#Quiet Quitting Burnout | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

topherwrites · 21 days ago

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𝘈 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌

jack abbot x fem!reader — you have a shared understanding of each other, it's the worst sort of relation. warnings: mutual pining, angst, burn out, grief, terminal illness of parent, attending x resident, hr hates to see them coming. a/n: wrote this while sick and sleep deprived, so it's in third person for some reason. let me know if ya'll like this!

Jack has seen burnout, the way this job chips away at even the soundest of doctors. He’s used to tired eyes and cracked hands and sore backs. But this is different. It’s like watching a ghost move through the hospital.

She's crumbling under the weight of grief. She’s always clocked in; there’s no escape from it. No air to come up for. There’s just a void, deep and dark, that she pulls with her through every day.

And she doesn't sleep well anymore—or at all—terrified every time she closes her eyes that she won't be there when it—the horrible thing rapidly approaching—finally happens, that her mother will be alone. That she’ll have failed in the simplest of tasks.

She doesn’t feel human now, not really. She’s a candle burning at both ends—wick nearly gone.

He sees it, the barely hidden exhaustion, the forced smiles, the vacant stare when she doesn't know anyone’s looking. But he is—always, watching her for a reason he can’t face, knows is wrong.

And so he’s there to witness her collapse, a full breakaway. They lose a patient—young. Stupid young. One of those ones who should’ve made it. Who would’ve made it, if the universe cared for things like fairness.

His eyes stay on her as he calls it, as she slowly stops compressions, discards her gloves silently, and slips from the room like if she’s quiet enough, she can just disappear. He knows that look. He follows her at a distance, checking in with Dana, the other residents, keeps his eye on her the entire time. A ticking time bomb. He sees the tremble in her hands, the measured way she’s taking in every breath.

And then she bolts—not truly, but in her professional way, she does. Sets the chart in her hand down and goes straight for the stairwell.

Dana catches him watching her and tells him to go.

He pushes the door open, stands in the doorway as he watches her fold into herself on the cold, concrete stairway floor—knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking in that awful, silent way. The dam has broken.

She sees him then, her breath hitching, and a sob, uncontrollable, leaves her throat—because now there’s a witness to her failure. She’s failing her patients and her mother and him. The door shuts behind him with a click, the sound of her breaking echoing around them.

He moves, kneeling in front of her, as well as he can, every old part of him protesting all the while. He tries not to crowd, just be there.

“Hey,” he says, voice firm, “Look at me.”

He knows what she needs, her Type-A constitution: someone to tell her what to do, give her permission to stop brute forcing her way through this.

She tries to swallow her emotions back down, regulate her breathing, get back to it. Her eyes raise from the ground, but she doesn't quite look at him. That's fine.

“You’re off.” She opens her mouth. “Don’t argue.”

“I can’t, I just,” her throat clogs, she imagines going home, to that house that shouldn't be as quiet as it is, just dead air and the sounds of machines.

He sighs a long breath out of his nose, thumbing it as he offers something up to her. A piece of his own grief.

Death, the great equalizer.

He husks out, “If you stop for even a second, it’ll all go to shit, right?”

He waits to see her eyes.

He knows some of how she’s feeling, not the same, but close. She was there one day, gone the next. No in between, dead in everything but name. He imagines her version is worse. The long goodbye. The drawn-out cruelty of it.

His hand, large and calloused, cups her knee, thumb rubbing gently at the tendon there, grounding. She swallows down hard. Finally, her focus returns to him, and the look in his eye—understanding—draws her out of her spiral, if only for a moment.

“It won’t," he takes a breath, waits to see if she's really listening, “Not unless you don’t take a moment for yourself.”

She wants to believe him. But the thought of having to go back—to that house, to the hospice nurse, to her mother’s living death—makes her stomach churn. She feels ungrateful, selfish.

Her mother’s dying, and her daughter’s trying to figure out a way not to go home.

She finds she keeps having a particular thought, more and more these days, I want to go home. And yet she never seems to find herself there in the quiet of her childhood home. There’s no relief or sense of safety. Just quiet dread. I want to go home. And it’s the cool skin of her mother, paper thin. The occasional brittle sound that works its way out of her throat.

She thinks, I want to go home.

But there’s no home anymore. Just a ticking clock.

And she’s trying to let go of something that isn’t even gone yet.

He keeps his eye on her. He’s sure that his words won’t sink in until later, the truth of them hard to swallow for people like them.

“My shift ends in an hour.” He leans back. Reaches into his pocket. His knuckles prod her closed fist, and something cold is placed into her grasp. Keys. He says, “Wait for me.”

She nods.

What else is she going to do?

Then he leaves her in the stairwell.

Eventually, she gathers herself together, eases back up onto her feet, and ambles her way out of the sliding doors. In a haze, she clicks the lock button and locates his car by the responding beep. It’s nice, smells like leather and pine—attending salary, she supposes.

She sinks into the passenger seat, numb; it’s the first time she’s sat still in weeks.

The car is quiet when he slides in beside her.

She doesn't open her eyes, just hears the soft click of the door, the sound of his bag hitting the backseat, the sigh he lets out like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits with her.

“You hungry?” he asks, like any of this is normal routine. Like this could be a date.

Her tired mind pauses. Like she isn’t very obviously in the midst of a clinical breakdown.

So, she shrugs halfheartedly. Can’t quite remember the last time she ate, especially the last time she ate without her mom’s nurse forcing her to just sit and chew. She feels reduced to a child, unable to care for herself.

His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

“Okay.”

The engine turns over. She sits there with her head against the window, watches the city lights blur past in the dawn. He doesn’t talk, doesn't force conversation onto her. But she can feel his eye occasionally drift over; she can’t think about the beat of her heart when it does.

His place is clean in a lived-in way. Coffee cups in the sink. A stack of foreign medical journals on the kitchen counter. Throw slung over the back of the couch.

She doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway. A tad uncertain and eyeing.

He toes his shoes off onto a rack. Shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on a hook next to her.

He motions for her to turn around, helps her out of the stiff shell of her scrub top with gentle hands. Careful. Like she might break.

She shivers against the cool air of his apartment, sweat clinging to her skin and tank top.

His hands purposefully don’t linger. He steps away, through the large sliding barn doors at the back, where she assumes his bedroom is. A moment later, he comes back with a sweatshirt and blankets in hand.

He presents the sweatshirt to her silently. Their fingers brush as she takes it, slipping it on over her head. Worn cotton. Faded logo. It smells like detergent and him.

Already, she feels a little more alive.

“You can take the bed,” he offers, already walking toward the kitchen, giving her space. “I’ll be on the couch.”

It takes a moment. And then, “What?”

She pads quickly after him, floorboards creaking under her foot.

He doesn’t answer right away—just opens the fridge, peers down, and makes a vague sound of confirmation—nothing particularly edible left.

“I can’t cook for shit, so…”

She glances past him, can't help the comment, “And your fridge is sad.”

His eyes narrow and slowly, he straightens up, but there’s the giveaway, a little twitch of his lips. “I invite you in and you go in on my-”

“It’s, like, mostly condiments.”

And beer, but she doesn’t mention that. She’s pretty sure Harrison, McKay's kid, would call it divorced dad core. He pulls two out, silently tips one toward her in offering. Why not, she figures, reaching out and taking the bottle from him. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and leans on the counter—the taste reminds her of college, probably the last time she can remember relaxing.

Then, she sighs, returning to the topic, despite his attempt at a detour, “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” Voice scratchy with fatigue, she adds lamely, “Don’t be stupid.”

He exhales through his nose, sentiment he doesn't know how to word staying firmly in his throat.

Arms tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, she watches him over the counter.

There’s something buzzing in her chest. Inappropriately tender.

“Not a big deal,” he says finally, then drinks, his eyes on her. Not in a waiting-for-her-to-fall-apart way. Just… on her. He’s watching her like she’s a person and not a patient, not a problem to be solved.

She’s not quite sure what to do with it. At work, at home, she has to keep it together, pretend in equal measure that nothing is wrong, that she has it all together. So now, with the space to just breathe, she falters. She doesn't know how to be anymore.

“You let strange, frazzled women crash your place often?” she says, trying for levity, settling into a stool across the island.

He seems to ignore her self-deprecation entirely. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Not even a pity laugh thrown her way. The quiet that’s left sobers her. Again, he sees her.

She shifts, realizing how near he is—how inconsequential the island is between them.

“No,” he swallows, looking down at the counter, then up at her, “just you.”

It lands with weight. She wonders what it means, if he even knows.

She tries to take it casually. But as it rests in the quiet, she’s forced to swallow down her clashing confusion of feelings.

She wants to say something, anything, to fill the void. Make a joke about him agreeing with her—she is frazzled. More so now. And there’s something dangerous crackling in the quiet. Instead, she sits there, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly when he notices her watching him.

She’s so fucking tired, and her brain is a mess—fogged by grief, adrenaline, the echo of chest compressions, the tremor still in her hands. She could be imagining it all. Probably is.

Just you.

“You need sleep,” he says, firm. “Real sleep. Not just half-hour naps when your body gives out on you.”

“Look that bad, huh?”

“Little worse for wear,” he starts, a familiar tilt to his mouth, “Still better than most on their best.”

Again, he throws her a fraction off-kilter.

She takes it better this time. A quick study—as he’s told her before. She’s usually better at volleying, but today she’s an exposed nerve. In the ED, the banter feels harmless, a way to pass the time. Here, in the confines of his place, it feels charged, intentional. Dangerous.

Jack sighs, more at himself than anything else, and pushes off the counter. Releases himself from looking at her. His fingers flex at his sides, a twitch like muscle memory, like he’s already imagined what it’d be like to touch her. Pull her close. Lay his palm against the back of her neck and give in to the worst of his urges, the ones that have built up in him since he very first saw her.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because she’s grief-struck and unraveling, and he knows this would be a sort of theft.

He wouldn't be able to take it back. And she rightfully may not forgive him. He might shatter this bit of comfort he’s been able to extend to her. Or perhaps worse, she’ll want him, this, now, but not when the fog dissipates, when a clearer head prevails.

“I’ll order in,” he says as he turns from her, flicks open a drawer overflowing with takeout menus. Mindlessly, he rifles through them as he takes a breath. He feels her eyes on his back, that prickling awareness at the base of his neck.

She knocks her knuckles on the counter, “Kay. I'm forewarning you, I’m gonna snoop.”

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and he nods to the low shelves in the corner, “Records over there.”

He watches her turn, the corners of her lips lifting in response. She unwinds, that last little bit of tension leaving her as she falls back into a familiar rhythm.

“You're such a hipster piece of shit.”

“No, just old,” he states dryly just to get a smile out of her. He’s rewarded with it, accompanied by a short exhale out of her nose.

She wanders over to the corner, squatting down as her fingers run over his collection. Taking her time gently sorting through them, she occasionally pulls one from the shelf, eyes scanning the tracklist. He can’t help the interest that’s settled into him: Which ones are to her taste? Which are bands she’s never heard of?

He’s curious about her, always—the briefest glimpses of her leading to more questions.

“You,” she starts, declaring as she pushes to stand, “are a fleetwood mac stan.”

“Of course I am, I'm a self-respecting child of the seventies.”

Her eyes stay on him for a moment before she hums, approving.

It’s that bit of curiosity that’s going to do him in.

He hasn’t told his therapist about her. Not exactly. Not in a way that counts. The predicament that’s not a predicament. Because he’s kept his head, kept things mostly professional.

His voice rings in his head, saying what he knows the man would, placid to promote some amount of self-reflection: 'Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jack? '

No. He’s not.

But he’s already in it. Not much farther to fall from here.

She watches as Jack pulls out a diner menu, asks her, “You like pancakes?”

“I'm partial to them.”

They remind her of weekends and summer and her mom. Of giggles and the smell of burnt batter. So yes, she supposed she likes pancakes.

Jack pulls out his phone. Presses it between his ear and shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Always multitasking.

“You a chocolate chip or blueberry kind of gal?”

An hour later, they’re sitting side by side, quietly eating. Forks clink against ceramic. Her elbow brushes his every now and then. Neither moves away.

He’s taken his leg off. She’s let her hair loose from its bun. Something about it feels telling.

Too comfortable for what their relationship should be.

Beer and pancakes. Two things that shouldn't mix.

“Thank you for,” she sighs, “you know.”

The air is still around them.

He looks over at her, and his eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, kind and unguarded in a way that’s a punch to the gut. They quietly roam her face—pinning her. It sits between them—this vast unnamable thing. She wonders what he’s looking for in her face. Perhaps the same thing she’s looking for in his.

When his gaze lands on her lips—momentary, maybe accidental—it zips down her spine, lands hotly in her stomach.

He doesn’t know how to formulate the devotion on his tongue, say, I’d do anything for you or I’m sorry or Maybe if circumstances were different.

So instead he says, “You’re not a machine. You can’t run on two hours of sleep and caffeine forever.”

She hums in return.

He knows she’ll show up to the next shift the same way—dark circles, thermos in hand, too much tension in her shoulders. Tonight, his words, will probably change very little in the grand scheme of things. Change is difficult at any scale. Especially for people like them. He’s learned that much.

But if she sleeps soundly, lets some of that tension in her shoulders release, even if only for a few hours, then maybe that’s enough.

The rest of their meal is finished over hushed conversation—him digging up the remnants of his past for a good story. A few close calls, some risky maneuvers, the periodic breaking of protocol all teased out to keep her eyes on him. But eventually, time runs out, she stifles a yawn into her fist and her lids grow heavy.

Quietly, he takes her empty plate and slides it into the dishwasher, urges her up with a hand between her shoulder blades. A gentle push to bed. His grip slides down to her waist as she reaches up onto her toes and thanks him with a press of her lips to his cheek.

And then she’s gone, the sound of her feet padding down the hallway. She doesn’t say goodnight.

She thinks, in another version of this night, he might have followed her.

But in this version—the only they have—he just stands in the kitchen, eyes on the hallway long after she’s disappeared. He rinses the cups. Wipes down the counter like it matters. Like it keeps him from thinking too hard.

He turns the record player on. Starts an album. Keeps the volume low.

Jack sinks into the couch like it’s an old friend—his hip cracks, his back protests. This isn’t his first stint sleeping in his living room. On certain nights—bad ones—his bed is too big, too empty, too quiet, too full of memory. He’ll grab a blanket and crash out here, maybe catch an hour or two of actual rest before his next shift.

Now, he stares at the ceiling as if it might offer him clarity, like it’s penance.

It doesn’t. It never does.

He remembers how she looked—backlit by his kitchen light, sipping beer like this was any normal Tuesday, like this morning wasn’t a death sentence for his already fragile grip on propriety. It’s not even the presence of her that wrecks him—it’s the ease of it. Like she belongs here. Like it’s natural. Like the universe didn’t put a giant red do not fucking cross this line between their lives and laugh every time he toed it.

She’s asleep in the other room.

And nothing happened.

Nothing will happen.

But still, there’s that buzz in his fingertips. He wanted something to happen. It burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere, faint through the speakers still murmuring in the background—

Billy Joel starts to hum again.

She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

Jack sighs, closing his eyes.

Sun starts to fill the room.

Oh, she takes care of herself; she can wait if she wants. She's ahead of her time.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt #the pitt fic #the pitt hbo #jack abbot fic #jack abbot fanfic #my writing

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cloudyluun · 2 months ago

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The Cost of Keeping You | ceo!harry

Summary: Working for Harry Styles—CEO of Styles Enterprises and unofficial tyrant of the twentieth floor—was never Y/N’s dream. But rent waits for no one. She can handle his cold glares, biting remarks, and soul-sucking silence. Until one day, she can’t. After a brutal insult that hits too close to home, Y/N walks out with her head high and her heart bruised. Harry? He pretends not to care. Until he does.

Now, months later, Harry finds himself unraveling in the quiet she left behind—and he’ll have to decide if he’s ready to face the mess he made… and the woman he might’ve lost forever.

A/N: This fic (based on this request) is for the girlies who love their men mean, miserable, and emotionally repressed 💅 If you’ve ever daydreamed about quitting your toxic job with a dramatic one-liner and having your jerk of a boss realize he’s in love with you months later? Yeah. This one’s for you.

Pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and prepare for CEOrry to suffer

Word Count: 6,6k

Warnings:

Verbal/emotional mistreatment in the workplace (from Harry)

Power imbalance (acknowledged & explored)

Burnout / stress / overwork

Angsty emotionally stunted man

Soul-crushing insult that will make you gasp and clutch your pearls

Groveling (delicious)

Optional heartbreak depending on chosen ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

She never planned to stay this long.

The job was supposed to be temporary—a stopgap while she figured things out. Rent in the city wasn’t kind, and freelance gigs didn’t always pay on time. When she landed the executive assistant position at Styles Global, she told herself she’d give it six months. Just enough time to build some savings, maybe line up something closer to her skill set. Something less soul-sucking.

That was two years ago.

Now, she moved through the sleek glass hallways like a ghost in heels, always present, always poised, and always one misstep away from being on the receiving end of another of Harry Styles’ famously cold tirades.

To the rest of the office, he was a legend. A force of nature. They called him “Hurricane Styles” behind his back, though most were too afraid to say it above a whisper. He had built the company from nothing, turned every risk into a win, turned bloodless strategy into an art form. Investors adored him. Board members feared him. And employees? They tried not to make eye contact.

She knew the rules. Never speak unless spoken to. Never offer ideas—he’d either steal them or shoot them down just to remind you who had the power. And never, ever expect gratitude. Harry didn’t say thank you. He said “Fix this.” He said “Again.” He said “Why is this taking so long?”

She’d learned early on not to take it personally. The key was to treat it like weather. Unpleasant, unpredictable, but not about her. She could withstand a storm. She just hadn’t realized how long this one would last.

By month three, she had his routines memorized—his preferred coffee order (black, no sugar, 8:04 a.m. sharp), how he liked his reports formatted (12-point font, single-spaced, no cover page), the names he forgot during meetings (which was most of them). She kept his world running so smoothly that no one noticed the machinery behind it.

That was the way he liked it.

Still, some days, she couldn’t help but feel like she was slowly disappearing. Her friends stopped inviting her out after she bailed on too many Friday dinners. Her fridge was stocked with takeout containers she barely remembered ordering. She ate lunch at her desk, dinner on the train, and sometimes forgot breakfast entirely. Sleep came in fits. Her eyes were ringed in fatigue, her jaw clenched more often than not.

But she showed up. Every morning, polished and precise, like clockwork.

And Harry treated her like she was interchangeable.

“This font is wrong,” he’d say, flipping the folder back toward her without looking up.

“It’s the one you asked for.”

“Well, it’s wrong now.”

He never looked her in the eye unless he was correcting her. He never said her name unless it was followed by a command. Some days, she wondered if he even knew anything about her beyond what was in her HR file.

But she didn’t crack. Not outwardly. She met his coldness with calm, his dismissals with measured silence. Let him feel like he had the upper hand. That was how you survived here. She wasn’t trying to win him over. She was just trying to stay standing.

That morning started like any other. Rain slicked the pavement outside the 52nd Street building. She beat him to the office, as usual, lights already on, coffee already waiting. She sat at her desk just outside his door, skimming through emails, flagging the ones that needed his attention, deleting the ones that didn’t. Her phone buzzed. Another meeting pushed back. She adjusted his calendar accordingly.

“Morning,” came a voice from behind her.

She looked up. Theo, one of the junior project managers, stood there holding a report.

“Hey,” she said, managing a small smile.

He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, I think you might actually be a wizard.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No, seriously,” he said. “The guy’s a nightmare, but you—you handle him like it’s nothing. You’re the only one who can.”

She snorted under her breath, shaking her head. “Trust me. It’s not magic. It’s caffeine and pure survival instinct.”

“I still think you deserve a raise. Or hazard pay.”

She didn’t say anything, just turned back to her screen. But the compliment—simple, sincere—sat heavy in her chest like a secret. She couldn’t remember the last time someone said something nice to her in this building.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

Theo straightened instantly. “Morning, Mr. Styles.”

Harry didn’t respond. Just walked past them, into his office, and shut the door with that sharp, final click that always made her stomach knot.

She went back to work. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then—

“Y/N.”

His voice, clipped and cold.

She stepped into his office, notepad in hand.

He didn’t look up from his screen. “Why did I just overhear you chatting with one of the junior staff?”

She blinked. “He had a report you needed to see. He also—”

“—was wasting your time,” Harry cut in, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were unreadable. “You’re not here to make friends.”

Her jaw tensed. “I wasn’t.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, walking around his desk until they stood a few feet apart.

“If this,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her notepad, her schedule, her entire existence, “is your best, then maybe you should stick to fetching coffee. You're not irreplaceable.”

The words landed like a slap. Not loud, not violent—just surgical in their precision. She stared at him, willing herself not to react. Not to flinch.

Instead, she swallowed hard, nodded once, and left the room.

Back at her desk, she sat perfectly still.

It wasn’t the first time he’d belittled her. But this one felt different. It wasn’t just that he was cruel. It was that he’d said it so easily. As if she was nothing. As if all the late nights and early mornings, all the silent sacrifices, all the ways she kept him afloat… meant nothing.

And he hadn’t even thought twice.

She worked through lunch. Didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. Just kept her head down, her expression blank, her hands steady. But inside, something had shifted. Something small, but irreversible.

He thought she was replaceable.

He was going to find out how wrong he was.

The next morning, she arrived at her usual time—fifteen minutes before anyone else. The office was quiet, still soaked in early dawn light. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. She sat at her desk, logged in, and started moving pieces around on his schedule like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Her spine was straighter. Her eyes sharper. She wasn't angry. Not exactly. Anger was too loud, too hot. What she felt was colder, deeper—an indifference blooming like frostbite. She had nothing left to prove. And for the first time, she could see the finish line. She just hadn’t decided when she’d cross it.

Harry didn’t notice at first.

He breezed in just before 8:15, late by his standards, muttering about a traffic delay, waving off the coffee she still—out of sheer habit—had waiting for him. She took notes in a meeting, filed reports, arranged travel for a business trip he wasn’t even sure he wanted to take. It was routine, rote. The same grind she’d mastered over the last two years.

But Harry wasn’t stupid. And despite his best efforts to act otherwise, he noticed things.

He noticed that she didn’t offer him her usual rundown of the day’s meetings. Didn’t preemptively print the documents he’d need before his 10 a.m. Didn’t even ask if he wanted lunch or if she should push back his next call when the morning ran long.

Instead, she moved like a ghost—silent, efficient, detached.

And it irritated the hell out of him.

By the third day of this quiet withdrawal, he found himself pacing behind his desk after everyone had gone, a file open in front of him that he couldn’t bring himself to read. His office was too quiet. The desk outside his door was empty. She’d left promptly at five, like clockwork. No late-night filing, no quiet hum of her music spilling from her earbuds, no light footsteps when she brought him coffee after hours just because she knew he hadn’t eaten.

It wasn’t just her silence. It was her absence, even when she was still here.

The power imbalance he’d once leaned on so comfortably had shifted. And he didn’t know what to do with it.

So, naturally, he got meaner.

It started with nitpicks. “This margin is off.” “You didn’t bcc the right name.” “I said tomorrow, not Thursday.” All minor things—some imagined—but each said with increasing venom.

She didn’t react. Not really. Just fixed it and moved on. Which made him feel even more off-balance.

Then came the mistake.

It wasn’t even a big one. A slide title on the wrong deck. A single date typo buried in a footnote. But it was during a high-stakes pitch meeting—one he was already on edge about. The room was packed: department heads, a few investors, his second-in-command, and of course, her. Standing just to the side, laptop in hand, managing the screen.

He was presenting. She was supporting. It was a rhythm they knew by heart.

Until her voice broke in, gentle but confident. “Just to clarify, that figure includes Q3 projections, not finalized Q2 numbers.”

He turned slowly.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

She blinked. “You mentioned the quarterly report. I just wanted to clarify—”

“I know what I said,” he snapped. “What I don’t understand is why you’re talking like you have any authority to speak in this room.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

She stared at him. The warmth drained from her face like a switch had flipped.

He wasn’t done.

“You’re here to run slides and take notes. Not to correct me mid-pitch. If I wanted your input, I’d have asked for it. Stick to what you’re paid for.”

She said nothing. Just nodded once and backed off.

The presentation ended five minutes later, stiff and awkward. As the room cleared, he caught a few sidelong glances, a few too-quiet murmurs. But he didn’t care. He was still buzzing with that adrenaline of dominance, the way he always did after asserting control. It was familiar. Automatic.

But when he stepped into his office and saw her already there, standing near his desk, arms folded, expression unreadable—something in him pulled tight.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“I just corrected the slide title,” she said. “You had the wrong quarter listed. It wasn’t to embarrass you.”

He shrugged, brushing past her toward his desk. “Then maybe next time you’ll think before you speak.”

She didn’t move. “You know, I’ve put up with a lot. The mood swings. The condescension. The hours.”

He looked up, something cold flashing behind his eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

“Yes,” she said. “There is.”

Her voice was steady. Calm. But there was a crack in it now—a fracture held together by sheer will.

He smiled. But it wasn’t kind. “Do you really think you matter here? You’re just another name on the payroll. Don’t mistake necessity for value.”

That was it.

The final blow.

And this time, she didn’t swallow it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t cry.

She laughed.

It was soft at first. Disbelieving. Then colder, darker—a sound pulled from some place buried deep inside her. It startled him. He hadn’t heard her laugh in weeks. Hadn’t seen her smile, not for real, in even longer.

“You know what, Harry?” she said, her voice low and tired and done. “I hope one day you realize what you lost. Not because I want to be missed. But because I want you to feel it. Just once.”

She reached for her badge. Popped it off. Placed it on his desk like it weighed nothing. Like he weighed nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She walked out of his office without another word. Past the desk she’d kept too tidy for too long. Past the glass doors. Past the stunned stares of a few late-working staff who turned just in time to see the ghost of Hurricane Styles’ assistant walking away with her head high.

No notice.

No drama.

Just a clean break.

And Harry, still behind his desk, still holding that last insult in his mouth like poison, realized something too late:

He’d finally broken her.

But she wasn’t the one who was going to pay for it.

He was.

Harry’s POV

He told himself he didn’t care.

Said it out loud, even. In his office, to his reflection, to the empty silence that used to hold her soft footsteps and the quiet rustle of papers being filed. He shrugged when Mitch asked what happened, rolled his eyes when Sarah from HR hinted they should reach out—just in case she had any materials to hand over. He waved it all off.

“I’ll find someone better,” he said flatly, sipping the wrong coffee made by a temp who had no idea he hated hazelnut. “She wasn’t indispensable.”

But the lie sat sour on his tongue.

The first week without her was logistical chaos. The temp assistant—two years younger and painfully eager—couldn’t read his tone, couldn’t keep up, and worst of all, kept asking questions. Dumb ones. Obvious ones. Ones she would have known before he even opened his mouth. The schedules were off. Calls missed. A client dinner was double-booked and he had to personally call and apologize.

He hadn’t made a personal apology in years.

By Friday, he’d snapped three pens in half and raised his voice more times than he could count. He barked at the intern for misprinting a memo and nearly slammed the door on Mitch when he came in with a project update.

The tension he used to wear like armor suddenly felt suffocating.

He lasted exactly six minutes in his office on Monday before storming out. The blinds were still half-drawn the way she always left them—just enough light, not enough glare. Her chair was pushed in, perfectly aligned with the desk. Her spare cardigan was gone, but the scent of her lotion still lingered faintly in the air. Clean. Subtle. Warm.

It punched something in his chest he didn’t know was tender.

He moved into the boardroom instead. Set up camp there like a child refusing to sleep in his own bed after a nightmare.

By week two, everyone knew not to mention her name.

He still caught himself pausing at 11 a.m., waiting for the sound of her humming while she filed. She used to hum the same tune when she was stressed—always off-key, always quiet. He never commented on it, never even acknowledged it. But now the silence grated.

So did the coffee.

He tried to make it the way she used to—just once. Burnt the beans. Stained his shirt.

The spiral was slow but steady. Every little thing reminded him of her. The seat in the elevator she used to lean against when they left late. The branded notepad she always carried, filled with tiny, organized handwriting. The pen she once borrowed and never returned—still in his drawer, chewed at the tip, because she had the annoying habit of biting pens when deep in thought.

And then there were the flashbacks.

The kind that crept up when he least expected them—sharp, vivid, unforgiving.

There was the day he’d come in with a migraine, growling at anyone who dared breathe too loud. She hadn’t said a word. Just dimmed the lights, closed his door, and left a cold compress on his desk. He never thanked her. Never even looked up.

Another time, she brought him soup. Chicken and rice. From some little place two blocks over. He hadn’t eaten all day, his voice was raw from back-to-back calls, and when she placed the container down with a quiet “It’s not a big deal,” he’d snapped.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She hadn’t argued. Just nodded and walked out. But she never brought him soup again.

He should’ve said something then.

He didn’t.

Three weeks after she left, he found her coffee mug still in the back of the cupboard—white ceramic with a tiny chip on the handle. She used to joke that it was her lucky cup, and if it ever broke completely, she’d “take the hint and leave.”

He nearly dropped it.

Instead, he placed it back on the shelf like it was glass-thin, like it could still be salvaged if he just didn’t touch it too hard.

It was around week four when the real punch came.

He wasn’t even looking for it. He was on a news site, scrolling mindlessly, avoiding the stack of files he couldn’t bring himself to organize because no one was around to nag him about deadlines. And then he saw her.

It was a photo embedded in an article—some small piece about a new start-up shaking up the tech world. He wouldn’t have clicked it normally. But her face was there, radiant and easy, mid-laugh. Candid. Honest.

She was standing outside a building he vaguely recognized, arm looped with another woman, both of them holding champagne flutes. The caption said she’d joined the company as their new operations director.

Operations director.

She hadn’t just moved on. She’d leveled up.

And she looked...happy. Not performative, not polite—genuinely alive in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Her shoulders weren’t tight. Her eyes weren’t dull. She wasn’t tired. She was free.

That was when it hit him.

He didn’t just lose his assistant.

He lost the one person who gave a damn.

The one who saw him—flaws, fury, all of it—and still showed up, day after day. Not because she had to. But because, at some point, she’d cared.

He used to believe fear was the best motivator. That respect was earned through intimidation. That keeping people at arm’s length meant control. He thought he was untouchable.

But the echo of her laugh still lived in these halls.

And her absence was loud enough to shatter glass.

The days dragged after that. He stopped snapping at people—not because he felt better, but because he didn’t feel anything at all. His office was cold. Clinical. The chair outside his door stayed empty most days, the temp too afraid to sit there for long. The entire floor felt off-balance, like the center of gravity had shifted and no one could quite walk straight.

Every time he saw her picture in that article, he stared at it a little longer.

He kept it open in a background tab.

It was pathetic. He knew that.

But it was also the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because if she could move on...then maybe, maybe there was still a sliver of something he could hold onto.

Maybe redemption wasn’t off the table.

But it wouldn’t come easy. And it wouldn’t come fast.

He’d burned that bridge with a blowtorch.

Now the question was whether there was anything left to rebuild.

The first text he sent was short.

Harry: I’m sorry.

No punctuation. No context. Just two words, tossed into the void of read receipts and silence. It stayed unread. A gray “Delivered” glaring back at him from his phone screen for hours, then days. He told himself maybe she changed her number. Maybe she didn’t see it. But deep down, he knew better.

The second message came two days later.

Harry: I didn’t mean what I said that day. I was angry. At myself. Not you.

Still nothing.

Then came the email. He drafted it at 2 a.m., sitting in the same boardroom he’d commandeered as his cave ever since her departure. He read it over twenty times before sending.

Subject: I owe you an apology.

“Y/N,

I’ve rewritten this a dozen times. Nothing feels like enough. I was wrong. About a lot.

You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. You weren’t just efficient, you were essential—to the company, yes, but also to me. I just didn’t realize it until you were gone.

I miss your steadiness. Your patience. Your fucking humming that used to drive me insane and now echoes in my head like a ghost.

I said things I regret. Things I can’t take back. But I need you to know—you mattered. You mattered more than I ever let myself admit.

If nothing else, let me say this to your face. You don’t owe me anything, but I hope you’ll give me five minutes.

H”

It bounced. Full inbox.

She’d blocked his email.

The next step should’ve felt like a line crossed. But he was already halfway through the wreckage of what he’d ruined—what was one more dent to the ego?

He showed up at her apartment building. Waited outside like a fool with a takeaway coffee and a note in his pocket he didn’t dare hand over.

She didn’t come out.

He tried again. And again.

Once, he saw the curtain shift. A shadow behind the glass. But the door never opened. She never came down.

He stood there for fifteen minutes longer than he should’ve, heart in his throat, hands freezing around the paper cup. And when it became clear she wasn’t going to face him, he tucked the note under the doormat and left without looking back.

He never found it there again.

Still, he couldn’t stop.

He checked her company’s press page obsessively. Memorized every project announcement, every update. She looked like she belonged there. Like she was thriving. There was a confidence in her posture that hadn’t existed when she worked for him. Like she finally had room to breathe.

It should’ve made him happy.

Instead, it gutted him.

The opportunity for confrontation didn’t come until six weeks later. It was an industry networking mixer, full of self-congratulatory execs and overpriced cocktails. He wasn’t planning to go, but Mitch had dragged him out—said he’d been a recluse long enough.

He hadn’t expected her to be there.

She wasn’t even in the main ballroom when he saw her—she was out on the terrace, standing by the railing with a drink in hand, backlit by soft string lights and city glow. Her hair was pulled up. Her dress was simple, but elegant. Understated power.

She looked…whole.

For a moment, he froze. Thought about turning around. Maybe he should’ve. But then she turned slightly, laughing at something someone said beside her, and the sound cracked something open in his chest.

So he walked.

His heart thudded with every step. His palms were damp. There were a thousand versions of this conversation he’d rehearsed in his head, but now, with her just a few feet away, he couldn’t remember any of them.

She noticed him before he could say anything. Her smile faded, her gaze hardening into something unreadable.

He stopped a foot away, gave her space. She didn’t move.

“Hi,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“Harry.” Her voice was calm. Unmoved. The ice in her drink clinked as she swirled it slowly.

He waited. Nothing. No warmth. No invitation.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I was awful to you,” he said finally. “I don’t even know where to start—”

“You don’t have to,” she cut in. “You said everything you wanted to the day I quit.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t care.”

It landed like a slap. Clean. Honest. Brutal.

She took a sip of her drink and looked past him, like she was already bored with the conversation. He could see the shift in her—the absence of the girl who used to hesitate before speaking, who used to shrink under the weight of his moods. That girl was gone. This version of her stood taller. Spoke clearer. Didn’t flinch.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I was scared,” he said. “Of needing you. Of how much I depended on you. I pushed you because I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “So you punished me because you couldn’t manage your own emotions?”

“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t see it then. But I do now.”

She stared at him, the silence stretching thin between them.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he added. “I’m not asking for things to go back to the way they were. I just needed you to know I’m sorry. That I miss you. That losing you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

Something flickered across her face—small, fleeting. A crack in the armor. But it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“You miss the way I made your life easier. The way I knew your schedule, your moods, your coffee order. You miss the convenience.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I miss you. The person. The presence. The way you gave a shit even when I didn’t deserve it. The way you challenged me without ever raising your voice. The way you—” His voice broke. “The way you saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.”

A beat of silence.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

“I used to think,” she said quietly, “that if I worked hard enough, stayed long enough, you’d see it. That you’d see me. Not just as an assistant, but as a human being.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“But I realized,” she continued, “that the problem wasn’t my effort. It was your inability to recognize value unless it screamed. I had to break to get your attention.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her glass. “I’m not angry anymore, Harry. I’m not bitter. I just… don’t want to go back to a place that made me feel small.”

“I don’t want that either,” he said. “If there’s even the smallest chance… I’ll do whatever it takes. Not to get the old dynamic back, but to build something better. On your terms.”

She looked up at him then, really looked at him.

And for the first time, he saw the cost. The weight she’d carried. The cracks she’d had to seal on her own.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m ready,” she said. “If I’m ready.”

“I know.” He stepped back slightly, giving her room. “But I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, small and measured.

He left her there, under the soft lights, the night cool against his skin.

For the first time, he didn’t walk away with answers. But he walked away knowing something had shifted.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

The days that followed were quiet. Not the suffocating kind he’d grown used to, full of silence and unanswered messages, but the kind that forced reflection. He didn’t try to contact her again. Not right away. He didn’t loiter by her building, didn’t send another desperate email. He’d said his piece. Now, he had to prove he meant it.

That started with his own house.

Literally.

The place was a mess—not just physically, but emotionally. It still looked like it belonged to the version of him she’d left: sharp edges, cold surfaces, and schedules that ran tighter than his jawline used to. So he changed it. Started small. New photos on the wall—ones that weren’t just boardroom snapshots and event galas. He framed one of the office holiday party she’d organized three years ago. The one where she wore a ridiculous headband with blinking lights and somehow still managed to look composed.

He made space in his days that didn’t revolve around profit margins and investor calls. Therapy twice a week, no excuses. He started having actual conversations with his team. Not just directives. Not just performance reviews. Real check-ins. The kind he used to think were a waste of time.

He showed up. And not in the grand, dramatic gestures he might’ve leaned on before. No flowers sent to her new office. No extravagant apologies. Just quiet, consistent effort.

And slowly, word got around.

Mitch mentioned over lunch that she’d heard. That someone on her team had passed along the news—Harry wasn’t the same. He didn’t snap anymore. He listened more than he talked. And most shocking of all, he’d started mentoring junior staff.

“It’s not a magic trick,” Mitch had said, half-smiling. “But people are noticing.”

Still, she didn’t reach out. And he didn’t expect her to. He wasn’t owed anything.

So he focused on what he could control.

Then, one afternoon in early spring, a message arrived. Short. Neutral.

Y/N: Can you talk?

He stared at it for five minutes before replying.

Harry: Anytime.

They met at a quiet café halfway between her office and his. It wasn’t a date. She made that clear in her tone, her posture, the space she kept between them. But she’d come. And that was something.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, sipping her tea.

“I’ve had a lot to make up for.”

“I didn’t reach out because I needed space. I still do. But I’ve been watching. And I see the work.”

He nodded, unsure if it was his place to speak.

“This doesn’t mean anything changes,” she added. “But I want to see if… maybe we can start from zero. Slowly.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Whatever pace you need.”

They didn’t talk much that day. But the door had opened.

Over the next few weeks, they found a strange new rhythm. Occasional texts. Brief lunches. No talk of the past unless she brought it up. He learned to follow her lead, to listen without trying to fix or justify.

It wasn’t easy. He’d built his career on control, on always having the answer. But this wasn’t a boardroom. This was trust—raw, slow-growing, and fragile.

One afternoon, she visited his office. Unannounced.

“I was nearby,” she said, though the tremor in her voice hinted at something deeper. She looked around. The space had changed since she’d last seen it. Softer lighting. Fewer screens. A photo of his niece on the shelf, grinning with a missing front tooth.

“You’ve changed,” she said after a pause.

“I had to.”

“For you?”

“For me. But also because if I hadn’t, I would’ve lost everything. Not just you. Myself.”

She nodded slowly, then held out a folder.

“I’ve been working on something. A proposal.”

He blinked, surprised, then took it. Her name was on the first page. Director of Strategic Initiatives.

“This isn’t you asking for your old job back,” he said, flipping through it.

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s me offering to build something with you. As equals. Or not at all.”

He smiled then. Not the smug, closed-lip smirk she used to hate, but something softer. More real.

“I’d be lucky to have you.”

“You’d be smart,” she corrected.

He laughed, and for the first time in a long while, so did she.

The official announcement went out a month later. She’d accepted the position—but not in his division. She’d have her own team. Her own budget. Full autonomy. And he made it clear, in both the press release and the internal memo, that her success would have his support, not his interference.

Their collaboration started professionally. Emails, strategy meetings, pitch reviews. But something unspoken lingered beneath it all. A current. A history neither of them dared touch—until the night of the fundraiser.

It was raining. Of course it was.

He wasn’t sure if she’d come. It was a high-profile event, black tie, every reason for her to avoid it. But then she walked in.

Black dress. Hair down this time. Calm, confident. She scanned the room and found him almost immediately.

Later, when most of the guests had filtered out and the ballroom was half-empty, she found him on the balcony, staring out into the storm.

“I used to think rain was bad luck,” she said, stepping beside him.

He turned. “And now?”

“I think maybe it just… washes away the noise.”

He watched her for a long moment. Then finally, voice low, he said, “I meant it. Everything I said. That day.. I still mean it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him, eyes searching.

“You’re still a bit of a hurricane, Harry.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me be the one to rebuild what I tore down.”

She studied him. The vulnerability. The steadiness he hadn’t had before.

“I don’t need saving,” she said.

“I know. You never did.”

“But I might be ready to build something. Not because I miss what we had. But because I see who you’re trying to become.”

“And who are you?” he asked softly.

She tilted her head. “Someone who won’t settle. Not for less than mutual respect. Not for silence when there should be honesty. Not for anything less than real.”

“Then I’ll meet you there,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

The moment stretched.

And then, under the city lights and the steady hum of rain, she stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t assume. Just waited.

She reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. Her kiss was gentle. No heat or desperation. Just truth.

When they pulled apart, she smiled—small, certain.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive everything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“But it means I see you. And I believe you see me now too.”

He nodded, eyes stinging.

“I always did,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to show it.”

She touched his hand, lacing their fingers briefly before stepping back.

“Start with showing up,” she said. “Keep doing that. Day by day.”

“I will.”

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was chasing her shadow. He was standing beside her.

Present.

Ready.

This time, they’d build it right.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles @alohajix

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asterafroditis · 2 months ago

Text

𐔌 . ⋮ studying for finals .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Second Years x gn! reader

𓏵 978 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

In honor of finishing my finals hehe >< First Years are done! Third Years coming up next! feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Studying with Riddle is very structured. He has a study plan, a schedule, and even pre-made review sheets. You don’t just study—you prepare like it’s a duel.

But he’s surprisingly gentle with you. If you don’t understand something, he pauses the session to explain it from another angle, sometimes even using little metaphors to help you.

He lights up when you get the answer right.

“Correct, exactly as I taught you. Very good.”

If you ever compliment him on being a good tutor, he flushes slightly and stiffens.

“W-Well… It’s only natural for the Housewarden of Heartslabyul to be academically exemplary. Still, thank you.”

When you leave, he’ll hand you a small, neatly packed snack or herbal tea, saying:

“To keep your mind clear—don’t skip your meals.”

─────────────────────────

Ruggie’s study vibe is casual. You’re both sprawled out somewhere comfy, probably the lounge or under a tree. He keeps things light to avoid burnout.

He’s sharp, though—great at pointing out shortcut methods or helping you understand tricky questions without making your brain explode.

Occasionally, he’ll make jokes or tease you when you overthink.

“C’mon, don’t make that face. It ain’t a life-or-death quiz, y’know?”

He brings snacks (stolen or otherwise) and sneakily slides them to you mid-session when he sees you losing steam.

If you thank him, he shrugs, a little flustered.

“Don’t go gettin’ mushy on me now, but I’ll admit, it’s kinda fun helpin’ ya.”

─────────────────────────

Azul treats it like a business meeting at first—your study area is organized, quiet, and candlelit. He offers to quiz you or share special study materials “for a price” (joking… mostly).

But once you settle in, his demeanor softens. He genuinely enjoys teaching and loves it when you ask questions.

When you compliment how well he explains something, he adjusts his glasses and smiles.

“You flatter me, but I must admit, I do take pride in being thorough.”

He gets bashful if you bring him a snack or thank him earnestly.

“I… appreciate that. You’re quite thoughtful.”

At the end of your study session, he’ll subtly ask if you’ll study again soon—because he really doesn’t want it to be a one-time thing.

─────────────────────────

Jade is calm, composed, and slightly intimidating—but he’s actually a really soothing presence while studying. He speaks softly, explains clearly, and never rushes you.

You study somewhere quiet, maybe an empty hallway or botanical corner. He watches your progress with curiosity.

When you get stuck, he’ll lean in and ask:

“Shall I explain it again in a different way, perhaps?”

He never makes you feel dumb, but his compliments are cryptic.

“It’s quite satisfying to see how you flourish under pressure.”

Occasionally, he’ll test you with trick questions just to keep you sharp, smirking when you catch on.

You leave the study session feeling smarter... and like you just passed a secret test you didn’t know you were taking.

─────────────────────────

Studying with Floyd is a gamble. He gets bored fast and groans at every long passage, but if you care about the material, he might actually pay attention.

He sprawls across the floor, pokes at your notes, and leans close when you’re trying to focus.

“Shrimpy, you’re takin’ this way too seriously... but you look kinda cute when you squint like that.”

When you finally get an answer right after struggling, he claps (loudly) and grins.

“Ooh, look at you go! Brain’s finally wakin’ up, huh?”

He acts all wild and lazy, but subtly watches you the whole time. If he sees you looking tired, he’ll throw a pillow at you and say,

“Nap break! You can’t be smart on a tired brain.”

─────────────────────────

Kalim is the sunshine of finals week. He’s always excited to study with you, even if he’s not the best at staying on-topic.

You have to gently nudge him back on track every five minutes, but he’s so genuinely kind and open that you don’t mind.

If he doesn’t understand something, he’ll laugh and go,

“Whoops! Guess I need to ask Jamil again—but maybe you can help me first?”

He’s always praising you:

“You’re so smart! Seriously, you explained that better than any teacher I’ve had!”

He brings snacks, cushions, and even little good-luck charms. You leave his study session smiling, no matter how much you got done.

─────────────────────────

Studying with Jamil is surprisingly comfortable; he’s patient, observant, and really good at breaking down complex material.

He sighs when Kalim barges in halfway through your sessions, but you catch the tiniest hint of a smile when you laugh.

He’ll pretend to be annoyed, but he really does want you to do well.

“Focus. I’ll quiz you again until you get it right.”

If you do well, he gives you this quiet little nod of approval.

“...Not bad. Looks like you’ve been listening after all.”

When you offer to quiz him, he acts indifferent at first—but clearly enjoys being challenged back.

─────────────────────────

Silver’s study sessions are soft, warm, and peaceful… if he stays awake. You often have to nudge him gently when his head starts drooping mid-page.

He’s a thoughtful and calm teacher. If you ask him to explain something, he thinks carefully before speaking, and his voice is steady and low.

He’ll even offer to read passages aloud to help you focus, and his voice is soothing enough to lull you to sleep too.

When you get overwhelmed, he gives such sincere encouragement it melts your heart.

“It’s alright. You’re doing better than you think.”

Sometimes you both end up leaning against each other, quiet books in hand, the world soft around you.

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ilariyalavorowrites · 3 months ago

Text

White Flag (Part One)

Imagine: You'd never thought that you'd end up divorced, but here you were. This was your first day shift in quite some time, only to bump into your ex-husband.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, Post Divorce healing

Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Word count: 2,598 words

Universe: The Pitt

Reader gender: Female

Part 1 of 3

i was inspired to write this after reading @youvebeenlivingfictional Mrs R Part One and Two and @bi-bard Thanks For Holding on So Long; Sorry Love Sucks

A stack of documents was all that existed between your past and your future, but you couldn’t bring yourself to sign on the dotted line. It would mean that you conceded, admitting that you had failed. That your marriage had broken down most fundamentally when communication had gone quiet.

So here you were, stiffly sitting in your lawyer’s office, staring down at the dreaded blank signature line, where you could sign away everything with one quick signature. Yet your mind swirled with indecision and doubt, and you didn’t want this. This hadn’t been your choice. It had been his. He had been the one to file, to serve you these very documents.

You should have seen this coming after he had become a virtual stranger in your life, passing by like ships in the night as he took on another long shift after he had already worked three in a row. He would claim that they needed him, that they were short-staffed, and that COVID had left them stretched thin.

The trauma, the pain he had hidden behind a mask of professionalism that he had started to use in your presence. Hold you at a distance that had never been there before, you had tried to reach out but there had been pushback. You had mistakenly believed it had been the first signs of burnout but he had fought back.

You tried to take a step closer, to try to be there but that only caused a chill to settle between the two of you, an iciness that you had never experienced before as he took another step inching further out of the door.

Without speaking, you picked up the pen and swiftly signed your name. Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears, and tears would come as soon as you were standing in the middle of your newly leased apartment across town. Only then would you openly grieve for what had been. For all that you lost in slow motion as the grains of sand had slipped through your grasp.

You had seemingly fallen off your hamster wheel, as you stared up stunned as you watched on as the world moved on without you. Numbed by your own experience, as the love of your life had silently chosen to end the life you had built together. You were left with the building blocks you brought into the townhouse that he undoubtedly still lived in.

The fight in you still lingered, wanting nothing more than to shout and scream until your voice became hoarse but what good would that do now? You had given in, raising your white flag as surrendered to his demands.

This was your new future, one without him. He had chosen to walk this path, never explaining why he had pushed you aside. Had there been someone else? Had he simply fallen out of love with you? Your questions would go unanswered as you pushed the papers across the desk towards the unsmiling face of your two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour attorney.

Before she could offer her condolences, you spoke for the first time since sitting down at her desk. “Filling this as soon as you are able, I just want to try and move forward” You gritted your teeth, forcing out the bitter-tasting words.

“I’m not planning on changing my name so don’t worry about getting the necessary forms” This was the one decision you were holding steadfast to, it was the only piece of him that you couldn’t be forced to let go of. For now, it was still yours until you were truly ready to move on.

You would tell your friends, family, co-workers and anyone who would dare to ask the same practised line. “Oh it’s such a hassle, too many forms to fill out and it's just a name after all”

A name, oh it was so much more than that. It was a scar that wore on your battered heart, a band-aid barely holding you together.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------Eighteen Months Later

When the ink had dried, this had been your sign to jump headfirst into work, to try and forget the ever-lingering pain that thoughts of your now ex-husband wrought. You loved your job, your boss had been more than understanding that you had needed time to find your feet once again.

Your shoebox of an apartment, which once had been one box short of a fort, now was furnished and decorated. All it had taken had been one too many glasses of wine and doom scrolling through Netflix’s entire back catalogue for the third time that you finally decided to unpack your life.

Only one box remained left in the far back corner of your wardrobe. The photographs of happier times, of your wedding day. It was heartbreaking to even glance in their direction so they had become buried under fallen clothes. You knew they were hidden below but it hurt just a little less. One day you would have to find the courage to face those joyful moments frozen in time but that day wasn’t today.

This was only the first step back out into the world, pulling your thick jacket with your surname Robinavitch emblazoned on the front, ready to head out. Your fingers lingered over the stitching for a second longer.

This was going to be a long shift, your first early in quite some time, the Boss had been giving you the night shift to avoid any awkward interactions but you couldn’t avoid him forever. You had opted for this shift when your colleague had used their vacation days. You had made your choice.

There was almost a chance that you would run into him when you were handing over your patient. You were the very start of the journey as a paramedic and he was the next stop along the way as an Emergency Medicine A&E Doctor.

Dr Michael Robinavitch had been your safe harbour after long stressful shifts, a friend long before becoming your lover, partner and eventually husband. Now ex-husband, you had to internally correct yourself with that small fact, those two little letters at the front made such a difference, forever reminding you of your new reality. You still struggled to move past that fact, it hung on like a thread refusing to snap when pulled too tightly. It held on by the smallest of fibers taking on all the weight.

“I can do this” You muttered softly again and again, your mantra to see you know the next twelve hours, as you raced against the clock to get back to the apartment didn’t feel quite like a home just yet.

The first five hours of your shift had raced on by, as job after job came over the radio. Sending you from one end of the city, right back to the other. There was always another patient needing care, it kept your mind occupied as you focused on delivering the highest quality of care.

It didn’t matter the degree of injury or ailment, each patient was treated with the same degree of kindness as you listened, assessed and delivered the appropriate treatment before transporting them to the nearest hospital if they required further investigation and a level of care that you couldn’t provide out in the field. This is what had led to this particular moment in time, standing in the middle of a familiar accident and emergency department.

You stood frozen at the nurse base whilst your co-worker reeled off the details and nature of your patient’s injury and important medical history that would be relevant when it came time for treatment to a familiar face. Charge Nurse Dana Evans as you tried your hardest not to let your eyes wander around. You would not, no could not act as anything other than professional.

The slight yet warm smile that had tugged at her lips when you first approached her domain was enough. It was a welcome back and you have been missed all wrapped up in the smallest of facial expressions. She was the ringleader of the department, that every doctor, nurse and intern respected. If she asked you to do something, you did it then and there.

When you hadn’t spoken then your co-worker Frankie had quickly taken charge taking the spotlight off you. It was difficult enough to cross over the threshold of the ambulance bay doors after you had realised which hospital your Rig had pulled up to as the likeness of bumping into your ex rose with each passing second.

The longer you stood in the Department, the odds were less likely in your favour. You were acting akin to some of the student medics who had ridden along, like deers in headlights when they first saw a gushing head wound or a broken limb. As you took a few deep breaths and calmed yourself, your radio sparked into life as the voice of dispatch filtered over the airwaves. Another job was on the horizon, it was time to depart.

Yet over the countless sounds, the beeping of machines and sounds of pain, agony and life, you still turned your head out of instinct in the direction of his voice. Old habits died hard as all other sounds were drowned out, becoming white noise as all focus on was the sound of him as it dragged you back under.

As you watched as his head turned away from his patient only to catch your gaze. You were caught in a stand-off waiting to see which one of you would move first. His lips moved, speaking words that you just couldn’t hear.

It was the feeling of a gentle touch on your shoulder that dragged you back to reality, shifting your eyes away from his. Releasing the pressure that held you still as you turned to face your fellow paramedic.

“I lost you there for a second, are you alright?” Frankie asked, the concern playing upon her features as she started to move in the direction of the ambulance bay doors. “Yeah,” You started as you moved, matching her stride to be able to walk and talk.

“I’m good, I didn’t..” For a moment you were lost for what to say, to explain your actions as you made your escape from this hospital, from the memories that it was trying to invoke and from Michael.

“You don’t need to explain it but it will get easier. Just take one day at a time” She said, smiling through her words as you crossed over the threshold back out in the early afternoon. “I’ll handle the checks before we hit the road” She continued. “You don’t need to do that” You replied, not wanting to leave her to handle it alone as you knew that it would take half the time if you did it as a team. You watched as Frankie motioned with a nod to turn around.

Only to find yourself face to face with your ex-husband, with Micheal. Now you understood her intentions. “Micheal” Your voice was softer, quieter than you had thought possible as his name slipped from between your lips.

Your gaze darted downwards, looking anywhere but at him. This was far from what you had wanted, you wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you to avoid any awkward small talk, yet here you were. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------His ex-wife hadn’t been on his bingo card, of what he had expected to encounter during his shift. He knew that there was always a chance, given the nature of her profession which worked in tandem with his own. It had been how they had met nearly a decade before.

Ten years ago they had been friends, two years after that he had been proposing and now they were nearly two years past their divorce, regardless of how amicable it had been. This was always going to be awkward regardless of how his heart still seemed to skip a beat whenever his eyes found hers.

He had been the one to break under the weight, as he chose to shut the pain out, to close himself off from anyone and everyone. His former wife had been one to bear the brunt of it as he abruptly threw up a glass wall between the two of them. Trying to take on the emotional, mental and physical strain by himself, instead of sharing the load with her. She had been out in the thick of it as much as he had been.

She had seen as much of the horrors of COVID as he had, but in the moment Michael hadn’t taken that on board each time he returned after shift after shift utterly drained. He had simply gone through the motions, barely engaging as she spoke of her day. In the beginning, he had tried, to give her the attention and affection she deserved but as the months dragged on, that had petered off. How long had it been since he had last held her in his arms?

How long had it been since his lips had lightly brushed against hers, Michael couldn’t say but the ache pulled him out here. As he had spoken her name, it felt heavy in his mouth but he continued to speak. “How are you keeping?” He had truly been curious, if they were ever going to be comfortable working alongside one another again then he had to be the one to reach out. To begin the dialogue.

He couldn’t help but offer up a soft smile, trying to see if he could heal some of the damage that he had brought into her world. Michael might not be ready to face the source of his trauma but he could try with her. He still loved her, he always would.

“You know, I’ve had good days and bad days but working keeps me busy” She replied, after what felt like a lifetime of silence but then again, he understood. This wasn’t easy for her, this was just like starting over. They were almost like strangers but there was a history between them that could have been handled better.

Before he could get another word out, her colleague hollered out from the back of the Ambulance. “We’ve got to another job Robinavitch” That was something that he had expected. She still had his name, she hadn’t filled out the paperwork to go back to her maiden name. It knocked him for six as he tried to process this new piece of information.

“I’ve got to go but I’d like to talk” She spoke clearly for the first time, looking over her shoulder at the rig before returning to meet his gaze. “I still have the same number, if you still have it” All Michael could do was nod, as he finally saw her.

“I still have your number, we do need to talk” There had been moments when her birthday had come and gone when he had been working through the holidays that he had considered reaching out. He never had but he had wanted to. “Be safe out there” It was the least he could say, smiling through his words as a small piece of himself snapped back into place. “Be safe too” She replied, giving him a small wave as she rushed off.

Michael stood there for a moment, watching as the ambulance left the hospital, merging into traffic and disappearing from sight. Feeling slightly lighter than he had when he awoke this morning, he turned on his heel and re-entered the department ready to save lives.

#the pitt imagine #the pitt #dr robby #dr. robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #angst heavy #reader insert #angst with a happy ending #michael robinavitch #the pitt x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025

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nothomegal · 6 months ago

Text

"Kiss. Teach. Love!"

(Mr. Crawling x GN! Reader)

No way, NotHomeGal actually revived? Yup, I did. Homicipher brought me back to life from the depts of my creative burnout (o゜▽゜)o☆

This game really scratched a part of my brain I didn't know was there, but I'm not complaining!

And no, I won't be abandoning the slasher fandom, but I must say it will take some time to come back to write those right now, but I'll do my best to rekindle that spark!

Okay, enough of my yapping. Hope you enjoy this Oneshot (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Summary: after learning that sometimes objects from the human world may fall into the realm you're currently stuck in, it became a common activity for you to scavenge around the junk to pass time, and your ghost companion always seems so curious about it!

Warnings: none really just fluff, Mr. Crawling being too cute for a mortal soul to handle.

Side note: yeah just like in most (basically all) of my fics, MC (or Y/N) will be Gender Neutral! So everyone gets to enjoy the story with their favorite ghost man :]

AND! Here's the link of the dictionary I used for the fic to put ghost words heheerhkj.

Word count: 3.6k

It's been so long, they think at least. Time feels stuck in place, yet in the deepest part of (Y/N)'s conscience they know it's not true, that the time and everything outside these lifeless concrete walls is very much alive.

Life goes on, it keeps moving regardless if they feel it or not, time is passing just like it always did... Yet, they feel stuck. Numb. It's like their mind and soul are slowly melting, becoming one with this dimension they begrudgingly started to call "home", even if it's not... This is not their real home!...

It's not!...

It's not...

It's not...?

—"☨ д つ々?"— (Sad)

A quiet gasp left (Y/N)'s lips when suddenly something brushed against their leg as that soft voice spoke next to them, that "something" being the very long, dark hair of their ghost companion.

They turn their head, almost flinching at the sight of how close Mr. Crawling was to them. Shoot, sometimes they forget how unnerving his appearance is, especially when he creeps up on them like this, though unintentionally.

—"ત ટ д ☨ д つ々?"— (You Sad)

He repeated the question, his usual smile now replaced with a small frown. His voice quiet and soft as always, but with that subtle quiver at the end that appeared whenever he's concerned.

(Y/N)'s breath almost hitched from that little but oh so sweet display of care. Even after all the time spent side by side with Mr. Crawling, they still periodically wonder what the hell did they do to deserve such kind perso... Ghost, in their life.

Before the entity's worry could grow, (Y/N) flashed him with a smile, shaking their head a little.

—"I'm alright, just a little distracted."—

Their answer did seem to soothe the ghost's worry a little. However, he leaned closer, more of his hair falling into (Y/N)'s body, sending small shiver through their form as the black locks brushed their legs, sensation that resembling a small breeze of air running across their skin. An odd, chilly feeling... But one that became very comforting and grounding for the human over the time, as it was like a gentle reminder of Mr. Crawling's presence, that they weren't alone.

—"つ ત บ บ λ ป こ ৺ נ ८ ک ટ ? つ ત บ บ つ ኟ บ ટ ?"— (Not Bad Feel Not Scared)

Their smile faltered for a brief moment, knowing exactly what he was talking about...

Even if it's been quite a while since (Y/N) had one of those episodes of fear and hallucinations, the memories of them are still haunting the human in one way or another, leaving this uncomfortable sensation under their skin. It's like feeling hands, snaking all over their body, slowly slipping under their clothes, creeping through their skin and flesh, trying to dig deeper and deeper, right to their very core, trying to reach something so deep inside of them and rip it away from them...

Their essence?

Their soul?

T̵͉̗̒ḣ̴̻̱̂ȅ̷͓͘i̵̤͙̐͝ȑ̶͈̖̏ n̷̳̻̬̮̯̟̗̙̩̻̮͊͋̾́͐͌̏͒̿̏̆̑͜͠ä̴̢̧̡̦͕̻̙̻͕̳̟́̊͊̾̄̈́ḿ̵̡̢̛̜͉̗̗̞͖̟͈̬͈̻͍͌̋̓̐̅͘͠e̵͇̹͈̤͕̮̺͉͚͈͔̭͇̔-?

The human then simply hums, shaking off the heavy feeling off their mind. Their gaze soon focuses back on Mr. Crawling's face, their smile creeping back on their features, but now brighter, happier.

—"つ ત บ บ λ ป こ ৺ נ ८ ک ટ . つ ત บ บ ጉ ሰ ટ נ."— (Not Bad Feel Not Together)

They replied cheerfully, confidently using the otherworldly language to make sure there is no room for doubts left.

Upon hearing their answer and seeing that smile he absolutely adored, Mr. Crawling himself smiles back, letting that characteristic high-pitched giggle of of his. And just like (Y/N) expected, the crawling ghost reached out and gently patted their head, ruffling their grayish hair a little.

—"ㄷコ ਦ υ ป ! ㄷコ ਦ υ ป !"— (Glad Glad)

(Y/N) giggled as well, already used to Mr. Crawling's joyful chirps at whatever little thing they do. Once satisfied, the ghost slowly retires his hand from their head and leans back to his previous position right next to the human in a raincoat, his dark locks trailing behind and sliding off (Y/N)'s legs as he gives them a little bit of space.

They hum, that happy smile remaining on their lips, brightening a bit their bandage-covered face, returning some of color and life to it. The human soon shift their attention back to what they were previously up to, which was scavenging and going through all the junk and rumble that fell down here from the human world.

While (Y/N) is the one going through the numerous items, Mr. Crawling remained focused on them. Staying next to their crouched form and curiously watching the things they periodically picked up and inspected, sometimes even picking something himself and asking what it is and what humans do with it.

The activity was simple, but it was like a huge breath of air for (Y/N) and a great way to distract their mind from the decay this world was putting them through, helping them remember who they are and what are supposed to be. A human, an unfortunate human that found themselves in this place of absolute madness...

(Y/N)'s train of thoughts stopped when their eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of something bright and colorful under a small pile of old, messed news articles. And after carefully pushing aside all the trash, they get a clear sight of what it is.

A manga cover!

(Y/N)'s eyes widened and their smile grew as they reach out and grab the manga book, picking it up and instantly flipping through the pages.

—"No way, it's actually in good, readable condition!"—

They exclaimed excitedly, eyes wandering through the pages with interest.

Mr. Crawling simply observed, curiously watching them inspect the book. He noticed that (Y/N) would always get super excited whenever they saw one of these colorful pictures, and it made him happy to see them happy! As well as to keep a mental note to find more of these to make them even happier.

However, as the human paused on one of the pages, probably to check if the paper is holding up alright after getting a little wet. Something completely different caught the ghost's attention.

Slowly, Mr. Crawling reaches his hand again, pointing at a particular drawing with his finger while tilting his head to the side, like a confused puppy would.

—"נ บ ਦ ኟィд ⊔ ટ ৺ ㅗ?"— (What They Do)

He asked, gently tapping the picture with his finger.

(Y/N) glances at the spot their ghost companion is pointing at, their eyebrows rising slightly as they see an illustration of two of the characters kissing. Oh, did they just spoiled themselves one of the subplots?...

—"This?"—

They asks, eyes flickering between the comic and Mr. Crawling's face.

—"π々⊔ λ ک つ ત コ ጉ ک こ?"— (Why Touch Mouth)

The ghost asked again, genuine curiosity lingering in his quiet voice as he taps the paper again, his head turning to the side to look at (Y/N). Despite half of his face being covered by his dark hair, they could practically feel his curious stare, almost like a kid waiting for his parent to answer.

—"ک ጉ ㄷ π π々⊔ ?"— (Teach Why)

He asks, now his attention completely casted on (Y/N), patiently waiting for their answer.

The mentioned human stays silent at fist, seemingly surprised the ghost actually doesn't know what a kiss is and why people do it. However, the more they think about it, the less he can blame Mr. Crawling. After all, this world is not built for affection, and considering all the dangers that lurk here on daily basis, it's not too surprising that some residents of this place don't even know what affection is.

—"Well. This is called a kiss, 'kiss'."—

They explain, pointing at their lips as they spell the word for him.

—"K- K̴̻̍-K̶̥͔̒ḭ̷̢̆̾ṣ̵̠͊s̵̮̎̾-?"—

He attempts to repeat, though the sound comes more as a hiss rather than an actual word... Still, (Y/N) was proud of him for trying! And expresses such joy with a soft giggle.

—"Yeah, kiss. Uh..."—

They paused, thinking over their wording before continuing.

—"☨ บ п ป Kiss ત λ コㄷ ک ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ."— (Human _ Desire Teach Love)

They finish, scratching their cheek with a sheepish smile, knowing that their explanation probably sounded wonky a weird, especially with that little mix between languages.

The ghost, makes a small "oh" sound, actually understanding their answer even with the odd wording.

Suddenly, Mr. Crawling's face lightens in puppy-like joy as he leans closer, his face just inches away from the human's when he starts to chirp back.

—"ત λ コㄷ ک ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ! "— (Desire Teach Love)

(Y/N) raised their eyebrows at his words, their cheeks suddenly feeling a little warmer.

(Hold on, is he asking me for a kiss?!)

As flustered as they were, upon seeing that excited, happy smile of the ghost that they grew so attached to, they couldn't find the heart to tell him no even if their life depended on it. Beside, it's just a kiss, and they both like each other! So why not?

—"Eh... Hehehe. Okay, okay. You kiss like this."—

They answer, before suddenly leaning forward and pressing their lips against the cold skin of his cheek.

A soft, quiet gasp escaped the ghost's lips, the difference in temperature between his and (Y/N) body never failing to make his chest feel all funny, though not unpleasant type of funny. But now with the added softness of their lips and the hot breath casted on his face, it created a sensation he haven't felt before.

The human leans back a little, chuckling under their breath at the ghost's reaction. However, their smile begin to fade when they notice how still he suddenly got.

They go silent, patiently waiting for Mr. Crawling to say or do something, but he remained perfectly still and dead silent, like some kind of creepy statue. Did they just cross some boundary they didn't know about?...

—"Mr. Crawling?..."— you ask eventually, voice quiet. —"Are you alright? Did I-..."—

(Y/N) paused when he finally does move, slowly lifting his hand from the opened manga book and brushing his fingers against his cheek, right on the spot they kissed him a second ago.

Suddenly, another high-pitched giggle escaped the ghost as he immediately launches forward, forcing (Y/N) back and basically tackling them to the ground into that famous overzealous hug of his they came to secretly adore.

—"K̶̥͔̒ḭ̷̢̆̾ṣ̵̠͊s̵̮̎̾ ! K̶̥͔̒ḭ̷̢̆̾ṣ̵̠͊s̵̮̎̾ !"—

He cheerfully exclaims with his broken human speech, before mimicking (Y/N)'s action and pressing his lips against their cheek. Though, more than an kiss his gesture resembled a nuzzle, like big dog gently bumping his favorite person with his nose.

—"৺ ጉ נ ⊔ λ ત д ک ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ! "— (Me Want to Teach Love)

(Y/N) just couldn't help but laugh at the sweet action of the ghost, their cheeks turning much redder and warmer than before. With their hands no longer being occupied by the manga book, they reach and rest their hands on Mr. Crawling's back, basically hugging him back as the entity continues to joyfully express his liking through the newfound gesture.

—"You're doing it pretty good! But this is not exactly a kiss..."—

They eventually say, sliding their hands from his back and instead resting them on his shoulders. At the sound of their voice, Mr. Crawling's affectionate nuzzles pause and leans back, tilting his head to the side with curiosity.

—"Yeah, you need to press your lips, not caress with them. Ehm..."—

They fall silent, their gaze adverting for a brief moment as they try to find the needed words to describe what they're trying to say, but all they get is a reminder of how poor and limited the ghost vocabulary is...

Mr. Crawling remained quiet, patiently waiting for (Y/N) to figure out their wording. He didn't mind the wait at all to be honest, patience being one of his biggest virtues after all. Beside, seeing the human mumble and emit noises under their breath while making funny faces, such as pushing their lips or furrowing their brows, was a very cute sight to witness!

When realized that words, human or not, won't cut it. (Y/N) decided to use actions instead, as their head was starting to hurt at this point from this damn language barrier. So, with a soft sigh their eyes flicker back at Mr. Crawling, who was still patiently waiting for them to figure out their wording, or maybe taking the chance to look and admire their face, or maybe both...

—"৺ ጉ נ ک ጉ ㄷ π ત ટ д Kiss."— (Me Teach You)

They finally said, a hint of determination in their tone, though it was mostly directed to (Y/N) as they try to push through their own sudden rush of shyness and fluster. How comes they can be all giggly and cuddly when Mr. Crawling literally tackles them, but then turn into a blushing mess from a little kiss?! Ugh, even they start to make less sense the more they stay in this world...

At their words, the ghost seemed almost ecstatic. He already was eager to get any sort of attention from (Y/N), let alone affection. So the mere thought of feeling their lips pressed against his skin again made his whole body almost shake.

(Y/N) could feel the ghost's body grow tense from the overwhelming joy, and it was such a strangely endearing sight to witness; an otherworldly entity acting like an overjoyed puppy about to receive his favorite treat.

They giggle again, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze before speaking.

—"Okay hehe... Eeh... Look, you kiss like this, 々ኟп৺."— (Look)

They say before leaning closer, the distance between their and Mr. Crawling's face growing smaller and smaller, until their lips finally come in contact with the ghost's other cheek.

They can feel him shiver, clearly still not used to the new sensation, but he was definitely loving it judging by the way his long arms slightly closed around their body, almost hugging them and pressing their smaller form against his taller one.

(Y/N) leans back a tiny bit, taking the chance to simply look at the entity who was holding them in it's embrace so tenderly. Of course, this is not the first, nor last, time they'll be held by Mr. Crawling. But... Right now, there's something different, they feel different. Their heart is pounding like crazy, yes. But they no longer feel flustered or embarrassed, they feel strangely in peace in fact.

There's always been something captivating about the crawling ghost, even with his unnerving traces. The way his long, black hair surrounds them, a void that's isolating both from the outside world, covering them like a veil, making each the protagonist of the other's gaze. For a monster-filled place like this, the moment felt almost romantic.

The human let a soft exhale, their lips parting ever so slightly. And before their brain could even realize it, (Y/N) was already leaning forward again.

They don't know what came over them, but their mind, their heart, and even that little voice was telling them the same thing...

{Do it.)

They press their lips again, this time against the tip of his nose, getting one of these little "eh" sounds out of him.

They didn't stop there however, instead starting to pepper the ghost's face with more kisses. His cheeks, his forehead, his jaw...

(Y/N)'s movements were slow and delicate, keeping in mind the comfort of their otherworldly companion as they shower him with this new, intimate affection. They weren't quite sure what he was thinking about all of this, if he was getting overwhelmed or not, if he truly enjoyed or understood how much this moment meant for humans... But by how his arms seem to close more around their smaller form, how his fingers flex around the fabric of their raincoat, how his body seemed to gradually relax and even lean into the new, loving gesture...

Yeah, they knew he understood.

However, as (Y/N) was about to reach his lips, an inexplicable wave of hesitation came all over them, freezing them in place and incapacitating from moving back of forward, their heartbeat getting surprisingly, almost painfully loud.

(What's going on?)

(Why am I feeling so... Self-conscious?)

(No... No. I want to do it, I need to do it! Come on body, move! Move god damnit!)

They screamed inside of their mind, yet their body still refused to move, regardless of all the mental berating they were putting themselves through. Their grip on Mr. Crawling's shoulder tightened a little, like a silent attempt to ground themselves and remember just how close the ghost was, how he was waiting for them to continue, how he was waiting for them. But... They... They just couldn't move.

However, after a few beats of silence and inactivity had passed, is Mr. Crawling the one to finally break the tension and lean forward, his cold lips pressing against the warm ones of the human.

And just like that, all the doubts and hesitations had melted away in (Y/N), and everything felt alright again. No, more than alright. This felt perfect, intimate, sweet, and surprisingly innocent. Holding nothing but the affection, care and love the two beings felt for one another, now in it's purest way.

A human.

And a ghost.

Together, connected to each other not just in a physical way, but now in a deep, emotional way...

The kiss itself probably didn't last even 10 seconds, but in (Y/N)'s and Mr. Crawling's mind it felt like two eternities had passed, and many more would if they'd decided to keep going.

After breaking the kiss, the two just stay like this for a while, looking at each other as their minds clear from the haze and feeling of drunkenness the sweet exchange left behind. Mr. Crawling still on top of (Y/N), but instead of just hovering over them like he always did, now his arms were tightly wrapped around their frame, keeping them securely in place right between the ground and his body.

(Y/N) couldn't explain it, but right now they feel like they're falling again for the ghost. Just by being held in his embrace and hidden underneath his larger body, they felt so safe and at peace... So...

It's like they were home.

Their home...

He became their home, their safe place, their happy place...

Him...

—"λ ک ሰ ৺ ટ ?"— (Are you okay)

Mr. Crawling suddenly asked, his smile faltering as his embrace on them tightens a little. It was almost like he was concerned he did something wrong and broke them, what a sweetheart.

(Y/N) blinked, noticing they were probably staring and zoning out with this little realization of theirs, realization that their real home was not in this or their world.

It was with Mr. Crawling.

Or at least, that's what their heart told them.

—"I'm fine."—

The human said in a soft voice. Their body leaning forward while speaking, snuggling closer to the ghost's chest, the action feeling like a little dejavu to the time he hid them from the man in red.

Ugh... The sole mention of that guy is still sending shivers through their body, so let's not think about him.

—"৺コኅ ጉ ሰ ટ נ ৺ ጉ נ ሰ ኟ つ ጉ."— (Us Together Me Happy)

Mr. Crawling didn't take long to let yet another high-pitched giggle, his head coming to rest on top of (Y/N)'s, nuzzling gently against their hair and raincoat hood.

—"ㄷコ ਦ υ ป ! ㄷコ ਦ υ ป !"— (Glad Glad)

He chirped cheerfully, his arms tightening just a little to give the human a gentle squeeze.

—"ત ટ д ሰ ኟ つ ጉ ৺ ጉ נ ㄷコ ਦ υ ป !"— (You Happy Me Grateful)

—"৺ ጉ נ ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ત ટ д !"— (Me Like You)

—"৺ ጉ נ ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ጉ ሰ ટ נ ત ટ д !"— (Me Like Together You)

All (Y/N) could do at the moment is giggle and attempt to keep up with his excitement. Jeez, they forgot how talkative Mr. Crawling gets when excited. They reach out at some point, affectionately rubbing his back like a quiet request to slow down, which the ghost quickly complies by stopping his speech and instead resorting just to the nuzzling.

The two remained like this for quite a while, just enjoying this precious moment of having each other close. Even if they knew that the next time (Y/N) needs to take a nap, they'll be in embraced again.

—"Alright, that's enough for now.—

The human muttered, giving the ghost's back a few gentle pats like a way of saying that they wanted him to move.

Mr. Crawling doesn't try to protest at all, surprisingly. And after giving one more squeeze, his arms loosen around (Y/N)'s form and he slowly lets go, his body getting off them and instead settling right by their side. That's probably the reason he didn't complain about letting go, knowing he'd be next to them one way or another.

(Y/N) chuckled again at the ghost's sneaky antics, finding them pretty adorable. And after reaching out to pat his head again, the human settles into a more comfortable position and grabs the manga book they previously dropped from Mr. Crawling's surprise-tackle-hug.

—"Okay, let's see what this is about..."—

The human muttered to themselves while opening the book and starting to read the story, deciding to go blind into it and discover the plot as they progress with the story.

Mr. Crawling in the meantime had found his comfortable spot by placing his head against (Y/N)'s shoulder, with one of his arms resting across their waist, keeping them in this half hug.

Even if the ghost didn't understand a word, the illustrations of the manga were very helpful and allowed him to follow the story along with the human. Though there were things he also didn't quite understand about human behavior, it wasn't a big deal since (Y/N) would always chive in and explain him things.

As the two lay there, reading, Mr. Crawling suddenly lifted his head and pressed his lips against (Y/N)'s cheek gently, this time actually kissing them.

—"৺ ጉ נ ک ጉ ㄷ π ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ત ટ д ! "— (Me Teach Love You)

He said in a sweet, happy tone that nearly made (Y/N)'s heart explode. Ugh, seriously who gave him the right to be so cute!?

—"ㄷコ ਦ υ ป."— (Grateful)

—"ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ৺ ጉ נ ?"— (Like Me)

(Aaand there he goes again. Yup, high-maintenance type...)

(But he's my high-maintenance type.)

—"ㄷ ८ コ ㅗ ત ટ д."— (Like You)

They replied warmly, planting another kiss on top of his head, gaining yet another lovely giggle from the entity before returning their attention to the manga. The ghost soon following their example, settling back into his previous position, occasionally nuzzling against their shoulder like an affectionate cat. They could swear he'd be purring if he could.

And while reading the manga, (Y/N) couldn't help but smile, but also dread a little at how the next days would go now that Mr. Crawling learned about kissing and what it meant...

...

They're going to get tackled A LOT.

"Won't they?"

#nothomegal fic #homicipher #homicipher fic #mr crawling #mr crawling x reader #mr crawling x mc #gn reader #gn y/n #homicipher x reader #gn mc

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earpskeeper · 1 month ago

Text

Not tired, just done

word count - 3k

trigger warnings - very poor mental health, autistic burnout, self harm mention, suicide attempt - do not read if you will be triggered -prioritise your own mental health please-

summary - you are a young breakthrough star for both Arsenal and the Lionesses but nobody truly knows how far your demons go.

______________________________________________________________

The roar of the crowd was a symphony you had learned to conduct. Each cheer, each groan and each drumming beat of expectation. You used it, you channelled it and turned it into fuel that spurred you on in big games. At eighteen, you were already a force to be reckoned with, a standout academy player and rising star within the Arsenal women's first team and a breakthrough player in the Lionesses squad.

But behind the fierce exterior, fancy footwork and ability to break down plays in seconds was a struggling teenager. For years you had built a mask, a personality that would see yourself protected from hurtful comments or judgemental looks. Your parents had been the first people to make her realise that the world is unkind to people who are perhaps different to the norm. After you were told to leave your childhood home after your diagnosis of autism and adhd.

The exterior everybody else sees is a carefully constructed algorithm of observed behaviours, a constant calculation of what to say, how to react and ways to blend in. The only person who truly understood who you were, was the psychologist employed by Arsenal football club. Dr Greene was her name and she had known you for just over 3 years, when you first made the transition from academy to professional football.

The routines were the anchors in your life. Everyday was meticulously planned; wake up at 06:00 and make a protein shake (same bottle every time) then go for a light jog - same route, past the park every time. Back home for breakfast using the same oat milk with cereal to then get in the car with your pre-packed training bag to drive to training. Park in the same spot and walk through the doors for exactly 08:00 to enjoy some quiet time before the rest of the team walk through the doors ready for training at exactly 09:30.

The pressure of expectation, the relentless media scrutiny nitpicking every aspect of you apart. It was all becoming too overwhelming and lately the familiar comfort of your routine had begun to feel less like an anchor and more like a heavy weight. A weight that dragged you below the surface and drowned you.

You weren't quite sure when you had actually started to spiral. The self harm, a dark secret you have battled since your early teens had started to resurface. What had started out as pinches to your arms and thighs had turned into cuts. Strategically placed so as to not arouse suspicion. And your teammates were none the wiser.

You couldn’t really blame them you supposed. Afterall, you had dedicated your life to blending into the background, to being a figment of the crowd and you were good at it. You gave the odd smile at your teammates' jokes and spoke when you were spoken too. But you never started a conversation yourself unless it was about football tactics or strategies.

However there was one teammate who managed to see more than the others.

Beth had been there learning how to coach in the academy when you were still playing there. She was the one who brought your name up with Jonas and set the ball rolling for you to come up into the first team. She saw the talent in you and knew you were gonna go far.

The beginning of the end started on a regular monday. You had woken up with the usual weight crushing your chest but for some reason you couldn’t get out of bed.

You reached for your phone and invented a fake illness to buy yourself a few days with your manager. But that was it, no other messages to any of your teammates. You didn’t really feel the need to, which is why you were shocked when you received a message from Beth asking how you were.

You were a little confused, but nevertheless you replied. Brief but concise, saying you just needed some time to rest and get better, which seemed to settle Beth’s mind a bit.

She was the one teammate who was overly concerned when you suddenly broke your routine. You hadn’t a day off for the first time since coming up into the senior team and maybe since playing in the academy (but Beth couldn’t be absolutely certain about that). What made Beth even more worried was the lack of messages from you. Knowing you were the type of person who would stress about being late and missing the first five minutes of practice.

“She’s probably just come down with a cold or something. You are being way too dramatic” Lia joked. After noticing Beth staring at her phone whilst chewing her nails.

“Yeah or she is hungover and being sneaky about it! She is 18 afterall.” Kyra rebutted back trying to put Beth’s mind at ease.

It wasn't until Dr Greene came looking for you after you had missed your weekly session on Thursday morning. It was something so out of character for you that it had Dr Greene extremely worried for your wellbeing. Especially when she found out you had been missing from training due to ‘potentially eating something gone off’ according to the message Jonas received.

So worried that she headed to the gym whilst the rest of the team was in there stretching and asked for a word. It was as if by some good luck that on her way there she found Leah, Beth and Kim walking down the corridor.

Dr Greene, bound by confidentiality, couldn't reveal much but the tremor in her voice spoke volumes. “I think someone should check on her… Just in case.”

Panic instantly surged through Beth, knowing she should have trusted her gut feeling and when Leah was being given her address by Dr Greene, Beth was already halfway to Kim’s car, running as if her life depended on it, or yours.

Pulling up to your house was weird. It made Leah, Beth and Kim realise that they had never actually been there. You had never invited the team around for bonding nights nor just a quiet dinner.

Beth was the first one out of the door and the first one to reach your front door. Hammering her fists on it as if to open it. Kim and Leah soon followed and Kim soon got to work searching for a spare key.

Leah was the first to shove Beth out of the way and start kicking the door down. On any other day it may have been seen as dramatic but the therapists words were on repeat in all of their heads, and within 3 hard kicks your front door was off its hinges.

Your house was quiet, eerily quiet as the three players made their way through your living room. Your living room curtains were drawn and everything was meticulously tidied away, likened to a showroom. Your name was shouted out by all three women as they split up to cover ground quickly. It was Kim who found your letter. The beautifully tragic letter that was sure to break the heart of anyone who read it. But what stunned Kim the most is the way you had addressed it. There was no name, nobody you wanted it to go to, just written on the front on the envelope was ‘To whomever it concerns’.

That put the fear of god into Kim as she screamed for Leah and Beth to join her.

They found you in the bathroom, eyes vacant, skin pale and an empty bottle of pills on the side to confirm their worst fears. Leah was the first person to run to you as Kim rang the ambulance. Meanwhile Beth was stood, frozen in shock.

The ambulance arrived quickly, sirens shattering the quiet atmosphere of your suburban neighbourhood and it was quickly confirmed that it was too late. Too late for any hopes of saving you. You were gone.

The news spread like wildfire through the team and staff first. Nobody was left unscathed by the news of your death and left the team in particularly grieving in different ways.

Leah, for example, used self reflection a lot and sometimes after training she would sit and stare at your old spot in the changing room, particularly at the peg where your football kit used to hang. She would think about the person you would’ve grown up to be, the footballing accolades you would’ve achieved.

Kim became a mother of sorts, helping everyone else out and organising rotas for everyone to have multiple sessions a week with a therapist. She organised for there to be a memorial garden for you at the training ground. A quiet place of reflection staff and players alike could go to, to sit, remember and talk about you.

Beth was more willing to bury her head in the sand and pretend everything was fine. Like you weren’t dead, like you were just on holiday and coming back soon. She kept everything you had left at the training centre in the place you left it. Down to your favourite water bottle.

It hit the newspapers and social media next, and soon posts of sorrow were made online. The outpouring of love, the memorial messages and the candlelit vigils outside the Emirates.

The interviews with your former coaches, tear-streaked fans in the stands, the silence held before kickoff and black armbands at the next match all held the same message. It was just too late.

The funeral was a sorrowful affair. The streets were lined with faithful football supporters and fans of yours.

Afterall, the news of your death had travelled far and fast. It had made front pages across the UK and appeared in foreign headlines as well. “England’s Star Girl Dies at 18,” read one tabloid. “Arsenal Prodigy Found Dead in Tragic Circumstances,” another. Journalists scrambled to piece together who she was, to trace the arc of your career, and speculate on the causes behind the tragedy. Everyone wanted a piece of the story — not because they knew you, but because it sold.

There were some young girls clutched footballs and photos, their wide eyes betraying confusion, as if trying to make sense of the fact that you were no more. As the team pulled up to the church where your service was being held, Beth couldn’t help but admire just how many people had come out to pay their respects. But the thing that caught her eye the most was the fact that there were several people clinging football shirts in one hand and a permanent marker in the other as if to demand a signature like they were at a football match.

For a week or two, you were the talk of the town. You were everywhere,

Social media was flooded with tributes: edits of your goals and special moments from both club and country, photos of you celebrating in red and white, quotes pulled from post-match interviews and promotional campaigns. Hashtags trended. Influencers posted about mental health. The club released a carefully-worded statement, followed by a sombre montage that aired before kickoff at the next match. There was a minute’s silence. A black armband. A tweet from the FA.

But after a few weeks of apparent mourning online, things had gone back to normal. The posts dried up. The headlines turned to new transfers, league standings, the next rising star. Your name began to fade from the trending list, pushed down by the algorithm’s ever-churning hunger for fresh content. The digital mourning soon became archived, another “memory” in people’s feeds.

But for those who knew you personally, nothing had returned to normal. And in truth, it probably never would.

Not for Dr Greene, who couldn’t stop replaying every session, every sign she might have missed.

Not for Kim, who had read the letter more times than she could count, searching for something she could have done differently.

Not for Leah who still couldn’t drive past your street without feeling sick.

Not for Beth, who believed deep down she truly could have saved you.

And not for the empty chair in the dressing room. The peg that remained untouched. The silence that followed every mention of your name.

In the days following the funeral, the team returned to training, as beyond your death the football season was still continuing, but something fundamental had shifted. The energy was fractured. Conversations were shorter, silences heavier, and your absence felt like a gaping wound no one could stitch shut.

Although Kim, bless her heart, would try. She took it upon herself to become the glue of the team. She organised group check-ins on Wednesdays — nothing mandatory, just space. A quiet room in the training centre with tea, a selection of biscuits and a stack of blank cards where players could write memories or just sit in silence. Some days it was full. Other times, it was just her.

As well as that, she also arranged for the club psychologist to offer more one-on-one sessions, and created rotas for the players to sign up. She sent check-in texts. She stayed late to talk, to listen, to hold space. If someone cried during a drill, she didn’t flinch. If someone snapped during a meeting, she absorbed it, as if to stop the grief from spreading.

Beth, however, was the first to unravel.

At first, it was subtle, she stopped staying behind to joke in the changing room, and stopped replying in the group chat. Then came the silence. Cold, echoing silence when her teammates tried to check in. She couldn’t bring herself to look any of them in the eye. Because every time she did, all she could hear was that moment in the locker room — “She’s probably just come down with a cold or something. You’re being dramatic.”

The words haunted her. They followed her around like a persistent shadow.

The argument happened in the carpark after training, breaking through the quiet that usually followed after a session full of silent drills and strained conversations. Beth was already halfway to her car, keys clenched in her fist, jaw tight, when Leah called out.

“Beth, wait—can we talk?”

Beth stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “What’s there to talk about?”

“I just…” Leah took a few steps closer, her voice soft but urgent. “I want to be here for you.”

Beth let out a bitter laugh and finally turned. “Now you do?”

Leah flinched. “Beth…”

“No,” Beth cut her off, her voice rising. “You don’t get to be here now like that fixes anything. You don’t get to act like this is something we’re all getting through together. Because it’s not. She’s gone. And you, you, talked me out of checking on her when it could have made a difference.”

Leah’s eyes widened, but Beth kept going, her voice trembling with fury and guilt.

“I knew something was wrong. I felt it. She never missed training. Never took a day off. I told you something didn’t feel right, and you made me feel like I was being overbearing. Like I was just paranoid.”

“Beth…” Leah’s voice cracked.

“No,” Beth snapped. “I should’ve gone to her house the first day she called in sick. I should’ve trusted my gut. But I listened to you. To all of you. And now she’s dead.”

Leah stepped forward, desperate. “You think I don’t blame myself too? You think I don’t go over every conversation I ever had with her, every moment I brushed something off, laughed at the wrong time, stayed silent when I should’ve asked more?”

Beth’s expression didn’t soften. “You didn’t know her like I did.”

“I know I didn’t,” Leah said, her voice almost a whisper. “I didn’t see her the way you did. But I cared. God, Beth, I cared so much, and I didn’t show it in the right way. I know that. But don’t push me away because I made a mistake. We all did.”

Beth shook her head, eyes full of grief and rage. “It wasn’t just a mistake, Leah. It was her life. You all acted like I was being too intense, like I was smothering her. And now you want to sit with me in grief, like this is something we all share?”

She stepped back. “You don’t deserve to grieve for her the way I do.”

Leah froze. The words landed like a slap. Her throat tightened, but she didn’t walk away. She refused to leave another of her teammates and friends alone in their pain.

“Just let me be here,” Leah said, her voice hoarse. “Please. I wasn’t there for her. And I will regret that for the rest of my life. Don’t let me make the same mistake again with you.”

Beth’s eyes flickered. She wanted to scream again, to throw the guilt back in Leah’s face — but her chest just hurt. Everything just hurts.

“She died Le, she fucking died alone thinking nobody cared about her.” Beth managed to whisper out.

She didn’t say anything else. She just turned, opened her car door, and got in, and Leah stood there in the fading light. Staring at the empty space where your car used to be.

And for the first time in days, she let herself cry.

______________________________________________________________

Hope you guys enjoyed it!

sorry for the sudden hiatus, I just had a lot of stuff going on in my life but I am hoping to be back now and taking requests.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #leah williamson #arsenal wfc #lionesses #arsenal women #beth mead #kim little #lia walti #kyra cooney cross #original character #leah williamson x reader #beth mead x reader #kim little x reader #arsenal wfc x reader #lionesses x reader #lionesses imagine #arsenal women x reader #earpskeeper

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blackenedsnow · 7 months ago

Note

can i have a shadow fic? Just with his s/o whos going through extreme burnout and isnt taking care of themselves?...and needs help?..sorry beeing going through this myself and shadow my comfort boy

the weight of rest

WARNING: Burnout, self-neglect, emotional exhaustion

PAIRING: Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader

NOTE: Thank you for sending this in, this means a lot since I know the whole burnout thing too well lately. If anyone else needs a fic like this, please ask anytime ♡ for real, it’s ok to reach out <3. Hope you like this!

SUMMARY: Shadow finds you in a state of exhaustion and burnout, watching as you grapple with your own needs—ones you've left unmet for too long.

Some days you could feel it weighing you down, this silent and invisible load pressing harder on your shoulders, making every step an effort. You don’t remember when it started, this quiet, gnawing exhaustion that turned every little task into a mountain, every step into a crawl. But here you are, slouched over your desk, surrounded by half-finished tasks and reminders of things you should’ve done but couldn’t quite bring yourself to complete.

You weren’t sure when Shadow noticed. Maybe it was the nights you spent awake, staring blankly at walls, the way food lost its appeal, or maybe the quiet sadness that had settled in your eyes. But he noticed. Of course, he noticed.

“Hey.”

The familiar voice makes you look up, your tired eyes meeting his as he stands in the doorway. It’s that rare gentleness in his gaze, one that Shadow doesn’t bring out for many people. But it’s there now, steady and unwavering.

He moves closer, his eyes scanning the scene in front of him. He doesn’t comment on the mess, doesn’t lecture, doesn’t press. Instead, he reaches out, resting a gloved hand on your shoulder, grounding you just a little bit more in the present.

“I think…” Shadow starts, his voice low, deliberate. He trails off, like he’s choosing each word carefully. “You need a break.”

You look away, the words sinking in painfully, almost as if admitting it out loud made the exhaustion worse. But Shadow doesn’t push. He just waits.

“I know,” you manage to say, barely a whisper.

Shadow’s fingers brush along your shoulder, and he kneels down next to you, searching your face. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, and his voice, normally so distant and reserved, softens just a little more. “I’m here.”

You let out a shaky breath. You want to tell him everything, the tangled mess inside your mind that’s left you feeling like this. But the words feel heavy, weighed down by fatigue.

Without saying anything else, Shadow shifts his arms around you, carefully pulling you close. You melt into him, letting the exhaustion spill over, almost ashamed at how much you need this. Shadow’s grip is firm, grounding, and for a moment, everything else fades.

“Rest,” he murmurs, his voice quiet yet resolute, like it’s an order.

That was just once though, that didn't make much go away.

You can’t remember the last time you slept without feeling more exhausted than before you closed your eyes. You feel like you're drowning, and every breath is harder to take than the last.

Another day, you can feel him in the room even when you're not paying attention. His presence is heavy, quiet, steady. It’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world when you're floating in a haze, the edges of your mind blurring, and your body slowly shutting down.

Sometimes you think he must be disappointed in you.

But when you look over at Shadow, sitting there in the corner, his dark eyes watching you with a patience you don’t deserve, you know he’s not disappointed. He doesn’t have to say anything. He’s just there. Always there, like the calm in the storm that rages inside your head.

"Are you going to eat today?" His voice breaks through your thoughts, low and measured, but you can tell there’s a hint of concern buried under the words. It’s not a question he’s used to asking. You've been slipping more and more, and he’s noticed. Once again, he's noticed. Of course he has.

You don't answer. You don’t have the energy to, and you're not sure if you even care anymore. You stare at the empty plate on the table in front of you, feeling the hunger gnaw at your insides, but the thought of putting anything in your mouth just seems impossible. Like you're too tired to even chew.

He moves closer, his heavy footsteps silent against the floor. You can feel the heat of his body as he stands beside you. You don’t look up at him. You don’t want to see the way he’s looking at you.

“I know you’re tired,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “But that doesn’t mean you can ignore yourself. You need to eat. You need to rest.”

The words should comfort you, but they don’t. They only make you feel like more of a failure. You can’t even take care of yourself, and you can feel the weight of that failure pressing down on you, suffocating you. You swallow hard, but your throat feels tight.

“It's okay,” you lie, your voice coming out hoarse, barely a whisper. But it’s a lie you tell yourself every day, and Shadow doesn’t buy it.

“It's not okay,” he replies, softer this time, but with an edge of steel behind it. “I can see it, [Y/N]. I can see what’s happening to you.”

He crouches in front of me, again, just like he did before. His hand gently lifting your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. There’s something in his gaze, something raw and unspoken, and for a moment, You almost feel… safe.

“You think I’m broken,” you whisper, your voice cracking. The thought has been in your head for days, weeks, maybe longer, and you can’t hold it back anymore. “I think I’m broken.”

Shadow’s grip tightens on your chin, just enough to ground me, to pull you back into the present. His eyes soften, and you feel something inside of you stir. It’s not pity you see in his gaze. It’s something else. Something deeper, darker, like he understands in a way no one else does.

“You’re not broken,” he says, voice firm, a contradiction to the softness in his eyes. “You’re just… hurting. And that’s okay.”

“I don’t know how to fix this.” you admit, your voice trembling.

“You don’t have to fix it,” he replies, his voice low and steady, like he’s trying to anchor you to something solid. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just let me help.”

Just let me help. It’s not a command, not an order. It’s a simple request. One you know he’s made before, but you've always been too stubborn to listen.

But now, you can’t push him away. You can’t deny that you need him. You need him more than you've ever needed anything else in your life.

“I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, like it’s a secret you've been hiding.

Shadow’s hand moves to your shoulder, his touch grounding, reassuring. “I’ll help you,” he says, and you can hear the promise in his voice. “One step at a time.”

#shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sonic x reader #sonic fanfic #x reader #oneshot #ask #request #fanfic

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wandasaura · 8 months ago

Text

EVEN STATUES CRUMBLE

summary — when exhaustion creeps up on you after a long week, you find yourself coming undone quickly. luckily, maria’s there to hold you close and put all of your broken pieces back together

warning(s) — hurt/comfort, elements of fluff, domestic maria hill, platonic blackhill, brief mentions of battle, civilian casualties, and death, sleepy natasha being a softie, maria fixing all of your problems because that’s just what she does

The keycard attached to the waistband of your pants got you into pretty much anywhere aboard the helicarrier; one of the very few perks that came with being a Level Ten agent alongside Nicholas J. Fury. You adored your livelihood, that wasn’t even a question you graveled over on your busiest days – you wouldn’t sacrifice so many nights if you didn’t – however, with being so high on the ladder of ranks came the inevitable burnout when paperwork and mission reports piled up; which they inevitably always did despite your meticulous schedule and borderline obsessive work ethic. You delegated the workload of ten other agents on the daily, usually without so much as breaking a sweat, but a particular mission report from a Level Six had gotten to you in a moment of exhaustion.

Your boots were the same Shield issued footwear that everyone else wore around the helicarrier, clunky and steel toed with near indestructible black laces, but your footsteps were light as you padded down the dimly lit hallway toward an office you’d practically adopted as your own since the director had found himself another right-hand woman. There was no point in knocking when you reached it after what felt like hours of slowly trudging down void hallways, you were the only one with clearance to enter without being physically let in, other than Fury himself, but he’d never turn up to her office, especially not so late into the night. The soft glow of a desk lamp creeping beneath the crack in the door alerted you of life inside the spacious room, and a faint smile pulled at your lips despite your exhaustion and wary emotions.

A small light on the side of the metal door flashed green for only a millisecond before it faded and the latch clicked tellingly. You bristled at the assault of frigid air that swept past you when you pushed inside tiredly, but steeled your expressions quickly when your eyes trailed over the room and noted not one, but two bodies. A displeased huff fell off of your lips when you noticed Maria behind her desk, a mountain of paperwork practically hiding her from view entirely, and Natasha sprawled out on her couch with a solemn glaze over her green eyes.

“She’s in my spot.” You sighed, no real malice behind your words, but exhaustion put a damper on your typically lightspoken banter with the redhead. It seems both you and Natasha, a woman that had somehow wormed her way into the heart of the Deputy Director despite her bloodied past, had sought refuge in Maria’s quiet presence tonight, and you weren’t quite sure how to feel about it. You held nothing against the reformed assassin, she’d seen you at some of your worst moments, but you’d been holding out hope that a few stolen minutes with Maria alone would heal the ache you carried deep.

Natasha, who was always quick with her wit, didn’t seem to have it in her either, and softly she allowed her voice to break the silence that had been light over the office prior to your entrance. “I can leave.” You shook your head dismissively, kicking the door closed behind you in favor of stalking over to Maria’s desk.

Out of habit, the Commander tilted her screen away from your gaze, her dark yet meticulously kept eyebrows furrowing as you came behind her desk without hesitation. “I’m higher clearance than you, and Natasha’s been able to see everything you're doing from the couch, Ria.” You rolled your eyes fondly, hands bracing themselves on the back of her chair that you pulled away from the desk without taking her responsibilities into account. She had the same deadlines as you, only hers weren’t so structured and rigorous. You knew that anything she was doing could wait until morning, even if she liked to be overly prepared and considered anything but early a direct hit to her reputation. “Just hold me.”

You fell into her lap without another word, curling up against her battered and stiff uniform that had definitely seen better days. Your head tucked itself into the pocket of darkness and warmth between her chin and shoulder, your fingers already working at the hair tie around her thin chestnut strands, wanting them free from the confines of her tightly secured bun. With the black elastic around your wrist, you sighed contently, absentmindedly pulling your fingers through the loose knots that had formed from your ungraceful removal of her hair tie. It was an apologetic gesture, the tips of your fingers soothing the skin of her scalp that had definitely been snagged with your quick movements, but Maria had become accustomed to your endearing quirks that almost always followed a vicious panic attack.

“Romanoff, if you move from that couch, I will have you on Clint clean-up duty for the rest of the month.” Even if you couldn’t see the Russian from behind your eyelids, even if you were pressed so tightly against Maria’s neck that even with open eyes all you’d see was darkness, your body could practically feel her silent movements. It was a valid response, however you held her to a higher standard than you did other agents. Your girlfriend trusted her with her life, you’d made something of a friend out of her since her first year at Shield, it was slightly insulting that she thought she had to flee at the first sight of vulnerability from you. “I just… I just need a minute.”

Even as you tried to pull rank, tried to command her obedience, Natasha could tell that your heart wasn’t in it. Whether to humor you, or simply because she didn’t really want to retreat to her own quarters, she sank into the couch once more, throwing her arm over her eyes as she succumbed to the same darkness that you sought out. A shaky breath fell off your lips when Maria’s thumbs dug into your shoulder blades, applying pressure to all of the knots and tension that had accumulated over the grueling week. You’d been unintentionally ghosting her, although neither of you really counted missed lunch dates and empty beds to mean anything significant, but the premise was all the same, even if she held no resentment toward your work ethic that was too similar to her own.

“Diaz?” Maria’s voice was soft, understanding even, as she asked. Even the name of the agent had you going rigid in her clutches, a choked whimper falling off of your lips as you tightened your grip on her hair and worked feverishly to weave little braids into the silky chestnut strands that could do for a wash and deep condition. You’d have to remember to remind her next time she had a slow morning, but that wasn’t coming anytime soon for either of you.

You nodded wordlessly against her neck, pinching your eyes shut even tighter if that was at all possible. You loved your job, adored the livelihood that you’d found a family in, but no amount of experience made reading civilian death counts easier. No amount of experience made loss any lighter. “Seventeen, Ria. Seventeen people died. It just– I haven’t seen a civilian death count that high since Sokovia.”

In retrospect, seventeen people wasn’t a lot, not when you put it up against the battle of Sokovia that had earned Shield another foreign agent and an inconsolable migraine for months to follow, but when you analyzed the mission objective, when you stripped back everything that it was up against, it was still seventeen innocent people that had been caught in the crossfire. “We can’t save them all, mi alma.” It was a weak condolence, Maria knew that, but it was what you needed to hear, even if you detested it. Shield had saved twenty from a Hydra base in Madripoor, all of them no older than nineteen years old, but still seventeen people that were in the wrong place at the wrong time had died. Shield had saved twenty children, but still parents, and siblings, and people had lost their lives to do so. Was any good really done if the children who got to go home didn’t have a mother to help them through the trauma? Had any good really been done if a daughter didn’t have a father to come home to?

“Eleven.” To Natasha, the number that fell off your lips was entirely random, but for Maria, who knew everything about you, down to the way you liked to tie your shoes, always starting with the left one first, it meant something more. Eleven people had died in an ambush the night that Nicholas J. Fury had swept you away from the rubble and into the empire that hadn’t been so publicly known at the time. Eleven people that you’d known, some loosely and some deeply intimately. Your single mother that had worked four jobs just to keep the electric on in the biting cold of winter had died, and you’d held her hand as she took her final breath, entirely helpless and terrified. Seventeen people had died in Madripoor, and depressingly, you could only picture yourself in the aftermath of such a tragedy.

How many kids were going to come home from school without a parent? How many parents were going to come home from work without a child? The guilt of surviving weighed heavily on your heart, but it was exhaustion that pushed you past the point of thinking rationally. Madripoor had sung its praises to Shield after the initial battle just under a month ago. You’d seen the headlines, manned the press conferences, talked with the families that had wanted to reach out, but seeing that number in pristine black ink had rattled you fiercely.

“When’s the last time you slept, bebé?” The softly spoken pet name was usually enough to bring a smile to your face no matter the conditions you faced, but it only had you sinking deeper into Maria now. Your heart felt so heavy in your chest, your bones felt so dense in your body, everything that you’d been managing had finally crushed you; just like the rubble had crushed your mother’s unsuspecting body on a side street in Manhattan when all she’d wanted to do was show you her new favorite coffee shop.

“Don’t know… the last time I came home?” Your voice was meek, distant as you trailed through your memory trying to locate the date in your mind. You’d been home that Wednesday night, sank into bed beside Maria and held her close until she’d gotten up for her own shift, and had continued to sleep for another two hours before sunlight brought on more assignments and deadlines, but that was so fuzzy now, so long ago. You barely knew the date, but Maria did, and she sighed softly in confirmation.

“It’s Friday, sweetheart.” She informed, her thumbs still digging into the spots of tension in your back, working out the knots and kinks that had you stiff beneath her touch. “You’re exhausted.”

“And you’re not? I check the entry logs, Ria.” Your defiance was softly muttered, and Maria sighed her resignation. She hadn’t been home either, not since Thursday morning when she’d slipped out of your arms and left you to rest a while longer in a stiff bed dressed in scratchy sheets, but she’d taken the breaks she knew her body needed, even if it had been begrudgingly. The couch that Natasha was draped across had seen a similar form from her multiple times since then, even if the longest consecutive rest she’d gotten was merely half an hour. That was the difference between you both. Maria knew when she had to come first, even if she often waited until the very last second to actually step away from her tasks. You, on the other hand, saw everything else as a priority. That was what got you so high on the ranking ladder. That characteristic was one of many reasons why you alone shared the same ranking level as Fury. When shit needed to be done, he knew that you’d do it, no questions asked. But that blindsided work-ethic was going to kill you eventually.

“You’ve slept once in the last week, mi amor.” Maria sighed, knowing that she was arguing with a wall at this point, but willing to put the effort in anyways. She was always willing to put the effort in for you, even if you couldn’t do it for yourself. Her hands caressed your back affectionately, slipping away from your shoulder blades only to put pressure on your spine, cracking the bones and notches in your back soothingly without spoken word. You sighed, deflating in her lap once again, craning your neck only to release some of the ache and tension in your jaw before you burrowed into her neck once more, still keeping fistfulls of her soft hair between your fingers that had been stained black from smudged ink.

At some point, you must’ve fallen asleep against her, never slackening your grip on her chestnut tresses but grabbing onto the neckline of her uniform at an undisclosed moment. She hadn’t tried to move you, hadn’t tried to wake you, hadn’t tried to move at all. She’d simply sat in the silence of her office with Natasha’s easy company, shuffling through paperwork and mission reports, but getting no real work done, distracted by your warmth against her chest and the weight of you draped across her lap for the first time in days. When you woke a handful of hours later, the warmth of the sun and the light of a new day rousing you from an uneventful sleep – the level of exhaustion you faced preventing dreams from even playing out – you didn’t stiffen in alarmed surprise when you realized that strong arms were looped around your waist and keeping you steadily upright. Maria was a distinguishable presence even when you were half delirious, and a warm smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you laid a gentle kiss to the neglected patch of skin behind her earring-less earlobe. She really needed to start wearing her cartilage cuffs again, but the last one you’d gotten for her had been lost to a bloodied battle in Argentina. You made the mental note to get her another one sometime soon, but for now, you simply basked in the presence of her company that was so painfully warm and inviting.

“You had Romanoff on edge last night.” Maria mused, her fingers tightening around your waist in a sweet wordless greeting, prematurely ending the reign of silence that you’d been enjoying, but you didn’t complain. The sound of her voice was just as inviting, if not more intoxicating than silence ever could be.

“Even statues crumble every now and again.” You huffed against her neck, tightening your grip on her uniform if that was at all possible, allowing your gentle fingers to tickle the skin hidden from view that still carried the lingering scent of your body wash. “She’ll get over it.”

“You really have to stop referring to yourself as a statue. The rookies are going to start thinking an alien attack sucked the emotions out of your body..” She chortled, breathy laughter twinged with traces of mental exhaustion jostling both of your bodies, and you couldn’t help the smile that twisted your dehydrated lips upward involuntarily in response. How you could spend so many days away from her never made sense when you were wrapped up in her presence, but it was reassuring to know that no matter the length of time that separated your passionate love, she would always be there to crawl home to.

“As soon as you stop feeding into being called Hard-Ass Hill, I’ll stop fucking with the rookies.” Another chaste kiss was laid onto her skin, the second in too many days to count, but you’d make up for your absence before you inevitably returned to your own office to continue drowning in paperwork that never ended. “Te amo tanto.” You signed your unarguable admiration, but she wouldn’t be Maria Hill if she didn’t have a sharp comeback to silence your efforts.

“Te amo mucho mas, mi alma.”

#maria hill #maria hill x reader #maria hill fluff #maria hill comfort #maria hill fic #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff comfort #natasha romanoff fic #[ ౨ৎ ] — library

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theskywithin · 1 month ago

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🩹Solar Return Chiron in The Houses

Each year, your Solar Return chart offers a glimpse into the emotional and spiritual terrain ahead, but when Chiron shows up, it highlights the wound that’s asking to be faced, felt, and finally healed. These aren’t surface-level pains. They’re the quiet ones, the old echoes. This is about breaking open, reflecting on what still hurts when you reach for it. It's a call to tend to the part of you that still flinches when touched, to stop abandoning the wound just because it hasn't healed fast enough.

Solar Return Chiron in the 1st House

Here, the wound is in your skin, the invisible thread between how the world sees you and how you see yourself. This year, you might feel exposed, misunderstood, or too raw to belong. It may feel like walking through a room where everyone sees the outline of you, but no one sees your depth. Old doubts about your worth will rise like ghosts asking to be named. But this isn't punishment, it's a reintroduction. A chance to return to yourself without asking for permission. Let your presence be the lighthouse, even when the sea is quiet, stand tall, even if no one is watching.

Solar Return Chiron in the 2nd House

Here, the wound lives in your sense of stability, like standing on a floor that sometimes vanishes beneath your feet. This year, the ache may whisper through your sense of worth, asking: are you enough when you are not giving, proving, or performing? Beneath it all, there may be a quiet longing to feel rooted, to believe you are safe simply because you exist. Plant your worth like a seed no storm can uproot, let your value come from the roots no one else can see.

Solar Return Chiron in the 3rd House

Here, the wound speaks in silence. Words get stuck like thorns in the throat, messages get misread, and the ache comes from the fear that no one is really listening or that you aren’t allowed to speak at all. This year invites you to reclaim your voice, not by being loud, but by being honest. You are not meant to translate yourself for the comfort of others. Let your voice be a river, carve through stone if you must, but never dam what was meant to flow.

Solar Return Chiron in the 4th House

Here, the wound lives in the walls of your memory. Family. Roots. Safety. This year may stir the ache of belonging, what it means, where it went missing, and whether you’re allowed to come home to yourself. You may find yourself reliving echoes of abandonment or aching for a place that never quite existed. Become the home you never had, lay new bricks where silence used to live.

Solar Return Chiron in the 5th House

Here, the wound touches joy. Creativity. Romance. Expression. This year may feel like dancing with your heart half-caged, like singing in a room where no one is listening. You may question your desirability or doubt the worth of what you create. But the ache is only proof that your soul wants to be seen. Set fire to the stage within you, even if the world looks away, let your light burn loud enough to wake your own spirit.

Solar Return Chiron in the 6th House

Here, the wound is in the rituals, the routines, the body, the invisible labor. You might feel like a ghost in your own life, performing for function while the soul goes unnoticed. Health anxieties or burnout may surface from carrying too much for too long. This year asks you to confront the part of you that ties your worth to how much you do. Tend to yourself like a garden you forgot you were allowed to grow, water the parts that never asked to bloom all at once.

Solar Return Chiron in the 7th House

Here, the wound waits in connection. It may show up through relationship disappointments or the fear of depending on anyone at all. The ache might whisper: "What if I’m too much? What if I’m never enough?" This year, it may feel like looking for home in someone else's eyes and never finding the door. But you were never meant to beg for shelter in someone else's hallway. So, become THAT door, become the key, and the house you once searched for.

Solar Return Chiron in the 8th House

Here, the wound bleeds in the shadows. Intimacy. Loss. Power. You may feel emotionally stripped bare, like your soul is standing naked in a room of mirrors. Fears of betrayal or abandonment may haunt you like unfinished stories. But this year also offers transformation if you dare to stay present with the discomfort. Descend into your fear like a diver into deep water, what nearly drowned you will become the pearl you rise with.

Solar Return Chiron in the 9th House

Here, the wound lives in belief. The ache might come through disillusionment, teachers who fall off pedestals, dreams that seem farther than ever. This year asks: what do you really believe in? What truth still holds you when the outer story falls apart? You may feel like a pilgrim who lost the map, but not the calling. Let the collapse of certainty be the fire that burns the old path, walk barefoot through the ash, and let your steps become the scripture no one could write for you.

Solar Return Chiron in the 10th House

Here, the wound wears ambition like armor. Success might feel hollow, or visibility may bring back the ache of old expectations. You may fear failure or worse, fear being seen. This year, it may feel like shouting your worth into a void. But visibility isn’t vulnerability unless you betray yourself for applause. Carve your legacy like a mountain path, one only you could climb, and others will follow by the footprints you left in truth.

Solar Return Chiron in the 11th House

Here, the wound lives in belonging. In groups, friendships, communities where you never quite fit. You may feel like an echo in a world built for noise. This year might stir loneliness, or a longing to finally feel understood. But healing doesn’t come from being accepted by others, it comes from no longer rejecting yourself. Let your difference be the constellation others navigate by, shine not to be seen, but to remind the lost they’re not alone.

Solar Return Chiron in the 12th House

Here, the wound dissolves into the unconscious. You may feel an ache with no name, a grief that has no beginning. Isolation might sting deeper this year, and emotions may blur into confusion. You may feel like you’re grieving something you can’t quite remember. But this placement is also a spiritual purge. An unraveling. Let yourself be ocean, not anchor, drift toward what heals instead of clinging to what hides.

#astrology #astro community #astro notes #astro observations #natal chart #birth chart #natal astrology #natal aspects #astrology tumblr #zodiac #solar return observations #solar return notes #solar return astrology #solar return chart #chiron #astrology blog

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chrissssssmut · 3 months ago

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yandere idol sisters (yes, like sisters in blood) Sumin and J x male reader feat. yandere STAYC?

Our Manager, Ours alone

Yandere STAYC Sumin & J x Male Reader

AN: Yipee!! I am still writing as i post this XD. Enjoy this one!

You weren’t sure why the last manager quit.

It was odd—someone in charge of the most successful idol duo in the world wouldn’t just leave without a good reason. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was burnout. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else.

But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that you were their new manager.

Sumin and J.

Siblings, stars, goddesses in the eyes of their fans. They had the entire world at their feet. Sold-out world tours, constant chart-topping hits, luxury brand deals. They weren’t just popular. They were a phenomenon.

And you, just some guy with a decent resume, were now the one in charge of keeping them in line.

At first, it wasn’t hard. The two sisters were professional—always on time, always working hard, always treating you with a surprising amount of respect. They even went out of their way to make you comfortable. You expected them to be difficult divas, but they weren’t.

If anything, they were too perfect.

Too obedient. Too kind. Too invested in your comfort.

It was flattering at first.

Then it got unsettling.

The first time you felt something was off, you were at their practice room late at night.

"Manager-nim," Sumin called out in her soft yet commanding voice. "You’ve been working too hard. Sit down for a bit, okay?"

You were about to refuse, but then J grabbed your wrist. Her touch was light, but firm enough that it sent a shiver down your spine.

"Don’t be stubborn," she pouted. "You take care of us, so we should take care of you too, right?"

The way she said it—like it was a fact, like it was a rule—made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Still, you sat down.

They both smiled.

You should have paid more attention to that smile.

It started small.

Sumin would linger behind after practice, chatting with you even when she was clearly exhausted. J would always be close, sitting next to you even when there were plenty of other seats available.

Then it got worse.

Your phone started blowing up with messages from them at odd hours.

Sumin: "Manager-nim, I miss you already."

J: "Come over. We’re bored."

One time, you casually mentioned you liked a specific cologne. The next day, both girls smelled exactly like it.

When you asked about it, they just giggled.

"What? We just want to smell nice for you," Sumin teased, eyes shining with something unreadable.

J tilted her head, watching your reaction closely.

"Do you like it?"

Something about the way she asked made your skin prickle.

You laughed it off.

You shouldn’t have.

One night, after a grueling schedule, you were finally heading home. You were drained. The only thing on your mind was sleep.

Then your phone buzzed.

J: "Manager-nim, can you come to our dorm? It’s important."

Your stomach twisted. Something felt wrong.

But saying no wasn’t an option.

So you went.

Their dorm was quiet when you entered. Too quiet.

"Sumin? J?" you called out.

The door shut behind you. The lock clicked.

Sumin stepped out of her room, wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie—your hoodie, the one you thought you lost weeks ago.

J was right behind her, barefoot, her long hair slightly damp like she just got out of the shower.

"You came," Sumin whispered, smiling.

"You always do," J added.

Your heart pounded.

Something was seriously wrong.

"You said it was important," you said carefully.

"It is," Sumin said, stepping closer. "It’s about us. About you."

J circled behind you, her fingers brushing your arm, your back, your shoulders.

"We don’t want another manager," J murmured.

"We only want you," Sumin whispered.

The way they spoke—gentle, sweet, and completely unhinged—made your stomach drop.

You took a step back. They stepped forward.

"Don’t be scared," Sumin cooed, tilting her head. "We won’t hurt you. We love you too much for that."

"Too much," J echoed. "You’re the only one who understands us. The only one who stays."

You reached for your phone.

Sumin snatched it away.

Your breath hitched.

"Don’t do that," she scolded, shaking her head. "You don’t need anyone else. We take care of you, right?"

J giggled. "So why do you keep trying to run away?"

Run away? You weren’t trying to—

…Were you?

You swallowed hard.

"Girls," you started carefully, "I think you’re just tired. Maybe we should—"

Sumin placed a finger over your lips.

"Hush," she whispered. "Just stay."

J hugged you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder.

"You belong to us, Manager-nim," she breathed. "And we don’t let go of what’s ours."

You wanted to believe it was a dream.

That the night before was just some exhaustion-fueled hallucination, that Sumin and J weren’t watching you like a pair of caged tigers ready to pounce.

But the warmth on your wrist was real.

Sumin’s grip was tight, her fingers curled around you in a way that was both delicate and inescapable.

J was still sitting on the floor, her head resting against the mattress, watching.

She smiled when she saw your eyes open.

"Good morning, Manager-nim," she said softly.

Her voice was light, gentle—like nothing was wrong, like you hadn’t woken up in a trap of silk and shadows.

Sumin stirred beside you, blinking the sleep from her eyes before tightening her hold.

"You didn’t run," she murmured, her voice pleased.

"I— I didn’t—"

"You didn’t try," J corrected, tilting her head. "That’s good. That means you’re starting to understand."

"Understand what?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay calm.

J’s smile widened.

"That you’re ours."

They wouldn’t let you leave.

Not yet.

"Just for today," Sumin had said sweetly, still clinging to your arm. "We barely get time with you outside of work. It’s not fair."

J sat beside her, her eyes sharp despite her pout.

"You don’t want to make us sad, right?" she whispered.

There was something dark beneath those words. A weight. A warning.

And so, for the next few hours, you were theirs.

They never left your side.

If you tried to stand, one of them would grab your wrist. If you reached for your phone, they’d take it away with a soft giggle and a "Not yet, Manager-nim."

They made you breakfast.

Fed you, even.

J held out a spoonful of food, her dark eyes watching your every move.

"Eat," she murmured.

You hesitated.

Sumin leaned in closer, her breath warm against your ear.

"Be good for us."

Your hands clenched under the table.

You could feel it now—the invisible chains wrapping tighter and tighter.

They let you go. Eventually.

But not before Sumin pulled you into a hug.

"You won’t ignore us, right?" she whispered.

You froze.

"I—"

J was suddenly behind you, her fingers brushing your shoulders.

"Right?" she echoed.

You exhaled slowly. "…Of course not."

Sumin smiled.

J giggled.

"Good boy."

To everyone else, nothing had changed.

Sumin and J were still the bright, perfect idols they had always been.

And you were still their loyal, dedicated manager.

No one saw the way their hands would linger too long when they touched you.

No one heard the way their voices would dip into something darker when they spoke to you.

No one noticed the way they watched you, like they were waiting for something.

No one noticed how trapped you were.

Not even you.

Not yet.

But you would.

Oh, you would.

You thought you were careful.

You thought no one had noticed.

But someone did.

Her name was Minji, a senior staff member at the company, someone who had been around long enough to recognize when something was off.

And when she looked at you—when she saw the way Sumin and J clung to you, the way their eyes followed you like a predator watching prey—she knew.

"You’re not okay, are you?" Minji asked one evening after the girls had left for rehearsal.

You forced a smile. "What do you mean?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Don’t play dumb."

You swallowed hard.

She sighed, leaning against the door. "Look, I’ve been in this industry for years. I’ve seen obsessive fans, controlling managers, and toxic relationships. But this? This is different."

You didn’t say anything.

"You’re scared of them."

Your breath hitched.

Minji’s gaze softened. "I can help you," she whispered. "We can get you out of this."

Hope flickered in your chest.

A plan was made.

Tonight.

After the girls finished their live broadcast, Minji would create a distraction while you slipped out. A car would be waiting near the back entrance. You just had to make it there.

It was simple.

It was perfect.

And it was doomed from the start.

The broadcast ended. The girls returned to their dorm, exhausted and distracted—just as planned.

Minji gave you the signal.

You moved.

The hallway was empty. The exit was close. Just a few more steps—

A soft giggle froze you in place.

Sumin.

She was standing in the middle of the hallway, her eyes half-lidded, her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

"Where are you going, Manager-nim?"

Your blood ran cold.

Minji appeared beside you, her face tight with fear.

"Sumin, go back to your room," she ordered, trying to keep her voice steady. "This isn’t your business."

Sumin tilted her head.

"Not my business?" she echoed.

Then she moved.

It was fast—too fast.

Before Minji could react, Sumin was on her, knocking her to the ground.

A sharp gasp filled the hallway.

Minji’s eyes widened in horror.

Sumin’s hand was over her mouth.

And in the other—

A knife.

The blade sank into Minji’s stomach, a sickening squelch breaking the silence.

Minji thrashed, muffled screams escaping between Sumin’s fingers.

"Shh," Sumin cooed, pressing a finger to her lips. "You’re being too loud."

Minji’s body jerked. Blood pooled beneath her.

Her screams faded into wet gurgles.

You stumbled backward.

Run.

You had to run.

You turned and bolted down the hallway, heart hammering against your ribs.

A door burst open.

J stepped out, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"Manager-nim," she purred. "Are we playing hide and seek?"

Panic surged through you.

You ducked into the nearest room, pressing yourself against the wall.

Footsteps.

Slow. Taunting.

J was searching for you.

"Come out, come out," she sang softly. "I don’t like it when you hide from me."

You held your breath.

Then—

Pain.

A sharp, burning agony in your leg.

You collapsed with a strangled cry.

J was crouched beside you, her knife dripping with fresh blood.

"You always try to run," she murmured, tilting her head. "It’s cute."

You crawled away, panting.

A shadow loomed over you.

Sumin.

Her hands were covered in blood.

She was holding Minji’s ID card, twirling it between her fingers like a trophy.

"You betrayed us," she said softly.

You shook your head frantically. "I—I’m sorry—"

"Sorry isn’t enough," J whispered.

Sumin knelt down, cupping your face with bloody fingers.

"You need to be punished."

Darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke up bound to a chair, your wrists tied so tightly that the rope burned your skin.

The room was dim, lit only by soft, flickering candlelight.

Sumin sat on the bed, watching you with a serene smile.

J was beside her, holding something in her hands.

A scalpel.

You trembled.

"Sumin, J," you croaked, voice hoarse. "Please—"

Sumin traced a finger along your cheek.

"You’re ours, Manager-nim."

J pressed the scalpel against your arm, the cold metal making you shudder.

"You won’t leave us again," she whispered.

Then she dragged the blade down.

Pain bloomed.

You screamed.

They giggled.

The torture continued.

Cuts. Burns. Gentle whispers of love mixed with the sharp sting of punishment.

And then, when you were broken and trembling, when your mind could barely process anything but pain—

Sumin kissed your forehead.

J cradled your face.

"Now," Sumin murmured, stroking your hair. "You’ll never think of leaving again."

J smiled, pressing a bloodstained kiss against your lips.

Tears blurred your vision. Your body trembled, the raw sting of fresh wounds sending waves of agony through your nerves. You couldn’t move—not with the ropes digging into your skin, not with the weight of their eyes pressing down on you.

"Please…" Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Please… forgive me…"

Sumin tilted her head, a slow smile curling on her lips. "Forgive you?"

J giggled, twirling the scalpel between her fingers. "That’s funny, Manager-nim. Really funny."

You sniffled, your breath coming out in broken sobs. "I—I won’t try again, I swear. Just… please…"

Sumin sighed dramatically, standing up from the bed. "J, do you think we should forgive him?"

J hummed, tapping the blade against her chin. "Mmm, I don’t know. He did try to leave us. And we can’t have that, can we?"

Your stomach twisted.

Sumin turned to you, a gleam in her eyes. "You need to understand something, Manager-nim. We are your world. You don’t need anyone else."

She took a step back, reaching for something on the nearby dresser. The dim candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room.

Music started playing.

A soft, slow melody.

And then, to your horror, Sumin and J started to dance.

It was hypnotic, the way their bodies moved in sync, the way they swayed to the rhythm with eerie grace. But it wasn’t just a dance.

It was a performance.

For you.

Their eyes never left you, their smiles never faltered.

"You’re so lucky, Manager-nim," Sumin purred, twirling effortlessly. "You get to see us like this. Just for you."

J giggled, flipping her hair as she moved closer. "Imagine what we could do if you tried to escape again."

Sumin’s voice was honeyed, dripping with something dark. "We could break your legs this time. Then you really wouldn’t be able to run."

"Or maybe we could take one of your fingers," J mused, stopping right in front of you. She trailed the scalpel along your shoulder, not deep enough to cut, but enough to make you shiver. "Wouldn’t that be fun?"

Tears slid down your cheeks.

J leaned in, her lips ghosting over your ear. "We could cut your vocal cords, too. That way, you wouldn’t be able to call for help."

Your breath hitched.

Sumin clapped her hands together, a bright smile lighting up her face. "Oh! I almost forgot!"

She skipped over to the dresser, pulling open a drawer. A moment later, she turned back around, holding something in her hands.

A stack of ID cards.

Your heart stopped.

Sumin walked toward you, humming softly. "Do you remember all those people who tried to ‘help’ you?"

She held up the first ID.

Your blood ran cold.

It was Minji.

She flipped to another.

One of the company’s security guards.

Another.

A fellow manager you used to see around the building.

Another.

Your friend, Hyunwoo.

Your stomach twisted violently.

No.

No, no, no.

"You always asked why you didn’t see them anymore, right?" Sumin giggled, dropping the IDs onto your lap. "Well, now you know!"

J clapped her hands excitedly. "They all wanted to take you away from us. We couldn’t let that happen, could we?"

You choked on a sob.

"Don’t cry, Manager-nim," Sumin cooed, wiping a tear from your cheek with her bloody fingers. "They were just obstacles. And now, they’re gone."

J smiled, pressing her forehead against yours. "And you? You’re still here. With us."

You wanted to scream. You wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

But you couldn’t.

Because this was real.

And it was only going to get worse.

Sumin sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "I think it’s time for more fun, don’t you?"

J grinned, gripping your chin between her fingers. "Yes. Let’s make sure Manager-nim never thinks of leaving us again."

The pain started again.

And this time, they didn’t stop until you couldn’t even dream of escaping.

#kpop yandere #yandere kpop #male reader #kpop story #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere blog #yandere stories #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #stayc #sumin #yandere x male reader #yandere idol #yandere story #yandere scenarios

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octaneink · 3 months ago

Text

Softness in the storm

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will hasn't had the best day, when something small pushes him over, the Reader is there to offer some comfort Warnings: Emotional breakdown, and burnout Notes: This is for 🔫 anon's request. I hope it's what you had in mind😚

The sound of the front door clicking shut was softer than usual, barely audible over the faint hum of the evening. You glanced up from the book resting in your lap, the words you’d been reading suddenly forgotten. The hallway was dimly lit, the golden glow from the living room lamp spilling across the wooden floor. Will stood there, his silhouette framed by the shadows. His shoulders were hunched, his bag dangling limply from his fingers, the strap brushing the ground. His hair, usually so carefully tousled, was dishevelled as though he’d been tugging at it absentmindedly for hours. Will’s eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, were clouded, fixed on some invisible point in the distance.

“Hey,” you said, your voice gentle, almost a whisper. You marked your page with a finger and set the book on the coffee table, the soft thud breaking the stillness. “How was your day?”

Will blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. His gaze shifted toward you, but it didn’t quite land, like he was looking through you rather than at you. He offered a faint smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to be polite, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey,” he replied, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “Uh… it was all right. Just… long.”

You didn’t miss the way his words caught in his throat, the slight tremor in his voice. His hands fidgeted with the strap of his bag, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tighter before letting it drop to the floor with a muffled thump. Will was usually so animated, his presence filling the room with an almost electric energy. But tonight, he seemed diminished, his usual spark dulled, as if something had drained the colour from him.

“Come here,” you said, patting the space beside you on the sofa. The cushions dipped slightly as you shifted, the fabric creasing under your weight. Will hesitated, his eyes flickering toward you and then away, his jaw tightening. For a moment, it seemed like he might retreat, but then he let out a quiet breath and moved toward you, his steps slow and heavy. He sank into the sofa, the springs groaning softly under his weight, and leaned back, his head tilting toward the ceiling. His chest rose and fell in a deep, weary sigh.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his forehead, pushing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. His skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch almost instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. “You sure you’re okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, the word tumbling out before you’d even finished speaking. He opened his eyes and stared at the far wall, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Just knackered.”

You didn’t press, but you let your hand linger on his arm, your thumb tracing small, soothing circles over the fabric of his sleeve. Will’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension in his frame easing just a fraction. He leaned into your touch, his body gravitating toward you as if seeking warmth. The silence between you was comfortable, but it was heavy too, weighted with the things he wasn’t saying. You could feel it in the way his breath hitched ever so slightly, in the way his fingers twitched against his thigh, restless and uncertain.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Outside, the world carried on—cars passing by, the distant hum of a neighbour’s TV, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze—but at that moment it all felt far away, like you and Will were the only two people in the world. And yet, there was a distance between you, invisible but palpable, as if he were somewhere else entirely, caught in a storm you couldn’t see.

It wasn’t until later that the dam finally broke. Will had been moving through the evening like a ghost, his motions slow and deliberate, as if he were afraid one wrong move might shatter the fragile calm. He’d wandered into the kitchen, muttering something about making a cuppa, and you’d let him go, giving him the space he seemed to need. But then you heard it—the sharp clatter of ceramic hitting the floor, followed by a deafening silence.

You hurried to the doorway, the soft shuffle of your socks barely audible against the tiles. Will was motionless by the counter, his shoulders stiff, one hand pressed over his eyes, fingers digging into his temple like he was trying to silence something inside his head. The other hand gripped his hip, knuckles whitening as he clung to the edge of his shirt. At his feet, the mug lay shattered, its pieces fanning out in a jagged halo. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there staring at the mess through the cracks of his fingers, his breath shallow and uneven.

“Bloody hell,” he finally muttered, his voice fraying at the edges, like a thread pulled too tight. It wasn’t just about the mug—you could hear it in the way the words caught, the way they seemed to drag something heavier up with them. He crouched down, his knees cracking faintly, and reached for the largest shard, his fingers hovering just above it, trembling slightly, and picked it up. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the silence. “I’ll clean it up—”

“Will,” you said softly, stepping closer. You crouched beside him, your hand hovered near his arm, not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth if he wanted to. “Stop. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he snapped, but there was no bite to it—just a raw, hollow frustration that made his voice waver. His hands froze, suspended over the broken pieces, and he stared at them blankly. His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I can’t even do this right. I’m just… I’m so tired.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he dropped the shard he’d been holding. It hit the floor with a sharp clink, skittering away from him like it was trying to escape. His shoulders sagged, and he dragged a hand over his face, his palm pressing hard against his eyes as if he could push the exhaustion back inside. His breath shuddered, uneven and shallow, and for a moment, he just stayed like that, crouched on the floor, his hand shielding his face like he didn’t want you to see what was breaking through.

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his wrist, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone. He flinched at first, almost imperceptibly, but then his hand dropped from his face, and he turned to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale, and there was something so fragile in his expression that it made your chest ache. He didn’t say anything either, but he didn’t pull away. He just stayed there, crouched beside you, his breath slowly evening out as the silence wrapped around you both.

Your chest tightened, a sharp ache blooming beneath your ribs. Without a word, you took his hands in yours, careful to avoid the sharp edges of the ceramic, and pulled him to his feet. His fingers were cold, his palms damp, and he let you guide him away from the mess, his movements sluggish, like he was wading through water. “Sit down,” you said softly, steering him back toward the living room. “I’ll sort it.”

He didn’t argue, didn’t even protest, which told you just how drained he was. You made quick work of cleaning up the broken mug, sweeping the shards into the dustpan and wiping the floor clean. When you returned to the living room, Will was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. His hair fell forward, shielding his face, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped his scalp like he was trying to hold himself together.

You sat beside him, the cushions dipping under your weight, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either, his body stiff and unyielding. “Talk to me,” you murmured, your voice low and steady. “What’s going on?”

Will let out a long, shaky breath, his hands dropping to his lap. He stared at the floor, his jaw working like he was trying to find the words. “It’s just… this week,” he started, his voice rough. “It’s been one thing after another. On Monday, the editing software crashed, and I lost hours of work. Tuesday, the mic died mid-recording, and I had to reshoot the entire segment. Wednesday, I got hit with a copyright claim out of nowhere, and now the video’s demonetised. And today—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair. “Today, I spent six hours trying to film a ten-minute segment, and it still came out like garbage. I couldn’t get the lighting right, the audio kept picking up background noise, and I just… I couldn’t focus. I kept messing up my lines, forgetting what I was even talking about. It’s like my brain’s just… fried.”

He paused, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. “And then there’s the comments,” he added, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I know I shouldn’t read them, but I do. And it’s just… ‘This isn’t as good as your old stuff,’ or ‘You’re losing your touch,’ or ‘Why even bother?’ And I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it does. It’s like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, like he was trying to push back the frustration, the exhaustion, the doubt. “I just… I feel like I’m drowning,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like, I’m trying to keep up, but I’m always ten steps behind. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I can.”

“Will,” you said softly, your hand resting lightly on his back, “I can’t imagine how heavy this must feel. Losing work, dealing with tech issues, the comments—it’s a lot. And it’s okay to feel like it’s too much sometimes. You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling under your touch. “I just… I don’t know how to keep going,” he whispered.

You shifted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Remember when you were working on that project last year, and everything kept going wrong? You were just as frustrated then, but you pushed through, and it turned out to be one of your best pieces. You’ve got this same grit now, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

He shook his head, his voice breaking. “What if I can’t this time?”

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” you said firmly. “What if we take a step back for a day or two? You’ve been grinding nonstop, and maybe you just need a break to reset. We could go for a walk, or I could help you troubleshoot the tech stuff. Sometimes stepping away helps you come back stronger.”

He was quiet for a moment, his hands clenched in his lap. “And the comments…” he started, his voice trailing off.

“I know how much those comments can sting,” you said gently. “But they’re just one voice in a sea of people who love your work. You’ve built something incredible, and a few bad days don’t erase that. Maybe it’s time to step back from the comments for a bit—not because they’re right, but because you deserve space to breathe.”

He leaned into you, his head resting on your shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmured.

“Good thing you’ll never have to find out,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Now, let’s get you comfortable.”

You rummaged through the closet, your fingers brushing past hangers until they landed on his favourite hoodie—the one he’d had for years, the fabric soft and frayed at the cuffs, the one he always reached for when he needed to feel grounded.

You held it out, and he slipped his arms into the sleeves without a word, the fabric swallowing him up as he tugged it down over his chest. It was too big on him; it always had been, but it seemed to fit the moment, like it was armour against everything weighing him down. The hoodie hung heavy on his frame, the weight of it somehow steadying, like a weighted blanket or a hand resting on his shoulder.

You tugged him down onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled the duvet up around his shoulders, tucking it in loosely so it cocooned him. “Stay here,” you said, brushing a hand over his arm. “I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen, you moved quickly, heating milk on the stove and stirring in the chocolate until it was smooth and rich. You piled marshmallows on top, the way he liked it, and carried the mug back to the bedroom, careful not to spill. Will was still sitting where you’d left him, the duvet pulled tight around him, his hands resting limply in his lap. He looked up when you entered, his eyes a little less distant than before, and took the mug from you with a small, grateful smile. His fingers brushed against yours as he wrapped them around the warmth, and for a moment, he just held it, staring into the steam rising from the surface.

You climbed into bed beside him, the sheets cool against your legs, and sat close, your shoulder brushing his as he lifted the mug to his lips. He took a slow sip, his eyes closing briefly as the warmth seemed to seep into him, loosening the tension in his jaw. You watched him quietly, your hand resting lightly on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing as he drank. He didn’t rush, savouring each sip, the marshmallows melting into a creamy foam that clung to his lips. When he finally set the empty mug on the night stand, he let out a long, slow breath, like he was exhaling the weight of the week.

“Better?” you asked softly, your hand moving in slow circles between his shoulder blades.

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing as he turned to look at you. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now, less strained. “Thanks.”

You shifted onto your back, propping yourself up against the pillows until you were half-sitting. Will hovered for a moment, uncertainty flickering in his tired eyes, before he finally curled into you. His head settled heavily on your stomach, arms looping around your waist like anchors. You felt his fingers twist into the fabric of your shirt—not clutching this time, but clinging, as if your warmth alone could steady him. Without thinking, your hands rose to his hair, fingertips skimming the tangled mess before scratching gently at his scalp in that spot you knew unknotted him.

A quiet sigh escaped him, his body melting incrementally—first his shoulders dropping, then his legs unfurling from their tense curl. The room held its breath with you, silent except for the whisper of fabric as he nuzzled deeper, his exhales warming your skin through the thin cotton of your shirt. You said nothing. Words felt too sharp for this fragile quiet. Instead, your fingers spoke: smoothing strands away from his forehead, kneading the base of his skull where stress pooled, tracing the shell of his ear just to feel him shiver.

“Thank you,” he mumbled against your stomach, the words damp and raw.

Your thumb brushed the nape of his neck, a silent I’m here. “Always." After a beat you added, "You don’t have to be strong all the time, Will. It’s okay to fall apart sometimes. I’ll always be here to help put you back together.”

He turned his face upward then, cheek pressing into you until you could see the faint flush where his skin met yours. Your free hand slid down to rub slow circles between his shoulder blades, finding the ridge of tension beneath his hoodie. With each pass, he seemed heavier, more present—no longer fraying at the edges but settling, like snow undisturbed.

The light dimmed as evening deepened, but neither of you moved to turn on a lamp. Shadows softened the room, blurring the sharp lines of the day’s chaos. You worked through his hair with patient sweeps, untangling knots with your nails, pausing now and then to massage his temples. A hum vibrated against your belly when you hit a sweet spot, low and content, and you committed the sound to memory—proof that the storm was passing.

By the time his grip on your shirt loosened, his hands lay open against your sides, palms upturned. His breathing had deepened into something rhythmic, something safe. You matched yours to it, counting each rise and fall, until the world outside ceased to matter at all.

Eventually, he turned his head slightly, his chin resting against your stomach as he looked up at you. His eyes were clearer now, the shadows in them a little less deep, and there was a softness in his expression that hadn’t been there before. “I mean it,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Thank you.”

You smiled, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Anytime,” you said simply. And you meant it.

I hope this is an acceptable comfort after the hurt fic 🔫 anon!

#willne #will lenney #willne x reader #willne x fem!reader #will lenney x fem!reader #will lenney x reader #will lenney oneshot #willne oneshot #requested by 🔫 anon

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