#what kind of engineer needs to distract himself like that

[eyeofnewtblog]

Just had a really weird job interview that actually made me think about my childhood…(I said I was independent and resourceful and was asked to provide examples)

My dad bought me my first car, but as soon as I had my drivers license, he told me I was grounded until I knew how to change a tire and change my own oil. I was grounded for about a week. The only help he gave me was showing me where the owners manual was and a few forums about my specific model of car.

My dad, while I was getting my permit to drive, required that I drive him up to the local Indian reservation for casino night (he would keep $150 in his right pocket and as soon he was out he would leave, he kept the winnings in his left pocket and as soon as he was $300 up we would leave) also he tried to teach his most mathematicalally challenged child how to count cards at black jack? Not a successful enterprise. I barely passed high school chemistry.

When I was twelve there was a cross continent moving situation that required my dad and I to move ahead of my mom and middle sister (this is the time he lit the stove on fire from trying to fry bacon…) after the stove incident, he dug out the recipe cards his mother had made for my mom when they got married, shoved them at me, along with the cordless 1990’s phone and said “I’ve dialed your Aunt Rock, (his older sister) Daddy wants biscuits and gravy, make her walk you through it.”

That’s how I learned to cook; having my aunt on speed dial and I would tell her what was in the cabinets, she would make a list for me to give to dad, and then she would walk me through the recipe. As I cooked it.

As a teenager, my dad knew that I was capable of cooking exactly what he wanted (IE exactly what his mom and big sis cooked while he was growing up) and as an adult I’ve had to actually learn to enjoy cooking as an actual experience and process and not just “what I was told”

When I was 21 my dad spent about $700 on brand new parts for a car I owned that was falling apart…I spent my 21st birthday drinking beer on my dad’s driveway tearing apart my van to replace rotors and brakes, while my boyfriend at the time and dad sat back and did nothing while calling me a great little grease monkey.

Honestly, I’m still not sure if I’m proud or humiliated by that, but the grease monkey comment came from the bf and he didn’t last much longer…

I don’t know. Obviously I didn’t make myself quite this vulnerable when I was in the actual interview, but it feels good to be vulnerable after the fact?

I just feel like my dad gave me a lot of tools to figure shit out for myself, and being resourceful is actually a really great quality. Feeling? Idk.

Being resourceful gives you independence.

Because any problems that come up? There’s either a YouTube tutorial, a blog, or SOMETHING available as a resource. And if you’re out of internet service???? There’s literally a book in your glove compartment somewhere telling you what to do.

[mokulule]

A Man has Needs part 3

First

Fandom: DP x DC Ship: Dead on Main (Jason/Danny) Summary: In which Jason keeps up ending up in Danny's bed and not even for any fun reasons.

Part 3

Daniel James Fenton, 20 years old, born and raised in Amity Park, Illinois. Graduated high school with barely passing grades. Currently enrolled in Gotham U’s aerospace engineering program, with (ironically) a Wayne Foundation scholarship of a type that was reliant on entrance exam test results rather than high school grades. Either his high school teachers hated him or he spent the gap year studying his ass off to ace the exams.

At least it explained what he was doing in Gotham of all places, Jason thought as he leaned on the kitchen island chin in his hand, laptop open in front of him. The WF scholarships for Gotham U were very good, yet still most people had the sense not to move to Gotham - and Crime Alley at that.

Him being from the Midwest might even explain some of the strange hospitality, though Jason felt he probably took it a level above most people.

Of family there was an older sister - like he’d mentioned. Jasmine Fenton was currently doing a PhD in the field of Psychology.

The parents, Jack and Madeline Fenton had doctorates of their own, though what little he could find published from them was from very disreputable paranormal sort of publications. They seemed to have very little basis for their theories - one of which was that ghosts were inherently evil - which was just absolute hogwash. They apparently lived off the payout of some early inventions they’d made and sold to the government.

Beyond that there was only an aunt.

Friends were much harder to judge. Danny’s social media presence was practically non-existent. He’d only just opened an account on Mugshot, Gotham’s favored social, this Monday, apparently due to encouragement from new Gotham U friends.

Jason absently drummed his fingers on the counter, as he stared unseeingly towards his laptop. Maybe Tim or Babs could find more, but Jason found himself reluctant to involve them, they would want to know why he was looking into the guy, they would want a reason to dig deeper than the basic background check Jason had already done.

Jason could not- would not, tell them about this… attraction? Jason rubbed his face tiredly. Attraction was a terrible word, that implied other things, but it was the best he had.

The oven timer had the kindness to beep then, signifying that batch of cookies was done, and distracting him for a few minutes as he transferred them to the cooling rack and got another plate going.

It was a limited reprieve however and all too soon he was back in front of his laptop. He had no other avenues, there really was only one thing to do.

Oo o oO

“We need to talk.” He flung the words out the moment a surprised Danny opened the door. The surprise however quickly gave way to a grimace as he registered the words.

“Do we have to?” Danny asked honest pleading in his voice.

Jason felt really tempted to say no, but forced himself to say “yes.”

“Okay,” Danny sighed, leaving the door open for Jason to step inside.

Jason closed the door after himself and felt his shoulders relax from their tense position and his breath come out in a relieved sigh. Safe.

He looked to Danny who wrung his hands.

Jason had meant to say something, ask something, he’d had a plan. He wanted answers. Answers… Jason opened his mouth, sound getting stuck in his throat. Just ask him what was going on? But what did it really matter?

“Ah! Please don’t say anything,” Danny interrupted Jason’s internal struggle. “I have been trying so hard not to make this awkward.”

Jason grimaced when he saw how uncomfortable Danny looked. Jason was making him uncomfortable.

“Okay look,” Danny took a deep breath and held up his hands, and looked at Jason with his big blue eyes, “will you please, just let me start, and if you really feel like you need to say something you can do so afterwards, yeah? Though it’s really not necessary.”

“Okay,” Jason managed mouth dry.

“I don’t know how to make this not awkward, but here goes, it’s okay.”

“Okay?” Jason reiterated brows raising in confusion.

“Yes, it’s okay, truly. Fuck, how would Jazz say it,” Danny looked thoughtful for a moment before meeting Jason’s eyes again. “You have needs, and that is okay.”

Jason frowned bewildered and alarmed. Needs?

Seeing Jason’s frown Danny unfortunately rambled, “I know it’s not exactly socially normal no matter which way you look at it, but it’s fine. I have a big bed, truly it’s fine. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, or apologize-“

Overwhelmed, Jason held up his bag of cookies and Danny thankfully stopped talking.

“Coffee?” Danny croaked after a moment’s silence.

“Please,” Jason agreed.

Five minutes later they sat at Danny’s small table a plate of cookies between them, looking down at their steaming coffee, awkwardly avoiding looking at each other.

Jason didn’t know what to think. Had he gotten any information out of this? Needs… Jason had needs, and those let him to Danny’s bed? He cringed away from the thought.

Across from him, Danny poked the handle of his cup. “Can we just pretend this conversation didn’t happen?”

Maybe Danny had the right of it. For both their sanities, maybe that was best. Aside from his confusion, Jason had felt better after both times he’d slept at Danny’s. Would it be so bad to, just for once in his life, not question things? Jason was unsure how much of this was his brain being muddled in Danny’s presence, but he agreed with a nod, and took a sip of coffee.

Oo o oO

Danny wanted to scream. He had made such a mess of things! All his good intentions and he’d gone and made things awkward anyways. It was a relief his guest was willing to just go with it after all.

And, Danny lamented, his guest had even spoken earlier today, like in a full sentence and now they were back at single words or nonverbal. Poor guy. It had to be so uncomfortable to wake up in a stranger’s bed. If only Danny had an easy way to give him straight ectoplasm, but then that might actually overwork his starved core and make everything worse. The slow absorption of Danny’s ambient energy, probably was best for him.

Half still lost in thought he took a cookie and promptly groaned in pleaures, it was perfect and there was no way he could keep his train of thought. It was crisp on outside and chewy in the middle, and the chocolate bits were so rich.

“You made these?” Danny exclaimed between heavenly bites and was rewarded with a quick shy smile and a glance of blue-green eyes. Fuck, why did Danny’s guest have to be both hot and cute? Life was so unfair.

But it seemed the ice had finally broken, and they were back to something comfortable.

Oo o oO

Later in his own apartment, Jason tried once again to make sense of things.

Facts. Jason woke up in Danny’s bed twice, it was likely to happen again.

Apparently Jason had needs. He shuddered at the thought, because what did that mean? But in a twisted way it also made sense, because he had woken up twice in that man’s bed through no conscious decision of his own. There was something about Danny that drew Jason to him and while it was kinda freaking him out, it was also kinda not. Which in itself was freaking him out if he allowed himself to think about it.

But another fact was that Jason felt better, lighter somehow, than… actually he didn’t really remember when he’d last felt so good. Maybe he really had just needed some proper sleep?

And Danny himself?

Jason had no idea what his deal was. It was very odd how accepting he was of the situation - he’d said it himself, this wasn’t socially normal no matter how you looked at it.

He was clearly not normal no matter how you looked at it. But neither was Jason really.

-

And this is the end of part 3.

They almost talked? They gotta get props for trying right?

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[sxcretricciardo]

not the end - DR3

•

The headlines came and went in the blink of an eye.

“Daniel Ricciardo dropped from F1 lineup.”

“End of an era?”

“What’s next for the Honey Badger?”

For everyone else, it was just another news cycle. For Daniel, it felt like the end of everything he had built his life around. The silence after the official statement was deafening. No more debriefs, no more grid walks, no more hearing his name on team radios. Just… quiet.

He stayed in his apartment for weeks, only leaving when someone dragged him out or when his own thoughts got too loud. He smiled for the cameras when he had to, gave vague answers in interviews, told people he was “figuring things out.” But the truth was, he didn’t know who he was without a race weekend. Without speed. Without purpose.

It was Jack, one of his old mates from Perth, who gave him the push.

“Mate,” Jack had said over the phone one day, “come out to the track this weekend. Not a race, just dirt bikes, the crew, fresh air. You need it.”

Daniel had hesitated. “I haven’t ridden my dirt bike in forever.”

“All the more reason.”

So, Saturday morning, long before the sun had burned off the morning chill, Daniel found himself loading up his bike, gear bag tossed in the back of Jack’s truck. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he figured it had to be better than wallowing in his own disappointment.

The motocross park was tucked away in the hills, about an hour outside the city. It wasn’t huge, but it had enough twists, jumps, and loose dirt to wake something in his chest that had been dormant for too long. Riders were already out on the track, kicking up clouds of dust under the pale morning sun. The air buzzed with engine growls and laughter.

That’s when he saw you.

At first, it was just the way you moved—like the track bent to your will. You weren’t riding to impress anyone, you weren’t flashy, you weren’t reckless. You were just… in it. The jumps, the turns, the throttle control—it was all instinctual. Effortless. Beautiful.

Daniel stood at the fence, helmet in hand, just watching for a few minutes, completely unaware he was staring.

“Hey, Ricciardo, you riding or just making heart eyes at someone?” Jack teased, nudging him with an elbow.

Daniel smirked, pulling his helmet on. “Maybe both.”

Later, after his first couple laps, he caught up to you at the far end of the pit area. You were checking your bike, wiping mud off your goggles when he approached, half-smiling beneath his helmet.

“You ride like you’ve got something to prove,” he said.

You looked up, curious but calm. “I don’t. I ride because it’s the only place the world shuts up.”

That made him pause. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I know that feeling.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a smirk tugged at your lips. “You keep up okay out there.”

He chuckled, arms crossed. “Keep up? I wasn’t even trying.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

You spent the rest of the day weaving around each other—racing, bantering, meeting at the water cooler between rounds. It was the first time in months that Daniel felt… alive. Not distracted. Alive. That ride turned into a habit.

Every weekend, without fail, you’d both show up—sometimes with friends, sometimes just the two of you. He’d joke about your lap times. You’d tease him about how long it took him to stop babying the throttle. And slowly, the sessions turned into late breakfasts, which turned into lingering coffee shop stops, and then evening rides through the backwoods trails.

Daniel found himself waking up excited again, looking forward to dusty afternoons and tired smiles. You didn’t ask him about F1. You didn’t treat him like Daniel Ricciardo™. You treated him like a guy who loved bikes, who had good jokes and bad days, and who was slowly stitching himself back together.

One evening, after a long ride, the sun started to dip behind the hills, casting the track in golden light. You were both sitting on the tailgate of his truck, helmets off, skin still glowing with sweat and dust. A peaceful kind of tired settled between you.

He was quiet for a while. Too quiet.

You nudged him gently with your elbow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Daniel looked at the dirt, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Do you ever feel like… your whole identity was built on something that’s just gone?”

You didn’t answer right away. You let him have the space to keep going.

“I gave everything to racing,” he continued. “My childhood, my time, my body. Every decision I made was about being better. Going faster. And now it’s over, and I don’t know who I am outside of it. The world moved on like I didn’t even matter. I felt… worthless.”

You turned to face him, your expression soft but strong.

“You’re not worthless, Daniel. You’re just not only an F1 driver. You’re a person. A damn good one. And you’re still moving. Still chasing adrenaline. You just needed to change lanes.”

He looked at you, something breaking loose in his chest. “Yeah, well… you helped with that. More than you know.”

You offered a small smile. “You helped yourself. I just kept showing up.”

There was something in the air between you—warm, fragile, heavy.

Daniel reached out, brushing a bit of dried mud from your cheek. “Can I take you out sometime? Like, not in gear. No helmets. Real food. Table. Chairs. Maybe even candles.”

You laughed, leaning into his touch slightly. “Only if you promise to stop trying to race me on foot to the snack stand.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

-

Daniel texted you the next day.

Dan:

“So… this restaurant doesn’t allow helmets or full riding gear. Still interested?”

You:

“Only if you wear shoes without dirt on them.”

He sent back a picture of his sneakers—freshly cleaned—and a thumbs-up emoji.

You didn’t know what to expect. The two of you had spent weeks covered in mud and adrenaline, sweat-soaked and competitive, trading smirks over handlebars. But this—this was different. No helmets. No engines. Just you, him, and a quiet table between you.

He picked you up just before sunset. You were standing on the curb when you saw his car pull in—clean, for once—and he stepped out, looking… well, unfairly good. Black jeans, white t-shirt, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, curls just slightly tamed. That smile—the one that usually followed a snarky joke after a jump—was softer now. Nervous, even.

“You clean up nice,” you said, stepping forward.

He let out a breathy laugh. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself. Didn’t even recognize you without your helmet trying to kill me in a corner.”

You gave him a playful shove. “That’s called racing.”

“And this,” he said, opening the car door for you, “is called a date.”

The restaurant was small, tucked between buildings like a secret. Dim lighting, old wooden tables, and the warm hum of conversations wrapped in clinking glasses and soft jazz. It was intimate in a way that felt strangely unfamiliar to both of you.

You sat by the window, the city’s glow flickering behind him. Menus in hand, but neither of you looked at them much.

He leaned back, resting one arm on the back of the booth. “So. You. What do you do when you’re not making me eat your dust?”

You smirked. “Fix my bike. Clean my gear. Try to keep my elbows from bruising permanently.”

He tilted his head. “You ever think of going pro?”

You shrugged. “I almost did. But that’s a story for another time. And there’s something about riding just for myself. No sponsors, no media. Just the ride.”

Daniel grew quiet for a moment, and you saw it—that flicker in his eyes. The part of him that missed the roar of fans, the intensity of the paddock. But there was admiration there too. Maybe even a little envy.

“I think that’s what I lost along the way,” he admitted softly. “The joy. It became about survival. About keeping my seat. I forgot what it felt like to just… ride.”

You didn’t reach for his hand or tell him it would be okay. Instead, you met his gaze and said, “Well, you’re finding it again. One lap at a time.”

He smiled, but this one wasn’t for show. It was real. Deep. “Thanks to you.”

The night stretched on. Dinner turned into dessert. Then into coffee, then a long walk down quiet streets, the buzz of the city fading as you wandered into more peaceful corners.

Somewhere between laughter and silence, he reached for your hand. It wasn’t forced or overly smooth—just instinct. Like it had been waiting to happen.

“You know,” he said, glancing sideways, “I don’t remember the last time I was nervous for a first date.”

You arched a brow. “And now?”

“I’m nervous in a good way.”

You stopped, turning to him as the streetlamp cast a soft glow over his face. “Why’s that?”

“Because this feels different,” he said. “Real. I’m not thinking about what comes next. I’m just… here.”

A beat passed. Your hand tightened around his.

“Then stay here,” you said. “Just for a little while.”

And so he did.

He leaned in, slowly, carefully—waiting for any sign that you weren’t ready. But you were. His lips met yours in a kiss that was warm and grounding, nothing rushed, nothing showy. Just two people, letting the dust settle around them, and finally seeing each other clearly.

-

The next morning, before you even woke up, he sent you a message:

Dan:

“Best race I’ve ever lost was letting you beat me to dinner.”

-

Weeks passed in a blur of dusty trails and late-night conversations.

Daniel was different now—lighter, calmer, but still very much him. The cheeky grins, the teasing comments, the quiet way he always made sure your bike was fueled before his own. He had found something out there on the track again. Not F1. Not the crowd or the cameras. Just peace. And maybe something even more important—you.

You became each other’s weekend ritual. Saturday morning rides. Post-ride tacos. Sunday maintenance sessions in your garage, laughing as you both argued over who had better tire pressure control. And in between, the quieter moments—his hand finding yours while watching a movie, or the way his head rested against your shoulder after a long ride when neither of you needed to talk.

But he noticed something.

Every time you swung your leg off the bike, you winced just a little. When you thought he wasn’t looking, your fingers would massage your knee through your pants. Some days, after a longer ride, you’d leave early, saying you were “just tired.”

He didn’t push. Not right away.

But one night, after a sunset ride that left both your gear caked in dust, the two of you sat on the floor of your garage, backs against the workbench, sharing a bottle of water. Your helmet lay beside his, and the warm air was thick with sweat, grease, and unspoken truths.

“Can I ask you something?” he said suddenly, voice low.

You looked over, towel draped over your neck. “Sure.”

“Why didn’t you go pro?” He was gentle, but direct. “You’re easily one of the best riders I’ve ever seen. It’s not just talent—it’s instinct. You were born for it.”

You held the water bottle between your hands, staring at the label for a long time. Then, quietly:

“Because I’m broken.”

Daniel blinked. “What?”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wall. “My knee. Old injury from when I was seventeen. I tore it bad on a landing—ACL, MCL, cartilage… you name it. They said I’d never ride again. I proved them wrong, but the damage was permanent. I can manage it with training and rest, but it’s getting worse.”

He was silent, watching you, listening.

“There’s a surgery,” you continued. “Experimental, expensive, painful. And it has a 70% failure rate. If it fails… that’s it. No more bike. No more trails. Just a lifetime of rehab and maybe a limp.”

Daniel’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly—not with judgment, but with the weight of someone who gets it.

“I’d rather ride in pain than risk never riding again,” you said, voice cracking just slightly. “This—riding—is who I am. It’s the one place where I feel free. Where my body doesn’t feel like a cage. I don’t want to lose that.”

He shifted closer, gently taking your hand. You hadn’t even realized you were gripping your knee.

“I get it,” he murmured. “More than you know.”

You looked at him. “You do?”

“I spent years racing through pain. Hiding it. Ignoring the noise. Because the idea of stopping was worse than the pain itself. And when I finally did stop… it wasn’t on my terms. It nearly broke me.”

You let that sink in—this man who’d been at the top of the world, now sitting next to you on a garage floor, speaking with the same fear you carried every day.

He looked at you, his thumb tracing slow circles on your knuckles. “But I also know that you don’t have to carry that fear alone. Not anymore.”

Your throat tightened. “You really mean that?”

He nodded. “You’ve been showing up for me every day since we met. Let me show up for you now. We’ll figure it out—whatever you choose. Surgery or no surgery. Pain or not. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unspoken for too long, now spilling in quiet silence. You leaned into him, forehead against his shoulder, and he wrapped you in his arms like he’d been waiting to do it forever.

In that moment, the fear didn’t vanish. But it softened. Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t facing it alone.

Later that night, he kissed your knee, right over the brace you wore under your sweatpants, and whispered, “Whatever happens, you’re still a badass to me.”

-

part two here

[uchispeach]

Sycamore Tree (Ch. 3)

Dark! Rafe Cameron x Fem! Reader

Warnings: mentions of underage drinking, dub-con / non-con touching & kissing, obsessive & manipulative behavior, Rafe is a bit scary in this…

This fic will contain dark content: such as dub-con/ non-con and violence. You have been warned.

Almost a week has passed by since you last saw Rafe, still, he had found the way to make himself present throughout the days.

He texted you regularly, checking up on you; making questions like “How are you?”, “Have you eaten yet?”, “Where are you?” and his favorite one: “Who are you with?”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t find his interest sweet; most of the time matching his energy and taking as much interest for his daily life as he did for yours.

The texts were numerous but there were ones more memorable than others, such as the day you finally reunited the courage to ask for Topper.

You still remember his response: “I’m taking care of that, doll” You remember getting flustered by the nickname and almost throwing your phone out of the window.

“Y/N!” Your sister shouted as you continued to submerge yourself on your phone. “Topper hasn’t pressed charges yet…Jennifer told me.” Right, you remembered her mentioning it before. “I know…I think there’s a big chance he won’t” Your eyes left the screen to look excitedly at the brunette, not expecting the frown on her face.

“Pfft” She let out an incredulous sound. “That just means he’s planning something else…something worse than jail.” That took you by surprise, causing you to stand up and reach out for the younger girl. “Why would you think that?” Your face morphed into a worried one.

“You really think he’d let JJ alone out of the kindness of his heart…No Y/N! Kooks always get their way.” You bit your lower lip, holding yourself from revealing the real reason Topper wasn’t bothering the Pogues anymore.

“Let’s just wait for a few more days…There is no need to be paranoid!” You tried your best to sound comforting, either way, Kie sighed out in exasperation, stomping away and leaving you alone to sink in your own guilt.

(…)

“I’m thinking pastel pink…but, what do you think?” You tilted your head while staring at the nail polish container. When silence was all you received, you decided to gaze at the dark haired girl. “Jennie!” She finally looked away from her device. “Hmm?” Her tone confirmed she had no idea what you were talking about.

“You’ve been distracted all afternoon” You pouted while supporting your knees on her soft mattress. “I’m sorry! I’ve been texting with-” Her words were interrupted by the harsh sound of a car’s engine. You noticed her senses being alerted as she adopted an apologetic look. “Please, don’t get mad!”

“When have I ever gotten mad at you?” You questioned as knocks were heard on the ground floor. “Well, you now just might.” The smile following her sentence was awkward.

The knocks intensified and Jennifer didn’t doubt before running down the stairs. “Wait!” You shouted right behind her as you skipped a step or two to get down faster.

The only answer you got from your friend was a fit of giggles, and soon you were both facing the main door. Out of breath you stared at the tall shadow of what seemed to be three guys. “Who did you invite?” The taller girl ignored you, unlocking the door at an inhuman pace.

The wide crystal door was out of the way now, letting in the group of young men. “Hello there, girls!” Kelce greeted you excitedly while raising his busy hands in the air.

Topper followed right behind, wearing an uninterested face while holding a cooler with his right arm. You could almost swear you saw him frowning in annoyance when he saw you in front of him.

Then, there was Rafe; standing proudly with his hands in his pockets, wearing a pair of expensive sunglasses and a predatory grin.

“Hi, doll” His voice was deep and confident, giving you a few goosebumps. “It’s…It’s nice to see you” You spoke shyly, slightly intimidated by his proximity.

He softly chuckled. His strong chest rumbled, showcasing some of the veins in his brawny arms. “I’m delighted too” He joked as you felt the heat of his skin on your nape and his heavy palm squeezing your shoulder. “Now, let’s have some fun” He whispered into your ear.

(…)

The laughs echoed throughout the entire house, and you couldn’t help but let out a muffled giggle as you saw the dark haired boy lifting up your friend and threatening to throw her in the pool once again. “Kelce, stop!”

Even Topper left his grumpy state for a few seconds and decided to smile a little. Both him and the Cameron boy had pulled out a blunt, sharing it and causing you to cough more than a few times.

You were seated on the same beach chair as the blond, forced to support part of your back on his naked chest. He didn’t seem to mind though, going as far as holding you steady by throwing his arm around your neck and over your chest.

Your nervousness levels had reached the roof when his fingertips had accidentally rubbed against your breast; and the blond could feel it exuding from your body:“You’re so tense. Relax.” He looked at you through the corner of his eyes. “I’m sorry” You stared back, embarrassed at your own body’s reaction.

“You’re always apologizing.” You weren’t sure if it was a complaint or not, still, you apologized once again. Realization hit you as you saw him smirking harder. “Don’t worry, I like it. It’s cute.” You were growing more flustered by the minute. “Just as cute as this little skirt you’re wearing.” Your heart felt like it was about to explode from how hard it was beating.

You took a deep breath, doing your best to pull your anxiety aside. “And…I like your sunglasses.” You struggled forming a whole sentence.

And with a wave of newfound boldness, you finally took the decision to reach out for the boy’s face.

Your fingertips hesitantly caressed the side of his face before fixing the sunglasses’ crooked position “…But, I like it better when your eyes aren’t covered.”

“Say less” Rafe took you by surprise as he abruptly tore the accessory from him and discarded it to the side like a piece of trash. “Rafe!” You laughed out loud at the shocking display. He sent you a childish look before holding you closer to him.

Once you were able to tame your chuckles down, the intensity of his eyes on your lips made your whole body freeze. Intimacy between you two only grew stronger as his palm positioned itself on your neck’s side, seemingly not getting enough of your body’s warmth.

“Y/N!” The sudden appearance of Jennifer made you pull away from the blond. And as her hands shook you by the shoulders, you couldn’t help but jump out in surprise. “Jen, calm down. You’re going to get her dizzy.” Rafe was quick to intervene, pulling you flush against his chest. “Let’s get in the pool” She said cheerfully while ignoring his words.

“I don’t know-” She shook her head frenetically. “Come on!” You could feel the enthusiasm leaking out of her pores. “…But I don’t even have a swimsuit” You argued, quickly shut down by your friend’s proud response: “I have a solution for that!”

(…)

“Stunning!” The taller girl cheered you up, noticing the way you scanned your body on the full length mirror. The pink checkered bikini had small bows on the straps, immediately making it your first choice.

Jennifer continued praising your figure until a loud noise interrupted her. “Was that glass shattering?” Her face morphed into worry itself. “Guys!” She shouted before leaving the room and running downstairs.

“Alright” You sighed while continuing to dissect your reflection. A ringtone went off, making you lose your focus. “Everything okay?” You said loudly while saving your clothes on the tote bag sitting right next to the phone.

“Hi, Y/N. Yeah…Everything’s pretty great.” Pope sounded relaxed, allowing you to steady your breathing. “You don’t know how comforting it is to hear that.” Relieve leaked through your soft voice, making the boy smile at the other side of the speaker.

“Yeah, I know…I really thought it was over for us.” His voice still had some remains of fear in it. “Don’t say that!…Hey P, just wanted to let you know I’m not with Kiara.” You bit your lower lip while struggling to fit your umbrella in the bag.

“I mean…I called ‘cause I wanted to talk to you.” He shyly revealed. “Oh!…of course. How have you been doing?” There was a short silence before he replied: “I’m just feeling a bit down.” You frowned, quickly taking the device in your hand. “Why?…Did you and the boys fight?” You got no response. “Whatever it is, you know I’m here for you.” You were quick to remember the boy your unconditional support.

Your friend’s answer was overshadowed by the sudden sound of heavy steps. You instinctively looked around, your eyes finally setting on the door. “…we had to hide for days. And I guess it really affected me not being able to step outside, not even for a quick sec’ and- and I missed you too.” The steps stopped, only replaced by a growing shadow peaking under the door.

“Y/N?” You were brought back into the conversation. “I missed you too, Pope.” You hoped the boy didn’t notice the distraction on your tone. “Then, let’s see each other. Tomorrow!” Enthusiasm leaked through the speaker.

“Tomorrow?…We can’t, I’m sorry. Kie and I have to help my parents’ at The Wreck.” The dark haired boy continued to speak, unfortunately, your mind only allowed you to catch on a few words. “What about Friday? We can all meet at The Château.” You interrupted him.

“Oh! That works too.” The steps could be heard again, stopping you from hearing the disappointment in Pope’s voice. “I’m counting the days!” You smiled lightly. “Bye then. Love you!” You said before hanging up.

The commotion of someone bursting inside the bedroom made you jump. “Rafe!” You gripped your chest, feeling your agitated heartbeat under the fingertips. “Rafe?” He moved without saying a word, an indecipherable look on his face.

You felt like hiding when his eyes lingered up and down your figure, taking their time to analyze every centimeter of skin. “I got lost on the way to the bathroom.” His features were still stoic.

“It’s the first door-” “I remember that scar.” Your feet instinctively took some steps back as you saw him moving forward. The wooden floor cracked under his heavy legs.

“That one” He clarified while your back hit the wall. His fingers superficially traced the white horizontal line that decorated your thigh’s side. Rafe took his time redrawing the thing, applying some pressure with his thumb.

“You were trying to help that feral cat.” He squeezed harder, causing you to flinch. The pain made you remember, it was a rainy afternoon at Tannyhill; you had spotted a trembling kitten hanging on from an old tree’s branch.

“Always caring for the ones who don’t deserve it.” You had managed to wrap your frail arms around the poor thing before you had both fallen down. “I never understood it.” His free palm reached out for your jaw, grabbing firmly onto the side of it.

“I guess you’re too kind for your own good.” And as he lightly shook your head, you remembered the fall, the pain of the piece of glass cutting through your skin and the fierce teeth of the feline burying into your arm.

His breath felt overwhelming over your mouth, but even more so as his lips brushed yours in delicate caresses.

You trembled as his other hand stopped toying with your thigh, and reached for the meat of your ass. He gave it a rough squeeze while sinking his teeth into your lower lip.

You tried to pull away from the discomfort but the blond kept you still with his brute force. You knew better than to continue pushing once you started feeling the metallic taste of your own blood.

Tears started forming once you were forced to gasp in pain. Rafe saw it as a chance, slipping his tongue in.

The kiss was like nothing you had experienced before, so passionate and hungry you could almost feel the desperation on your bones.

The Cameron boy explored your whole mouth with his wet muscle, making you go out of breath. His lips moved over yours with experience, while all you could was hold onto his naked chest -hoping not to faint from the lack of air-.

You desperately tried to pull back as soon as your vision grew blurrier, and after a few tugs the blond finally gave in. Your choked coughs echoed through the whole bedroom.

“You taste…so sweet.” He got all over your face, closely analyzing the tears that streamed down your puffy cheeks.

“Hey, don’t cry” He whispered right before licking the salty liquid on your left cheekbone. “I’m sorry” You weren’t exactly sure what you apologized for, still, you felt the need to.

Both of his palms were now squeezing each side of your face, maintaining you on the same spot as he kissed you over and over again.

A/N: I finished writing this at a government office while trying to get a new birth certificate.

[hadeslegacyhephgirl]

----------------------

People smile in different ways, Jason notices. There's happy smiles and sad smiles and anxious smiles and all kinds of different others.

He knows it's weird, knowing what each smile means for each person, but its- easier, in a way.

Percy smiles tight when exasperated Annabeth's happy smile is big and bright, anything less means she's either tired or far away Hazel smiles easily, but softer when she's truly happy Pipers smile is somehow consistent, it's how she holds her teeth Frank only smiles when he means it

Leo-

He doesn’t even know how to start with Leo

Leo is always smiling, always, like its his default setting. Leo smiles big and bright as a distraction from prying further into his past Leo remembers with a soft smile, almost unconsciously Leo's smile always has an undertone of sadness.

--------

Leo hasn't shown up for dinner.

But its normal- he's probably just lost track of time to fiddle with something.

Which is why Jason is here, in the engine room, feeling way too big as he weaves over, under and around the various bits of equipment- pipes, turbines, etcetera, trying to find Leo He's being guided by instinct- heading for where he's guestimating Leo's favourite spot it.

There's a clang, and a string of Spanish expletives, and Jason- Jasons heart shouldn't have skipped a beat, but it does. He's definitely not thinking about the implications of the fact that he knows where Leo's favourite spot is, even when Leo hasn't even shown him. He's not thinking about any of it, because he's not here to think, he's here to get Leo to eat something for once in a while.

"Leo?"

Another Spanish expletive. A clang, This time the swearing is not in Spanish.

Jason tries very hard not to laugh, but when Leo's head pops up unexpectedly from behind the massive pipe, looking frazzled, Jason loses it. There's a pause, then Leo's laugh is joining his own, and Leo scrambles around the pipe to stand beside Jason as their laughs calm down to giggles  and then to comfortable silence.

"What'cha here for, Supes? To laugh at me or do you need something fixed"

Jason reaches over and pokes Leo's head

"Yeah. I need you to fix your internal clock. You missed dinner, Fireboy" "I never should have showed you that game" "You love it"

Silence. Slightly more awkward.

Then Leo's smiling again, big and bright- the one he hides behind.

The one only used in this kind of situation.

Around Jason.

Jason ignores that thought, and turns his attention back to Leo, who's rattling on about engines or something- an excuse, most likely, so he responds in kind.

"Yeah, yeah, just get to the kitchen, Valdez. C'mon, I'll race you"

It's a distraction, and they both know it.

A distraction from whatever- this is.

Leo takes him up on that, and they race through the ship until they're at the dining hall out of breath, giggling again.

--------

When they enter the room, Jason takes everyone's expressions in quick.

Piper, smiling in a ooh, there's some gossip way Hazel, with a soft, entertained smile Percy, with his hey, it's my bros! expressive smile

Annabeth, with no smile, but her lips are twitching, unsure whether to smile or frown Frank, not paying attention to them.

Coach Hedge absent from the room, probably on patrol.

Leo's smile strains, shrinks a little. Embarrassed.

-------

Jason's watched Leo's smiles, every one of them.

He knows them, like he knows his own.

And still, Leo surprises him with different ones.

Jason doesn’t think he'll ever finish figuring out Leo's smiles.

That’s okay.

It means theres a reason, however small, to stick around. It'll never be his official one, obviously, maybe, probably. But it'll be one. One for himself, if not for anyone else.

-------

[dailyadventureprompts]

Settlement: Errishaan, where Inspiration Rises with the Tide

Artsource1 Artsource2

Though it boasts no mighty navy or renowned trading port, the harbour town of Errishaan has seen an unexpected surge in prosperity in recent years as it's become something of a hotspot for some of the most brillaint minds in the realm.

Tinkerers and scholars of all kinds have begun flocking to the cliffside settlement in droves, hoping to obtain the attention of its ruler, Countess Milsa Bonharte , who's become a famed patron of the inventive arts over the past decade and a half.

What began as an informal gathering of minds has breathed new life into Errishaan which now boasts numerous workshops, annual innovator's competitions, and a thriving trade in clockworks.

Adventure Hooks:

Of the region's biggest attractions is the Savyswell Rally, an annual competition where various the boatbuilders and artificers of Errishaan race self made vessels to see who can be the first one to cross the notoriously turbulent waters to the town's lighthouse and back, with the caveat that their creations can only use magical forms of propulsion AFTER the half way mark. The party might be seeking the aid of one of these artificers and be drawn into the competition as a means of paying off their services, or they may have a friend/relation/contact who's in need of a hand as the deadline draws near.

Beyond drawing it's livelyhood from the sea, the cliffs surrounding Errishaan do a tidy trade in copper, and the local mines and metalworks are always willing to pay adventurers to help drive off cavedwelling monsters or runaway elementals. Cannonmakers Heldok & Loyid are having a bit of trouble with one of the latter, as the ignis bound to their foundry has become a bit hyperactive after one too many overtime shifts doing important work for the Countess. Now it's slipped its arcane bonds and is going about town manicly smelting things like a blacksmith's forge hopped up on one too many 5 hour energy shots.

Seeing the potential in all the curious minds drawn to Errishaan by the influx of Artifice and Lady Bonharte's patronage, a travelling dedicate of the Archheart named Dijdek has taken it upon himself to found an academy where the magics, crafts, and sciences can be recorded and taught formally. Doing so is easier said than done, as he'll need to convince at least a few of the infamously protective master artificers to consider teaching, and convince the Countess to help provide funding. The first step in this endeavour will be finding a place to establish the academy, an abandoned monastery not far from town might be just the place, but something dangerous is lairing there and most folk have written it off. Perhaps a little divine meddling can bring the priest and the party together for common cause.

Though no one would speak it publicly, it's commonly thought that Countess Milsa's interest in inventions is a distraction from the sorrow she feels at her husband's untimely death, a means to feel close to the famously brilliant man by surrounding herself with the science he loved.

People think too little of Milsa Bonharte, they always have. She was the pretty daughter of a wealthy merchant, courted by an eccentric noble ten years her senior thought mostly unmarrigeable for his habit of splashing about in tidepools and fucking off for weeks at a time to study the migration patterns and mating habits of the local sea birds.

Milsa loved Daedalyn, loved him for being someone who would deny the decorum of his station to chase his passion, loved him for being one of the few to see the clever mind behind her pretty face, loved him with a fierceness that neither death nor the ocean could deny.

So when his ship went down in a storm, she made a vow: The water could have her tears, it would not keep his bones.

Milsa was not a mage, nor was she an engineer, but with her husband's title, her family's connections, and her own business acumen, she could bend the talents of mages and engineers to her purpose: to build a craft that could recover Daedalyn's ship ( the Sandpiper) from the deep and bring his remains to rest in the Bonharte family crypt where she would one day join him.

After fifteen years her vessel, her Vow, is nearly complete, ready to delve into the depths and bring her husband home. All that's needed are some final preparations, some last mechanical and course adjustments, and maybe the addiction of a few worthy heroes to the crew.

Further Adventures:

The Bonhartes had three children before the Daedalyn was lost to the waves, and all three feel the tragedy of his loss in a different way. Madalyn, the youngest was an infant when her father died, and grew up the dutiful daughter of a mother who's attentions were largely elsewhere. Mildryd, eldest, remembers the happy times the best, and has felt their loss most sharply, sinking into sullenness , spending most of her time in the castle library or listlessly watching the sea. The family's servants are worried about her melancholy, having found a diary overfull with vivid and poetic descriptions of death and drowning. In reality the budding little goth is just working through her emotions... partially with the help of her secret merfolk boyfriend named Eddy who's also so done with like, everything. Teenagers, am I right?

Then there's Delsyn, the tempestuous middle child. with a lot of mixed up feelings and no way to channel them, Delsyn has a history of acting out...the latest of which happens to be using a fake name to sign up for the same Savyswell team the party are on, recklessly pushing them forward to the point where he'll likely get himself or others hurt.

The sandpiper was lost on a scholarly expedition, using Daedalyn's newly acquired diving bell to explore the wonders of a not so distant coral reef. With more than one wreck site reported and no confirmations, Milsa and the crew of the Vow will need to check all of them, an exacting process that will have the party encountering all kinds of hostile sea life (big and small and very, very big) as well as negotiating with territorial merfolk (hey, maybe Eddy can help smooth things over).

What Milsa couldn't have known is that the storm that destroyed Daedalyn's ship was a magical one, creating a whirlpool that sucked the vessel and all those aboard it into an aquatic demiplane before smashing it into the ruins of a sunken city. Her husband was in the diving bell at the time, and managed to make a desperate swim for shelter when it was evident that rescue was impossible. Trapped in a series of half flooded ruins, Daedalyn has managed to survive the intervening years in the half flooded ruins, barely staving off madness and the dark influences of the Demiplane. If the party do it right, they might just might be able to give this double tragedy a happy ending after all.

[yoonjae20]

The Lives that could have been (or could be.) (Part 2 of 2)

Read on ao3. Masterpost.

Previous.

“Is every other life where I don’t become Phantom this bad?” Danny asks and Clockwork hums.

“More or less.”

“Then what-“

“I said ‘other lives you could live’ — not could have lived,” Clockwork interrupts. “There are infinite possibilities for your future after all.”

Once again pictures blur around them as they flicker through. Clockwork seemingly plucks out some at random, pushing them towards Danny.

“In this life you become an astronaut. You travel to space and become the top researcher in your field.“ 

Danny‘s eyes go wide at the picture of him beaming, floating inside a space station next to two other people. There are other objects floating around them and he waves at the camera.

“I never thought…” he trails off.

“That you could realize your dream of working for NASA? It’s one of your biggest regrets.”

Danny gulps staring at the still frame and he knows the Ancient of Time is right. After his accident and becoming Phantom he had written it completely off. With how irregular his heartbeat was, he would never pass the physicals. Not even speaking of his failing grades — he would never be able to get back to his 3.6 GPA. Sure he could technically go to space in his Ghost Form — considering he didn’t need to breathe but it wouldn’t be the same. 

Clockwork swishes it away before Danny can touch it, pulling another close to them.

“In this life you become an esteemed engineer, top of your craft and highly sought after,” Clockwork explains. 

Danny had always thought he would be too dumb to become an engineer, even when Tucker joked about him being a nerd. After all he was only improving on already existing blueprints and reverse engineering his parent’s inventions was different than thinking about new ones himself.

“You always regretted not having normal parents even if they love you when they aren’t distracted by work. But without growing up around then you would have never gained the skills to become an engineer and adapt on the fly.”

In the picture Danny is leaning against a table, some kind of contraption laying on it, snickering to himself while a black haired boy sits on the workbench close to him, laughing — blue eyes full of amusement. Danny has one hand settled on the boy’s thigh, intertwined with the boy’s left. 

Danny drinks in the sight, almost hypnotized by it. Clockwork pushes it away and replaces it with another one.

“You always wished that Vlad wasn’t your godfather,” Clockwork continues. “But without him you would have never met your husband.”

Danny is at some sort of gala, holding a champagne glass. The suit he is wearing looks expensive and specifically tailored to him. He is probably in his mid-thirties if not older. Another black haired man — once again blue eyes, leans towards his ear, whispering something in it with a smile on his face. Their suits are matching. Danny never thought he could look this content. For a long time he thought he forgot how to be.

“You always regretted being kind and having a martyr complex and not being selfish enough to put your needs first,” Clockwork says. “But it’s these traits that lead to you having all these lives.”

Danny is cooking with someone — mid-frame as he steals a piece of chocolate covered strawberry while a man with black hair and a striking strand of white swats at him with chopsticks from where is handling a wok. 

“And there are countless other futures like this.”

The images around start whirring again and Danny can only catch flickers.

A snapshot of him playing with a little girl outside — him floating next to a British man with a beige trench coat laughing. Him standing next to Tucker who is speaking to a microphone, the space looking like a streamer set-up. Him watching a black haired girl perform ballet — flickering to him fencing against a boy whose green eyes pin him through the fencing mask. Him studying with a boy with a buzz cut in a library and so many more. 

“I still don’t understand why you are showing me this now at all times.”

Clockwork snips his fingers, the images disappearing. Instead Danny feels the cold weight of the Crown of Fire settling above his head and the Ring of Rage appearing on his right hand. 

“It’s because it’s time you made a decision.”

“I thought I had no choice in the matter,” Danny says, feeling faint. “The Observants-”

“The Observants are not the ones who have the power,” Clockwork says. “It’s for you to decide whether you accept this fate or not.”

Danny knits his eyebrows together.

“I don’t get it,” he admits. “I can’t just give the throne to somebody else.”

“You can’t or you don’t want to?”

Danny groans at that — this feels too much like talking with Jazz when she starts psychoanalyzing the impact of his trauma from repeatedly dying and reviving in the accident. 

“What would happen if I don’t?” Danny questions, anxious. “Do people die?”

“People die all the time,” Clockwork says dryly. “Whether that is a result of your actions remains to be seen.”

“You just showed me a world where they did!”

Clockwork shakes his head.

“The past is different. I can only clearly see what would have happened if you didn’t do something. Compared to it, the future's not set in stone. Every single action you take, every single decision results in a different path. Even I can not see every possible life you could lead,” Clockwork clarifies. “It’s all up to you.”

Danny can’t help the frustration rising up in him at that. He knows Clockwork means well but he is tired of the responsibility settled on his shoulders. He’s just a teenager for Ancient’s sake. He should be worrying about grades and prom and not about the political, interdimensional implications of becoming a King at age 15. 

Clockwork bonks Danny’s head with his staff, ignoring his yelp. 

“That was not an invitation for you to overthink,” the Ancient of Time chides. “You need to recognize what is important to you.”

Immediately his thoughts flash to Jazz, Tucker and Sam. 

As if sensing what he is thinking, Clockwork pushes his wand against his chest, near his core.

“What do you want to do?” he questions. “If your friends or family didn’t exist, if they were dead, where would the path take you? That’s what you need to find out.”

Danny frowns, staring at the clock-shaped top of the wand pressed against the D on his hazmat suit. He knows Clockwork is right — in some twisted kind of way. Danny had always lived according to others expectations. He needed to do well in school or Mr. Lancer would be disappointed in him. He needed to manage his mental health or Jazz would be disappointed in him. He needed to support his parents even if he never saw them because of their work or they would be disappointed in him. He needed to protect Amity Park and stay Phantom or else Tucker and Sam would be disappointed in him. 

Of course by now his Obsession wouldn’t let him change that last point no matter what — but sometimes Danny wonders if his Obsession was truly born from within himself or if it had been forced upon him. If Danny found a way to leave Amity Park — to not have to worry about its destruction through the GIW if he wasn’t there 24/7, would his Obsession change? Would it reveal its true self? 

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because even when the Observants thought you were too dangerous to stay alive, I saw your potential,” Clockwork says. “You could be everything you want if you would stop limiting yourself.”

Danny gulps, looking up from the wand into the Ancient’s eyes.

“So…choose your future.”

That conversation had been several years ago. Back then Danny had been overwhelmed at the prospect of it and many sleepless nights followed.

He sighs and closes the book he had been reading, glancing at the clock. 

His eyes widen at the time — shit he lost track of time. He grabs his jacket as he runs out of the house, jumping on one foot to slip into his shoes and calls out a goodbye to his amused roommates as they watch him go. 

He runs to the meeting spot, arriving 5 minutes late. His head swivels around as he tries to spot his date. 

“Danny!” a voice calls and Danny turns around, relief flooding his face when he sees their black hair. 

Yes, by now Danny can appreciate what Clockwork did for him back then, making him choose a future that he won’t come to regret — actually giving him a choice, instead of placing even more expectations on him.

Which future did Danny choose in the end? Well that’s for yourself to decide. Danny for his part is finally happy. 

“…!” 

[breezeflows]

The Long Road (Stanford Pines x Reader)

Chapter 3

WOOP WOOP CHAPTER 3 IS HERE AND BOY IS IT JUICY🫣 On a serious note though, we are finally getting into some of the exciting bits of the story!! I’m hoping by the next chapter we will finally be back in the present. No more sad flashbacks!! Also y’all writing Lizzy is genuinely my favorite. If this fic wasn’t about Ford I’d be wifing her up instead😔 Anyways- here’s chapter 3 you lovely souls!

Themes: Consumption of alcohol (reader lowkey gets wasted), major hangover, bill himself is a warning, suggestiveness kind of?? idk, heartache, lizzy is overall an amazing friend, alllll the angst and feelings, injuries, etc okay enjoy!

The drive to Lizzy’s place is quiet, the steady hum of the car engine and the sound of raindrops against the windshield the only background noise. You sit in the passenger seat, watching the trees pass by through the window as you fiddle with the wedding band around your finger. Lizzy glances at you occasionally, a small frown on her face as she senses your mood. She remains silent for most of the ride, giving you space to process your emotions if need be.

It's not long before the car rolls to a stop in front of her apartment building. You reach around to gather your belongings from the backseat and step out into the rainy afternoon. Lizzy follows suit, bright pink umbrella in hand as she leads you towards the entrance.

Once inside the building, she unlocks the door to her apartment building and the two of you usher inside. The soft yellow light of the living room envelopes you, creating a cozy atmosphere in stark contrast to the gloominess outside.

Lizzy begins to kick off her shoes, hanging her keys as she silently studies your face. She can see the turmoil in your eyes, and the uncertainty you’re trying to hide.

“So,” she says gently, breaking the silence. “You okay?”

Your eyes snap out of the daze they were in as you look over at Lizzy, giving her a weak smile.

“Oh, yeah I guess. Things went a lot better than I thought they would.”

Her expression relaxes at your response, a hint of relief showing on her face.

“That’s good,” she says as she walks over to the couch and plops down on it, gesturing for you to do the same. “I was half-expecting a tearful scene or something, honestly.”

You manage a light chuckle at her remark, plopping down on the couch next to her. You pull your knees to your chest as you grab a blanket draped across the back of it, wrapping it around you.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Ford took it pretty well, actually. Better than I expected.”

Lizzy raises a brow as she leans against the back cushions, her arms crossing. “Girl, he better take it well after what he said to you. If it had been me, I would’ve dropped his ass on the spot.”

You can’t help but let out a small snort of laughter at her words, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips for the first time in a while. It’s a relief to have Lizzy’s no-nonsense attitude around, her bluntness serving as a much-needed dose of honesty.

“Yeah, yeah Liz, I know.” you admit, the smile still lingering on your face. “I was a little tempted.”

Lizzy grins, satisfied with your response as she reaches over and pats your knee supportively.

“As you should,” she says with a nod. “You don’t deserve treatment like that of any kind, no matter how important his research is to him.”

You frown slightly at her words, opting to pick at the blanket below as a distraction.

“Yeah..”

Lizzy watches your expression carefully, sensing your discomfort. She tilts her head slightly, her gaze searching your face.

“But you don’t quite agree, do you?” she probes gently.

You let out a sigh, unsure how to articulate your feelings as you continue to fiddle with the fabric of the blanket.

“It’s just… complicated Liz,” you say, your voice tinged with guilt and frustration. “Yes, I’m hurt and angry with him, but I also understand where he’s coming from. We’ve been together almost our whole lives, and this is all he has ever worked towards. His research is important to him, and he’s under a lot of pressure.”

Lizzy nods slowly as she listens to your words, her expression a mix of understanding and concern. She reaches over and places a hand on top of yours, stopping your nervous fidgeting.

“I get that Y/N, I do,” she says quietly. “And I’m not saying he’s completely in the wrong. But you shouldn’t have to feel like an afterthought in his life either. That’s not fair to you.”

Your eyes brim with tears at her response, your hand twisting and taking hers tightly.

“I know,” you say, your voice threatening to break. “I just wish we could fix things..”

Lizzy squeezes your hand as your tear-filled eyes meet hers.

“And you will, Y/N. It’ll just take some time.”

A small, wobbly smile forms on your lips at her reassurance, a few tears slipping down your cheeks. The hope that you might be able to fix things with Ford, to find a way to bridge the gap that’s widened between you both, is a small but significant comfort.

“Thank you, Liz,” you murmur, your voice still shaky. “I really hope you’re right.”

Lizzy stands with a smile, her hand pulling away from yours and resting on your shoulder.

“I know I’m right chick, because you two love each other. I’ve seen it.”

Your heart warms at her confidence, a soft smile forming on your lips as you nod.

“Now, how about some pizza?”

The few weeks you spend with Lizzy fly by, days passing in a blur of movies, late-night conversations, and plenty of chocolate induced comfort eating. As the final night of your stay approaches, Lizzy turns to you with a sly grin on her face.

“Y/N, I know you’ve been pretty reclusive the past couple of weeks, but it’s your last night here and I refuse to let you spend it watching crappy movies in my living room.”

She places her hands on her hips and gives you a stern look.

“We’re going out for drinks and that’s final.”

You mope as you walk into her view from the bathroom, your voice annoyed and pleading as you speak.

“Liz, I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m a married woman, and this dress feels less than... modest.”

Lizzy rolls her eyes, her expression clearly unconvinced.

“Girl, you’re not here to pick up someone, you’re here to have fun. And as for the dress I picked out for you, it looks fantastic. Stop overthinking it.”

She gives you a onceover, inspecting your outfit.

“Besides, I’d like to see anyone who tries hitting on you tonight.”

You pout as you watch her, pulling down your dress so it covers your knees.

“I don’t know how Ford would feel about this..”

Lizzy scoffs, shaking her head.

“Ford’s not here, and we both know he should be the last person you’re trying to impress right now. You’re still young, and attractive Y/N, you deserve to enjoy yourself for one night without him on your mind. Not to mention you’ve got to live your life without kids while you can. I know the two of you have talked about it. ”

She grabs the hem of your dress and tugs it back up, flashing you a defiant look.

“And if he has a problem with you having fun, he can talk to me.”

You sigh as you give in, knowing Lizzy wouldn’t be changing her mind about your all’s plans for the night.

“Fine, fine. But we’re not staying out too late, okay?”

Lizzy grins, victorious.

“That’s more like it! And don’t worry, I promise we won’t be out until dawn,” she assures you. “Just a few drinks, maybe a little dancing, and then we’ll come back here. You trust me, right?”

“More than anything Liz.”

And that’s how you find yourself at the bar now, one too many drinks in and slumped against Lizzy’s shoulder.

She laughs at your state, her own cheeks flushed from drinking. She slings an arm around your shoulders, keeping you upright and steady in the booth the two of you occupied.

“Goodness chick, are you already trashed? We’ve barely been here an hour!” she teases, her voice lighthearted and amused.

You grumble something in response, your head spinning from the alcohol in your system. You take another sip from your glass, your tongue loose and inhibitions lowered.

“I blame you,” you slur, pointing an accusatory finger at Lizzy. “You’re a bad influence.”

Lizzy laughs loudly at your accusation, her eyes sparkling. “No one forced you to down those shots, Y/N,” she says, sliding out of the booth with ease. “I’m going to get you some water, alright? You stay right here in your seat.”

You nod lazily at her words, the idea of staying where you are very appealing. You watch groggily as she strides away, her bell bottoms and flare top in tow. She weaves through the crowd to make her way to the counter, your eyes becoming heavy.

Just as you’re starting to doze off from the alcohol, a presence suddenly sits down in the booth across from you. You blink in surprise, your vision clearing slightly as you focus on the newcomer.

Your eyes widen as you recognize your husband’s face, his features strangely serious and intense as he stares back at you. But there’s something off about him… Something otherworldly in his gaze that sends a chill down your spine.

“Well, well,” he says, his voice cool and calculated. “If it isn’t dear Y/N. You look a little worse for wear.”

Your vision blurs as you grip the side of the table, your words slurred as you speak.

“F.. Ford?”

Ford smiles widely, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. The expression is slightly unfamiliar, different from the familiar warmth you’re used to. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“In the flesh, honey,” he drawls, his voice smooth and flirtatious.

“But I see you’ve had quite a few drinks already. Feeling a little dazed? I wonder how Sixer would feel about me seeing you in this state and not him. Hilarious!”

Your arm trembles weakly as you hold yourself up, vision blurring in and out as you sway slightly in your seat.

“Wha.. What? Why are you.. here..?”

His lips curl into a smug smirk as he eyes your disheveled form, eyes lingering on your exposed skin, clearly enjoying your confusion and intoxication.

“Oh, I had a little chat with Fordsy earlier. He agreed to let me take the reins for a few hours…”

He gives a careless shrug. “You know how he is. All work and no play. Figured I’d take advantage of the situation, hell, I even got him a new tattoo!”

You sit there, dumbfounded and wavering in and out of consciousness as your mind tried to process what Ford was talking about.

Ford’s – or rather, Bill’s – eyes rake over you again, giving an exaggerated sigh before his lips turned into a sly grin.

“You really are a sight for sore eyes, I can see why Sixer married you.”

Your thoughts are still spinning from the alcohol, making it hard to focus on the conversation. You struggle to keep yourself upright, your body feeling heavy and numb.

Bill notices your dazed state, chuckling as he gives a mockingly sympathetic tone.

“You look a little out of it, darling. You really shouldn’t have had so much to drink. Especially considering how easy it’d be to trick you into a deal right now.”

Your mind races with confusion as you stand up weakly, your gut telling you something wasn’t right as you sway back and forth, (Or maybe it was the alcohol) your vision blurring as you scan the place in search of Lizzy.

“Going somewhere? Those human legs of yours don’t look very stable!”

You wobble forward, ignoring his protests as you keep moving.

“You really should listen to me if you want to avoid that nasty bruise tomorrow!”

He calls out, and before you know it you trip, and everything goes black.

Hours later… aka early morning.

You slowly open your eyes, your head pounding and your memories fuzzy. You realize you’re lying on a couch in Lizzy’s apartment, a cool cloth pressed over what you assume to be a large tender bruise on your forehead.

Lizzy is sitting perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, her expression a mix of worry and frustration. She notices your eyes flutter open and lets out a relieved sigh.

“Oh thank god,” she mutters. “You had me worried for a second there. I stayed up with you all night waiting for you to wake up.”

“Liz?” you mumble, head pounding. “What the hell happened? My head is killing me..”

Her expression softens at your groggy murmur, her hand reaching out instinctively to brush the hair away from your face.

“Hey, take it easy,” she says, voice low and soothing. “You took a pretty nasty fall back at the bar. Hit your head on a table on the way down.”

Your eyes widen as your memory jogs itself.

“What..? Wait, Ford.. Ford was there?”

Lizzy freezes, her expression guarded at the mention of Ford. She averts her gaze, focusing her attention on the cloth that she’s holding against your forehead.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, her voice hesitant. “He showed up towards the end of the night when I went to grab you a water… You don’t remember?”

You think to yourself for a moment, your memory patchy and vague.

“I mean, I kind of do. But it was weird? Did something happen?”

Lizzy is silent, her gaze still firmly averted from yours. She adjusts the cloth, pressing it against your head with a little more pressure than necessary.

“Nothing happened,” she finally says, her voice tight. “You just had a little too much to drink and tripped, that’s all.”

Her words are curt and dismissive, clearly trying to downplay the situation. But there’s something in her expression, a flicker of unease that betrays her true emotions.

She glances at you briefly, her eyes meeting yours for a split second before moving back to your injury.

“Lizzy..?” you say, silently pleading with her to tell you the full truth.

She exhales slowly, her shoulders slumping in resignation. She knows you’re not going to let this go, and she owes you the truth.

“Alright, fine,” she mutters avoiding your gaze. “When I got back to the booth, it was exactly when you had fell..”

You listen closely, sitting yourself up slightly.

“I had noticed Ford when I got there, sure, but when I went to go help you..”

Lizzy pauses, a frown forming on her face as she continues.

“Ford laughed,” she says as her eyes meet yours, full of concern and.. fear? “And not in a lighthearted way, in a cruel mocking way Y/N..”

Lizzy lowers the cloth from your head, placing it in her lap as you sit there, dumbfounded.

“He was just… enjoying the view, I guess,” She mutters bitterly. “Like you were some kind of joke, I don’t know Y/N. It was fucking weird, really fucking weird. I didn’t like it. He laughed as if he was the one who had done it.”

Lizzy trails off, brows furrowed as she clenches her fists. While you, on the other hand, are utterly speechless.

Your mind reels with this new information, struggling to reconcile the image of Ford – laughing coldly and mockingly at your predicament - with the caring, affectionate husband you’ve known him to be your whole life.

“I… I don’t understand,” you stutter, your voice small and confused.

“He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t do that. Not Ford.”

But as you say those words, you can’t help but recall the other strange things that had happened earlier that night. Ford’s detached demeanor, his unfamiliar choice of words, the way he seemed so cold and calculating. Your heart clenches in your chest at the thought, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. Had something happened over the few weeks you’ve been gone? Did Ford get too deep in his research? Something wasn’t right.

As you try to make sense of the situation, Lizzy watches you with a mix of compassion and concern. She knows this is incredibly tough for you to hear, but she also seems to have her own worries about the situation.

“I don’t know Y/N,” she says quietly, her hands twisting in her lap. “It was just… so not him. I don’t know what the hell happened. But I’ve never seen him act like that before. It’s like he was a different person.”

Her voice trails off, leaving the two of you in silence as you’re both lost in thought.

Eventually, Lizzy breaks the silence, her voice sympathetic as she places a hand on top of yours.

“How about this, you rest up today, and when you’re ready, I’ll take you to the cabin to get some answers from Ford? Only if you feel comfortable, of course.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions inside of you.

“Alright,” you murmur. “I’m still feeling pretty rough, but I’d like to see him… tonight, if possible.”

Despite your confusion and worry, you know that facing your husband and talking with him is the only way to get answers. The answers that you crave so desperately in hopes that it’ll mend your breaking heart - and marriage.

Lizzy gives you a reassuring nod.

“Of course,” she says gently. “You rest up, and I’ll come get you when it’s time to go.”

She stands up, gently readjusting the cloth on your head.

“Try to get some sleep, okay?”

You nod, laying yourself back down.

You’re going to need it to cross the bridge that awaits you tonight.

READER AND BILL INTERACTION WOOP WOOP!! Also I’m not gonna lie, I feel like I messed up the timeline a little bit but I’m just gonna go for it. Thank you for reading! :)

Tag List: @artistic-gato @karmaisacatluzi @therottenheartofscum @violetvsworld @inquiit @catr4dora

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things : chapter one

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. no porn in the first two chapters, sorry gang :)

masterlist | next chapter

Prome Medical Devices hired you as a personal assistant to the CEO, Toshinori Yagi, shortly after he was diagnosed with his second bout of prostate cancer and shortly before they learned it had metastasized to bone. It was a tragic, yet expected turn of events.The man had been sick most of his life, they told you, he's probably slept in hospital beds more times than he's slept in his own. It was, like most things, inevitable.

Over the following weeks, through chemo and taps and rotating hospital doors, he began working from home and handling only the absolute basics, and your silly assistant job evolved into more. You had only planned to stay for a couple months, but then another horrible thing happened.

You became Somehow Important. 

Days went from scrolling on Twitter between writing notes to juggling everything that no one else could handle. Sitting in for meetings, handling calls, scheduling reviews and system checks, running to the pharmacy midday: there's nothing you haven't done. It’s a lot, but in the grand scheme of it all, it's nothing-- especially compared to the things that everyone else gets done here. 

8:35am. The security man gives you a nod without checking for your badge. Engineers skitter around the office like cockroaches. It's always a good sign when no one immediately comes to find you; that means your boss is still alive and doing about the same as he was yesterday. No updates, you’ve found, are good. No one bothers to tell you when good things happen: you’re the fixer, the emergency contact. When you’re being informed of anything, it’s because someone else wants you to clean up the mess.

(The only exception is from the man himself. Toshinori sends you the best kind of updates; mundane things from his life that he needs to share, like pictures of his duck pond or his review of the new coffee shop in town. It’s enough to keep you going, even when the day absolutely blows. You only had a few months working directly with the man, but he was fond of you-- and everyone was fond of him.)

Outdated filaments thrum down the halls. Your heels click against the tile with every step, a slow march to another day of monotony, a kind of dread that not even your phone can distract you from. Because your position is rather undefined for the corporate world, your desk is in an awkward spot, sandwiched in the hall, equidistant from the engineering department, the CEO's office, and the coffee machine. In terms of convenience, it's lovely, but it also means you have nowhere to hide.

Before you can even make it to your desk, a young man pops into the way and heads straight for you, a bit too quickly to be passed off as casual. Your heart sinks, then you realize it's just one of the interns: a college kid who's clearly had too many energy drinks already.

“Hey,” Denki smiles with too much gum, so wide his cheeks almost swallow up his eyes. He’s a scruffy, dirty blonde, a patchy black streak on one side of his head. His button down is obviously unironed, so crumpled it almost looks like a pattern, matching perfectly with his untied tie. It’s a good thing that he’s cute; you doubt he’d have gotten this far in life if he wasn’t. 

“Good morning, how are you? Have a good night? You look so pretty this morning. MILF town over here.” he says, twiddling the toe of his shoe into the carpet. “I made the pot of coffee for you,so you don’t have to worry about that-”

You cut him off. “What did you do?” 

The interns don’t report to you. If anything, they run parallel to you. If there’s anyone they should be ass kissing, it should be the department head, not some personal assistant, but the group considers you an ally. Maybe even a friend.

“I wouldn’t say that it’s something that I did,” the boy explains. He sucks air in through his teeth. “It’s more like what I didn’t do.”

“Denki.”

“It’s just the reports! I have to submit them end of day and it’s just not--” He juts out his bottom lip. “Can you proof my work? Please? The Eraser’s going to have my head if I make another mistake.”

The lead engineer is infamous for deleting whole chunks of code that the interns have made and ruining months of their work. Last month it was Ochako's work, who then spent the rest of the day at your desk, sniffling. The four others  were equally terrified of the man, constantly fretting and bitching about the ‘cruel working conditions.’ If Prome wasn't so prestigious (and internships weren't necessary for graduating) there’d be no interns left. You’re sure Eraser would prefer it that way.

“Please?” Denki clutches his hands together in prayer. “Please, please, please?”

 You don't even pretend to hem and haw.

“Email it over before lunch.” you say and he lights up. 

“Aw, you’re the best!” He turns away and practically skips down the hall. “I’m gonna drop off Izuku’s stuff too, okay?”

There’s no chance to say no before Denki’s gone. You flop into your chair and kick off your heels, trying to convince yourself that you don’t already regret saying yes. You catch your own appearance in the black screen of your computer. Makeup doesn’t do much to cover up the fact you’ve been crying. You can see it in your eyes, in the creases of your skin that you wish weren't there.  Even as the screen lights up, you can still catch your own face, starting back with that sad, sad expression. 

It's been mostly sleepless nights since Touya left, but you push through and ignore whatever you can. You miss your travel mug, the one that matched the coaster on your desk. You miss your forks, the ones that weren’t the awful ones from the thrift store down the road, bought solely out of panic when you returned to an empty apartment.  Most of all, you miss him, how the apartment felt warmer with two bodies instead of one, and how secure you felt with someone who loves you.

Your screen loads and a big, red 24 flashes in the corner-- fuck, the works already piling up. You try to squish any thought of Touya’s disappearing act into the back of your head. Like a dog, Touya always comes back home to you. He just needs to be wild for a bit, play off leash, and then he’ll crawl back like always. 

You check your phone. He’s still saved under “AVOID AT ALL COSTS” and the last five texts you sent are all unread. Your thumb hovers over the delete button for a moment; it’d be easier to cut him off and end this cycle. You can stop pushing the boulder up the hill,  just for it to tumble back down again. You could pursue someone else, maybe someone nice or smart or at least not rude-

 Focus. Compliance is raising concerns about the new platform and manufacturing has CC'ed you into an issue about screw heads, two things that you know nothing about. You flip your phone over and push through. What’s the difference between a hex and a truss and why should you care?

..

11:59. You’re none the wiser about either topic, but the dust seems to be settling and everyone seems to be happy enough. Denki’s reports are an absolute mess, bad to the point you start to wonder if he even tried. The pages aren't even formatted correctly, so it’s going to take most of your lunch to iron out the wrinkles. Luckily, Izuku is a bit more competent and his tasks look great, so-

“Oh, baby girl!”

You stop typing and sit straight up to peer over your computer screen, hiding the remnants of your microwaved lunch. With arms raised high and dressed in his finest ironed button down, Yamada Hizashi enters. Tall, blonde, thin, and leggy: Hizashi would have been a Victoria’s Secret model if he wasn’t a man. His long hair is tied back into a messy bun, a couple of loose tendrils floating  around his face in an effortlessly, annoyingly charming way as he marshes straight for you. 

“Let me see ‘em!” he demands loudly, a smile on his face and his hands on his hips. “Come on, baby. You know what I want.”

If it was anyone else, you’d think the man was a creep, but Hizashi is just so earnest about the way he lights up a room. With a belabored sigh and a grin, you roll your chair back a bit and stick your leg to the side to reveal your pink, fluffy slippers. The man claps his hands together and laughs a deep, hearty chuckle, genuinely bemused. 

The bunny slippers had started as a secret. The original dress code had required women to wear heels to work, which was fine, until the back of your feet became nothing but blisters. To give yourself some respite during the day, you had hidden a pair of slippers under your desk, just a little treat to make it through the day. It seemed like a genius idea-

Until the day the fire alarm went off. In the surprise, you had forgotten to change your shoes back, and proceeded to spend the next half an hour outside with the entire company in your violently pink shoes.

Luckily, everyone thought it was pretty funny.

Especially Hizashi.

“Seeing my work wife is the best part of the week.”

You throw a hand over your heart and gasp, trying to hold back your smile. “Only your work wife?”

“Oh, babygirl, I’d marry you in an instant.” He leans over your desk with another sigh, this one heavier. “I’d make you the trophy wife you were born to be.”

“Cool it, Mic.” Your heart sinks a bit at the voice.  “HR is going to have your head if you aren’t careful.”

Aizawa “The Eraser” Shouta makes his third appearance at the coffee machine this morning. He’s an average sized man, if not slightly short, with dark hair and the beginnings of a salt and pepper beard. The muscles in his jaw flex whenever he looks your way, almost as if he’s chewing away his annoyance. The most notable thing about him is a scar on his high cheek bone, long healed and silver in the light. He sits his coffee cup - a beat to shit Stanley thermos from long before they were cool- under the tap and lets the java pour, that sour expression never leaving his face.

Aizawa has worked here since the beginning. As one of the founding members of Prome and a lead engineer, he’s had his hands in absolutely every machine the company has produced, and yet he carries himself with none of the pomp and circumstance he deserves. Instead of abiding by the strict dress code, he wears a bright yellow sweatshirt that has an obvious coffee stain on the pocket.  It’d be charming if he wasn’t an infamous dick. The two of you rarely interact, despite the fact he visits the coffee station next to your desk multiple times a day, offering you no more than a nod most days. The interns are terrified of him-- and rightly so. You’re also scared of him. You’ve never met anyone else as tightly wound or as obsessed with work as him; there’s a rumor that he even sleeps here some days.

“Don’t listen to him,” Hizashi says. “He’s just jealous.”

“I’m not jealous, I’m protecting the company from potential litigation when bunny slippers over here-” he juts a chin your way- “ decides your flirting isn’t fun anymore.” 

You knew he wasn’t jealous. It’s an open secret that Aizawa doesn’t like you very much. Unlike any other of the department heads, he never allocates you work or stops by to chat. There was even a rumor that he wanted to eliminate your position last year; you wouldn’t care so much if he didn’t have the power and sway to make that happen. 

Hizashi pops a hip to the side. He isn’t afraid of anyone it seems; he even claims to be the man’s friend after hours.“Would you rather me go back to flirting with you?”

Aizawa stares back, only the trickle of coffee echoing in the hall. Finally, when it almost reaches the top, he shuts it off and glares. “You’re not even supposed to be in office today, Mic.” 

Hizashi had always been the most notable salesman in the company, but once the CEO’s health went downhill, he had taken over a lot of the speaking roles as well. Interviews, speeches, and the like: Toshinori Yagi had dubbed him Mr. Microphone and the name had just stuck. From what you can tell, he’s actually pretty close with Aizawa and the other founding members outside of work as well.

“I have a quick meeting with the marketing gals in a couple minutes,” Hizashi explains. He brings his attention back to you, brows waggling. Fuck- you know what he’s about to say.

 “And I wanted to wish my wife an early happy birthday.”

Oh, god. Your face flushes with heat-- you had hoped he had forgotten that. You glance over to Aizawa, who seems more interested than usual.

“It's tomorrow,” you explain. He nods curtly.

“Our office darling is going to be thirty, flirty and feeling fine!” Mic explains further. Ugh. You wish he didn't sound so happy about it. When you think about it for too long, turning thirty feels like the end of the world, an evil you just can't avoid. It's better than the alternative, you guess. 

“Are you and the boyfriend planning on a romantic night?”

A second gut punch of a statement.

“Oh, no, I’m just-- he--” You almost get emotional for a moment. Thirty years old and single: it feels like the end of the world for some reason. Everyone else is getting married or having kids or living some dream life. Fuck-- even two of the goddammit interns are engaged and they're practically babies! At this point, you might as well give up and die alone; no one else is ever going to want you, are they? 

 The glimpse of Aizawa in the corner, watching you with those judgemental eyes, sobers you up quickly. 

“We broke up, so I’m just staying in.”

The two snap their heads towards each other. Mic waggles his eyebrows, not so subtly gesturing to a non receptive Aizawa. You know that look, the excitement and relief. It’s not a secret that no one really liked Touya-- people have been openly voicing their contempt for years. He wasn’t a bad guy, except for the times he was, but people only ever remembered the bad things. 

“Oh, is it…?” Mic bites back his words, debating how harsh he should be.  “Is it for real this time?”

Touya always comes back. Everyone knows the routine by now. 

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m done with him.”

“Good.” Aizawa says. You grimace at that; even he knows? You didn’t know he paid attention to anything outside of work, let alone your shitty interpersonal drama.

“More than good. Amazing! Spectacular! I’m so, so, so proud of you!” Mic adds on and you pretend it doesn’t bother you. It’s strange; the more others despise him, the more your heart aches. Touya needs you and you need him; who else will have him?

Who else will have you?

“That means we can go out for drinks to celebrate!”

“Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to do that.”

“Too late, nope. We’re having a two-for-one birthday single bash tomorrow.” He’s on his phone, typing wildly. “I hope you have something pretty to wear because I’m going to show you how you deserve to be treated.”

Fuck. You’d rather be alone, sniveling and waiting for Touya’s return in your apartment, but Hizashi is smiling. His intentions are good; it’d be cruel to deny him. 

“Nemuri knows some awesome spots-” The man is a whirl, typing and talking and walking. “You better get excited, baby girl.”

“Oh, yay,” you offer weakly. Hizashi isn’t listening anymore; he’s caught up in his own plans, briskly walking down the hall. A breath you didn’t know you were holding sneaks out and you slump back down to your seat.

“You really don’t have to let him walk all over you like that,” Aizawa says. He swirls his cup slowly, watching the rim.  

You try to offer the man a smile, but you can tell it looks forced. Sure, Hizashi can be a lot, but he just wants to help, as misguided as that urge is. 

“It’s okay.” When he doesn’t look convinced, you add. “Really.”  

“Are you sure?”  he presses, voice tight. 

“Mhm.” You return to your keyboard and start typing, hoping that he understands the social cue. “Thanks though.”

Thankfully, he lets it go. Turning down the hall, he starts to sip his coffee, but then freezes mid stride.

“You make this?”

“No.”  

“I can tell,” Aizawa says, examining his cup. “It’s fucking dog water.”

That comment is so off kilter that you can’t help but snort. Aizawa watches you for a beat more, maybe bemused, maybe not, then nods. With that, he leaves, an empty coffee pot in his wake.  Another item to add on your growing list. 

-

The rest of the day goes by quicker than you need it to. Denki leaves a little bit after lunch for a doctor’s appointment and the rest of the workforce trickles out after. The head of development, Nezu, has you run through potential presentations before you follow up on compliance’s worries again. The coffee pot was refilled four more times, all by you, and your messages to Touya still sit delivered and unread. Two hours after the work day was supposed to end, you slip your heels back on. Denki’s files are pretty much unrecognizable now, but that’s a good thing.  All of the college students are intelligent and more accomplished than you’ll ever be, but you’re not sure why they can’t figure out basic busy work. There’s nothing hard about it, other than focusing.

With a final press of a key, your personal printer hums to life. A staple and a paperclip and you’re done: now it’s just a quick trip to engineering and you can finally go home. Your work isn't physical, but God, hunching at a desk all day takes a toll on your body. A flare of something eats at your lower back as you stroll the empty building and try to rub the grit from your eyes. You think there’s a frozen pizza at home or maybe some pasta-- though, you can’t remember if that was from this monday or last monday. Maybe it’d be safer to just throw it away.

The department itself  is a long row of cubicles, with miscellaneous machines and computers littering the other side of the room. You recognize old prototypes and parts of Prome's most famous product: a hospital bed. 

Before you had set foot in this building, you never thought a bed could count as a medical device -- or as something highly complicated and thoroughly engineered -- but this bed is different. It’s comfortable, lightweight, and durable, all while able to track a patient’s movement and comfort. It even records a patient's glucose, body temperature, SPO2, and many other medical things that go over your head. When used correctly, bedsores rates have been reduced to nearly zero and hospital related illnesses are caught significantly earlier.

In about three months, the newest model will be released, complete with full integration into electronic record systems. If everything goes according to plan, it’ll be revolutionary. Working here is a headache, but you do take pride that it's a company that does good. 

“Do you need something?” 

You jump at the sound of the voice, flipping around to search the room. Tucked at the end of it all is an open office door. Inside, Aizawa is perched at his desk, head in one hand, reading glasses in the other.  He’s illuminated only by the computer screen, his deep, dark eyes bouncing side to side as he carefully reads.

 Aizawa always looks tired, but now so especially; his heavy lidded eyes are drooped with fatigue and his skin is pallor, black stubble dusting his unshaved cheeks. There’s no bite or annoyance to his voice-- maybe even a little levity. For once, you don’t want to scurry away from him like a mouse, hiding in the shadows and corners to avoid his claws.  You still approach cautiously, heels sharp against the tile. The silence in between each hit makes your skin prick with an unknown nausea. 

“I thought everyone went home.” You say. 

“Everyone did. Just me-- and you, apparently.” He taps out a word or two. His office is devoid of personal items, desk covered in nothing but stacks of papers and illegible post notes, nothing to hint to his personal life. It’s been three years, yet you have no idea what his personal life is like-- if he even has one, that is.

“No slippers tonight?”

That was either a dig or a joke. You aren’t sure either way, but the way your shoes sound when you walk even closer feels like its own answer. When you reach the corner of his desk, he finally looks your way. It hits you that you've never actually been this close to him before. It's always been passes in the hall and distant conversations. His skin is smoother than you'd thought it'd be, with creases between his brow that fill themselves when he-

“Do you… need something?”

“Oh, uh-- Denki left these at my desk by accident,” you lie, sliding the file on to the corner of his desk. “I think they’re for you.”

He regards you again, more thoroughly this time. With a tilt of his head, he inspects your face, eyes flickering between your two. In the dim, they’re nothing but black dots, an inkinesss that you could fall into if you were any closer. 

He’s pretty.  And that’s an unsettling thought. You’ve never allowed yourself to consider that before. Immediately, you walk the thought back. No. Nobody with his personality is attractive-- hands down. Touya is the only dick you need in your life. 

“You should go home. It's late.” he says before turning back to his work. He types a couple things, then hits the backspace and deletes it all again. “Go home.”

Adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you sigh, the workday catching up to you. “You should too.” 

“Hm,” he grunts. He takes a long sip from his thermos, tipping it back to suck the dregs. You’d never noticed the sticker of the bottom before- a faded and torn image of an orange cat.  “Maybe.”

That’s a no. You don’t push the issue. You start towards the door, then pause. 

“Do… do you want me to make another pot of coffee before I go?” You’re not sure why you offer. Everything’s been put away and cleaned for tomorrow. It’d take at least 15 minutes to set up again. 

Aizawa slides his glasses back on, adjusting them by the bridge, only for them to slip right back down the flat bridge of his nose.

“You don't have to do that.” 

With that you leave, no proper goodnight dismissing you. The tap of your heels and the clack of his keyboard mix into some sort of soft, unbalanced rhythm. Despite yourself, you think of Touya, of where he is and where he isn’t. Is it also quiet there? Has he thought of someone else in the same way you just did?

When the doors of the building close and the security guard nods your way, the sound of percolation echoes behind you, the final drops falling into a freshly brewed pot.

[moonstruckme]

Can I request Spencer x anxious, overthinker reader ? Maybe, overwhelmed or stressed, like almost burnout, but not quite. Because this semester at uni had just been way too much in every way. Thank you 💕 🌸

Thanks for requeting love, hope you're able to get a break soon!

cw: academic stress, reader has symptoms of anxiety

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

When Spencer gets home in the middle of the night, you don’t hear him over the sound of sizzling and your own racing thoughts. 

“Hi,” he announces himself as he comes in, meeting your little jolt with a bemused look. “I’m surprised you’re still awake.” 

“Hey, how was your flight?” You whirl from the stove for the half a second it takes to brush a kiss against his cheek before turning back to keep pushing things around the pan. The momentary distraction is worth it for the emergence of Spencer’s smile, soft and fatigued. “Sorry, I was hoping to have this done before you got home.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says automatically. “The flight was good. I’m happy to be back.” He sets his bag down and rounds the kitchen island to lean against the counter beside the stove, peering at your face. “I hope you’re not making dinner just for me.” 

“I’m going to have some too,” you reassure him. “I’m starving.” 

Spencer’s expression shifts. You get the sense you’ve confirmed something for him. “It’s pretty late. Why haven’t you eaten yet?” 

You wish you could say that you’d wanted to wait and eat with your boyfriend, but there’s never any point in lying to Spencer. 

“I just haven’t gotten around to it until now,” you say. “I have a lot of work to do.” 

“I know,” he replies. You know he does. You’d started venting about your workload before he left for the case, and he’d been kind about letting you continue to do so during your nightly calls when he was away. “Still, it’s a lot to be up until…” He glances at the microwave clock, unsure of what time it actually is. You can’t say you know, either. “Nearly three-thirty. How long have you been working for?” 

You push the vegetables around in the pan, olive oil spitting and burning the skin of your hand. You feel Spencer’s stare narrow on you. “Since I got home, so seven-ish.” 

He frowns. “You’re not feeling tired, are you?” 

You’re not, though you don’t ask how he can tell. You look tired, you know. Every time you look in the mirror lately, you think of the word unkempt. Messy hair, dull skin, purplish crescent moons stamped under both eyes. But you don’t feel like you could sleep if you tried. There’s an urgency in your blood that gets you up early every morning and propels you to work through the day, like there’s an engine inside of you that’s decided it doesn’t need gas to run. You’re always moving, humming, thinking, certain without reason that if you stop it’ll all fall apart. 

You shake your head, and Spencer frowns towards the pan. “What do you have left to do with this?” 

You’re surprised to find, upon looking down, that the vegetables look ready. “Um,” you switch the heat off, “I’m just waiting for the timer to finish on the pasta, and then I’m going to mix them together. It shouldn’t be long.” 

“Okay.” He takes the spoon from you, moving you out of the way with a careful hand on your shoulder. “I can handle that. You should go sit down.” 

“Spence,” you laugh, “I can do it.” 

He doesn’t argue with you, necessarily, just utters a quiet, “It’s okay,” and nudges you in the direction of the couch. 

You don’t have it in you to protest much, not when he’s just gotten home, so you do, curling up with your feet underneath you and pulling a blanket from over the side of the armrest. You think Spencer is going to want to talk, but he doesn’t, just stirring the pasta and pulling dishes out of the cabinet. Maybe he’s exhausted, too. It is late, and he’s been working on his case the same way you’ve been chipping away at your schoolwork, for days and days with little reprieve. 

You thank him when he passes you a bowl, slurping up the noodles the way your mom would chide you if she were here for and comforted by the fact that Spencer’s doing the same. You’re convinced the pasta somehow tastes better than if you’d finished it yourself, your boyfriend’s poor culinary skills supplemented by the love he puts into taking care of you. 

“You know,” he says after a minute, “there’s evidence to suggest that consistent sleep loss can lead to loss of brain cells.” 

You suck a noodle into your mouth. “I sleep,” you tell him. “I’m just having a late night.” 

Spencer gives you a sorry sort of smile. Like he almost wants to apologize for how smart he is, how it keeps you from getting away with anything. “I’ve only been gone for four days,” he says, “but you were texting me after I went to sleep and before I got up every morning.”  

“Only psychopaths look at timestamps,” you joke, looking down into your pasta bowl. 

He shrugs, quiet. 

“What else can I do?” you ask, and you really are asking. “I have deadlines, Spence. Due dates. I can’t just say fuck it and go to sleep at nine every night like I don’t still have work left to do.” 

“Which part is overwhelming you?” he asks curiously. 

You huff. Not at him. “All of it? It’s like every one of my professors thinks they’re my only class. There’s a bunch of essays and projects all due this week, and no break from the regular stuff to give me time to get it done.” You blink into your pasta bowl, ashamed at the emotion bullying its way into your voice. Blame it on fatigue, you guess. “Every day when I get home from class, I have this impossible list of things to do, and it’s like, if I don’t finish, what’s going to happen? My grades will tank, and I won’t be able to get any of the good internships, and then I won’t get a job, and—”

“It’s okay.” Spencer’s voice is quiet, and you might keep going if not for the hand he sets on your wrist. His thumb strokes once over the delicate skin just below your palm. “It’s okay, just try to breathe for a second. Calm down.” 

You do, only because it’s him. When other people tell you to calm down, it’s a demand, a criticism of your display of feeling. When Spencer does it, it's an assurance. That you can relax, because he’s going to make it all right. 

“I failed three classes when I was in college,” he tells you. 

You imagine your eyes bulging all the way out of your head on cartoon springs, lolling towards the ground. “What?” 

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I didn’t like them. I never showed up to class, and eventually I just failed. I didn’t really care.” His mouth slants sheepishly. “I probably should have, but I still don’t, actually. You can get a job either way.” 

Your laugh is dry. “Spence, I think it’s a little different for genius prodigies.” 

“Not really,” he says, thumb still pressing into your wrist, and you finally realize he’s been taking your pulse. It’s strangely touching, the way he cares for you so quietly. “Even if you did fail these classes because of the assignments this week, the odds are actually pretty good that you could get a job. And you won’t fail, because you’ll still finish and the work will be great. I know you.” His long fingers stretch up your forearm, a caress. “I know you get really nervous about these things, but you’ll do better work if you sleep more. You’ll be more efficient.” 

“I can’t,” you admit quietly. 

A tiny, sympathetic crease appears between Spencer’s brows. “You can,” he promises. “I’ll make you some nighttime tea and we’ll make sure all the curtains are closed. We should turn off your alarms, too.” 

You bite your lip. “I have class in the morning.” 

“You can miss one. You have to miss a lot for it to really affect your grade, trust me.” He gives the base of your hand a little squeeze. “I’d know.” 

Your laugh is half breath, but Spencer smiles anyway. “Okay.” You’re giving in way too easily, but a morning spent in bed with your boyfriend sounds heavenly. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” he says sincerely, releasing your hand to pick up his fork. “We’ll go to bed once we finish this, okay? And I’ll pick up breakfast tacos for breakfast tomorrow. Protein is good for brain function.”

[lil--ichigo]

Tf2 Mercs and Sleep

In general, I think most of the mercs go to sleep pretty early, at least during workdays. Id imagine doing what they do is incredibally physically draining and requires a lot of physcial fortitude, and they're all up early because their barracks are run very military-like. None of them can risk passing out on the battlefield and Id assume are required to work out daily to keep their strength.

Scout - Stays up the latest out of the mercs, usually until 1. Mostly because hes full of caffeine all the time and is the lucky kind of person who needs very little sleep to function. But this annoys a lot of the other mercs. Especially Spy, who is a very light sleeper. They only let him get away with it because none of them want to know how hyper scout would be with a longer sleep shedule. Finds it hard to get to sleep (music helps, though) and when he does get to sleep he's a surprisingly a heavy sleeper cause growing up in the city with a big family means he'd be used to noise.

Soldier - Has the most strict shedule out of all the mercs. Unless he's out drinking with the team, he's in bed at 9:00 pm, no exceptions. He's also up the earliest out of all the mercs. Well that would be the case, but soldier will make sure they all get up at 5:00 sharp with ultra loud pot bangings. The only one spared from this is sniper cause he sleeps in his van.

Pyro - In general I don't have many hcs for Pyro and that includes their sleep schedule. Maybe it's because I like to keep them mysterious? I feel Pyro likes when Engineer tells them a bedtime story and are probably in bed around the same time Spy and Heavy are.

Demoman - Likes to go out late and is more of a night owl compared to an early bird, but can never seem to stay up past midnight, either cause hes passed out drunk or cause hes been awake since 5 thanks to soldier. I'd imagine he's the heaviest sleeper on the team, idk. It just fits. But that can't stop soldiers pot assaults on his ears.

Heavy - Has a pretty good sleep schedule. It isn't as strict as soldiers, though. He won't force himself to go to bed at a certain time if he's in the middle of something but likes to get a reasonable amount of sleep. Snores like hell and probably has sleep apnea but CPAP wouldn't be avaliable until the 80s. Maybe medic somehow made one idk. Always needs to have a cup of tea before bed, preferably with a book.

Engineer - Hot take but he doesnt stay up that late, at least presently. Sure, there will be days he gets distracted on a project and stays up later than intended, but to him 'late' is midnight, especially considering hes up early. The mercs meals are usually provided for them but, sometimes engie cooks breakfast for the team. It was a different story in college though with all the assignments he would need to do. But as he's older and waking up earlier, he finds himself needing at least 6 hours of sleep. Will also nap on his lounge chair when nothing is going on. Although hes pretty alert to spies, I feel like he's another heavy sleeper.

Sniper - He's always tired. It's not even that he stays up the latest out of all the mercs (id say he goes to bed around midnight), he's just a very light sleeper and can't go back to bed if hes woken up. Not to mention all the times he needs to wake up to piss like a pregnant person. Coffee and the adrenaline of the battlefield are literally the only things that keep him from passing out in his post or during excercise time. At least hes able to wake up later than the rest of the mercs cause hes spared from soldier. Like engie, tends to nap when he isn't doing anything.

Spy - Most of what I said to heavy in terms of shedule and reading applies to spy, minus the snoring. Like Sniper, he's a lighter sleeper because as a spy he's required to be a alert and aware of getting spotted. Sleeps with earplugs and a face mask or else scout and demo keep him him up all night with music and just thumping around.

Medic - Remember how I said most of the mercs get a reasonable amount of sleep? Medic is the exeption. He thinks sleep is beyond him and will spend hours experimenting on animals and stuff for fun. Either that or he's doing work, a lot like how people portray Engie in fanon. Thank god he doesn't have internet access cause if he did he'd be up all night researching the weirdest medical rabbit holes. How he manages to not pass out after some hard matches and daily excercise is a mystery. Maybe he just... eliminated his need for sleep.

[tf-rechargeandrebound]

Ok I redesigned them for the last goddamn time

TFR Autobot designs ^^ (I'm sorry if the colours look fucked up idk how to fix exporting stuff)

Character profiles beneath the cut

Optimus Prime

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: Freightliner semi truck

Occupation: Autobot commander, current Prime

Likes: Cybertronian history, reading, Earth’s general vibe, long drives, peace and quiet

Dislikes: His position as Prime (he’s not very vocal about it though), snakes, icy roads, large social functions, taking breaks from all that gosh darn paperwork

Once a humble dock worker named Orion Pax, Optimus Prime is the leader of the Autobot Resistance, and is being counted on to save his home from the Decepticons. Any Autobot would describe him as wise, kind, stoic, somewhat stern, and a great leader who can sometimes get grumpy when stressed or tired. His most trusted officers and family, such as Elita-1, know that he’s also rather socially awkward and a bit of a bookworm. He cares deeply for every single Autobot under his command, and has grown to care for Earth as well. He generally dislikes needlessly reckless behaviour from those around him, as he can’t bear to see even more lives lost to the war. He often doubts himself, his role as Prime, and his actions, even if they were right. At the end of the day, Optimus wants nothing more than to live a quiet life with his loved ones.

Elita-1

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter jet

Occupation: Autobot commander

Likes: Astronomy, meteorology, flying, Earth rain, stargazing

Dislikes: Megatron (everyone hates him but she hates him on a very personal level), confined spaces, caves, snowstorms

Before she was Elita-1, she was Ariel, and before she was Ariel, she was a miner designated AR-1. After escaping the mines when she was young, she was taken in by an old dock boss named Kup who offered her a job at the docks, where she met a young mech named Orion Pax. Elita and Optimus Prime are both co-commanders and conjunx enduras. She’s much more of a social jokester than he is, and is extremely popular amongst the troops. She’s cunning, loyal, intelligent, and a fierce warrior who always stands up for what’s right and puts others before herself, all while being someone who’s willing to lend an ear to anyone who needs to vent. She’s truly the definition of an Autobot.

Bumblebee

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: 2017 Volkswagen Beetle

Occupation: Special Operations scout

Likes: Earth pop culture (especially video games and 80s music), open roads, making friends, adventure, summertime, stories about pre-war Cybertron, carwashes

Dislikes: Being teased for his height, sharp objects, confinement, failing a task or mission

Bumblebee is one of the youngest and most promising soldiers in the Resistance. Raised by Optimus and Elita, he chose to join the fight against the Decepticons once he came of age, a decision that they respect but don’t fully approve of. His oddly small stature makes him ideal for espionage-based missions, and he’s nearly mastered using his size to his advantage while in direct combat. Bee is an extremely upbeat and friendly bot, and while he may be small, he has a big spark that cares deeply for everyone around him. He often recklessly puts himself in danger to protect others, which usually gets him injured, but the injuries are worth it, in his opinion. Overall, Bumblebee is a dependable, determined, and brave Autobot, just like his caretakers.

Wheeljack

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: 2015 Chevrolet Silverado

Occupation: Autobot Science Division, Chief Engineer

Likes: Science, inventing, researching, stunt driving (he doesn’t do it much anymore, though), lab work, reading scientific reports, explaining things he’s invented or fixed, explosions

Dislikes: Listening to his body when it tells him to take breaks, not knowing about a subject, distractions from his work, long fights

Wheeljack is one of Cybertron’s greatest scientific minds. He’s a brilliant, eccentric engineer and a good-natured bot who others like to be around. He can easily become engrossed in his work, and has little regard for his own personal safety, as he frequently patches himself up and regularly visits the medbay after his daily experiment blows up in his face. He often looks out for the youngsters around him, and ends up fostering a strong paternal affection towards his human ally Sadie. While he’s not on the front lines as much as he once was, he’s still quite a capable fighter and a force to be reckoned with.

Ratchet

Allegiance: Autobot

Alt mode: MXP-170 ambulance

Occupation: Chief Medical Officer

Likes: Peace and quiet, napping, organizing his equipment, Engex, bossing people around

Dislikes: People or bots who annoy him, his equipment being disorganized, comments about his age (unless he makes them), hotshot young bots (except for Bee), busy cities

One of Iacon’s best and most dedicated medical professionals, Ratchet is an elderly, cranky old medic who’s constantly trying to keep his fellow Autobots out of trouble. He’s no stranger to wartime, as he's a veteran of the Quintesson War that took place before the majority of his comrades were even protoformed. Having raised both Optimus and Wheeljack, they’re two of the only bots who know that, despite his prickly exterior, Ratchet is actually quite a softie deep down. Still, Ratchet has a nasty temper, and he often doesn’t work well with others, preferring to do things “his way”. When the situation is dire enough, however, he’ll accept help from those around him. Occasionally, he’ll be relaxed enough to lightheartedly joke around with those he’s closest with, but overall he’s a tough, no-nonsense, hard working old bot.

[megapteraurelia]

hiii just saw your post about needing distraction and if i can help you even a little bit then i’d be happy to!! so id like a drabble with akaashi, f!reader or gn!reader, fluff, at uni?? if that’s fine?? have a lovely day <33

ZEUGMAS AND FEELINGS.

🫧 SUMMARY; — akaashi keiji and you found each other while trying to survive deadlines. or: how to not get anything done because akaashi keiji is just so damn pretty.

🫧 WARNINGS; — meet-cute and fluff; fem!reader

🫧 WORD COUNT; — 4449.

🫧 AUTHOR'S NOTE; — elie, i love you, you precious!!! thank you for this and i'm sorry that i didn't keep to the idea of a drabble. for the life of me, i could NOT pass up writing several moments of akaashi so there's 4.5k words full of them instead T_T i hope i made it justice, though :3

please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

the library was silent on sunday; eerie yet comforting in a way. 

the sun had long since set, the last of the rays that came through the windows bathing everything in a light that felt more nostalgic than it actually was before it dipped everything outside in a dark cloak. among the typing sounds on different kinds of laptops, their engines more than ready to take off after being used for so long, there was only the ticking of the clock, sometimes a soft clearing of throats or the gentle clink of a thermo cup being set down.

looking up from the mock exam you were taking for your cultural studies class, flexing your cramped fingers and rolling your shoulders, your eyes found the only other person sharing your space that late. you didn’t mean to look over at him lest you made anybody feel awkward, but in an entire picture of stillness before you, the movement drew your eyes naturally.

his fingers were swift, flying over the keyboard, gaze trained at his screen, trusting his hands to instinctively and automatically follow the letters. you couldn’t see his eyes properly, though, the glare of the laptop reflecting off his glasses. though you could see the little furrow of concentration in his brows, his teeth worrying his lower lip as he halted for a second, thinking. then nodding to himself, they resumed their display of a gear having turned in his brain. 

your eyes wandered away from him to your own screen, the words staring at you, and you wondered once again whether you should have chosen a different topic to cover in this assignment. would american history work better? did you have enough characteristics to explain the relevance in the corresponding text? or did you perhaps want to stay focusing on orientalism? 

after all, american history was your current topic discussed in class, its myths and ideologies, transformation of gender roles, the age of realism and science. it would be easier to just focus on any of those: the harlem renaissance, counterculture and postmodernism, the gilded age— 

you rubbed your eyes, and a sigh escaped your mouth, strong and carrying a lot of exhaustion; your lungs pushed the air out forcefully. you were too far in to scrap everything and start anew with a whole nother topic, so there was only one plausible and logical conclusion to draw:

get more coffee and force your brain cells to work.

standing up from your spot, senses tuned into the stillness of the library, you noticed something. or lack thereof. no typing noise anymore that had accompanied you for hours on end; the seat in front of the man’s laptop empty, his notebooks still open on the table, though no cup on the empty coaster. 

as you walked by with your empty mug and passed the little area that his pens and his dispersed papers claimed as his for the time being, you let your eyes flit over his screen. walls of paragraphs comparing two different works of literature on one half of his desktop, another document open with several similarities and differences listed on the other half. 

“japanese lit, huh?” you mumbled to yourself, tired eyes straying away from his possessions and your feet automatically carried you to the coffee machine at the entrance of the library that the students of various classes had invested in to aid them during their emotional breakdowns…uh, quest to finish their essays and assignments in time. 

zoning out, gripping your mug in one hand, you barely recognised the familiar movement of a person occupying the space in front of you out of the periphery of your eyes as you neared the coffee machine, so you only came back to reality when your nose was suddenly squished against a warm barrier that smelled like cappuccino and old books. 

“easy,” a deeper voice than yours called out close to your head, one hand having already come up to steady you when you lost your balance. his hand was warm against your back, the heat seeping through the layers of your woolen turtleneck, and for a second you both occupied the same space, the only sound the ticking of the clock.

“oh, sorry,” your response was automatic, sheepish and you stepped back, “i probably saw you but my brain didn’t work quick enough to actually see you.”

your gaze found the missing person whose laptop you snooped through (did it count as snooping if you only quickly looked at the screen enough to see what he was working on? you didn’t even touch anything, promise), and this time you could see his eyes, unhindered by any light reflection. 

pretty, you thought off-handedly, really pretty eyes.

“no stress,” one shoulder heaved up, and when his fingers stopped supporting you once he saw you didn’t need his help anymore, your back felt weirdly cool. it was nice having felt the heat of his arm around your body in the absence of any human contact in the face of studying. 

he filled water into the reservoir of the coffee machine, a cup of beans already measured from before you walked into him. you cleared your throat and nodded in thanks; he bowed his head quickly, waving off your thank you, his hand nudging up his glasses perched on his nose when they threatened to slide down. 

they were a bit big, but the earnest look of the dark blue eyes accompanying them made them all the more alluring; like they caged a ton of unsaid thoughts behind them, like there was so much those eyes wanted to tell but they had to get through the barrier of the glasses first. 

a transparent mask to hide behind.

“sooo, how’s the coffee?” you asked to fill the silence when your eyes met again, looking away just as quickly, because you hadn’t expected that his sharp pupils found you the same way your eyes found his. stupid question, to be honest, when the coffee machine whirred in answer, and there was a slight smile playing on his lips.

“i don’t know yet,” he held up his opened thermos cup to show you the lack of liquid that he could not judge on yet, and your cheeks flared up at the obvious demonstration, mumbling quietly to yourself, thinking that the coffee machine was too loud for him to understand: “sorry, that was…an incredibly stupid question.”

“you’re okay,” his quiet and steady voice came back to meet your ears, held back amusement lingering in the folds of his tenor. he heard you just fine, “though probably just like bitter water.”

leaning back against the wall, he joined you in waiting, and then there was comfortable silence between you both. he was close enough to feel the air warm up, close that if you glanced up again, you could see his lashes brush his cheek as he closed his eyes for a quick reprieve, the curls of his hair, messy and falling over his ears, his lips sitting together calmly, sometimes twisting when he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

you looked away again, to the coffee machine that went from grinding the coffee beans to finally pouring the hot water through it and dripping into the pot. you thought you recognised him from somewhere, this boy with the gentle, kind eyes and the charming glasses. you couldn’t help but steal another glance at him, trying to gauge where from, whether you had met him on campus before.

“i can feel you staring.”

whirling your head away from his still closed eyes and the fingers messing with his hair, you felt embarrassment brewing within your chest alongside the coffee in front of you. stupid, stupid.

“sorry.”

“don’t be. i don’t mind,” he said, still the same reserved amusement hiding behind his words, and then he did open his eyes to turn to you, and you returned the favour of looking over him again. your gazes met for a split second, dead-on, before they parted again to look at other features, “you’re in professor yoshida’s class, right?”

“right! that’s where  i know you from,” recognition finally bloomed, and you tested out the name that was continuously popping up in your mind during the short wait, wondering whether it was him, “akaashi keiji, right? you looked familiar.”

akaashi opened his mouth to respond, but halted for a split second; his cheeks and ears using this one moment to turn into a soft pink. when he caught himself and talked, you had an inkling that he meant to say something completely different: “yeah, exactly. what are you working on?”

“cultural studies. incredibly boring.”

“japanese lit,” he nodded in sympathy, then moved to pour coffee into both of your cups. you wanted to thank him, take the cup yourself and move, but he beat you to it. reflexes sharp and swift movement, he maneuvered around you easily to carry both of your coffee mugs back to the table you both shared. 

“thank you,” you said at last, seated away from him at your own laptop with the steaming cup warming your hands, the same old words on the screen staring back at you, and he responded in likes; his voice comfortable and easy, deep and as warm as the drink in your hand, “of course.”

both of you continued working, though amongst the clicking of keyboard keys and the silent breathing were the little glances both of you threw at the other now that there was some common ground found. when you got stuck with how to phrase a certain sentence, chin supported on your hand, your eyes wandered to him out of their own volition and instinctually, and you watched him focus on his work. 

the way his teeth would not stay still, constantly picking on his lips, his fingers rubbing his chin when he thought; the light warming up his face and making it seem like his hair was draped over him like a dark curtain. 

then you’d attend to your work again, and it was akaashi’s turn to let his eyes and mind wander over to you to watch you get stuck with another paragraph, biting your nail while the other hand was tapping on the keys lightly without pressing too hard, eyes intently focused on the words. 

you had an intense look in your eyes, and everytime, there were little butterflies erupting behind his ribcage when he felt you dedicate it to him.

those moments in between, when both of your eyes passed the others, belonged to nobody but the empty library. moments, in which you allowed yourselves to bask in the heat of fading instances, of arcane glances, interrupted by little sighs here and there or random occurrences, in which you both just couldn’t help but talk to each other:

“i’m jealous of your concentration,” you groaned at some point, allowing your forehead to thump onto your arm to bury your face away from the screen and its cruel, glaring light, “you look like you’re about to solve all the problems in this world.”

akaashi had stilled in his work, startled, eyes glancing up over the rim of his glasses up to you, and his teeth finally let go of his poor, swollen lower lip; mouth curling into a small embarrassed smile, “not quite. but i may be able to help you with yours, if that’s a start.”

you laughed at yourself for the strange thump your heart produced, hand waving him off, “sweet of you, but i just need some of that laser focus you’ve got.”

“sending you some.”

pretending to catch the energy he threw your way, you perked up in your seat and flashed him a grin, “you’re a lifesaver.”

“oh fu— shit.”

he was already beside you with napkins, big hands dabbing up the spilled lukewarm coffee as you worked to put away your electronics and books lest they’d get ruined by the deep brown liquid. he was close, leaning over you, hands working fast and precise, feeling his chest bump against your shoulders ever so slightly. your body warmed up at the contact, and you had to try not to lose your mind over that.

“ugh, i swear this is not my usual.”

“i’ll believe you when i see you prove the opposite to me,” he said quietly, a certain openness in his voice, a silent offer to spend many more moments together like this. 

you looked up at him, a smile stealing itself on your lips, “i suppose if you’re asking to be humiliated and be proven wrong, then i won’t say no.”

the skin underneath akaashi’s glasses had warmed up, and as he went back to his seat, he had stuttered back, “that’s— i didn’t— nobody said anything about humiliation! also, you’re the one who barely escaped electronic and academic death. gotta tone down the murderous intent a little.”

“never. every essay is my arch-nemesis, so they got what was coming for them.”

akaashi had shook his head, and laughed quietly to himself; the sound as honeyed as your favourite dessert. 

when he returned from his bathroom break later on, he brought you back a new cup of coffee, anyway, despite his fear of you murdering your hard effort of having added only three extra paragraphs to your text in all the time (you were a little busy staring at akaashi keiji’s pretty eyes; nobody was allowed to judge your slow pace).

you fell back with a big oohmpf and a yelp. 

dazed, you looked up at the ceiling, the low warm light of the library in the midst of the dark outside looking enticing enough to fall asleep right there. you stayed on the ground for a second, most of your fall cushioned by the chair, though your butt still throbbed with the impact. 

“hey,” a couple steps resonated before a messy head of curls peeked over you, one hand holding the glasses in place, while the other was reaching towards you to help you up, “you alright?”

“y-yeah,” you sat up, shaking your head a bit to clear it from the zoning out you were doing before gravity decided to take you down, “i suppose that’s why teachers always say not to rock your chair back and forth.”

suppressed laughter, mild concern, and a warm hand engulfing you, “what a delinquent. i bet the teachers loved you.”

“hey! what’s that supposed to mean? they loved me! incredibly so!”

“okay. i think i need help.”

“of course, what do you need?”

“do you understand what i’m trying to convey when i phrase it like that? ugh, i’m scared it’s too convoluted.”

“give me a second,” he finished up his sentence, then came over, “let me see.”

his chest pressed against the back of your (now upright) chair as he leaned over you to read your run-on sentence was distracting you. he wasn’t touching you per se, but the placement of his hands on the arms of the chair could cage you in, make you feel like he was embracing you from behind, so much taller than you. the warmth emitting from behind you made you want to fall asleep and let your head land in the crook of his neck.

he was breathing softly, the air caressing your hair, and when he reached out to point at your words, your eyes followed the red knuckles, his clean nails and the size of his hands. 

“you mean that the west created orientalism as a cultural and intellectual framework, right?” — a quick nod of yours — “alright, then i think if you cut this in two sentences, for one to showcase the interpretation of the east and then dive deeper into the colonisation in the next sentence — that would make it more understandable. say, am i making you nervous?”

blinking, “w—what? where did that come from?”

he leaned down slightly, face hovering next to yours, his voice slightly raw and close to your earshell, “don’t forget to breathe. also, you have a typo — row three, the fourteenth word.”

“evil,” your breathing was clipped from the insinuation that he may have had an effect on you, heart pumping blood through your body like crazy as if it was held at gunpoint, “i bet the teachers really disliked you.”

despite that, you brought him a cup of coffee when you returned from your bathroom break, too.

“you alright, akaashi?” you asked.

akaashi keiji looked up, his hand rubbing his neck, kneading the knots out of his tense shoulders. his eyes, until just short of when you called him, had been glazing over, a little bit of a vacant look entering the blue of his eyes, but when you called his name, he had snapped out of it, and his features relaxed slightly, away from his troublesome thoughts. his dark brows furrowed deeply above his eyes.

“yeah, just thinking about all the deadlines coming up. it’s…” he sighed, allowing his shoulders to sink, and he leaned back in the uncomfortable library chairs; another big sigh escaping him, “...a lot.”

“yeah,” you agreed and stood up, walking over to him. his surprised gaze followed you, and when you stood right next to him with his head tilted back, the wavy strands of hair following gravity, looking up at you with those eyes, you felt a tug in your chest that told you to kiss him. you didn’t. 

instead, you nodded to the window, “let’s take a walk and a breather,” and then, because you couldn’t help yourself, “a zeugma. get it, mr. japanese literature?”

his shoulders stayed relaxed, and he laughed again; a brilliant smile on his lips and you thought of how you wanted to kiss him even more. his eyes felt lighter, too, when he pushed back his chair and stood up, body entirely too close for what probably should have been appropriate for two students who had only properly met today for the first time. or was it already the next day?

but neither of you moved for a second, drinking in the presence of each other, before he grabbed his jacket off his backrest, “i think you can do better.”

“well, i think it was pretty good.”

akaashi shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes, competing with the sparkle of the glasses when he turned and the light hit him just right, “and i think i have you beat there.”

you grumbled but caught up to him nonetheless.

it was cold outside. 

the kind that slithered through between the folds of your clothing to nestle deep in the crevices of your soul. the kind that had you shuddering and sending remnants of cannons into the air with every breath, the moisture immediately misting up. 

akaashi keiji was walking next to you, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, though his exhales were shaky too, chest trembling with compressed and suppressed shivers. you were already as close to him for warmth as possible without being weird or too straight-forward, though you wish you could just cling to his arm — it was that icy.

“i feel like i can’t even think,” you mumbled, already feeling your lips starting to numb, the tip of your nose burning. 

“me neither, but maybe that’s a good thing,” he breathed out, the warm air blowing past your temple, and his cheeks were so pink, it was cute, “sometimes it’s all too stressful, and i wish i could turn off my brain.”

“does that happen a lot?” 

you referred to the way his face looked like there was a headache incoming, how his fingers froze and his shoulders locked in; the way he seemed to absolutely crumble under the prospect of the things he needed to do and that awaited him. 

akaashi had an embarrassed smile on his face, shoulders drawn up for some warmth, the fuzziness of his jacket’s hood surrounding his reddening cheeks, “sometimes. there’s a lot of expectations riding on passing my classes. not just passing them, but passing them well.”

“by whom?” you leaned forward; curious eyes trying to catch his, “expectations set by the profs or by yourself?”

he stared at you, and his lips were slightly open; with every exhale, condensation snaked up the air like smoke, dissolving in the cold atmosphere all around you, though the air between you was slightly warm. his eyes looked kind and vulnerable for a second, “what a callout. guess i can’t even pretend that it’s not me, huh? you caught me.”

“not yet, i didn’t,” you dared say, and he stopped walking, even though it was colder to stay still than to move. you stopped, too. a snowflake floated between you, landing on his pink nose, melting at the warmth. 

the entire evening long — ever since you had bumped into him making coffee and you both went from studying alone to studying together, little jokes and jibes passing between you, curiosity and interest swapping between you with every glance, solitary and shared, you felt there was maybe a chance for something more. not necessarily all the way if it didn’t work out, but more to explore, more of him and you to meet.

“what does that mean, miss cultural studies?”

you blinked up at him, “i don’t know, mr. japanese literature. you’re the one who reads between the lines of books and analyses everything.”

“i’m not that far into my course,” he told you, seriously, and for a second you almost believed him, but then his eyes crinkled as he hid his smile behind the fluff of his jacket, and you pulled out one of your hands from the pockets of your coat to lightly pull his ear, not enough to cause pain but enough to chide him.

“you liar,” you said with no malice, voice soft and as your hand trailed down to hide your fingers in warmth again, his hand, fast as ever, pulled out of his own jacket, grabbed yours and stuffed both your hands in his pocket instead. 

incredibly warm, fingers locked between each other, soft skin kissing yours, “let’s go, it’s too cold.”

sometime around 2 am in the morning, you decided that you were going to fall asleep right then and there. sadly, coffee barely had an effect on your body anymore after having put your body through caffeine abuse for so long. 

during the hours of studying together, one of you moved closer to the other, so both of your books and notes were strewn together, sharing a space. his thermos cup stood next to a bunch of other cups both of you had drunk out of, because you kept forgetting to take the mug you were using with you and were forced to bring new ones. 

scrutinising a well-read book in the dim light, you ask, “is this mine?”

“unless you want to take home a copy of the setting sun with you and dissect the theme of youth in crisis, then i’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“ugh, i can’t even read anything anymore,” a beat of sly silence, “or you know, maybe i do want to. then i’ll have an excuse to see you again.”

“or,” akaashi butted in and gently offered you his phone, his smile straightforward yet a shy edge sweetening it up, “you can give me your number and we’ll meet up for another study session when you’re available. how’s that sound?”

in lieu of an answer, you saved your contact in his phone; your fingers caressing his under pretense of giving it back to him, and his movement was delayed, allowing the contact between you two to linger for a moment more.

“i’ll walk you back.”

“it’s not that far, so you don’t have to. it’s cold, too.”

akaashi sent you a look that very much told you he did not care how cold it was, there was no way he would let you walk alone at night. and when he did, your hands were buried in his pocket again. 

the world was quiet and still, as if you were caught up in another plane of existence for the past hours. a limbo of sleepy nature, perpetually falling snowflakes, the constant of the warmth akaashi offered, the bumping of arms as you walked in silence, subtly pulling him either to the left or the right when you needed to change the path.

“when is your assignment due?” you asked, lips barely moving from the cold, so you had to hiss out the words, barely understandable.

“four days ‘til friday. yours?”

“monday.”

another shaky exhale, the tremble evident in your shoulders, and you opted to walk a bit faster, even though you didn’t want to part with him yet. but cold was cold, and you would like to keep your toes still alive and kicking. so, it was no wonder that you arrived at your dormitory relatively fast, though even then, both of you stood in front of the entrance, not ready to say goodbye yet, not ready to leave the world of the dead and wake up the next day to greet the same usual bullshit. 

“meet me tomorrow,” he said with blue lips and red cheeks.

“okay,” you responded, heart fluttering when he didn’t let go of your hand. instead he took a step back and you were forced to follow, because you didn’t let go of his hand, either.

one step, another, a third one, then the tentative meeting of cold mouths. his breath was warm, his tongue warmer, and gradually your lips returned to their soft, mellow state. kissing him felt gentle, it felt safe and it felt like you could sink into him, like awaiting and catching you was a giant cloud that kept you floating up.

he kissed like he was a romantic. like he lived and breathed words meant for you, with the dedication and attention to detail only a writer or an artist could have, every stroke, every painted image on paper. he kissed like he had known you for a long time and intended to know you for even longer.

when you both parted, your lashes were brushing the rim of his glasses and your nose caressing his cheek, lips only inches away so it was only natural to kiss him again. 

“see you,” he let go of your hand at last.

later, an unknown number texted you, and you thought yourself corny, but you couldn’t help the smile that overtook your features at the cheesy line akaashi keiji thought he had you beat with:

from: +81 3 1762-3468 i left my other book and also my heart with you

and then:

from: +81 3 1762-3468 i really do need the book though, bring it tomorrow please :( goodnight x

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

A Different Kind of Noise

Pairing: John Price x Simon “Ghost” Riley

AU: Price is a Writer, Ghost is a motorcycle rider neither in Military

Warnings: Spice, Angst aggressiveness from the boys

Authors Note:There’s some spice and this is the first part but thank you to @devil-in-hiding for proof reading it and these parts go out to you love!

Word Count: 1.3k

Part 2 Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

John Price had always been a man of routine. His loft, perched on the top floor of an old brick building, was his sanctuary—a quiet, cluttered space filled with books, the smell of tobacco from his pipe, and the steady click of fingers on a keyboard. It was a peaceful existence, one that allowed him to focus on his writing without distractions.

But then, his new neighbor arrived, and everything changed.

It started with the motorcycle. The sound of a roaring engine ripped through the air one afternoon, cutting through the calm like a chainsaw. Price had been in the middle of editing a chapter when the noise startled him, making him lose his train of thought. He frowned, glanced out the window, and there he was—his new neighbor.

The man was impossible to miss. Dressed head-to-toe in black leather, his face hidden behind a dark helmet, he straddled the sleek, powerful bike like he owned the street. On the back of his jacket, in bold letters, was the word *Ghost,* alongside the image of a skull.

Price sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He had a bad feeling about this.

The noise didn’t stop. Every night, without fail, the man would come back on his bike, the engine loud enough to shake the windows. Then came the music—blaring, heavy metal that thumped through the thin walls of the building, rattling the calm Price so desperately clung to.

After two weeks of this, Price had reached his limit.

Price banged on the door, his patience worn thin. He had tried to be understanding, but there was only so much a man could take. The door creaked open, revealing his new neighbor for the first time without the helmet.

The man—Simon Riley, though Price hadn’t known that yet—was more intimidating up close. Tall, muscular, with a rough, rugged look, Simon had a skull bandana covering the lower half of his face. His eyes, however, were sharp and piercing, watching Price with an amused glint.

“You got a problem, mate?” Simon asked, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. The casual confidence in his stance only annoyed Price more.

“Yeah, I’ve got a problem. That bloody bike of yours,” Price growled. “And the music. Some of us enjoy a bit of peace.”

Simon’s eyes flicked over him, the amusement deepening. “Didn’t know I was disturbing a monk. I’ll try to keep it down.”

Price wasn’t sure if he was being mocked, but before he could respond, Simon closed the door, leaving Price standing in the hallway, fuming.

The music did quiet down, but the tension between them only grew. Their encounters were brief, filled with subtle jabs and long, lingering looks. Price couldn’t stand the man’s arrogance, his devil-may-care attitude. And yet, there was something about Simon that pulled him in—something magnetic.

It didn’t help that Simon was infuriatingly attractive. Every time Price saw him, whether it was working on his bike in the building’s garage or catching him in the hallway, the sight of him stirred something deep in Price’s gut that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

One night, after an especially frustrating day of writer’s block, Price found himself once again at Simon’s door. He didn’t even know why he was there. Maybe he needed a distraction, maybe he was just sick of being alone, or maybe it was the way Simon had been looking at him lately, like he knew exactly what was on Price’s mind.

He knocked, half-expecting Simon to ignore it. But the door opened, and there he was—shirtless, sweat-slicked from what appeared to be a late-night workout. His chest was broad, muscles defined, and Price swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden heat that rushed through him.

“Well, look who’s back,” Simon said, his voice low and teasing. “Miss me already?”

Price glared, though it was weaker than usual. “I need a drink.”

Simon’s eyebrow arched, and a smirk curled his lips. “A drink, huh? Didn’t take you for the type to ask.”

“I’m not asking,” Price shot back, pushing past him into the apartment. It was messy, full of bike parts and old records, but it felt lived in. Simon shut the door behind him, and the tension in the room immediately thickened.

Simon didn’t say anything for a while, just walked to the small kitchenette and grabbed two beers from the fridge. He handed one to Price, who took it with a grunt. They stood there in silence for a moment, the unspoken energy between them crackling in the air.

“So, what’s really going on, Price?” Simon asked, leaning back against the counter, his gaze never leaving Price’s. “You don’t come knocking just because you need a drink.”

Price took a long pull from the bottle, trying to calm the thoughts racing through his head. “Maybe I’m just tired of the noise.”

“Or maybe you want something else,” Simon said, his voice dropping to a near-growl.

Price’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the tension boiling over, the thing they’d been dancing around since the moment they met. The way Simon was looking at him now—dark, hungry, waiting—it sent a shiver down Price’s spine.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Price muttered, but the words were weak.

Simon set his beer down and took a step closer. “Don’t I? You’ve been staring at me since the day I moved in. Thought I hadn’t noticed, did you?”

Price felt his throat tighten. Simon was right, of course. He had noticed the way Price’s gaze lingered, the way his body reacted whenever Simon was near. And now, standing here, Simon shirtless, their bodies inches apart, there was no denying it anymore.

“What’s it gonna be, John?” Simon’s voice was a low rumble, and the sound of his real name on Simon’s lips sent a jolt of heat through him.

Before Price could think, before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed Simon by the collar and yanked him down, crashing their mouths together. The kiss was rough, all teeth and heat, as if all the tension between them was finally breaking free. Simon growled against his lips, his hands gripping Price’s hips and pulling him closer, their bodies colliding in a desperate, feverish need.

Price had never been kissed like this—like someone was devouring him whole. Simon’s hands were everywhere, sliding under his shirt, gripping his back, pulling him even closer. The heat between them was unbearable, every touch sending sparks of electricity through Price’s veins.

“Bed,” Simon growled against his mouth, his voice rough and thick with desire.

Price didn’t hesitate, letting Simon guide him toward the bed, his mind spinning with the intensity of it all. Simon shoved him down onto the mattress, and Price gasped at the sudden loss of control, but the thrill of it only made him harder. Simon loomed over him, his eyes dark with hunger as he ripped off Price’s shirt, tossing it to the floor.

Their mouths met again, this time slower, more deliberate, as Simon’s hands explored Price’s body with rough, calloused fingers. Price arched up into the touch, groaning as Simon’s mouth moved down his neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, Simon…” Price gasped, his fingers tangling in Simon’s hair, pulling him closer.

Simon chuckled darkly against his skin, the sound sending a shiver down Price’s spine. “Thought you’d never ask, Captain.”

The rest of the night was a blur of heat and skin, of moans and curses as they finally gave in to the tension that had been building between them for weeks. And as they lay together afterward, their bodies spent and tangled in the sheets, Price couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the noise wasn’t so bad after all.

Hope you enjoyed! Please follow, like and Reblog💜 -Midnight’s Cafe

[cami040405]

Between Art and Silence - Vincent Sinclair x Reader

Chapter 8: New Winds, Old Blood

Summary: A group of young people arrive in Ambrose, causing a new hunt to begin. Which side will you choose? Help the young people or save the mysterious artist and Ambrose's secret?

Warnings: Mention of death, torture and violence, swearing.

Chapter 7 here!

A/N: I loved writing this chapter, it took me a while to develop it because it seemed like nothing was impactful enough. Anyway, I hope you like it.

The sun barely broke the horizon, painting Ambrose in a sickly pale light. The morning fog crept across the streets like invisible fingers, covering the rusted signs and cracked storefronts. The silence seemed even thicker this morning—a harbinger of things to come.

You woke up early. You were sitting on the steps of the Sinclairs’ house, wrapped in a sweater that was too big for you, sketching in your red notebook as the city fell asleep around you.

That’s when you heard it.

The sound of an engine. Then another. Tires rolling over the cracked asphalt.

You looked up, your senses alert.

On the main road, an old car—a moss green pickup truck—appeared, followed closely by a black SUV. Young people. At least five, maybe six, laughing, arms out the windows, filming with their cell phones, throwing empty cans out.

— Tourists — You muttered to yourself, frowning.

Something in your chest tightened. Ambrose was not a place where strangers were welcome. They didn’t know. They didn’t know about the wax.

The secrets.

What awaited them.

You stood up slowly, your heart racing. Your instincts screamed at you to go to them, to warn them. But a shadow nearby made you stop.

Bo.

Leaning against the edge of the gas station, with a predatory smile, he watched the newcomers like a wolf watches fresh meat. He adjusted his hat on his head, smoothed the sleeves of his dirty jacket and lit a cigarette, as if nothing could disturb him.

Vincent stood in the shadows of the porch. You saw him — or rather, you felt him. He kept himself hidden, his body as still as a living statue. But his tension was visible to you now, in the small gestures: his clenched fist, his chest rigid, his head lowered.

Bo took a step forward.

“Well, well,” he said loudly, his tone full of false hospitality. “Welcome to Ambrose!” 

The group of young people stopped their cars haphazardly, the doors slamming as they got out excitedly. You counted: four boys and two girls. 

“We’re lost!” one of them shouted, laughing. “Any real town around here, or just this bunch of old houses?” 

Bo laughed along, humorlessly. “A real town?” he repeated, spitting to the side. “You just found the best one there is.” 

The young people laughed, but there was a tension they didn’t notice. You did. 

“Our GPS is out of whack,” one of the girls said, taking off her sunglasses. “We’re going to the big city. We just need directions.” 

Bo moved closer. 

“Of course, honey. I’ll show you the way. But in the meantime…” he gestured toward downtown. “Why don’t you enjoy your visit? We have a wax museum that’s a wonder. It’s part of the city’s heritage.”

The young men exchanged glances.

“A wax museum?” One of the boys snorted skeptically. “What kind of ghost town has a museum?”

Bo laughed.

“The ones that know how to entertain, boy.”

While they were distracted, you glanced at Vincent. He was still, but she could see the conflict burning in him.

He didn’t want to do this.

He didn’t want to be a part of this.

But then again…he couldn’t disobey Bo.

Not completely.

You felt a chill run down your spine. You knew, deep down, what was going to happen. And the horror of your helplessness paralyzed you.

Bo turned around and shouted: 

"Vin! Give me a hand here! Let's show these visitors how special Ambrose is."

You held your breath.

Vincent emerged from the shadows like a ghost. Each step seemed to weigh tons. But he came. Because that's what he'd always done. Because that's what Bo and the past had branded into him.

One of the guys joked:

"Wow. Looks like we found the lost Michael Myers."

Bo laughed.

"Oh, that's just our artist. Don't worry, he doesn't bite."

But you saw it. You saw Vincent's jaw tighten behind his mask. You saw his eyes darken, his soul closing in layers of pain.

The trap was set.

The young people were led to the center, laughing, taking pictures of the sculptures in the square, unaware that each glance was like a noose tightening around their necks.

And you…

You knew you had to do something.

But what to do?

Scream?

Run?

Betray him?

Vincent walked past you, his gaze fixed on the ground. But for a brief moment, his fingers brushed the tips of yours—a quick, almost imperceptible touch.

A silent plea. Don't hate me.

You closed your eyes.

And then the wind carried the distant echo of the wax museum door opening.

Fate began to unfold.

.

The broken clock in the square read 3:17 p.m. when the terror began. The young people laughed as they explored the wax museum, filming the motionless figures, mocking the antiquated decoration. You stayed behind, leaning discreetly against one of the walls of the main hall, your fists clenched, your entire body on alert.

You knew what was coming. And you wished, with all your heart, that you were wrong.

That was when the first of them noticed something strange.

“Hey…” said one of the girls, with red hair, frowning at a hooded figure exposed in the hunters’ corridor. “This guy…” she took a step back. “Is he breathing?”

The boy next to her scoffed:

“Oh, stop! It’s just steam from his mouth, it’s cold in here…”

But you saw him. Vincent. Standing between the statues, like a living shadow, blending in with the mannequins. His presence was so still, so imposing, that it was almost supernatural.

Suddenly, the front door of the museum locked with a dry snap.

The young people’s cell phones lost signal. The tension in the air became so thick that it was almost palpable. The red-haired girl tried to open the door. Nothing.

“It’s not funny!” she screamed, knocking. “Open this damn thing!” 

That’s when Bo emerged from the darkness, grinning widely, the key dangling from her finger. 

“Welcome to the show, everyone.” 

The first scream tore through the air as Vincent moved—fast, precise. 

He grabbed the mocking boy, plunging a curved blade under his ribs. The young man gasped, his eyes wide with horror, trying to scream—but all that came out was a bloody gurgle. 

You clapped both hands over your mouth, your eyes wide. 

Oh my God… oh my God… 

The boy’s body fell to the floor with a dull thud. The others, panicked, ran in opposite directions through the museum, screaming for help, kicking at locked doors, knocking over sculptures. Bo laughed. 

“Run, run, you little rats!” he yelled, pulling a sawed-off shotgun from his back.

Vincent didn't speak. He just moved.

You couldn't take your eyes off him. It was like watching a living painting—an artist of death. The second young man, the one filming with his cell phone, tripped over a rope on the floor and fell face down. Before he could get up, Vincent was already on top of him, the blade mercilessly slicing into his neck.

Blood gushed out in a hot spray, splattering the sculptures and Vincent's own mask. You felt your stomach twist violently, but you couldn't move. Your legs felt glued to the floor.

Vincent looked at you for a brief second—and in that look there was a silent plea.

I can't stop.

Forgive me.

The third young man, smarter, managed to find a way out through the back, forcing open an old window. He ran through the empty streets of Ambrose, his shoes echoing on the stones.

You saw Bo follow him, laughing like a jackal.

You heard the gunshot in the distance. A dry sound that cut through the air.

Another one.

The remaining two girls hid inside the historical figures section—Napoleon, Cleopatra, dead presidents. You knew it wouldn’t be safe there.

When Vincent approached the two girls hiding among the historical sculptures, his steps were hesitant, as if every inch of the floor he crossed was made of blades.

Bo watched from the doorway, the shotgun dangling lazily in his hands, a cynical smile on his face.

Vincent raised the blade.

And at that moment, one of them—the younger one, with dark hair and wide eyes—saw an opportunity. She grabbed her friend by the shoulders and shoved her toward Vincent, using her as a distraction.

The red-haired girl fell to the floor, hitting her head and lying still. The dark-haired girl stumbled, bolting out of the room like a panicked gazelle.

Bo swore loudly.

“You bastard!”

Bo dropped the shotgun and ran after her. Vincent knelt beside the body of the young redhead lying on the floor, the tip of the blade trembling slightly as he lifted it.

That was when everything fell apart.

The girl, previously seemingly lifeless, launched herself at him with wild speed. A guttural scream escaped her throat—a raw sound of pure hatred and despair—and she landed a brutal punch on the side of Vincent's head, causing his mask to ricochet with the impact.

Vincent lost his balance and fell backwards with a dry thud onto the dust-covered wooden floor. Before he could react, the girl was already on top of him, throwing violent punches.

The first blow hit his jaw through the mask, causing a metallic crack to echo through the room. The second punch aimed at his chest, knocking the air from Vincent's lungs in a muffled gasp. She struck without technique, but with the concentrated force of pure survival instinct.

You were paralyzed in horror, watching the scene as if you were trapped in a nightmare.

The girl then grabbed the mask with both hands, pulling and twisting hard enough to make the leather and clasps creak. Vincent groaned, the scars beneath the mask throbbing with pain. He tried to raise his hands to defend himself, but the girl, insane with adrenaline, smashed her fists into his face, breaking the metal side of the mask.

A trickle of blood ran down the cracked mask. 

Vincent gasped beneath it, coughing between blows. Each time the girl struck him, the sound was a mixture of flesh clashing against steel and bones creaking. 

He didn’t fight back. Even when she dug her nails under the edges of the mask and tore the skin from his face, Vincent only tried to protect her with trembling arms, more concerned with hiding his face than with hurting her attacker. The girl’s hatred was almost tangible—she screamed insults between punches: 

“You damned monster! You disgusting psychopath!” 

Her words, sharp as razors, seemed to cut deeper than any physical blow. Vincent, for a moment, simply stopped trying to defend himself. Accepting the pain. Accepting the punishment. 

You saw it. 

You saw the blood dripping from the mask’s eyes. 

Vincent groaned softly—not in pain, but in exhaustion, in surrender. As if accepting the punishment.

He won’t defend himself, you realized, your heart beating wildly.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone anymore.

Not even himself.

That’s when you moved.

Almost without thinking, almost as a reflex.

You picked up a fallen tool—an old iron stake, used to support larger sculptures—and, with a ragged scream you hadn’t even known existed within you, drove the stake into the girl’s back.

The impact was brutal.

The sound of the iron piercing flesh was grotesque. A wet crack, followed by a high-pitched scream from the young woman. The metal stake sank between her shoulder blades with such force that her body arched in the air for a moment before falling heavily to her side, like a disjointed doll.

The girl didn’t die immediately.

Her body shuddered in involuntary spasms as blood gushed from the open wound, spreading in thick pools on the dirty floor. A low moan, almost a cry, escaped her mouth. She coughed, expelling a jet of hot, thick blood that spread across the floor and splashed onto Vincent's mask.

You were frozen, still holding the bloody stake, your fingers clenched around the cold iron. The sound of the girl's breathing—ever shorter, wetter, more desperate—was the only thing that filled the silence now. Her eyes slowly turned to you.

They were eyes full of fear, of hatred... and of pleading.

She was still conscious.

You knelt down, panting, watching the young woman's face contorted in agony. Blood pooled in the corner of her mouth, running down her chin as her fingers groped the floor, searching for something—perhaps a hold, perhaps an escape, perhaps just one last human gesture before the darkness.

"I-I'm sorry..." You whispered, as if your words could lessen the pain she had caused.

But the girl didn't respond.

She just stared at you as if she wanted to stare into your eyes until the last second of her life, until, finally, the glow in them faded.

It was at that moment that you felt the world spin.

A muffled sound filled your ears, as if you were underwater. Your stomach twisted violently, and you choked on a choked sob. Your hands shook, covered in blood—the blood of someone who, moments before, was just a scared girl trying to survive. You didn't know her name. You didn't know if she had brothers. If she had dreams. But you knew that you had erased that.

Erase someone.

You backed away slowly, as if the ground would fall away at any moment, until your back was against a cracked pillar. Your lungs burned. Your throat was tight. And a new feeling was growing inside you—something deeper than fear, crueler than guilt.

It was as if part of you had died along with that girl. 

But even in that silent collapse, when everything inside you screamed “you are not the same anymore,” you looked at Vincent—wounded, in shock, covered in blood—and knew why you had done it. 

You had chosen him. 

You had chosen to save him, even if it destroyed you. 

Vincent stood still, his eyes fixed on the young woman’s fallen body. His breathing was unstable, his chest rising and falling in spasms. He couldn’t look away. It was as if watching you kill for him was more painful than the blows he had received. That scene would be etched in your memory forever. 

You crawled toward him, feeling the girl’s warm blood on your clothes, sticking the fabric to your skin. You snuggled against him, as if only his proximity could keep your world from falling apart completely.

But inside, you were already broken.

And worst of all?

You knew you’d do it again if it were for him.

.

[shybluebirdninja]

FADED DAYS: PART 3

Summary: In a bleak world where Logan has lost his purpose, an unexpected connection with his nurse brings a spark of humanity back into his fading life as an Uber driver.

Pairing            : Uber-Driver!Logan Howlett x Nurse!Fem-reader

Genre              : Heavy Angst

It’s raining tonight. Not just the light drizzle that softly pings off car roofs but a full-on downpour, the kind that soaks you the moment you step outside. You rush from the hospital doors, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

The shift was brutal. A patient you’d been caring for all week—someone you’d started to bond with—didn’t make it. You tell yourself it’s part of the job. You tell yourself you’ve done this before, handled it before. But it doesn’t get easier, not really.

Your phone buzzes.

Your driver: Logan. Estimated arrival: 3 minutes.

Of course, it’s him again.

You step under the awning, watching the rain pour down. Logan pulls up, headlights cutting through the misty air. The old, beat-up car looks even worse in the rain, the wipers swiping furiously at the windshield.

You climb in, already drenched. Logan doesn’t even look at you, but you can feel his mood, the tension in the car. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s something else. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw set hard.

“Rough night?” he grumbles, his voice low, barely audible over the rain slapping the windows.

“You could say that,” you reply, your own voice tired. You lean back, exhaling slowly, watching the rain streak down the glass. The silence that follows isn’t as awkward as it used to be. There’s something strangely comforting in it now.

“You?” you ask after a moment.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just the sound of the tires sloshing through the wet streets fills the space. Then, quietly, “Rain hurts.”

It takes a second for it to sink in. You glance at him, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, staring straight ahead. But there’s something in his voice that wasn’t there before—vulnerability. The same rough edges, sure, but now with cracks wide enough for you to see through.

He keeps driving, and you don’t press him. But you wonder, quietly, what kind of pain he means. Physical? Emotional? Both?

You clear your throat, trying to distract yourself. “So…are you going to tell me what your deal is? Or should I keep guessing?”

He chuckles, but it’s a sad sound. “No deal. Just an old guy with too many miles on him.”

You smirk. “Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure you’ve got more going on than that.”

“Don’t we all?” he mutters.

The rain gets heavier, drumming on the roof. You watch the city blur outside, streetlights casting long reflections across the wet pavement. Something in you aches—not just from tonight, not just from the loss of your patient. Something deeper. You’ve felt it before, but sitting here, next to this grizzled old man who looks like he’s been carrying a mountain on his back for years, it feels even heavier.

“Why do you keep driving?” you ask quietly. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who needs the money. Or…any of this.”

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of rain and the low growl of the engine. Then, finally, Logan speaks.

“It keeps me moving.”

You frown, confused. “Moving?”

He sighs, long and deep, like he’s trying to push away something that’s been sitting heavy on his chest. “If I stop…I think I’d just disappear. You know what I mean?”

You do. Far more than you’d like to admit.

You both sit in that strange, shared understanding, not saying a word but knowing that whatever invisible weight you’re carrying, it’s something he knows well. Maybe too well.

The car slows as he pulls up to a red light. You’re not far from home now, but something makes you hesitate. You don’t want the ride to end just yet.

“How do you deal with it?” you ask softly.

He glances at you, finally, and the look in his eyes takes you off guard. It’s raw, like he’s peeling back layers of himself, just for a moment. “You don’t. You just…get through it. One day at a time. And hope it hurts less tomorrow.”

You swallow, hard. There’s something almost heartbreaking about the way he says it. Like someone who’s been hurt too many times and has stopped expecting the pain to ever end.

You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t say anything.

The light turns green, and Logan drives in silence again.

Later...

When he pulls up to your building, you hesitate before getting out. The rain is lighter now, but you still feel the heaviness in the air. You turn to him, something you’ve been wanting to ask hovering on your lips.

“Logan…” You pause, unsure how to even phrase it. “Does it ever get better?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes, now dark with something deeper than you can understand, flicker toward you, and then away again.

“It can,” he says finally, his voice rough. “If you let it.”

You sit there, the words hanging between you like the rain still lingering in the air. Then, with a nod, you open the door and step out into the night.

As you close the door behind you, Logan doesn’t immediately drive off. You stand there for a moment, watching his car idle in front of the building. You half expect him to roll the window down, say something else. Maybe even crack a joke. But he doesn’t.

Instead, the car slowly pulls away, leaving you standing alone in the soft drizzle. You watch the taillights fade into the distance, a strange ache in your chest.

As you walk inside, your thoughts stay with him. His tired eyes, his quiet pain. The scars you saw, not just on his hands, but all over him. Scars that run so deep, you wonder if they’ll ever truly heal. And, somehow, you realize you want to know more.