#now... where to store a knife...?

[starrynightsxo]

DRESSES FOR JUDE DUARTE: GREEN EDITION

@cromulentreader

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[nanamiskentos]

MAMA, A DIVA BEHIND YOU! — toji fushiguro sfw!

prologue. → toji loves his son, he really does. unfortunately, young megumi is less than receptive when it comes to toji's efforts to impress the pretty neighbour who just moved into the apartment down the hall.

or five times megumi actively made toji's love life worse. and the one time he actually helped.

pairing. toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings. megumi is his own warning. mild age gap implied. non sorcerer au, toji is raising megumi on his own. reader has she/her pronouns. nothing else, just shenanigans :) toji gets knocked down a few pegs by his son 😭 mildly ooc toji <3

word count. song inspiration. paper rings — taylor swift

a/n. this is sooo silly and for fun lol 😭 i feel like you can tell this just isn't my genre or writing style 😭

mp3. i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings <3

TOJI FUSHIGURO didn't have a lot of treasures in life. he just wasn't that type of guy. treasures were for people with their lives together — the kind who budgeted for organic vegetables and owned matching socks. toji's list of prized possessions was short: a semi-reliable pay check, a fridge that kept his beer cold on a good day, and the one channel that aired late-night baseball games.

oh, and his kid. megumi fushiguro.

the little brat was the one thing in toji's life he could call a blessing without choking on the word. but lately? toji was seriously considering the logistics of international shipping. could you send a five year old punk to siberia? where was the paperwork for that?

everything had been fine. hell, downright manageable. until you moved in down the hall.

at first, toji didn't give a fuck. neighbours were usually either noisy or nosy, and sometimes the tragic combination of both. the last guy had banged on his door at least once a week, yelling about toji's late-night weightlifting sessions and muttering something about 'quiet hours.'

toji had pegged you for the same. maybe with a yoga met and too many scented candles.

but then, you showed up on his doorstep with a kind smile that could probably light up half the districts in the city. and a polite, sweet, "excuse me, but could you help me with my bed frame?"

and that was it.

the universe must've been real bored, because that was the moment it decided that toji fushiguro — self proclaimed expert on not giving a damn, was going to lose his damn mind like cupid has struck him with the painful arrows of a crush. and he was a goner.

take #1 — my neck, my back

spring in tokyo had come into full bloom, the kind of day where the air smelled faintly of sunshine, and the cherry blossoms drifted around like lazy, little freeloaders. below the apartment complex, the park wasn't much to write home about — a scrappy patch of grass, a couple of benches that looked like they'd seen some shit, and a swing set that squeaked like it had a vendetta against joy.

but for toji? it was good enough.

he'd figured this 'let me show you around because i'm so friendly' outing would be low effort. easy. casual and neighbourly, even. except now, he was leaning against a tree which was far harder than it sounded when his lower back was screaming at him louder than megumi had this morning about brushing his teeth.

but you stood nearby, smiling that damn warm and disarming smile of yours, gently plucking a stray blossom from megumi's messy hair. the kid, for his part, was pointedly ignoring you both, kicking rocks with the type of dedication usually reserved for a brat trying to avoid his homework.

toji cleared his throat, "so, uh, the area's not bad. quiet most of the time. that convenience store over there's open late. great for snacks. or milk. y'know, the owner's a bit of a bitc —"

"why are you standing like that?"

megumi's voice cut through his rehearsed tour like a rusty knife.

toji shot him a sharp glance. a look that screamed: keep your mouth shut, kid.

megumi just tilted his head, all faux innocence, and then delivered the killing blow with those sea-green eyes gleaming in what toji was certain was pure maliciousness, "dad, your back hurts again, doesn’t it?"

toji froze, scrambling for damage control, but you were already pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh. trying. but he could see the corners of your mouth twitching.

"back's fine," toji huffed, straightening up too fast. something in his spine must have popped loud enough to startle a crow off a branch, "solid a rock, hah! good as new."

megumi glanced at his scuffed sneakers, and then back up, "you said it was hard getting off the couch this morning. didn't you say you're old now and falling apart?"

toji's entire soul left his body. the punk was a traitor to a family name. he should have just sent megumi back to the clan long ago.

"don't you have a rock to kick?" he hissed.

"already did all that."

and that was it. your laugh finally burst out, bright and loud, ringing through the little patch of a park. toji found himself staring at you like some idiot in a rom-com who’d just realised he was completely doomed.

"kids, huh?" he muttered, throwing megumi a glare that promised revenge.

"kids," you agreed, eyes still sparkling as you excused yourself, something about leaving a pot on the stove. you gave toji one last look as you turned to go, warm and soft with that lingering amusement.

toji leaned back against the tree once you were gone, letting out a long sigh. megumi was still standing there, kicking the same patch of dirt, as though he were trying to discover unseen archaeological wonders underneath the earth.

"you're lucky i don’t sell you to a circus," toji grumbled under his breath.

megumi didn’t even look up, "you wouldn’t get that much for me."

smart-ass kid.

take #2 — the liar's pants are blazing on fire

walking someone home shouldn't have felt like scaling mount fuji, but toji fushiguro was now sweating bullet. the evening was crisp, the air cool enough to keep him from outright drowning in these stupid nerves, but it helped little.

the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting a faint yellow glow over the neighbourhood. nothing fancy — just rows of small apartments with laundry dangling off balconies and the occasional stray cat darting under parked car. it wasn't exactly romantic, but in the soft glow of the spring, it didn't look that bad.

you walked besides him, laughing at some half-assed joke he'd cracked earlier. and damn, toji liked that sound. more than he should've. more than he'd admit to anyone, including himself. now though, the silence had crept back in, and he was left psyching himself up for the move.

just hold her hand, his brain hissed, it's not rocket science. come on, man. no! wait, give her a compliment, call her hot. ugh, idiot. don't say that yet -

his thick fingers flexed awkwardly at this side as he tried to look natural. a valiant losing battle when every nerve in his body screamed, you have one job, fushiguro. don't ruin this.

"dad!"

toji's head snapped up like a startled animal, and there he was. megumi. his kid. his little shadow. gasping, clutching his throat, and staggering toward them like a samurai dying in glorious battle.

"dad! i — i can't breathe!" megumi wheezed, voice raspy as he doubled over in dramatic agony.

toji blinked. what the —

"i think i'm dying!" megumi croaked, collapsing onto the sidewalk with all the subtlety of a boulder tumbling down a hill.

toji sighed, already pinching the bridge of his nose. should’ve known. thid kid had been hanging around that white-haired freak downstairs too much. what had that gojo satoru been teaching him? shakespearean death monologues?

"what is it this time?" toji asked flatly, his voice like gravel.

"maybe, maybe it's the peanuts!" megumi sputtered, clutching his chest now, because why not? "the ones i ate at home! i think i'm allergic!"

toji stared at him, unimpressed. this was the same kid who could inhale salted peanuts by the handful, barely pausing for air, like he was training for some bizarre snack-eating championship.

"you're not allergic," toji deadpanned.

"i think i am!" megumi wheezed, dropping to his knees, his little hands shaking dramatically.

"oh my god!" you gasped, wide-eyed. "should we — i mean, do we need to take him to the hospital? i can drive —"

toji waved a rough hand, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left, "nah, kid’s fine. just go on home. i'll handle this."

"but —"

"it's fine," toji insisted, forcing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even as megumi collapsed onto the pavement like he’d been struck by lightning.

you had hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually nodded, "okay… but call me if you need anything, okay?"

toji nodded, biting back the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. "yeah, yeah. go on."

the second you turned the corner, toji crouched next to his "dying" son, who immediately cracked one eye open and coughed weakly for good measure.

"what the hell was that?" toji grunted, "what did i say about huffing gasoline in the laundry?"

"don't do it."

toji flicked the punk's forehead, "mhm, so?"

megumi shrugged, sitting up and dusting off his pants. "thought i was allergic."

"to peanuts? that shit you eat everyday?"

"better safe than sorry, dad."

toji huffed, ruffling a hand through his choppy black hair. he glanced in the direction you’d gone, muttering under his breath, "you're lucky you’re cute, kid."

the next morning, toji opened his door to find a basket sitting on the mat. a pristine, gingham-lined basket packed with golden, buttery pastries and muffins that smelled like heaven. attached was a note:

for megumi! i hope he’s feeling better!

karmic justice demanded that toji sit down, scarf it entirely, and leave nothing but crumbs for the little brat. he'd earned that much.

take #3 — they didn't get my nose right!

toji fushiguro didn’t get flustered easily. fights? He could eat a punch for breakfast. bills? well, avoidance was a valid financial strategy. but you, sitting on his couch, smiling at him like you’d never met a red flag you didn’t want to rehabilitate, while unpacking groceries for him and megumi? that was uncharted territory.

terrifying.

the apartment was...presentable. which was more than he could say ten minutes before you arrived, when he'd barked at megumi like a drill sergeant to hide every suspicious stain and questionable stack of dishes. now, the faint sting of cleaning spray lingered in the air, and the tiny place almost looked cozy. not that toji would admit it.

"you didn’t have to bring anything," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"oh, it's no trouble!" you chirped, beaming like some kind of saint. "i thought you and megumi might like some fresh vegetables. and i couldn’t resist grabbing some sweets for him."

from the corner of the room, megumi's ears perked up at sweets. he dropped the crayon he’d been chewing (toji pretended not to see it) and padded over, all innocent wide eyes and suspiciously good behaviour.

"dad," megumi started, his tone way too angelic for a kid who regularly schemed like a demonic manga villain, “can i show her my drawing?"

toji utterly froze.

megumi never asked to show off his drawings. usually, he just thrust them into unsuspecting hands like a nosy salesman who couldn't take no for an answer. this? this was premeditated.

"uh," toji grunted, squinting at the kid. "maybe later. she’s busy."

but you, bless your overly trusting heart, smiled and said, "oh, i'd love to see it! i'm sure it's adorable."

toji didn’t even have time to stop him. megumi whipped out a crumpled paper from his pocket like he was smuggling state secrets and handed it to you with an air of triumph.

you unfolded it carefully, and toji wanted to crawl into the walls.

there it was: a chaotic, technicolor mess of lines and smudges.

and centre stage?

a terrifyingly accurate caricature of him labeled "dad," locked in what could only be described as a life-or-death struggle with a rabid raccoon twice his size. above his head, a speech bubble screamed, "no!" while the raccoon yelled back, "mine!"

toji groaned so loud it could’ve registered on the richter scale, "kid. seriously?"

your laughter was instant and loud, the kind that made you clutch your sides and tear up. "this — oh my god, this is amazing!" you wheezed, doubling over.

"it’s not even accurate," toji muttered, crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt like they were trying to leave this embarrassing moment behind. "i won."

"dad didn’t win," megumi piped up, as smug as a kid who’d just blown up his old man’s spot in front of a pretty lady, "the raccoon stole the chips."

"megumi," toji growled, pinning him with a glare that would’ve made lesser beings tremble. the kid just shrugged, popping another crayon into his mouth like this was all part of his five-year master plan.

later, after you’d left, still giggling and promising to "treasure" the drawing, toji leaned over the kitchen table where megumi was innocently snacking on his candy.

'kid," toji said, his voice low and dangerous, "if you ever pull something like that again, i’ll eat your crayons. one by one. and i'll make you watch."

megumi didn’t even flinch, cool as a cucumber, "good luck. i hid all the good ones."

take #4 — take your broke ass home!

the neighborhood festival was the kind of event that came together with duct tape and misplaced enthusiasm. a few janky game booths, a cotton candy machine that looked like it ran on prayers, and a ferris wheel that creaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie. but toji didn’t mind. he had a plan.

this was going to be his moment.

he invited you under the pretense of "fun time" for megumi, but really, it was to show you what a catch he was. buff, capable, ruggedly charming — he was ready to prove it all. what better way than with a little festival bravado? he’d win you a giant stuffed panda or one of those oversized bears that could double as a couch. easy.

you and megumi stood by a booth plastered with painted bullseyes, rows of rubber balls stacked neatly on the counter. toji rolled up his sleeves, flexing his arms just enough to catch your attention. he reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled cash like he was buying the entire festival, "watch this."

from beside him, megumi crossed his arms. his eyes squinted with the kind of judgment only an six-year-old could muster. then, like a sniper, he fired off the line that would ruin toji's day.

"careful, dad," megumi said, voice loud enough to turn a few heads. "that’s our grocery money for the week."

toji froze mid-reach for the first ball and his jaw clenched. slowly, painfully, he turned to face megumi, who was standing there with a look of angelic smugness.

"megumi," toji growled through gritted teeth, "let's remember who brought you here."

megumi didn’t miss a beat, "oh, right. i'm just worried that dinner tomorrow is soy sauce soup."

"kid’s got jokes," toji muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his cocky energy now entirely replaced by something closer to "please make this stop."

"oh, i don’t think he’s joking," you teased, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from laughing too hard.

"yeah, definitely not joking," megumi deadpanned, "dad’s gonna start eating protein powder straight from the jar."

"megumi," toji barked, praying for divine intervention that would include his son being carried off by a stork, "you’re grounded."

"for what? telling the truth?"

before toji could escalate into full-on dad-mode, the game attendant — clearly desperate to avoid whatever domestic drama was brewing, handed toji a stuffed panda.

"here, sir, on the house," he said with a strained smile, like he was hoping toji wouldn’t throw a ball through the booth.

toji grabbed the panda and shoved it into your hands with all the grace of a man trying to save face, "here. told you i'd win ya something."

you had just hugged the panda, still grinning ear to ear, "who knew you had a sweet spot? i'll cherish it forever, especially after hearing how hard you worked for it."

megumi, the little bastard, had already wandered off to scope out the cotton candy stand.

toji watched him go, then glanced at you, feeling oddly resigned, "i’m never bringing him to one of these again."

"oh, come on," you said, nudging him playfully, "i'm glad we came. this was fun. besides, he's a sweet kid."

he wondered if you were half-blind, but held his tongue. instead toji groaned, rubbing his temples, 'kid’s not eating for a week."

take #5 — brought the heat back!

it was a quiet thursday evening, the kind of night that lured people into thinking life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. the sky was fading into a smug sort of pink, and a light breeze was making it just nice enough to forget toji's apartment was a little too warm because he’d cheaped out on air conditioning.

you’d accepted his invitation for dinner, and now here he was, a grown man trying to pretend he wasn’t about to impress the hell out of you with his cooking.

see, toji wasn’t just some dude who could barely boil water. nah, this man knew his way around the kitchen — specifically around a bowl of spicy curry that could win hearts. but he couldn’t let you know that.

toji liked to think that he had a reputation to uphold: rough around the edges, dangerously hot, and way too casual about everything.

so when you walked in, he scratched the back of his head like he’d just thrown the recipe together from a vague memory, muttering, "i dunno, figured i'd try somethin’ new. if it’s bad, there’s takeout."

except this wasn’t new. toji knew exactly what he was doing. his curry was legendary in very specific circles — namely, his own ego.

meanwhile, megumi was hanging around the kitchen like a suspicious little gargoyle, all quiet and sneaky-eyed. that should’ve been the first warning sign.

and when dinner was served, toji had to admit it, it looked perfect. rich, golden curry with just the right balance of spice, heat curling off the plates like a victory lap. hah, an easy win.

you had taken a polite bite, smiling at first. until your face suddenly froze like you'd just been slapped by a fire demon.

"what, it's too spicy?" toji asked, as he watched you struggle to smile. your lips twitching like they were trying to run away.

"no, no!" you wheezed, "it's — it's really good. just got a lil' kick to it, that's all!"

kick? toji blinked. you looked as though you had been delivering a roundhouse to the face.

suspicious now, he scooped up a big bite himself. the moment it hit his tongue, he nearly choked. his sinuses exploded, his tongue went numb, and he could feel sweat instantly forming on his brow.

"what the fuck," he sputtered, slamming down his fork and lunging for his water. toji guzzled it like a man who’d just escaped a desert, while you valiantly kept nibbling as though your dignity depended on it.

megumi, sitting way too calmly at the table, didn’t even flinch. he was eating like the curry was perfectly fine, which made it even worse. this little freak.

toji squinted at his only child, "megumi. what did you do?"

"nothing," the kid said, wide-eyed and dripping with fake innocence. too fake, tsk, toji knew that look. "just...helped with the seasoning."

toji’s stomach dropped, as his blood pressure rose, "how much seasoning?"

megumi shrugged, stabbing at his rice like he wasn’t actively committing a felony, "i dunno. a lot. jus' wanted to be helpful, dad."

"y'trying to kill me? her? yourself?!"

you laughed nervously through the pain, "ah, toji. it’s really not that bad —"

"don’t lie, doll" toji snapped, shooting you a look, "sweatin' like you ran a marathon."

"so are you!" you shot back, snickering. and you weren’t wrong. toji's forehead looked like he’d just finished a full-body workout.

megumi leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly, and said with an infuriating amount of smugness, "i like spicy food."

toji pointed at him, wondering if it would be easier to pick up the kid and launch him out the window, "you better start liking ramen, ‘cause that’s all you’re eating for the next week."

"fine with that," megumi said, clearly unbothered, "isn't that what i eat all the time anyway?”

toji groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair, which now stuck to his forehead in sweaty, choppy strands.hHe turned to you, desperate for some kind of redemption. "this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. it’s normally amazing. i swear."

"it’s fine," you laughed, even as you sipped water like your life depended on it. "honestly, i think it’s kinda cute."

that threw him for a loop. "cute? what’s cute about this? i just served you a bowl of liquid hell."

you grinned, a little too amused for his liking. "it’s the effort."

toji, for once in his life, had no comeback. he just sighed, defeated, and grabbed his phone to order takeout. megumi, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, even lifting the bowl to his lips to smack away the remnants of the soup that he slurped.

interlude: the peace talks

you’re standing outside toji's dingy apartment building, where even the cracks in the walls look like they’ve seen some things. you’re not entirely sure why you’re here. okay, that’s a lie. you’re absolutely sure— it’s because of him. that rough-edged, broad-shouldered man who can bench press your common sense into oblivion. but of course, you’re telling yourself it’s "just to check in."

totally innocent.

you knock. a few beats of silence, then the door creaks open just wide enough for a face to peek out. it's megumi fushiguro, toji's odd kid, and his expression already screams ugh. the kind of look that says, "what does this clown want?"

"uh, hi," you say, suddenly unsure if you’re allowed to be nervous around a first grader, "is toji here?"

megumi stares at you like you just asked if the sky was plaid, "nope," he says flatly, but doesn’t move. he keeps the door partially open, like he’s either waiting for you to leave or deciding if you’re even worth his time.

"oh. okay, that's fine, i'll just —" you motion vaguely toward the stairs, already regretting this whole situation. but then the kid speaks up.

"why do you wanna see him?" his tone is casual, but his eyes? sharp like sea-glass. too sharp for someone so young. he’s leaning on the doorframe now.

you blink, mind going blank.

"i don’t...i mean, i was just dropping by to say hi. that’s all."

megumi tilts his head, scrutinising you like you’re a suspect in a crime only he knows about, "do you like my dad?"

you choke on what must be your last breath on this earth, "what?! no! i mean, what are you even saying, he's..."

you’re spiralling, and megumi's smug little smirk says he knows it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"sure," he says with a shrug, stepping back into the apartment. he leaves the door wide open like it’s an invitation — or maybe a saw trap. against your better judgment, you follow him in.

megumi plops down on the couch, picking up a laptop like you’re not even there, "you’re not the first," he mutters without looking up.

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

he shrugs again, still not meeting your gaze, "just saying, dad’s got... fans." he says it with the kind of disdain only a kid can muster when talking about their parent, "but you’re, like... different."

"different how?" you ask, instantly regretting it. you shouldn’t engage. this is toji's kid, not your personal gossip columnist.

megumi finally looks up, one eyebrow raised, "you don’t seem as dumb as the other ones."

wow. compliment of the century. "that's way harsh. but thanks," you say dryly, crossing your arms. "and here i thought we were bonding."

there’s a flicker of something else in the child's eyes. a glimmer of protectiveness, maybe, "look, i'm just saying...don’t get your hopes up, okay? i don't think my dad's that type of guy."

you frown, perplexed at having this conversation with a child who barely comes up past your waist, "what makes you say that?"

megumi looks like he’s about to launch into a powerpoint presentation on why toji fushiguro Is a walking red flag, but then he stops. his petulant expression shifts, softens, just a little, "i don't anyone to be sad."

and there it is. the kid act drops for a split second, and you see it. he’s not just being a little punk — he's protecting himself. maybe he’s seen toji screw up one too many times, or maybe he’s tired of people coming and going from their lives. either way, you feel a pang of sympathy.

you sit down on the edge of the couch, careful not to invade his space, "i get it,” you say gently, "and i appreciate you looking out for me, and for your father. but...maybe your dad’s not as bad as you think."

megumi snorts, "yeah, right. i think he's a mess."

"well, sometimes messy people need someone to believe in them," you say, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice.

he doesn’t respond right away, just stares at the laptop screen like it holds the answers to life. finally, he sighs, closing it with a decisive snap.

"fine. you can...hang out with him. or whatever. i won't pull any dumb shit,” megumi suddenly pauses at the slip of his tongue, “wait, don't tell him i said that word. but if this screws up, i'm saying ‘I told you so."

he sounds like he’s just agreed to let you borrow his favourite video game.

you smile, relieved, "deal."

just then, the front door opens, and in walks toji, all feathery raven hair, sweat-slicked muscles, and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he’s just conquered a small country. he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows raising in surprise. "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, voice rough but warm.

before you can respond, megumi pipes up from the couch, "we had important business."

megumi watches you leave, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. you turn back once, smiling at toji like he’s just said something funny — or maybe like he’s not completely hopeless. his dad stands in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically relaxed, a satisfied smirk on his face that makes megumi's stomach churn.

how disgusting.

the second the door clicks shut, toji sighs like some kind of romantic hero from the bad drama his dad loves to secretly watch, running a hand through his choppy black hair and scratching at the back of his neck.

"isn't she cute?" coming from a guy who once tried to flirt with a waitress by asking her how many push-ups she thought he could do.

toji disappears into his room, leaving young, burdened megumi stranded on the couch with his thoughts. his dad — the six-foot-four slab of muscle and bad decisions who calls protein shakes "wizard juice" — is clearly falling for you. and honestly? megumi doesn’t hate the idea. you’re nice. you don’t talk down to him like other adults, and you don’t smell like motor oil and regret like toji's usual crowd.

but toji? his dad couldn’t woo a cactus. if this is going to happen, megumi's going to have to step in. it's the responsible thing to do.

he grabs his laptop again, boots it up, and clicks on the email icon with all the gravitas of a general preparing for war.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: hey gojo i need help message: hey gojo i need help.

he hits send, satisfied. within ten minutes, there’s a reply. gojo's always on his computer nowadays, swamped by senior finals.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: hey gojo i need help message: why are u emailing me. i feel weird emailing a six year old.

megumi rolls his eyes. he’s six, not stupid. he definitely thinks he's smarter than gojo satoru.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: i think my dad has a crush.

there’s a pause. megumi imagines goji sitting in his weirdly pristine apartment downstairs, wearing those stupid sunglasses he insists are cool, trying to process what he just read.

the reply comes in two words.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: come downstairs.

then another one.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: let’s debrief. i got cookies.

megumi shuts his laptop, slides off the couch, and heads for the door. it's time someone with real intelligence got involved.

megumi fushiguro sits at the kitchen table, eating rainbow cereal and trying to ignore the way his dad is pacing the room like a stressed-out gorilla. toji fushiguro, a walking, grunting tank of a man, is mumbling under his breath about "women" and "bad timing" and something about his shirt being "too tight." not that his dad has any normal shirts — just those stupid gym shirts.

megumi, as the only person in this house with half a brain cell, knows exactly what’s going on. his dad's got it bad for you.

not that he thinks that his dad would admit it. no, his dad's strategy for dealing with his obvious feelings is to act like a complete idiot whenever you’re around. last time, he dropped a dumbbell on himself while trying to show off. the time before that, he laughed so hard at one of your jokes he spat coffee everywhere. megumi had to clean it up.

so yeah, his dad was hopeless, and apparently, it’s megumi's job to fix it.

but megumi doesn’t think of himself as a matchmaker. he thinks of himself as a tortured genius, forced to live among lesser idiots. and frankly, he doesn’t even like the idea of his dad dating. because that's gross.

but the truth is, megumi's tired of toji stomping around the apartment like a lovesick rhino, and if getting you and his dad together means toji might finally stop asking megumi if his hair looks "cool," then so be it.

he starts small. when you knock on the door that afternoon, megumi answers and blocks the entrance like a bouncer, just like gojo told him to.

"oh, dad's not here again," he says, casual.

your face falls, and megumi immediately clocks it. bingo.

"you're in luck today, lady. wait here," he interrupts, darting inside, "i'll grab him."

except his dad is in there, muttering something about a broken pipe in the kitchen, while tapping furiously on his phone. megumi marches in, hands on his hips.

"i let her in," he announces, like a town crier.

his dad looks up, like a deer caught in the headlights of his own stupidity, "what? why didn’t you tell me? damn punk," he scrambles for a shirt.

"i'm telling you now, dad," megumi says, dully, "also, you’re acting like a weirdo. just go talk to her. ask her out."

toji freezes, halfway into his shirt, "what's gotten into you, kid? gonna drop a knife on me, huh? what am i supposed to say?"

megumi resists the urge to roll his eyes so hard they fall out of his head, "i don't know. say hi to her. maybe don't mention the gym."

his dad frowns, "you're six, punk. what do you know? people like hearing about that shit."

"not normal people."

once toji is finally presentable — or as presentable as a man with permanent bedhead and a scar on his lip can be — megumi ushers him out of the room. then, like the misunderstood mastermind he is, megumi follows quietly, lurking behind the door to eavesdrop.

toji opens the door to find you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. his usual dumb smirk creeps onto his face, "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, leaning on the doorframe like he thinks he’s starring in a cologne commercial.

"yeah, i was just...in the neighborhood," you say, sounding way too nervous for someone who claims this is a casual visit.

megumi winces. they’re hopeless. this is your neighbourhood, too.

toji scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick Megumi’s only seen when he’s trying not to embarrass himself, "well, uh, you wanna come in? i was just... doing some cleaning. we can...talk, or some shit like that."

megumi knows for a fact that there's a lie in toji's words. the only cleaning his dad's ever done is shoving everything into the closet and calling it "organised."

but somehow, it works. you step inside, smiling at him like he just offered you free ice cream. now, that would be a decent offer.

from his spot behind the door, megumi mentally pats himself on the back. phase one: complete. he decides to clock out, flopping back on his rumpled bed to pull his laptop back out, immediately logging back onto his game.

but by the time you leave an hour later, toji looks like he just won the lottery. you’re smiling too, waving awkwardly before heading down the stairs. and ugh, gross! you lean in and press a soft kiss to toji's cheek before you turn.

as soon as the door shuts, toji leans against it and lets out the most ridiculous sigh megumi has ever heard.

"hah, kid. she likes me," his dad says, grinning like a lovesick idiot.

megumi, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, crosses his arms, "that's foul. but no thanks to you."

his dad opens one sharp green eye at him, and scowls. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"it means," megumi says, feeling a lifetime of bribery for ice-cream excite him, "you owe me. big time."

toji’s standing in the doorway, looking at megumi like he just asked him to join some cult. he scratches the back of his head, giving megumi that look — like he’s trying to figure out what the hell his kid is up to now.

"eh, you look weird today," toji mutters, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. he reaches down and ruffles megumi’s hair like it’s no big deal, making it stick up even more. his hair gets all spiky and untamable, and megumi scowls, smoothing it down, trying (and failing) to get his dark spikes to behave.

"yeah, whatever, dad," megumi mutters under his breath as toji turns and saunters off into his room. toji’s probably about to do a hundred push-ups and gloat to himself. megumi can already hear the dumb grunting from the other room.

as soon as toji’s gone, megumi sits back down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

for once, the apartment is quiet. no random phone calls, no weird people showing up, no random training sessions that sound more like a one-man wrecking crew than “exercise.” just peace.

it’s bliss.

he takes another bite of cereal, enjoying the calm and the fact that someone else is going to have to deal with toji’s nonsense for once. it’s about time.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: mission accomplished message: it worked. my dad's in love.

a few seconds later, gojo’s reply pops up.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: mission accomplished message: that's great! wanna help me with the guy i like?

megumi squints at the screen, blinking twice. he closes his laptop with all the gravity of someone who has just solved world peace.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: mission accomplished message: no.

[jazziejax]

𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧’

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Modern AU | Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC & Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore | Modern AU

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which two twin gangsters return home after years in Chicago, to 2003 Jackson, Mississippi. Only to find that the chubby, brace-faced tomboy from across the street has grown into a woman they can’t ignore.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - drug use, swearing

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - something short because I literally have five other Smoke and Stack fics cooking in my drafts

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 2,178+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢

It always started with noise. Summer in Mississippi wasn’t just heat and humidity—it was loud. Between the swatting screen doors, the bugs flying, kids playing double dutch with mismatched ropes, and the rickety hum of box fans, it was hard to hear yourself think. But for young Juicy, the noise was a comfort… until it wasn’t.

Back in ‘95, Juicy was about eleven, braces still fresh, glasses sliding down her nose every five minutes, and dressed in a floral pattered dress that matches her sisters, though hers fit her more boxier than it did on the older girl. But she didn’t care much about appearances, and it didn’t help that her mama always compared her to her older sister, Sinclair, thin and pretty like the girls in those Jet beauty ads or the ones on the perm boxes. “If only you laid off them pork chops,” was her mama’s idea of encouragement. Her daddy didn’t say much at all.

Juicy found her peace elsewhere—mainly across the street.

The Moore twins, Elias and Elijah—known as Smoke and Stack to others—were about six years older, fast-mouthed, sharp-eyed boys sly grins and problems they never spoke too loudly about. Their father was known around the neighborhood for being the kind of man who left bruises instead of blessings, and their mother was long gone. But the Hall’s took to them like family. Martin, Juicy’s older brother, clicked with them right away over cassette tapes and corner store hustles. Sinclair even crushed on Stack for a while, though he never acted on it.

But it was Juicy—a little awkward, big-bodied, and always scribbling in her notebook—who lingered in the background. She wasn’t really friends with the boys, not like her siblings were. But some days, when things were too loud at her house and Mary, her only friend, couldn’t come out, Smoke would let her sit on the porch with them, passing her a freeze cup and tossing her lazy jokes that made her laugh until her gums showed. Or when Stack would let her old onto him as she rode on back of his bike as he made stops around the neighborhood.

Those little moments were enough. They made her feel seen.

And then, they were gone. Moved up to Chicago when she was fifteen, chasing something bigger—money, maybe, or just a way out. Life moved on. And the city was still as loud as ever.

But in 2003, the block got loud again in their return.

They came back in a long black Lincoln, rolling slow like they owned the pavement. Elias drove, toothpick between his teeth, silver chains glinting in the sun as she rubbed down his waves. Elijah was in the passenger seat, shades low on his nose, hair in tight cornrows. They’d filled out—solid, broad-shouldered men now, still dressed in dark clothes with just enough shine to show they had money. Word spread fast.

Smoke and Stack were home.

First stop was the gas station—for fuel and the liquor store next to it, then the old park where half the benches were gone and the other half were tagged up in Sharpie and knife scratches, looking for their homeboy in his usual spot. A few heads turned, so they dapped up old friends, nodded at familiar faces.

But the real reunion happened on Vernon Street.

Martin Hall was leaned up against his Impala, blunt behind his ear, gold ring glinting. He caught sight of the car before it even parked at the house across the street, and when he caught sight of the men in the car, he instantly grinned.

“Nahhh, I know this ain’t who I think it is.” He shouted, arms already wide open.

Stack stepped out first, grinning, and then Smoke followed. The three embraced like no time had passed at all, Martin falling the men up. Loud laughs, back slaps, the kind of reunion that made neighbors peek through blinds.

“Man, what the hell are yall doing back? And ain’t told a nigga?” Marin asked as he leaned backed against his hood, taking the blunt his girlfriend passed him from her place in his serving seat.

“It was quick to us too, man.” Smoke said, shaking his head a bit. “Them Chiraq niggas different, too much shit going on up there.” He said, placing his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, his baggy white tee hanging from underneath a bit.

“Money was good, though.” Stack smirked, moving his gaze away from the woman in the car that was eyeing him with a lustful glint in her, to look at the against the hood.

“I bet.” Martin smirked. “I could only imagine what you niggas got up to up there. Especially to come back as fly as that.” He said, nodding over to the cars in front of the boys old home as he blew away the smoke from the blunt.

“Shit, us?” Stack questioned. “Look at you. The jewelry, new whip. Seems money down here moving smooth.”

“Mmm…it’s aight.” Martin shrugged, causing the twins to chuckle with a shake of their heads.

“You know we gotta celebrate.”Martin said, standing from the car a bit as he handed the blunt to his shorty in the car. “Whole block been a bit dry without y’all. Let me throw something together for tonight.” He suggested. “Plus, I gotta clean some paper anyway.” He shrugged, trying to ease the blow of an unexpected gathering upon the men.

Smoke and Stack exchanged a glance before both men looked back at their old friend and shrugged Martin clapped his hands with a smirk. “Aight.” He nodded. “Tracy, go call yo homegirls and shit, tell ‘em to come through while I get shit situated.” He said to the girl in his drivers seat. Tracy didn’t even say anything, she simply got out the car and made her at into the house, bit before making a bit of a show of pulling down her booty shorts. Stack and Smoke exchanged another look at that, but nothing was said further.

Plans were made fast. A block party. Speakers, coolers, grills were pulled out faster than the men could think. Now they just had to get everything jumpin’.

The men sat around Martin’s car catching up, reminiscing on old scams, and laughing at things they never got caught for. Smoke lit a cigarette while Stack leaned back, tapping his fingers on the dashboard.

That’s when they saw her.

Juicy.

She came walking up the sidewalk with Mary next to her, both of them laughing at something too far to hear. Juicy was still thick, but this time, she wore it like armor. Curves hugged up in a baby pink Juicy Couture set, midriff peeking under the hoodie. Her wedged flip flops clicked against the concrete with purpose. Her acrylics—French tips—glinted when she lifted her lollipop to her lips. Lips lined and glossy, brown skin smooth and glowing, gold hoops in her ears catching sun. Her sunglasses were perched on her head, the blonde highlighted tresses in a bun, looking like it just came out of a fresh roller set. It was only when she got closer that they could see that she still had the tiniest gap when she smiled, but now it looked like part of the charm.

Mary had her own vibe—low-rise jeans, rhinestone tank and a high pony—but no one was looking at her. Not the twins at least.

It was Juicy who had the street paused.

Smoke sat up a little straighter. Stack cocked his head. “Lil’ Juicy?” He mumbled.

And just like that, the heat of Mississippi summer wasn’t the loudest thing on the block anymore.

The heat clung to the air, and the bass from someone’s backyard radio pulsed low in the distance. Juicy walked like she owned the sidewalk, hips swaying in perfect rhythm with the click of her heels. She was curvy in all the right places—thicker than the girls on TV, but built with softness and strength that couldn’t be ignored.

Smoke and Stack hadn’t said a word yet. They’d gone still the second they saw her. Not obviously—nothing as sloppy as ogling—but they noticed everything. The gloss, the tips, the squinting, whenever from the sun or her needing her prescription. They both could remember how they used to slide down her nose every few seconds.

She no longer looked like the quiet girl who used to sit on the porch with a notebook. She looked like a woman now. A whole one.

Martin lifted a hand. “Juice! Come say what’s up.” He called out, waving the girl over.

Juicy raised a brow as she stopped at the curb, Mary lingering just behind her. “You actin’ like I don’t live here.”he caused, causing Martin to smack his lips. “You know what I mean.”

Juicy clocked the twins as soon as she approached. But her eyes didn’t widen, she didn’t blink. She just popped that lollipop out her mouth slow, head tilted, and said—

“Well, well. Look who finally came home.” All soft like.

Smoke stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted just slightly. “Ain’t seen you in years, Juicy.” He said, voice a little lower than usual.

Stack nodded. “You done grown all up now.” He said, his eyes subconsciously giving the girl before him a quick once over, one that had him wanting to trace his eyes over her body again.

Juicy didn’t blush—she never did. She just looked between them, slow and deliberate, then popped the lollipop from her mouth and smiled, tiny gap and all. “Y’all look the same.” She said, though they really didn’t. “Maybe taller. Maybe.” She shrugged, not hiding the way she analyzed the men from head to toe, taking in their otherwise plain street wear, which she knew had to still be a decent penny for.

Martin chuckled. “They back for good. Figured I’d throw a little somethin’ tonight. Let the block know.”

Juicy nodded, barely glancing back at the twins. “That’s cute. I’ll see what’s up.” Then to Mary, “Come on.”

She turned without another word, strutting toward the house, and the two men made it their mission to not look at the rhinestones bedazzled on her booty, reading ‘Juicy’ across the span of the area. Mary, however, lingered just a second longer. Her eyes locked on Stack like she was sizing him up for dessert. No shame at all. She flashed a grin that was all teeth and trouble before jogging up the steps behind Juicy.

When they were gone, Martin lit his blunt, shaking his head. “Y’all look like you saw a ghost.” He said as he blew the smoke out. “Was it Mary? Yeah, I know, still freaks me out a bit to see her down here.” He added, not even waiting for an explanation from them.

Smoke leaned against the hood, eyes still on the porch. “Nah.” He muttered, voice tight. “Yeah, you right. Just didn’t expect that.” He said, though he was simply agreeing to save face.

A few minutes later, it seemed as though this party was about to take off as people began to show up, their drinks of chose and blunts in their clutches. This made Martin head inside to grab more beers while the twins stayed posted at the car, quiet now that the noise of the street settled down.

It was silent between them for a bit before Stack spoke up, not even looking at his brother. “Juicy is far from the girl we left them heard back.” Stack said, rubbing the back of his neck, internally questioning himself over the quick flashes of ‘not so pure’ thoughts he had about the girl he grew up with.

“Yeah.” Smoke replied. “She is.”

They didn’t say anything else for a moment, both thinking the same thing—how time had a funny way of flipping the script. How the girl who used to scribble doodles on everything and watch them from the corner of the porch now walked like she didn’t owe anybody her attention.

Smoke remembered the way she used to listen when he talked—really listen—without judgment or noise. How he used to feel stupid for sharing some of his serpent moments with someone so young. How at first he just needed her for an ear, and she levered that, and when he needed some answers, she was quick to help as well. And she had those same eyes. Soft but knowing. That hadn’t changed.

Stack was still thinking about her walk. The way she didn’t give them a second glance, like she’d seen men like them a thousand times. It didn’t bruise his ego—it just made him curious.

“And I peep she’s got a smart mouth on her now.” He finally said, half a smile on his lips.

Smoke nodded, but his gaze didn’t leave the front door. “Yeah.” He muttered, and that’s all he seemed to be able to say, as if she had rendered him speechless.

Stack’s smirked widen, longing his lips as a thought crossed his mind.

“Wonder who she’s lettin’ have it.”

If you would like to be added to the taglist, comment here.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 & 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 🗑️ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬★ ★ ★ ★ ★

[tokkiwrites]

ㅤ⠀ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀⠀⠀토키⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀( ✿ . )⠀⠀⠀⠀† ꯭ ⎯⎯

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. You always thought things would change after high school. College was supposed to be your escape. But things don't change. You drop out and move back into your small home town, where you are still invisible, still too soft, still too dumb. Then people start dying. People who hurt you. People who laughed at you. People who touched you when they shouldn’t have. It feels like fate. Like someone’s watching out for you. And when you finally meet him it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like being chosen.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ DARK JOEL MILLER FIC, killer! joel miller x fem! reader, afab reader, no outbreak au, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, violence, mention of bullying, slow descent into obsession, delusional reader, outcast reader, age gap (mentioned once), morally grey characters, made up characters and places, semi public sex, rough p in v (unprotected), creampie, knife play, marking/branding, cum eating, degradation, dumbification of reader, choking, slight size kink, slight breeding kink.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey...how yall doin...? im sooo sorry i disappeared on you guys :( uni has been kicking my ass but i promise i will be more active from now on!!! had a chance to write for some of the requests so those will be coming soon! here's a small spring gift for you all :p i hope you enjoy it! 🎀🌟🐇

You thought it would feel different, leaving.

You thought that when high school ended, you’d find something different waiting for you. You imagined a new beginning, a fresh start, maybe something exciting—something where you wouldn’t fade into the background. But the reality was far from that.

You were always too soft. Too nice. You never knew how to be anything else, even when everyone around you told you to toughen up, to stop being so stupid.

In high school, they made sure you knew how weak you were. How easy it was to push you aside. You were a target for the mean girls, the ones with sharp smiles and even sharper tongues. They loved to mock you, but you didn’t have the heart to fight back. Instead, you retreated into yourself, hoping that one day, they’d stop.

You thought maybe things would change when you went off to college. It wasn’t like you had high expectations—it was just supposed to be a chance for something different. You imagined that the people there wouldn’t see you the same way. But it wasn’t different. It was the same. It felt like rot.

College was just high school in a bigger building. Louder rooms. Longer halls. The same laughter behind your back.

Your professors barely knew your name. The other students walked past you like you were invisible. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you smiled or how polite you were, it was always the same. You thought that maybe it was just a phase. That things would get better after a few months. But after three years, it just felt like you were fading. You didn’t belong anywhere. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t feel like you were living.

That’s when you decided to come home.

Your parents didn’t question you at first. They asked once, maybe twice, but after a few months, the questions stopped. They stopped expecting anything from you. And so did you.

Now you live in a small apartment above an old antique store in Northridge, a place where no one expects anything from you. It’s quiet except of the floors that creak beneath your feet, and the window by your bed is stuck halfway open, even when you beg it not to. You don’t even bother trying to fix it anymore. It’s just easier this way.

You work at Sloan’s Bakery, a quiet little shop that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s safe. You like the routine. You like the silence. Now, you don’t mind being unnoticed.

Today isn’t supposed to be different. You’re just doing your usual thing, putting the price tags on the pastries like you always do. The oven hums in the back, the cash register dings every so often as customers come and go. You feel like you’re in a bubble, watching the world outside through the small window at the counter. Nothing remarkable. Everything in its place.

And then, the bell above the door rings too loudly. You glance up, expecting some sleepy regular—maybe Mr. Hanley, or that tired-looking woman who orders oat milk but forgets every time that you don’t carry it.

But you were never the luckiest person.

It’s Macy King. Her heels click too sharply against the floor, and for a second, it feels like you're back in high-school. You haven’t seen her since then. You don’t know why, but the second you see her, you freeze. You’ve never forgotten her face.

“Oh my god,” she says, too loud, too fake. “It’s you.” She laughs. That same high-pitched laugh you remember from the cafeteria. It scrapes something raw inside you. You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’ve been caught in something. “I haven’t seen you in, like… forever.” She giggles like it’s funny, but you know it’s not. She’s looking at you with that same old smugness, that always made you feel small. It funny really, she's at the same level since high-school yet she still believes everyone is beneath her.

“Didn’t you go to college or something? I thought you’d be, like, doing something by now.” You can’t find your voice. You nod slowly, trying to force the words out, but your mouth feels dry. “IㅡYeah… for a while.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re back. She doesn’t care.

“So this is what you’re doing now?” Her eyes sweep across the bakery. She’s sizing you up, like she’s inspecting the life you’ve built. “Wow, that’s… cute. Really, though, I didn’t expect you to end up here.” She doesn’t say it mean. But that’s the trick with Macy. She never said it mean. Not directly. Just enough to make you feel like dirt on the floor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You want to scream, but it’s like your throat’s closed up, and the words aren’t coming. She steps closer, running her fingers over the glass of the pastry case like she owns the place.

“Oh my god, do you still make those little cookies?” she asks, peering into the display case. “The ones with the filling in the middle? What are they called? The jelly blobs?”

“Thumbprints,” you say softly.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll try one.” You give it to her, unsure of what to expect. She bites into it immediately, but her face twists in distaste.

“Ew,” she spits out, loud enough for the whole bakery to hear. “This is disgusting. Too sweet.”

You don’t move. You just watch as she drops the half-eaten cookie on the floor, the soft thud of it making your stomach turn. “Oh, wait. Let me try that one,” she says, pointing at a different pastry. You give it to her. She bites into it and immediately frowns, dropping it to the ground too.

“Ugh, all of these are gross,” she says, shaking her head like you’re the one at fault. She turns her back on you like she’s bored, her eyes scanning the other pastries, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. “Do you ever get anything right?” she adds, but it’s not a question. It’s just another jab.

You bend down to clean up the mess she’s made, your hands shaking as you gather the pieces of pastry from the floor. The crumbs stick to your skin, like a reminder of how small and invisible you are.

She doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She just walks out, her footsteps echoing in the silence she leaves behind.

It’s hours later and it's finally time for you to close up. You don’t know why you turn the radio on, but you do. It’s the static hum of the local station, the voice on the other end dull and distant.

“…Body discovered behind the Valero gas station early this morning. Authorities have confirmed it’s a local man in his twenties…” Your heart skips a beat and you sit up straight, the words striking you harder than they should.

“…Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Police are investigating but no suspects have been identified. More details to come as the investigation unfolds.” You don’t know why it strikes you so hard, but you can’t shake it. The voice continues, but you’re already lost in your own thoughts.

Its not long until the whole town starts talking. Brandon Haynes. You remember him. He was just like everyone else. He touched you. Too much, too harsh. More than enough to make you feel small. To make you feel like nothing.

You don’t know why it’s so strange. Why it feels like you’re holding your breath. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t feel anything for him. But you feel something for the moment. For the chance that maybe something’s shifting. Something is moving. And in that quiet, empty way, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been pushed aside.

A few days later and it is close up time again. As always the radio voice drones on as you wipe the counters. “Macy King found dead this morningㅡ”

You don’t need to hear more. You already know.

Macy is dead too. How is this even possible? Was it all a dream, or was it the karma they couldn't escape from? You don’t feel sorry for her. You don’t feel sorry for Brandon either. But something’s stirring deep inside you. Something darker. Something that’s been waiting for a long time. It feels liberating. Maybe it makes you broken. But you don’t care.

Because some quiet part of you smiles.

You never said it out loud, but you hated them. For how they made you feel. For how they touched you, laughed at you, stepped on you. And now they’re gone. You tell yourself it’s not coincidence. How could it be? What if someone saw you? What if someone knows?

What if someone did it… for you?

The thought makes your breath catch. Makes your cheeks flush. It’s stupid. Delusional. But it feels like the first real thing you’ve had in months. Maybe longer.

Someone out there, somewhere in this cruel, gray little town, might’ve done what you’ve never had the courage to. And that makes you feel seen. Wanted. It doesn’t scare you. It makes your chest flutter.

So you hope, quietly, selfishly, shamefully, that whoever it is, does it again. For you.

Days later, the radio talks about Macy's death like it’s a warning. Like the whole town should be afraid. They now know the crimes were done by the same person. A man. But you’re not afraid. You’re captivated.

You walk home that day in a daze, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for the first time in so long, you feel like someone is walking with you. Not beside you, but behind you. Somewhere. Watching. At least thats how it seems, or that's what you hope for.

And that thought that maybe someone sees you, maybe someone is thinking of you, it makes you ache. It makes your chest feel full. Like you matter. Like you’re real again.

So the next morning, you get up early. You shower longer than usual. You put on perfume, the one you wore back in college when you thought someone might notice you. You do your hair, just a little lipstick, and put on that soft sweater that hugs you just right. You don’t know why you’re doing it.

Except you do.

Because maybe he is out there. Maybe he's watching. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of him one day— maybe at work, across the street, reflected in the bakery window. Maybe he’ll come in and ask for a loaf of rye bread. And you’ll know. It’s stupid. But you don’t stop.

You start waking up earlier. Dressing softer. Smiling, just in case. The town is still cold and gray, but inside you, something is blooming.

A few weeks pass. You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Everything just folds together now—sugar, flour, radio static, names whispered on the news.

The third victim throws you for a loop. Julian Moore.

He wasn’t like Macy or Brandon. He never laughed in your face, never whispered about your thighs or stole things from your locker. He wasn’t cruel.

But he stood by. That's your reasoning.

He was there, every time you were shoved into a locker or had your tray flipped in the cafeteria. He saw you crying in the girls’ bathroom after gym, after someone stole your clothes. He saw everything. And he never said a word. So when they find Julian’s body slumped behind the old church parking lot, throat cut clean through, something inside you hums. Not with guilt. Not even with relief.

But with a kind of satisfaction.

'You see me', you think. 'You’re doing this for me'. You’re too far gone now. You know it. But it’s like slipping into warm water. Soft and quiet and too easy to sink.

You don’t pray to God anymore. You pray to him.

Whoever he is.

Some nights, you whisper your thoughts aloud. Just in case he can hear you. You tell him about the people you hated, the ones that ruined you, the ones that still smile like they got away with it. You tell him about your dreams. About how sometimes you think you feel him just outside your apartment, under your window, in the creak of the floorboards that shouldn’t creak. You leave your curtain open a crack at night.

Just in case.

More days pass. The sky is bruised purple and gold, streetlights humming like quiet thoughts, the pavement still sticky with sun. You smell like sugar, yeast and a little vanilla, your apron folded neatly in your bag, your perfume still clinging to your collarbones. And you feel good.

It’s not something you admit often. But tonight, the wind is soft. Your chest feels light. And there’s that quiet, persistent buzz in your stomach that maybe—just maybe, he’s proud of you.

You walk slower than usual. You want to be seen. You smile at the window reflections. At your shoes. At nothing.

And then it shifts. At first it’s subtle. There's a sound that doesn’t belong. A presence you can’t place. But it thickens around you slowly, like fog, until you know you’re not alone. There’s someone behind you.

It's ot a feeling anymore. Not a maybe.

Someone is there. Slowly, your steps falter. You stop, you turn. And he’s there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Older. He’s standing under the glow of a flickering lamppost like it’s a spotlight and he is the misunderstood actor, with shadows cutting across his face. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his jawline sharp, mouth neutral. He doesn’t move.

But he’s looking at you. Your heart slams up into your ribs. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. You don’t know him. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him before, in your dreams, in your prayers, behind your eyes when you’re alone in bed with nothing but wanting. Maybe he’s always been there.

The street is silent. The street lights glow faint behind you. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. And you— God, you don’t run.

You take a step forward. And he doesn’t move. Not until his hand shifts just a little and you see something glint. A blade. Maybe. Or maybe your mind wants it to be. You gasp, but it’s soft, almost reverent. You don’t feel fear. You feel certain.

You open your mouth, voice trembling but real. “I am not afraid o-of you…” He laughs. It’s a quiet sound. Deep and low and almost surprised. “Oh?”

But you mean it. You’re not afraid. You’ve wanted this—him, whatever this is, for so long, you’re not sure there’s any room left inside you for fear.

For months you’ve been dreaming of this. Not of murder or blood, but of him. Of being seen. Of being chosen.

And now he’s here. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “Stupid girl…” he mutters. His fingers brush the knife at his belt. And you? You smile.

He steps closer. You don’t move. Can’t. Your mouth is dry, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, your heart trying to crawl up your neck. He’s beautiful. Not in any way you’ve ever known. He’s rough, a scar curling just near his temple, his face carved from something too human and too wild at once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth is stern, unmoved. You feel heat flush up your neck and to your cold cheeks. He’s right in front of you.

Close enough to see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face for just a second longer than they should. “I—I know what you did,” you whisper, voice trembling, breathless.

He raises an eyebrow. You swallow hard. “Those people… Brandon. Macy. Julian. They hurt me. Back then. You—you knew, didn’t you? You did it for m-me…”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

And that silence, it pulls more out of you. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” You laugh, soft and shaky, hands trembling at your sides. “No one ever remembered me. No one ever noticed me. But you—you saw me. You must’ve. That’s why you…” You trail off. You can’t bring yourself to say killed. Not out loud.

His expression shifts. A little. One corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs. It’s sudden and deep and rough, like it bursts straight from his chest.

You flinch, but not away. Never away.

“You’re a real sweet thing, aren’t you?” he drawls low, the faintest southern rasp brushing the words. You don’t know what to say. You just stare up at him, cheeks burning, stomach a mess of tangled knots. Then he leans closer. Close enough that you can smell leather and smoke and something more darker. Close enough that his voice grazes your ear when he speaks again. “I might just keep you longer.”

The words burn. You feel them everywhere. Your legs tremble. You’re too warm. Too soft. You feel like you could fall straight into him and vanish.

And still, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches the way you unravel—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow, as if it’s his favorite pastime. As if he likes watching you break.

The space between you is so tight it feels like you have been touched. Brushed. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your throat. You shouldn't want that. “I…” you whisper, barely audible. “Can I know y-our name?" He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink but you see his jaw tighten. Just a little. Like maybe something in him twitches when he looks at you too long.

“Why me?” you ask, stupidly, helplessly, hopelessly. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. And he smiles. Barely. “You talk too much,” he mutters. He leans in again “I liked you better when you were just starin’.” You feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like,” he murmurs, his voice a low drag in your ear, “if I just took you right here?” Your breath stops.

Right here. This alley. The air thick and sticky with heat, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlamp at the corner, flickering like it’s about to die too. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“No one can see you out here. No one can hear you.” His hand trails down slowly, fingers dragging across your arm, your waist, until it rests low on your hip.

“What if I held you up against this wall,” he continues, voice crueler, “fucked you until you beg for me to stop, and then put a knife in your gut?” You should run. You should scream. But your breath comes out shuddered, and your eyes go wide, not in fear, but something closer to desire.

You want it. You want him.

He sees it. He feels it. Your body leaning closer, your thighs shifting, the way your lips part and tremble. And he stills. For a second. A long one.

“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You like that?” You nod. He stares at you. Quiet. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re the dumbest girl he’s ever met or the most dangerous. Maybe both.

He shoves you back against the alley wall and kisses you like a punishment, like he hates that he wants you, like he wants to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

You moan. Loud. Needy. And that’s all it takes. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your ass, your throat. One knee forces your legs apart and he grinds against you through your clothes, a low, guttural sound in his throat when he feels how soaked you are already. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growls. “Gettin’ wet from me talkin’ about killin’ you. You sick little thing.”

You nod again, whispering a barely-there, “please—” And then it happens. Just like you have dreaming of. His mouth was on your neck, his breath in your ear, his body pressing you into the wall like he’s carving your shape into it. He quickly takes off his pants, leaving you no time to react to the sheer size of him. He forces the head inside of you, leaving you mewling under his touch. “Look at you, lettin’ a killer fuck you in a goddamn alley like a whore.” In no time he was in your guts, each stroke sending you further into oblivion. Your fingernails dig into his skin and he growls, rough hands wrapping around your throat as he whispered dirty nothings into your hair. “This little cunt’s never been touched, has it? Feels too fuckin’ tight to beㅡ shit!" He uses you like he owns you, like you’re a soft and stupid doll made just for him. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—feels so good…”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d still thank me for it, wouldn’t you?” he gloats, each snap of his hips hitting deeper into your cunt. Your tear stained cheeks press agains his hard chest, sobs muffled and eyes blurry from crying. Your head is spinning, brain melting into nothing but thoughts of him. “You’re gonna remember this every time you sit down, darlin’. Gonnaㅡ fuck, feel me for days.”

You hiccup, head bobbing up and down, as he hastily chases his high. He groans low into your neck, voice cracking like gravel, rough fingers digging into your hips as he jerks once, twice, then stills as he spills his cum inside of your ruined insides.

“Fuck… that’s it, girl. Take it. Take all of it, you stupid thing.” He stays inside, breathing heavy against your cheek, his hand slipping down to hold your belly like he’s wanting to feel how deep in he still is. ���Maybe it’ll stick. God knows you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, dazed, breathless. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. But you're full. Of him. Of this moment. Of something filthy and real and unforgettable. It’s dripping out of you already and you shudder as it drops onto your newly bought underwear.

Your thighs still trembling, your skin still burning where he touched you. “I hope it does…” you whisper, blinking up at him, lips swollen, brain a haze of sugar and sin. “I really hope it sticks…” And he just laughs, sharp and cruel. He is entertained. “You're so fuckin’ pathetic.” But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. The words sting. But not in the way they should. Not in the way a normal girl would cry over.

There's that filthy slickness between your thighs, and his rough hand moves down, slow, before dragging fingers through the mess he's left inside of you. You gasp.

He brings his fingers back up, slick and warm, and pushes them against your lips. "Open," he commads. And you do. You part your lips like it’s holy, like it’s something good, something earned. You wrap your mouth around his fingers and taste salt, heat and him. He watches you, slow and dark, chest rising. “ God dammit...”

Your eyes flutter shut as you suck, as if this will anchor him to you. As if this will mean something. And when he finally pulls his fingers away, wiping them on your cheek with something like contempt, you're still there, ruined, breathless, glowing in it.

He pulls away from you slowly, lazily, like he’s in no rush to care. His belt’s already half-fastened, knuckles grazed from the rough press of brick and skin. You’re still trembling, ruined and bare and aching in places you never knew could ache.

He pulls out like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. The air cools around you instantly, and so does he. Zipping his jeans, flexing his jaw, his gaze flickers down at you once more, lazy and cold.

Then he turns. One step. Another.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. But it does. Your voice cracks before you even know what you’re saying. “Please don’t leave—please—I’ll be good, I swear!" You’re shaking. Still sore. Still wet. Still his, in some awful, ruined way.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love, dumb girl. I ain’t your savior. I’m the reason people like you go missin’.” His eyes are sharp, unreadable.You're on your knees, legs trembling, underwear pushed to the side and forgotten, dress wrinkled and twisted halfway around your thighs. Your elbows ache from where you caught yourself against the brick, and your lips are raw from biting down too hard. There’s a stream of his come between your legs and bruises blooming along your skin. The alley smells like him. You do too.

Your heartbeat is still stuttering, off-kilter, your body stuck somewhere between shame and a high you never want to come down from. You blink up at him through damp lashes. “That’s all you wanted, huh? Someone to fuck the stupid outta you. Thought you’d get a happily ever after?”

It feels like you're begging without even saying a word. He should leave. He said he would. But he's still here, isn’t he? He just stares. Something in his brain ticks. And then, slowly, he pulls the knife from his belt. The steel hits the streetlight close to him and you freeze. He doesn’t say a word as he shifts closer. One knee between your legs again. Hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. Finally, the blade touches your skin. “Stay still,” he mutters.

The metal is cold when it drags along your collarbone, slow. You whimper, but don’t pull away. It’s not deep. Just enough to hurt a bit. Just enough to bleed a little. When he leans back, satisfied, there’s a rough little 'J' carved just above your heart.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then louder “ So don’t go forgettin’ who you belong to, girl.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too out of it. Your fingers come back red as you touch the small mark.

He tucks the knife away. “I’ll find you again. Same spot. Don't make me come lookin' for you." And then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stay there, knees scraped, heart pounding, sticky, aching and marked. You should be afraid. Instead, your fingers ghost over the wound, and all you can think is he’s coming back.

You walk home with your head light and your lips smiling. So stupid. So giddy. You’ll clean yourself up, cover the mark with something soft and cottony. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll wear something nicer to work. Just in case he’s watching.

[moonstruckme]

Hi! I hope you’re doing well! Your account has been such a comfort for me these past few months and I’m so grateful for you! I was wondering if I could request a poly!marauders drabble where one of them calls the reader a pet name but they’re still really new to the relationship so they don’t realize that he’s talking to them?

Thanks for requesting!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 598 words

You take quiet, giddy pleasure in the chaos of all four of you in the boys’ kitchen. It’s not the tiniest of kitchens, but small enough yet that you can’t move about without brushing or bumping various body parts into each other’s. Honestly, you wouldn’t want to. 

You find yourself deeply enamored by the sound of your knife hitting the cutting board in time with James’, by the way Remus touches your back to reach into the cabinet above your head and Sirius sneaks little bites of your unfinished dinner and slips you some too. Your voices overlap and intertwine, making requests or directions while you dice potatoes at a steady pace. 

“Would you call these finely chopped?” 

“Yeah, I’d say so.” 

“Give that a stir for me please, love.” 

“Where do you guys keep the spices?” 

“Jamie, I’d say that’s more than enough cheese.” 

“Spices are right in that cabinet above you. See? Yeah, there you go.” 

“If, in theory, I forgot to get paprika at the store, would cayenne be a decent substitute?” 

“Do we have chili powder?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Use that.” 

“Would you pass me the thyme, sweetheart?” 

“Sweetheart?” 

You turn only when the kitchen is silent. Remus is looking at you, kind eyes kindly prompting. He nods to just above you. 

“It’s in the spice cabinet there,” he says. “The dried thyme.” 

“Oh.” You blink, reaching for it. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were talking to me.” 

“That’s alright,” says Remus. He takes it from you, a bemused smile playing on the edges of his mouth. “Thank you.” 

“Why wouldn’t he be talking to you?” Sirius asks. 

“I don’t know.” You return to your potatoes, knife thunking against the wooden cutting board. “There are four of us in here, so.” 

Sirius makes a humming sound you know means trouble, and then his arms are needling underneath yours, winding around your middle. His voice is saccharine beside your ear. “Do you not think you have a sweet heart, my love?” 

You laugh. “Don’t,” you say, though you let some of your weight lean backwards into him. Sirius takes it happily. 

“You know you’re our sweetheart.” You may never get used to this, how Sirius can go from teasing to earnest in a second. You can’t always tell which is which, either. He seems to find something worth notice in the crook of your neck, resting his lips there in a long, funny kiss. “Don’t you?” 

You roll your eyes. James shoots you a grin. “I just thought,” you say, “that he might be talking to one of you.” 

Buried beneath your jaw, Sirius makes a noise of disapproval. 

“What?”

“You knew he could be talking to you too, though, right?” James prompts. 

You shrug, moving your eyes back to your work. “I guess.” 

“You guess?” Sirius sets his chin on your shoulder. 

“It just didn’t occur to me in the moment,” you admit. Your potato pieces are getting smaller and smaller. 

Remus laughs. “That won’t do, dove.” 

“See,” you point, smiling, “that one I know.” 

James laughs, too, bumping your hip. “I’d hope so! We’re going to need to start calling you things more often, get you used to it.” 

“I just wasn’t expecting it.” You’re shrinking in on yourself a tiny bit now. Sirius only holds you closer, cooing. 

“Start expecting it,” Remus advises you. 

“Let’s practice.” James raises his eyebrows at you pointedly. “Angel, would you pass me the salt?” 

You huff a laugh, grabbing it for him. “Sure.” 

“Such a quick study!” Sirius praises, mushing another kiss to your cheek. “That’s our girl.” 

[kosher-salt]

Just saw a post that was basically "Hey off of the internet people usually aren't so crazy antisemitic and most of my day to day interactions as a visible Jew are normal, everything is gonna be ok" and I'm making a new post to not derail, but...

I'm super glad, obviously, that this is the case for many of you. But I do think we should be ringing the alarm bells. Because while you enjoy your grocery trips and post office in relative peace (as you ought to), here is a VERY incomplete list of things I have dealt with in the last 11 months.

-assaulted on my way to class, followed, spit on repeatedly (magen David necklace)

-professor took me outside of class and told me I needed to denounce my Judaism (I mentioned in passing my dad's family in an anthropology class)

-same professor refused to accept my final paper for reasons that did not match up with paper, email full of dogwhistles

-same professor told everyone to attend the protests and "teach those zionists to know their place" she is a Black Latina young professor. Yep.

-another professor straight up refused to accept any assignments that mentioned Jewishness (they were assignments about our families). Gave a student who submitted nothing except a picture of a Palestinian flag full marks. Failed me. I am an all As student, btw. Forced to drop.

-the chair of the anthropology department threw my complaints wabout said professors away without due process. His social media is full of blood libel.

-had to miss my finals as I could not physically get to them due to the protests

-followed and harassed in stores

-synagogue was vandalized multiple times

-called a kike while things were thrown at me

-protestors stood outside of my apartment patio with final solution signs

-new apartment, away from campus: friends of roommates harassed me constantly, to the point I could not use common spaces. Roommates told me that's his right because it's his "political view." He didn't even live there.

-new roommate moved in, less than 48 hours before she attempts to stab me, after learning I eat kosher style. "...kosher? kosher?! FUCK YOU" stab stab, etc. Bitch that was my good knife.

-the other roommates tell me to gtfo of the home I'm renting, keeping my rent ("you people can afford to lose money") and destroy a good portion of my belongings while cursing to me random nonsense about Israel. The police took 25 minutes to get there. We live in the middle of the city.

-fun fact: I had never mentioned my political stance to these people and it's not on my face-out social media (very bare bones profiles)

-been disbelieved by everyone I told this to including the police, my school, the leasing company, and my now ex best friend of 7 years

-cursed at in a store when I asked if there was a kosher section

-told nobody likes Jews because we bring down the vibe and have a victim complex. My knuckles are healing just fine after that, btw, thank you for asking! She is not.

I don't know how to request the 7th off from my school without basically incriminating myself with a threat of violence. There is no world where I just sit there when a classmate says "happy October 7th."

Hope this helps.

[haztory]

where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

masterlist

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady. 

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day. 

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes. 

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling. 

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing. 

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words. 

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes. 

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks. 

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you. 

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this. 

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious. 

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake. 

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world. 

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one. 

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping. 

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own. 

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference. 

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors. 

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd. 

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors. 

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing. 

Going through it all over, and over, and over again. 

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him. 

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself. 

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you. 

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will. 

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent. 

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness. 

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you. 

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant. 

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks. 

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet. 

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child. 

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.” 

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you. 

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond. 

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips. 

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore. 

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.  

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here. 

“I need a beer.” 

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift. 

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask. 

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?” 

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly. 

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home. 

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

— 

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff. 

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine. 

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking. 

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest. 

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew.  He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew. 

“You hungry?” You ask. 

“Are you?”

“I could eat.” 

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor. 

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them. 

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room. 

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely. 

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one. 

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television. 

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. 

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best. 

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus. 

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness. 

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded. 

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion. 

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate. 

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him. 

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.” 

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter. 

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead. 

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

[scented-morker]

Lovesick fools

Alternatively… enha’s reaction to being on a variety show with their idol!crush

No warnings, 2k words, implied fem!reader.. these took me forever </3

Heeseung

Fourth gen vocalists on the show ‼️

He was so excited to be there that he totally forgot you would def be there too

Until he was getting his makeup done and you walked in with curlers in your hair and coffees in your hand

He immediately found himself smiling at how cute you looked, and it only got worse when you handed him a cup

"Twitter said this was your order, I hope it's right."

The makeup artist starts laughing and opts out of putting blush on him bc he's all red from you

Once filming starts you all sing a prepared cover, and he's so focused on his own that he stays calm for most of it

Except yours is last, which means his mind is fully empty since he’s done and now all he’s able to focus on is how pretty you sound and the way you smile through the words

You sing 'drinks or coffee' from rose's new album and he swears you wink at him

"We don't have to talk, I know that you want me."

Twitter goes crazy bc you absolutely did wink at him, and they have the slow mo replay to prove it

Him blushing like mad also goes viral

He walks up to you backstage

"So... do you want to get drinks or coffee?" 🤭

Jay

It's shuhua's show again, but instead of sunghoon he's paired up with you

Bro gives himself a pep talk in the mirror before filming starts

"You are cool and calm and will not giggle like a school girl at her. Shes going to look pretty and you're just gonna have to deal with it."

Thinks it should be illegal to look good in a work uniform, but there you are

You guys are cooking and you're so impressed by how well he does at separating the fat from the meat

You are so horribly bad at it that Shuhua looks like an expert 💔💔

"Jay I think you need to help her, she's massacring the product."

Ok girl are you a host or a wingman

But he does, telling you to adjust your grip on the knife, reaching over to show you how to do it better which has you blushing like crazy

You guys are partnered up trying to give away samples against shuhua which is where you shine bc people just can't stay away from you especially when you pout and ask 'pretty please?'

Jay doesn't blame them, he's ready to buy everything in the store from you

One of the girls doesn't bat an eye at you when you beg but you're desperate so you yell after her

"Look how handsome my partner is, don't you want to come buy something from us?"

The girl comes back but Jay can't even be flattered bc he's too busy freaking out that you think he's cute

"Did you really mean that?" He asks you after filming

"Of course I did, I'm not blind."

So he asks for your number and ofc you give it to him

Jake

It’s some sort of school setting show

You guys are paired up against Jay and another member of your group as the four of you compete with trivia questions

You’re all English speakers, so they make you answer everything in English and since we’re already being delulu let’s say you have an English accent bc we know Jake loves that

You have to yell at him to lock in because when you start trying to reason out the question he’s so focused on your voice that he isn’t listening to a word you say

You guys are getting whooped by the other team

That is until your member makes a joke about you saying how your ideal type is a smart guy

Bro instantly locks tf in

“October 23rd, 2016”

“That is correct! Team Hot Accents gets another point as they make an impressive comeback!”

Yes that’s your team name, you both have hot accents and you know it 🤷‍♀️

You get so excited every time you guys score a point that you’re practically bouncing in your seat cheering and giving him high fives

You answer a few questions after that but he’s definitely carrying you guys and he could not be happier about it

“Don’t worry y/n, I got you. Just sit there and look pretty.” 😍

By the end you guys are tied and the hosts ask you to give your partner a good luck charm as he and Jay face off for the last question

You contemplate kissing his cheek before realizing that would probably get you murdered on twitter so you settle for giving his hand a squeeze after interlocking your fingers post high five

When he gets the question right he runs over and picks you up to spin you around in celebration

The editors definitely put some incriminating caption like [a very overexcited reaction from the golden retriever] that fans laugh at him for afterwards

But he doesn’t care bc you were in his arms and that’s all that matters ‼️

After filming you’re like “wow Jake you’re so smart do you want to hang out sometime?”

YEP YEP YEP YES HE DOES

Sunghoon

You guys were both ex figure skaters, so they had you guys film an episode at a rink

They got both of you a new version of one of your old costumes, and sunghoon was immediately red at the sight of you in the sparkling dress with a little cut out on the side

You both spent the first few minutes just running around on the ice, enjoying being back

The hosts had a list of skills they read out and then made each of you try

It only made sunghoon's crush bigger watching you move so gracefully, and he grinned so big whenever you'd compliment him

"Woah, he's still really good!"

Towards the end they had you try partner moves, everyone cheering when you guys synced up so well in the turns and twists

“Woah they look really good together! It’s like fate they move at the exact same time!”

They even let you try a stunt, and sunghoon became a stuttering mess when he put his hand on your waist where the cut out in your costume was

"Is- is this ok? I don't want to drop you, but we could skip it if you want."

"Of course it's ok!"

He's so touched at the amount of trust you put in him while trying out partner tricks

And it's rightfully placed considering the time you guys mess up he makes sure to change the angle of your fall so that he takes the brunt of the impact instead of of you

You apologize so many times, including going up to him after filming to thank him again

"Is there anything I can do to thank you?"

"How about a date?"

Sunoo

Who knows why the show paired you guys up

Maybe they saw the media attention from your brief waves to each other at an award show and the viral ‘bite me’ challenge you did together

But they bring both of you to a cafe set and you have to make coffees and such before being interviewed

You’d worked at a coffee shop predebut so at one point you reach over and grab his hand to adjust the way he holds the cup under the milk steamer

The editors zoom in on his red face while you turn around and practically sprint away

Your last task before the interview is to make a drink for the other person while they film a confessional about you

You’re sitting there stuttering over your words as an explanation as to why you ran after helping him earlier and how kind he was when you filmed your tiktok together last time

Meanwhile, sunoo is asking the staff for help to make your super specific and stupidly difficult drink order that he knows from watching your interviews

He pretends it was casual and easy once he joins you at the table, setting the cup down in front of you like he didn’t restart it 3 times

“This is my favorite coffee!! I didn’t even remember them teaching us this!”

“Wow that’s so weird, lucky me I guess”

He tried to be nonchalant but it was NOT working

He literally lets out a giggle as soon as you drink it and do a little happy dance when it’s exactly how you like

When the interviewer asks about your relationship (bringing up the award show wave) Sunoo says that you guys are casual friends but he hopes you can become closer after filming together

To which you respond ABSOLUTELY and promise to wave at him at every schedule you see him

That’s enough for his weak heart for one day so he doesn’t end up following up after the cameras stopped

but you kept your promise and after a few months of excited waves and animated conversations at award shows he secures your number and a date

Jungwon

He’s too responsible to risk anything by talking about his crush on you but once in a live you said you really admired him because you couldn’t imagine having to lead your group while being one of the youngest members

(He saved the video and probably replayed it about fifty times afterwards)

But that was enough to make one of the shows want you guys together !!

Which is how you end up trailing behind him through a creepy dark building while scare actors try to freak you guys out

Bro was not excited for this but he is doing his best bc YOU NEED HIM ‼️

You are so close to his back that he can feel your body heat and when someone jumps out you practically climb on his back

You apologize profusely afterwards, but he waves it off, offering you his arm to grasp onto for the rest of the time

You say in a confessional part that you were scared out of your mind but it was bearable bc Jungwon was there

“He was so brave and cool, it made me feel so much better!”

He isn’t even scared anymore, he’s just mad bc they’re intentionally making you upset so his cute angry face pops out and the two of you make it through the whole haunted house in record time

Afterwards he tells you that he hopes he wasn’t mean or anything, he was just upset they were scaring you

He was mad at them for doing their jobs 💔 rip

But that just made you appreciate him more

“Can I treat you to lunch one day? To thank you for taking such good care of me?”

He MELTS, of course you can

Riki

You and him were both on a variety show to show the difference between maknaes

He was the image of a cool and mature maknae, while you were the giggly pink maknae of your group

He thought it was gonna be awkward bc the whole point of the show was how different you guys were, but you got along so easily

As soon as you started talking he was a GONER

He'd watch you answer a question and get so distracted looking at your face that the hosts would have to repeat the question for him to respond to after 😭

So much for being cool

They ask him how he feels about aegyo to which he describes how passionately he hates it

So they make you do aegyo for him to see if he reacts

HE DOES

Homeboy starts blushing without even realizing it

It puts the biggest smile on his face that they tease him about for the rest of the show

You tell him you'll give him lessons in it if he wants while live and that's how he approaches you after

"You probably need my number to set up those lessons right?"

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

♡ TW: fear, prank, prank gone too far, dubcon-ish

♡ GN reader

“Haha, ‘Toru—nice try,” is all you say to the tall figure, having stood patiently in wait and perfectly positioned to do a jump scare with his silly store-bought Ghostface mask on.

You sigh and go back to your dealings, and he remains as if the gist isn’t up—ever-committed to the task as if you’re suddenly going to forget that it’s him. Like—of course, it’s him! Despite what the movies will have you believe, not a lot of guys have bodies like that.

If he was really committed to tricking you, he should have worn something baggier to hide his perfectly shredded chest. But no—he’s set on wearing his black muscle shirt—probably opting to make you both scared and horny at the same time.

You carry on with what you’d been doing—cleaning up the kitchen. “Oi, quit standing there already and come help me.”

He doesn’t. But that’s not unlike him—he’ll take any excuse not to do the dishes. And right now, the excuse is this dumb prank. But it’s your fault in any case—you’re the one that put him up to it by saying he’d never be able to get a rise out of you.

You sigh and scold yourself for being so short-sighted—should’ve kept my dumb mouth shut. Knowing him, he’s probably going to be this way all through October, the insufferable prick.

He still stands there. Silent. And still. Eerily unlike him. And almost, just almost, utterly unlike him.

But no—don’t be stupid! He’s the same height and the same build, for fuck’s sake! What are the odds of someone with the exact same measurements as your boyfriend breaking in right at the time he isn’t around in something so cliche and dumb as a Ghostface replica? No, it stinks of Satoru—it’s got his goofy antics written all over it.

You scoff again—a little winded this time, a little strained. You have to hand it to him—he is a little scary when he shuts up for this long.

“You can knock it off, Satoru. I know it’s you.” You face him again, hand on your hip, with a frown. 

You sigh again when he still doesn’t answer, insisting on his stupid tactic of psyching you out. And you’re getting pissed that it’s actually almost working.

“Ugh, you’re so stupid.” You start stomping over—aiming to rip that dumb thing off his head and point your death glare directly in his insufferable blue eyes—those insufferable blue eyes you’re actually starting to hope are under there more than knowing without a doubt are there for sure. 

“Tch—it’s insulting if you think some half-assed performance like this is gonna be enough to scare me. At least have the creativity to come up with something somewhat decent–”

You stop in your tracks halfway over. Hair is peaking out from under the mask. You hadn’t seen it from afar, matted against the black shirt he was wearing—but how could you? How could you when it’s not white hair?

You flinch backward. Stumbling. Assessing the dark, silken locks a second time before looking up at the mask again—that soulless white warped skull with pitch-black bottomless eyesockets.

You take another step back. Breath hitching in your throat when the figure takes a step as well—toward you.

Your heart flares. It’s not Satoru.

Eyes peeled, you feel the panic overthrow you in an instant—like a cold rush, reaching all the way into your bonemarrow, making it hard to move, hard to do much of anything without feeling vulnerable to what it might trigger.

But once the figure pulls his hand out from behind his back, brandishing a butcher’s knife that catches the light and glints in the air—you have no other choice but to run.

What a perfect fucking day to wear fuzzy fucking socks! Fucking October cold is going to be the reason you die—stabbed to death in your own house by some cringey Scream fanboy. No—this can’t be the end—not this way! Why isn’t Satoru home yet? Why can’t he ever be where you need him to be?

You make your way through the house—hoping to reach the door, but turning the corner has you slip and fall, and the intruder’s on you—knife raised, poised prettily in the air above your helpless body, clad in your tiny heart-print pj’s—like the perfect hot airhead in any slasher spoof.

You scream and squeeze your eyes shut, “No! No—please! Please! Satoru, help!”

And right as the knife is supposed to come down and puncture your chest, making it spurt out red until you finally bleed out, dead and gone, there’s a bang instead as two palms land flat on the floor on either side of your head.

Joined by a muffled voice, “Are yah scared yet?”

With your eyes wide open again, you look up at not one mask blocking out the ceiling light but two. And with all the pure alarm savaging your chest, you manage to let out a real horror-movie squeal—unlike a sound you’ve ever made before.

And then, of all things, there’s laughter—no, not laughter—straight cackling.

And—fortunately or unfortunately—you’re quite sure you recognize that sound.

The last one pulls off his mask, and you really can’t believe it—pretty porcelain face squished in amusement with tears of joy in the corner of his insufferable blue eyes.

That fucking bitch.

“You should have seen your face!” he chortles—downright heaves. But for all his handsome features, he truly must be the ugliest laugher there is. Or maybe it’s just that the bastard always laughs at your expense, and after one too many times, it’s left a bad taste in your mouth.

Still, you sigh, eyes closed in relief, “I hate you, ‘Toru. You took it way too far, you ass.”

“No, no, Satoru, help~” he ignores you and mocks in a high-pitched moan, showing not a sign of remorse—holding his hand over his stomach as he falls to the floor, struggling to leave room for breath between hooting and howling.

Your eyes go to the original perpetrator. “And you? You proud or what?”

The wearer pulls off its mask and is revealed to be none other than Satoru’s best friend—Geto.

Honestly, you should have fucking known...

“Sorry, hehe…”

You’re upset—you make that clear with your pout, giving him your best guilt-tripping look from where you rest beneath him.

But still, within, your heart eases at the sight of his kind face and that apologetic smile across it—ever thankful to see him and not the cold-blooded murderer you were convinced was going to kill you only a moment ago—even when pinned beneath him in a position that should be making Satoru jealous.

But your boyfriend couldn’t care less, it seems—too busy rolling on the floor and laughing out loud quite literally, even banging his fist against the wood. Prick.

“I’m gonna throw up–” you say as the nerves finally settle. “And when I’m done, I’m gonna kill you. Both of you.”

Geto seems to think that’s fair, still with that sheepish smile on his face, but Satoru is quick to interject—laughing fit over as he shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. You said if I manage to scare you once this Halloween, I’d get whatever I want.”

You swear he can be such a child sometimes.

Oh, who are you kidding? He’s always a child. It’s only surprising he’s managed to rope Geto into all this—a guy who’s usually so mature.

“I don’t remember saying that…” you sigh, laying the back of your hand atop your forehead, still calming your breaths and the pounding in your head—your body not yet caught up to the fact that it’s trepidation over impending death was all just some silly joke played on you by two idiots.

You can’t believe him—you can’t believe either of them.

“Fucking shit, Geto—I thought I was gonna die.”

He still hasn’t gotten off you—the look of worry on his face tells you he’s probably just wanting to stay close to make you feel safe. You appreciate it, though it’s a little awkward lying beneath him like this—it’s not exactly a position you share with just anyone…

“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work,” he says—eyes slim like always, in that charming way. “I always thought you were smarter than to fall for something this stupid.”

You pull a frown at that—taking it all back. He’s as childish and dumb as Satoru is. He’s just better at hiding it. 

“Oh, shut up—as if you wouldn’t scream if someone chased you down with a knife,” you grumble. “Now get off, you prick.”

You begin to lift yourself onto your elbows, yet despite the clear intention of getting up, Geto doesn’t budge to make it happen.

No, instead, he leans further in—fine-kempt raven hair slipping off his shoulders, falling with the same grace as a veil.

“I was told there’d be a prize for the one that got you to crack, and seeing as I’m the one that made that happen—I want it.”

You have to blink—blanched at the sudden demand.

Satoru, as well, a little stunned—looks wide-eyed at the two of you, upside down where he lies flat on his back, long limbs stretched out like a starfish.

“You what now?” both of you ask in unison.

Geto chuckles before repeating, “My prize. I want it. It’s only fair,” as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Satoru rolls over onto his stomach to view you both the right way, pursing his lips in thought. “Hmm…” Hand on his chin as if it’s really something to deliberate when the dumbass very well knows what the two of you had bet on and how it very much isn’t a reward you can give to just anyone.

Yet, despite that. “Okay,” he agrees—as if it’s even up to him.

“Hold on now, wait a minute.” You intervene in the almost business-esque dealing they’d somehow held without you. "Not happening.”

“Why not?” they both ask, looking at you. 

And you can’t keep from gaping. The nerve.

Spluttering as you explain, “Because it’s—well, because it was a bet between me and my dumbass boyfriend, and it was very clear what the prize was gonna be, come winner or loser—so, sorry to break it to you, but there is no prize.”

But that doesn’t seem to deter Geto. “Oh, I think there is…” he all but purrs as he leans down further.

“Satoru already agreed. And you’re already on your back beneath me.”

His smile isn’t all so friendly anymore, and still… you can’t help but blush being caught beneath it, holding your breath with fear a little different from the one before but no different in how it makes your heart pound.

“So, if neither of you mind…" he grins slyly. "I think I’ll just take it.” 

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[em1i2a3]

At The Beach, In Every Life

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Rogue Inspired!Fem!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of you and Bob’s argument, you make a rash decision that changes everything. (Conclusion of Sailor Song, and Fable!)

Warnings: Angst…A lot of it once again…What can I say, I love the sadness 😩

Author’s Note: Well, this is the final part of this series, I hope y’all enjoy! I loved writing this a lot, it was a bit sad, but very therapeutic, and I hope it does the series justice. Also SURPRISE WITH THE DOUBLE UPDATE heheheh

Word Count: 5,621

A few weeks later, the dreams of you had stopped completely.

There were no more golden fields. No more glimpses of you half-turned with sunlight caught in your lashes. No more moments where your name left Bob’s lips and you smiled. No more touching. No more holding. There was only darkness now. Cold, still, and absolute.

It was a silence that didn’t just exist in his sleep anymore–it followed him like a shadow. Bob hadn’t said anything about it to anyone, but the emotional shift was unmistakable. He stopped showing up to breakfast, and began skipping team meetings without any explanation. He limited his conversations, and when he did choose to speak, it was barely a whisper–low and distant, like his voice has to travel through walls just to reach the people he was communicating to. His hands began trembling again, and he started sitting on them to try and numb the tingling that worked through the nerves, but nothing seemed to solve the issue.

Everyone had noticed, and for those that didn’t, it became apparent to them really quickly when you left the compound out of nowhere.

It had been exactly one week since the retreat–since the night on the porch, when you left him with words that shattered him like glass.

The morning in question had started quiet. You hadn’t shown up for your usual session in the training room. The logs were untouched, and your comm was shut off.

At first, no one panicked. You were a private person, and oftentimes you disappeared for a few hours, whether it was for a walk in the park, or to window shop because you couldn’t stand the thought of going into crowded stores. The team knew you sometimes craved some alone time, and they respected it.

But by noon, Yelena felt it in her bones that something was wrong.

There was no movement on the hall cams, and no heat signatures coming from your room–last time she had checked it had been fourteen hours since the last reading. She told herself you were asleep, or reading, or hiding from everyone like you sometimes did after a stressful night–but something in her chest had already gone tight.

And then she remembered.

Two nights before you had gone radio silent, you’d found her in the kitchen just before midnight. You didn’t say much–just leaned against the counter in your pyjamas and gloves, and sipped from a mug of tea, watching as she cut an apple. There was something restless in your eyes that night, something stormy, like you had been mulling over a thought that was bigger than your entire being. You asked her a question–a stupid, hypothetical one, she thought at the time.

”If you were in my shoes…Would you want to get rid of the power? Would you want to be normal?” Yelena had paused, her knife stilling over the cutting board. She had looked at you with a concerned look plastered on her face, and her eyes were already grilling you.

”What kind of question is that?” She asked, noticing the way you shrugged. She was trying to gauge your body language, attempting to somehow read your mind.

”I’m just curious,” You said quietly, “Would you get rid of the power or not?” Yelena gulped, looking back down at the apple she was slicing, chewing on the question for a moment. She knew she had to be careful with how she answered, because it was easy to misinterpret her words, so she cleared her throat, and looked back up at you.

”No…I’d want something better…Something that makes sense. Something that keeps me, exactly the way I am.” She responded. You didn’t say anything back, you just broke eye contact and glanced down at your steaming cup of tea, but Yelena had gone on, trying to shrug the question off like it was just a late-night talk between friends.

”There has to be something that gives you both…That lets you keep what’s yours without it being a danger towards everyone else around you…I think you shouldn’t throw away part of yourself because it’s hard, you should figure out how to live with it, hell maybe there’s research that you haven’t looked into yet.” You nodded slowly, and told her she was right before ending the conversation.

Now, when she was standing in your doorway the day you had gone missing in action, Yelena’s stomach turned.

Drawers were yanked from their tracks. Clothes were scattered. Your closet was cracked open like a wound, and your bed was rumpled, with the blanket hanging off the edge. A hoodie was bunched up on the floor, like it had been dropped mid-thought, and a glass of water was knocked over on your desk, which had slowly soaked into a folder of mission reports.

Your car keys were missing, and your go-bag–the one you said was for emergencies only–was gone.

There was no note, no message, not even a scribbled post-it on the fridge, there was just absence.

When Yelena and the rest of the team made the discovery Bob hadn’t been far. He was slouched on the couch in the living room staring at the same page of a book he hadn’t turned in hours. Bucky had rushed down the hall to find him, but he said nothing–he just looked at him with eyes that already held grief–and Bob followed, silent and pale, like he already knew something dire happened.

When he reached your room, he stopped mid-step in the doorway and didn’t breathe for almost a minute. He didn’t speak, nor did he blink. He just stared at the spot where your boots used to sit–lined up perfectly, always tucked against the wall. They were gone. Just like you.

The physical absence of you was worse than anything Bob could have imagined, because it didn’t just feel like you were gone–it felt like the world had been cracked open and left gaping. Like something that was sacred to him had been plucked out of the air and now everything around him was too loud and too quiet all at the same time. The light didn’t fall the same way through the windows, and the hallways felt longer…Even the sky looked wrong to him.

He began to spiral.

Not all at once. Not in a way anyone could fix. But in slow, shattering increments that no one could stop.

He started locking his door.

Stopped replying to messages unless it was mission-critical.

He wouldn’t eat unless someone left something at his door and walked away without speaking. He barely slept. And when he did, he didn’t dream. Not anymore. The golden fields were gone. So was the version of you who smiled and reached for him.

Now there was only blackness. Still. Silent.

And Bob cried when he thought no one could hear. He curled up on the floor of his bathroom or curled into the corner of his bed with his face pressed to the hoodie you left behind in your room. He had held it like it might still carry the shape of you if he clung hard enough. But the sweet scent of you had already begun to fade. Then on top of all that, that’s when the dreams ceased to exist.

He kept trying to stay busy. He organized his books, then destroyed the order and started again. He wrote down a list of things he wanted to say to you if he ever saw you again, then tore the page to pieces before he finished the last line. He tried to bake a cake, but he burned it. Then dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor and sobbed so hard Bucky had to pull him away from the smoke and extinguish the flames.

Nobody knew what to do, not even Alexei.

Walker offered to spar with him–Bob declined without meeting his eyes.

Ava left a stack of research papers on alternative power-dampening tech outside his door, and he didn’t open them.

Bucky was able to sit with him in silence but that didn’t help.

And Yelena kept checking gate logs, just in case you showed up, but nothing came. There were no messages, no information, and no you.

That was until one night, four weeks after your disappearance.

It was just past midnight when Yelena’s phone rang. She was in the kitchen, again, this time she was going through security footage of the 24 hours before and after you went missing.

The number that flashed across her screen was unrecognizable–no name, no contact photo. Just a block of jumbled numbers. It was the kind of number you didn’t reply to unless you were expecting to receive bad news. She almost let it go to voicemail…But something in her gut twisted, like her instincts were screaming for her to do the complete opposite of what a normal person would do.

So she answered.

”Hello?” There was silence on the other end for a beat or two, and then that’s when she heard it.

“Yelena…Please don’t hang up.” You said quietly. Yelena’s whole body locked up instantly. She didn’t say your name, she was too shocked to. For a second, she thought she was dreaming–hallucinating maybe. She had been losing sleep over your whereabouts, and she assumed that maybe it had finally splintered into pure delusion…But she knew your voice well enough, and she knew that wasn’t the case.

”Where the fuck are you?” She asked, voice low and trembling with rage. She tried to keep quiet, not wanting to garner attention from the other teammates, knowing that there was a possibility you would hang up if you heard anyone else’s voice apart from hers.

”I can’t tell you that,” You said softly, “I’m…I’m not trying to make this worse. I just needed to hear a voice that was familiar.” Yelena closed her eyes, and gripped the counter so tightly her knuckles went white.

”You left. You ran off. You didn’t leave a note, and you didn’t say goodbye…And now you call acting like you didn’t do anything wrong. How could you be so stupid Y/N?” There was silence on the other end for a moment, before she heard a sigh.

”I know what I did was wrong…And I’m sorry Lena…” There was a rustling sound, like you were outside. Wind moved through the line, maybe it was the shaking of trees or it was gravel crunching under your foot. It was distant, and soft, but it certainly wasn’t local, Yelena could tell.

“I found something,” You started, “A group out east. They call it ‘Second Light'.’ It’s this…Rehabilitation program for powered individuals with high-level threat classifications. It’s off the grid in upstate Maine, near Camden, hidden in the woods…” Yelena didn’t say anything, she just sat in silence.

”They don’t promise to fix you…They just promise to help you understand yourself. I don’t even know what I’m hoping for…I just–I wanted to be somewhere I couldn’t hurt anyone.” You added, and Yelena could feel the venom rising in her throat.

”Well it’s too late for that Y/N.”

“I know.” You responded.

”You should’ve told us…You should’ve told him.” There was a pause, and then your breath shook.

“How is he?” Yelena nearly laughed. It was a sharp, dry sound with no humor behind it, and she stood up from her seat and began walking around the kitchen with her eyes closed.

”How do you think he’s doing? He’s not eating, he’s not sleeping. I don’t think he’s seen the sky in four fucking weeks Y/N. Does that give you an answer? Or do you want more details?” Yelena’s voice was sharp, cracking around the edges. Her fury wasn’t clean. It was jagged, wrapped in grief. And for a moment, all she could hear on the other end of the line was your breath–shallow, shaky, like you were trying not to fall apart.

And then came the sound. A sniffle, quick and broken.

”It’s not like I don’t miss him, Lena.” Your voice dropped to a whisper full of splinters, “I miss him with all my fucking heart. Every second. Every breath. Every time I try to fall asleep, I remember he’s not down the hall from me. But you don’t know what that’s like…You don’t understand what it’s like to be around someone that you have such intense feelings for and you can’t touch them. You can’t feel them…You can’t hold onto them. You’ll never understand what it’s like to not be able to hold the person you–“ You cut yourself off with a breath that shook so hard it cracked through the receiver, as you tried to compose yourself with a shaky breath.

”I’m doing this because I want to live a normal fucking life with him one day…I want to wake up next to him and not worry that I’ll kill him if I roll the wrong way. I want to be able to hold his hand…To kiss him…Without thinking or being cautious.” Yelena’s back hit the fridge, and she slid down it, the cool metal biting her skin.

”Then why didn’t you tell him any of this?” She hissed, “Why didn’t you give him a chance to understand? Why did you push him away when we were at the cabin?” You exhaled so softly, it barely registered over the line. When you finally spoke, your voice was wrecked.

”Because he would’ve given himself up to be with me…He would’ve let go of who he was, and he would’ve tried to let the Sentry take over completely–just so he could be close to me. He would’ve burned himself to glow brighter, and I couldn’t ask that of him, I wouldn’t survive knowing I let him sacrifice the parts of himself that were still healing just to feel my skin.” Yelena’s breath hitched, but she didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need to. You were unraveling now, bleeding truth down the phone line, the confession clattering like shattered glass between you both.

“Bob is…Fragile. Not weak, but fragile, Lena. He’s been holding himself together with trembling hands since the day we took him in, and I saw it in his eyes…That night on the porch–I felt it. He would’ve said yes to anything. He would’ve given up being Bob just to be mine.” You swallowed, hard. Your voice thinned into a whisper, “And I want him…God, I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But not at the cost of who he is.” Yelena leaned forward, elbows digging into her knees, fist pressed against her mouth as her heart broke in slow motion.

“You think he’s better off now?” She asked, “You think he’s safe because you’re gone? He’s not. He’s broken and he’s slipping, and we are all struggling to catch him right now.”

“I know,” You whispered, “I know I made it worse, but I’m trying to be strong for him in the only way I can…I’m doing this so that when I come back I can give to him all the things I’ve been starving to give…” Your voice cracked again, the final words hitting like a stone dropped into water. Yelena clutched the phone tighter, her voice finally softening–but not with forgiveness. Just with desperation.

“Can you at least talk to him, Y/N?” She whispered. “Can you give him anything to pull him out of the hole he’s in? Please.”

The word landed like a bruise–please–because Yelena didn’t beg. She didn’t plead. And now here she was, curled against the refrigerator, voice raw and trembling with the effort of trying to hold up what little was left of you both. There was a pause on your end. Long. Heavy. The only sound was wind brushing across the mic and the faint static of distance. You swallowed so quietly Yelena could hear it through the line.

“…You can give him this number,” You said finally. “Tell him he doesn’t have to call. He doesn’t owe me that. But if he ever wants to…If he ever needs to…” Your voice broke, but you pushed through it anyway. “…I’ll answer. No matter what time it is. No matter where I am. I’ll pick up.”

Yelena pressed her eyes shut, nodding even though you couldn’t see it. Her throat tightened.

“I’ll tell him,” She said.

“Thank you,” You murmured. “And Lena?”

“Yeah?”

“…Just…Stay near him. Please. I know he won’t ask for help, but–don’t let him drown.” Yelena bit her lip so hard she drew blood, holding back the swell in her chest.

“I’m trying,” She said quietly. “But he needs you, not me.”

A breath caught in your throat, and before you could say anything Yelena hung up. She sat still for a long moment, with the phone cradled against her chest. Her eyes stung, and her heart ached in places she had not known could ache like that.

She sat at the kitchen table, lit only by the dim under-cabinet lights, scribbling your number onto the back of a takeout menu–then rewriting it again, neatly this time, onto the inside of a folded notepad page. She stared at it for a while. Ran her fingers over the ink like she could steady herself with the pressure of its presence. Then she stood.

Bob’s door was cracked open when she got there.

Not locked like it had been for days. Just…Barely open, as if he didn’t have the energy to close it anymore.

She knocked once, soft.

He didn’t respond.

“Bob?” she said gently, peeking in.

The room was dim and still. Bob sat at the foot of his bed in a sweatshirt that hung loose on his frame, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers twisted together like they were trying to keep him tethered. He looked up slowly, bleary-eyed and distant. Like the world was a radio station he couldn’t quite tune into.

Yelena stepped inside and crouched down in front of him. She didn’t sit. Didn’t linger. Just held out the piece of paper.

He looked at it like it was something sacred. Something terrifying.

“She called,” Yelena said quietly.

His eyes snapped to hers.

“She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s in some place called Second Light. It’s in Maine–rehab for powered individuals, off-grid.” Her voice stayed level, but it cracked once around the edges. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His chest was rising fast and shallow, like breathing had suddenly become difficult.

“She didn’t ask me to convince you of anything,” Yelena added, pressing the paper into his hand. “But she said…If you ever wanted to talk. She’d pick up. No matter what.”

Bob took the paper like it might fall apart if he held it too tight. His thumb smudged the edge. He stared at the numbers. Silent. Pale.

Yelena didn’t wait for his decision.

She just reached out, squeezed his shoulder once, and stood.

“Whatever you do,” She said softly, “Do it for you. Not for anyone else.”

Then she walked out and closed the door behind her.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bob sat frozen for a moment. Then, with shaking fingers, he reached for his phone, and typed in the number. His thumb hovered over the call button for a split second, before he pressed it and brought the speaker to his ear.

The line rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then–

“Hello?” Your voice broke like dawn through fog–quiet, breath-warmed, and raw with the kind of vulnerability that only comes when you’re bracing for impact.

Bob froze.

Not just his hands, or his breath–but in his soul…Something inside him went utterly still. It wasn’t peace, not quite. But it was close. Like that first inhale after you’ve been drowning, the way your lungs tremble under the relief.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked so hard on your name it didn’t even sound like him. The syllables were hoarse, wrecked, like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks–because they had.

There was a pause on the line. One breath. Two.

Then–

“Bob…” Your voice softened into something that sounded like disbelief. Breathless and aching. His name came out of your mouth like a secret you’d been holding too long. Like a prayer you weren’t sure would ever be answered. His eyes shut tightly. A tremor ran through his shoulders.

“I didn’t know if you’d call,” You whispered. He could hear the wind behind you, faint but constant, like you were standing just outside somewhere. Alone.

“I didn’t know if you’d pick up,” Bob said. You both went quiet again. Not the kind of silence that hurts, but the kind that trembles between two people who have too much to say and no idea where to start.

“I…” Bob swallowed, and it was audible through the line. “A-Are you okay?” The words slipped out fast, heavy with concern.

“I’m okay…I promise. I’m not in any danger…I…I just couldn’t keep hurting you by staying.”

“Y-You weren’t hurting me,” Bob said quietly. “But…You hurt me when you left.” There was a crackle of static across the line, but neither of you moved to fill it. It stretched for several heartbeats–full of words unsaid, grief unspoken.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, and it nearly crushed him. “I should’ve told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye. But I knew if I looked at you… I wouldn’t be able to go.”

Bob closed his eyes. His free hand trembled in his lap, clutching the paper Yelena had given him so tightly it had begun to wrinkle. He pressed the phone harder to his ear, as if doing so could make you physically closer.

“Why didn’t you let me help you?”

“Because you already carry too much,” You breathed. “Because I’ve seen what happens when people ask you to bear more than you should. And I couldn’t be the thing that pushed you over the edge. I couldn’t be the reason the Sentry came back.”

“You wouldn’t have been,” He said immediately, desperate. “And you never will be. The only time I ever felt like I could hold myself together was when I was near you.” You let out a shaky breath.

”Bob…”

”Please tell me you’ll come home…” He interrupted before you could continue. There was a pause and he swore he could hear your heartbeat through the speaker.

”I don’t have a date yet,” You said, quiet and trembling, “But when I do…I promise I’ll tell you first.” Bob pressed a hand to his chest, like he could soothe the ache under his ribs with sheer pressure.

“O-Okay…” There was a pause, and Bob heard another gust of wind blow by the speaker/

“I miss you…” He added, voice small. You didn’t answer right away. But when you did, he could hear the sorrow behind your words.

“I miss you too, Bob. I think about you all the time. You’re…Everywhere. In the little things. I can’t even make tea without hearing your voice in my head asking if I want honey in it.” You laughed under your breath, but it broke halfway through. “God, I missed your voice so much…” He dropped his head, let his eyes squeeze shut.

“I haven’t dreamed of you since you left.”

There was a long pause.

“Not once?” You asked, and the tremble in your voice fractured him. He shook his head even though you couldn’t see it.

“No more fields. No more sunlight. Not even your name. Just…Nothing. It’s like you got pulled out of the part of me that knew how to dream.”You were silent for a long time. When you spoke again, it sounded like you were holding back tears.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered. “That’s not what I wanted. That’s not what this was supposed to feel like. I thought I was protecting you.”

“I know,” He replied softly. “And maybe you were. But it still feels like someone carved the color out of the world.” You let out a breath that caught halfway up your chest.

“I still see you, Bob. In my sleep. Every night. You’re always there. Reading. Smiling. Saying my name like it means something.”

“It does mean something,” He said, sudden and sure. “It means everything to me.” You both fell quiet again, but the line didn’t feel empty–it felt like it was being held between you, like a thread stretched across distance.

“I should let you sleep,” You said eventually. “It’s late.”

“I don’t really sleep,” He admitted. “Not lately.”

“Still…I’ll be here tomorrow.” Bob nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Okay. I’ll call.”

“I’ll pick up.”

There was a pause. A heartbeat. A thousand things unsaid in the silence.

“Goodnight, Bob.”

His voice broke on the answer. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

The line went dead, but he didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there on the edge of the bed with the paper still in his hand, and the phone pressed to his chest–like he could keep the warmth of your voice inside him a little longer. Like maybe if he held still enough, he could start dreaming again.

———Three Months Later———

The sun was sinking low on the horizon as you pulled into the backlot of the compound.

It had been ninety-one days, and every single one was spent counting down to this.

You had put in the work, you had done every single activity Second Light gave to you. They helped unravel the mental block that was inhibiting you from containing your powers properly, they gave you techniques on how to control everything, and own it rather than have it own you. It took a lot of time, but when you were finally able to get the courage to touch one of the counselors without fear of hurting them, you cried for hours.

The tires crunched over the gravel, and your hands–steady, and sure–tightened around the wheel as you brought the car to a stop in your old spot. Your heart pounded so loud it echoed in your ears. You hadn’t told anyone else the exact time you’d be arriving. Just Bob. And when you looked up toward the main doors–there he was.

Bob stood perfectly still at the top of the steps, hands clutched at his sides like he didn’t trust them not to tremble. His eyes were wide, too-bright in the low golden light, and his mouth was slightly open, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. His sweatshirt looked too big on him again, sleeves bunched at the wrists, and his hair was messy like he’d been pacing with his hands dragging through it all day. He hadn’t moved an inch. Not until you flung the door open.

You slammed it behind you and ran.

Hard, fast, and unthinking–like you had been holding yourself back for too long and couldn’t wait one more second. The sound of your boots echoed over the concrete of the backlot, and Bob descended the steps just as you reached them. Your arms collided first, wrapping around his shoulders, and his hands caught your waist so firmly it made your knees buckle. The impact knocked a breath out of both of you.

“Bob,” You gasped against his neck.

“God–” His voice cracked as his arms crushed you closer, one hand at your lower back, the other gripping the back of your jacket like if he let go, the ground might fall out from under him. “I-I missed you–I missed you so bad.”

You buried your face into his shoulder, and his chest was warm and alive beneath your cheek. No gloves. No hesitation. Just contact–real, and grounded, aching with every second lost and every second recovered.

When you finally pulled back–just enough to see him–your hands slid up his chest, slow and reverent. You cradled his face between your palms, thumbs brushing the smooth apples of his cheeks, and he leaned into the touch with a breathless noise that tore straight from his chest. His stubble was warm and soft beneath your fingers, the bone beneath solid and familiar.

“You feel…” You whispered, eyes searching his face like a map you’d only ever been allowed to look at from a distance. “God, you feel real.”

Bob’s eyes shimmered. He lifted one trembling hand to wrap gently around your wrist, and with aching care, he turned your palm inward and pressed a kiss to it.

His lips lingered there. Like he didn’t just want to kiss you–he wanted to memorize the pulse beneath your skin. His breath hitched as he pulled away just enough to whisper against your fingers:

“I-I’ve been looking forward to this…For ninety-one d-days…” You swallowed hard, feeling the limp in your throat.

“I kept dreaming about what it would feel like to touch you. And when I realized I could–I knew the first person I ever wanted to hold like this again…Was you.” You whispered.

He looked at you like you hung constellations in his chest.

And then he leaned in.

It was slow at first, but when your eyes fluttered shut, and your breath ghosted over his lips, he immediately closed the gap and kissed you.

It was soft. So soft it nearly broke you.

Mouths brushing, lips catching, breath mingling between one shared heartbeat. His hand slid up to cup your jaw as yours clutched the front of his sweatshirt, and the kiss deepened with a quiet, desperate sound from his chest. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was everything you had both been waiting for.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and your breaths came in tandem–shaky, trembling, full of something holy.

You stayed wrapped in that shared breath, forehead to forehead, the weight of absence melting between your bodies. His thumb brushed along your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. You laughed softly under your breath–shaky and overwhelmed–as your hands slid into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck just to feel more of him.

Bob pulled back a few inches, just enough to look at you.

And he looked. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face, like you might disappear if he blinked. His lips were parted, breath still coming in short little exhales, and his eyes looked like they were drowning in stars.

“I need to kiss you again,” He said, voice low, like a prayer barely surviving in his throat. “Please.”

You nodded and this time he didn’t hesitate.

This kiss was different.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t soft.

It was everything.

He kissed you like you were the gravity keeping him on the ground, like he had been dreaming of your mouth every single night and was now trying to make up for every one he had woken from aching. It was unsteady, raw, and filled with three months worth of longing that was unspoken through trembling phone calls and sleepless nights.

You whimpered into it, gripping his sweatshirt like a rope as he backed you up toward the concrete wall until your spine met the coolness of it. His hand slid up the side of your body, careful, reverent, his palm finally resting over your heart.

And when he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hitched–then stilled.

“I–I love you,” He said.

It broke like thunder between you, cracking the silence with truth too big to hold back any longer. “I love you,” He repeated, as if saying it once couldn’t possibly be enough.

“I love you, and I never stopped. Not for a single second. I didn’t know how to say it before you left, but I said it every time I closed my eyes. Every time I picked up the phone. I was afraid it would hurt you to hear it–but not saying it hurt more.”

Tears welled again, catching the glow of the fading sun, and you cupped his face tighter, your thumbs brushing the wet beneath his lashes.

“You just said it perfectly,” You whispered. “You said everything.”

And then your voice broke–just a little. Because this time, it wasn’t from pain. It was from something fuller. Heavier. Brighter.

“I love you too, Bob. I think I’ve loved you from the start–I just didn’t know what to do with something that big. But I’m not afraid of it anymore. I’m not afraid of touching you. I’m not afraid of myself. Not if it means I get to have you.”

His breath caught, and he leaned in again–gentler this time. His lips brushed yours in a kiss that felt more like a vow. Slow. Sure. Infinite.

Around you, the backlot was quiet. The last of the sun slipped below the skyline, casting everything in a golden afterglow that made the world feel suspended–like time itself had paused just to bear witness. And when Bob pulled back again, smiling for the first time in what felt like years, he whispered,

“W-Welcome home..”

You smiled back, radiant through your tears, and took his hand.

“Take me inside,” You said. “I want to start over. Right here. With you.”

And together, under the weight of everything that had brought you back, you walked into the compound hand in hand.

Like nothing had ever broken.

Like everything had always led to this.

——LE FIN——

[astroellies]

imgonnagetyouback (prologue)

chapter one here!

ellie williams x reader

moving somewhere new was never easy. especially in the apocalypse. and especially when you think your crush despises you.

warnings! villianization of cat (i’m sorry). ellie and reader are around 16 in the flashbacks, 18 in the present day. loser reader. loser ellie. miscommunication trope. useless lesbians. slight rivals to lovers. substance/alcohol use. this is kinda just background.

TWO YEARS PRIOR

your parents had been saying for weeks that jackson was finally getting close.

weeks of ten hour hikes, followed by sleeping bags and hard ground or moldy mattresses. weeks of hunting for your meals and eating them burnt. weeks of soggy socks and mosquito bites.

when your parents had heard about the possibility of refuge they didn’t put much thought into leaving the qz. they packed you and your stuff and headed towards wyoming.

what they didn’t think about was the absolute shit show that would stop them from completing their journey.

hordes and infection took them out. now you were left, alone and helpless with no idea where the fuck you were.

a week ago you had manage to find a supermarket to hideout in to sob into your hands and accept death. your food and water supply were nearly depleted. days were getting colder, even if you found game to hunt and a water source you couldn’t fight off the cold with just the clothes on your back.

you curled into the fetal position in a corner of the building. wallowing in self pity and grief, you had no way of getting yourself out of this one, so you cried again.

light muffled voices came from outside of the building and you froze. you strained your ears but couldn’t make out what the voices were saying. you weighed your options, do you reveal yourself and beg for help? or stay put? what if they were enslavers looking for more workers? your mother had told you about large groups that forced their captured to work to the death.

you decided the the latter. you held your breath as the voices got closer. you heard a thud against the boarded off doors to the store. then another and the doors gave way.

“see, ellie, i told you that would work.”

“yeah, yeah. just check for supplies, tommy is gonna to be pissed if we’re not back soon.”

from your spot you couldn’t see the the speakers of the voices. both girls. they sounded young, your age.

“mmm but i like being alone with you.” said the first girl. you could heard the voice drop, low and sultry. gross.

the footsteps closer to you now. you swallowed hard, trying your hardest not to move.

the second girl half scoffed, half chuckled, “seriously, cat, we need to get back so-” the voice cuts as the girl rounded the corner and made eye contact with you.

she clearly wasn’t expecting anyone, infected or otherwise, in here. she has a baby face, cheeks still round and wide green eyes. her chest rises and falls in quick breaths, trying to see if you’ll attack. you stay curled up on the ground.

“ellie you okay?” the first voice gets hers closer then comes up behind the girl, ellie, and says, “oh fuck.”

“i’m not infected!” you say, panicking. they have guns and you really, really don’t want them to shoot. “i- i can prove it!” you’re pulling your clothing to show them you’re clean.

“ellie, what do we do?” cat asks.

ellie has been staring at you the whole time, but she seems to snap out of her daze when she hears her name but doesn’t pull her gaze away from you, “uhh…we take her to tommy.”

“you alone?” she asks.

“yeah, yes.”

she nods then she raises her gun at you, but her finger isn’t on the trigger. “get up.”

you scramble, throwing your backpack over your shoulder and standing on wobbly legs.

“are you armed?” ellie asks.

“just a knife. it’s in my bag.”

“give it to me.”

you hand her the knife and she swallows. no one knows what to do next.

“um…cat you lead, i’ll…i’ll follow to make sure she doesn’t run off.”

cat nods then turns her gaze to you, looking you up and down, “this way.”

the three of you hike, you don’t know if ellie is still pointing her gun at you, but you’re too scared to look back and upset her. so you take in the girl in front of you. a teenager, she was probably a year older than you at most. she has short black hair and you can see tattoos on her arms peaking out from under her jacket.

you follow cat into the suburbs, old rickety houses and some completely collapsed. she leads you into a fenced off yard of one of the houses and you find a middle aged man and a teenage boy.

“tommy! we found a girl at the supermarket. she says she’s alone.” cat yells out.

the man, tommy, and the boy turn towards the three of you. “she hurt?” you know he isn’t just asking if you have any scrapes or bruises, the real underlying question is is she infected?

“no, she’s clean.” cat says, and looks back at you.

tommy looks at you and points with his chin. “what’re you doing out here alone?”

all the attention turns to you and you suddenly feel very small. “my parents had heard rumors about a town, jackson, somewhere out here so we fled from a qz. they uhm…they’re dead now. i was staying in the supermarket.”

all three of the teens turn to tommy, gauging his reaction.

he’s quiet for a long while then says, “jesse, grab the horses. you can come with us.”

you panic, you don’t know these people or their intentions. what if they were slavers your parents had warned you about? or raiders? or cannibals?

“what? where are we going?” you should have lied, should have told ellie you didn’t have any weapons so you could run and hide, curl into the corner of the supermarket and die.

“you’ll see.” tommy hops onto his horse and holds out a hand to pull you up. you look around and the others have all mounted their horses as well. you don’t see that you have much of a choice you you take his hand.

the group rides for a while, all you see is forest and abandon buildings and your heart is racing. who are these people? is tommy their leader?

you’re starting to feel as though they don’t know where they’re going either when you crest over a hill. in the distance a large fence closes off building from the rest of the world, and inside the walls of the fence you see lights.

“is this-”

“jackson.” tommy says, waving a flag above his head, “we don’t let many new people in. you’re lucky.”

when you entire inside the gates you stand off to the side, waiting for the group to put their horses in the stable. the town is different from anything you’ve seen before, it looks like the movies from before. kids run around the town freely and people are laughing. it’s nothing like the qz.

ellie is the first out of the stables. she approaches you from the stables and hands you your knife.

“sorry if we scared you earlier, we’re just cautious of newcomers. i’m ellie. and here’s your knife back.”

“no it’s okay! i mean, this place is fucking insane i get why you’re protective of it.” your fingers brush her palm has you take your knife and butterflies erupt in your stomach. she’s got the cutest mole under her left eye that scrunches up when she smiles.

she’s quiet, as if debating what to say, “i came here a couple years ago, if you need someone to show you the ropes let me know.”

“okay! thank you.” you feel your face warm.

“ellie, we gotta go! we’re going to be late for movie night.” cat comes out of the stables.

“sorry i have to go. i’ll see you around?” ellie says, rubbing the back of her neck.

“yeah!” you say but she’s already turned, walking towards cat. as the two walk away throws a cold look over her shoulder.

the next few months were a blur. lots of questioning from maria about how your parents had heard of jackson and what their intentions were. how they died. then assimilating you into the community. maria often partnered you with jesse, dina, ellie, or cat for patrols. she made you tag along to their hangouts, she told you they’re good kids, most of them had been in your situation once too.

A YEAR AND A HALF PRIOR

it had been six months since you arrived in jackson. winter was coming to a close and it had been gloomy for weeks with no sign of the sun coming out anytime soon.

dina sits across from you in the mess hall, picking at her bread and soup. her and jesse were on a “break” again and she wouldn’t stop talking about how he was ignoring her on group patrol today. you had stopped listening a long time ago.

“anyways! we’re having a bonfire tonight just outside the gates, you should come!”

“i dunno,” you push your heel into the ground, dina had been almost overly welcoming to you when you first arrived in town but you weren’t sure of the others. it just felt like you were bugging them when you tagged along. “who’s gonna be there?”

she lists off people on her fingers, “me, of course, jesse,” she rolls her eyes but continues, “cat, ellie, some others”

you let out a puff of air “why do you say her name like that, dina?”

“because it’s literally so obvious you have a massive crush on her.” she says like it’s common knowledge. maybe you weren’t as subtle as you thought.

“i do not!” you feel your face heat up and you hide your head in your hands.

dina laughs, “yes, you fucking do! you actually listen to me when i talk about her!”

“ugh stoppp. i don’t!” you whine.

she just gives you a look.

“i don’t!” it’s a lie and you know it but you couldn’t handle dina teasing you in front of ellie or the others.

“i’m serious, though. you should come,”

you sigh, “fine, i’ll go.”

that night after dark you meet up with everyone at the northern gates.

nights were still frigid, you pull your coat tighter around you.

“is this everyone?” you ask dina.

“yeah. anddd i stuck into the tipsy bison to get us something to keep us warm.” she winks and pulls the top of a bottle from her back.

“dina! we’ll be in so much trouble if we get caught!” you look around to make sure no house lights turn on.

“we won’t! ellie and i used to throw full on parties at a campground a few miles south. this is nothing.”

you give her a pointed look and wait for jesse to finish opening the gate.

the group makes a hike into a spot on a lake just outside of jackson. there is already a pit for the fire and jesse and ellie get started on lighting it. ellie’s got her hair back in a low bun, pieces around her face falling out. her cheeks and nose are rosy from the cold.

her eyes glow with the light from the sparks, “got it!”

you end up perched on a log between dina and ellie.

“dee, you got any on you?” ellie asks.

“only if you say please.” dina says, already reaching into her bag.

“pleaseee.” ellie flutters her lashes dramatically.

“eugene rolled it and everything.” ellie reaches across your body for the joint, as she retracts her arm it brushes against you and you hope no one notices you freeze up in the dark.

ellie takes lights it then takes a hit, “ah, i was wondering why it looked so nice. you always fuck it up.”

“i do not!”

you giggle and shake your head. the two fought like sisters.

dina pushes you with her shoulder, “you smoke?”

“uh, no i don’t…i haven’t before.”

“oh my god are you serious? do you want to?”

“i guess…i’ve just never had the chance to.”

ellie plucks the blunt from cat’s hand as she brought it towards her own mouth.

“ellie!” she yelps, annoyed.

“cat she’s never smoked before, let her take a hit.”

you look at ellie’s outstretched hand and up at her eyes. she gives you a playful squint, almost daring you to take it from her.

you slowly bring the joint to your lips and suck in but the smoke gets stuck in your throat and you cough so hard your eyes fill with tears. “what the fuck!”

everyone laughs. everyone except for cat, who stares you down. her eyes flicker between you and ellie and lock on yours. you turn away, her gaze too intense.

jesse throws you a bottle of water, “take in easy.”

the rest of the night is filled with giggles. dina shares stories of how joel walked in on her and ellie hotboxing ellie’s garage.

jesse checks his watch, “i hate to be a downer but it’s getting late and some people have patrol in the morning.” he looks at ellie and cat.

“yeah, yeah grandpa, we can head back now.” ellie grumbled.

the group disperses while ellie and jesse take care of the fire and dina picks up her bottles. you stand off to the side, facing jackson, waiting for dina to come back. you hear footsteps approach and look to find cat. she stands next to you, facing out towards the town.

“hey.” you say, giving her a close mouthed smile.

“hi.” she crosses her arms over her body, mirroring your own posture.

“tonight was fun.” you feel a bit awkward, she’s lingering but her presence isn’t comforting like dina or ellie’s.

“mhm.” she turns to look at you and leans in, “just so you know, you’ve been making ellie really uncomfortable with you staring problem but she’s too nice to say anything about it.”

you feel your heart drop down to your ass. you didn’t think she had even noticed your glances, let alone be upset by them.

“what? i had no idea, should i apologize?” you look behind you, ellie’s laughing and shoving jesse away, playfully calling him a dick.

“no, but i’d really appreciate if you stayed the fuck away from my girlfriend.” she says in and overly sweet tone. she looks back to the others.

“guys c’mon it’s late!” she says, already making her way back towards jackson.

ellie rushes to cat’s side and gives her a kiss. you try not to flush with embarrassment, you didn’t mean to upset her.

dina falls into step with you. “you okay?”

“what? yeah.” you laugh, it sounds forced and unnatural, “just tired.”

she side eyes you, “okay, weirdo.”

[dannyriccsystem]

HI ZIZI (Cani call u that????) ITS ME AGAIN!

I NEED A FIC ABOUT MY BBY ྀིྀ BOY ྀིྀི OLLIE ྀིྀི

Where there’s like a big size difference and a year age and since he just turned 20 it can be about birthday fun (wink wink) (😏)

OKAY LOVE UR STUFF

Buy bye

IT’S YO BIRTHDAY SO I KNOW YOU WANT TO RIDE OUT!

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

SUMMARY: Birthday sex for the birthday boy 👀

WORD COUNT: 1.1K

WARNINGS: Smut, P in V, frosting play if you really squint, just kidding you don’t have to squint it’s obvious, sex on the counter. they get freakay on the b-day.

FEATURING: Oliver Bearman x Reader

NOTE: MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOWWWW. I don’t know what’s up with me I think I’m ovulating y’all

AND YES! You can call me whateva….. Z isn’t even an official name I just gave it to myself so you guys would have SOMETHING to call me. Z for Zone…. My real name starts with D but I fear I don’t want you guys calling me that 😩

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY OLLIE,” YOU GRINNED as you slid the knife into the cake, cutting the small delicacy in half. It was one of those small cakes you can buy from the grocery store, fit for just the two of you. Of course you lit the candles for him, sang the song—the whole nine yards, but after the traditional ceremonies, it was finally time to enjoy.

“Thank you my sweet,” Ollie giggled, pressing a cheeky little kiss to your lips. He took a fork, shoving it into the spongy texture of the cake. Vanilla with raspberry filling, just like he loved. Ollie brought the fork up to your lips, his mouth falling agape. “Ahh.”

You mimicked him, letting your mouth fall open. He pushed the small bite of cake into your mouth, watching with an intense gaze as your pretty lips wrapped around the metal of the fork, tongue darting out to wipe away some of the frosting that coated the surface of your mouth. He reached out without even thinking about it, his thumb brushing against you to wipe the remaining crumbs away.

“There you go,” He whispered, his eyes locking with yours as he muttered, “good girl.”

The heat pooled between your legs instantly. You swore your knees almost buckled—if the circumstances were different, you surely would have collapsed right into his arms then and there. He didn’t even seem to take note of the effect his words had on you, he just stared at you so innocently as you finished chewing.

But now the atmosphere was different, because all you wanted was to rip his clothes off and have him take you right there. That was the proper gift after all. He ate the cake himself.

You shared another kiss, initiated by you. Oliver’s tongue darted out to swipe away some of the remaining frosting, humming at the sweet taste. When he pulled away, you pulled him back in. You could feel your own lips swelling up as he gently nipped at them, giggling into the passionate make out.

“Happy birthday,” You muttered against him. He grinned, pulling back to push his forehead against yours. Your eyes locked, his hands on your waist.

“Thank you, pretty girl.” Ollie kissed you again, his muscled hands lifting you onto the counter, sitting right beside the cake. You giggled, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them further. But before things could progress, he pulled back. “Y/N, are you sure?”

“Huh?” You tilted your head.

“Are you sure? Last time it barely fit…” He recounted the tale with slight embarrassment, his cheeks lightly flushed. It was true, he had pushed just the tip in, only to figure out that alone was enough to completely stretched your poor pussy out. The guy was fucking huge, and he didn’t even realize. He just assumed you were small.

“Yes,” You nodded shyly at the memory. Ollie laughed as he slid your pretty dress up, his eyes widening.

“No panties? This must be my present.” He ran his middle finger over your folds, pushing your back to the counter. You whined, squirming as he pushed one finger in and immediately slid it back out. “So wet, too…”

He slowly unzipped his pants, taking his time to free his cock. It was monstrous, both girthy and long. He carefully slid the mushroom-shaped tip in, groaning just at that. He began, slowly thrusting just his tip in and out with gentle whines.

“Ollie,” He stopped at your instruction, staring down at the pretty sight of you. “It’s your birthday… Use all of me.” He looked to you for assurance, and when you nodded, he slowly pushed himself as far in as he could. You leaned back, gripping the edge of the counter for support.

He shuddered, his eyes shut tight as he held onto your legs. Ollie hunched over you, his face pressed into your neck.

“I want this off,” He muttered, slowly shifting his hips whilst pawing at your dress. You shifted around, and he pulled down the zipper on the back. With both of you working to do so, you slid the dress off over your head. He reached over, scooping up some of the whipped frosting from the cake, wiping it onto your right nipple.

Before you could question what he was doing, he leaned down and wrapped his lips around the bud, his tongue licking the frosting clean off. All while his cock pounded you. He had started off so gentle, but as time progressed, Ollie began using you like you were his personal fuck toy.

“It’s so fucking tight,” He whimpered, his whole body jerking as he hunched over you, his hips moving like he wasn’t in control of them. Sweat beaded at his forehead, dripping down onto you. You pulled him down, your lips meeting in a steamy kiss. Ollie grabbed your thighs, spreading them further apart. The tip of his cock was hitting your deepest points, practically brushing against your womb. “Shit, Y/N…”

“Yeah,” You held the back of his neck with one hand. The other was resting back against the counter to keep yourself propped up. “Feel good? You like fucking my pussy?” He groaned at your words, burying his warm cheeks into your neck to hide the embarrassment. You lightly tugged on his soft curls, and he whimpered again.

“Yes,” He whined, pinning your hips down so he could really go at it. His cock pistoned in and out of you, balls slapping against your skin. “So fucking good. Best present- Ah, fuck… Ever…”

“I’m coming Ollie,” You spoke, your voice an octave higher. “I’m gonna come on your cock.”

He nodded, biting his lip. “Yes, fuck yes…” Your walls squeezed him as your orgasm washed over you. He continued thrusting, helping you ride out the sensation.

He went to pull out, but your shaky legs wrapped around his waist to lock him in. You pulled him deeper in, and he groaned as his cock twitched, spitting out its cum deep inside you. You whined, head thrown back as you laid across the counter.

“Shit,” He cursed as he slowly pulled out. He watched his cum spill from your folds onto the counter. You just giggled, struggling to keep your eyes opened.

“It’s okay,” You muttered, your tone absolutely fucked out. “I’m on the pill. Think of it as another gift.”

He stared at your hole with a curious gaze, pushing down on your tummy to make it spill out even more. You definitely didn’t have to tell him twice.

He carefully scooped your limp body up, and when you wrapped your legs around him, you could tell his excitement wasn’t quite over.

Looks like you had a long night ahead of you.

[okay-babe]

Mothering

tags: alastor x fem! reader, suggestive themes, allusions to sex, alastor and reader are married, domestic bliss, Husk and Angel are tortured by your love for each other.

It was a rather quiet morning, one that had become almost typical of the hotel in the quickly passing months, and Angel watched as, like usual, the Radio Demon began to walk swiftly from the stairwell to the front doors.

Although, this time, there was a notable interruption to the sinner's routine.

"Al, wait!"

You called in an almost panicked sounding tone, bounding down the stairs in only your night gown, an object that Angel couldn't quite make out in hand.

Immediately, Alastor halted where he stood, his neck turning before the rest of his body to watch as you rushed over to him, cheeks flushed from your run down to the lobby.

The demon raised a brow at you curiously, but with a marked lack of exasperation that must have come from that store of patience he reserved just for you, and you smiled sheepishly as you held up a small shimmering band.

"You forgot this."

You said, tone almost nervous sounding as you continued your approach in spite of the painfully obvious adoration written all over the Radio Demon's face.

Immediately, Alastor looked down toward his left hand in surprise, his eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of his barren ring finger before he looked back to you and smiled one of those gentle soft things he once again only seemed to reserve for you.

"Ah, why thank you, my dear."

He all but purred, eyes lighting up as you grew ever closer until he could finally offer his hand to you in the way you so clearly desired.

You grinned happily at the gesture and reached forward with the ring in hand as the sinner spoke up again,

"I couldn't fathom going a day without it."

You blushed at that, eyes diverting swiftly for a moment before they moved almost instinctively back to Alastor, watching his pleased expression as you slid his wedding ring back onto his waiting finger.

You stared at him for a few seconds, as if enthralled by the very vision of him in spite of the fact that you quite literally woke up to the man every morning, until finally you snapped yourself out of it with a slightly embarrassed clearing of your throat.

"Well, I'm quite sure you could manage if you had to."

You said softly, voice slightly higher in pitch than usual as your husband bent down, the already raised left side of his mouth curling upward further in an amused smirk at the sight of your pink cheeks and slightly nervous body language.

He'd had this effect on you in life as well, but it seemed he'd never tire of seeing it, even after so very long.

"Manage, certainly, but I'm not sure I would want to without the reminder of my darling wife back home."

He drawled, his now decorated left hand reaching up to palm your cheek and his eyes scanning you with a chuckle as you all but melted into his touch, always so very receptive to his affections whenever he was willing to offer them.

Suddenly though, your eyes widened, and you broke away with a gasp, your gaze shifting down to Alastor's hands only to find them empty.

"Al, did you remember to grab the organs I prepared for Rosie yesterday evening?"

You asked, immediately causing Angel and Husk over by the bar to flinch in response.

Had it been a surprise that the Radio Demon's wife was a little bit too comfortable with cannibalism? Not nearly as surprising as it was that the overlord had a wife in the first place, but still, it certainly hadn't been anticipated that you would be so handy with a boning knife.

The deer demon standing in front of you let out a soft hum of surprise before he shook his head, straightening back out to his full height with one arm crossed over the other.

"Silly me, it appears I'd nearly forgotten."

He replied, tone colored with amusement as you immediately set off toward the kitchen before the man could even finished, returning shortly thereafter with a rather large container of something your observers would rather not think too hard about.

"Well count yourself lucky I felt up to the chase this morning, beau."

You teased as you set the tub down on an end table nearby so you could approach your husband once more, straightening out his tie and fussing over his hair for a few moments as the demon simply stood still beneath your attentions, smile both amused and contented all at once.

You looked up at him after a few moments, eyes softening slightly at the sight of his expression as your hands moved to brush some invisible lint off his chest.

"You know, it isn't like you to be so forgetful, Al."

You began gently, hands working to smooth out a few barely there wrinkles in the demon's shirt.

"I'm beginning to worry that your age is getting to you."

Your tone was far too teasing to ever be misconstrued as serious as you spoke, stepping away slightly to admire your handiwork only to be stopped by a tug at your wrist as Alastor moved to pull you close once more.

"Is that so?"

He purred, tone still just as amused as before as he flipped your teasing back on you tenfold,

"Well then darling, I suppose I'll have to remind you of just how spry I can be upon my return."

His voice lowered slightly as he said this, and instantly your cheeks felt hot and your eyes widened slightly beneath your husband's heavy gaze.

Desperate to change the subject before your (rather unwelcome) background audience caught on or made any commentary, you quickly cleared your throat again before giving a nervous laugh.

"Sure thing old man, whatever you say."

You said halfheartedly, watching as the Radio Demon's eyes grew darker at your unintentional challenge.

And at that, you were quick to switch topics.

"O-oh!"

You began, eyes roving aimlessly for something else to talk about before they finally fell to the unused coat rack in the corner of the room.

"Are you sure you won't be needing a coat, Al? I'd hate for you to catch a cold..."

You said nervously, hands wringing together as your husband watched you with sheer amusement and something slightly heavier behind his eyes, his mouth opening as if to reply only for him to be cut off by a voice from another part of the room.

"Babe, I love ya and all, but this is gettin' ridiculous!"

Angel cried out in exasperation,

"We're in hell, for cryin' out loud! Yer husband is a demon overlord who owns enough souls to be considered a large business owner! He's not gonna get cold out there!"

You gave another nervous laugh in response to Angel's rambling,

"But-"

"Nu uh, no buts Toots, now say goodbye to ol' tall, dark, and creepy before you start actin' like his motha' again."

Angel interrupted, immediately causing you to let out a huff of indignation, turning around to face your friend where he sat at the bar,

"I am NOT acting like his mother."

You insisted, attitude faltering a bit when you noted the rather amused expression that your comrades were wearing, informing you that you were likely making a slight fool of yourself.

"I-I'm not..."

You trailed off quietly, cheeks warm with embarrassment even as you felt a familiar clawed hand drop down upon your shoulder in a manner that was no doubt meant to be soothing.

Though, the next words out of your husband's mouth, in spite of his actions, most certainly were not.

"Not to worry, cher."

He purred, pulling you back against him gently so you could feel the warmth of his chest upon your back and the curl of his smile against your helix, a sensation which immediately caused you to shiver.

"If they wish to see you as a mother, I will happily oblige."

Your blush deepened at that, eyes widening as you desperately tried to ignore the shocked looks of your peers in favor of trying to focus on keeping your head straight instead as Alastor stepped away once more, the casualness of his attitude a stark contrast to his previous words.

"Oh dear, would you look at the time. I really must be going."

He said, a teasing lilt to his voice that was all too easy to hear coming through as he checked his wrist for a watch he wasn't actually wearing before leaning forward to press an exaggerated kiss to your forehead.

"I'll be seeing you later, darling." He drawled with that trademark grin of his as he approached the door, one clawed hand reaching to pull it open before he finally stepped out.

That is, until a few seconds later, when his head popped back in again.

"Oh, and do keep well hydrated, dear heart! I would hate to endure a repeat of the last time you called my spryness into question."

Alastor looked far too pleased with himself as he spoke for you to even bother attempting to rebuke him, and but a moment later he was gone, off to see Rosie with a well adorned ring finger and a large container of organs in hand.

"WHAT DID HE SAY?!"

Angel cried, still clearly stuck on your husband's mothering comment from earlier as you sighed and approached the bar, an apologetic look on your face as you glanced toward Husk.

"Can I just get a water please?"

You muttered sheepishly, immediately causing the bartender to groan and bury his face in his hand, his disappointment in your immense lack of shame obvious, but truly, what else had he expected?

Had he met your husband?

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

8: pupae

No matter what form it takes, all meat looks the same. 

Swine. Sheep. Man. The fibres are all kindred—pale connective tissue, blooming red cells. Two legs or four, Simon can always mark the cuts with a single glance. Chuck, round, flank, plate—a dancing blade, flesh slicing apart, splitting open until it reveals itself and all its gorey glory. Even the scent is the same; come human or pig, the offals are just as rancid no matter the name.

It’s the only job Simon was able to pick up after being discharged. Trading his gun for a knife only made sense. Being a butcher isn’t too different from being a soldier, and even after all his time spent away from the craft, his hands still have each cut memorized. Everything smells the same, just with less gun powder. When things get too quiet, he turns on the radio and cranks it up until the crackling voices sound like barking commands given over a shotty earpiece. 

The order is comforting. When 17:00 stares down at him from the analogue clock hung high over his head, he gets to put everything in its place. Cold, coagulated blood washed down the sink, stainless steel turning pink, knives sharpened and honed until he’s able to store them on the magnetic rack above the chopping block. When he suds up his hands—antibacterial soap stripping his skin until it’s dry and cracking—he nearly misses the redolence of death that he’s grown so fond of. 

As he locks up the shop and wanders towards his car with a cigarette pressed to his lips, Simon thinks about how he never really needed this job. Between his disability payments from his time in the service, and his offshore accounts, he could vanish. Slip deep into the woods where no one would hound him. Just him and the flies for company. 

Though, if he is going to take care of you and his child, the extra money won’t hurt. 

“Ghost.” 

There’s someone leaning against the driver’s door to his car. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, navy jacket stretching over his shoulders—it’s been a long time since Simon’s seen the fellow before him and the russet eyes and telltale scar on his cheek that creases with the brassy smirk on his lips. 

“Gonna scratch my paint, Gaz,” Simon grunts through his nicotine haze. 

“Right, sorry,” Kyle says with a chuckle. The man gently pushes himself away from the car with a quiet wince. Simon isn’t blind to the off kilter limp in his gait. 

“You broken?” he asks bluntly. 

Kyle dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Temporary medical leave.”

“Reckon your back isn’t treatin’ you too kindly after all the shit you’ve put it through.” 

“No sir.” 

Though his cigarette is only half finished, Simon tosses it to the ground where it sputters on the asphalt for a short moment before he smothers it with the toe of his boot. The flickering embers make him hungry. 

“Here for a tour?” Simon questions bluntly. 

“I’d rather a drink,” Kyle quips. 

He thinks it over for a moment. There’s this thought of you that lurks at the base of his skull for all hours of the day—waking and unconscious. You. Ever rounder with his child, you’re probably home by now having thrown yourself on the couch or into bed, groaning over your hips and swelling feet. His teeth hurt at the thought, and his hands itch to return to you, but as he stares at Kyle, he thinks he can pretend to be human for at least a little while. 

The pub is just the same as all the other times they’ve gone out for drinks. That forever lingering scent of smoke taints every pore in the walls and ceiling, souring the hoppy beer and fresh chips, but it doesn’t turn either of them off from grabbing a seat. Kyle slinks into his chair slowly with his palms flat on the table before he falls back into the seat with a strained grunt. Simon can’t help but chuckle. 

“Yeah, real funny,” Kyle murmurs. 

“Just wait ‘til you’re my age,” he hums. 

“What, thirty-eight going on fifty?” 

“Somethin’ like that.” 

Both men sip on the pint glasses in their hands while the sconce lazily flickers overhead. The wooden table beneath Simon’s elbows is in desperate need of a good clean. His jumper sticks to the top, and the scratch marks threaten to leave splinters in his forearms if he makes any sudden movements. 

“Settling into civi life alright?” Kyle asks after a short stretch of silence. 

Simon eyes the man carefully; studies every inch of his face. The concern is real, but the verbiage isn’t his. “Ol’ skipper worried ‘bout me?” 

“Of course he is,” Kyle shrugs. 

“Can take the man out of the military…” The rim is cold against Simon’s lips as he takes a sip, thin layer of foam breaking over his tongue until the amber liquid washes down his throat with a gulp. “Thing’s are fine.” 

Kyle smirks. “Never been one for details.” 

“Only the important ones.” 

The laughter is tight in Kyle’s throat, and Simon can’t tell if it’s from the discomfort of pain or his gauche company. He’s always been a rough man. Hardly agreeable. Built for one thing, and it certainly isn’t for being a gracious host or a model citizen. 

“But really,” Kyle pushes. “I mean, after everything. Makarov and Soap… I guess worried might be a bit of an understatement. You might not be active duty anymore, but Price still considers you one of his men. We all do.” 

All. He says the word as if there’s any more than a small handful of members who aren’t corpses in the ground buried too far out of reach. Kyle, Price, Laswell; and who else? Not Soap. Not his Johnny. Still, he has a trail to diverge. A scent to cover. 

“I work. I sleep well. I eat. I’m gettin’ there, Gaz.” Not too perfect that it’s faux, but blunt enough to be from his mouth all the same. 

Kyle nods as his eyes study his face. He gazes deep at every scar that mars his features, the creases in the corners of his eyes, the puffy texture of his skin. A war torn, battle scarred man. Something so rigid in a world of softness—sharp edges waiting to puncture and wound. 

Still, it’s enough to muddy Kyle’s senses for now. “Glad to hear it.” 

Neither of them linger for long. Between Kyle’s injury and Simon’s intense distaste for most social interaction these days, the two men wander up to the front with their wallets drawn to pay for their tabs. The cash is flimsy between Simon’s fingers as he relinquishes it, watching the notes flutter onto the counter, but the only tangible thing he can keep his mind on is you. 

His skin itches. Unrestrained want slithers beneath his skin, bloating him as it wraps around his organs, his bones, his throat. A desire of the most primal instinct. To keep. To protect. 

“Holy shit.” Kyle’s exclamation is near breathless. It draws Simon’s attention, and his hairs stand on end when he realizes the man isn’t looking at him. Blinking, Kyle gestures to his wallet. “Congrats, man.” 

That’s when Simon remembers the sonogram. Delicate black and white film is shoved carefully into the ID slot in his wallet, displaying his child with pride. Still forming limbs, curled towards the torso, head bent forward as if swaddled. He runs a thumb over the plastic before humming. 

“How far along?” Kyle prompts. 

“Almost six months,” Simon says after a short moment of consideration. 

This is the first time he’s discussed the baby with anyone other than you. Otherwise, it’s been kept a secret inside of him. A jittering truth fluttering in his chest, tightening every muscle in his body until his desires bear fruit. 

“Do you know the gender?” 

Slowly, Simon begins to fold his wallet, carefully creasing the leather so as to not blemish the sonogram; one of the instances of proof of his baby. Still, he cannot deny the pride that purrs in his stomach. 

“A boy.” 

The drive home is quick. Heavy foot on the pedal, streets speeding by—it isn’t long before he’s trekking through the door. Though enervation nips at his heels from a long day on his feet, all that weariness vanishes when he finds you in the living room. 

You have a harder time curling up these days, so instead of your legs being tucked underneath you, they spread straight out while your feet rest on the floor. A blanket drapes over your lap as you lazily watch whatever programme is droning on the television, but your eyes light up once his heavy steps break into the room. 

“Simon!” you exclaim. “Come here!” 

He’s trained you well over these last few weeks. You’re more dependent on him. Less likely to push down your feelings and hide away. Instead, you come to him with wet eyes and outstretched fingers, ready to fall into him, ready to let him kiss everything away until it’s numb. Just as you ought to. 

Following your request, he sits beside you on the couch and it isn’t long before you’re snatching his hands into yours. Placing his palms flat on your stomach, you rest your touch on top of him, buzzing as you scoot closer to him. 

“He’s been really active today,” you inform with poorly hidden glee. 

And you’re right. Simon feels him right away—the movement. The fluttering kicks against your womb and how it displaces your stomach. He can’t hide the way a smirk pulls at his lips as he presses harder, desperate to feel every morsel of movement his son will give him. 

“Quite the kicker,” Simon hums. 

“It’s fun until he lands one against my ribs,” you tease. 

Smirking, Simon bends forward low enough until his lips brush against your clothed stomach. As if feeling him, the baby prods at his mouth, and he imagines tiny fingers reaching out to poke him. 

“You be good to your mother, young man.” Then, he kisses you. The warmth from your stomach bleeds into him and for a moment everything goes quiet. There is no ticking bomb, or gunshots and ichor, there is only you, him, and his son in the palm of his hands.

“Don’t worry, you and Daddy will meet real soon.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | early access to chapters here

[archangeldyke-all]

PARAMEDIC SEV MEETING HER WIFE AND SAVIN MG HERRRRRRRREEEEEE

lush i love ur ideas omg

men and minors dni

you never should've agreed to babysit for silco and vander.

so what if it's their anniversary and they haven't had a dinner date all year. it's their own damn fault for deciding to have four fucking kids. you don't know what you were thinking agreeing to this-- but you're certainly paying the consequences now.

claggor hasn't been too bad-- doing his homework at the counter as you cooked dinner, helping you figure out where they store their spices and pots.

mylo was alright in the beginning, but as the night grew on and he started getting tired, he started getting grumpy and irritable.

jinx is always up to trouble-- she's been trying to trip you up all night, cackling each time you barely muffle a curse as you stumble.

and now, you've caught vi sneaking a girl into her room.

"violet, how do you even have a girlfriend, you're ten!" you shout.

"i'm eleven, and cait's not my girlfriend. she's just my bestie. and we practice kissing with each other sometimes." vi says with a shrug.

"what made you think you could have her over here tonight?!" you ask.

vi shrugs. "she comes over every wednesday, dads just haven't caught her yet."

you groan.

"i-i can leave." the posh girl in front of you offers. you heave a sigh.

"no, stay, i can't let you walk home in the dark. i'll drive you home when the old men get back, alright?"

vi grins and slams the door in your face.

you turn around just in time to dodge a shoe flying down the hall. behind you, it smacks mylo in the back of the head.

"what the fuck!" the boy shouts, turning around with a glare. jinx giggles from the other end of the hall. you want to cry.

"please just go to your rooms." you whine.

mylo just growls, grabbing the nearest small object and flinging it back at jinx.

only-- he's grabbed a letter opener, sitting by a pile of mail.

you gasp as the sharp object goes whizzing by your face-- headed straight to jinx's chest.

and before you know what's happening-- you're reaching out and snatching the object out of the air.

for a second, it's silent-- mylo and jinx both shocked by your quick thinking and the dangerous situation you all narrowly avoided. then, jinx shrieks.

"you just tried to kill me!"

"i thought it was just a pen!" mylo defends. "you threw dad's shoe at my head!"

"it was his house slipper! it barely hurt."

"oh, i'm gonna fuckin' kill y-- you're bleeding." mylo says.

jinx blinks, the argument forgotten as she looks over at you.

it takes you a few moments to realize that the kids are talking to you. you blink down at your hand, gasping when you find it covered in blood, trickling steadily onto the floor.

"oh. shit." you whisper. the pain hits you all at once and you take a sharp breath. "oh shit." you whine.

"w-what do we do?" jinx asks. you walk to the kitchen, mylo and jinx following close behind you, both of them nervous and worried about you.

"gotta run it under some water and see how deep the cut is." you whisper, placing your hand under the running tap.

you and the kids wait anxiously for the water to run clear, but it stays consistently red.

mylo cringes. "i think you cut something important." he mutters.

you gulp, the shock and adrenaline of the injury wearing off, leaving you shaky and very aware of how much blood you're losing.

"should i call dad?" jinx asks softly.

there's a shriek in the hall, and claggor comes sprinting into the kitchen, concern on his face. "what happened?!" he shouts.

you grunt. "i caught a knife."

claggor's eyes only widen more, and then he's pulling out his cellphone. "i'm calling an ambulance."

you, jinx, and mylo groan. "no! there's no need for the fuss." you try to argue.

claggor walks over to the sink, gagging at the sight of your hand. "there's a puddle of blood in the hall! and you're still bleeding!"

"'m fine." you mumble, getting a little dizzy. claggor groans.

"mylo, take her to the couch and lay her down. jinx, call dad."

"y'r a good kid." you mumble, ruffling claggor's hair with your uninjured hand as mylo guides you to the living room.

jinx brings you a glass of water as you wait.

you, jinx, and mylo sit on the couch-- your hand held over a bucket to catch all your blood-- watching claggor pace a hole in the carpet.

vi and her girlfriend only decide to see what the commotion is about when an ambulance pulls up out front.

you feel stupid and overwhelmed and your hand really fucking hurts, but you really don't want to cry in front of all your nieces and nephews.

and then, because the universe hates you, the most attractive woman you've ever seen in your life ends up being your paramedic.

jinx answers the door. you want to die when you see the angel standing on the porch. "someone called about a stabbing?" the woman asks.

you chuckle. "let her in jinx." the woman and her partner walk into silco and vander's home-- her eyebrows raising just a bit at the sight of you and the gaggle of children surrounding her. "not a stabbing. a knife thrown and caught." you say.

"really!?" vi asks, just now catching up on the drama of the night.

"yeah, because mylo tried to fucking kill me!" jinx shouts.

mylo groans. "how many times do i have to tell you i thought it was a pen! and you started it!"

you might actually start crying now. you're in so much pain, you're so overwhelmed, and you probably look gross as hell right now in front of this goddess of a paramedic, who's kneeling in front of you with a concerned look as she gently grabs your wrist.

"ran, why don't you take the kids out to the backyard and play a game? give us a little more space to work in here." the woman says to her partner.

ran grins. "you kids like freeze tag?" they ask.

the kids all burst into excited chatter, following ran out to the back of the house. you sigh in relief.

"thank you."

"i'm guessing they're not your kids?" the woman in front of you asks. you laugh, loud and surprised. you suppose it's better than crying.

"oh, fuck no! i'm their aunt, which i don't usually mind, unless it means i have to fuckin' babysit." you pout. "the tallest girl with the blazer on isn't even theirs. caught her sneakin' in to see the redhead. apparently they're besties who practice kissing." you say with a roll of your eyes.

the woman in front of you laughs. "i had a few of those back in the day." you gulp, your eyes bulging out of your head at her words. she looks back up at you with concern.

"does it hurt?" she asks. you blink, not understanding what she's referencing before you finally remember your hand. the hand she's gently cleaning with alcohol.

"you like women?" you ask miserably. the woman in front of you blinks.

"...yes?" she asks. "is that a prob--" you burst into tears before she can continue. "woah-- what, hey! what's happening? does it hurt? are you okay?"

"sorry, sorry!" you cry, waving away her concern and covering your face with a hand. "fuck this is humiliating. ignore me." you cry.

she blinks. "this is the weirdest homophobic reaction i've ever gotten."

you laugh, snot and tears flowing freely as you giggle. "no!" you squeak. "no, that's not-- just fuckin'-- of course you're a hot lesbian. i get all dressed up every weekend and go out lookin' for someone and i get nothing. i cut my fuckin' hand open after chasing kids around all day and the universe sends me the hottest woman i've ever seen. and she's a lesbian. and i'm soaked in sweat and blood and i'm pretty sure i smell like pre-teen armpits." you cry.

the woman in front of you cackles, her pretty silver eyes sparkling as she starts wrapping up your hand. "just a little. but i smell like vomit." she says with a shrug. you giggle and wipe up your tears.

"sorry." you say again. she smiles at you.

"it's okay. you're cute. 'specially now that i know you're into me and not, y'know. a bigot."

you giggle, shaking your head. "don't flirt with me." you scold. the woman beside you laughs.

"you started it!"

"i did not! i was having an emotional breakdown and you were accusing me of homophobia. i don't even know your name!"

"sevika." she says with a sweet smile. "my name's sevika. and, for the record, you're hot soaked in sweat and blood." sevika says with a shrug.

you grin. "do i need stitches?" you ask.

sevika shakes her head no. "it was bleeding a lot, but you didn't cut too deep. just keep the bandages on for a the night and change 'em out tomorrow. you should be healed up in a few days. i'll give you some cream-- if you get infected or irritated, or it doesn't heal; go to the ER."

you nod. "does that mean you're leaving, now?"

she chuckles. "worried about the kids?"

"no, well, now i am now that you mention it." you say. sevika laughs. "i was just..." you trail off.

sevika's just doing her job. she's fucking fantastic at it-- but that's all this is. she kept you talking to keep you distracted, she flirted a bit so the pain wouldn't be so bad, and now she's leaving.

"you were just what?" she asks.

you shrug. "it's inappropriate."

"can't be as bad as the old man who answered his door naked for us earlier today." she says with a shrug. you giggle.

"maybe i could get your number? in case i need help changing the bandages."

sevika grins. "yeah? that's why?" she asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

you giggle and shrug. "and maybe so i can show you how nice i clean up. take you out to dinner as a thank you."

"yeah, alright. i could be into that." sevika agrees.

you grin, then scramble for a piece of paper and a pen, eagerly handing sevika the scrap of paper. she pockets it with a sweet, shy smile.

her and ran take off a few minutes later, and silco and vander get home right after. it takes you an hour to catch them up with the events of the night: informing them of their children's petty feuds, that their daughter has a girlfriend, and that they've got a giant puddle of blood to clean up outside their room. they thank you, and with a promise that you'll never have to babysit again, you finally head home.

it's been a crazy night. you're exhausted. the moment you get home, you crawl in bed, ready for sleep.

but right before you drift off, your phone buzzes.

it's sevika, the hot lesbian.

you grin. another text comes through.

i got this weekend off, wanna treat me to that dinner you were talking about?

you end up staying up the rest of the night, texting the paramedic and giggling like you imagine vi does when she's on the phone with cait.

alright... maybe this night wasn't all that bad...

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