the warm feeling blooming in his chest as he watched the way she tucked the bear under her chin and absentmindedly nestled into it, her tiny fingers disappearing into its curly fur.

“Alright.” He whispered eventually, eyes still fixed on the cherubic girl. “But I’m still going back tomorrow to pay. Maybe they won’t be so harsh if I show them my badge and- what, what are you laughing it?” He turned to you, brows furrowed again as his mouth hang agape.

You giggled behind your hand, shaking your head at the image of your husband, your nerdy little Spencer Reid, flashing his FBI badge at the supermarket cashiers, teddy bear in hand and a look of complete seriousness in his big doe eyes. God, you adored him and his dear, dorky brain.

“Nothing, nothing. I just love you.” You grinned up at him, laughter threatening to spill again as the confusion still lingered on his face.

“I love you too?” He answered, still unsure what part of his super serious plan had broken you.

At that moment, your baby girl began stirring, stretching and yawning in her stroller as big as her small limbs would let her. Instantly, Spencer’s whole mood shifted as his face lit up and he sprang into action, unbuckling her and lifting her into his arms as he peppered her with soft kisses. You watched as you had that morning at the way he doted on her, completely and utterly wrapped around her finger. You saw it in the dopey smile he wore without realising whenever he looked at her, the way he made everything he possibly could into a conversation topic just so he had an excuse to spend time with her even though she couldn’t talk back yet, how he already cared so much about her future and who she would become that he let it make a loving little fool out of him sometimes.

As hectic as the days with the two of them could be, whether it was something as small as trying to leave the house on time or something as silly as a meltdown over her hypothetical petty theft career, you wouldn’t change it for the world. And you knew as you watched him sway her in his arms as he prattled about nothing in particular that he felt exactly the same way.

-

[cursedbycrossovers]

Help Wanted ≠ Send Sacrifices (Pt. 2)

AN: Reading the replies on the first post makes me feel like I set out a plate of cookies and got a banquet in return, holy cow. I'm so honored, you guys.

Anyway, due to several requests, here you go! More cookies! Since I am also writing a bit for the threads on the original post (which should hopefully be done in the next couple days), I decided to take this one in a direction the other two did not. Please enjoy!

— — —

When Tim had received a message from Jason asking for him specifically to come to this warehouse, he had not been expecting this.

"Ah, Tim, you're here!" Hood sounded oddly cheerful for someone standing just a few feet away from a swirling green vortex that was frothing at the edges like a rabid animal. Seriously, any closer and it'd probably be getting on his shoes.

"I'm gonna hazard a guess and say that's what you called me here for?" Tim nodded in the direction of the toxic green whirlpool as he approached Hood's side. If Jason was standing so close, it was probably safe, but he stayed a half-step further back, just in case.

Why had Jason only called for him, though? Something like this was pretty clearly an all-bats-on-deck situation.

"Yup." Hood confirmed, the voice modulator in his helmet turning the pop of the 'p' into something rather grating. "Go on ahead and hop in."

Tim's thoughts screeched to a halt, and he slowly turned to look at Jason with an expression of pure confusion. "Why... would I... do that?"

"Well, if you don't, I'm gonna have to throw you in." Hood said pragmatically.

Tim blinked in shock, alarm bells beginning to go off in his head. Nothing about Jason's body language indicated he was joking.

"Riiiight..." Tim began inching away from Jason as subtly as he could, "Uh, any particular reason you want that to happen?"

Jason turned to stare into the glow for a few concerningly silent seconds. "He needs help."

Ooooh, Tim did NOT like the emphasis on that 'He.'

"Then why don't you go in?" Tim asked cautiously, then immediately flinched. That was not something you said to someone who was very probably not in their right mind at the moment.

Jason was silent for a second, and if Tim had to guess, he was making a face under the helmet. "I can, if you want me to, but you have to go too," he insisted.

Hood took a step forward, closer to Tim. His hands had seemingly unconsciously begun to rise from his sides.

Tim decided then and there it was time to cut his losses.

Tim whirled around and sprinted back the way he'd come in, beelining for the open window. The heavy clomp of boots behind him told him that Jason was giving chase. Tim's fingers flew over the keypad of his communicator, just barely managing to hit send before Jason's arm hooked around his waist, pulling him back and lifting him up off his feet.

Tim made a noise somewhere between a yelp and a screech as he was flipped over Jason's shoulder, and those heavy boots began to make their way toward the center of the room.

"Jason! Jason–" Tim tried to wriggle free, but Jason's grip was made of iron, his leather jacket and body armor making it so that Tim's hits and kicks landed ineffectively against Jason's torso.

The stiffness faded from Jason's frame the closer they got to the vortex, pausing once they were right on the edge.

"Don't worry, kid, we'll be fine!" He reassured.

"Jason, don't you dare–" Before Tim could finish hissing his threat, Jason leapt into the green with a cheer.

"Geronimo!"

[plantingthepast]

chosen ones

[tomezatos]

[Transcript of an omake from Mob Psycho 100:

Reigen: Ah, how's that lawyer I introduced you to? Has it been done? I see... your sender information disclosure request to the provider has gone through. I'm glad with that. The school has no choice but to acknowledge bullying is actually happening. No, no... I just thought it was odd that a child would be sent alone to a haunted location in the first place... I'm glad he came to us for advice on this. Exorcisms are easy, what's truly scary is what goes on between living people. ...No, no, it's me who's overstepped their bounds... He's enthusiastic about this, is he? Naturally. He had the guts to go into an abandoned building, after all. Alright, please call again if there's anything you need.

Serizawa: Who was that?

Reigen: Some primary school kid stopped by here on his way home. There was something off, so I asked him what was happening and found out there was some bullying going on. So... as a spirit specialist, I contacted the families of each kid. Feigning that I'd like to talk to some of the people involved in what looks like a scary haunting. I tried to talk to them, but their parents got upset with me. The bullies showed no sign of remorse. Staff at the school didn't even investigate the bullying. Not only that, they dismissed the fact it was a daily occurrence. That got under my skin... So I went searching through social media and found some excessively slanderous posts sitting on a secret website for that primary school. That's where our counter-offensive begins.

Serizawa: I was bullied at primary school as well.

Shigeo looks at him.

Reigen: Really?

Serizawa: Yes. In many ways...

Shigeo: What kind of primary schooler were you, Serizawa-san?

Serizawa: I... didn't have any friends, I guess. I gave people the creeps... I wouldn't move from my desk during break time. Not ever. How about you, Kageyama-kun?

Shigeo, thinking hard about this: I... tried my best not to use my powers at school. So I was often scared. Looking back, I suppose I was also bullied.

Reigen: ...Kind, introverted people are easy targets... You guys weren't weak, but there were truly weak people who took advantage of your nature... How annoying... I guess it can't be helped that the two of you were so reserved, but it is a shame. You guys could have had popular and rosy childhoods depending on how you used your powers. Well, doesn't matter how many times I tell you guys this, it just doesn't click.

Serizawa: So how was your primary school life, Reigen-san?

Reigen: Mine? It was, uh, very... fulfilling.

Shigeo: Fulfilling?

Serizawa: I imagine you felt like the center of the class, unlike us, right?

Reigen: Y... yup, center, sure... I feel like my seat was in the middle of the classroom?

Shigeo: Where you sat is irrelevant, no?

Reigen: Well, uh... Rather than being a leader, uh... I more had a charisma that made me stand out... I'd look deeply into things and act on them...?

Serizawa: Wow! So do your classmates from back then still rely on you?

Reigen seems to fall into despair.

Reigen: Er... well, my charism was more if-you-know-you-know, you know... If-you-don't-know-you-don't-know...?

Neither Serizawa nor Shigeo understand this.

Serizawa: I'd like to hear a story from back then.

Reigen: Well... to be specific? I put a lot of emphasis on tackling social issues? Rather than school life... yes, like volunteering? ...Which was valuable in teaching me independence? And influenced my current personality? Even though I was in primary school, my childhood was a nurturing time for me. There is evidence? To suggest that my time in at primary school was fulfilling? It is indeed not an exaggeration but a...

Serizawa: That's amazing! I respect that! Even as a child, you were already such a dependable person.

Shigeo: That's the first time I've heard this but that's really amazing. To think there are primary schoolers as self-aware as you were, Shishou. I'm jealous of your classmates.

This reaction makes Reigen sit at his desk, feeling small and ashamed.

Later, he is wearing a track suit and squatting down to collect trash at the park with a pair of tongs. Text reads, "After seeing their reactions, Reigen began looking for ways he could help."

End transcript]

Mob Psycho 100 NEW Omake⑩ - ENG

The new omake posted by ONE (aka ‘Bullied & Such Consultation Office’) on 2022/12/07 is now translated and typeset - the latter done by @lesbianlarxene over on Twitter.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

EX-FACTOR

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: hotch swears he's listening to rossi, except he can’t focus on a single word when you’re at the bar with another guy, based on this request. warnings: hotch is turning greeeeen from jealousy!! pining, hotch just wants his baby back word count: 0.6k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Aaron was trying to listen to Rossi—really, he was. Something about a plot of land and investment potential and tax benefits or… God, he’d lost the thread ages ago. He nodded here and there, tossed out a half-hearted “yeah?” or “makes sense,” but his focus wasn’t anywhere near the conversation. Neither were his eyes.

They were glued to the crowd, more specifically to the gap in it. The spot where you used to be.

You’d disappeared ten minutes ago, and so had the guy who’d been flirting with you. Some twenty-something whose fingers grazed the side of your waist like he had any right to be even within six feet of you.

“And what exactly is your plan for tonight?” Rossi asked, swirling the last bit of his bourbon. 

“What?”

“The staring? Gripping your glass like it can breathe?” Rossi lifted his brows. “What’s next? You going to challenge him to a duel?”

“I’m just watching,” Aaron muttered.

“Mmm,” Rossi said, which was Italian for you’re full of shit but I’m going to let you dig this hole a little deeper.

Aaron didn’t respond, his eyes doing their seventh sweep of the minute. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for the most, that you’d look back and catch him, or that the guy would spontaneously combust under the weight of his scowl. But for any of that to happen, he had to see where you were.

And he knew that he had no right. That it wasn’t his business anymore, that the only real authority he had over you these days was inside a briefing room with a suspect on the board. Because this? A bar, a night off, your clothes, your smile, a stranger’s hand on your waist? This wasn’t his jurisdiction. This was your playing field now. And Aaron was a benched sub who’d already had his shot and fumbled the pass, reduced to a spectator at best. A ghost, more likely. 

“She’s allowed to dance, you know,” Rossi continued, not unkindly. “Even allowed to enjoy it.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

“Good,” Rossi said, far too breezily. “Maybe she even left with him. Can’t see her anywhere.”

Aaron’s head whipped towards the exit so fast, it stirred a breeze around him. For a moment his stomach dropped in that cold, involuntary way it did when something went wrong on a case as he considered the possibility that, maybe you did go home with him.

“I’m kidding,” Rossi chuckled. “Relax. She’s by the bar.”

And there you were. Using a stack of napkins to fan yourself, the golden lights catching on your exposed skin, the small specks of glitter scattered across your bare shoulders gracefully. He could still remember the caramel-like scent that came with it, relying on memory alone now, because he no longer had the right to be close enough to smell it again.

The lights shifted, dimming, then bleeding into a soft pink, the kind that made everything—you—look dreamlike. You gasped excitedly, grabbing Penelope’s arm where she stood beside you. She lit up just like you did, and Aaron didn’t even realise he was smiling until you were already pulling her towards the dance floor, placing a hand on the guy’s chest and yelling, “I’ll be back. This is our song!”

He hoped you wouldn’t be back, not to him, anyway. Not really. He hoped you’d stay somewhere close instead, just within reach, orbiting near enough for his eyes to find you and no one else’s.

He was grateful no one around had mind-reading abilities, because if you knew how often he thought about you, you’d probably never speak to him again. Or maybe you would. That was the thing about the two of you, the friendship had held, maybe too well. And maybe that was the problem.

Neither of you could move on. 

“You’re torturing yourself,” Rossi said plainly. 

Aaron didn’t look away. “I know.”

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[spacerockband]

invasive species politik

[distantdarlings]

SOMETHING TO BE OWNED // t. riddle

RATING: PG-13 / 3.1K WORDS

Tom Riddle x Fem Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* After watching your boyfriend, Abraxas Malfoy, mistreat you for months. Tom decides to explain what love should be. (Song fic)

+ WARNINGS - Sensualilty, Tom is persistent in talking to you, crying, Abraxas is an asshole, implication that Abraxas may have hit reader at some point, language, not fully proofread (let me know if I missed any)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Figure You Out - Voila

---

The way he looked at you sickened Tom. 

His eyes would curl over you like a rotting parasitic plant, climbing up your body and wrapping around your chest and throat, suffocating you from the outside in. Your eyes would flicker nervously from his predatory gaze to the floor more times than he could count, trying to draw his attention away from you. 

Tom couldn’t fathom what about Abraxas Malfoy was attracting you. The only thing that made an ounce of sense was his family’s money. That was it, though. He was loud, obnoxiously prideful, annoyingly materialistic, and anything but handsome. Still, though, you stayed with him. Always forcing your hand within his, swallowing bile down your throat when he leaned in for a too-wet kiss, concealing a shudder when he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

Tom didn’t get it. Why stay with him?

Those questions circulated his mind as his group of peers sat around the rounded table positioned in the far corner of the Slytherin common room. They passed jokes around noisily. Every time Abraxas would laugh especially hard, he would slap a gaunt, white hand on the table, and you would jump at the motion. Tom couldn’t help but feel his jaw clench at the notion of you being so jumpy around him. What reason would you have to act this way around him unless he was treating you wrongly?

“Oh, so, speaking of Potions class,” Abraxas started, guffawing unattractively. “Last week, we had to make some kind of…er…I can’t even remember. It was some kind of melting brew we were going to test on whatever the fuck, and—”

“Abraxas?” you piped up suddenly. Your voice was soft like a bell tingling in the distance beneath stone floors. Tom’s expression perked up as you leaned forward slightly from your cramped space between the arm of the sofa and Abraxas. 

The blond paused and turned back to look at you. His hands splayed out in a gesture as if to ask what was wrong, though he seemed annoyed. Tom’s knuckles clenched. 

“What?” Abraxas demanded. 

“You…,” you chuckled nervously, eyes glancing down to your twiddling fingers as the rest of the group stared you down. “Can you not…tell that story? It’s just…It’s embarrassing.”

He paused for a minute, as if considering your words, before shrugging his shoulders. “No, it’s okay, babe. It’s not embarrassing. They won’t laugh.” He turned back to the rest of the group. “You guys won’t laugh, right?”

Murmurs of dismissive agreement went around the group, but Tom remained silent, his eyes staying on yours. Your cheeks flushed wildly as you looked back down at your lap. Whatever this story he was about to tell was, you clearly didn’t want it spoken aloud. Tom’s lips parted to speak. 

“Anyways, so we were partnered for making this potion, right? And there was some kind of herb that you had to prepare very specifically before dropping it in. This was totally my fault. I was reading the instructions, and she was doing the work, which is typically what we do in projects like this—we just work well like that, you know? So, I was reading the preparation for the herb and she was doing it, and then I realized a second too late that I missed one super important thing about the prep, and, boom! This fucking thing blows up in her face!”

He’s laughing aloud—spit flying about, hand slapping roughly on the table in front of him. The rest of the boys around the table burst out in noisy fits of giggles. Tom remained silent. 

His eyes found you. The blush on your cheeks had made its way up to the tips of your ears, and glistening sparks of tears welled in your eyes. Your lips parted slightly as you tried to hold back the impending sobs.

“It makes the loudest fucking sound! The professor’s looking, and everyone else is looking over. I’m cracking up, of course. Dude, her face is straight black from the soot, and the herb is just puffing in her hands—”

Tom watched as you sniffled once and easily slipped out of your space on the couch, easing your way silently to the common room bathrooms with a hand pressed to your nose. Tom’s hand clenched beneath the weight of his anger.

“And, Merlin, I’m dying laughing and she—”

“Abraxas!” Tom shouted suddenly. “Shut the fuck up for once in your goddamn life!”

He jumped to his feet and made his way after your retreating figure, already concealed by the shadows cast by the narrow hallway. He didn’t bother to linger long enough to see the young Malfoy’s reaction to his outburst. He was only focused on one thing. 

Perhaps he was out of his league. Perhaps he had no business trying to talk to you, to check if you were okay, to watch you in the ways he did. Perhaps you wanted nothing to do with him. But, fuck, he knew there was no way you could stay with Abraxas. He wouldn’t be good for you either; he knew that. But he couldn’t stand to see that stupid boy mistreat you any longer. He had to say something. 

He weaved through the hallway leading to the single bathrooms, where he could have sworn he’d heard you crying more than once. 

He’d watched you for months—the cringing, the choked sobs, the concealed anger. He’d watched the way Abraxas treated you as though you were nothing more than an accessory. You weren’t a beautiful woman, desperate to be loved and held and worshiped. You were nothing to him. You were a status symbol, something to hang his money and title on and watch as you fell behind. It made Tom feel ill.

He didn’t have anything to give you, anything to show you. His possessions were resigned to the things he could fit into the little leather trunk beneath his dormitory bed. He didn’t know love—familial or otherwise. He didn’t know how to touch, how to worship, how to care properly. But he did know how to protect, how to defend, how to fight. Especially when concerning something he cared about. He couldn’t care well, but he couldn’t deny the feelings he felt toward you. You were something he couldn’t explain. But an explanation had never been his concern. Only your well-being had.

He stopped in front of the girls’ lavatory, knuckles lingering inches away from the door’s wooden surface, weighing out his options. 

He could turn away from this—not get involved, take an early night in, study a bit extra before tomorrow morning, and pretend like nothing happened. Or, he could knock. He could ask if you were alright, show you what it was like to be properly loved in his own delusional portrayal of it. He hadn’t felt desire like this in a long time. In fact, he rarely felt desire, but the feeling that circulated his body when he thought of you, saw you, breathed you in, could only be described as such. The closest thing he could find to describing the way he felt about you was possession. You were an article of his belongings that he could not lose, could not imagine losing.

But you weren’t a belonging. You weren’t a possession. You weren’t something to be held down. 

He knocked. 

He heard a distant sniffle and a small voice. “Just a minute.”

“It’s…er, Tom…Riddle,” he said, unsure. He cleared his throat, shrugging a bit of confidence back into his body. 

“Tom?” 

The door clicked and slowly slid open, revealing your swollen lips and tear-streaked cheeks. You looked positively ethereal. He cleared his throat once more. 

“Is something wrong?” you asked. “Just tell Abraxas I’ll be out in—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I was coming to check on you, to see if you were alright. I’m not sure what he’s doing.”

You looked shocked. “Oh, well, I’m alright, Tom. Thanks, though.”

Just as you began to push the door back closed, he spoke up once more, placing a gentle but firm hand on the door. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?” you asked suspiciously, fingers twitching anxiously against the door. 

Tom refrained from rolling his eyes at himself. Of course, you’d be unsure why this quiet friend of your boyfriend’s wanted to speak with you. Tom had barely said two words to you the entirety of the time he’d known you. There would be no reason for him to speak with you, if not to just benefit Abraxas. 

“About Malfoy,” he said, clenching his jaw around the name in disgust.

“Why?” you asked, eyes flickering around.

“Allow me a few words, please?” he said, knuckles rolling against the door where he prevented it from closing. You seemed to be questioning his being here. It seemed that his concern that you’d mistake this for him trying to help Abraxas out was weighing on your mind. 

“I’m not here because of him,” Tom explained. “It’s about you.”

“Okay,” you finally breathed. “We can go to my room if you’d like.”

“Sure,” he nodded, once again painfully unsure. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. He just wanted you to know what you were worth, what you meant to people other than your asshole boyfriend. 

He held a hand out, asking silently for your will to go with him, to trust him with your whole being, just for a few seconds. Hesitantly, you placed your smaller hand into his and sucked in a breath as the two of you whipped upwards in a swirl of magic. He controlled the Disapparation, but you imagined your dormitory, if only to help angle the route. Whether or not you were aware he was a Legilimens didn’t matter to him. He tried not to pry into your mind too much. Still, for just a second, he glimpsed into your quiet brain to see your destination. 

Then both of your pairs of feet touched cold, stone ground, surrounded by endless quiet and darkness. You whispered a quiet spell, and Tom’s attention was snagged by the fireplace in the corner as it roared to life, bringing with it easy warmth and ambient noise. 

You let out a sigh and, with your arms crossed tightly over your shuddering body, turned back to him. “Alright, Tom, what is it?”

“I think you should leave Malfoy,” he said abruptly, not giving himself any time to question if this was a good idea any further. 

Your lips parted in unmistakable disbelief. A nervous chuckle quickly spilled from your mouth before you were able to stop it. 

“What…?”

“I don’t understand what you could possibly see in him,” Tom said, shaking his head frustratedly. He took a step closer to you. “Please, understand what I see from my point of view.” 

You shuffled your feet nervously, trading your weight back and forth between each one. Your eyes flickered around just as they always did when Abraxas was using you as a symbolic punching bag. Tom flinched at that. He didn’t want you to be nervous around him. 

“Please,” he said. “Don’t be nervous. I don’t want you to be frightened of me.”

He took another step closer, drawing your eyes back to him. You couldn’t believe the words leaving this infamous Slytherin king’s mouth.

“That’s silly, Tom,” you scoffed. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to force your eyes back to his no matter which way your head turned. He didn’t want to upset you further, but you needed to see your worth. He wouldn’t give up until you did. 

“That’s like your whole thing,” you chuckled, your smile genuine for a moment. “Everyone’s scared of Tom Riddle. Even Abraxas.”

“Is that so?” he asked, smirking ever so slightly. It was satisfying to him that such a bighead moneybag was frightened of him. With all of the ego and pride and wealth that Abraxas boasted every single day, it seemed impossible that he’d be willing to bow down to anyone. Except for Tom, it seemed. 

“Oh, yeah,” you smiled. “He used to prattle on about how annoyingly perfect you were—your grades, your reputation, your looks…” Your eyes flickered away.

“He said that?” Tom asked, holding back a laugh.

“Yes, he’s said those things multiple times,” you sighed. “He’s so pathetic, I—oh, sorry. I know he’s your friend.”

“Please, that boy is not my friend. Especially not after I’ve witnessed him treat you the way he does.”

“Why does that even matter to you?” you scoffed, refraining from rolling your eyes at his sudden interest in you. For Merlin’s sake, he hadn’t even spoken with you for more than a few seconds at a time before this. 

“Because you…” His options for a response rapidly danced in his head. He didn’t want to screw this up. Anything he said right now could completely throw this whole thing off the rails, and that is the last thing he wanted. “You deserve better. Someone better.”

“What, like you?” you laughed meanly, rolling your eyes. “I should’ve known that this was just a ploy to fuck with your friend’s head. Find a soft spot in the relationship, wiggle your way in, and then show me off, right? That’s how this was going to go.”

“No, that wasn’t my intention at all,” Tom responded. You seemed shocked, like you genuinely couldn’t imagine his desires were anything but cruel and selfish. “All I wanted was to check on you and to give my opinion on the way Abraxas treats you. You truly don’t deserve it.”

“And what do I deserve, Tom? Since you know me so well.” You were getting angry. He could tell. He didn’t know what to do to turn this conversation back around, so he decided to give his honest thoughts and hope for the best. If you never wanted to talk to him again after this, at least he’d hopefully been able to sway you away from Abraxas. 

“Someone…loving. Someone to know the way you like to be held, like to be talked to, like to be touched as if it were their own desires. Someone who puts your needs before theirs and then some…” Tom took another step toward you. He was now only a foot from you. He could hear your stifled breathing, could hear the sound of your fingernails picking nervously along the side of your fingers. 

Though your nervousness had kept you from looking into Abraxas’ eyes as often as you could, the kind of anxiety you felt around Tom was not the same. This kind made it impossible to tear your eyes away from his. His lips parted gently as one of his hands raised between the two of you. 

“What else?” you murmured, swallowing thickly, the motion not being lost on Tom’s ever-watchful eye. 

His hand rose even more, slowly coming forward just enough to press a slow, cold fingertip to your hairline. He eased a strand of hair away from your face, tracing its length all the way down to where it met behind your ear. You shuddered beneath his gaze and touch. 

“He wants you to be something you’re not,” he whispered. You could feel his breath on your face. “You’re not silent, you’re not dumb, you’re not something to be owned.”

Your chest began to move quicker, your breaths shortening and intensifying all at the same time. Tom’s eyes flickered down to where your uniform shirt parted at the third button, only slightly teasing the part of your cleavage and the scattered beauty marks that resided there. If he stepped an inch closer, he’d be able to glimpse your bra. 

“You don’t like his music, you don’t like his friends, you don’t like anything about him,” he continued. “The only good thing about him is his money, and I can get you that.”

Your lips trembled. The hand that had pushed the hair out of your face rose once more. His thumb traced across your bottom lip with a featherlight touch, so gentle that you weren’t sure you’d even know it was there if you couldn’t see it. His other hand selected your hand and brought it up between the two of you.

“You need love—gentle and clawing and all-encompassing. Don't you want to be loved? To be satisfied? He cannot give you that. Let me give it to you.” He placed his lips to the palm of your hand, dark eyes never leaving yours.

The tiniest gasp permeated the air between the two of you as he knocked out of the haze you set across his body. He’d walked you up against the post of your bed and had trapped your body against it, knee separating your thighs, lips so close they brushed against yours with every move.

“Fuck,” he whispered, slowly pulling away from you. You let out a deep breath as your body seemed to decompress. “I’m sorry.” His voice was nothing more than a murmur. 

“It’s okay,” you responded. “Would you?”

Tom’s eyes flicked back over to you. “What?”

“You asked me to let you give it to me, that love you described…,” you said, voice suddenly a bit more confident than it had been. “Would you give it to me?”

“I can’t love you right,” Tom breathed. “But I could love you in the way I know how—with undying, all-consuming obsession.”

You didn’t say anything. Just chewed your lip nervously, though you seemed to have made up your mind.

---

Tag List: @mypolicemanharryyy, @angelfrombeneth, @clairesjointshurt, @bunbunbl0gs, @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303, @thestarlithideout, @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw, @yhiiil, @xxrougefangxx, @thatblackthorn, @robinyx, @starsval, @jolly4holly, @blvebanisters, @chgrch, @ilovehotmenandwoman, @smutnyrobocikwrakiecie, @synicaljah, @2dloveshp, @seagull-on-toast

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Do you believe in fate? | Chapter 1

General Masterlist famous!Harry x fem!reader / flowershopowner!reader

Summary: After losing his wife, Harry struggles to navigate his grief, An encounter with Y/N, a kind florist, who shares the same experience.

A/n: Hello, everyone! I’d like to welcome you to this new series. I want to give credit to @harrys-baby —I stumbled upon her page. She’s a bot creator, and one of her openings (I think that’s what it’s called?) caught my attention. I asked for her permission to turn it into a story 🥰. If you’d like, you can check out her bot page!

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: Angst, A slightly rude Harry—he’s just mad at life. Mentions of loss and grief.

“Yes, Mum. I just got to the flower shop I told you about. I’ll head to the cemetery as soon as I buy them.”

Harry stepped into the quiet shop, his phone pressed to his ear. A sigh escaped his lips as the soft jingle of the door faded behind him. A long black coat wrapped around his tall frame, his sunglasses still on despite the overcast London sky. He hadn’t realized he was still wearing them—he’d left in a rush.

Today wasn’t easy. It never was.

It was July 25th, 2024—two years since Sophia had died. Two years since his world had shattered.

They’d only been married for a year. Breast cancer had stolen her away fast—too fast. He’d tried to fight time, to pause the tour, to be there—but she’d insisted he finish what he’d started. He listened. And then he lost her.

Harry spent the first year after her death shut inside their home. Curtains drawn. Photos of her scattered across their bed. His guitar untouched. Bottles piling up more than notes written. The world moved on—he didn’t. Therapy helped, eventually. So did silence. And now, slowly, painfully, Harry was returning to life. He wasn’t healed. But he was showing up.

He couldn’t write music yet. But he could walk. He could feel the sun. He could buy the lilies Sophia loved.

On the other end of the call, his mum was reminding him, “White lilies, Harry. You know those were her favorite.”

He barely nodded when a soft voice broke through the silence of the shop.

“Can I help you?” you asked.

It startled him.

He turned—and there you were. A stranger. Calm. Kind-eyed. Something about you made the world pause.

“Are you looking for something specific? Or maybe a bouquet?” you asked again, offering a smile. You knew immediately who he was: Harry Styles. Your sister, a college student, often wondered when he’d return to music. But you weren’t much of a fan—not because you disliked his music, but because you simply didn’t follow much outside of flowers. You were a bit of a nerd that way.

“I’m... I’m looking for lilies,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Of course! Right this way…” you said, leading him to the lilies. “We have pink, orange, and white, or I can make a mix,” you offered.

“White. Only white, please. In a bouquet. Maybe some foliage?” he replied.

“Foliage it is,” you said with a smile. Selecting about twelve white lilies, you moved to another section to pick out foliage. You worked with care, knowing not all foliage paired well with lilies. They were big, open, expressive flowers, so you chose discreet, delicate greenery—small but perfectly complementary.

“I’ll wrap the bouquet over here and ring you up,” you said, walking back to the payment area. He followed silently.

These days were hard for him—hard to breathe, hard to talk, hard to feel safe. But something about your energy calmed him.

You grabbed a piece of branded paper, its subtle pattern adding charm. Your hands moved with practiced precision, as though you could do this in your sleep. A snip here, a tie there. You adjusted a slightly wonky bloom, turned the bouquet, and ensured the heights were balanced. It was clear to anyone watching: you were doing what you were meant to do.

“Like it?” you asked with a smile, your radiant personality shining through as always. You noticed he seemed off, but maybe you thought he was just a very serious guy.

“Perfect,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the flowers.

“Do you want a card?” you asked, flipping through your price book.

“Um… sure…” he said, not giving it much thought.

“Do you want to write a message, or should I?” you offered, glancing back at him.

“Yeah… a message…” he hesitated. His mind was elsewhere.

You grabbed a pen and a card, leaning on the counter for support, then looked at him expectantly.

“Rest in Love, forever yours — H,” he said, his voice breaking slightly on the last word.

That’s when it hit you. You suddenly remembered your sister’s endless chatter about him—how he hadn’t released new music in two years, and how she understood, knowing he’d lost his wife. A knot formed in your throat. Your steady hands felt clammy, and you quickly wiped them on your apron before writing the message.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced back at him. His expression was unreadable, the same stoic mask as before.

“I’m sorry…” you said softly. Was that rude? Nosy? Maybe. But you had your reasons.

And you had a promise to keep.

Placing the bouquet and card in front of him, you said, “It’s on the house.”

He frowned, confusion and irritation flashing across his face. “I don’t need pity. I need to pay for this bouquet,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended. He’d had enough pity to last a lifetime.

“Sorry, yes…” you said, feeling a bit embarrassed. You’d had clients like this before, so you knew another way to keep your promise if things went south. Glancing at the iPad, you tapped your way to the final screen. “It’s 34 pounds,” you said softly, your previously confident demeanor now replaced with a shy and anxious one.

“You should mind your own business,” he said, tapping his card.

It wasn’t like him to snap, especially not at a stranger, let alone a woman. But today? Today was different. He knew he could react poorly, even unfairly, and he didn’t care.

“Yes, sir,” you replied almost instantly, your voice small as the room seemed to close in on you. “We’re just… considerate with loss.”

“Loss? Bet you don’t know a thing about loss,” he shot back, his tone cutting.

Your breath hitched. His words struck deep, and you looked up at him, frowning, your eyes narrowing. Anger flickered in you—a rare emotion, very rare in you, but he’d managed to hit the one nerve that could ignite it.

“You’re right,” you snapped, your voice trembling. “What do I know about loss? Maybe you should ask my dead fiancè about it.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy.

You both froze, staring at each other. Neither of you was acting like yourselves—this was pain speaking, raw and unfiltered. The kind of pain that left no room for kindness.

The silence stretched, time seeming to stop, until he closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry… I…” He trailed off, his words faltering as he realized just how cruel he’d been to someone who clearly didn’t deserve it.

“As you said… I don’t need pity,” you replied, looking away to avoid letting your tears fall.

“Of course… I said that…” he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. “Thanks,” he added, taking the bouquet without another word and walking out in silence.

The door jingled softly as he left, and you stood frozen behind the counter, staring at the bouquet paper scraps and ribbon remnants on your workbench. You hadn’t meant to snap, but he’d pushed you to the edge—an edge you rarely let anyone see.

With a shaky breath, you turned away from the counter, leaning against the wall as the weight of the interaction hit you. Your chest felt tight, and your hands gripped your apron to steady yourself. Loss. It was such a fragile, devastating thing, and yet today it had been thrown around like a weapon.

A muffled gasp escaped your lips, and you quickly wiped at your eyes. Not here. Not now.

Outside, Harry walked briskly, bouquet clutched in his hand. The lilies were beautiful—too beautiful for the anger he felt. He stopped at the corner, glancing down at the flowers. What’s wrong with you? he thought. He’d seen enough of life to know pain took many forms. He hadn’t needed to lash out at someone trying to be kind. His hand tightened on the bouquet.

But what could he do now? He wasn’t great at apologies—never had been. His words always fell short. Turning around, he debated going back inside, but a lingering sense of shame kept his feet planted on the pavement.

Inside, you finally steadied yourself, your hand reaching for a bottle of water under the counter. As you took a sip, the door jingled again.

Your head snapped up, and there he was—standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“I…” he started, his voice softer now. He took a hesitant step forward, holding the bouquet awkwardly in his hand. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. The anger you’d felt earlier was already fading, replaced by the awkwardness of the moment.

He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the bouquet as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I don’t have an excuse. I’m sorry.”

You hesitated, the lump in your throat returning. “It’s okay,” you said quietly, though your voice wavered. “We all have bad days.”

He nodded, his hand brushing through his hair. “This is… a bad day for me.”

“I figured,” you replied, offering a faint smile. “Loss has a way of making every day harder than the last.”

His eyes met yours, something unspoken passing between you—a shared understanding of grief, raw and unpolished.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry if I brought up anything painful for you.”

“I’m sorry if I brought up anything painful too”

Neither of you said anything more, but as he turned to leave again, something in the air felt lighter. And when the door jingled shut, you didn’t feel quite so small in your shop anymore.

🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻

A few days later, after the strange tightness in your chest had finally faded, you were busy doing inventory. You were organizing supplies, preparing to place flower orders for the upcoming week, and trying to keep everything running smoothly. Claire was there with you—your rock during tough times.

You’d met her a few years ago at a crafting convention, and she’d known Alex before he passed away. When grief had threatened to overwhelm you, Claire had stepped in, making sure the flower shop stayed afloat while you found your footing again.

“I’ll take this to the back,” she said, picking up a large bag filled with dead flowers and other organic waste that needed to be disposed of.

“Sure,” you replied softly, focused on your clipboard.

The soft jingle of the front door caught your attention, and you instinctively turned your head. “Welcome to…” The words froze on your lips as you saw him.

It was him again.

For a moment, you weren’t sure what to make of his expression—it was unreadable, guarded—but you managed to offer a small, sincere smile.

“Welcome back,” you said gently. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I’m looking for some flowers… and a big apology,” he said, his voice softer this time.

“I do sell flowers,” you replied, “but I’m not sure apologies are in stock.” You chuckled lightly, teasing him just a bit.

He smiled—small but genuine. He could tell you weren’t mad. “Can we start over?” he asked.

“Of course,” you replied softly. “So… flowers? What are you looking for today?” you asked, brushing off your apron with a quick motion.

“They’re for my mother. I’m visiting her, and I want something colorful,” he said, his voice lighter than before.

“Of course. I can make an arrangement with a mix of flowers,” you said, walking toward the displays.

You began selecting blooms, your movements seemingly random to the untrained eye. But you knew exactly what you were doing—each flower carefully chosen for its color, balance, and meaning.

"Is this okay, or would you like something more?” you asked, holding up the medium-sized arrangement you’d just finished.

“Perfect,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he admired the vibrant bouquet.

You nodded, satisfied with his response, and began wrapping the bouquet in your shop’s signature patterned paper. “Your mom must love bright colors,” you said casually, tying the arrangement with a matching ribbon.

“She does,” he said softly, his gaze lingering on the flowers.

“Then I think she’s going to love these,” you said, offering a gentle smile as you handed him the finished bouquet.

He accepted it carefully, as if it were something precious. “Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere. “For this… and for not holding a grudge.”

You chuckled softly. “Life’s too short for grudges, don’t you think?”

He nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Yeah, it is.”

“It’s 27 pounds,” you said, tapping on the iPad.

“Sure,” he said, pulling out his phone and tapping it on the terminal.

You hesitated for a moment, then spoke, your voice a little uncertain. “I know it’s totally none of my business, but…” You reached into a drawer, pulling out a small card and sliding it across the counter to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, frowning slightly as he picked up the card. The bold letters across the top read: Potterapy.

“It’s something that helped me a lot,” you said, fiddling with the corner of your apron. “It’s… like a pottery-slash-group-therapy-slash-club?” You gave a small laugh, unsure how to explain.

He looked at the card, then back at you, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Pottery and therapy?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I know it sounds odd, but it helps”

He stared at the card for a long moment, then tucked it into his coat pocket. “Thanks,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“Anytime,” you replied with a warm smile. “And, well, no pressure. Just thought you might… I don’t know, I find it helpful.”

He nodded again, his expression unreadable but no longer closed off. “I’ll think about it.”

The bell jingled softly as he left, and you watched him disappear down the street, bouquet in one hand, card in the other. A small sense of hope flickered in your chest—maybe, just maybe, you’d helped.

🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻

The familiar creak of the gate greeted Harry as he stepped into the garden of his childhood home. His mother’s house always smelled of lavender and freshly brewed tea.

“Harry?” Anne called from the kitchen as she heard the door open.

“Yeah, Mum. It’s me,” he replied, his voice soft as he stepped into the warm kitchen, the bouquet of vibrant flowers in hand.

Anne turned, her face lighting up as she saw him. “Oh, those are beautiful!” she exclaimed, walking over to take a closer look. “You didn’t have to, love.”

“I wanted to,” he said, handing her the bouquet.

She took it gently, admiring the vivid colors. “They’re perfect. You always pick the best flowers.”

He smirked faintly. “I had a bit of help.”

As she turned to place the bouquet in a vase, her eyes caught on the small card that had slipped between the blooms. She picked it up curiously, reading the bold letters aloud. “Potterapy?”

“Oh sorry, that’s mine, The florist gave me that. Said it’s a pottery-slash-therapy group or something.”

Anne turned to him, eyebrows raised. “And why did the florist give this to you?”

“We had a bit of a conversation, I found out she lost her fiancé, so we kind of understood each other's pain” He shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. “She said it helped her. Thought I might want to give it a try.”

Anne studied him for a moment, her gentle gaze cutting through the walls he so often tried to put up. “And do you?”

Harry sighed, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know, Mum. Maybe.” He looked down at his hands, fiddling with the hem of his coat sleeve. “I mean… it’s been hard, you know? I’m trying, but it’s…”

“Overwhelming,” Anne finished for him, her voice soft but knowing.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Anne stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Harry, you’ve been through so much. There’s no shame in finding help wherever you can. Sometimes, it’s the unexpected things that bring the most peace.”

He looked at her, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. “You think I should go?”

“I think you should do whatever feels right for you,” she said simply, placing the card on the table. “But if you do go, maybe bring me back something you make. I’ve always wanted a new teapot,” she added with a teasing smile.

Harry chuckled softly, the weight in his chest lifting just a bit. “We’ll see.”

Anne returned to arranging the flowers, the bright blooms bringing life to the room. As Harry sat at the table, his gaze fell back to the card, its bold letters staring back at him. Maybe, just maybe, he’d give it a try.

🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻

Harry stood outside the small studio, its painted sign reading Potterapy in bold, colorful letters. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, feeling the weight of hesitation pressing on his chest.

“Just go in,” he muttered to himself, taking a deep breath.

Pushing the door open, he was greeted by the warm scent of clay and the faint hum of soft music playing in the background. The space was cozy, with shelves lined with handmade pottery—cups, bowls, and vases in every color imaginable. A handful of people stood around a large central table, their hands working the clay, their conversations easy and light.

“Hi there!”

Harry turned to see a woman in her mid-40s with short, curly hair and clay-smeared hands walking toward him. Her apron bore the same colorful Potterapy logo.

“You must be new,” she said with a bright smile. “I’m Elaine, the guide here. Welcome!”

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said, awkwardly pulling his hand from his pocket to shake hers. “I’m Harry.”

“Well, Harry, you’re in the right place,” Elaine said warmly. “No pressure here. Just grab a seat, and we’ll get you started.”

He nodded, his nerves still buzzing as he made his way to an empty seat at the table. A block of clay sat in front of him, along with a small set of tools. He glanced around, observing the others. They were of all ages and backgrounds—some chatting, others focused on their work.

And then he saw you, sitting directly across from him. When you turned around to hang your bag on the back of your chair, your eyes met his.

“Hey, Harry,” you said with a warm smile. “You came.”

“Hi…” he replied, then frowned slightly. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name. I just realized that.”

“Y/N,” you said, still smiling.

Before you could say more, Elaine clapped her hands gently to gather the group’s attention. Both of you turned to face her.

“Alright, everyone, let’s take a moment to check in before we start shaping our clay. If you’re new, don’t worry—it’s just a chance to share how you’re feeling today. No pressure.”

One by one, the group went around, sharing simple updates about their week or their current mood. When it was Harry’s turn, he cleared his throat.

“Uh… I’m Harry,” he began, his voice quiet. “This is my first time here. I’m… not really sure how I’m feeling, to be honest.”

Elaine smiled encouragingly. “That’s perfectly fine, Harry. Sometimes it’s enough just to show up.”

The group nodded in agreement, and the check-in continued.

When it was your turn, you cleared your throat. “I’m Y/N, for those who don’t know me. I had a busy week at the flower shop. His birthday’s coming up, so I’m feeling a bit on edge. I hope this class helps me work through those feelings, and I hope the new ones here find some comfort.” You finished, glancing briefly at Harry.

When the check-in was done, Elaine began demonstrating how to work the clay, her hands moving with practiced ease.

“Clay is forgiving,” she explained. “You can shape it, press into it, and if it doesn’t turn out the way you want, you can start over. It’s about the process, not the product.”

She paused, her tone softening as she continued. “Force and strength are crucial virtues here. You have to learn to manage the force within you—how it shapes your feelings and how those feelings manifest in your life. Too much force, and you’ll have to start over. Too little, and nothing changes. Focus on finding that balance.”

Harry listened carefully, her words resonating more deeply than he expected. He picked up the clay, its cool, firm texture unfamiliar but oddly grounding. Slowly, he pressed his fingers into it, experimenting tentatively. The shape that began to form wasn’t anything recognizable, but it was his.

Harry’s hands moved clumsily over the clay, his brows furrowed as he pressed and pulled, unsure of what he was doing. The clay didn’t seem to respond the way Elaine had demonstrated, and frustration began to bubble up inside him.

You glanced at him, noticing the stiff way he worked, his jaw tight with concentration.

“Hey,” you said softly, leaning slightly toward him. “Do you want some help? It looks like—”

“No, I can do this, I don't need help,” he snapped, his tone sharper than he intended.

Your smile faltered, and you quickly straightened up, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep up your neck. “Oh… okay. Sorry,” you mumbled, turning back to your own clay.

Harry froze, the sharpness of his own words hitting him like a wave. He hadn’t meant to lash out, especially not at you. The way your face fell made his chest tighten with guilt.

For a moment, he sat there, staring at his clay, his hands still. Then he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I, uh…” He hesitated before glancing toward you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

You looked at him.

“I just…” He sighed “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I guess I’m a little… frustrated.”

Your shoulders relaxed slightly, and you gave him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay. It’s not easy at first.”

He met your gaze, his expression softer now. “Do you think you could show me? I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” you said, your voice warm again as you turned your chair slightly to face him. “Here, let me show you.”

You reached out, showing him how to press the clay gently while keeping the base steady. “It’s all about small, intentional movements,” you explained, your hands brushing his briefly as you adjusted the pressure he was using.

Harry watched closely, following your instructions. Gradually, the clay began to take shape, and his frustration eased.

“See?” you said with a grin. “Not so bad, right?”

He chuckled softly, the tension in his shoulders finally melting away. “Yeah. Thanks”

“No problem,” you replied, turning back to your own project.

As you worked side by side, the air between you felt lighter, and Harry silently vowed to keep his temper in check. He didn’t want to ruin the fragile sense of peace he was starting to feel here—with the clay and with you.

As the minutes passed, the tension eased, and the soft hum of conversation filled the studio. Harry glanced over at you, watching as your hands skillfully shaped the clay. The movements seemed almost second nature to you, each press and pull deliberate and confident.

“So, what are you making?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet between you.

You glanced up at him with a small smile. “A vase,” you replied. “What else would a florist make?”

He chuckled softly, leaning back slightly. “Fair point. Is that, like, your go-to project?”

“Kind of,” you said, focusing on the curve of the vase as you spoke. “I like making different shapes—ones that aren’t perfectly symmetrical. It’s like every vase has its own personality, you know?”

Harry tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you use them in your shop?”

“Sometimes,” you said, pausing to inspect your work. “I’ll display a few, but most of the time, I give them away. Customers, friends, anyone who might appreciate them.”

“That’s… nice” he said, his tone softening.

You shrugged, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks. “It’s nothing, really. I just think handmade things have a way of making people feel special. Like someone put a little extra thought into it.”

He nodded, running his fingers over his own misshapen project. “I get that. There’s something about creating something with your hands. It feels more… real.”

You smiled at his comment, nodding in agreement. “Exactly. Even if it’s not perfect, it’s still yours. That’s what makes it special.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a small smile, and for the first time, he felt a little more at ease. He glanced back at your vase, admiring the smooth curve and unique shape.

“It’s really good,” he said, motioning to your work.

“Thanks,” you replied, glancing at his clay. “Yours isn’t too bad either. What are you making?”

He let out a short laugh. “Honestly? I have no idea.”

You laughed with him, the sound light and easy. “Well, that’s the fun of it. Sometimes, the clay decides for you.”

He smiled at that, feeling a strange sense of comfort in your words. For the first time in a long while, Harry felt like maybe he didn’t have to have everything figured out. --------

General taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

Let me know if you liked it! 💖 there will be more chapters soon.

[kandyscorner]

You know what super sweet to think about, Jason getting his first cheek kiss by someone he likes🥺 I know I said I'd submit something for Dick or Tim to break up all the Jason Todd on the dash, but ugh can you blame me?? Like maybe it's a first date or a second, and he's nervous, like she can tell even though he's hiding it pretty well. Maybe he does something sweet, hold the door open for her, pull her seat out, give her his jacket, something chivalrous that just comes naturally from being around Alfred for so long, and she thanks him with a sweet kiss to the cheek. I imagine he short circuits completely, couldn't recover in time even if he tried, and believe me, he tried. Red blush, starting from his chest all the way to his ears, eye brows shooting up involuntarily like he didn't know a cheek kiss could exist, and he's just frozen in time. You look at him and giggle, and that sound breaks him out of it, and he's just a fumbling mess the rest of the night, but secretly he's just trying to earn another one of those. Ugh, I love him your honor

@herodedicatedblog

Publishing this request to try and summon @herodedicatedblog. I miss my friends crazy commentary. I got lost in the sauce of this, I think, but I still think it works out pretty good. Flustered Jason is the best! I love him!!

_____

“Trivia? You're taking me to trivia?” Jason gives you a very judgey face and it makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Don't say it like that. I thought long and hard about this.” This being the first time Jason was letting you plan a date.

“So that's where the smell of smoke was from.” Jason retorts. You step slowly into his space, hands behind your back and you grin at him innocently. 

He eyes you but doesn't step away from you, if anything leans just a bit closer. It gives you ample opportunity to flick his cheek.

“Don't be mean to me,” you tell him with a pout. He grabs the hand that flickered him, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. 

“Alright, I'm sorry, okay?” You can see the sincerity in his eyes but you flounder anyway.

“Do you really not like trivia?” You ask quietly, eyes downcast. He tips your chin with his free hand to make you look up at him again.

“I like anything you plan. I didn't mean to rag on you, sweetheart. Just wasn't expecting trivia is all.” 

“It's at the library,” you start, feeling more confident and hoping to explain why you had chosen trivia for the date, “and it's specifically on classic literature.” 

You tug him down the sidewalk where you two halted for your conversation. Your jittering nerves enough to finally answer him after he asked what you had planned for the third time. 

“The library?” He asks, letting you pull him slightly. 

“Yeah, you mentioned how you spent a lot of time at the library when you were younger and how you try to support them as much as possible. I figured we could hit two birds with one stone. A date and support the library by participating in their activities.” You suck in a breath at the end of your words. 

“Anyone ever tell you you're perfect, sweetheart, cause you are.” The compliment has you flustering a little but you find relief when the library comes into view.

You pause to look at it. The buildings in Gotham never ceased to amaze you, the architecture always so detailed. Jason stands beside you as you admire the building and then offers you an elbow.

“I think we have a fun trivia night to get to.” He says and you take his arm letting him lead you this time.

“You called it fun,” you say in almost a tease.

“I never said otherwise,” he lightly chides as you climb the steps. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you roll your eyes and reach for the door but Jason beats you to it and pulls the door open. 

“Thank you, handsome,” you say as you walk through the open door. When you turn to wait for him you find a light red dusting across his cheeks and find yourself pleased with getting him to blush. 

The past three date's you had been on you had felt like a total fool. It's why you asked if you could plan the next one, for some semblance of control when it came to being around Jason. 

You check in for trivia and settle in. A small crowd, mostly families and a few couples and friends. Trivia goes by easily or as easily as being tested on old books could be. 

Jason kept looking at you and smiling. You could tell he was trying to make up for his teasing from before, telling you periodically how he was enjoying this and that it was fun. 

The trivia was set up like March madness. You would go up against one team and whoever won would move onto the next round. 

Jason was good, like really good and so were you. You had lightly studied up on classic literature beforehand. It wasn't to show off but you didn't want to look like a total idiot during the date. As the game went on the questions got harder and more specific.

You were in the second to last round. You just had to beat this one and you would be in the finals. You were actually excited, a quiet adrenaline thrumming through your veins. You had one last question in this round.

“Shakespeare wrote over 150 works in his lifetime. Which of these works ends in the death of the noble Trojan Hector?”

You find your competitors turn to each other in a panic. You don't think about it and don’t listen to the question thoroughly as you turn to Jason, “It's the Iliad, right?”

Jason blinks at you apparently startled, he already has the mark uncapped and pressed to the white board. His face turns into a grimace like he’s about to tell you some bad news.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently and makes you smile at his placating attempts, “that's not Shakespeare.”

“I know,” you nod slowly with pinched brows. He gives you a look and you turn to where they have the question posted, “Oh sorry. I wasn't listening to the first part.” you fluster. He reaches over and gives your hand a squeeze. 

“You would've been right without,” he lets go of your hand and picks the mark back up. You lean over his shoulder to watch his answer.

“I never knew Shakespeare wrote anything about the Trojan War.” you whisper into his ear and you swear Jason shudders. He turns his head to meet your eye once he’s done writing.

“It's not very popular. People find it confusing and the name is deceptive.”

“You're actually pretty positive about this, aren’t you?” you question.

“It's why you brought me.” he says with a cocky grin which makes you laugh because it's something you'd expect from a man winning a sport not classic literature trivia.

“Times up, Ladies and Gentlemen, please show us your answers.”

The other team flips the board first, Timon of Athens. Despite the written answer they still seem entirely unsure of it.

“”While Timon of Athens is a tragedy, it is not the tragedy of Troy. Unfortunately that is incorrect. And our second team?”

You give Jason a reassuring nod and he flips the board. Troilus and Cressida

“It seems we have our first contestants for the final round.” the host rambles on more information that you entirely ignore because you made it to the final round! You and Jason stand to swap out  seats with the next group. You shuffle over to the “Audience” seating and sit down suddenly aware of the tight grip you have on Jason’s hand. He doesn't complain, doesn't say anything. 

It's only once the next round starts that you can't contain your excitement anymore. You shake Jason’s hand and turn in your seat, lean up and press an excited kiss to his cheek, “We won.” you whisper, still vibrating with glee.

As you pull back, Jason turns his head slowly to stare at you. He blinks and stares and blinks again. The apples of his cheeks turn red first. It creeps up to his ears and down his neck disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Your glee shifts from excitement about winning to excitement over how fluster Jason suddenly is.

“What’s wrong, handsome? Need another victory kiss?” you swear he turns redder at your teasing.

“No, that's okay. Is it hot in here?” he mumbles and you laugh, loud enough to earn a glare from the people around you. You couldn't care less about the trivia night anymore, enamored by how Jason blushes. 

You leave Jason alone other than periodically staring at him. His blush settles mostly, though it resides on his cheeks indefinitely. He fidgets in his seat clearly no longer paying attention to the trivia game in front of you. 

You want to kiss him on the cheek again then kiss him on the mouth and sit back and watch that blush grow. You want to do it when his shirt is off so you can press kisses to his reddened neck and hopefully follow it as far down as it goes. Maybe go lower to see if the red would follow.

You blink at the poking at your shoulder, a woman behind you gesturing to the trivia contest. It was time for the final round. Apparently, neither you or Jason were paying attention because you have to tug him out of his seat to get him to come along.

You settle in your seat, markers at the ready. The host explains that there will only be one question this round and that was it. You glance at Jason, cheeks still red and you're not entirely sure he’s even listening which would have bothered you if you even cared about the trivia game anymore.

“The final round, the winner takes it all, all being this small trophy we found on Amazon and this bag of candy.” The host presents the prize and a ripple of laughter moves through the group with a small child yelling out, “there was candy!?”

“Are you ready contestants?” the host asks and you nod only slightly hoping Jason will come back to the moment.

“How often does Mr Darcy call Elizabeth by her first name in Jane Austen's book Pride and Prejudice? Time starts now.”

You gingerly set the marker down. This question was so not meant for you. Jason had teased you about not having read it at least once. It wasn't a requirement at your school. 

You turn in your seat and find him still looking a little dazed and decide you're probably not going to be winning this.

“Jason,” you whisper to him and gain no reaction, “Jason!” You poke at his rib and his eyes snap to you.

“What?” You press your hand to your mouth to keep from laughing.

“I can't answer this question.”

“What question?”

“Jason,” you chide and gesture to the posted question and the time you were running out of fast.

“Oh, shit,” his brows raise in surprise and you stifle another laugh.

“Jason, there's children here.”

“Sorry,” he doesn't sound very sorry, “I don't know the answer.” 

That he does sound sorry about. You give him what you hope is a calm smile.

“That's okay. Take your best guess.” 

“But we're so close, sweetheart.” He insists even though there's nothing he can do.

“I know, handsome but we're out of time,” you gesture back to the clock now in seconds. He hurries with the marker and writes down his answer, once.

“I think it's when he proposed, but there may have been another time.I can't remember.” He leans to whisper to you, cheeks a slightly redder than before.

“And our answers are once and twice. I'm so sorry but the answer is twice!” The little girl on the competing team bounces out of her mom's lap and nearly dives at the host for the candy. 

You finally let out your ill contained laughter, hand grabbing Jason’s and intertwining your fingers. Partially so he won't think you're mad about the loss, mostly because you're about to kiss his cheek again and you're definitely going to make him stay there so you can watch him turn red again.

_____

Masterlist

Make a request!

[divinepoints]

homegoing (we'll pay the price, i guess)

pairing: john walker x reader

summary: Valentina's plot to rehabilitate John's image goes awry. Meanwhile, he tries to protect yours by keeping your relationship secret.

word count: 6.3k

warnings: mentions of an unhappy childhood, but no specific reason is given beyond reader being kind of an outcast. reader imagines getting violent with people but no explicit violence actually happens. mentions of what could be interpreted as underage sex? literally one sentence talks about john and reader getting it on while at senior prom

a/n: intended to read as same reader-insert as heart of the matter but you don't technically need to read that one first? personally, though, i would recommend it. not edited, as per usual. kind of inspired by "slut!" if the title did not already suggest.

You had learned how to wear a mask in public a long time ago. Since the day you first realized you had become something of public interest, you learned how to don a number of them. Though undercover work would never be your strong suit, you could handle the public eye. That being said, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine must have been trying to get you to break.

It was unclear whether she knew why she suddenly had the ability to play you like a fiddle, why you were all of a sudden listening to her every demand without argument. Mel knew, you thought, but you weren’t sure whether she’d revealed the cards to her boss. She probably had. She probably should have, if you were being realistic. But if Valentina knew, she never said a word. Maybe she believed saying it out loud would break the hold. Or maybe she really was clueless, it was impossible to tell.

But you knew. You knew why you were suddenly pliable. You were doing this—all of it—for John, even if now you were beginning to wonder if it was really helping at all.

Valentina had John over a barrel. He, like all of you, was technically on government payroll, but for him that meant more. The government money made sure he could pay child support, which meant he more than anyone else had to grit his teeth and bare it even if he wanted to tell Valentina where to stick it. So, when she’d told him that he would be doing a publicity tour in order to rebuild his reputation, he had no room to argue. You, on the other hand, had been the hold up.

There was a show of asking you. Powerpoint presentations, a willingness to let you make a list of demands, literal bribery. Valentina seemed borderline nervous past her attempt at a facade of confidence when she said that a tour as a pair—Hometown Heroes, they were calling it—polled well with the public. She’d been willing to negotiate with you where she demanded from John. You were sure you’d surprised her when you’d accepted what she offered up front instead of arguing for more or to not do it at all. 

Now, though, you thought it was becoming abundantly clear why you’d agreed without much pushback.

Public relations experts had agreed on one live interview. No more, no less. Just enough to capture attention and funnel people to other, more staged efforts. There was supposed to be a set of pre-approved questions with coached answers. There were supposed to be lines in the sand.

Whether the heavily made-up, fake southern accented interviewer went off script all on her own, or whether Valentina was screwing with you again you had no clue. All you knew was that you were a few minutes away from losing it.

John was floundering next to you. You saw his fingers twitch around the arms of the chair he was sitting in. You wanted nothing more than to reach out and reassure him. You thought that if you moved ever-so-slightly you could brush his knee with yours. You also knew it was a bad idea.

Frankly, it had been a bad idea in the first place to send you both back to Custer’s Grove.

There were too many memories here, both bad and good, both together and apart. You had sworn long ago that you would never go back, and John had made the same vow albeit more recently. Valentina had argued that the whole point of Hometown Heroes was moot if you didn’t return home. (You had tried to argue that Custer’s Grove had not been home in a long, long time. It hadn’t worked.) It was essential, Mel had taken over to explain, that you capitalize off your shared background. What better way to remind the world that you were both human than to send you back where you came from?

Whatever group they had polled to come up with that idea clearly had not come from your hometown. Where you were revered, John was reviled. It was truly remarkable how much of the town had so quickly turned on their golden boy. You had not met the same fate, Custer’s Grove still thought you gilded.

You were seconds away from smashing that particular fantasy to pieces.

The interviewer was looking at John like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him. What would Steve Rogers think about your actions as Captain America?

Though you weren’t looking at John’s face, you could imagine what it was. You knew what he looked like when he was lost for words. You knew what he looked like when people took him back where he didn’t want to go.

He tried for diplomacy. “I don’t think I can answer that. I never knew him.”

An escape. She instead used it to parry the question over to you. A mistake. You didn’t answer immediately, locking eyes with Mel across the room. She looked panicked. People were whispering in both her ears. But you were live. There was no saving it. You were fairly certain that had been the entire point. No way out like with a pre-recorded tape. 

What was there to say? Steve had already chosen a successor when the government decided it would be John instead. It always should have been Sam, they knew that, you knew that, and John had finally swallowed it down. But that also wasn’t the question she was asking. She wanted to know what Steve would have thought about John’s darkest day. Honestly? You weren’t certain either.

Part of you thought Steve might have been willing to do worse where Bucky was involved. Another part of you thought that a man willing to go to such lengths would not have left so unceremoniously.  Still, you hardly thought the question relevant when Steve was gone and John was a different man entirely.

When you took too long to answer, she pressed, “What do you think about his actions that day?”

The truth? Un-airable. The truth was that, with you in John’s place and Bucky in Lemar’s, you’d likely have made his actions look like child’s play.

“I think the past is the past,” you said, fists clenched in your lap. “And I trust John to have my back any day. On the job and off.”

No one was satisfied with your answer, least of all you. The course of questioning changed anyway. It was clear there was no pulling any true comment on that from either of you. Back to regularly scheduled programming, softball questions from the pre-approved list. None of it mattered. The rest of the interview was stilted at best, hostile at worst. You were seething underneath a blank expression, wanting nothing more than to rip off the mic hooked to your shirt and stomp off.

Mel was beside you the moment cameras stopped rolling. “We’re going to have it wiped.” You were walking already, trailing far behind John and with Mel far behind you. “We can’t do anything about people that watched it live, but—”

“Stop,” you demanded. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

You didn’t stop walking, there was no point. No amount of arguing with Mel, no amount of pleading or assurances from her end would change things. They couldn’t bury this. Live was live, and the internet was forever. Even Valentina couldn’t stop every idiot with a YouTube account.

⊛

You were right, of course. Three hours later and even if it wasn’t publicly available on the news’ website, your interview had been clipped and posted around social media.

In silence, you had driven two hours outside of town in search of a place to be where no one would stare. Now you were sitting at a table in maybe the shittiest diner Georgia had to offer, scrolling through public commentary. People were not just misinterpreting things you’d said, but they were analyzing your body language and drawing incorrect conclusions.

Oh she haaaaates his ass, one commenter posted, she doesn’t even look at him when he talks.

You didn’t have public-facing social media, which was probably for the best. If you did, you might have started responding. You knew it would get you nowhere, or it might even make things worse. Mostly you didn’t care. All you wanted was for people to stop dissecting your behavior and acting like they knew you. 

“Not gonna get you anywhere,” John said after a stretch of silence. He plucked your phone from your hands, locked it, and tossed it on the booth beside him. “I would know.”

John had learned indifference to the internet, for the most part. You weren’t so well-trained about it, surprisingly. You thought that after so many years, after watching Bucky go through it during his bid for both presidential pardon and congressional seat, you would have been better. Yet it still sickened you to look at it all, even when most of it was not really directed at you. 

“I don’t know how people write that shit,” you responded.

“Easier from behind a screen,” he told you. “In public they mostly just… look.”

You were used to eyes on you, but not in the way John meant. People never looked at you like they were scared you were a hair’s breadth away from snapping. They didn’t look at you like you were some kind of danger. When you noticed people looking at you from afar it was always with great interest or awe. It was invasive, sure, to be stared at, but you had to imagine the other way was worse. At least you didn’t normally feel like a caged wild animal. 

“You just have to learn what opinions matter,” he continued. “Or so I’m told.”

“Sounds like a Bucky-ism.”

He almost smiled. “It might be.”

It also sounded far easier than it was, you knew that. John said all of this now, but you knew the cycle. You’d seen it before. More than once you’d caught him returning to old articles or videos about himself, scrolling disparaging remarks about himself. It happened less and less frequently now, but you were expecting eventually curiosity would get the better of him. He’d tell you this now, take your phone away for your benefit, but you wouldn’t be surprised to wake in the night and see the same screen on his.

You wanted to reach for him. The look in his eyes suggested it would be a mistake.

In the public eye, your relationship did not exist. It was half-secret, and deeply private even within the confines of the tower, all by John’s choice. It grated on you sometimes, but he’d made his reasonings clear. I’m not dragging you down with me, he’d said once. You told him you didn’t care, and he’d just given you a look that said if you weren’t going to care at all, he’d care double. All you worried about was Valentina using it as a bargaining chip, but even that hardly deterred you.

“I should say something,” you decided. “People might not want to hear you talk yourself up, but if it’s me—”

“They’ll only think less of you,” John interrupted. “And you know it.”

Part of you didn’t think so, most of you knew he was probably right. But at the same time, you’d earned the good will of the public in blood, so you thought they owed you some slack. Besides, most of you also didn’t care what the public thought of you. It had done nothing to save you when you refused to sign the Sokovia Accords.

“I don’t care what people think of me,” you said.

He said nothing, but the doubt read easy on his face. You supposed you couldn’t blame him, you had never known the other side of the coin.

Despite all his silent objections, you reached out across the table. It almost looked casual. Almost. If you hadn’t looked like you were hurting for just the barest brush of his skin, it might have been nothing. He gave you another look.

“We should go,” he said finally, and you didn’t argue.

He wasn’t so withdrawn in the car, which hurt just as much as it helped. He didn’t worry about being caught behind tinted windows and drove with one hand on the wheel while the other held yours. The very same way he should have allowed himself to do in public, if you had anything to say about it. You wanted to walk the world with only one hand to use because the other was permanently stuck with his. 

A two-hour silence with him might usually have been companionable and welcome. There were plenty of times that you merely existed together in the same room. This was not that. This was a silence heavy with an argument that was both happening and not happening. Mostly, you knew it would get you nowhere. That was the problem with loving someone equally as stubborn as you were, neither of you was ever willing to fold. Not until it was almost a too-big problem. The pursuit of compromise was practically a Sisyphean task where the two of you were involved.

The entire drive you tried your best to simply relish the time you were allowed for simple touch, but the weight on you hardly allowed it. You really thought he ought to let you at least try to advocate for him. You also knew he’d sooner shed blood. It was an incredibly cyclical problem to have. All you wanted to do was share the side of him you knew, the differences you saw emerging in a man who was trying to better himself day by day.

He’d tamped his temper, though most would not have noticed it. You saw. You knew why. John told you that Lemar had once told him he couldn’t solve problems with his fists anymore. He’d then said he was trying, even if it was mostly too little, too late. You noticed it. Bob, indestructible as he was, might have once upon a time felt the direct impact of John’s anger. Now when you saw it flare at an off-handed comment, you would watch as John just breathed and said not now, Bob. Small, but different.

It would be a hard thing to show people in your line of work, unless he let you do the talking up for him. It would certainly be worth it to you, regardless of the outcome. At least you would have tried. That was all you could ever do. 

At the hotel, he separated from you like an identically charged magnetic pole, forever forced to repel. However briefly it was for—you knew you’d be slipping out of your room and into his—it hurt.

Mel appeared out of thin air the moment you stepped through the doors. She allowed John to pass, but held you back. Your gaze might have been hard enough to cut glass, the way she shuddered at it. It seemed all her time working for Valentina had not made her immune to your ire. She was apologizing again, explaining there was already a team behind the scenes doing the work to repair the damage the interview had done to the plans. You told her flatly that you were through with the plans. She had Valentina on the phone in the next instant. 

Valentina was sickly-sweet as she told you that under no circumstances would you abandon the plan when you were so nearly through. A momentary setback, she called your borderline-disastrous interview. There are people coming around, she further insisted. Mingling with local politicians will do wonders, she added. What she meant, of course, was that she would be humiliated if you did not stuff yourself into an uncomfortable dress and balance-throwing shoes and show up to the charity event her endless staff had so painstakingly handcrafted as your send-off.

You wanted to tell her to shove it. You also knew she’d send John in alone, and that was worse. She’d come up with some excuse, of course. You’d be reported to be off saving the world or something equally dramatic. She would save face at all costs, and John would have to miserably agree on her arm the entire night. 

“Never again,” you told her flatly. Her relief was so palpable through the phone that one might think she’d talked you off a nuclear option.

Mel smiled at you tensely and you did not respond in kind. She headed off to her room, and you waited a safe twenty minutes before completely ignoring your own suite and heading to John’s.

He was waiting for you, out of casual clothes and into pajamas. Despite the argument you wanted to start, you allowed yourself to melt into him instead. It could wait for another day. It could wait until you were really home.

“What did she want?” he asked, threading fingers through your hair with one hand and tracing your spine with the other.

“Just bullshit,” you responded.

That was what this all was, wasn’t it?

⊛

A team of professional stylists, hairdressers, and make-up artists invaded your space for three hours. You practically boiled over with rage the third time they decided you did not look perfect enough. Mel called them off once you’d started threatening bodily injury. Someone remarked that Valentina would not be pleased, and you’d responded they should be pleased to not be in pieces. No one said much of anything after that. 

After all the poking and prodding was finally over, you were ushered directly into a car that already contained Valentina and John. It seemed as though you were going to have to create a moment alone with him if you so craved it. You shared the briefest of glances and then he was back to absolutely imperturbable.

You were all matching. You, John, Valentina, and you were half expecting Mel to arrive separately but in the same color scheme. It screamed family reunion from hell, but you were sure Valentina was going for novelty. It would sell well, she had probably determined based on polls from who-knows-where and experts who probably had much better things to be doing. 

She had directed you both to tablets loaded with important faces. Why you hadn’t been given them earlier, you weren’t sure. Either she had far too much faith in your ability to digest all kinds of information very quickly, or maybe she was going for authentic introductions over anything else. She’d done it before, given you mere moments to peek at information you’d later only remember with prompting. All those months ago, Mel had explained that it often led to the impression that Valentina had been talking these people up to you, even when she hadn’t. You recalled miserably that people had eaten it up.

It would have made sense, if Custer’s Grove wasn’t the type of place that hired from within, so to speak. You’d known most of the local politicians from childhood, and the ones you hadn’t it was only because they were so much younger than you. (Or had been, for some. Blip mathematics were hell on your brain.)

“Big smiles,” Valentina reminded you as the car came to a stop. “Make it look good.”

John was out first and you saw cameras immediately flash. Publicly disliked or no, it appeared he was still quite the spectacle to capture. Valentina was next, John gentlemanly offered her a hand to help her out of the car. You were sure she was practically giddy over the thought of it in the local paper. She made a time of it, at least giving you a few moments to breathe. You doubted that was on purpose, sure that she just relished all of the attention on herself.

You saw her vanish alone. John was still waiting, dipping his head down to look at you still in the car. You did not will your muscles to move, still deep in your desire to not be doing this. Maybe, if you offered enough money, the driver would just take off.

Whoever’s idea it was to host a charity event in your high school’s gymnasium was officially on your hit list. It all suddenly made a lot of sense, though. Talk about recapturing the past.

You weren’t sure how Valentina’s people had gotten ahold of pictures that only should have existed in old cameras that you’d left behind years ago. You weren’t sure why she insisted on torturing you like this, or if she even knew it was torture at all. But the rest was all so clear now.

A team of professionals took three hours not to make you look perfect, but to perfectly emulate what you had looked like decades ago at senior prom. It was sneaky and slimy and you had half a mind to rip Valentina’s head clean off her shoulders. It all clicked now because you had been here before. It had been a Chevy truck instead of a fancy limo, and you’d certainly been a hell of a lot younger, but you were familiar still with the sight of John in a suit offering you a hand to help you out of a vehicle. 

“I know,” he said. Clearly it had not just dawned on him the same way it had you. “She’s a real peach, isn’t she.”

Yeah, you were going to rip her limb from limb.

You took John’s proffered hand anyway and prepared yourself for the barrage. The air practically vibrated with it. The Georgia heat was certainly stifling, but it was not what made you breathless.

Cameras captured as you exited, but you did not stop for your moment in the spotlight as Valentina had done. Your name was called, photographers and journalists alike begging for your attention. You ignored them all. Valentina would get the bare minimum, if even that. Instead of posing and smiling politely, you marched yourself straight into the building.

John trailed you for only the few brief moments it took for his long strides to close on you. He was muttering more at you than to you, given you were in no space to listen. The school was decorated professionally, classy enough for adults but obvious enough what it called back to. You kicked yourself for being such a fool. Really, you should have seen it coming. This whole thing had been about hometown glory, after all. It didn’t hurt any less.

Whatever Valentina thought, your time in Custer’s Grove had been less than pleasant. The very best of it, the pieces that she was mutilating to fit her own agenda, had been John. Not your parents, who you’d frankly been relieved to see pass several years ago. Not friends, who had been barely present regardless and had certainly vanished when you went off to school. Not even school, as studious as you had been. The town tried to paint itself gold in retrospect, but you knew the truth and so did anyone who’d been around then. It should have spoken for itself, the way you couldn’t get out fast enough.

Prom was not even a particularly great memory, in the grand scheme of things. John had won king, which would have been great if you had been beside him, but you’d not been nearly popular enough for that. He’d been a gentleman about it, plucking the plastic crown from his own head and placing it on Lemar’s, saying someone else needed to do kingly duties so he could dance with who really mattered. Later in the night, he’d ruined it all by telling you he enlisted. Then, in your infinite teenage wisdom, you’d fucked him while crying in his beat-up truck. Frankly, you felt foolish about a great many things that happened that night, but that didn’t mean you wanted Valentina to rewrite any part of it.

“One hour,” John said, grasping you around the waist in a darkened corner. “One hour, a raffle, a dinner, then we’re done.”

It did little to soothe the fire steadily burning in your very bones. You weren’t sure you could smile through your fury for ten minutes, let alone an hour. You weren’t interested in parroting nostalgia while Valentina tried to talk up “her” team and her ideas. What you wanted was violence, really. It would have been hugely satisfying, for a moment, to gouge Valentina’s eyes out. 

John had pulled you away from all the noise. Your back was pressed to his chest, his arm wound fully around your middle. He was trying to keep you grounded just as much as he was trying to hold you back.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he muttered, lips against the top of your head. “It’s okay.”

This time, it was you who pulled from him like you’d been burned. If you were going to suffer through this, you were not going to hear his reassurances first. Not when you knew in the light he would separate from you like touching you was only suffering. 

You ran into Mel who was on the hunt and looking harried. She gasped in relief at the sight of you, and you noticed with great annoyance that she was in fact in a matching shade. “Have you seen Walker?”

You only barely kept the frown off your face. “No.”

Though she did not look at all like she believed you, she still just directed you to the cafeteria. Like you needed direction. Nothing had changed here, which was part of the problem. There had been no remodel or overhaul at Custer’s Grove High. It was still so perfectly same that you’d have been able to navigate the halls with your eyes shut and recall a memory at every pause. 

“Ah,” Valentina exclaimed with great effort the moment you entered the room, “there she is! And I’m sure John is just on his way…”

The group she was talking to locked onto you, but clearly had no care for whether John was coming or not. You recognized faces not from just files, but from history alone. You recalled flashes of what you were informed they were doing now. The now-mayor, who had once just been a classmate’s older brother, stuck his hand out at you and smiled what you supposed was meant to be charmingly. He was gentle about it, you were not.

“You’re all grown up,” he commented, and you weren’t entirely sure what to make of it. “We’re all so proud of what you’ve become.”

Ironic, coming from someone who’d told his little sister to stay away lest your bad influence rub off on her.

Your smile came across more a grimace, and Valentina intervened quite quickly. You still wanted to rip her face off, so you were glad when she made both herself and the mayor scarce. She pulled him away, talking about how you favored children’s charities, leaving you to your own devices with the rest of the group she’d amassed in your absence.

They talked at you, rather than to you. None of them had known you particularly well in the past, nor did it seem they truly wanted to know you now. It was abundantly clear that you were here offered up on a silver platter like some sort of advertisement. You were asked to throw your support behind local projects, begged to stick around and give some talks to the schools, reminded of memories reframed to be fond when they absolutely had not been.

John, who appeared to have nearly been dragged in by Mel, was experiencing the opposite. The last time he had been in this cafeteria he’d been the talk of the town, and now he was getting brief polite handshakes before being brushed off. As far as you could tell, he was taking it in stride, smiling tightly every time Valentina brought someone around for him to meet. Clearly, she thought it would take some prodding for anyone to approach him. 

You were being passed around the room both of your own accord and against your will. Though you didn’t want to talk to anyone at all, talking to everyone was still somehow preferable than being stuck with one individual. And, you had to admit, it was becoming more and more bearable as you downed glasses of champagne, though you were beginning to tire of even that very quickly.

Someone was talking at you about a start-up, and you were not listening. John had since shaken Valentina off almost entirely, occupying himself on the sidelines. In a real role-reversal, he was the only thing you were worried about even while all the attention was yours. Just as he had done all those years ago. 

“Sorry,” you said, though not sorry at all. You had interrupted what was assuredly a very boring monologue about… pesticides, you thought, but couldn’t be sure. “I’m sorry, I just see someone—”

The man you’d not been listening to gave you a tight smile. “Of course, I’m sure everyone is dying to talk to you.”

It was true. Everyone in the room was aching for your very presence except the one person you wanted to be around. You made a beeline for him, but Mel caught you halfway across the room. 

“Sorry,” she apologized, and she seemed to actually mean it. “They want you to pull the first ticket for the raffle. Everyone’s going to be directed to their tables in a minute.”

You huffed a breath through your nose, but followed anyway. The makeshift stage that had been pulled together for the evening was just as rickety as you remembered it being, even if it might not have been the same one at all. With no real auditorium, all band concerts had been held in the always-smelly gym with what essentially amounted to a very large wooden box to perform on. 

Cameras were pointed at you again. They were recording for something, you’d discovered. You hadn’t had the room in your head to even think about it during your so-called mingling. You had half a mind to start SOS-ing in sign language just to fuck with Valentina, but you refrained. At the very least, you still had some tact, and this was for charity. 

There was a microphone in front of you, which you tapped twice to ensure was working. You did not want to do this more than once. Near your left, Valentina had taken a seat strategically selected next to John. On her other side was an empty chair, you assumed it was yours. The rest of the table was filled with men in suits. It, for the moment, looked very tense. 

You practically droned your way through talking points that Mel had given you. No outright pre-prepared speech, since that would come of as inauthentic, or so you were told. Under any other circumstances, you’d have tried more. It was for a good cause, but the whole night so far had left you sick to your stomach and with a pounding headache. 

A particularly enthusiastic local businesswoman won the first raffle—a donated luxury spa treatment, or the closest thing that Custer’s Grove had to offer—and you were thusly allowed to turn things over to Mel for the rest of the night. Valentina had vanished by the time you made your way to the table, and you took her seat without even looking at the one meant for you. 

In the space between draws, people tried to suck you into conversation, but you weaseled your way out every single time. In the space between breaths, John snuck his hand to your knee under the table and you promptly forced it off. After that, he seemed to understand that he’d gotten himself into trouble too. 

To be clear, you didn’t blame him for the events of the night. You blamed him for not wanting to touch you in public. You weren’t asking for egregious. You weren’t asking for something that would send grandmothers into early cardiac arrest. You just wanted to be able to hold his hand without him wondering if someone was taking pictures and writing articles about how far you’d fallen. 

Valentina returned looking less-than-pleased about something, but also said nothing about you taking her seat. Instead, she slid easily into yours and began making conversation again like nothing happened. When the focus was not on her, she uttered out of the side of her mouth that you needed to make more of an effort. You responded lowly she had gotten all that she was going to get out of you for the night.

Dinner was served once all the prizes had been divvied, but few people remained seated. Mostly, they milled about rubbing shoulders with one another. It seemed, since they realized they were getting very little out of you, they had moved onto each other. Mostly you wished it had happened earlier, but you also knew there’d be hell to pay once Valentina was done fluttering around and making excuses for your reclusive behavior. 

John remained seated next to you throughout it all, but neither of you bothered touching the food that had been served. 

“We might be able to sneak out of here,” he remarked, and you couldn’t help but scoff. “Not like we’re doing much, anyway.”

“Aren’t you worried someone might see? Might assume.”

John sighed heavily. “We doing this here?”

Well, it wasn’t like you had anything better to do. “Guess so.”

“You know what I’m worried about,” he started. “I told you, I’m not taking you down with me. I don’t know why you want me to.”

“I don’t want— I just don’t care, John,” you began, but stopped and floundered for words. It was impossible to know what the right thing to say was, or how to adequately speak your truth about all of it.

You didn’t want it to seem like you disregarded his care for you. You knew it wasn’t that John truly wanted to keep you secret, not in some kind of shamed way. He saw it as protecting you from the thing that had hurt him the most. But he wasn’t grasping that you’d fought gods and monsters and everything in between, and that you’d lost so many friends in the process that all you cared about now was what mattered.

What mattered to you was holding on tight to what you had now. The people that you had now. Your fragile team, separate pieces of shattered, jagged glass that somehow fit together just right like a puzzle. Him, of course. Always him.

“I love you,” you told him, not a whisper. You would have yelled it, but also you wouldn’t. It wasn’t attention you were going for. You didn’t need to love him loudly, but you didn’t want to do it silently either. “Damn the consequences.”

It rendered John utterly speechless for several moments. You just looked at him evenly, figuring you could forgive him his shock. It was three little words that you’d had a lifelong mental block for. Something you’d only ever thought and never said aloud. Even Bucky, ever emotionally-constipated, had managed it before you did. John had said it often, freely, like he was making up for lost time. He never pushed, never asked it of you. Never flinched when in response you just uttered, you too. Never took offense that you couldn’t manage it.

He finally began, “How’re you gonna say something like that when I can’t—”

“You can,” you interrupted. “You’re what matters to me. Not what people think.”

He spoke quick and low, “You’re in a room full of people who’ve spent the entire night trying to ignore me because they’d rather be caught dead than on my side. I love you, you know that—”

“I wanna marry you, one day,” you interrupted him again. “And that’s never going to happen if you keep trying to protect me from what people are going to think.”

John floundered again. That was certainly a thing you hadn’t talked about, but you figured cards on the table. You didn’t know if he’d even considered marrying again, or if the whole institution was a write-off to him, but you’d found yourself imagining it as of late. It would by untraditional, you knew. There’d be no moving out of the tower to some suburb, and it would probably be more courthouse than big, white wedding, but you were okay with that. It would be more than enough for you.

“Let’s get out of here,” he finally uttered.

Your shoulders slumped unintentionally. “John—”

“Let’s get out of here,” he repeated. “Because I want to go home. Now. With you. And if you don’t care who sees, I don’t either.”

There was a great soar all within the confines of your body. He was standing, offering you his hand, not even casting a glance over his shoulder to see if there was anyone nearby. When you took it and stood, he released only to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you tight into his side. 

“I love you,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sneaking off. You were just leaving, together, to go home. Your real home, where all of your friends were probably wreaking havoc and trying to kill each other. Valentina was calling after you, trying to draw you back and following your exit all at once.

She sounded utterly shocked as she said, “Where are you going?”

“We’re going home, Val,” John said over his shoulder. “With or without your permission.”

He waited until you were out of eyesight to press his lips to yours. Not to keep it secret. Not because it was hidden, but because that part was just for you.