#I read the first book. and maybe part of the second?

[wobblingjello]

Shadows of His Past

Summary: Spencer had a routine he always did on Maeve’s death anniversary. Lost in his own grief, something, or rather, someone, completely slipped out of his mind. You. He was hyper-focused in his grief that he hurt you in the process.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5111 (This is now officially the longest fanfic I’ve ever written!!!)

Author Notes: This fanfic was born from one line that stuck in my head for days: “Do I have to compete with her for a place in your heart my entire life?” I’m clearly not an expert on the language of flowers. I simply read people’s blogs/articles about flowers and their meanings as I wrote this. Sorry for any inaccuracy.

In the last two months, you’ve noticed that Spencer has been acting a bit off. It became more noticeable every time you spent the night at his apartment. You’d find him standing in front of the bookshelf, simply staring at his collection, or maybe one certain book, you weren’t entirely sure. Yet he never actually took anything off of the bookshelf. He clenched his fists, as if he restrained himself from reaching out to that book. After a few moments, he’d usually go to a different part of the apartment; either it was the kitchen or the bedroom. You didn’t know if he was even aware of what he was doing, and you didn’t know the reason he did that either.

Knowing that something bothered him but didn’t know how to help him irritated you. One night, you’ve had enough of this behavior, so you pulled him to the couch, and confronted him. You could tell that he was taken aback by the question — proving your suspicion that he wasn’t aware of his actions. He didn’t answer immediately, but you knew his big brain was running its gears to form an answer for you.

“It’s almost Maeve’s death anniversary.” His voice was shaky, and it was barely audible.

That was the only response you got from him, before he buried his face in the palm of his hands. You didn’t know what kind of answer you expected from him, but that was entirely off the table. You weren’t sure what to do, but you offered him a hug. The moment you pulled him to your embrace, he immediately held you close. As if he was afraid he’d lose you.

One of the first things he had brought up when you two started dating was how his job could possibly be a danger to the people in his life. The people he loved. That was also the day he first ever mentioned a woman named Maeve, who tragically had been murdered by her stalker, right in front of him. Possibly the first woman he ever loved.

You didn’t think much of it when he told you about her. Didn’t even think she was still relevant to the relationship you had with him right now, because it’s been years since it happened anyway. Right?

A week after Spencer told you about Maeve however, when his female colleagues invited you for a girls night’s out, you instantly said yes — thinking it could be the perfect opportunity to ask them about her. After the second round of drinks, you mustered up the courage to ask them about her. Once the question left your mouth, you were greeted by an uncomfortable silence. You clearly had put them in the hot seat, and most likely ruined the night. They hesitated to tell you, afraid that it wasn’t their place to share the story. You encouraged them that it was alright, that Spencer had already told you, you just wanted to know the story from their perspectives.

So, they eventually told you everything they knew about Maeve, which was pretty much the same things Spencer had told you. However, they revealed that what happened to her greatly affected him mentally and emotionally. Which at some point also clouded his judgment in the field. It took him weeks to seek out help from the team, and another weeks to give himself a proper closure. The topic surrounding her and the relationship with Spencer seemed to be more sensitive than you let yourself to believe.

The sound of a muffled cry brought you back to the present. You were so lost in your own head you didn’t even realize that Spencer was crying. You tried to sooth him as best as you could; one hand rubbing his back in gentle motion and the other hand brushing his curls. At one point, you managed to convince him to call it a night. That night you slept with his hands tightly wrapped around you, like he needed proof that you were real.

The next day, you wanted to ask him when exactly her death anniversary was, but he didn’t even try to give you a further explanation, so you went along with him. Pretending that the conversation from the night before had never happened in the first place.

Days, weeks, passed by since that night, and things have returned to normal. At least, that was what you wanted to believe. Both of you still communicated like you two normally would. He still informed you when he was about to travel for a case or when he was about to go home. From time to time, you still spent the night at his place, or him at yours. It was just that both of you carefully avoided the subject altogether.

One day, the buzzing sound from your phone wouldn’t stop. There were dozens of texts in the group chat. The one group chat that consisted of you and Spencer’s female colleagues. You were overjoyed when they added you to the group chat — how they considered you as one of them. However, today, as you read through the texts, you felt… confused? They were talking about going to another state to catch yet another bad guy, guessing who they’d share the room with, etcetera.

You were confused because you received no text from Spencer that indicated those things. No, scratch that. You received no text from him at all. You thought he was busy juggling piles of case files, thus he hadn’t responded to your text, but apparently that wasn’t what was happening.

You tried to send him another text before putting your phone aside. Trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in your gut, and getting back to your work.

By lunch time, you still hadn’t heard anything from Spencer, and you began to worry. A bit desperate for an answer, you made a phone call to Penelope.

“Hey, sweetness. It’s always a great time when you call. A distraction that I need. Anyway, do you need anything?” She sounded like her usual cheerful self on the other side of the line.

“Hey, Penny. Um, it may sound weird, but I wonder if you happen to know where Spencer is? I haven’t heard from him all day.”

“Oh. I don’t think I’m the right person to tell you about it, hun.”

“Will you please tell me what’s going on? I won’t be mad at you. If he’s going to be mad at you for telling me, then it’s his problem with me. I promise.” Considering what’s been going on between you two, you didn’t like the implication that he hid something from you.

She went silent for a moment. Probably contemplating her choices. Then you heard her sighing. “Every year, on this day, Reid always takes a day off. Today’s Maeve’s death anniversary.”

Your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach. You vaguely heard Penelope’s worried voice through the phone, but you barely registered what she said after that. Her previous words echoed in your mind — played over and over, like a broken record.

Every year…

He takes a day off…

Today’s Maeve’s death anniversary…

You didn’t even remember how you ended that phone call. All you could remember was the pain that grew in your heart.

As reality started to kick in, a bitter laugh escaped your lips. Knowing how demanding his job was, you two rarely made a plan for dates. Your dates always revolved around his day off. Even on your birthday, you only received a phone call because he was miles away solving a crime. Meanwhile he willingly took a day off, to do God knew what, on his almost ex-girlfriend’s death anniversary?

What did he do that he needed an entire day off? Did he visit her grave? Where was he now?

You had so many questions, yet you didn’t have any idea how to communicate with Spencer, when he hadn’t responded to any of your previous texts.

The rest of your day went on a blur after that phone call with Penelope.

---

Even after years had passed, waking up on this day never got any easier. The moment Spencer opened his eyes, everything that happened that day flashed before his eyes as if it just occurred yesterday. Then the guilt would follow close after. As he laid on his bed, he constantly asked himself the same question; was there something he could’ve done differently in order to save her?

Every year, today, he’d do the same routine. He’d start his day by reading “The Narrative of John Smith”, the book she gave him. At this point, he had completely memorized every word page by page. He didn’t really mind, because this was the only thing he had left of her. If he normally could read 20,000 words per minute, he took his time when reading this one. He wanted to completely immerse himself in the memory of her.

When he was done reading the book, he’d take a ride. His first stop was a florist, where he always bought 2 bouquets of flowers for different purposes. Beth, the lovely elderly woman who owned the place, would have the bouquets ready for him when he arrived. She knew Spencer would stop by to get the bouquets every year on this day.

Once the bouquets were secured, he drove to his next destination; the crime scene. He put the first bouquet at the entrance  of the loft. After the first year of Maeve’s death anniversary, he learned that her parents went to her grave around noon, hence he opted to go to this place first. Spencer would stay in his parked car, pull out the “The Narrative of John Smith” book from his messenger bag, then read it again for an hour or two, before finally driving to the cemetery.

There was a bouquet at her grave when he arrived, definitely from her parents. He put his bouquet next to it. He’d stay there, and simply talk to her. Over the years, he’d tell her the same things. To this day, aside from the fact he failed to save her, his other regret was he didn’t get the chance to tell her how he felt. He knew that Maeve was smart enough to realize that him saying he didn’t love her was part of the plan, but he wished he didn’t have to do that. He wished for the alternative outcome where she was alive, and he could tell her how he felt in person. He’d apologize for what happened to her, how he couldn’t save her, asked her if she had forgiven him, and asked if it was okay to forgive himself.

He felt lighter when he drove home. Usually he’d try to recall their phone call conversations. How Maeve laughed when he attempted to make terrible jokes, how she often made intellectual puns, or how she sounded like when she told him that she loved him. It scared him that someday he would forget the sound of her voice.

The sun had already set by the time he was back to his place. Spencer was exhausted and starving. The last time he had meals was before he left his apartment. He’d make himself a quick dinner, then get ready for bed. He was about to get a few ingredients from the fridge, when he saw it; a bottle of juice he usually didn’t drink. Odd. Then the realization hit him like a ton of bricks . That was your favorite juice that he stocked in his fridge for you.

Shit.

He quickly pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it on. Once it was on, Spencer noticed tons of texts and calls from you and surprisingly Garcia too.

He had completely forgotten about you.

You [09:47 AM]: Hey, genius. Are you heading somewhere or stuck in Quantico doing paperwork today? You [11:29 AM]: Spence, are you okay? I haven’t heard anything from you. You miscalled (3) You [04:31 PM]: Can you at least tell me that you’re okay? You miscalled (2)

Garcia [01:15 PM]: Your girl found out through the ladies group chat that the team headed to San Francisco today. She asked me about you because she couldn’t reach you. I’m so sorry.

The last call from you was one and half hours ago. He grabbed his bag and car key, then in an instant went out of his apartment again. Before he started the car engine, he tried to call you once but it went straight to voicemail.

Garcia miscalled (2)

Garcia [04:26 PM]: Please call her back. She’s worried about you.

How could he be so ignorant?

The fact that you had called him out for his odd behaviors lately was bad enough, then you found out the significance of today from someone else. Not from him. That felt like a punch to his face. You were kind enough for not forcing him to explain everything to you immediately that night. No, you tolerated him enough to not bring up that topic again. He should’ve told you sooner.

On his way to your place, his brain ran a mile a minute; thinking of what would be the best explanation to give you. At this point he knew his explanation would probably sound like an excuse to you, but he’d still try. If you wouldn’t listen to him today, then he’d try again, and again, and again.

Once Spencer parked his car, he realized he didn’t know if you were even home. There was still a probability that you were somewhere else. He remembered how you once stayed the night at Garcia’s place when you weren’t feeling well, and he was unfortunately away for a case — you could be at her place again. Now that he was standing in front of your door, however, he could vaguely hear the sound from your TV. He released a sigh of relief. You were here. He could do this.

He knocked on your door twice — you didn’t answer. The sound from your TV was gone. He tried knocking again. Still no answer.

“Sweetheart. I know you’re in there. Can we please talk?” He pleaded as he rested his head on your door.

Silence.

The silence stretched too long for his liking. He tried knocking again. He didn’t want to give up on you. On this relationship.

Then he heard a shout from inside the apartment. “Just go away, Spencer! I don’t want to talk to you!”

Even through the door, he recognized the hurt in your voice. He hated that he caused that pain. You were alone inside your apartment, hurting, and it was because of him.

Determined, he simply had to try again. “You don’t have to talk, if you aren’t up for it. I just need you to listen to my explanation. Please.”

He heard footsteps coming his way, and he allowed a tiny hope blooming in his chest. You opened the door, and the sight of you made his heart shattered instantly. Your eyes were red and puffy, the unmistakable proof that you were crying. Spencer was furious at himself, looking at the undeniable evidence that he caused that. He wanted to caress your cheeks so badly, and to tell you that everything would be fine, that you both would be fine. But he restrained himself from doing so. How could he? When he was the source of your distress to begin with.

“Babe—”

“I’m tired, Spence.” Your voice was hoarse, definitely from the crying. “I don’t want to deal with any of this now. Just go home.”

You didn’t entirely turn down his effort to make it up to you, he’d take that. So he tried a different approach. “I’m helping the team from Quantico, so if you’re up to have the discussion tomorrow, or any day really, just let me know.” He eventually reached for your hand, and the tiny hope from earlier grew a bit bigger when you didn’t flinch at his touch. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like this.”

“Good night, Spence.” You let his hand go, and closed the door on his face.

---

When Spencer woke up the next day, he couldn’t shake the guilt that lingered within him. The look on your face kept replaying in his mind like a movie. You looked so broken and defeated — a far cry from your usual bubbly self. He felt sick to his stomach knowing he did that to you. If he had to spend the rest of his life making up to you, then he’d do exactly that.

As he walked out of his bedroom to get ready for work, he checked his phone, and no text from you. Understandable. After all, he ignored you all day yesterday, why would you text him today?

Before he left his apartment though, he texted you.

Spencer [07:18 AM]: Hey, sweetheart. I know that you’re still mad at me. Rightfully so. But let me know if we can meet up today. I want to properly explain everything to you. I love you.

As he stepped into the bullpen, he immediately walked to Garcia’s office. It’d be more efficient if they assisted the team together from her office. After he knocked on the door, he didn’t bother to wait for an answer, he just walked right in. He was hoping for the usual witty greetings from her, but the moment she saw him, her expression was a mix of sadness, worry, and perhaps pity.

“Oh, Reid.”

Knowing what she was probably about to say, he held his hand up to stop her. “Let’s not talk about that, yeah?”

Having his mind occupied with the case was the distraction that he needed. However, Spencer couldn’t help himself from checking his phone every now and then, in case you texted him. You didn’t. He could feel Garcia’s stare every time he checked his phone, but he didn’t really pay attention to it.

He appreciated her for granting his wish to not talk about his personal life, and they were strictly discussing anything work related. Although, he knew she was dying to say something; asking him how you were, had he apologized, or something.

Ever since Spencer introduced you to the team, they instantly adored you. Of course they were. How could they not? You were kind, funny, smart, and beautiful. They told him that the two of you were a perfect match, but also joked that you were too good for him. That wasn’t wrong, because for him, you were perfect. To this day, he couldn’t believe the fact that you two were dating. 

If the rest of the team easily welcomed you, then Garcia practically adopted you as her sister. He had lost count how many times you had lunch with her when the team was away. You once joked that you were actually in a relationship with her, and not him. He didn’t really mind, in fact, he was glad knowing you could share such a bond with one of the people he considered family.

Frankly, he wasn’t even surprised that Garcia told you the significance of yesterday for him. Spencer might know her longer, but you were her chosen sister. He also understood that she had no ill intention when she informed you. She simply helped someone she cared about.

As he packed his stuff, ready to go home, his phone buzzed. He immediately checked it. A text from you.

You [05:47 PM]: You can come to my place now if you want.

He hurriedly packed the rest of his stuff, not caring if the folders were folded in his messenger bag. In all the years he had worked in the BAU, he didn’t think he ever ran to the elevator that fast.

When he arrived at your apartment, he tentatively knocked on the door. This time though, it didn’t take long for you to open the door. As if you were waiting for him to be there.

You already changed your work outfit to your favorite pajama set, makeup had been washed, and you put your hair on a messy bun. Despite all of that, you still looked beautiful to him.

“Hey.” Spencer greeted you with hesitation.

You didn’t respond, simply step aside and let him in.

The two of you sat on the couch, but you kept him in an arm’s distance. He disliked how you even needed a space from him, as if being in any close proximity with him would hurt you.

You still hadn’t said a single word since he stepped into your place. The tension that filled the silence started feeling unbearable, so he began talking.

“I’d like to apologize to you first. For the way I behaved lately, but especially yesterday. I didn’t mean to hurt you, at least not intentionally. I’m so sorry.” You just shrugged it off, and he took it as permission to continue. “It’s like a habit at this point, something I do every year. It wasn’t my intention to ignore you. It’s just… I always have my phone off.”

“Because you don’t want anybody to disturb your time with Maeve.”

It felt like you mocked him, and perhaps he should be ashamed that he pitied himself for how you reacted.

“No, that’s—”

“Then what, Spencer? You forgot that I existed for the entire day.”

“I didn’t mean to.” It sounded like a pathetic excuse even to his own ears.

“I’m here, still breathing, and pretty much alive, while she’s 6 feet under! Yet, she’s still at the top of your priorities.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is it? You willingly take a day off to spend it with someone who’s dead, while I constantly got rescheduled dates. No, shit, Spence, that sounds like she’s more important to you.”

To some extent, it was perhaps true that there were other things at the top of his priorities, his job for example. However, he never put Maeve above you. No, never mind, she wasn’t even on the list of his priorities to begin with. He never thought he made you feel like that.

For someone who once saved both his and Hotch’s lives by talking, right now the gears in his brain stopped working, and he couldn’t form a proper response for you. Besides, he felt like no matter what he said to you at this moment, you wouldn’t believe him. He couldn’t even blame you for that. After all, it was him who put you both in this situation.

Big fat tears freely fell from your eyes. He ached to reach for you and hold you close.

“I feel like I’m living under her shadow. Do I have to compete with her for a place in your heart my entire life?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“What? No! I love you. I’m so sorry for making you feel that way, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making up to you.”

Spencer tentatively moved closer to you, and when you didn’t react, he tried reaching for your hand. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when you didn’t take your hand away from his.

“Sweetheart. I’m really sorry for what I did. Please give me a chance to make this right.”

“I don’t know, Spence.”

He panicked. “You… Do you no longer love me?” The question left his mouth before he even realized.

“I still love you, but I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”

He’d gladly take that answer. At least he knew that he still had the chance to right his wrong. He could plan what to do in order for you to forgive him. He would grovel if he had to. He didn’t really care, as long as he could obtain your forgiveness.

“What can I do to make this right?”

“Give both of us time and space to thoroughly think about what we want.”

“No, but… I don’t need those to know what I want.”

“I do, Spence.”

That night, Spencer reluctantly left your apartment, but not before promising you one more time that he’d do whatever it took to right his wrong.

---

It’s been two weeks since Spencer came to your apartment. True to his words, he continuously made amends while still respecting your wish for time and space. You didn’t contact him as often as you usually did, but he would still tell you about his whereabouts throughout the day. You knew from Penelope that he would ask about you through her, because of course he knew you would talk to her. You apologized to her that he kept bothering her, but she only shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal for her.

While he was away for a case, every other day, he sent bouquets of flowers to your apartment. He had sent 3 bouquets so far. Knowing Spencer, each of the flowers must’ve been chosen with intention, and not random at all. Therefore, you looked up the meanings for each flower.

The first bouquet he sent was a mix of Lily of the Valley; the classic apology flower, Red Tulip; for one’s true love, and one that represented your birth month. The second one was a mix of Statice; for remembrance, Dahlia; the symbol of commitment, and one that represented the month you both started dating. The last bouquet you received yesterday was a mix of roses in different shades. Red Rose; the ultimate symbol of eternal love, Peach Rose; for gratitude, White Rose; represented a new beginning, and Yellow Rose; for lasting happiness.

As you were about to make yourself dinner, you heard your phone buzzing. A text from him.

Spencer [06:29 PM]: The case is closed. We’re going home tonight.

You reread his text a few times, then glanced at the flowers he gave you — now neatly put in a vase and placed in your kitchen counter. Maybe it was time to have another talk with him?

You [06:34 PM]: Can I come to your place tomorrow?

The response came immediately, like he was waiting for you to reply.

Spencer [06:35 PM]: Of course. Just let me know when you’re on your way.

Truthfully, you weren’t even sure what you wanted to talk about, but one thing you knew for sure was how you missed Spencer. You just hoped you made the right decision.

The next day, after informing your boyfriend, you went to his apartment around noon. Aside from your rapid heartbeat, the commute to his place was uneventful. The last time you felt this nervous at the prospect of meeting Spencer was probably on your first date with him, which was funny considering the current situation you both were in.

It only took two knocks before he opened his apartment door. The corner of your mouth drew downwards at the sight of him. Penelope had told you that Spencer looked like a mess ever since he left your apartment two weeks ago, but you didn’t know he looked this awful. His hair was in disarray, as if he’s been running his fingers through his curls in the last hours. The dark circles under his eyes were more noticeable, perhaps he had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t like yours were any better, but at least you managed to conceal them with your makeup.

“Hey.”

“Hey, please come in.” He stepped aside to let you in.

You immediately went to the living room, and tried to make yourself comfortable. From the couch, you could see Spencer in the kitchen, probably making tea for both of you. Your guess was correct when he walked to the living room with two cups in his hands. A tiny smile adorned your face when you noticed one of the cups — doodles all over it. You insisted on buying it when you two went to the local market close to his apartment a few months ago. You wanted to have something that was yours in his place. He always made your drink of choice in that cup. Spencer put the cups on the coffee table, then sat on the other corner of the couch.

You could tell that he was nervous. Probably more nervous than you were. He was most likely afraid he’d say something wrong that’d jeopardize the relationship further. You put an end to the silence by striking up a conversation — something easy.

“Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I also did my own research on the language of the flowers.”

“You did?” 

You noticed the way his eyes lit up from your confession. “Of course. I didn’t even know there’s a flower that represents my birth month.”

You missed this, having a laid-back conversation with him. However, you knew the heavy conversation was also inevitable, so you told him that he could start his explanation if he wanted to.

He told you everything, from the beginning down to every tiny detail, like the book “The Narrative of John Smith” and the bouquets of flowers. He even mentioned how Beth, the florist, had remembered him and his order after the second year. 

The knots in your stomach felt more and more undeniable as his story went on. It hurt knowing how the guilt still consumed him, and the fact that to some extent Spencer still cared about Maeve.

By the time he was done with his explanation, his eyes were looking anywhere but you, and his hands were fidgeting the hems of his cardigan. The guilt you saw in his eyes wasn’t the reflection of how he felt towards her. It was the regret for causing you pain.

“Spence. Honestly, I’m still hurting, and I don’t know if I can fully forgive you just yet.” You saw the moment the light in his eyes dimmed even more, and maybe your heart cracked a little. “But I’m willing to try again. You have to be patient with me though.”

He looked directly into your eyes, probably searching for any hint of doubt in them. “Anything. I’ll do anything to gain your forgiveness.” He slowly moved closer to you on the couch, but still maintained some distance, afraid he might startle you. “I love you. I’ll do everything in my power to correct my wrongdoings. I promise.”

You offered him your hand, which he immediately took. You smiled at him as he squeezed your hand. For the first time in a while, you knew it’d be alright. It might take some time, but you knew that the two of you would survive this one.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Omg I love how you write Mark and his variants!

Okay I may or may not have dived into a deep hole of neglected batfam reader so is it okay if I request for reader to happen to just find an escape through a Angstrom portal that appeared randomly in her bedroom, so just peace out and was transported into the Invincible universe where she met Mark (and his variants), fall in love and told him about how horrible her family is.

Only for him to find a way to open up a portal to her world (this is mostly goes for the variants instead main mark), and caused havoc on the DC world and reader has to stop him, confront her family and leave to her new home with him

Author's Note: My last request! (technically, it's not) YAHOO. And my first Batfam fanfic.

Your Character Settings: AFAB, daughter of Bruce Wayne and an unknown woman

“Would like seconds, miss?” Alfred asked after you finished your meal. 

Tonight's dinner was a hefty serving of tomato and basil spaghetti. Before you moved in with the Waynes, your meals were usually jam and bread or a cup of instant noodles. The old you would have eaten as much as you were allowed. The old you would have gotten angry at you for not asking for another serving. But you weren't living paycheck to paycheck on a cashier's salary anymore. 

“I'm fine,” you answered the butler. You glanced around the long table. Alfred said it was improper for servants to dine with the masters of the home, so you ate alone again. You didn't know why you felt upset. Even after months of the same routine, your disappointment continued to fill half your stomach. 

“Very well. Tonight's dessert is a chocolate ganache cake served with black tea. I take it that you will be having your slice in your room?”

You smiled.

“I’ll have it upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope this time you actually answer the door. I don’t mind leaving the food outside but tea should be appreciated hot.”

“I’m sorry, you know how it is when I get in the zone.”

“How many words did you write today?”

You beamed. “Exactly two thousand just this morning. I’m hoping to get another thousand before midnight.”

“I hope you do, maybe you can finally start waking up before noon.”

You laughed, standing up from your seat.

Alfred was the only one in this entire mansion to actually hold full conversations with you. 

Dear old dad was always away on business trips. Your younger half-brother Damian never uttered a word to you, only regarded you with disdain and walked away before introductions were over. Tim was polite enough to nod in greeting–when he was lucid, which was seldom the case every time you saw him. Dick was nice, he smiled and made small talk when he was around, but you can count on one hand the number of times he was at the manor, or in Gotham in general.

You had another brother. His photos were rare, finding one was like finding an Easter egg. On the outside, he was no different from the others with his black hair and blue eyes, and from what you’ve seen of him, he could be blood-related to Dick. But Alfred said that Jason was an orphan, too. 

Little Jason, always smiling brightly in every image you found. He died years before you arrived here. You liked to pretend that he would be exactly what you wished for when Mister Wayne invited you to live with the family: a kind, present and supportive older brother.

You doubt it was healthy to project such feelings on not just a ghost but a stranger’s ghost, but pretending to have someone care beyond the bare minimum helped you adjust to your life as a Wayne kid. 

Alfred let you borrow books from Jason’s room and you made a point to treat every novel with care and refused to fold the pages or write on them. Jason really loved romance books and happily ever afters, and reading his collection inspired to take up writing. Hobbies were a luxury you couldn’t afford while juggling two part-time jobs, but now you had all the time in the world.

You stared at your monitor. Did you jinx yourself earlier?

You’ve hit a wall for today’s chapter.

The insertion point blinked mockingly at you. 

You only needed a thousand more words. That’s child’s play, but whatever you typed did not meet your standards, even for a first draft. 

You checked the time.

You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. Usually, you’ll be typing like crazy the moment your butt was on the chair.

You plopped your elbows on your desk and squeezed your cheeks, an exasperated sigh leaving your mouth.

Ten minutes feels like forever when you’re trying to start something important.

Maybe a sugar boost will help.

Just as you thought of this, you overheard movement outside. 

Smiling, you rushed to open the door. 

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me–” 

Your lips twitched as you were greeted by the sight of Damian and Tim, holding a comically large mug of coffee. They were quarreling when your sudden appearance caught them off guard. 

“Hi.”

Damian’s lips pursed and he grumbled something under his breath.

“It’s rare to see you guys here,” you said plainly.

Tim laughed awkwardly. “I guess so.”

“Did you eat dinner already?”

“I–”

Damian pushed his back. “Let’s go, Drake, we’re busy.”

“Right, um, sorry–” Tim threw you an apologetic smile “–see you around.”

You smiled back as politely as you could. “See you.” There was no point in getting offended, you were the oldest one in this hallway and you were too exhausted to feel angry.

You watched Damian nudge Tim even farther away until they disappeared from view. 

Shaking your head softly, you stepped back inside your room and shut the door. You weren’t a warm person, but you didn’t have a family before. It was always just you bouncing between foster homes and sleeping in dumpsters when you had no other choice. You had no one to fall back on, and you were prepared to live the rest of your life like that, because what other choice was there? 

But then Mister Wayne arrived in the 24-hour mart while you worked the graveyard shift. Dingy apartments with creepy neighbors were replaced with a Gilded Age mansion. Hours spent on your feet catering to all sorts of customers became days of ennui (you learned that word from one of Jason’s books). Sodium-loaded canned and instant foods were now sodium-loaded fancy meals. You were grateful, and while it hurt not to have the family you’ve always dreamed of, you can deal with the wall between you as long as you never had to go back to being actually alone. 

You returned to your desk. The blinking line on the word document continued mocking you.

You reached for the latest novel you borrowed from Jason’s personal collection, A Little Princess, and flipped back to where you stopped yesterday, at Chapter Four: Lottie. 

“Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just HAPPENED that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don't know"—looking quite serious—"how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a HIDEOUS child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials.”

You paused. You haven’t read A Little Princess before, but you’ve seen the film multiple times because one of your foster mothers adored it.

Family? Love? They were nice, but you didn’t need them. 

It was true that you were Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate kid and he took you in out of a sense of responsibility. You weren’t a child anymore, far from it, most people your age are in college while you just finished your GED. You haven’t spoken with Mister Wayne about university and frankly, you were too scared; what would he or the others think? Would they think you were getting too greedy?

Pride and dreams were reserved for people who can afford them. You may share Bruce’s blood but it was clear that he loved his sons more, regardless of their origin. 

Food, shelter–money, that’s what you needed, and the Waynes gave it to you. You had no right to complain or wish for more. You didn’t want to reach for the sun only to end up getting burned. 

You were about to continue reading when a green light illuminated your eyes. You looked away from the page and saw a green hole forming on the floor, right in front of the door. A faint shearing sound accompanied its undulating outline as it grew bigger. 

You set down the book and walked closer. You can see a different place inside the emerald ring. This wasn’t some hole, it was a portal. 

Honestly, not the weirdest thing for a Gothamite. 

Still though…

Against all common sense, you knelt down and glanced inside. You were usually smarter than this, not to toot your own horn, but your intelligence is what kept you alive in Gotham for all these years; however, something about this portal called out to you. You dipped one hand inside. 

The air was warmer than it was in your room. 

You were going to pull back when–

knock, knock 

“Miss?”

You yelped, caught off guard and lost your balance–you fell straight into the portal.

Main Mark

He was doing his usual routine, flying around, helping people and preventing city-destroying disasters when he heard your screaming and caught you just in time.

You thanked him and asked if you could please take you back to Gotham.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What’s Gotham?”

“Crap.”

You both figured out that you were on a parallel Earth and he offered to let you stay with him until you found a way back.

Debbie was a sweetheart. She was super understanding and kind and you imprinted on her instantly. You didn’t want to be a burden so you helped maintain the house and cooked for them. 

Mark fell in love with you, because of course, he did. He found himself getting more and more excited to finish his missions early just so he can come home to your smile. You liked him, too, you didn’t know if it was love, but when he found the courage to ask you out you agreed, hoping that maybe you’ll learn.

It was a relatively simple love story, world-hopping aside. You and Mark were friends first who soon became soulmates. You didn’t mind that he missed dates and you kept yourself busy helping Debbie as a real estate agent. 

You supported Mark throughout his struggles, listened to his problems and comforted him when he was in pain. In turn, he taught you how to love, and maybe more importantly, how to be loved. He surprised you with gifts–nothing big but always extraordinary–like daisies he found while flying over the countryside or a bracelet that reminded him of you. He always asked if you were hungry or thirsty before going to get his own snack, and even when you said no he’d return with your own food and drink. He looked at you that made you unable to look at him, he made you shy in the best way possible. He was everything you didn’t know you wanted. 

***

When a portal appeared again, it wasn’t green, it was gold–and the men on the other side didn’t hesitate when they jumped into Mark’s universe. 

They weren’t violent, but they were not nice. Invincible got into a fight with the tiny one in red and green. The “hero” who called himself Nightwing was friendly, but Mark could tell he was on edge like the rest of them.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Nightwing said, flashing a holographic album full of your photos. Neither you nor Mark knew anything about your family’s nightly activities so your boyfriend became more suspicious of these masked heroes. 

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

Mark could tell that everyone knew that he knew who you were, but Nightwing remained calm. “We’re not going to hurt her. It’s hard to believe since we’re basically aliens, but we just want to bring her home. Her family misses her.”

That made Mark scoff. You told him about your family. You didn’t hate them, but Mark certainly did. You were… too used to loneliness. And that pissed him off. You were amazing, you deserved nothing but warmth and your so-called family ignored you. 

He wanted nothing more than to flip these guys off with a message, “Tell her family that she’s happier here and that she doesn’t need them holding her back,” but that wasn’t his decision to make. 

“I know her,” Invincible said. “I’ll tell her about you guys, but if she says she doesn’t want to come back, you leave her alone. Got that?”

“That–”

“No,” Batman said firmly. “She’s coming back. She needs her family.”

Mark’s eye twitched, but he kept his cool. “We’ll see.”

“I can’t believe it,” you muttered, gripping tightly on your copy of Pride and Prejudice like it was a stress ball.

Mark had been late for date night, no biggie, so you spent the evening reading a novel on your TBR list. When he came back from patrol, his whole body was tense, his face solemn when he pulled off his mask. He then joined you at the table and explained what happened.

“Talk to me, baby. What’re you thinking about?” He asked, placing a grounding hand over your cold fingers.

You let go of the book and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure. After a year, I was sure that I’d be here forever–and I would’ve been okay–happy with that, but now…”

“I know.” He thumbed your knuckles. “What’re you going to do? Are you..”

Were you planning to go back?

“I don’t know.” You looked into his eyes. “What should I do, Mark?”

He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to open your eyes. You were miserable back in Gotham. You were better off here, with him. 

But instead, he cradled both of your hands between his and he smiled. “I can’t tell you what to do, only that I’ll support you no matter what.”

Main Mark is the only one who will step aside if you decide to return and fix your relationship with your family. It will hurt. And he will crack when it’s time to say goodbye; he’ll pull you into his arms and beg you to stay with him, but if you have made up your mind, he won’t force you otherwise. 

His variants aren’t so selfless. Omni, Head Cap, Maskless, No Goggles and Full Mask won’t even bother telling you about the portal appearing, intent on keeping you by their side. 

Flaxan, Target and Viltrumite Mark would have already whisked you away from Earth and it would take a while before the Bats found you. 

Mohawk, Prisoner, Shiesty and Sinister will tell you about the portal and the foreign superheroes that have come for you and plead with you not to leave–and this is after they’ve decided to pick a fight with Batman and crew.

a/n:

Hi anon, I’m sorry this took so long but I knew that if I opened this door to DC I'll end up fawning over Jason and get distracted (and I was right). You’re my last request (technically no but I'm still not prepared to share Shiesty's origin story), but YAYYYY 

Also, I know that anon specified that the Bats were horrible to Y/N, and I did try to write them like that initially, but it was hard for that scenario to fully form in my head. The Bat family is dysfunctional as heck, but I usually write about a normal, civilian YN and I can't see them being purposefully abusive to someone like that. Despite DC's many fumbles, the Bats are supposed to be good people at their core so the words just wouldn't flow. 

DON'T GET ME WRONG, considering my love for revenge stories, I do want to write about the Bats being neglectful and unintentionally awful to YN and then her waking up and realizing that she doesn't care anymore, and then she stops chasing after them, which in turn, makes them chase after her, but that's a story for another day.

Anyway, I hope you still liked it!! (I'm going to cry about Red Hood and Huntress now.)

(ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire.

Gotham City, lifted from: https://heroism.fandom.com/wiki/Gotham_City

Invincible flying, lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

PS can you guess which Batboy is my favorite? LOL

[ifwebefriends]

Details in TADC ep 5 that you might have missed (because I did)

Zooble is reading a magazine called “what do your parts say about your circus”

Caine calls the gang “my candy hearts and paper flowers” which is a reference to a song in Raggedy Ann & Andy: A Musical Adventure

Gangle comes out of the portal with a broken mask but manages to fix it by putting the pieces back together and putting the mask back on her face

Kinger takes a Starfish off his eye but doesn’t get rid of it

Before falling over, Pomni seems nauseous, implying she may be seasick (if they were on a boat) or maybe swallowed too much water while almost drowning

The third drawing on Caine’s notepad that he flips to seems to be if he and Bubble were bees

Zooble says sarcastically “looks like this one was a home run, eh?” which probably fueled Caine later in the episode during the softball game to give everyone home runs

Kinger asks Ragatha to help him “count [his] eggs before they hatch” and then later when Caine levitates everyone to him and Zooble, Kinger and Ragatha both have a carton of eggs

Speaking of the eggs, Kinger keeps his eyes on them for a few extra seconds while everyone is looking at Caine

In the first voting (voting out of Poacher’s Paradise/making Jax vegan), Zooble’s vote isn’t shown since they were the one to suggest the vote

In the President Pomni section, the photos behind Pomni’s desk seem to be: an abstracted character, a wooden doll with hair, a large pink ballgown reminiscent of Princess Loolilalu, the Gummi elephants from ep 2, a bunch of hamburgers, and Jax with a cowboy hat on

Kinger’s character sheet mentions the baby head lamp

Some of the books in the Oval Office include “Mindfreak,” “Frank,” “LVII,” “SCKNB,” “XDCC” (reference to ep 1), “TYUIM,” and “GLOINKS”

Next to the books in the Oval Office are a couple small wooden standees

The painting in the hallway when Jax opens the Oval Office door is of Zooble in a suit

Ragatha seems specifically scared of centipedes since she didn’t seem too bothered by the possibility of a spider bomb but was concerned when Jax said there were centipedes in the bomb (and the centipede during the softball game later in the episode)

The painting next to the bookshelf in the Oval Office is of a cake, a plant, and an ear of corn

In the anime section, there’s a purple subtitle at the beginning that when translated to English reads “high school”

Kinger wears a Bolo tie in this scene

In the background of the anime section, there’s a bookshelf in the background with a lot of small nicknacks like a fortune teller (or cootie catcher), a set of manga, a blue teapot (seen earlier in the episode when Zooble was reading the magazine), three toy blocks with G, X, and P, a toy wand, a box of Zooble parts, an expanding art box, and an origami abstracted character

On the blackboard in the back, there’s a picture of Caine, and drawing of something that looks similar to “ai ai gasa,” where one draws an umbrella and write the name and the name of their crush under the umbrella, but on a closer look, it looks more like an abstracted player

On the cork board, there’s a poster for The Gaslight District, a few sketches of Mel, and a post-it note with Caine’s censor bar drawn on it

Jax wears a striped neck tie with colors similar to his overalls

Ragatha wears a large blue bow tie with a blue vest under her jacket, unlike the other girls (Gangle and Pomni), Ragtha wears a suit like Jax and Zooble do

Gangle has a pencil box with what looks like a cross between Kuromi and Cinnamaroll from the Hello Kitty suite of characters

The Katakana behind Kinger on the blackboard translates to “Kinger”

There’s text on the side of the blackboard that translates to something along the lines of “Mon/Sunday shift” (that’s probably a horrible translation I apologize)

There’s a board next to the blackboard that has a picture with the icons of the main cast and a drawing of a school uniform

The trick of Caine kicking one of his eyes with the other eye in the intermission section is from the “POMNI WAKE UP TIME TO GO ON AN ADVENTURE” short

In the section of Jax running through the halls and looking at the door with Ribbit’s crossed out icon, the top and bottom black bars have the eyes of abstracted characters

One neon sign in the back of the bar says “Goktails,” another next to the bar is of Caine’s face and says “radical”

There are plaques on the walls of the bar, one with Caine’s face, one of the circus, one of the circus with “The Big Tops” softball logo on it, and a checkerboard one with the C+A logo seen in ep 1, one of the sun

Jax’s call to vote Zooble into a slug doesn’t include his vote since he was the one to suggest it

One of the liqueurs that Zooble pulls down from the shelf is called “Digital Caine Berry” with an icon of Caine’s face and a logo that looks similar to the logo for Ocean Spray

Some of the sponsors for the softball game include KAAK, Spudsy’s, KaufmoTire, some brand of corn, “The Gloink Depot” (parody of The Home Depot), and “GatorGoo” with the tagline “it’s all you’re thirsting for” with Gummigoo on what looks like the Gatorade logo

The C+A logo can be seen behind the crowd next to the Jumbotron, in a few spots in the stadium, on Caine’s headphones, and on the side of a camera in the commentator office

A fan-made sign in the stadium says “I just hope both teams have fun :)”

An “advertisement” with the sun says “can’t wake up? Try opening your eyes,” another one with the moon says “tired? Try going to sleep.”

All of the cars outside of the stadium seem to be pointing towards the stadium itself

Softball was Ragatha’s idea but the evil clones were not

Bazooble has “I’m evil” written on them

Evil orbsman introduces himself by saying “evil orbsman reporting for duty!” and later he says “what the frick” when Ragatha hits the ball

Zooble and Gangle whisper to each other and giggle before Gangle starts the vote to put Jax in a maid dress (Gangle’s vote is not counted)

[eugenedebs1920]

“Oh ‘my’ God” is right….

I’ve tried. Pardon the upcoming pun but, my lord I’ve tied. I’ve tried to correlate the Christian teachings from my youth to the current ones. I’ve tried to equate the similarities between the values I was taught as a kid to what the Christian right states its values to be. I’ve tried to have tolerance for that which I cannot relate, and use the teachings of Christ to find middle ground with the theocratic Christians so prevalent in politics today. And I can’t. I simply can’t.

They have strayed SO FAR from the moral, guidance, and overall values of that the book they claim to adhere to.

I’ve read the bible, probably more than once, but I left the church long ago, mainly due to their stance on homosexuality, and the stifling hypocrisy.

The Christian right has infiltrated top positions of government. A government which was founded on the concept that religion was to be practiced freely without fear of reprise for doing so, and not to be dictated or to be guiding principle in governing. It’s very clearly spelled out in the first amendment. In fact it’s the first words in the first amendment, the first rights of American citizens in what can be called the Bill of Rights.

Now! Now things have gotten so saturated with religion that the lines differentiating church from state are severely blurred. The problem is that the religious doctrine being executed is not that of love thy neighbor, it is not that of be kind to the immigrant, it is not that of bear no false witness (lying), it is not that of do not steal, it is not that of even do not worship false idols.

It is that of hatred, the entitled judgement of others, a self fulfilling prophecy of preparing for the rapture, stealing from the poor to give to the rich, denying healthcare for the sick, the idolization of money, the discrimination of immigrants, these are the actions of the modern evangelical Christian movement.

Hypocrisy is the doctrine that seems to motivate their agenda.

It is a mental illness to think “god” told you that you are Moses, like Mike Johnson. It’s a mental disorder to show reckless abandon for life in pursuit of “the second coming of Christ”, it is a sickness to believe only your beliefs, only your perspective, only your way is the right way.

They try and say being trans is a mental illness, I don’t see any trans people disregarding human life in the hopes of everlasting life. I don’t see gay people pushing an agenda from a book that says the world was created in 7 days, that a man was swallowed by a wale then was just fine days later, that the Red Sea was parted, that we are descendants of just 2 people, then using that mythology to push a narrative of hate and oppression.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion” the first words in the first amendment to the Constitution.

Maybe Republicans should revisit the Bill of Rights. Perhaps they simply forgot about it….

[mullermilkshake]

Inspiration is an odd thing

Part 6 <- Part 7 -> Part 8

It's time to write that damn book.

Summary - You are just an author wanting to put your writing out there and carry on with your life, but when two people end up murdered, things you write about seem to be more real than just pure fiction.

Pairing - Yandere!Suguru Geto x F!reader

Tags - DDDNE, NSFW, Smut, thigh riding, dirty talk, after care, flirting, kissing, Suguru is life, be my husband please.

<<< Master list >>>

Credit to - @404UND_ Twitter ☆ (Geto) - @maronjapan9a (Satoru)

One day, I aspire to be as creative as you, I work hard to keep my life in order. 

You are a perfect example of that, you have accomplished so much. I try so hard to keep my wife happy and make sure my job pays well. I love my job but sometimes it's too much. Reading your book takes me out of real life for a little while and it fills me with so much joy. 

You are amazing. 

—

Inspiration is an odd thing.

A person could find it anywhere.

In a park on a summer morning, noticing the joggers go by in their sportswear with a huff and squeak of their sneakers. Straight to the peaks of distant mountains nestled and isolated overlooking a still and silent lake.

Inspiration is subjective to the individual who could allow themselves to be just that. Inspired.

And in the most messed up way, the visit from the Detective, the murder and unwelcome scrutiny inspired you to start writing your next book.“Severed Connections.”

It all started from where you left off in your first book, the last body never being found and allowing the reader to assume it was to be left and forgotten forever. But a year later, another body is found, sitting right next to the old one.

A Detective assigned to the case now is entrusted with both, looking into the forensics of the new and old cases and deciding whether they’re linked. Well, of course they are linked, because the killer, the true killer, had not been caught and the justice system sent the wrong man to prison.

You wouldn’t particularly want to admit that this triggered a blight of inspiration from Detective Gojo’s visit, but after some pressing for information from Suguru, you understood that there was a second murder, he just didn’t give you the specifics.

Sometimes, Suguru treated you like you were this delicate flower, even though most of the time you were not. It wasn’t anything that bothered you, but when it came to serious things, it took some training and pestering for him to give any information up. He was under the assumption that it would upset you.

At times it could have under the right circumstances, but other times, it gave you plenty of opportunity to make notes.

And that's what you did the following morning. If her death was horrific, then maybe you could honour her somehow by allowing the killer to be caught with words until the Detective in real life could with the law.

Detective Gojo was an odd one. You knew from the get go that there was something different about him. White hair like you had never seen partnered with such striking blue eyes like jewels on a river bed.

The complete contrast to Suguru. The darkest hair with the most unusual purple irises’ you had ever seen. A rare quality for an even rarer man, someone you still couldn’t read all that well at the best of times. A mystery that enveloped you, took care of you incessantly, adored you endlessly and catered to your every whim despite many protests.

Whereas Detective Gojo was different. In the little time you spoke with him, there were some qualities that stood out to you. He was determined, that was for sure, asking hard headed questions to skimp on the time. 

It meant he was either up against it, and needed to rush. Or far too intelligent to bother with long conversations with two strangers when he had so many other people to talk to who would not yield the results he wanted. You assumed it was the latter, and you were curious about everything he spoke about with Suguru whilst you were sitting outside in the rose garden. Suguru did not go into specifics, but commented that it was entirely possible that someone was stealing from the garden.

So that morning, leaving you in your pyjamas typing on your laptop, he went out and bought a camera for the garden, just like the garage.

“Do you think this is necessary? That Detective really thinks someone’s stealing from here and using them to commit crimes?” It sort of sounded like your first book.

Suguru was halfway up the ladder by now. “Well, he said he has a theory. I just want to make sure we have our bases covered in case he tries snooping around or destroys this garden looking for evidence or something.”

It took months painfully growing and sorting these roses just right. A small chill rolled through and shook them in their established rows. You pulled the blanket around your shoulders tighter and nursed the steaming coffee mug beside you.

“You really think he’s going to come back?”

He fiddled with some wires and pulled out a screwdriver from his back pocket. “Oh yeah. He seems like the sort of man that will keep going until he’s exhausted all of his options.” He turned to you and smiled sincerely. “But don’t worry, we’ll just keep going like normal, I’m sure it won’t be too much longer.”

You smiled back and resumed your typing. “Sounds like something out of a thriller book, doesn't it? Two killings… gruesome details and a lone Detective finding the facts out all on his own.”

The pregnant pause was everything, but after that, Suguru sounded amused. “Oh no… Don’t tell me, that’s where you got your inspiration from? You’ve been non-stop typing all morning.”

Did that make you a bad person? Probably.

“I know.” You inhaled with a hiss. “Once the ideas started coming I wrote them down and then I realised what I was making and then it sort of went from there- I know I shouldn’t be using inspiration off of someone I actually knew, but when the ideas come, I can’t stop them until I’ve at least written them down.”

Was he laughing? He was laughing. “You and that mind of yours. Whatever you need to do to get that book written. I’ll support it.”

“Thanks, hon.”

“Hey, did you hear back from those publishers yet?”

You shook your head with disappointment. “Not yet, but when we go home I have a meeting with Nitta to discuss it. It should sort of take this long, there’s five of them to make a choice, but they’re leaving this awfully late to make the right decision. And then I’ve got Ijichi on my back.”

“The literary agent?” Sugru had only been introduced to him once.

You, however, saw him many times lurking around Nitta’s office. He was a weedy man, but his persistence was unparalleled. “Yeah, he keeps asking me if I want to switch to his agency, and every time I say no. I’m happy with Nitta, I always have been. I should really discuss this with her and see if she can get him to drop this.”

“Maybe it's best to ignore him for a while, at least while you're on vacation. Maybe we can think of a plan when we go home?” He flicked a little switch once the cables were attached and the little thing lit up for a moment. “There, all done.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m just going to focus on writing right now.”

Sugru climbed down and wandered over to you, bent down and placed a chaste kiss on your temple. “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll go and get breakfast started. Call me if you need me, alright?”

“I will do.” You watched him leave. “Love you.”

“I love you too.”

After some moments getting yourself sorted, you ran off in your own mind to the world you had created… Where were you?

Oh, right…

Detective Riley studied the abhorrent view of the old lady matron who had been known to all in the small little town and just as kind to every member of the community. He was conflicted as to how someone so innocent could endure such a callousness. 

She had been gutted like a week old fish. Her intestines pumped up and inflated as a bicycle inner tube would, cleaned and placed in a symbolic pile of meat to decipher a clue which was beyond Detective Riley’s comprehension.  

Whoever did this defiled her and enjoyed it. That much was obvious. And each moment he watched her decaying eyes bulge right out at him, the indignation festered like a boiled sore that desperately needed lancing or it would burst. 

“Riley?” His partner pushed a plastic evidence bag in his face. “We recovered this from ‘er body.” 

“From her body?” It was a book. A thriller novel published way before Detective Riley had even set foot out of his mother’s womb. It begged the question. “How did that fit inside her?” 

“The bastard carved a section of her back away, took the spine out and inserted it in there.” He took out the spine and placed the spine of the book. So the man was a troubled comedian too. 

“I’m sorry… But he cut out her tongue too. So far, we haven't been able to recover it.” 

A possible trophy, or a statement. “Speak no evil.” 

No, that wasn’t right.  

“Speak no evil?” 

“Speak of no evil… I think she saw something she wasn’t meant to.” Detective Riley ran through reams of memories involving cases he had personally led over the last five years. 

Something was so familiar. Like he had seen it before. “Hear no evil. The man's ears were cut off and full of manure… Remember that case a year back?” 

“Oh yeah. The Sonahan farm, right?” 

There was another, Detective Riley was certain, almost impossible to be wrong, he just had to find it. “I’ll be back at the station, I have to go through the archives.” 

His partner walked after him as he shot out under the haphazard yellow police tape. He couldn’t bare to look at the body any longer. “What are y’lookin’ for?” 

“I’ll know when I find it. Just settle things here and I’ll call you.” He made it briskly to the car, something sat teetering on the tip of his lips that would not dissolve until he tasted the full flavour of justice. 

He would not stop at anything in the name of justice...

“Sweetie, breakfast is ready!” Suguru called out from the kitchen window just around the corner of the cabin and pulled you out of the little world that had begun materialising around you.

“Coming!” You closed your laptop and hugged the blanket closer, taking your things in to see Suguru in the kitchen cooking up a storm, the tallest tower of pancakes in his littlest apron.

“You shouldn’t be going through all this trouble when you’re on vacation y’know? You work so hard, I should be doing that.” 

His softened features looked so pretty in the rising sun dripping through the window. “This is nothing compared to those breakfast muffins you make. I will always cook for you. If I had it my way, I’d be doing everything for you.” That statement was a hundred percent true.

But you did enjoy being independent. “And I’d do the same if you let me, Doctor Geto . You take such good care of me, who takes care of you?”

You sat yourself down at the table practically drooling at the syrup oozing and dripping down the mountain mixing with the perfectly browned butter glistening in that very same sunrise.

“You do much more for me than you think, Dearest.” He began cutting and loaded up his fork. “Seeing you happy is all I could ask for, so eat up and let me know how good they are.”

He fed you and you sat there in awe at the subtle flavours or raspberry and white chocolate. Oh so good… If it was possible to shrink yourself down and eat these pancakes all year, you would have thrown your credit card down and decided on monthly payments.

“They taste like hugs.”

There were limited things you knew how to cook and Suguru out done all of them. You baked, as was your talent, but if you wanted a fillet mignon with a red wine reduction and dauphinoise potatoes at midnight, Suguru would make that happen.

And his red wine reduction was particularly tarte and smoky. “That’s the love I put in them.”

“Ugh, so corny- keep going.”

Cooking was a characteristic that certainly took the surprise from your lungs when he invited you over for dinner for the first time. You remembered the way he moved around the kitchen with such fluidity, a tight black shirt and matching pants with such a small little hand towel hung over his broad shoulder.

He made dinner and dessert from scratch and it was then you were pretty sure you were already in love with him.

“I have plenty of corny lines but I don’t like using them all up at once. I’d hate it if you pounced on me every time I spoke.”

You took another bite, on your own this time, savouring the golden sweetness. You always wanted to pounce on the man whenever he spoke. “I do most times. But I do have self control.”

Suguru chuckled in astonishment, placing his large hand and slender fingers over your bare knee. “Oh, do you now? I don’t approve of lies, sweetheart. I know you have no self control. You know why?”

He lent in close and waited for you to shake your head like a little startled bunny. “Because I know I only have to say a few words and you’ll drop what you’re doing because you’re that predictable.” 

“I’m not predictable.” You didn’t believe that statement in any universe you might have stepped through.

He inched closer so his lips were to your ear. “Who was it who begged me to stay at the house and leave in the morning so I could fuck you silly?” 

Guilty. So guilty. The flush in your cheeks had already volunteered to put its hand up for all to see in the entire room. Ornaments and scattered art pieces on the walls just watching you caught in a lie.

“Well… I see how that might make me look guilty but I’ll tell you why it isn’t.” He looked at you like you were that fillet mignon.

Anything? No?  

“I’m waiting for your excuse.”

An excuse, right. Suguru hadn’t shied away. “I don’t have one-”

Suguru took a hold of your lips, his long commanding fingers moving around that little dip at the back of your neck, tracing it lightly to send such shivers down right down to the base of your back.

You had to decide between sitting on your fiancé’s lap, and those pancakes. 

They are pretty good pancakes.  

But Suguru’s lap was much safer for you to sit on, though just as hot.

It was like Suguru could read your body language before your mind even made it up for you, as he always did. He pulled you into him and had you sitting with your leg either side of his thighs, chests pressed against each other so flush, the blanket was off and slumped all over the kitchen floor.

By now, he was lifting the back of your shirt to let his finger tips graze the prickled skin there and now forced those shivers back up to your neck in which they made you dizzy.

“The pancakes will get cold.”

Suguru ignored your statement and asserted himself with his tongue up the sweet spot of your neck. You melted more than the browned butter seeping out onto the plate, the heat of his touch burned more than the skillet. 

So cold with goosebumps lowering under his cosy hands wherever he moved them. Further up your back until he found the clasp of your bra. “You’re so silly for even packing this. It should go in the trash can. You don’t need it.”

It pinged and let your breasts loose, you weren’t even sure how he got it off of your body when his lips tasted of syrup. But he did, and flung it across the room somewhere so that he could pull away from your swollen lips and start teasing your nipple over the shirt fabric.

He knew that sent you wild. Wild enough to start grinding yourself over his crotch. Of course he didn’t miss a trick though and picked you up and moved his leg out, leaving you sitting on one thigh.

“You’re taking up so much writing time… hon. Anyone would think- god - would think that you didn’t want me to write my book…” How you even managed to speak that coherent sentence was beyond you, but it would not happen again.

“You can leave at any time, sweetheart.” He was goading you and returned to the wet patch on your shirt, grazing his teeth on parts of your breast that he knew to be sensitive.

“Nuh uh.” So much shaking of your head seemed to pass the message on.

“We could pass the time better if you were riding my thigh. I’d hate for you to do any of it yourself though, so why don’t I do it for you?” His hands were grasped firmly over your hips. He could have lifted you up like that as though you were nothing.

Your weight was nothing to him, a simple factor in being who you were. It never stopped him holding you right there against the wall, legs over his shoulders while he ate you like his last supper, tongue right inside you as though he’d lost something.

Nothing was impossible for Suguru. If you asked, usually he would give. Within reason of course, but you came to understand that if you begged him to steal a piece of art from the most famous museum in the world, he would. 

If you asked him for a piece of the moon for your birthday , he would buy a rocket just to take a piece of moon rock and make it into the finest piece of jewellery to lay around your neck and watch that jingle and shake while you sat on his face.

Suguru would capture the world for just a moment if it made you smile.

That’s what set him apart from other men.

He rolled your hips with minimal effort, both of your hands planted on his shoulders to support yourself and watch the growing wet patch on his sweatpants. Your little pyjama shorts did nothing to stop the spread.

“What a beautiful view. If I knew better, I would say you were getting close already.” He wasn’t lying.

The softness of his sweatpants rubbed between your legs like a pillow. His thick and muscular thigh acted as the perfect anchor and flat surface to get the best point of contact and soon you found yourself getting the good kind of numbness.

Suguru read your body like a book, rocking your hips back and forth as naturally as breathing. “Did you want to go for a new record, pretty girl? Were you all pent up before I even touched you? I apologise for not seeing to you earlier. I should have left the cooking for after.”

You were going to come quickly, little touches and barely any effort left you a pile of goo riding on the building sensation of pure clitoral stimulation. Yeah, you were going to come like this, especially with his tongue riding the skin of your throat in just the right way.

“S-suguru.” You were so close.

He knew that. “Tell me.”

“I’m- I’m going to- fuck I’m going to come.” You didn’t need to tell him that. He knew before you did when you were going to finish all over his leg, staining his pants like theory were going out of fashion.

“Don’t keep quiet, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” Suguru got off to your moaning.

He never said it, but you guessed that he hated not hearing you, like it made him self conscious. If you weren’t making sound, according to him, he was not doing his job properly.

And get audible you did, very well. Right in his ear, moaning, humming with your eyes closed, almost tearful. Such a powerful move with something so simple on your ride down and arms cautiously hooked around his neck so you didn’t choke him.

“If that isn't a way to start the morning I don’t know what is.” He returned to his usual soft self, the fire in his eyes extinguished and smouldered away to leave adoration to fill its place.

“Let me run you a bath.” He chuckled amusedly. “You have foliage in your hair, how did I miss that?” 

There was a crisp part right there like he said, it must have come from the rose garden when your blanket got caught on a thorn while you were laying your belongings down on the table.

A bath wouldn’t go amiss with the chill that had settled in over the cabin.

“A bath sounds lovely. Will you join me?” You wanted to return the favour.

“Not this time, sweetie. I’ve already showered. I’ll wash your hair.” Sometimes Suguru just enjoyed bathing you.

Not that you were complaining though there was a slight inward groan of disappointment. Anything involving your hair he knew was tantalising. A scalp massage or any massage for that matter.

He also ran a mean bath.

“Your hair’s gotten longer.” He said, tipping your head back and letting the water from the little cup in his hand roll over your hair to get the bubbles out.

He scrubbed and ran his fingers through it, tempting sleep as the steam rose from the foamy surface. “I’m thinking of growing it out, but I’m not sure what I want to do with it yet.”

You fiddled with the lumps of bubbles, listening to them pop and churn about with each dump of water displacing the tensioned surface.

“It’s beautiful no matter what you do with it.” His tone was doting, as was his aftercare.

It made you smile to yourself. “So what are you doing today while I write?” Part of you hoped he’d offer to make dinner tonight. You were craving dauphinois potatoes once you’d thought of them.

“Well I was thinking about going fishing after cutting more wood. Maybe catch a few fish and make your favourite.” 

Dauphinoise potatoes. You ought to have married him right there and then.

“Really?” 

He huffed with such amusement and tipped the last cup full of water. “You shouldn’t accept anything less. I might take the rifle too, maybe I can catch something bigger and prepare it before we head home.”

That was right, you were due to head back home in four days. The week was already getting on so fast. But you couldn't afford to get the blues just yet.

“That sounds good. Maybe you can show me how to use that knife of yours this time? Also I’d wait until I was out of the bath before cutting wood. I should watch to make sure your form is right. Wouldn’t want you to pull something.”

“That is important.” Suguru leaned over and squeezed the water from your hair. “I think I should show you everything I can do in the woods.”

It was a date then.

There was something about a man going hunting. It stirred everything up between your legs and just the thought of watching him chop wood, get too hot and bothered and pull his shirt off from his chest.

Well, that was just too intriguing to miss.

Part 6 <- Part 7 -> Part 8

If you would liked to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗

Tags - @nanamineedstherapy  @winter-soldier-101  @bubera974  @miyababbby  @inthedarkshadows000

@hallahella  @kentoslvr  @jxvajxy  @vertigoswan  @getoe1s

@yan-love-reader

DISCLAIMER - I do not own any of the characters of Jujutsu Kaisen. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

The oc side characters and advanced plot is my own work. A gift for @vampir-queen and original idea for this fic is their's. Cross posted from my AO3

Also please don’t post any of my work, thank you!

[buckysbunsofsteel]

The Breaking Point - Part 4

The Quiet After the Storm

The Tower was quiet.

Not silent — the hum of lights, distant elevator chimes, the whir of tech behind the walls — but no voices, no shouting. No Tony. No tension biting at the back of your neck.

Just you. And Bucky.

He hadn’t left your side since the lounge.

You’d leaned into his hand and something shifted — like the earth realigned beneath your feet, like someone finally saw you not just as a moving part but a person. He didn’t speak much after that. Just helped you stand, gently guided you to the elevator with his hand at the small of your back.

You expected him to take you to your quarters.

He didn’t.

The elevator opened to a quiet corner of the residential floor — Bucky’s suite. You hesitated for half a second at the door, but his touch didn’t falter.

“I just thought…” He looked uncertain for the first time since earlier. “You don’t have to be alone tonight.”

That was all it took.

You nodded.

The place was warm, dim, earthy. His presence was everywhere — dark wood, soft blankets, leather-bound books, vinyl records. It was quiet, safe.

“I’m gonna make you something,” he said, heading toward the kitchenette. “Soup or… you want tea?”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to—”

“I want to.”

That silenced the protest in your throat.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Fifteen minutes later you were curled up in one of his big armchairs with a blanket around your shoulders and a mug of chamomile tea in your hands. Bucky knelt in front of the fireplace, coaxing it to life.

You hadn’t said much since you arrived. He hadn’t pushed. His quiet steadiness was the balm you didn’t know you needed — no demands, no interruptions, no expectations.

He brought you a bowl of chicken soup, rich and hot. You ate slowly, realizing how hungry you were only when it hit your tongue. When you’d finished, he didn’t take the bowl right away. He just sat beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing your knee.

“They’ll apologize tomorrow,” he said softly.

“I don’t want their apologies,” you said. “I want their respect.”

“You’ve earned it a hundred times over.”

“But it won’t stick,” you said. “They’ll be nice for a week. Then another mission will go sideways and I’ll be their verbal punching bag again.”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment.

“Then maybe it’s time to leave.”

You stared at him. “You think I should?”

“I think you should do what’s right for you.”

“And what if what’s right for me is… you?”

It came out too fast. You looked away immediately, heart hammering. Shit. Too much. You’d ruined it.

But Bucky didn’t laugh.

He didn’t flinch.

He shifted to kneel in front of you again, slowly taking the empty bowl from your lap and setting it aside. Then he rested his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning just close enough to meet your eyes.

“I’ve been yours,” he said, voice low and steady. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

You froze.

His eyes were so open. So damn vulnerable. Like he’d laid it all bare.

And you realized — he had. He always had. Every time he brought you coffee without asking. Every time he stopped by your office with takeout. Every time he helped with reports no one else offered to read. Every time he shielded you from the worst parts of the job with nothing more than a glance.

You hadn’t just ruined something — you’d uncovered it.

And suddenly, your fingers were in his hair, and he was leaning in, and your foreheads were pressed together.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered. “Of being strong. Of being alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

His lips brushed yours — the softest, most reverent thing you’d ever felt. He didn’t press further. Didn’t deepen it. Just let it linger, like a promise.

“I want you to stay,” he said, almost breathless. “Just tonight. Just rest.”

You nodded, hands still in his hair. “Okay.”

Bucky’s bed was massive. Not military. Not hard. Not cold.

It was soft and warm and smelled like cedar and safety.

He gave you one of his long-sleeve henleys to sleep in. You changed in the bathroom, fingers trembling as you pulled it over your head. It smelled like him.

You found him already in bed when you came out — shirtless, flannel pants, lying on his side facing the door. He lifted the blanket when he saw you.

You hesitated. Then slid in beside him.

Neither of you reached for the other right away. Just lay there. Breathing.

Then his hand found yours under the covers. Fingers laced. Warm. Anchoring.

“I’m here,” he said.

It wasn’t just a comfort. It was a vow.

You squeezed his hand back.

“Stay.”

He pulled you into his arms. Held you like you were something sacred. Like he’d been waiting for this moment for years.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe longer — you slept.

You didn’t remember waking up. Just the slow, floating sensation of being warm and tangled in strong arms, forehead against a bare chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

Bucky was already awake.

He didn’t say anything. Just rubbed slow, reassuring circles into your back with his thumb.

“You didn’t leave,” you murmured.

“Didn’t plan to.”

You tilted your head up. He looked down at you like you were made of light.

“Morning,” he said softly.

Your throat tightened. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I need to… figure things out. Talk to Fury. If I’m quitting, it should be official.”

He nodded. But his hand didn’t let go of yours under the blanket.

“I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Your chest ached. “You said that last night.”

“I meant it then, too.”

You leaned in without thinking, brushing your lips to his again — a little more this time. More want. More gratitude. More you.

He pulled you in slowly, hand sliding to the back of your neck, kissing you like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And God — it was soft but firm, reverent but hungry, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth.

When you finally broke apart, your breath caught.

“Bucky…”

His eyes were dark, voice husky. “If you stay another night… I won’t be able to keep this gentle.”

You swallowed. “I don’t want you to.”

His breath hitched. “You sure?”

You nodded, chest rising fast. “But not yet. I want it to mean something. Not just be a… breakdown reaction.”

He exhaled slowly. Kissed your forehead again.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready?”

“I will.”

“And I’ll be here,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek. “Every second.”

[miirily]

Everything But Ordinary

Pairing — Suguru Geto x f!reader

Synopsis — Suguru has always watched people from a distance, seeking control in quiet observation. But when it comes to you, he finds that you somehow disrupt his carefully ordered world.

Content — college!au, Suguru has the biggest crush, denial is a river in Egypt, getting together, fluff, slight smut.

Word count — 4.5k

Suguru Geto has always liked watching people.

His earliest memories reach back to kindergarten, where he’d sit on the swing set, feet dragging lazy lines in the sand, or sometimes perched at the top of the slide if it wasn’t already claimed. While the other children screamed with delight, fought over crayons, or burst into tears over toppled blocks, Suguru simply watched. He wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t shy. He just liked the way people moved through the world when they thought no one was paying attention.

There was a certain rhythm to it all. Predictable, even poetic.

Watching has always given him a sense of understanding. Of leverage. Control.

And it has never really gone away.

All through elementary school, then middle school, he remains the quiet observer. Never a wallflower, but never quite the centre of attention either. He floats just outside the limelight, close enough to participate, far enough to see clearly. His classmates never notice the way he tracks their patterns, how Yu always scratches his ear when he lies, or how Mahito only laughs when someone else has already started. It isn’t nosiness. It isn’t perverse curiosity. It’s analysis. Behavioural study, if he wants to make it sound impressive.

Satoru, of course, thinks it’s weird.

“You’re like some creepy old Psychology dude,” his best friend says, sprawled across Suguru’s bed with a lollipop sticking out the side of his mouth. “Sitting in the corner like hmm yes, watch the humans in their natural habitat.”

Suguru simply raises a brow, folding another page of his book.

“I learn more watching than you do talking over everyone.”

“Yeah, but I have fun while doing it.”

It’s true. Satoru is the fun. He barrels into rooms like a living sun flare, loud, luminous and impossible to ignore. And Suguru? He’s the gravity that keeps things from spinning too far out of orbit. Satoru lives at the centre of every moment; Suguru lingers on the edge, collecting details like sand slipping into the creases of his palms.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be part of it all.

He just likes knowing when to lean in and when to step back.

By his first year at college, Suguru would personally claim (without arrogance, just quiet certainty) that he’s become quite good at reading people.

It’s not a supernatural skill, not a sixth sense, but a culmination of years spent on the periphery, watching with keen eyes and sharper instincts. He can tell when someone’s lying, maybe not the words themselves, but the way their shoulders twitch half a second too late, or how their smile curves too far to the left, like it’s been practised. He can pick apart embellishments mid-sentence, the little hesitations between syllables, the way people tiptoe over truth like it's ice too thin to hold.

He doesn’t point it out. Not often. He files it away, categorises it, studies it like patterns in a deck of cards.

That’s why Psychology makes sense. Predictable, he knows. Satoru had grinned the moment he saw his application and said, “Knew you’d pick the major that lets you legally mind-read people.”

He hadn’t denied it.

And by the middle of his first semester, between personality theory lectures and endless papers on behavioural models, he comes to a quiet, frustrating realisation:

He likes watching you the most.

Not out of pure curiosity, and definitely not because he’s hopelessly smitten—not that he’s entirely blind either. You’re undeniably appealing. There’s a softness in your smile and a kind of unintentional magnetism in the way you carry yourself. You’re warm in a way that doesn’t announce itself. You don’t pull attention, you invite it. Suguru sees how people gravitate to you like moths to a flame, how you speak with that calm, unfussy confidence that makes others feel heard.

But that’s not what’s bothering him.

What bothers him is that he can’t read you.

Not easily, anyway.

You laugh at the right moments, your tone shifts exactly how it should depending on the context, your facial expressions are never exaggerated nor muted. You are, technically, perfectly normal. And that’s what drives him up the wall.

Because perfect normalcy is never real. Not truly.

People slip. They break character. Their real selves bleed through in the details. But you? You never show more than what you choose to. And Suguru suspects that you do it deliberately. Not maliciously, not even defensively. It’s just how you are. Carefully managed. Thoughtful. Intact.

Which means, while he’s deciphered the way his professor’s voice always gets sharp when he’s lying about grading papers, and how the guy three seats over adjusts his sleeves every time he’s nervous before speaking in class, he still can’t figure out why your eyes get glassy during lectures about childhood development. Or why your laugh tightens just a fraction too much when someone makes a joke about abandonment. Or why, when you think no one’s watching, you stare at your own hands like you’re trying to remember how they’re supposed to move.

Suguru doesn’t like not knowing.

And now he finds himself watching you, day after day, not from a place of judgment or infatuation, but with the same intensity he once reserved for puzzles he couldn’t quite solve. You’ve become his unsolvable equation.

And something about that is dangerously intriguing.

Suguru catches himself.

Not in the obvious way, not with some jolt of horror, not with heat flooding to his ears or anything embarrassingly dramatic. But it’s a quiet, sharp sting of recognition, the kind that creeps in just after the fact, when the moment’s already passed and it’s too late to pretend otherwise.

Because watching you was supposed to be clinical. Detached. An exercise in observation, like all the others before you. Just another case of controlled curiosity, his mind churning through cause and effect, stimulus and response, peeling back layers with surgical precision.

But now?

Now he realises he doesn’t just watch you. He looks out for you.

He notices the shift when your name appears on the class roster but your seat remains empty, and his gaze instinctively sweeps the lecture hall twice, first fast, then slower, methodically, just to make sure. When you finally show up, two minutes before the start of class, out of breath and with that pink flush blooming across your cheeks, your relief soft and radiant when you realise the professor isn’t there yet, Suguru catches his eyes lingering too long on the curve of your neck, on the way your shoulders fall from their tension.

It happens again. And again.

He tells himself it’s just pattern recognition. You're often late. That’s part of the profile.

Then he starts sitting next to you. Not always. Not enough to be obvious. But enough that it becomes habit, enough that he starts timing his arrival with yours, enough that he offers you one of his spare pens, blue ink, fine tip, when you pat your pockets with a mild curse and a sheepish smile.

And he notices your smile. That’s new.

He starts holding doors open for you without thinking. Starts remembering the kind of drink you like from the vending machine. Starts listening more attentively when you speak during discussion, even when what you’re saying doesn’t quite add up to any breakthrough insight, just so he can hear the cadence of your voice, measure it against the way you look when you say it.

It’s all still normal. Perfectly normal. He tells himself this often.

He’s just trying to understand you. You’re an outlier. A carefully balanced contradiction of warmth and restraint. Of light and opacity.

He wants to solve the puzzle that is you.

That’s all.

Right?

Right.

>>><<<

It doesn’t happen all at once. Suguru doesn’t wake up one morning with some grand epiphany, a bolt of lightning that shocks the truth into his bones. It happens slowly, the way snow melts in the first warmth of spring; imperceptible at first, until everything’s quietly wet beneath your feet.

He begins to understand that he no longer watches you just to decipher you. It's not a puzzle he’s trying to solve anymore. Not really. It's you he wants. Not your patterns or your logic, but your thoughts, your real laugh, the ones you bite back behind a hand when something truly amuses you. He wants to know what makes your eyes dull some days and glow on others. He wants to know your favourite music, if you sing in the shower, if you sleep with socks on or off. Mundane, gentle things.

He’s not an idiot when it comes to his own feelings. Not really. He’s just careful with them. Has always kept them wrapped in observation, tucked into silence like pressed flowers in a book no one’s meant to open. But now, with you, he’s stopped making excuses for seeing you, for seeking you.

You’re kind, in that quiet way that isn’t about performance but presence. You’re smart, always offering perspectives in class that he doesn’t expect, even when they’re wrong. And you’re lovely. Not just physically, though he’s not blind to the way your eyes crinkle when you smile or the way your fingers move when you’re animated in conversation.

So when you casually drop an invitation to some frat party, one Suguru would never have attended otherwise, he says yes.

It’s the end of a long study session, your small group spilling out of the library into the muggy embrace of a summer night. The campus is dim and drowsy, lights humming, the sky still glowing faintly purple behind the trees. You’re laughing with one of the girls from class when you glance back over your shoulder and say, “Hey, you guys should come by Sukuna’s place Friday night. It’s nothing fancy. Drinks, music, people pretending they know how to dance.”

You don’t look at Suguru when you say it. Not directly. You look just past him, like you’re afraid of meaning too much.

You’re wearing that yellow dress again. The short one that cinches at the waist and clings to your hips like it was made to. Suguru isn’t watching the fabric move with your steps. Not really.

But he is watching you.

“I’ll come,” he says, almost before he thinks it through.

Your eyes lift to his, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Later, at the diner, the one with the greasy fries and sticky counters that he and Satoru always end up at after late lectures, they’re sharing a plate of fries when Satoru kicks at Suguru’s ankle under the table. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s well past midnight, slurping a strawberry milkshake through a red straw like some caricature of a delinquent movie star.

“You,” Satoru says, pointing the straw at him like an accusation, “are so whipped.”

Suguru doesn’t rise to it. Just reaches for another fry, dipping it slowly into the pool of ketchup and mayonnaise on the side of his plate.

“I’m not whipped,” he says evenly.

Satoru snorts. “You’re going to a frat party. Voluntarily.”

“Observation,” Suguru replies dryly, glancing out the window. “Purely academic.”

“Right,” Satoru grins, leaning back with that smug, knowing tilt of his head. “Make sure you take notes. On how her dress fits.”

Suguru doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. Because this isn’t about the dress. It’s about you and he’s done pretending otherwise.

And that’s how he finds himself at said frat party only days later.

The moment he steps through the front door with Satoru, who insisted on tagging along “for emotional support”, the noise hits him like a wave: bass thudding through the floorboards, too many voices talking over each other, someone screech-laughing from the second floor. There’s a faint smell of beer, sweat, weed, and perfume that clings to the air like humidity. The house itself looks like it's on the brink of collapse from sheer energy with students dancing half-heartedly in the centre of the living room, red cups abandoned on windowsills and side tables, and a guy on the sofa pulling hard on a bong like it's the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.

Suguru’s gaze sweeps the room once, slow, measured, instinctive. It’s not paranoia. It’s just habit. Observation comes naturally. It always has.

He catalogues everything. The couple making out against the back of the staircase, the ceiling fan dangerously wobbling above the dance floor, the half-empty punch bowl in the corner. His eyes flick to the back veranda doors, open to let in the cooler night air, a few students spilling outside to smoke or just breathe.

Satoru elbows him with a smirk, all white hair and confidence in a black button-up he hasn’t bothered to button fully. “I see your antenna’s already up,” he shouts over the music. “You’re like a hawk. So romantic.”

Suguru doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s about to suggest they find a corner less likely to implode when Satoru claps his shoulder and disappears toward the kitchen, already calling someone’s name and weaving through the crowd like it’s his kingdom.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing near the open veranda doors, haloed by the golden glow spilling in from the hallway and the cooler light of the garden beyond. The breeze lifts a strand of your hair just so, your red cup dangling loosely in your hand. And you’re wearing black.

Sinfully black.

The dress hugs your frame in a way that’s entirely unfair, short but not scandalous, tasteful but toeing the line of dangerous. Suguru’s breath catches, and he hates himself just a little for it. For the way his pulse responds. For how hard it is to drag his eyes away.

But more than the dress, it’s the look on your face that holds him in place.

You’re biting your lip softly, not from nerves, but in that absentminded way that says your thoughts are elsewhere. The girl next to you, some chatty friend he vaguely recognises from your study group, is talking a mile a minute, gesturing with her own red cup like she’s explaining nuclear fusion.

But you? You’re not really there.

Your gaze flits across the crowd every few seconds, like you’re scanning the room without meaning to, your eyes searching for something or someone. Suguru watches the way your fingers twitch at your side, your posture too upright to be relaxed.

And then your eyes land on him.

For a moment, everything else dims. The lights, the noise, the chaos. Like someone’s turned the volume down just for a second.

Your face brightens, not dramatically, not in a way that screams movie-scene, but with a softness that he feels in his chest, a smile slowly blooming across your lips like you’re actually relieved to see him. You lift your hand, a casual wave, small and full of intention.

Suguru’s lips quirk into a rare, real smile.

He lifts his fingers in return, barely a wave, more of an acknowledgement, but he knows you see it. He knows you feel it. And in that moment, watching your smile, your eyes holding his across the sea of strangers and sound, Suguru thinks that maybe Satoru’s right.

Maybe he is a little whipped.

And he continues to look at you, of course he does. He always does.

But this time, it’s different. This time, you are watching him too.

From across the room, he sees the moment you gently excuse yourself from your overly talkative friend, nodding along to her final words before slipping away. You hold your red cup with both hands now, the hem of that black dress grazing mid-thigh with every step you take. Suguru's brows lift ever so slightly in surprise when he realises—you’re coming to him.

You’re weaving through the throng like you belong there, but your eyes never leave his. Not even once. It should be suffocating, maybe, the attention. But it isn’t. It feels like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then you’re there, right in front of him, the loud buzz of the party suddenly background noise to the way you tilt your head up at him with a smile that threatens to undo every thread of control he’s stitched around himself.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you say, voice light but somehow weighted, your eyes wide beneath the fan of your lashes.

Your cheeks are flushed. From the drink, maybe. From the heat of the room. Or maybe from something else entirely. Suguru isn’t sure. He doesn’t dare ask.

He shrugs, his own smile slow, deliberate. “You made the offer too tempting to decline.”

That earns him a laugh; your laugh, soft and easy and utterly beautiful, and he swears it echoes inside him louder than the bass that vibrates through the walls.

It starts there.

He tells himself it’ll just be for a moment. A quick chat, a drink, maybe a laugh. But one moment folds into the next like the warm press of dusk into night. Wherever you move, he follows, or maybe it’s the other way around, and he’s not sure when that shift happened.

You lead him to the kitchen at one point, letting him steal a sip of whatever too-sweet concoction you’re drinking from your cup. He grimaces and you laugh again, nudging him with your shoulder. He finds it hard to not smile in response.

Later, you both end up outside to escape the heat, the noise, the push of bodies inside the frat house. The garden is strung with fairy lights and half-hearted tiki torches someone thought were a good idea, but you both pass them for the darker part of the yard where a pair of mismatched sun loungers sit, abandoned.

You collapse into one with a sigh, letting your legs stretch out, toes pointed, hair fanned over the back. Suguru takes the seat next to you, more careful, more composed, but his posture softens the moment he hears you hum contentedly.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to stick around,” you say after a while, turning your head to glance at him.

“Neither did I,” he murmurs.

There’s silence after that. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that fills with night sounds and shared stillness. Somewhere, someone inside starts a new song and someone else cheers, but it all feels very far away.

Suguru doesn’t even remember where Satoru is, doesn’t care to look. Doesn’t sweep the crowd for details or observe the people stumbling past the open porch.

Not when you’re here. Not when you’re next to him, shoulders brushing, laughter still lingering in the air like perfume.

For the first time in a long time, he isn’t watching the world.

He’s just watching you.

>>><<<

Suguru leaves well past midnight.

The party has thinned by then. Only the die-hards remain, swaying drunkenly on the makeshift dance floor, and someone’s passed out face-down on the kitchen counter. Satoru gives him a two-fingered salute and a lopsided smirk from across the porch as he leaves with someone Suguru doesn’t recognise, mouthing “whipped” before disappearing into the dark.

But Suguru barely registers it.

He’s staring at the screen of his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. It’s there, your name, glowing faintly in his palm like it’s something delicate, sacred. He must have checked it five times since you typed it in with a smirk and a quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

He stands on the sidewalk outside the house for a while, the hush of early morning curling around him, street lights flickering gold overhead. He stares at your name like he used to stare at you in those early weeks when you were still a curiosity, a riddle. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Maybe it’s still just seconds, but time stretches and bends in his chest until he makes a decision.

The next day, he texts you. Dinner? Just you and me this time.

You reply with a smiley face and an I thought you’d never ask.

From then on, it changes. Or maybe it finally begins.

Because Suguru has always liked watching people. It's what he's best at, what comes naturally, without effort. Reading the flicker of emotion across a stranger’s face, noting the subtle shift in someone’s posture when they lie, when they’re unsure, when they’re pretending.

But watching you? That’s different.

He likes how you dress up for him every time you meet, even when you pretend you haven’t. How your fingers smooth down your clothes absentmindedly the moment you spot him. He likes how your eyes soften the second they land on him, like the rest of the world fades in the periphery.

He watches how you bite your lip when you're nervous, like you did on your first official date when he complimented your earrings. He notices how you laugh with your whole body, your shoulders shaking, nose crinkling, joy unfiltered when he tells you stories of Satoru’s absurdities. He watches how you blush and giggle softly when he kisses you, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like you don’t want him to go anywhere.

You’re a puzzle, still. But not the kind he wants to solve and shelve away.

No, this puzzle, you, are one he wants to explore slowly, carefully, curiously. With affection. With intention.

You begin to draw him into your past, piece by piece. Stories about your childhood. About your father who abandoned your family when you were only five years old. About your mother who was broken but still tried to pretend, for you, for your older sister. The things that make you anxious. The things that make you you.

And he lets you into his. The quiet corners. The unspoken wounds. The reason why he’s always watched and never quite let himself feel. You listen like no one ever has.

In time, the line between watcher and watched fades entirely.

Now, when you walk beside him, it’s not about observation. It’s not about reading cues or analysing behaviour. It’s about being present. About feeling. About you.

Suguru comes to the quiet, almost amused conclusion one rainy evening, as you sit curled against him on his dorm bed, reading some highlighted article out loud and laughing at your own mispronunciations, that you are anything but perfectly normal.

And he berates himself, honestly, for ever thinking you were. Because how could he have been so blind?

You’re not ordinary. You’re everything.

He watches you the way one watches a masterpiece, something to admire, something layered and alive. He sees it in the way you treat people: your kindness is not performative, not for praise or reciprocation. It’s deliberate. Intentional. You speak gently to those who need it, but you don’t hesitate to call someone out when they cross a line. Suguru’s seen you stand your ground without raising your voice. You wield your dignity like a quiet weapon, and he finds it breathtaking.

You fit into his world like you’ve always belonged there, laughing loudly at Satoru’s stupid jokes, helping Shoko reorganise her mess of a dorm room while chatting about everything and nothing. And when Suguru meets your friends for the first time, he expects to feel out of place, the way he usually does in unfamiliar crowds. But you keep reaching for him, his hand, his sleeve, the subtle brush of your knee under the table. And he fits. You make sure he does.

But it’s at night, behind closed doors, when he sees the full, unfiltered truth of you.

And he can’t look away.

You unravel so beautifully beneath him.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, your hair spills like silk over the pillow, your breath hitches when he murmurs your name against your throat. He watches your face tilt toward the ceiling, your lashes fluttering as his hips roll into yours, slow and deep. Your skin is warm under his palms, soft and alive, and your body responds to him like it knows him, like it’s always known.

And when you whisper his name, Suguru, half-gasp, half-prayer, he feels like he’s the only one who’s ever truly heard it.

He watches your moans rise and fall like music, your fingers clawing for more, and it’s not just lust that tightens in his chest, it’s reverence. He’s never wanted anything the way he wants you. All of you. Not just your pleasure, not just your body, but your tired silences, your secret fears, your morning yawns and your late-night texts.

He wants to keep watching, keep learning, keep discovering. Because you are the exception. The most intricate, extraordinary thing he’s ever let himself love.

And it’s terrifying. Not in the way he once feared it might be.

Suguru’s not afraid of the feelings, those he’s long since accepted with the calm inevitability of someone walking into a tide that was always going to pull him under. No, the real fear, the real terror, lies in what those feelings have done to him. In what you have done.

Because for as long as he can remember, Suguru has liked to watch. It gave him a sense of detachment. A measure of control. People could be predicted. Studied. They had patterns, impulses, tells. If he could understand them, he could stay one step ahead. Always calm. Always composed. A master of silent leverage.

And now?

Now he’s given all of that up for you.

It terrifies him how easy it’s been. How willingly he’s handed over the control he used to grip with white-knuckled precision. All because of the way you smile at him. Not the polite kind. Not the pretty kind. But the one you reserve only for him, the one that lights up your whole face and makes him feel like he’s somehow suspended between heaven and earth.

It terrifies him when you curl up beside him on the sofa without asking, like it’s second nature now, your legs tangled with his, your head tucked beneath his jaw, one hand slipping beneath his sweater just to feel his skin. You hum when he wraps his arm around you, and Suguru feels it in his ribs like a soft implosion.

But it’s when you take control of him, truly, completely, that he understands just how far he’s fallen.

When you kneel between his legs like you belong there, looking up at him through lowered lashes, your hands slow and sure as they run along his thighs. And he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t even think of stopping you. He leans back, legs parted, his breath coming shallow as he lets you touch him, guide him, claim him. Every inch of him surrenders. Every sharp, honed instinct to observe, to analyse, to dissect gone in the quiet press of your lips, in the way your voice goes soft when you say his name like it’s something sacred.

He lets you take him apart. Piece by piece.

And maybe that’s the most terrifying thing of all, because after years of watching people like puzzles, like patterns, like equations to be solved and sorted into neat mental files…

You are the one anomaly he never wants to solve. The one person he wants to surprise him. The only variable he doesn’t want to control.

Suguru Geto still likes watching people.

But he knows now, without hesitation, without shame, without fear: He likes watching you the most.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

sweeping you off your feet for the second time

an : rafayel x nonmc | nonmc is introverted & nonconfrontational | mc is the girl bestie of nonmc | college au | tried to make it fluff but maybe i failed | typed on my phone & non proofread | might be triggering for some - read at your own risk cause its hard to make a label for every single thing | i wrote this cause i wanted to hurt myself

next

CHAPTER ONE

The second year of college felt much like the first, a blur of lukewarm coffee, late-night study sessions, and the constant hum of hopeful, fearful possibility. For you, a simple girl who favored oversized sweaters and glasses that hid the curve of your cheekbones, that possibility always revolved around him. Rafayel.

He was a walking contradiction: loud laughter echoing down the hallways, a sass that could disarm anyone, a charm that felt like a physical force, and a ridiculous handsomeness that made heads turn wherever he went.

He was art in motion, vibrant and undeniable, and from the moment you’d seen him, a whirlwind of paint-splattered clothes and bright, uninhibited smiles, you’d been a quiet admirer. Just another face in the crowd he so effortlessly captivated.

You’d settled into a comfortable, easy friendship with him, surprising even yourself. He’d tease you about your meticulous notes, borrowing your highlighters and leaving them uncapped.

He’d drag you to impromptu art installations, rambling excitedly about light and shadow, and you’d listen, mesmerized, your heart doing a foolish, hopeful little dance.

You saw glimpses of something deeper in him, moments when his charming façade would flicker, revealing an almost unsettling intensity in his eyes when he looked at you, a possessive edge to his jokes if another guy spoke to you for too long.

You, being foolish and dumb, brushed it off as endearing protectiveness, a sign of a truly special friendship. You desperately wanted it to be more.

And then, it happened.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, rain streaking the common room window. You were buried in a particularly dense philosophy text when Rafayel sauntered over, a mischievous glint in his dazzling eyes. He leaned against the armchair next to you, close enough for you to catch the familiar scent of his expensive cologne, mixed with a hint of turpentine.

“Hey, Cutie,” he drawled, his voice a low purr. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

Your breath hitched. Thinking about what? Your mind raced, a thousand improbable scenarios blooming.

He straightened, running a hand through his perfectly messy hair, a gesture that always made a shiver run down your spine. “I was wondering… if you’d like to go on a date with me.”

The world tilted. The words felt too big, too bright, too real to be true. You stared at him, your simple exterior doing nothing to hide the sudden, dizzying flush that crept up your neck. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a drum solo of disbelief and overwhelming joy.

“A… a date?” you finally managed, your voice a barely audible squeak.

He grinned, that utterly charming, slightly arrogant grin. “Yeah. Like, dinner. Or a movie. Or just… hanging out, but, you know, dating hanging out.” He winked. “What do you say, cutie? Ready to step into the glamorous life?”

You barely heard the last part. All you knew was that your long-held dream, the secret yearning you’d nursed since freshman year, was actually, incredibly, coming true. Rafayel, the dazzling, charismatic Rafayel, wanted to go on a date with you. Foolish, dumb, naive you.

“Yes,” you blurted out, the word escaping before your brain could catch up. “Yes, I’d… I’d love to.”

And so, it began.

The "dating" felt like walking through a dream. He was every bit as charming as you’d always imagined. He’d open doors for you, pull out your chair, send you random, witty texts throughout the day.

He’d remember obscure details about your favorite books and bring them up in conversation, making you feel incredibly seen.

He’d even occasionally let his guard down, sharing a fleeting, almost vulnerable thought about his art or his family, and you’d cling to those moments, convinced they were proof of his genuine affection.

Yet, underneath the dazzling surface, subtle currents stirred. If another classmate lingered too long talking to you, Rafayel would appear, a hand casually resting on your lower back, his smile just a touch too wide as he interjected.

“Mind if I steal my girl for a bit? Important artistic inspiration to share.”

He’d discourage you from joining study groups, claiming he just wanted more time with you, his eyes holding an intensity that felt exhilaratingly possessive. You, wrapped in the intoxicating glow of his attention, saw it as devotion, a thrilling sign that he truly cared.

You started to shed the layers of your perceived plainness. You wore clothes that flattered your figure, experimented with your hair, and found a new confidence in your step. For the first time, you felt truly beautiful, desired, loved. You were finally the main character of your own story, and Rafayel was right there beside you, writing it with you.

Until the day the ink ran dry, and the paper-thin reality ripped apart.

It was a Friday night, and you were walking across campus after a particularly lovely dinner with Rafayel. He’d just dropped you off at your dorm, leaving you flushed with happiness. As you passed the open window of a friend’s room, a burst of laughter erupted from within. And then, a familiar voice, loud and clear, the voice of Leah.

“Oh my god, Rafayel, you actually did it! You kept it up for almost two months! We thought you’d fold after a week!”

Your heart stopped. You pressed yourself against the cold brick wall, suddenly invisible.

Another voice, one of Rafayel’s closest friends, crowed, “Best. Dare. Ever! Cutie, the plain Jane of the lit department, thinking she actually snagged him! Classic!”

Then, Rafayel’s voice, smooth and laced with a hint of amusement, cut through the night.

“Hey, a dare’s a dare. Besides, it was… an interesting experiment. She’s not bad, just… a little too serious for my taste. But points for persistence, right? And she totally fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker.”

His laugh, so familiar, so beloved, now sounded like shattered glass.

“She’s so gullible.”

The world spun, a vortex of agony. A dare. An interesting experiment. Gullible. Every sweet word, every charming gesture, every intensely possessive glance – it all twisted into a grotesque, mocking parody of love.

You hadn't been desired; you'd been a pawn. You hadn't been loved; you'd been a joke. Your heart, once so full, was now a gaping, bleeding wound. The confidence you'd found, the beauty you thought you possessed – it was all built on a foundation of lies.

You stumbled back to your dorm, the vibrant college campus now a cold, mocking landscape. You locked the door, sinking to the floor, tears streaming down your face. The pain was physical, a crushing weight that stole your breath. The admiration you’d held for him since freshman year, the foolish hope you’d nursed, the blossoming love – it had all been for this. To be the punchline of a cruel, casual dare.

You looked at your reflection in the darkened window, seeing not the confident girl you’d become, but the "plain Jane" they'd mocked, the "gullible" girl who had believed in a lie.

The slow burn wasn't just your unrequited love; it was the agonizing, drawn-out realization that you had given your heart, freely and completely, to a game.

And Rafayel, the loud, sassy, ridiculously handsome boy you loved, had simply used it as an amusing way to pass the time.

The price you paid was your shattered innocence, your trust, and the agonizing knowledge that you were nothing more than "just for fun."

[ravenlly]

Who Made The Daycare Attendant? (Part 2: Addendum)

Although it is advised that you read this first post first, I will be providing bullet points to catch you up to speed!!

SPOILERS FOR SECRET OF THE MIMIC!!!

So, to understand this post, here's a brief summary of what I speculated/noted in Part 1:

The canon ending is the one where Arnold unknowingly gave F10-N4 the Data Driver, containing access to the Mimic's blueprints and access to Moon.exe.

The Mimic probably returned to the factory after killing Edwin, likely to get its hands on the Data Diver.

F10-N4 protected the Data Diver, keeping it out of the Mimic's hands. She also realized Edwin would never return.

During this time, with her access to Moon.exe, as well as her ability to design blueprints and programs, F10-N4 designed the current form of the Daycare Attendant we know and love today. For unknown reasons.

F10-N4 could not do anything with said blueprints as far as actually creating the hardware goes.

Someone else would've had to come build the Daycare Attendant based on those designs. Possibly, this person helped F10-N4 properly set up M.X.E.S.

In Security Breach, we see that the Mimic has the same teeth that the Daycare Attendant's endoskeleton has. It does not have these teeth in Secret Of The Mimic. In fact, its entire base frame is different.

The prior point could be explained by the theory F10-N4 possibly also designed another animatronic or another body. The Mimic could've installed itself into that one.

The person who helped build the Daycare Attendant's body probably worked for Fazbear Entertainment, hence how it first became a theatre animatronic long before Security Breach. It is possible the Daycare Attendant had an alternate purpose given by F10-N4.

Okay, now that I've caught you up to speed with that recap, I wanted to point out something that I missed. Something that I completely forgot about until I finished that first post:

Fazbear Entertainment doesn't know how to fix or reboot the Daycare Attendant.

This is a pretty important point that just flew over my head until the tail end of that post. It could imply that whoever built Sun/Moon/Eclipse wasn't a Fazbear employee. Alternatively, it could also just mean that the employee who did build them no longer worked for Fazbear Entertainment when Moon started acting up during his time as a theatre performer.

I think the second theory is more likely. We don't know how long the Pizzaplex has been around in Security Breach, but we can assume from the books that it was around for quite a few years. This is one of those times where the books provide information that could be important or canon to the lore of the games. We are aware that a ton of changes happened within the Pizzaplex from the time it opened to the time the incident that ruined it occurred. We also know that Staff Bots started to replace human employees over time. Granted, in the books, there are still human employees around for quite a while after the daycare was constructed.

Even then, it is noted specifically that the Daycare Attendant was an old theatre bot. It is extremely likely that the employee responsible for constructing them was long retired when Moon started acting out during the performances. This would mean that he wasn't around to fix the poor animatronic by rebooting it with the Faz Wrench (aka future Data Diver). The only one who knew how to was the Daycare Attendant in question...and poor Sun couldn't do that without the Faz Wrench. There was no hope for him without it around, or at least without it being actively used. Sun's familiarity with it shows that he recognized it immediately.

Who knows? Maybe the person responsible for building him was killed, be it by the Mimic or something else. For now, all I can speculate is that F10-N4 had a hand in designing the functionality of this poor animatronic. Maybe he was supposed to serve more of a purpose than being a theatre bot or a daycare attendant. But it's clear Moon got corrupted at some point, and nobody was around to reboot him.

I hope we will see their creation in a different game. I also hope that Ruin isn't truly the end for them. Their connection to the Mimic seems too important to end now. Maybe they will have mercy on their fans and let them be important later...

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

I'm sorry I can't take your call right now, I'm becoming unhinged about Transformers again,,,

[bootstrapparadoxed]

The desire to go back and rewrite multiple chapters versus the desire to keep going and actually finish this draft FIGHT

[hopecomesbacktolife]

thinking of rereading the entirety of HoME again. for my health

[egregiousderp]

This week’s had many high points but one of the quieter ones for me was finally having my own room where I can put @naniiebimworks ‘s Biblically Accurate Aziraphale up on my cabinet to totally reflect my LED bed lights like my Mica Door used to.

[roseworth]

this book is so bad it’s pissing me off

[r0bee]

So it was YOU! YOU'RE the one who made me think wanting to kiss my best friend in primary school was a normal friendship thing DAISY WELLS!! CURSE YOU AND THE GOOD CHARACTERISATION/FORESHADOWING IN THE IN-CHARACTER GLOSSARY!!!!!!

[bitchkay]

I prefer Guys characterization in the princes path rather then his consort route

I feel like all the routes should've progressed slower tbh but with Guy in particular I feel like it would really work with a slow burn romance

Also, unrelated but MC always falls in love with her chosen consort by chapter 10 like girl you've known this man for 2 weeks