living in my own world 🍃🧘♀️ 19🌟 💖💜💙 🖤🩶🤍💜 I DO NOT TOLERATE ANY RACISM, HOMOPHOBIA, TRANSPHOBIA, INCEST, ETC. IF YOU PARTICIPATE IN ANY OF THESE BELIEFS GTFO MY PAGE
A/N: hai friends! i've been listening to "less" by olivia rodrigo A LOT recently and this fanfic idea had popped up in my head. i do write with a fem reader in mind since i am a girl BUT feel free to read if you lean towards more of a masculine reader. ANYONE CAN READ (no defining features only byakuya!) I am not really editing this so there might grammar errors!! this is a few years after the events of THH so byakuya is over 18. please enjoy!
minors plz DNI 🧘♀️
WARNINGS: angst, mention of murder, violence, spoilers of THH, PTSD, anxiety, breakup, cursing
Byakuya was always a very hard man to love. Ever since the two of you met he had been nonchalant and most of all rude with everyone at Hopes Peak. Throughout the chaos you didn't understand how you fell for him. Unfortunately your interest peaked after the second trial, you fell in love with his sick mind and how he tried to frame Toko.
And you, being a very clever person, were able to help Makoto figure it out incredibly quick, which is where Byakuya's interest peaked. He underestimated how intelligent you truly were, he felt you had potential to be on his level. The feelings started as very small bubbles that the two of you tried to deny as the killing game went on. Along the way, your feelings for one another were impossible to resist so a small, yet meaningful, kiss occurred right before the 5th and final trial before you escaped the hell hole you once called your home.
Years later, you and Byakuya vowed to help Makoto and Kyoko rebuild the world after it had been struck with despair. Naturally, Byakuya wanted to rebuild the Togami empire as well. So that is exactly what he did. At first you told him you would be by his side and aid him in his needs, but as time went on it felt as if your presence was a burden. These days you don't even see your lover, he's out creating the new Togami legacy. The only time you ever see him now is when you join up with Makoto and Kyoko to continue what had been started.
But it hadn't always been that way, there was a time after Hope's Peak where the two of you suffered from the tortuous memories, especially you. You remember all of it, the blood, the death, the punishments. You can recall the smell of flesh in almost every corner of the school, and you still can't fathom that you had been friends with everyone before all of Junko's mess began. But, Byakuya, held you every night. He never spoke comfort into your soul, but he let you lay your head on his chest and hold him tight throughout these horrific nights.
You miss those days, no matter how selfish it sounds. You miss when Byakuya gave you time and care, even a little. Now, it's a cycle of neglect and hollow nights. Wake up, eat, do what you need to do, eat, hope that Byakuya will breathe in your direction, sleep. Over and over. Day after day. Night after night.
You grew restless and needed to fix this growing distance.
"Kuya my love." you waited for hours for him to come home. You sat on the couch and looked towards his direction, you notice his hair looks longer. He stopped, sighed, and tilted his head in your direction with a soft hum.
"I was just wondering how your day went, I feel like we haven't talked much these few weeks." you truly meant months but you didn't want to rub any salt in the wound.
"Fine." his answer shot through you. As if he could hear you breath to get another sentence out, he walked away to get ready for bed. You were almost struck with awe by how little he even cared to look at you. You curled up on the couch and sat staring at the floor for what felt like hours. There was nothing in your head, the pain felt too loud. You couldn't cry, the sadness ran deeper than your physical body it was carved into your soul. With one word you understood that you may never get the Byakuya you had back.
But, despite this loss, you loved him. So, you let your feet touch the ground and walked towards the bedroom to sleep right next to the man who had given you nothing. But while you slept, you didn't notice the guilt building up inside Byakuya. He turned to look at your sleeping figure. He would never say this out loud, but he thought you were the most beautiful thing to have ever walked this earth. He loved your body and soul, but he couldn't give you all of him at the moment in time. He was so overwhelmed with rebuilding the world as well as the Togami name throughout the world, he knew he couldn't be distracted. At first he had gotten annoyed with your influence as well as your existence. It was nice to ignore you since he was occupied on other more important matters. Byakuya made the mistake of believing that you would understand and that you were okay.
But he noticed your silent cries of neglect from your side of the bed, he noticed how your eyes would look for his love and attention. But in all honesty, he had nothing to give you. Maybe he will regret this later if everything falls into place, but as of now he knows what he has to do.
The next day, you repeated your depressing daily cycle that you've been doing for the last few months. But, today felt different as you had a large pit in your stomach, you felt anxious. You didn't understand why until Byakuya came home and walked right up to you. For the first time in months, you looked in each other's eyes. Byakuya had almost forgotten the color of yours.
Your breath stopped, has he truly decided to give you his love again? Or had you started to go insane from this neglect you began to imagine him?
"I don't think we should continue this relationship. I can leave and you can keep this place." his cold tone made your head feel lighter.
"E-excuse me?" you almost couldn't believe what you were hearing. Has these years truly meant nothing?
"I wouldn't like to dwell on any of this longer, I can't stand it." you noticed a crack in his tone, did he care? Even if it was a little you had to know.
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
"I can't stand to watch you cry a minute more. To come home and see you looking all pitiful. It's depressing and quite frankly an inconvenient distraction."
Frustration boiled up to the surface, was he fucking serious? Inconvenience? Distraction?
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you started off calm, but your voice began to raise the longer you looked at his face, "Distraction?! All I have done these months is gone out of my way to be the least distracting thing on your mind! I have sat back, accepted that you were giving me absolute shit while you work on the Togami name! Do you even understand how unhappy you've made me? These past months have been hell and looking at you makes me want to fucking die because you are the cause for all of it!"
Byakuya was silent, his eyes diverted towards the floor. He knew he wasn't being a great partner but he didn't know the extent of your pain. His guilt from before intensified, along with knowing to end your relationship is the best for you. He has seen you truly happy and he knows right now you are not.
"You say you're unhappy so isn't it a good thing I am ending this relationship? Isn't that what you want? What you truly need?" Byakuya's voice was steady but louder now. You searched his face, and you realized that he was still looking at you the same way he had years ago, with love. Maybe you had a chance at making him stay.
"Because I love you more than anything Kuya." it has been way too long without saying those words. You see Byakuya's expression shift slightly, he had a great poker face but you've studied this face for years. You can tell he loves you too, he just won't say it. His body language is closed off completely, but his eyes plead for more of your presence.
"I don't know why you do. I am packing right now and leaving you be." his tone still held sharpness but his language felt odd. It wasn't him. You watched him move around from room to room packing everything up. Your expression blank as you struggled to form a thought. You wanted to ask where he was going, but it felt unimportant. You hated this feeling in your stomach.
Just as Byakuya was heading out the door you asked the question you've pondered for months.
"Do you not love me anymore?"
He stopped, his hands gripped his bags so tight that the pattern on the handles imprinted into his fingers.
"Does it matter? I'm leaving. Goodbye."
And with the shut of the front door, you felt strange. You were going to miss him, but every night ended off in a lonely state so this didn't feel different. But you thought about Byakuya's words, his face, and especially his answer. You knew if he truly didn't love you, he would have no problem saying it just like every other statement he's said.
It hit you that Byakuya left you, not because he didn't love you anymore, but because he loved you so much. He knew he was the cause of your suffering, loneliness, and anxiety. This realization hurt more than any despair these months has brought you. You collapsed onto the floor weeping and heaving as the man you loved the most walked away to protect your peace. A part of you wanted him to come back, even if he meant he would ignore you for years. That thought you made you pause. He knew you would do anything for him. He knew you would deal with this torture for however long if it meant you got to be with him. He loved you too much to put you through that.
You know it's wrong to feel this way but in all honesty...
If loving you meant that he had let you go, you wish he loved you less.
Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the night, the last thing you expect is for it to be the hospital informing you that your ex-husband is hurt and needs you.
Words: 5k.
Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. typical cm stuff. prosecutor!reader. implied intimacy. second chance romance. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Hi again, I tried to put the whole story in one fic but it was so huge that I made it a series, so understand me.
My big idea here is to address (once again, I know 😭) some of Spencer’s very poorly addressed issues because the concept of a marriage failing because of them has been breathing down my neck for months now and I needed to get it out of my system<//3
The call comes exactly at 2:25 a.m.
You almost don’t answer it.
Sleep has only just begun to take hold of you, thin and fragile, the way it does after a day that stretched far past the limits of your patience and your eyesight. Your body feels carved from exhaustion, the dense kind that settles behind your eyes and hums quietly in your bones after twelve straight hours beneath the unforgiving fluorescence of the courthouse. You had spent the entire afternoon arguing motions in a room that smelled faintly of stale coffee and overworked air-conditioning, your voice steady even as your temples throbbed with the dull pressure of a forming headache.
The rest of the evening had dissolved into paperwork.
Discovery files stacked in uneven towers across your dining table. Legal pads filled with neat columns of notes. Highlighters scattered like little plastic casualties across the wood grain. You’d signed your name so many times that by the end of the night your signature had begun to look suspicious even to you. Loops too tight, letters collapsing into one another as if your own handwriting were losing faith in itself. Neon sticky notes bloomed from the edges of case files like warning flags, marking contradictions in testimony, timelines that refused to line up, small details that might become everything once you stood in front of a jury.
Even now, downstairs, three active case files remain open exactly where you left them.
You remember the moment you finally abandoned them. The way the clock on your stove read 1:14 a.m. The way your eyes had burned when you rubbed them, smearing the faint indentation your glasses had carved into the bridge of your nose after hours of wear. You had peeled them off and set them on the table beside a cold mug of coffee, blinking hard against the ghost of printed text that seemed to float stubbornly across your vision long after you’d stopped reading.
Chain of custody.
A witness whose timeline shifted every time she opened her mouth.
A motion that had to be filed by morning.
You had climbed the stairs feeling hollowed out, your body moving through familiar motions with the numb efficiency of someone who has done this too many nights in a row. Pajamas. Teeth brushed half-asleep. The quiet click of the bedside lamp. The heavy surrender of your body into cool sheets.
You were ready to sleep. Desperate for it.
But then your phone vibrates against your nightstand.
The sound is small but violent, a mechanical buzz that rattles faintly against the wood. For a moment it weaves itself into your dreams, some distant echo of courthouse intercoms and elevator chimes, until the vibration comes again, longer this time, insistent enough to drag you up from the shallow edge of sleep.
Your eyes open slowly.
The room is dark except for the thin gray strip of streetlight slipping through the gap in your curtains. It cuts across the ceiling in a pale blade of light, illuminating the faint dust drifting through the air and the quiet shape of your bedroom furniture.
The phone buzzes again.
You groan softly, one arm sliding out from beneath the blankets, fingers fumbling across the nightstand until they find the cold glass of the screen. The brightness stings your eyes when you lift it, forcing you to squint.
Unknown number. Virginia area code.
For a long second, you simply stare at it.
Your brain is still sluggish with sleep, moving through the possibilities slowly. You know people in Virginia. Federal prosecutors. Assistant U.S. attorneys. People you’ve collaborated with on jurisdictional nightmares when state lines blur and federal charges start to loom over cases that began somewhere much smaller. They email you often enough, late nights, early mornings, frantic threads filled with legal citations and irritated footnotes.
But they don’t call at 2:25 a.m.
Not unless something is on fire.
The phone buzzes again, vibrating faintly against your palm.
And something in your chest tightens.
It’s subtle at first. A small, instinctive pull somewhere beneath your ribs, like a muscle remembering how to move after years of disuse. An old reflex you thought you had carefully dismantled piece by piece, filed away neatly alongside the divorce papers that still sit in the bottom drawer of your office desk.
You keep them there on purpose.
Not out of sentiment.
Out of practicality.
Paperwork that final deserves to remain accessible. That’s what you told yourself the first time you slid the folder into the drawer. Every so often, when you reach for another file, you glimpse the corner of it sitting there beneath motions and affidavits.
A quiet reminder.
You used to answer calls like this all the time.
Your heart begins to beat a little faster now, even though you’re not entirely sure why. Your thumb hovers over the glowing green icon while memories you thought had long since dulled begin to stir at the edges of your mind.
Late-night calls.
Your stomach dropping before you even heard the voice on the other end.
Bracing for the words there’s been an incident.
Hospitals. Gunshots. Emergency rooms that smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. The sterile brightness of waiting areas where time stretched into something unbearable. The quiet, creeping understanding that brilliance and recklessness often walk hand in hand, and that loving someone who lives inside that truth means learning how to survive the waiting. For loss.
Your thumb moves before you fully realize you’ve decided.
You swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
Your voice comes out rough with sleep, quieter than you expect in the stillness of the room.
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. A faint rustling sound, like papers being shifted or a file being opened. Somewhere in the background you hear the distant murmur of voices and the dull mechanical beep of hospital equipment.
Then a voice speaks.
“Is this Mrs. Reid?”
The title lands like a gavel.
You haven’t been Mrs. Reid in two years, four months, and seventeen days. Not that you count. You absolutely do not count.
The divorce decree had been signed, notarized, sealed with clinical efficiency. A clean legal severance between two people who had once known each other so intimately it felt almost absurd that the entire end of it could fit into a thin stack of paperwork. Assets divided with meticulous fairness. No children to complicate things. No alimony. No lingering financial ties.
Just silence.
Still, when you speak, your voice betrays you.
“Yes.”
There’s another faint shuffle of papers, the steady cadence of someone trained to deliver information with calm detachment. A hospital professional. Someone accustomed to midnight calls and the careful balance between honesty and reassurance.
“Spencer Reid was injured in the field. You’re listed as his emergency contact.”
Your mind—trained by years of legal practice to dissect language and hunt for the smallest inconsistencies—immediately begins to latch onto every word.
Injured.
Not killed. Not deceased. Not critical.
Injured in the field.
Which means it wasn’t random. Not a car accident, a fall down the stairs or some mundane disaster that happens to ordinary people living ordinary lives.
It means a case.
Your brain begins to build possibilities before you can stop it, assembling fragments of scenarios the way it always does when a story is incomplete.
But your attention catches on something else.
Emergency contact.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
You had signed the divorce papers. You had walked away from the house you once shared. You had separated your lives with the kind of precision that only lawyers and profilers seem capable of achieving when something breaks between them.
But that was two years ago.
More than enough time to update a form. More than enough time to erase a name.
And yet, he never changed it.
The realization settles slowly into the quiet room, complicated and impossible to ignore. Because that isn’t something you can dissolve with paperwork. Not something you can notarize away. Not something you can explain, not easily, not logically, not in any way that makes sense for two people who are supposed to be finished with each other.
You don’t remember ending the call.
You don’t remember how long the phone stayed pressed to your ear after the line went dead, the faint electronic silence stretching into something hollow and unreal. You don’t remember setting it down, or when exactly your body shifted from lying still in bed to moving with the kind of mechanical urgency that bypasses thought entirely.
Later, if you try to reconstruct the sequence, there are only fragments, disconnected flashes of motion that feel more like instinct than decision.
The closet door sliding open with a soft wooden scrape. Your fingers pulling yesterday’s blouse from the back of a chair where you’d dropped it without ceremony. The fabric still carries the faint smell of courthouse air, stale coffee, paper dust, the sterile tang of copy toner. You tug it over your head without bothering to smooth the wrinkles, the buttons misaligned for a moment before you fix them with impatient hands. Then your feet shove themselves into heels that wait by the door like silent witnesses to every long workday you drag home. You don’t bother with stockings. You don’t bother with makeup. You don’t even remember grabbing your purse.
The next clear memory is the car.
The low rumble of the engine turning over. The headlights cutting through empty streets still soaked in the deep blue quiet of early morning. Streetlights sliding across the windshield one by one, each casting brief stripes of gold across the dashboard. You don’t remember the route. You only remember your hands. The steering wheel feels slick beneath your palms because they’re sweating, fingers tightening and loosening in restless intervals as the car moves almost on its own through familiar roads.
You had promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again.
That promise had been one of the few clean lines you drew when the rest of your life blurred together during the divorce.
You wouldn’t rush to hospitals anymore. You wouldn’t drop everything at the sound of his name spoken with that careful tone people use when delivering bad news. You wouldn’t sit in another sterile waiting room under buzzing fluorescent lights while agents in dark suits moved past you with polite nods and guarded expressions, avoiding your eyes because they didn’t quite know what you were to him anymore. You wouldn’t pretend you were okay with the distance.
Oh, you wouldn’t pretend you understood the way he would sit across from you at the kitchen table after a case, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold, and say quietly, “I can’t tell you about it.”
As if the truth itself was something fragile. As if you were.
That had always been the fracture line between you.
You never needed protection, what you needed was partnership. For God sake, you were a prosecutor. Your entire career is built on staring directly at the worst parts of humanity and refusing to blink first. You have stood in courtrooms holding photographs blown up to poster size—autopsy reports, crime scenes frozen in brutal detail—while twelve jurors looked to you for clarity. You have dismantled alibis piece by careful piece until grown men with carefully constructed lies crumbled under the weight of their own contradictions. You have locked eyes with people who have done unspeakable things and you made them look away first. You were never someone who needed to be shielded from the truth.
And yet, at home, Spencer would soften his words. Always edit his stories and pause mid-sentence, recalculating what to say and what to leave out, like a man carefully redacting a classified document before sliding it across the table. The worst parts—the violence, the cruelty, the moments that lingered in his mind long after the case ended—those pieces always disappeared somewhere between his thoughts and his mouth.
You knew why he did it.
Maybe because he loved you.
He wanted to protect the quiet life you had built together from the darkness he carried home from work. He wanted your kitchen to remain a place of warm light and soft music instead of crime scene details and psychological profiles. And you understood the intention...but inside, you hated him for it anyway, especially now.
The FBI seal etched into the glass catches the overhead lights as the doors slide closed behind you. It feels colder than you remember.
Hospitals always smell the same: sterile antiseptic layered over something faintly metallic and distant. The fluorescent lighting hums softly overhead, turning the hallway into a tunnel of pale brightness that feels far too sharp for the hour.
You walk toward the front desk with the steady, measured stride you use in courtrooms. So professional and controlled. You even give his name with quiet authority, like you weren't dying inside.
The nurse types quickly, her eyes flicking between the screen and you. Then she asks the question.
“Relationship?”
The word hangs in the air for a moment.
Your throat tightens before you can stop it.
“…Ex-wife.”
It sounds strange spoken aloud, so clinical.
The nurse studies you for a brief second longer, something unreadable flickering across her expression, before nodding and gesturing down the hallway.
They let you through anyway.
The ICU corridor is quieter, the steady rhythm of machines replacing the distant murmur of the waiting room. Your heels click softly against the polished floor, each step echoing just a little too loudly in the near silence.
You see him before you’re ready to.
Through the narrow rectangular window set into the ICU door.
Your breath catches.
Spencer lies against stark white sheets that make his skin look even paler than usual. An IV line disappears beneath the thin hospital blanket, taped carefully to the back of his hand. A thick bandage wraps around his upper arm, stark against the blue fabric of the hospital gown.
There’s a small cut at his hairline.
Not large, but enough that a faint line of dried blood disappears into the dark strands of his hair.
His lips are slightly parted, as if he’s about to say something precise and thoughtful and slightly pedantic the way he always does when he’s working through a thought out loud.
But his eyes are closed.
The steady beep…beep…beep of the monitor fills the room with mechanical calm.
And suddenly the memories come rushing back all at once.
The way that same mouth used to press into the curve of your shoulder when he finally came home after a long case, exhausted and half-asleep before he even made it to the bed. The way he would mumble fragments of analysis into your skin, half-formed theories about unsub behavior and geographic patterns, before his thoughts dissolved into sleep mid-sentence. The way his hand would reach for you even after he’d drifted off, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your shirt like he was anchoring himself to something solid.
You remember the way he memorized your coffee order after hearing it once when you two were younger.
And still asked every morning anyway.
Just to hear you say it.
You remember the day you won your first major case after you got married, the way he had looked at you across the crowded courthouse hallway, pride so fierce and unfiltered that it made your chest ache just to see it.
Your throat tightens painfully.
He looks smaller like this.
Not the brilliant mind capable of calculating bullet trajectory angles in seconds. Not the profiler who walks into rooms and reads human behavior like an open book.
Just Spencer.
Just the man who once stayed up all night with you at the kitchen table, quizzing you on obscure legal precedents because you had a massive argument scheduled the next morning and he refused to let you walk into court unprepared.
And for the first time since the phone rang, the full weight of the moment settles into your chest.
He’s here. Alive.
Your gaze shifts again, instinctively scanning the room the way you would a crime scene, so slow, methodical, taking inventory of everything that doesn’t belong, and everything that does. The muted hospital lighting casts long shadows along the walls. Machines blink in quiet rhythms. The faint antiseptic smell clings to the air, the kind that sinks into the back of your throat.
You notice the plastic cup on the tray table, half full of water no one has touched. A crumpled pair of latex gloves in the trash bin. The hospital bracelet around his wrist, the thin plastic tag digging into skin that looks too pale beneath the fluorescent lights. The steady rise and fall of his chest under the thin blanket.
And then you see it.
A thick manila folder resting on the chair beside his bed.
It doesn’t belong in a hospital room. Everything else here is standardized, impersonal, designed for efficiency. But the folder looks used. Worn at the edges. Softened by time and handling. The corners are bent, the color faded slightly from that dull bureaucratic yellow to something closer to parchment.
Your eyes narrow slightly.
There is handwriting across the front. Not typed. Not labeled with a hospital sticker. Handwritten.
Your name.
You recognize the script immediately, even from across the room. Precise. Neat to the point of obsession. Each letter measured, the spacing exact, like the writer had once practiced penmanship the way other people practiced scales on a piano.
The same handwriting that used to appear in the margins of books he lent you. The same handwriting that filled the letters he left on your pillow when he had early flights with the team. The same handwriting that once wrote I love you so many times it felt less like a sentence and more like a fact of gravity.
Your chest tightens.
You move closer without really deciding to. Your shoes barely make a sound against the polished floor. The chair creaks faintly as you lean over it, the folder sitting there like it has been waiting for you.
Your fingers hover above it.
For a moment, you don’t touch it.
You just look.
Your fingers finally graze the edge of the folder, barely brushing the worn cardboard.
The door behind you opens softly.
“Okay. So. I’m not crying. I’m absolutely not crying.”
The voice is familiar even before you turn, so bright in tone but thick underneath, like someone trying very hard to keep their composure from cracking straight down the middle.
You turn slowly.
Penelope Garcia stands in the doorway.
She’s clutching her bag to her chest with both arms like it’s some kind of emotional shield. Normally, her presence fills a room before she even speaks, with her bright colors, loud heels, and the unmistakable energy of someone who refuses to be ignored by the universe.
Today, she also looks…smaller.
Her heels are quieter than usual, the sharp click softened by the careful way she walks. Her dress isn’t the technicolor explosion she normally wears like armor against the world. Now it’s pastel, muted, soft in a way that feels almost fragile on her. Her cardigan hangs loosely off one shoulder, like she pulled it on without thinking.
Her eyes are rimmed red.
The mascara that usually frames them perfectly has smudged slightly beneath her lower lashes, a thin shadow betraying tears she clearly tried to wipe away before coming inside.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
It’s strange, standing in the same room again.
You haven’t seen her since a few weeks before the divorce. Since that afternoon outside the courthouse when the sky had been gray and the pavement still damp from rain. She had appeared almost out of nowhere, heels clacking across the steps as if she had just happened to be nearby. But you both knew that wasn’t true and she just hugged you before you even had the chance to say hello.
The kind of hug that feels less like comfort and more like someone trying to physically hold the pieces of you together.
“He’s an idiot sometimes,” she whispered into your hair then, voice soft. “But he’s your idiot.”
You remember the way she squeezed your hands before letting you go.
Now she stands a few feet away, watching you carefully.
“Hi,” she says gently.
“Hi, Penelope.”
Her gaze shifts immediately past you.
To the bed. To him.
And you watch her composure crack in real time.
Her inhale is sharp, like the air caught somewhere halfway down her lungs. For a moment, the bright, unshakable Garcia disappears, replaced by someone who looks deeply afraid.
“He’s stable,” she says quickly, like she’s repeating information she forced herself to memorize. “They say he’ll wake up soon. Concussion. The bullet grazed his arm—barely, thank God—but he lost too much blood at the scene and they had to—”
She stops herself mid-sentence, pressing her lips together like she’s afraid if she keeps talking she might actually start crying.
“He’s going to be okay,” she finishes more quietly.
You nod once.
It’s the same controlled movement you’ve perfected in courtrooms. The kind you give juries when they deliver a verdict you already expected.
Acknowledgment without reaction.
Acceptance without visible emotion.
“He asked for you,” she adds.
Your head lifts slightly.
“In the ambulance,” Penelope continues, her voice softer now. “He wasn’t fully conscious. He kept drifting in and out. But every time he came back around he said your name.”
She pauses, looking at you carefully.
“Over and over,” she murmurs. “Like it was the only thing he was sure of.”
Your gaze drifts back to Spencer.
“Why am I still his emergency contact?” you ask after a moment.
Penelope hesitates.
And that hesitation is answer enough.
She shifts her weight slightly, the strap of her bag creaking faintly in her grip.
“He refused to change it,” she admits finally. “HR tried. Twice, actually.”
You glance at her.
“He said—” she lets out a small breath “—statistically speaking, you were still the person most likely to make rational decisions under pressure.”
A hollow laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
“That’s not why.”
Penelope gives a small, sad smile.
“No,” she says softly.
“It’s not.”
Silence settles heavy between you.
You glance back at the folder with your name on it.
“Penelope,” you say carefully, turning toward her fully now. “Has this happened before?”
She blinks, caught slightly off guard by the directness of the question.
“Injuries?”
“Hospitalizations,” you clarify quietly. “ER visits. Concussions. Anything.” Your jaw tightens, the muscle flexing just slightly beneath the surface. “Since the divorce. I need to know if this is the first time he’s been lying in a hospital bed and I just…didn’t know.”
The words settle heavily in the air between you.
Penelope’s expression shifts, something conflicted and uncertain flickering behind the soft brightness she usually carries so easily. She looks toward Spencer for a moment, as if the sight of him might somehow answer the question for her.
“I’m not asking as his ex-wife,” you continue, voice lower now but steady. “I’m asking as someone who spent years building a life with him. If he’s been getting hurt and not telling anyone—”
“He tells us,” she says quickly.
The response comes too fast. Too automatic.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Penelope goes very still.
Of course she knows what you meant.
You aren’t asking whether the team knows when Spencer gets hurt.
You’re asking whether you should have known.
Whether the man who used to come home at two in the morning smelling like cheap motel soap and gunpowder had been quietly breaking himself apart without you even realizing it.
The silence that follows is delicate and uncomfortable, stretching thin between the quiet beeping of the monitor and the soft mechanical hiss of the IV pump. Somewhere down the hallway a cart rattles faintly over tile, followed by the distant murmur of nurses exchanging shift notes.
Inside the room, the world feels strangely suspended.
Penelope shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag the way she always does when she’s trying to choose her words carefully.
“He tells us,” she repeats, but this time the words are softer. Less defensive. “The team knows when he gets hurt.”
You hold her gaze.
That isn’t the same thing.
You both know it.
Penelope exhales slowly, her shoulders lowering a fraction as if some invisible tension has finally slipped loose.
“This is the first hospital stay since the divorce,” she admits after a moment.
The words are quiet, but they still land with weight.
“He’s had…minor injuries. Bruises. A sprained wrist once after a suspect resisted arrest.” She shrugs faintly. “Nothing unusual for field work.”
Her voice drops slightly.
“Nothing like this.”
Nothing like this.
Your eyes drift back to Spencer.
The bandage wrapped around his upper arm suddenly looks thicker than it did a moment ago. The white gauze is already beginning to stain faintly beneath the edges, pale pink seeping slowly through where the bullet grazed him.
The IV line taped to the back of his hand feels more intrusive now, the clear tubing snaking up toward the hanging bag of fluids.
“Penelope,” you say after a moment, turning toward her again. “Why did they call me?”
She blinks at the question.
“Well…you’re still listed as his emergency contact.”
“That explains the phone call,” you reply evenly. “It doesn’t explain why they expect me to be here.”
Penelope’s gaze flickers toward the hallway outside the room before returning to you. Something uncertain crosses her face, like she’s trying to decide how much to say and how quickly to say it.
“The doctor spoke to us a few minutes ago,” she says slowly. “About discharge.”
You frown slightly. “Discharge? He’s unconscious.”
“He’s stable,” she says quickly, lifting a hand in a small reassuring gesture. “The concussion is mild. They kept him overnight for observation because of the blood loss, but assuming he wakes up without neurological symptoms, they’ll release him later today.”
That should be reassuring.
Instead, a small knot of tension forms in your chest.
“And?”
Penelope shifts again, clearly stalling now.
“And…” She glances once more toward the hallway, lowering her voice slightly even though there’s no one close enough to overhear. “They won’t release him unless someone takes responsibility for him.”
Your brow furrows.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Penelope says gently, “someone has to sign the discharge forms and agree to stay with him for the next weeks.”
Her fingers tap nervously against the strap of her bag.
“Concussion protocol. Monitoring for symptoms. Making sure he doesn’t pass out again or start showing signs of internal bleeding.”
Your brain processes that automatically.
Of course they would require supervision.
Of course they wouldn’t send a federal agent who just lost a dangerous amount of blood home alone.
“So the team can take turns,” you say, already thinking through the logistics. “He has coworkers. Supervisors. Friends…maybe even someone else, maybe a girlfriend.”
Penelope’s mouth opens.
Her eyes widen in immediate horror.
“God, no!”
The reaction is so sharp it almost startles you.
“There’s no other girls,” she rushes to clarify, shaking her head quickly. “Not even a date. Not since you.”
Your stomach sinks a little despite yourself.
You clear your throat softly.
“Penelope…” you say slowly. “What I mean is that there should be someone.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why?”
She sighs quietly, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“Because the hospital requires someone who can legally assume responsibility for him outside of work,” she explains. “Someone who can sign the liability paperwork and who isn’t technically his supervisor or subordinate.”
You stare at her.
“The Bureau has rules about that sort of thing,” she adds apologetically. “Conflict of interest. Liability. It becomes a whole HR nightmare.”
“So one of his friends—”
“He doesn’t have many of those outside the team,” she interrupts softly.
The truth of that lands heavily.
Spencer’s life has always been painfully small when it comes to personal circles. Work. His mother. The team.
You.
Or at least…you used to be.
“What about Diana?” you ask after a moment.
Penelope’s expression immediately softens with sympathy.
“Sweetie…” she says gently.
Of course.
Spencer’s mother.
The brilliant woman whose mind drifts in and out of clarity like the tide, receding and returning without warning. Even on her best days she needs someone to remind her where she left her glasses or what year it is.
On her worst days she forgets her own son’s face.
“She can’t take responsibility for him,” Penelope says quietly. “The hospital won’t allow it. You know it.”
Your eyes flick back toward the bed.
Toward Spencer.
“And the team?” you ask again, though your voice is quieter now. “You?”
Penelope hesitates.
“We're trying,” she says carefully. “But technically none of us qualify. The doctor was very firm about that.”
You swallow.
The implications settle slowly into place, one piece at a time, like a puzzle you didn’t realize you were solving.
“And that leaves…?”
Penelope doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, her gaze drifts to the chair beside the bed.
To the manila folder with your name written across the front.
Then back to you.
“That leaves the person he never removed from his emergency contact forms,” she says softly.
The room suddenly feels smaller.
The quiet beeping of the monitor fills every corner of the space.
“Seriously,” Penelope continues gently, “the doctor said he can’t leave unless someone signs for him.”
Her eyes search your face now, careful but so hopeful.
“And apparently,” she adds after a moment, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re still the only person Spencer ever trusted to do that.”
God.
Tag list ❤︎: Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!
GUYS i am in dire need of a long Alastor x reader fanfic on AO3 (or even on here I just wanna immerse in a story)!!!! Please lmk if there are any really great ones!!!!!
hey guys! i’m currently writing an alastor x fem ready cause my hazbin phase is HEAVY right now! but lemme know if you guys think it’s good enough to continue cause i WILL BE POSTING IT ON AO3 if this story gets good feedback!!
EDIT: okay! so i decided to post on AO3! you can access the story here! the REST of the story will ONLY BE POSTED on AO3!!! if you are interested please go there!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/75107931
PLOT - Y/N Morningstar, loves her sister Charlie but is deathly envious of her. Y/N is the disappointment of the entire family due to a punishment heaven gave her. But, as she battles her own demons, as well as heavens, what about the Radio Demon who makes his way into her brain? The demon who eats at her with every breath? Will she realize that he is irrevocably consumed with her existence as well?
WARNINGS!! - slight violence and cussing (obviously), again not sure if i will be continuing the series but if i am i am more likely than not going to write some spicy time 🌶️ and ofc more violence and highkey ANGST. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MEDIA YOU CONSUME.
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CHAPTER 1
Long ago, Adam and Lilith “fell in love”. That was until a rule breaking angel named Lucifer Morningstar came into the picture. The two were madly in love, so much so that they fell together, into the deep dark pits of this new place called Hell. It served as punishment for people like them, rule breakers, sinners, etc. Though their daughter, y/n, never thought the idea of free will for mortals should have been deemed as punishment, she wasn’t around yet to make that decision. As years went on, Hells population grew exponentially and children were even being born! Children like y/n, hellborn, only added to Hells population. For a while she was the first and only child of Lucifer and Lillith, but she could tell after years her presence had begun to fill them with dissapointment. After y/n had been brutally punished by heaven for…various reasons, the Mornginstars welcomes another beautiful baby girl named Charlie.
Charlie Morningstar, the perfect golden child. She was sweet, kind, and bright. She believed in everyone and had an incredible idea that anyone in Hell could be redeemed. There was no real evidence that this plan would actually work but y/n let her younger naive sister dabble with the idea. After a year of planning, Charlie made the bold decision to open up a hotel where sinners would be rehabilitated so that extinction could be avoided. Y/n was able to get her hands dirty with this hotel, threatening a porn star named Angel Dust to be their first ever customer.
Angel Dust was a strange individual, there is no way he is this horny all the time Y/N had often thought to herself. She wanted to know him, people like him had always intrigued her. Maybe because they reminded her of herself, creating a facade in front of everyone to avoid anyone peeking through the cracks of her entire personality. She already knew what she was, selfish, impulsive, short-tempered, violent, prideful. She didn’t want anyone else knowing who she truly was, she had been a disappointment towards the Morningstars, and she didn’t need to disappoint anyone else. It had been about a week since Angel Dust arrived at the hotel, it was dusty and down right gross with slimy sludge in the corners of every single room. In this week everyone at the hotel somehow managed to keep him sober from any drugs, alcohol, etc. That was until today, Charlie had gone onto the 666 News to spread word of the hotel when a turf war had broken out between Cherri Bomb and Sir Pentious. And none other than Angel Dust, helping Cherri with the turf war completely throwing away the sober week.
Y/N looked over towards her sister in the car ride home, she was embarrassed and deeply insecure about her idea of the hotel ever working out.
“Cheer up, it will all work out.. these are just some minor set backs. They can be fixed! RIGHT Angel…?” Vaggie, Charlie’s girlfriend spoke with sweet honey but spat venom towards Angel Dust. Frankly, the car ride was awkward, no matter how much positive words Vaggie could spew towards Charlie the subtle aura of embarrassment loomed over the group.
Y/N never did well with comfort, she felt bad for her sister but physically couldn’t allow herself to become someone that another person relied on. So instead of speaking up, she stayed quiet, looking upon the different hues of red in the sky and in the city. Y/N had always loved this city, no matter the dead bodies or trash that ran along the pavements she could appreciate what her family had created. As she looked out the window, she recognized the buildings as they drove closer towards the hotel. One by one they began to step out of the limo, Charlie sulking still as Vaggie furiously eyed down Angel. Angel walked with a nonchalant pep in his step as if he didn’t care, maybe he didn’t but wouldn’t that be interesting if he did? Y/N had thought to herself.
Y/N sat on the couch across from Vaggie, she looked just as defeated as Charlie. “Oh don’t be too down, you know how Hell is my love.” Y/N walks over towards her sister. The words fell awkwardly from her mouth, wow I am HORRIBLE at this Y/N thought to herself. Charlie gave her a smile, a small subtle thank you for the attempt.
A knock quickly subsided the silence, everyone’s heads turn towards the front. Probably some sinner trying to ridicule the hotel. Y/N let this thought subside as her sister jolted upwards and creeped closer towards the door. Her hands grasped the door handle and carefully opened the door. The person standing in the doorway was a very surprising guest.
“Hell-“, the door shut in front of the figures face cutting them off, but was quickly opened up again “o!”. Y/N walked closer to see who Charlie might have shut the door on, before she could get a better look Charlie quickly slammed it again.
“Um guys…? The Radio Demon is at the door…” Charlie made a big huge smile mimicking the signature look of the Radio Demon. Y/N wasn’t frightened, if anything she was intrigued. The Radio Demon, named Alastor, had made a name for himself and was one of the most powerful sinners to ever roam hell. He had been around for decades, died in the 1920’s and somehow became an overlord over night. Y/N respected his work, he punished those he deemed worthy on live radio broadcasts. Why would he ever choose to come to a hotel aiming to redeem sinners?
“Well don’t let him in!” Vaggie protested, but Y/N could tell that her sister was just as intrigued.
“It doesn’t hurt to see what he might want.” Y/N said a little mischievously, she knew this wasn’t the brightest idea but the curiosity spiraled within her.
“Fine! Open the door Y/N! Yes, let’s bring in Hells most dangerous being! Why not!” Vaggie slumped more into the couch, she was obviously annoyed. Y/N just rolled her eyes as she stepped closer towards the door. There was a hum of static that was loud enough to hear through the door, signaling he was still waiting. Y/N’s hands wrapped around the handle and slowly opened the door. What stood before was a tall lanky figure, he looked as if to take form of a deer. His hair was red and small antlers peaked out at the top, his eyes were on Y/N and his smile grew wider when she looked into his eyes.
“Oh you are not the princess!” He looked at Y/N with a pitiful looking adjusting his monocle. “Well I am one of them, what do you want-“ before she could finish her sentence he pushed past her and went towards Charlie.
“Pleasure to meet you my dear! Truly such a pleasure!” Alastor shook her hand, he was being awfully nice to her. From what Y/N had heard, he was a charming man, the snarky remark before wasn’t very charming Y/N thought. She watched as he went from one subject to another, blabbering on about the hotel and how he is so bored he insists he should be of assistance. Even Charlie was suspicious, Y/N had a sneaking suspicion she was going to allow him to work alongside at the hotel anyways.
Y/N observed as Alastor attempted to charm Charlie, proposing he run the hotel.
“So it’s a deal then?” Alastor was notorious for his two timing back stabbing deals. He stuck his hand out towards Charlie as green light and different symbols surrounded him, even the word “deal” from him caused the room to shudder. Charlie was smart enough to know though, she knew that any deal from him would be a bad idea to execute. She wafted his hand away, “Nope! No deals! As princess I command you to work for the hotel…for free,” another awkward pause, “for as long as you want.” Alastor’s grin sneered wider as he retracted his hand back to his sides.
“So what do you do hm? Last time I checked you were awfully set on punishing those upstairs.” Alastor strolled by Y/N observing her, he was mocking her presence. So much for that charmer bullshit, she thought to herself. “I could ask you the same, what happened to endless chaos amongst every street of this city?”
Alastor cackled reminiscing how he would terrorize the overlords in Pentagram City all those years ago. His laugh was manic but with his tone he wasn’t offended as to why she would question his intentions at the hotel. “Relax my dear! Smile more, you’re never truly dressed without one!” Alastor’s smile gleamed throughout the entire hotel, but Y/N wasn’t willing to put up with the bullshit he dragged through the doors. She crossed her arms and plopped herself next to Vaggie, both of them were pissed off by the Radio Demon.
“Who does he think he is? Walking in here unannounced claiming to ‘help us’” Vaggie made air quotes as she rolled her eyes.
“I’ve never even heard of this fucking guy!” Angel sat down in between the two girls.
“You don’t know Alastor the Radio Demon?? You’ve been here longer than me!” Vaggie exclaimed in disbelief. Angel innocently shrugged, still clueless.
“If you just want the gist, he is really powerful, killed a lot of overlords, and NEVER make a deal with him!” Y/N faced Angel with her left arm hanging over the top of the couch.
“Hah! That guy??” Angel pointed and laughed, “he looks like a strawberry pimp!”
Alastor was unbothered with the name calling, if anything he stood there with the grin he always had on his face, never faltering. This guy hasn’t even been here for an hour and I wanna wipe that stupid smile off his face, Y/N thought. “Now that I officially am the head of the hotel this place needs a major upgrade! Where is your hotel staff?” Alastor asked Charlie. She smiled slyly and pointed towards the couch with Vaggie and Y/N.
“Oh haha no! That just wont work.” Alastor gave a similar pitiful look like the one he had given Y/N before. Vaggie sneered towards him, it looked as if she was going to strangle him right there and then.
“This is a hotel Charlie dear! Not a morgue, we are trying to escape Hell not come back to it! Fuhahaha!” Charlie looked down a little embarrassed at his comments, he was right unfortunately. “Not much of a hassle though!” Alastor took his staff, and pointed it towards the bar. Within a few seconds the green light was coming from behind the bar and soon a cat like figure appeared behind.
“What the hell!?” The cat spoke, his body language reeked of confusion.
“Ah Husker my good friend! I have so gracefully volunteered you to be the bartender at this delightful hotel!” Alastor extended his hand to show off the hotel as well as the people in it.
“Are you shitting me right now?” Husk bit at Alastor’s words with pure frustration. Yet, Alastor’s smile never faltered.
“No I don’t think so!” Alastor’s radio staff then played a vintage laughing track to show that he had been joking. It wasn’t very funny, Y/N silently watched as these events unfolded. Confused and bewildered as to why The Radio Demon himself would ever involve himself with the Morningstars.
“NO! No bars! No alcohol! This is a place that discourages sin!” Vaggie exclaimed blocking the bar off.
“Maybe alcohol is best. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle this fucker sober.” Y/N pointed towards Alastor who just laughed.
“Seems I’ve touched a nerve! No worries I will give you time to collect and clean up your act!”
“Excuse me-?” Y/N said with irritation
“Speaking of which!” Alastor walked over towards the fire place, “-this place is a mess! I can’t imagine who would ever want to willingly stay here in this dump. But, I have just the thing!” His staff had summoned another person. A small clump of ash mushed together in the fire place, after a few seconds, one large eyeball opened for everyone to see. The creature sprung out of the fire place as fast as it had been created.
“Hi I’m Niftty!” She was an adorable little thing, much shorter than anyone else in the room. She had one huge eye that took up most of her face that looked frantically around the room. She rushed over to each corner to try and clean the bugs and the dust off of any surface.
“Wow! This place really needs a woman touch, which is weird because you are all women no offense.” She spoke with lightning speed that allowed for no one to interrupt her.
“Wow Alastor! This is so incredible! Thank you, now people will really want to visit the hotel now.” Charlie had a hopeful tone. Vaggie and Y/N gave glances towards one another, silently giving each other a look that was mutual, ‘we have to be the careful’. Charlie was the one to get comfortable with people, giving them the benefit of the doubt. Vaggie being Charlie’s girlfriend loved this about her, but Y/N thought her sister was a complete dunce for this mindset. Was it because she wished she could have that much hope in people? Or was it because she truly felt that Hell was a place where you had to toughen up your everything? Either way, she was going to remain cautious.
BOOM!
A loud explosion was heard and a hole had been blown into the hotel.
“What the hell??” Y/N exclaimed, looking outside a large vintage style air ship with none other than Sir Pentious inside was attacking the hotel. “Angel!” Y/N said with frustration in her tone. Of course the turf wars were going to come to them. Thanks. A lot. Angel.
“What? It ain’t my fault Cherri and I kicked his ass so hard he came back for seconds…he’s probably a sadist!” Angel laughed at his own joke.
Alastor walked out of the hole that had been blown and stood there confidently. Everyone behind him wondered what he might do, but it was very unexpected when a hole had opened beneath Sir Pentious and black tentacles reached up to pull him down into god knows where. It was violent, and it was quick. So much so that no one had time to process what had happened, they all stood with their mouths agape.
“Well! I am starved who wants some jambalaya!” Alastor walked back towards the hotel with a pep in his step. Y/N stayed towards the back, where did that hole even lead to?
By the time they had gone inside, Nifty quickly realized she had not yet cleaned the kitchen. She rushed towards it with her tiny little legs and somehow moved faster than a snake chasing someone. Alastor waited patiently for Nifty to be done before he began his mother’s jambalaya recipe.
“How do we know it’s gonna be safe to eat?” Y/N stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Alastor’s back was toward her as he started chopping up the meat.
“Still suspicious of my intentions I see! If anything I am wondering yours…” Alastor’s voice lowered more towards the end of his sentence. He turned to face her, his sleeves rolled up from not wanting to get dirty. Despite the amount of food he had sprawled out on the counters, he had managed to not get a single stain nor piece on him.
“Hah! MY intentions? Your the most suspicious one here. Charlie is my sister why would my intentions be suspicious?” She stepped closer, aggravated now. She hated how short-tempered she was, and what made it worse was the stupid smile that she wish she could smack off of Alastor.
“Why are you helping with the hotel hm? You have a job already…unless something happened…” Alastor asked slyly.
“It’s not a job, it was punishment. I’m not doing it anymore, you don’t know anything so stop acting like you do.” Y/N was growing uncomfortable with this intrusion.
“Pardon my ignorance my dear, merely just finishing the questionnaire that you began.” He tilted and smiled widely. Y/N scoffed exiting the kitchen, what a stuck up, selfish, smart-ass asshole!
Aggravated from this interaction, Y/N could barely eat the food in front of her once it had been brought out. Alastor sat across from her, on purpose to piss her off.
“It’s good is it not?” He asked her, “not poisoned right?”.
Y/N gave an annoyed smile, “It is very delicious.” unfortunately for her it was very good.
The rest of the dinner was not silent, Charlie was creating new ideas and activities that the hotel could do to redeem sinners and possibly even overlords. Ideas bounced around such as trust exercises, group therapy, etc. Alastor listened and gave his own insight, even though he doesn’t believe that they could be redeemed. He was fake in agreeing with Charlie’s ideas, playing along for the sake of the game.
“If I may be excused, it’s getting late and I’m not sure how much more I can be around people.” Y/N stood and left to wash her dishes out in the kitchen sink. It’s always been a habit of hers, needing to clean the plate completely before putting in the sink. She looked over at the pot of jambalaya, unfortunately that was some damn good food. Y/N looked around for a container she could possibly take home with her. She found one that would perfectly fit one more meal, and began to scoop out food.
“Not poisoned.” Alastor’s voice, was heard in the door. His voice sounded more real, gone was most of the radio static. Y/N was embarrassed by the sudden intrusion, she fumbled her hands a bit and her heart began to pick up the pace.
“Not poisoned.” Y/N repeated. After registering what happened she continued to fill up the container with food. She felt his eyes peering into her soul, she didn’t know why. Was he plotting against her? Eyeing every different physical weakness she had so he could attempt to kill her? The intrusive thoughts cause her to finish her task quicker and turned around swiftly. The two locked eyes, Y/N was surprised he hadn’t gotten closer to try and assassinate her. He stood still, leaning against his staff. His eyes never left hers and he just smiled even wider, Y/N couldn’t tell why. It was menacing but it wasn’t threatening.
“Thanks.” Y/N murmured and slid past him and out of the kitchen. She walked quickly towards the front of the hotel, she wanted to get home and rest. Y/N opened the door and stood there, looked over her shoulder, and met eyes with the Radio Demon once more. A small breath got caught in her throat, and without another second wasted she shut the door and began walking home.
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i hope you ENJOYED ! please let me know what you think and if i should continue!
can you pls write something about reader being sick and like not the cough and cold kind of sick- like really really sick, and sukuna realising how much he doesn't want to lose her to this sickness and how if she dies, he'll be alone again..🥺
You have NO idea how much I love this idea!!! I did go a bit overboard with it cause I love suffering though 👍 Still, this was SO much fun to write and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Vows
Sukuna x Reader
Word count: 4.5k
Tags/warnings: gn! reader, true form! sukuna, master/pet dynamic, fluff but most importantly ANGST, mentions of weight loss, mentions of violence, implied nsfw, reader dies in the end :( (sorry)
It's not the first time Sukuna has been made aware of your mortality. He recalls many instances when he's been reminded that you are human. Finite. The first time he wrapped his hand around your throat and squeezed with calculation while you were laying under him, and you looked up at him in fear for your life. Your little hand couldn't even wrap around his wrist, much less provide resistance. Or when he'd pull your hair a little too roughly, and hear a crack in your delicate spine. When you'd get sick, and humbly refuse his healing. So little as a tummy ache had you writhing on your bed.
You are so weak, so small, clinging to life like there was anything for you in it, beyond Sukuna. By all means he hates all of these things. So what witchery is this, and why does he care about you so much? Why does he keep you for years, and why does your company bring him comfort he hasn't ever known in his lifetime?
Still, as much as he cares, he doesn't notice when it starts. He's trained you to tolerate pain, after all. It's no wonder you hesitate to tell him. Little things like tummyaches and colds occur to you all the time anyways, and you never complain. Sure, you've grown closer to Sukuna, but he was still your master, and the rules he instilled in you from the start were always fresh in your mind, not to be crossed. Bothering him with everything that feels off always seemed inappropriate.
And Sukuna is just like that. If you're not screaming or crying, he won't know you're in pain. But he notices that you're acting off. And how he reacts really doesn't help your case, or encourage you to speak up about your condition. ''I don't have all day. What is wrong with you?'', he sneers when he catches you pacing too far behind him.
So you just sleep longer and preserve energy for when you are with him. You don't skip around as much anymore, or spend time doing your hobbies. Food doesn't taste so great anymore. You have a cough that gives you sleepless nights because it just won't calm down. And the time you owe Sukuna starts to feel like an obligation. You start to dread it. Dread slipping up, dread annoying him or failing to satisfy him. Dread being disposable.
When things start getting worse, it's hard to hide it even from him. He was taking you from behind one night, and you were grateful he couldn't see the look on your face. You thought you could do it. Sukuna was always demanding, but he would never force you to do anything. If only you told him before you felt yourself struggling for air, and your chest closing in on itself in tightness. You reached one hand back, frantically grabbing his wrist.
''Feathers, feathers!'', words came out as gasps, and you slumped forward when he let you go. You were panicked and crying by then, this kind of discomfort being foreign even to you, even after weeks of pain behind you. He hovered next to you with a puzzled look on his face. He wasn't even being that rough.
''What's wrong? Tell me.'', he said, and reached his hand to feel the warmth of your tears streaming down your face. He swiped your cheek gently. He didn't seem mad at all. Why didn't you say anything from the start?
''I just feel so sick.'', you muster up in between sobs, and shut your eyes. You were too embarrassed to even look at him.
''I see.''. His hand leaves your face, and he traces it from your neck down your spine. The pain subsided slowly, allowing you to relax and find comfort in his arms.
But the effects of his healing were short lived. Just a week later the feeling of fatigue creeps back into your life. Manageable, but lingering. And the cough persists. And it gets on Sukuna's nerves too. He's been quite patient with you, but his patience was reaching it's limit.
You're sitting by his throne as you often do, and as hard as you try to hold the cough in, you just can't help it. His hand finds the back of your neck and squeezes, turning you to him. And he looks at you with all four, terrifying eyes. ''Can you shut up?''
''I'm sorry, I'm trying -'', you stutter, but just end up coughing more. He doesn't wait for you to stop.
''Get out of here.'', and pushes you away. You stumble down the pile of bones and fall, landing on your hands and knees. You don't remember him being this cruel to you in a long time. You look back at him with teary eyes, and he looks back like the merciless monster he is. The villagers awaiting him moved to make space for your fall, taking note of the tense situation.
That day, Sukuna sends word that he doesn't want to see you until you get better. You're forbidden from going outside again, in fear that that is making your 'cold' worse. It's a lonely week in your room, until Sukuna starts to crave you again. It didn't take him a while, counting the couple days he spent convincing himself he doesn't miss you. He does. So when he sends word for you again, and the servants come back to him saying you're still not feeling well... he's worried. So worried he comes to see it for himself.
Sukuna rarely comes to your room. It's the only space you have for yourself, and he doesn't want to take that away from you. Your room is modest. You have a bed, a carpet, and a couple shelves to house the books he's gifted you. There's a desk where you can eat and read, and a doorway to the garden. There's an empty glass of water and a napkin next to your bed. You're still sleeping, but the door shutting behind him wakes you up, so he doesn't get to enjoy observing you in your natural habitat for long.
It's not the first time doors opening and closing woke you up. But you know this time is different. The servants are always quickly shuffling around the room, cleaning up and moving around. Uraume clanks with plates. There is no noise now, other than your strained breathing and a cough brewing in the back of your throat. Besides, the aura that Sukuna brings with him everywhere he goes is recognizable. Especially to you. Heavy.
You turn around, and meet the gaze of his four eyes. ''Master...'', you struggle to sit up, and even a little action like that has spots forming in your vision. Then a coughing fit hits you. You pick up the napkin and put it to your mouth.
Sukuna sees your whole body strain with the effort of coughing. And when you call him master, even your voice sounds different. He knows your morning voice. He missed hearing it, but this... this is not it. You sit with your head hung low, staring at the napkin between your hands. There's a fresh splatter of blood on it. But Sukuna scares you more than the progression of your illness.
''Are you mad at me?'', you ask timidly, meeting his gaze.
''I'm concerned.", he says and sits next to you. You curl up to make space for him. "Two weeks is a long time for a frail human like you to be sick.", he looks at you, scanning your form up and down.
"I rested and drank every tea Uraume told me to!", your defense mechanism kicks in, and you start babbling.
Sukuna dismisses you with a hand and a pained facial expression. "I know.", he says. His brows are furrowed now, and he's looking at the ground, lost in thought.
You feel guilty for annoying him again. You feel guilty for the whole thing, getting sick, draining the energy it takes him to heal you, robbing him of the time with you that he deserves. Owns. He is very generous with the way he treats you, having all that in mind.
You tug on his sleeve. "I'm sorry, Master... You deserve better.", and you're sobbing again. Sukuna gives you a pathetic look, but smiles as he pulls you into his embrace.
"Silly pet. I can survive a couple weeks without your assistance.", he says, rubbing your shoulder.
You run your fingers against the back of his hand mindlessly, not knowing how to respond. Caressing his knuckles, bones, veins... feeling his nails and their sharp tips against your sensitive skin. When you bring his palm up to your lips, your kiss stains it red with blood.
-
You still sleep with Sukuna sometimes. Less frequently, only on days when you feel well enough, and those are rare. You've lost weight by now, sickness making itself visible on your body. You're sitting on his lap and clinging to your robes, scared that he won't like you as much, that you won't live up to his standards. But Sukuna's demeanor about your illness has changed, as he seemed to sense something unusual about it. He flips you over so gently, like you're made of glass, and peppers kisses from your neck downwards, slowly undressing you as much as you allow him. When he takes you, he's so careful. Constantly checking you're comfortable and enjoying yourself. You feel so loved and relaxed, and pleasure comes so easy when you're in this state. It's not the first time Sukuna is this caring with you in bed, but this time is different. This time you can't help but feel like he's saying goodbye.
He holds you afterwards, tracing his fingers over the ridges of your spine and your shoulders. You were always little in his grasp, but now that he feels your protruding bones under his fingertips, you seem all the more vulnerable.
"Will you kill me?", you ask, breaking the silence.
Sukuna frowns. "Nonsense. Why would I do that?"
There's a gulp in your throat. "It won't be long before I can't even do this. I won't be of any use to you then...", you say.
"Stop.", he says sternly. "There's a lot more to you than what you provide me with in bed."
You smile to yourself, but there's still a hole in your chest. Your statement is still true, and you aren't comforted. But this is Sukuna, and you know that he's offered you quite a lot even with that little bit of reassurance. To your surprise, he speaks again.
"Don't upset yourself. It's been a long time since killing you crossed my mind.", he says. "Save the energy for something else."
You nod and thank him. Just moments later, you're asleep. Quicker than ever before, he notes. You usually love it when he lets you cuddle and talk to him. You would force your eyes open when you were sleepy, just to enjoy it longer.
He feels guilty. He's your master, he's responsible for your well being. Yet nothing he does seems to help you long term. Healing you is temporary and he knows that without accessing the source, it will never work. If he could, he would find what was making you sick and rip it out of you with his bare hands, crush it with the force of his palm. He would have to look deeper, open you, and for once, he thinks he can't open a human being. He thinks of you trashing, screaming, and worst of all, looking into his eyes. Just the thought of you like that makes his chest feel like a gaping cavity. Worst of all, he's sure you would let him. He's sure you would forgive him for spilling your blood, and find comfort in his arms again. If you survived, that is. What has he done to you? And to himself?
Now, your head rests on his chest, and you're snoring lightly. For once, a repetitive noise like that doesn't annoy him. For once, he wishes he could listen to it every night. One day, that noise will be the only thing audibly confirming you're still alive.
-
Months pass and you're only getting worse. You barely leave your room now, too weak to even do so. You eat little, and it's showing in your sunken cheeks and eyes. You feel yourself withering away, loosing color, drying like a dying flower. Sukuna is in grief. He struggles to look at you, and visiting you falls heavy on him every time. He always finds himself thinking afterwards. Regretting that he let himself get this attached, wishing that he could simply forget you. But it doesn't work that way.
He goes to see you, after avoiding you for a week. He's Sukuna, he doesn't have any shame. You're sleeping, like you usually are when he comes to visit you. Your snoring is laboured, and it sounds painful. This time, the doors and the silence don't wake you up. He watches you, curled up under a stack of blankets, rising and falling with your struggles to breathe. How foolish he was, to think forgetting you would be as easy as avoiding you for days. How evil he was, trying to forget you while you are still alive under his wing, still his responsibility. Still his.
He sits next to you and leans over you, fingertips ghosting over your face. The snoring stops and you flutter your eyes open, turning in bed and feeling his body next to yours. You smirk at him, eyes adjusting to the light, and smile when you recognize him. ''Master.'', your arms wrap around his neck as you welcome him, your voice dry, but lively as you beckon him closer. ''I missed you.''.
He comes down to plant a kiss to your forehead. ''I missed you too, darling.''. Oh, the things that escape his mouth when he's alone with you. He cups your face, enjoying how much healthier you look with a smile on your face. ''Feeling any better?'', he rubs your cheek, lingering closely above your face.
You nod, but both of you know you only feel better because you saw him. Still, the little surge of happiness that brings you gives you more energy than you've had the whole week. You wiggle to the edge of the bed, making space and inviting him to join you. Sukuna lies down, hooking one arm underneath your neck and pulling you flush against him.
You wrap your arm around him and lean your head against his shoulder. He's still as big as you remember him, unfaltering in the face of your illness. It's comforting. ''You didn't visit in a while. Were you busy?'', you ask, stroking his back. ''How were your days?''
''Monotone.'', he says. ''The villagers bring remedies for you every day, and wish for you to get well.'' It's no wonder. So many times, Sukuna found himself hesitating to kill just because you were sitting on his knee, dressed in something too pretty to be splattered with blood. In the local villages, word spread that you have ''domesticated'' Sukuna. As if such a thing was possible. Or was it?
''Oh?'', you smile. ''I didn't think they would notice my absence.''. You always were supposed to be Sukuna's accessory and nothing more. Remedies and good wishes make it sound like you're more important than just a pet. So it really is that obvious...
''They did.'', he says, and lowers his head, brushing his nose against your face. ''Some took that as an opportunity to gift me new pets.''
You blink at him, a bit taken aback by his honesty. You keep smiling anyways. ''Did you take any?'', you ask, and he sees nothing but genuine curiosity in your eyes. The truth is, you've had a lot of time to think about your place in Sukuna's mansion. You knew, especially in sickness, that you were never entitled to exclusivity with him. You knew that at some point you would have to be replaced, just by the virtue of being a mortal. A human, who would age and become ugly, wrinkled and useless. You were just unlucky enough to meet this fate sooner than you should've.
Sukuna sighs, the weight of the conversation shifting to him. ''Not to bed, no.'', he says.
You're quiet while you think of what to say. You still have a habit of picking words when you're with Sukuna, but the times when he would punish you for improper formulation are far behind you. "Why not?", you settle. You hope the implication is there, that you wouldn't be so mad even if he did.
Why not? Because he thinks it might break him. Because the image of someone else in your place, under him, feels unnatural and wrong. He thinks the guilt might eat him alive. For once in centuries, someone else's needs come before Sukuna's. He is gone, so far gone. You've raised his standards, and he's not sure anyone he takes now will be able to live up to them. Besides, training a new pet to fit your mold would take years, and even then... He couldn't train someone to love him. Not like you do.
''I wouldn't want you to hold back because of me.'', you say, and he realizes he's been quiet for too long. Years ago, if you dared to imply that Sukuna would do such a thing as hold back because of you, that he cared, you would've been minced meat ready for dinner. Now, he looks down at you tenderly when you say it. Well, a tender look from Sukuna is a docile one. You've gotten used to the way that Sukuna communicates love. Subtly, innocuously.
''Worry about getting well, pet.'', he shuts down the conversation, and moves away from you, sitting back on the bed. ''Any wishes? Food? Activities?'', he asks, and feels your forehead with the back of his hand.
Food? No, but... ''I'd like you to stay, please.'', you say, and take his hand with the two of yours, feeling it up with your thumbs.
Sukuna resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing the thought of annoying him would upset you greatly. ''That's a given. Anything else?''
You pretend to think, then just babble your favorite food. Sukuna takes your order to Uraume. But when he comes back, you're already asleep again. He waits by your side, but you don't wake, so eventually he leaves. By the evening, the plate of your favorite food remains untouched.
-
You can't leave the bed on your own anymore. Sukuna carries you outside when you're feeling good enough. You barely have the strength to latch onto him securely. Still, it's hard to slip out of the grasp of his four arms. He says you've gotten pale. You lay in his lap and bask in the sun, while he tells you about his day or reads a book out loud for you to enjoy. You wish you could talk to him more, but your voice leaves you as days of endless coughing wreck your throat. No herbs and teas ease your condition anymore. You wait for your final day.
And Sukuna doesn't know when he's given up on the idea that you might get better. But he starts spending whole days with you, leaving your side only to sleep in his bed. He tends to almost all your needs personally. You think that if you asked him to get on his knees for you, he would. He is not familiar with this ache that brews in his chest when he looks to his side and doesn't see you there. It feels violating. To be as powerful as he is, and yet completely helpless in the face of the sickness that drains you in front of his very eyes.
He plays with your thinning hair one morning, and you look at him from his lap, as adoringly as always. ''Isn't it funny?.'', you say, and he snaps out of his thoughts to look at you. ''I always imagined dying by your hand.'', you kiss his hand again, planting your dry, blue lips against his knuckles. ''Who would have thought?''.
You, you little human. You made him feel like a fool, like a coward. You made him feel powerless. Who could ever get away unscathed with making Sukuna feel like this? The thought of killing you now, even out of mercy, fills him with horror. He thinks he couldn't live carrying the burden of your death on his back. It's already hard for him as is.
When he's not with you, he withers away in his room, waiting. And when the servants finally come, and tell him you're at your last strengths, he feels as tense as he feels relieved. The servants shake in fear of his reaction, and he simply dismisses them. In a thousand years of his existence, he doesn't remember having to prepare to enter a room. His hand trembles as he brings it up to push the door open. He dreads what awaits him inside.
He expected blood, hysteria, chaos, yet there's none of it when he walks in. Just the pained noises of your breathing. A servant, your favorite, sits by your side and wipes sweat off your forehead. She talks to you in a comforting tone and pats your head gently. When he walks in the room, she lowers her head and moves to leave. It's only a second, but he sees the sad look on your face. ''Stay.'', he orders, and the servant bows and thanks him.
You move your attention to him, raising your hand to greet him weakly. He picks it up and bends down to kiss it. There's tears in your eyes as he settles into a seat next to you, and you open your mouth in an attempt to say something.
''Easy now.'', he shushes you, and helps you into his lap. You lean back, looking at him through a blur. His features appear even more doubled through the tears, and you still find his beauty mesmerizing. Your master. Your own little god and protector. Although he regrets it, you've never claimed the title of his spouse. Yet, he still stuck by your side, until parted by death. In sickness and in health.
He wipes your tears, and the mouth he conjures onto his hand kisses your forehead. One set of his hands caresses your face, the other massages the tension out of your bony shoulders. Sukuna knows how important it is for you to pass in peace. He doesn't want to curse you, or have despair turn you into a curse. "Relax now.", his voice is so soothing, as if lulling you to sleep. "It won't be long". You weep. What did an ordinary human like you do to deserve this honor? To be comforted on their death bed by a god. To be guided to death by him.
"Master.", you sob. "I'm so scared..."
Delicate touch against your skin. Sharp nails grazing your cheek ever so slightly, just barely enough to make their presence known. "Have no fear.", Sukuna looms over you like a snowdrop. "Where you go now, pain won't follow.". You speak to him a little longer. Tell him all the things you always wanted to tell him, but were scared of the consequences. Dangerous words, ones that were rarely associated with Sukuna. Love. And Sukuna is attentive, so human. Your blinking slows and you find comfort in his voice, as he returns every loving word back to you. Your pained breathing follows, and your eyelids are so heavy. But the sight of him is so hypnotizing, you wish you never had to look away. "You are so brave, my little dove. Go now, be free.". You were too good for this wretched palace anyways. The sight of him is etched in your memory as you close your eyes. "It was a pleasure to have you by my side.", you listen, feeling control over your body slip through your fingers. When you can't move, or feel his touch, you still hear his calm voice. "When you're ready, come back to me. I'll be waiting for your return.". Then everything is quiet, for you and for him. The servants cries are muffled by the sheets, where she has her head pressed by your side.
The hallways, silent except for the busy tapping of feet. Outside, the wind blows petals off of blooming flowers, leaving them bare and stranded. Autumn is here to carry you away.
Servants hold their breath when Sukuna walks by. One wrong look at him and the walls would be painted red. Just like before. Before you. And it's not long before Sukuna looks like a monster again - red eyes and a permanent frown etched on his face. Villagers bring bouquets, and lay them to the right of his throne, where you used to sit. He stares them all down, and only for a moment thinks that maybe, humans are not the scum he thought they were. But then he remembers, they only mourn you because you held him back from his destructive tendencies. Scum.
And he kills again. The first is a villager from afar, where news of your passing hasn't reached. Ripped to shreds for mentioning you. The women who screamed, their blood soaks the carpets and seeps through the wooden floor, dripping down to the cellars. He feels like himself again, unhinged, unbeatable.
Until the day is over, and he goes back to his empty room. His cold, empty bed, and the old habit of reaching for you in his sleep, only to grab nothing instead. And the crocheted figures of the two of you on his nightstand, watching him as he struggles to sleep alone. He can't bear it. So he leaves, and doesn't come back for days, weeks, months.
Smoke clouds the skies on the horizon once again, after years and years of peace and clarity. As far as the eye stretches, the world will know of Sukuna's wrath. But as thrilling as it feels to conquer again, when the village is burned and ash covers the grass on the ground, the thought of you still lingers. Your devastated eyes the first time he's killed before you. The first time he's felt guilty about his monstrous nature. When he comes back, no one's warm embrace awaits him. No one's there to brighten up his day. No amount of blood shed and villages burned replace the emptiness you left behind in his heart.
The grief settles, and sits heavy in Sukuna's chest, as he assumes position in his lonely throne again, and gazes at the row of people waiting to beg, talk, offer... bore him. Another eternity of boredom. An eternity of picking through thousands of humans, in vain hopes of finding you again. In vain hopes of recognizing you, even if it's lifetimes from now, when the last memory of your face has already faded from his mind. When generations change, and the thought of a monster like Sukuna being capable of tenderness vanishes. When the fire in his chest, ignited by love, is already a memory so distant, that recalling it feels surreal.
Maybe he will forget you by then. Maybe times will harden him again, and the idea of a pet becoming his lover will make him laugh. But for now, the thought of finding you in a crowd, taking you in his arms and never letting go, is his comfort and safe place. For now, he will wait for you. As long as it takes, like a stone, unyielding against the passing of time.
Hiii I was wondering if I could request an angsty Max Brinly x reader! I was thinking the reader could be one of the Hacketts and was the first Hackett to turn into a werewolf (kind of like how Caleb Hackett was) and this is a problem because that means the other counselors have to kill the reader but Max and the reader are together. You can kinda end it however you want if you even want to write this request lmfao. Take your time obviously and I’m sorry if the request is too complicated or confusing. Thank you !!
TIME
- you’ve been touched with the curse of hackett’s quarry, and max longs for the memories once past. (max brinly x gn!reader, sort of open ended? angst, ⚠️ a bit of implied character death)
word count: 219
a/n - sorry this is so short :( i just thought it would fit and stuff.
There’s no time to waste, and Max knows it. The bright moon is beginning to fade, and any chance of saving the world is going with it.
Laura is hellbent on killing you. He understands, of course, considering ending you will surely cure everyone infected, but the notion of ‘why you’ tumbles round and round in his head until he can think of nothing else. You’re the most wonderful person he’s ever met, why you? You’re kind and loving and the only person he has ever loved this much, why you? Why you and not anyone else?
He thinks he knows the answer, but it comes with the rise of bile in his throat. You’re a Hackett, doomed by some cruel twist of fate to suffer the curse of Silas the dog boy.
Oh, how he wishes for more time today. More time to feel your smile against his chest as you cuddle. Time to watch as you put the tip of your pencil against your mouth as you work. He never thought he would miss the time spent struggling through school with you. He wants any time. Any time at all. But as he stares into your cold, wolfish eyes, Laura’s finger on the trigger, he just hopes he’ll get more time with you in a another life.
tragic: local video game company puts out their first half-decent horror game in nearly a decade but forgets to give it an ending, random internet artist forced to macgyver one
can you please write something like,reader died and dylan believes that we are alive but somewhere else,he is trying to find us,or suffering about that.yes.
(sorry for bad english,really wanna some angst)
LOST, NOT FOUND
- despite everything, dylan believes you’re alive. (dylan lenivy x gn!reader, pure angst, ⚠️ major character death)
word count: 508
a/n - this is my first time writing angst in a while :0 i used to love it sm
“Dylan…” Kaitlyn murmurs, eyes burning from holding back tears. “We need to leave.” There’s a pinch of urgency in her voice, and Dylan knows it.
“We can’t leave. Not yet. Y/N is still out there, Kait. You saw it with your own two eyes.” He’s desperate. He knows you’re alive, and no one will believe him. He can feel it. He can feel the fear wafting off the surrounding junk, filling him with a bravery he never knew he had. That fucking whatever-it-was drug you off, and he is going to save you.
He loves you. More than pretty much anything. He just can’t bear to leave you, cold and alone, surrounded by nothing but metal and enemies. What if you can’t find your own way back? Or you can’t protect yourself? You need him.
“Don’t be a hero. They’re dead.” Kaitlyn hates how Dylan’s jaw is set. He looks so determined, so fixated on bringing you back. She also hates how broken she sounds.
The minute the werewolf grabbed you, she knew you were gone. She ran towards it, yelling until her throat ran raw.
“Let them go you fucking monster!” She sobbed. There was no chance she could get a clear shot at the thing as you were directly in her line of fire. Kaitlyn lost sight of you among the scraps of the junkyard, and though she tried her best to follow your voice, it was over before she could locate you.
It took you away. Your desperate screams got louder, painfully louder. They were terrified and terrifying, so guttural that Kaitlyn and Dylan almost couldn’t tell they were from a human.
Then they stopped. Dylan caught up to Kaitlyn just a moment later.
“They’re not. I know they’re still out there. If you’re not going to help me look, just fuck off and go back to the others.” Tears are brimming in his eyes. One slips past his waterline, and Kaitlyn watches as it tracks down his insistent face.
She sighs. She tries to understand his grief, but right now, the best thing they can do is get out of there. She can’t bear to see him find your body and then die trying to drag you out. “It’s time to go.” Kaitlyn hesitates before adding “They’re strong. They can join up with us later. It’s no use looking for them while that monster is around.”
She cringes at how little she believes the words coming out of her mouth, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Dylan’s mouth parts just a bit. “Oh. Maybe you’re right. It’ll be bad if we get lost too.” In his haste, he forgot how capable you are. You can surely make it back on your own. You know the way.
“Lost,” Kaitlyn mutters, too quiet for her friend to hear. “If only.”
She takes his one good hand in hers and leads him away from the junkyard, only letting her own tears fall when they’ve pass the gate, and Dylan smiles for the first time in hours.
Those types of touches that are feather-like and make you feel tingly in a good way. Touches like:
Face
The soft caress of your lips after the very first kiss.
Caress to the cheek after a moment together.
Gentle wipe of your spilled tears after heavy arguments, a simple gesture that shows you how sorry they are for making you shed sad tears instead of happy ones.
Gentle wipe of dirt on your cheek after enjoying your food too much.
Chin lift to make you look directly at their eyes that just make you follow aimlessly and without much force really. (bonus if they kiss afterward)
When they hold your face in their hands and just look into your eyes and just hold the other softly.
When they lightly wipe the blood off your lip from bitting it too often and softly "kiss it better"
Helping you gently put your earring on and tuck a hair behind your ear to inspect how the accessory looks beautiful on you with or without them.
Helping you put your necklace on and sneak a quick kiss on your neck before complimenting you.
Softly pulling your hair back after being food poisoned.
Worriedly inspecting your temperature after noticing your lack of mood and giving you a chaste kiss on the forehead.
Hands/Arms
Soft hand touches with a light comforting squeeze that instantly assures you they're there.
Softly massaging your hands when you ask them politely.
Loosely holding your hand while you watch and walk around on your date.
Cradling your cut finger after an incident with the knife and tending to your wound with a kiss afterward.
Caressing the back of your hand absentmindedly.
Softly toying with your ring and wondering when they'll get to replace it with a wedding ring.
Softly running their hands on your arms and feeling how cold to the touch your skin is before wrapping you in a hug to share their warmth.
Softly pulling your wrist to pull you closer to them.
softly intertwining your fingers together to hold your hand or twirl you in the middle of the night dance session.
Edit: holy heck guys!!! Thank you all so much for the notes and reblogs!!! I didn't expect this to get this much attention!!! Love you guys!!! 🥰🥰🥰
PROMPT: After everything the two of you had been through, years of trust, years of love, you’d thought he’d tell you, trust you, confide in you. You’d been wrong.
PAIRING: Josh Washington x Reader, slight Mike Munroe x Reader (best friends)
Please don’t plagiarize my work!!
TAG LIST: @itsfangirlmendes - @minigranger - @nari-la-morena - @jovialcat123
PART ONE - PART TWO - PART THREE
It’s dark.
It feels like it’s been dark since that night.
But there’s something different about this dark. Something far more sinister and evil. It feels like there’s no exit, no escape, nothing of the sort from this darkness. Where there had been glimpses of light, of happiness, of something more before – this feels endless.
You feel yourself. You feel your body. You know you’re real even though you know you certainly don’t feel real that way. Life has a funny way of playing tricks on you, and something deep, deep down inside your gut, buried so far down it’s like a whisper in the back of your head tells you that this is exactly that; a trick.
[ plot; josh finds you outside freezing and decides to take care of you instead of going through with his prank. ]
a/n, this might be a little long so i apologize!
[ also the wendigo chases after you instead of jess & mike. basically everyone stays safe because i have the power to make that happen ;) ]
———
Following Jess and Mike wasn’t the best idea, but Josh had forgotten to tell them about the generator and you had volunteered to do so while he got the fire going.
Obviously, that failed. Horribly.
You were sat on a pile of snow behind some tree in the middle of the forest, a big slash on your shoulder. It all happened so quick,, you were just behind Mike and Jess— but some thing started to chase you. You remembered hearing a screech from close behind you, turning around instinctively and meeting a pair of milky, white eyes, before stumbling back into some lake and surprisingly getting up quick enough to start sprinting.
In an attempt to grab you, the horrifyingly fast creature instead sliced your shoulder. But your shoulder was the least of your concerns right now. You were so .. cold.
The coldness almost numbed your cut, but that’s definitely not all it did. Your fingers— your whole body was numb, and it stung. It stung so bad. Your tears were frozen on your face like icicles, and your breathing was harsh. Everything was a blur, it was like the room was spinning. You could barely notice the voice that was yelling your name.
That familiar voice.
“[NAME]!” He shouted. Jess and Mike had returned to the Lodge because they couldn’t make their way without the generator, and of course Josh immediately began to search for you. He didn’t want this to happen again.
Using all of your strength, you limply crawled into sight, mumbling a quick
“Josh..”
“[Name]!, [Name], Oh.. God! What.. What happened?!”
Joshua quickly rushed over to you, helping you up.
“I was.. chased and.. I fell in the water and... I tried to get up,, but it... it scratched me and—..”
“What..? Okay, Okay.. Let me just think about this for a second..” Josh slowly shook his head.
“Shit! You’re probably freezing,”
He let go of your hands and removed his beanie, placing it over your frozen hair, followed by him placing his flannel on you.
“Josh... we have to get back inside ,, there’s something.. there’s something out here..” You warned him, your voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.
Josh quickly nodded.
“Alright— let me just,”
He gently swooped you up bridal style.
“It’ll be quicker this way.” Josh looked at you for a second and began running back to the lodge. With your hand weakly gripping his sleeve, your eyes closed, and your breathing slowing down, Josh had a moment to think. He had to help you before doing anything. As if your experience was a slap in the face for him, he realized that you were far more important than this prank.
By the time he made it back you were fast asleep. The whole group was worried, even Emily.
“I don’t- I don’t know what happened, alright? I just need a girl to get her into the bath immediately.”
Josh became more stressed as the room was flooded with questions.
Sam being the most trusted and respectful person there, she was the one who did the favor of cleaning you up. Even if you were awake you wouldn’t worry— Sam isn’t the type of person to make fun of someone’s appearance.
With your eyes half lidded, you snapped back into reality from a stinging sensation in your shoulder. Josh was sat infront of you, holding what you guessed to be rubbing alcohol.
“How’re you feeling?”
He looked up at you as he slowly wrapped a bandage around your shoulder.
“Cold..”
You responded with a slight grin on your face, your voice still low.
Josh smiled.
“Ashley called the police. We have to wait until dawn before they can get you into the hospital.”
“It’s okay.. I just need a blanket,”
You closed your eyes as Josh stood up.
“Believe it or not, I have those. Now come on, you’ve gotta lay down.”
He took your hand and helped you up, leading you to what seemed to be his room. Propping you up in his bed and placing two layers of heavy, dark green colored blanket over you, Josh grabbed a bowl of soup that sat on the wooden bedside table.
“Tell me when you’re full.”
You nodded before Josh began feeding you the warm soup. Normally you’d insist on doing so yourself, but you were mentally and physically exhausted. You’d seen enough in the last few hours, so you complied and let him feed you. Surprisingly you nearly finished the whole bowl.
Josh praised you by whisper shouting a ‘whoo!’ and putting his hands up in the air, before exiting the room to place your dish in the sink. You somehow managed to stay awake enough for Josh’s return.
“Why’re you still awake..?” He chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you.
“Waiting for you,” You crept your hand up to his arm, hanging onto his sleeve.
“Flattered, really, but you need rest.” Josh laughed, going to stand back up before you interrupted.
“Will you lay with me,?” To be honest, you were scared. No amount of bathing, blankets and bowls of soup could make up for that creature you saw. Every time you closed your eyes you saw it. Except, when Josh was there it was different.
“Alright, Alright,” He softly smiled, laying next to you. Your face rested in the crook of his neck while your arms wrapped around his left one. You were almost immediately asleep.
- Josh, please respond.
I changed my mind. I’m sending them home tomorrow. -
- I am extremely happy to hear that. If I may ask, what made you change your mind?
Someone special. -
Josh turned his phone off, placing it on the bedside table and pulled the lamp off as well. He closed his eyes and placed his right hand over your arms that hugged his.
Hello, I just saw that you’re writing for Until Dawn now! May I request a Jessica x Fem Reader, where the reader finds and takes care of her towards the end of the game? When I saw her at the end the only thing I could think of was “poor baby” and I think it would be nice for her to receive some comfort :]
━ 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐔𝐒 𝐓𝐖𝐎
𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨) - Jessica Riley x Fem!Reader
𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 - Mentions of wounds, Cursing
𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ? - Yeah/Nope
𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 - I'm so sorry this took so long! I took a small break for a few days because of school but my spring break has arrived!!
You weren't sure how long you were wandering through the mines, step after step in the dark caves. You held onto your flashlight, clutching it like a lifeline.
It was silent, yet so loud in the darkness. Nothing but quiet greeting you like a thick blanket on a hot day. You weren’t sure though, if hearing something would be better.
Maybe silence was the better option.
You couldn’t help but feel worried for your friends above ground. If they were still up there. You hoped they were still up there and not trapped in the hell-like maze that you were in. Though, you could only hope. And hope was beginning to feel like a word that you'd only made up.
The gut feeling that your friends were gone was what tore at you. Knowing this is what you faced from getting lost while being chased. You thought about Hannah and Beth, you thought about them being lost in a place like this. And then your mind wandered to Jess.
Jess, one of your closest 'friends'. Friends... a term used loosely to describe the relationship the girl had with you.
You were so lost in your own mind you didn't hear the rigid breathing that appeared suddenly. Or the sounds of gravel crunching underneath more than just your boots. Or the sudden metal object swinging at your head until it collided with your skull sending you to the ground.
"What the fuck?" "Oh my God! Y/n/n I'm so sorry! Fuck- I didn't know!" The sound of the object clanging against the floor the could be heard, hands coming to settle on your shoulders freaking you out. "Let me go!" "I didn't mean to hit you!" Frantically, Jess set her lantern down. Watching you fumble backwards, falling on your ass only to be met with Jess's bloodied, bruised and scratched face staring back at you.
"Holy shit, Jess." Your fear suddenly wasn't from being in the mines, it was for the girl's wellbeing. "Jess..." You grabbed your fallen flashlight, shining it at her body that was covered just by an old miners jacket doing nothing to keep her warm. "Take that thing off." You began unzipping your jacket as she shook her head.
"No-" You had already dragged it down your arms, pushing her to take off the thin jacket she was wearing. "Mines warmer." She finally took the jacket off, revealing a thin t-shirt underneath. You were warm, if you could call it that, and you knew she wasn't.
She took your jacket and slipped it on, moving slow, suddenly hissing in pain. "Hey, hey take it easy." "You know, I wish I got to wear your jacket in different circumstances." Jess smiled at you, but you didn't see it, too busy adjusting the jacket on her body. Zipping it up as high as possible.
"Me too Jess." "So what is this thing?" "Things. Multiple, and I don't know. You're the first person I've seen in... in a good while." You tried to laugh it off, putting your hands delicately on her face, beginning to feel the cold set in on your arms.
"I-I woke up and-" "It's okay, it's okay we're gonna get out of here. I'm just glad I'm not alone anymore." She nodded, a few tears falling from her eyes as her hands rested on yours. "I'm so fucking glad I hit you with that shovel." You hugged her close to you, letting her rest her head on your shoulder.
"Let's get out of here, then off this goddamn mountain, okay?" She nodded, watching you pick up the miners jacket slipping it on as you stood up. Grabbing her hands. "Come on.." You helped her stand, letting her lean almost all of her weight against you.
"It's gonna be okay, alright?" Jess nodded, holding you as you flashed your flashlight down the cave. "I've been walking from this way..." You turned around, recognized the path. "This place is hell." "I know, but I'm gonna get us out of here." You brushed the hair on her forehead back, looking down at her, then looking up and around again.
"Thanks for finding me." "Well, technically you found me." She laughed, walking with you as you finally dwindled down the paths to only one you and her had not taken.
"I was gonna hide. But I..." She trailed off, laughing quietly. Holding your head to keep herself steady as you walked. Nearly running into you from how close she walked to you. "Well, I'm glad you didn't." "Me too." You looked over at her, stumbling as she walked, sadly staring at the ground.
"You know, you look so pretty in the glow of lantern." "Oh shut it, you flirt." "What? Can't I tell a pretty girl she looks pretty?" You grinned at her, watching her face light up despite the circumstances. Despite the impending fear the end of the cave would bring. Because it wasn't over, you just wanted a break from the reality of it.
"Even when my face looks like this?" "Jessica, I'd find you pretty no matter what." "What if I... didn't have a face?" "Still would, Slenderwoman." Jess shook her head with a smile, constantly looking behind you both, still fearful of what the mines could hold next. Her legs then gave out, your hand keeping her from slamming against the hard ground.
"Shit- Jess." "I'm okay." You grabbed her arms, letting her find her footing again. The girl nodding. "I'm okay. Just... just tired." "I know." One hand held her waist, the other letting her hold it to gather herself.
"I'm tired y/n/n." "I know, but we're almost out. Then we can back to the lodge. It'll be safer and warmer there." You weren't sure if you were convincing her or yourself. The hand she held made it's way to her face. "Warm night by the fire." She the muttered, remembering her plans from earlier that she'd told you.
"Yeah. Just us two." She nodded sadly, a tear then slipping down her cheek, though your thumb quickly wiped it away. "Just us two." You whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
josh x reader? like how would the whole game play out if the reader was josh's love interest? just a thought idk
Being Josh Washington's love interest
gn reader!
warnings: reader gets tied up(?), mentions of death, this is not very fluffy im sorry but is anything in until dawn rlly fluffy?
A/n: hey anon! ty for requesting I appreciate it sm, i am literally in love w Josh Washington so im glad he is part of my first request. sorry if this is a little bad, I haven't written anything in a bit:)
Before the events that happened with his siblings, the two of you had a strong connection, maybe best friends that are a little too close to just be friends.
Josh's "prank" would go different ways depending on if you were in on the prank involving Hannah
If you weren't involved, he would mostly keep you out of the messed-up shit he planned to get back at the people who caused his sisters death. Of course, if you're invited to the lodge, you can't just be excluded and be special.
Josh blames everyone for the disappearance of his sisters, even himself, so of course you as well must be held accountable, but he'll go "easy" on you because he has feelings for you.
With the mask on, he watches as you call out for him, the lights in the lodge shut off making the moment more eerie. If you're brave enough you'd be able to escape him for a little bit, just to be tied to a chair until he reveals the truth or one of your friends find you. He would probably keep his eye on you the most, making sure you don't get harmed or anything.
After its revealed Josh is the psycho, he tries to act like it was just a prank, a harmless joke. If you decide to forgive him, he'll tell you why he did it and how he didn't mean to get anyone hurt or killed. You also try to help find him after he's taken by the wendigo, eventually finding him and admitting your feelings for each other at the right time, before Hannah gets him.
If you were involved with the prank on Hannah, you'll have the same fate as the others, enduring the stupid pranks he planned out for everyone. Once he pulls the mask off his face infront of everyone, he's tied up outside by Chris and Mike, with you following behind them.
He tries to guilt trip you, saying you helped cause the disappearance of his sisters and how he thought you guys had something special. He also throws in stupid little insults, or you'll just have to listen to him ramble on about off topic stuff, like ordering pizza for the night.
If you're taken by the wendigo during his little prank, he panics and tries to convince the others to let him help look for you instead of being tied up. If you're found alive and with the group when he is found in the mines, he apologizes profusely and follows you like a lost puppy, making sure you're not taken again.
If you're found dead or not found at all he blames himself for your death, telling his friends he never wanted anyone to get hurt, especially you.
okay so i’ve been craving something with max/reader where he’s with laura, maybe laura is gonna break up with him or something, and he realizes his feelings for reader all along (no pressure if you’re not into it or don’t have time though!)
*note: this turned into a fic. it’s a gift and a curse of mine. also making this an au where they did in fact go to the motel and so they spend the summer together! also Laura and Emma aren’t the best characters in this so apologies if they’re your favorite. the drama just flowed too well.
warnings: fem!reader, harsh language, mentions of alcohol, high tension
Laura is a good person.
You’ve known this since third grade when she brushed off your scraped knee and shouldered you to the nurse’s office. She’s a good person—an even better friend.
But good people can do bad things.
If you want to get technical about the details, you knew Max long before Laura. He’s the son of a family friend and had been mixed up in your school days since preschool era. You two weren’t all that close until summer came around, your families hosting duel vacations every other year.
Those stopped around middle school, dead center in puberty. You and Max stayed in touch, practically leaning towards best friends by then, too, but you were with Laura a lot those days. The two of them met junior year of high school because of you.
One of your biggest regrets by far.
“You’re really not gonna go for it?”
Laura’s in the bathroom, you and Max going over the study guide for your first of many final exams. Steadily, you’re approaching the end of your senior year in college. He’ll be off to graduate school and Laura to vet school right beside him.
You…
You’re still figuring it out.
Shrugging, you erase an answer to replace it with the correct variation.
“I think Laura wants it to be a you and her thing. I’d be third wheeling like I always do.”
You turn it into a joke. That’s all you’ve been doing since senior year of high school. Jokes. Easier to laugh than to cry.
“There’s gonna be other counselors to hang out with,” he says, sipping on his drink as he flips to another page in his textbook. He’s always preferred the physical copies to the electronic despite the heftier price. You respect that. “She wouldn’t have mentioned the opening unless she wanted you to come with. And we’re friends. You’re not third wheeling.”
“Two months is a long time to be babysitting.”
“You’d be the swim instructor and a prep cook. I think between both of those, you’re getting about half the action.”
“As opposed to you, the great activity leader?”
He rolls his eyes, smiling into his notes.
“Obviously.”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek as he calls your name.
“Come. Please,” he murmurs, blue eyes big and round and as heartbreaking as a hungry kitten in the rain. “This might be the last time we get to hang out again. If I get into that school—”
“When you get in,” you urge gently. “It was a great essay, Max.”
“Thanks to you,” he supplies, freckled cheeks extended with his ever warm smile. “I just want some more time with my best friend. So does Laura.”
It was so much easier to say no to her. With Max it’s like trying to set a broken bone by yourself. You know you can do it, but the pain. Always deterring you from going through with it even if it’s better for you in the long run.
But saying yes to him while breaking your own heart? It’s a reoccurring offense.
“Here. Got your favorite.”
You look up as plastic rustles and nearly get decked by the flying treat. Max laughs at the fumble and you stick your tongue out at him before smiling down at the snack. Cosmic brownies—a staple in old school lunches.
“You’re lucky I love the outdoors,” you huff, nodding when he raises his brow expectantly. “Yeah, I’ll send a resume in for the spot.”
Set up in the backseat of the car a few months later with the map marked and the directions highlighted, you still find yourself wondering if this was the right thing to do.
The crash is startling, even more so than the growing tension between your usually lovesick best friends. Laura, always one to take charge and not let up, is not helping the stressful situation of having possibly hit a person.
You stay behind with Max to help fix the car when Laura wants to explore, and by help you mean hold the light so that he can see what the hell he’s doing.
“Good thing you’re a mechanical degree,” you tease, swatting a bug drawn to the beam of light that sprouts from your phone. “You sure it’s fixable?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” he mumbles, expression guarded.
You shift awkwardly in place, not used to seeing him in a bad mood for so long. Honestly, you’d noticed the frequenting fights between them but you’d chosen to keep your distance and not comment. They always worked everything out in the end.
Four year relationships last for a reason.
“We aren’t lost, you know,” you say, hoping to lift the cloud darkening his brow. “I highlighted the route on my map. We’re going the right way, Laura’s just a little…impatient.”
“We had to have made a wrong turn somewhere or we’d have been there earlier.”
His tone is bordering blaming, more so directed at himself with the way he scowls and his eyes stare into the distance.
You reach forward and poke a bit of grease on his cheek, pulling him out of whatever riptide his thoughts are dragging him into.
“You have a smudge,” you reveal, showcasing your icky finger. He makes a wipe for his stain and misses, leaving your to guide his wrist towards it. The skin you touch is warm.
“We didn’t make a wrong turn, we just took the longer route that puts us past more towns and rest stops,” you explain, wishing to reassure him. “I thought we might need a hotel option since—”
You zip your mouth shut not wishing to add to the festering arguments between lovers.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just should’ve chosen the shorter route.”
“You know you get a little pitchy when you lie?”
You scrunch your face at him, earning a chuckle as he focuses back on the car again.
“I’m sorry, but you do. Always have even when we were little.”
He playfully nudges you when you grumble to yourself, “I do not…”
“C’mon. What is it?” he prods softly.
You hesitate, thinking through the options.
“Promise you won’t be mad?”
He gives you an incredulous look as he grabs a wrench from the toolbox.
“Have I ever been angry at you?”
You laugh out loud at that, phone light shaking.
“Uh, yes, a dozen of times!”
“Name one.”
You smirk, smug as you open your mouth before the words die on your tongue.
When was the last time he was mad at you?
“Oh,” your eyes light up as you dig the tip of your shoe into the dirt, “a few weeks ago. You snapped at me when I was cleaning up the glass Laura broke during the movie marathon.”
He pauses, turning his head towards you but not his eyes.
“I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad at—” he sucks in a breath, tinkering away again, “she broke your favorite mug. From when we were little. I saw the look on your face when it happened and seeing you clean it up…”
He sighs, shaking his head.
“I wasn’t mad at you,” he repeats. ”And I won’t be mad, so tell me why the longer route.”
You shift in place, discomforted. It felt like another argument waiting to happen but you suppose the truth was coming out sooner or later when you reached the camp tonight.
“Well, Laura never was able to, uh, get in touch with Mr. Hackett.”
“What?” He looks at you clearly confused as he rests his hands against the edge of the hood. “She said he knew we were coming.”
“Maybe he does,” you try to sound optimistic, you really do. “But she just left a message and so I thought the extra time on this route would give him enough time to call her back you know? And if he didn’t I was gonna suggest a motel—”
He groans sounding more exasperated than anything as he rubs his face over the crook of his elbow and not greasy hands.
“I love her. I do. But she always wants to skip too many steps,” he complains, laughing out the stress built up. “I’m so glad you thought ahead. We’re bunking up tonight whether she likes it or not. I’m not driving all the way out there if he didn’t even give her permission. That’s out of the question.”
You agree with him but don’t say so outright. Besides, you’re all tired from the long car ride. Everyone deserves a good night’s rest after this crash.
“You’re always covering her tracks,” he hums, head nearly lost to the car’s inner workings. “You’re a good friend. Maybe too good.”
“What do you mean?”
Before you can get an answer out of him, Laura is running full tail out of the denser area of forest, pale white as a ghost.
After the stuff she has to say, you’re quick to pile into the vehicle with them, shivering at the prospect of an old woman wandering around.
You nearly shit yourself when the cop shows up.
Suspiciously, Laura’s all for his plan to head to Harbinger’s Motel. With how fast he’d pulled your car out of the mud and back onto the road, you couldn’t care less how creepy the man was—he’s a savior and the motel is a great idea.
Laura does a full 180 when he’s gone. You’re not surprised; she had been dead set on being the first counselors to the Hackett’s Quarry.
“Honey, you really want to listen to the advice of some creep-ass cop, who told us in the middle of the creep-ass woods, to go to some creep-ass hotel?”
“Yes,” says Max, fully defiant. It’s another shock to your system, blindsiding you as they both turn to get your opinion on the matter.
You give Laura a guilty smile and she sighs, going silent for the rest of the trip as you read the directions to the hotel to Max. The cop had circled it despite your highlighter having already marked it.
After a tense night with the silently quarreling couple, you survive to see the next day and the group you’ll be spending the following two months with.
Abigail reminds you of Max’s shy nature. You two take to each other easily, but she’s a bit more social when it comes to the other girls. Emma and her share a cabin with the kids and while you respect the gal for her theatrical skills, she’s just not someone you can hang around with long. She drains you somehow, but it’s probably just you.
Always is, usually.
You find solitude with Dylan during morning announcements, enjoying his “DJ station” as the kids like to call it. He’s proud of all the updates he managed, happy to tell you the story behind everything when you compliment them. The little hut is his baby. He bestows you with the title of godmother despite your lack of intelligence with the gear.
You think Ryan likes you, or at least tolerates you. His affinity with podcasts and ghost stories had piqued your interest one night at dinner. You’re not all for horror or anything, but you do enjoy a good murder scene breakdown from time to time.
The other counselors are kind and welcoming but distant with their roles with the kids. You don’t run into them all that often unless they’re dropping off their group at the pool or it’s their turn to help you cook. The schedules change every day to keep the kids on their feet.
A few weeks in Laura comes to you in the dead of the night crying. You do your best to give her some solace as she describes the tiff-turn-fight with Max.
Apparently, she’d seen a rejection letter in his bag after the crash on that weird night with the cop and the thing in the road. When she’d approached him about it, shit pretty much hit the fan. That’s all she gives, eyes empty and rimmed red.
“I’m sorry, babe,” you tell her, heart hurting for her. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” she sniffs, wiping her face with her jacket’s sleeve. “Honestly, I think this might be good for us.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, if we’re not going to the same college it won’t last.”
“C’mon, don’t say that. You guys have made it this long—distance won’t change that.”
“Maybe not for him,” she sighs, shrugging, “but that’s not something I can handle. I need support and comfort and phone calls and texts won’t give me that.”
For some reason, that doesn’t sit well with you because, yeah, Max is always going to support Laura, that’s what he’s been doing. And now she’s saying the best that he can do won’t be enough? It’s a shit excuse. A cop out.
You wonder if it’s just her not willing to put in the work that comes with long distance.
“Laura,” you almost scoff but somehow manage to sound concerned instead, “you guys can visit each other. It’s not the end of the world—you can make it work.”
“You don’t get it,” she argues, her bullheadedness rearing as she tosses a mild glare your way. “You’ve never been in a real relationship. Not everything can be worked out, sometimes, you know?”
She could have punched a hole through your chest and it would’ve been far less painful than what she’d just said.
“You know what,” you breathe, trying to bite back the tightness taking control of your throat, even your eyes begin to water, “you’re right. This isn’t any of my business. You two can work it out yourselves.”
Laura calls your name, abashed as you stand and walk towards the stairs of the lodge. You’ve had enough for one night and sneaking out of your bunk when there’s sleeping kids around isn’t the best idea.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry!”
“Whatever, Laura.” You get to the top before you turn and throw your hands up at her. “Do whatever you want to do because at the end of the day, you don’t listen to anyone’s advice but your own.”
Fate just keeps kicking you down, it seems, because Max’s group of kids are scheduled for swim time the next day.
Standing on lifeguard duty with him by your side, you find relief that Mr. H had been strict about swimwear: one pieces for the girls and shirts for the boys. Some of the guys didn’t follow those rules, but Max did, luckily.
You don’t think a drowning kid would have good odds if his toned stomach is within eyesight.
A kid screams as a splashing contest begins. You blow your whistle at a runner, pointing in warning before the little tike slows his roll. Max laughs at your stern authority, sitting next to you on the hot concrete by the pool ledge. Both of your legs are dipped into the cool water, shifting the surface every so often.
“They listen to you.”
“Guess I scare them,” you huff, smiling to yourself as a pair of kids beg you from the other side of the pool to join their game. You shake your head, pointing to the life guard on duty sign.
They whine but continue on with their fun.
“Sure,” Max quips. “Looks like you’re a real terror they want on their team.”
You roll your eyes, remaining a keen eye for any tripping feet or diving heads.
“I might’ve screwed up,” he says, sitting close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his side. “I think we might be splitting up.”
Your heart seizes as you whip your head to Max. There is no way Laura could be that serious about breaking up—not in one night.
“Did she say that?”
He shrugs, eyelids lowered as he kicks his feet out in the blue-hued water.
“It was a bad fight.”
“Couples fight, Max,” you whisper. He shakes his head.
“Not like this. Not over crap like this. She snooped through my stuff—how was I suppose to react? I didn’t tell her yet because I knew how she’d get.”
He blinks and glances at you.
“She already told you, right? That…that I didn’t get in?”
You nod, guilty as his shoulders drop and a pout forms on his lips.
“I don’t know why they wouldn’t accept,” you say, angry on his behalf. “You had good grades—a great essay!”
“She said the same thing,” he grouses, “but she seemed to think I didn’t try hard enough, somehow. That that’s why I was afraid to tell her.”
“Are you shitting me?”
Max’s eyes nearly bulge out as he looks at you. You don’t know why he’s so shocked before a chorus of “oooh”s break up your conversation.
“You said a bad word!” multiple, squeaky voices berate.
“Okay, okay,” you shout, blowing your whistle to reign them in. “You’re right. That was bad. You guys wanna decide a punishment?”
“Soap in the mouth!”
“Mom makes me write a bunch of sentences!”
“Let’s make her play the game she did with Jacob’s group!”
“Oh no,” you groan as they all cheer. You hide your face in your hands as Max laughs next to you.
“What game?” he asks, nudging you over and over as you shake your head repeatedly. “What? Tell me!”
A chant begins, steadily growing as more kids chime in with “Sharkbait! Sharkbait!”
“It’s torture tag,” you sigh, laying an elbow on your knee as you rest your chin in your hand. “I’m the shark and have to swim after all of them blindfolded.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“They played it for the entire pool time last week. I’m still sore.”
He laughs at that, shuffling forward and sliding into the water. Your heart trips over a rib cage or two when he smiles up at you, cheeky.
“Two sharks are better than one.”
It’s still chaos. Small pods of giggling kids running amok in the water. You only allow seven in at a time and whoever gets caught has to switch with who ever is next in line.
Between all the swimming and knocking into the sides of the pool, you catch quite a few kids despite your blinded eyes.
Then you collide with a larger body, hands finding more skin than ought to be on display. Strong arms wrap around you before Max’s chuckles reach your ears. His hands smooth over your shoulders.
“I think I caught my teammate,” he says, also blindfolded. The kids laugh around all of you.
You’re too focused on the feeling of his pecs under your hands to come up with a retort. When had he’d taken his shirt off?
“Well, what do we have here?”
You scramble back, ripping the blindfold from your eyes to stare gobsmacked at Emma.
She smirks down at you from the edge of the pool, arms crossed over her one piece. It’s more elegant than yours, black and sleek and fitting to her model figure.
“Time for activity change,” she sings, all too smug. Max’s group whines, going to change out of their swim suits as you blow the whistle.
Max climbs out of the pool nearby, your eyes drawn to the muscles in his back as he does so.
Emma clears her throat and you meet her attention again before scrambling out of the water yourself.
Something tells you a path had been chosen just then.
That same path reaches another fork come midnight a week later.
Mr. H had needed to head out for the night leaving Ryan in charge before dinner preparations had begun. He trusted the counselors to keep the kids in check for the next few hours, cautioning everyone that he’d be back come early morning.
The kids were left to run around after dinner at 6PM, leaving all of them tuckered out by nightfall. You’re busy cleaning up the kitchen and dining hall with Abigail when Dylan comes strutting in.
“Toddlers are all toddled out,” he beams and your jaw drops as he holds up an entire bottle of straight vodka.
“There is no way in hell you got Ryan to okay this,” you argue as Abigail shakes her head. “Where did you even get that?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she mumbles at the same time.
Dylan grins triumphantly.
“Smuggled in the first day. Ryan said we’re good as long as we stay by the fire pit and don’t get too rowdy or hungover tomorrow.”
“Who’s gonna watch the kids?!” you hiss.
“We’re gonna draw straws,” he answers. “Two who get the shortest miss out on all the real fun and stay by the cabins.”
“Of the dozens of kids here, we’re leaving two counselors to keep watch?” you scoff, entirely unamused. “No. This is a horrible idea.”
“No, it’s a crazy idea and it’s the full moon so,” Dylan’s purses his lips, shrugging and nodding, “shit checks out. Yeah.”
You rub your temples, the makings of a headache building with his lunacy.
Somehow, all ten counselors show up to draw straws by the little bridge separating the kids cabins from the trail leading back up to the lodge or to the lake depending on the direction.
Abigail draws first, pressured by Emma. She looks all but relieved to get one of the two short straws.
“Have fun, you guys,” she says. “If anything happens, I knew nothing.”
“If anything happens, we all have amnesia,” Ryan deadpans, earning everyone’s attention. “I’m serious. If anyone’s taking the heat for this, it’s the evil genius.”
“Aww, you think I’m a genius?” Dylan teases, a hand on his hip as he twists in place.
“That’s all you got out of that?” Kaitlyn scoffs, crossing her arms.
“Me next, me next!” Jacob practically squeals, ignoring the shushes from the others and grabbing a straw. He screams silently in excitement as he hoists a long straw in the air.
Emma snatches the next one. She’s in. Nick follows her lead in joining the party.
Dylan’s offers Kaitlyn the lot next. She groans when she reveals the second short straw.
“You dweebs are lucky it’s two responsible counselors keeping an eye out,” she says, waving as she joins Abigail in heading back to the cabins. They’d be camping out by the big tree tonight, likely taking shifts to watch and see if any kids needed help tonight.
With both short straws drawn, the partygoers make their way to the fire pit. Dylan, Nick, and Jacob are already taking shots on the way down. You doubt they’ll meet the sunrise without a hangover weighing them down.
“This is fun, right?”
You glance at Laura as she comes up on your left, smile wide. You haven’t talked to her since that rough night filled with cruel words. To be fair, you didn’t cross roads often here with her being a nurse and not a trainer like most counselors. She didn’t seem all that phased from the lack of word from you, though.
“Sure,” you mutter, watching your step in the dark shades of the trees where the bright light of the moon doesn’t reach. “Unless we get caught.”
“So we don’t get caught.” She shrugs. “Simple as that.”
“Oh, sure, very simple,” chuckles Max right behind her. She shoves back into him playfully, the two of them grinning at one another.
Your gut twists as your feet quicken.
Splitting up your ass.
Stop, you tell yourself. Stop. It was just a stupid little fight.
They’ve been together for years—what were you expecting? To slip between them and have both shoulders cried on? To maybe have Max back home for the year while he figures out his next plan?
To have a second chance?
“Dylan,” you call, pushing forward from the back of the group to the front.
He turns, in the middle of laughing at something or another. His smile fades for the quickest second when he sees your face. You try to school it into something less pitying and more determined as you hold your hand out.
“Gimme the bottle.”
“Oh, shit!” Nick guffaws.
“Yeah, man!” encourages Jacob, stealing the bottle away from Dylan to pass it to you. “Lifeguard is officially on party duty!”
You hear Max call your name as you take up the liquor.
“Cheers!” you say to the wind, drinking up.
You sputter at the burn, coughing like a maniac as Jacob whoops. Dylan pats you on the back and you follow alongside him for the remainder of the journey down to the lake, upping your energy to match them the best you can.
You would make this fun. No more moping.
Once the fire is going and some snacks are passed around, the air changes.
You catch Emma eyeing you from across the fire pit and raise an eyebrow at her, sipping on a bottle of water.
“Let’s play truth or dare,” she says to everyone but her gaze remains on you. “Rules: you can ask anyone anything and dare them to do whatever.”
She looks around at the few unsure faces. Yours is not one of them.
“If half the group vetos it, then it’s whatever. You don’t have to answer or do the dare. Everyone in?”
A bunch of college kids, a bottle of vodka, and a game that can bring out the worst in people?
Of course everyone’s in.
The game starts out somewhat soft and easy. Dylan’s turn comes around and after having to take a small sip of lake water and swallow it (courtesy of Jacob’s dare), you choose truth if only to save your stomach from the mixing of two very unsettling liquids.
Hell, you’re tipsy enough after a few shots of vodka. You’ll stick to clean and filtered water for the rest of the night.
“Hmm,” Dylan taps his chin in thought, “if you had to sleep with someone here, who would you choose?”
That sip of lake water flips in your stomach. You pray the queasiness really is just your anxiety and not some parasite instead.
“You expect me to choose one out of all these beautiful people?” you scoff, waving a hand around as chuckles enter the air. “That’s just mean, Dylan.”
“Answer up, buttercup,” he croons, one leg folding over the other. You can tell his tipsy meter is much higher than your own at this point. Half of the bottle is already gone which is fairly concerning but not your problem.
Your eyes rove the group around you, skirting over the only true answer the quickest and not daring to meet his eyes.
“Ryan was voted the hottest in bunk 7,” you say. Said boy chokes on his drink, eyes going wide.
“What?” he asks.
“Bullshit,” Jacob says, affronted. You shrug at him, muscles loose and tingly.
“Just saying.”
“Well that’s what bunk 7 thinks,” Emma says, leaning forward on her knees. “What about you?”
“Honestly, I think Kaitlyn would be interesting to sleep with,” you hum. “She’s feisty.”
“Liar,” she sings.
Heat flashes in your chest as you raise a brow at her.
“Uh, what?” you huff.
“Liar,” she repeats, squinting as she grins toothily. “You and I both know who you really want here.”
The fire popping and cracklings between the two of you is nothing on the heat building in your body. You want to lunge across, fall into violence and smash her dainty nose into the log against her back.
Instead, you deflect.
“Damn,” you sigh, “you’ve got me.”
Everyone looks between the two of you, tension mounting.
“I like someone with a bit more tenderness.” You tilt your head towards Jacob who sits next to her, drunk as skunk. “A man who isn’t afraid to cry is a winner in my book. I’d sleep with Jacob.”
Dylan flat out chokes because he laughs so hard.
“Oh, yeah,” the jock slurs, pumping his fist. “Bunk 7 my ass. I’m a stud, obviously.”
Emma’s mask looks about ready to break as she stares you down through the flames. Jacob wraps an arm around her, cooing how she’s the only one for him but he thanks you.
“No problem,” you say, leaning back against your log as the game continues.
You dare Nick to dip his feet in the lake—shoes and socks stay on. His footsteps squeak all the way back to his seat.
Jacob calls on you again soon after that, daring you to boat across to the island and do the zip line. Everyone is quick to veto it, save for Emma, of course.
When her turn comes around, you’ve long since readied yourself for whatever she’s about to throw at you.
You take a breath, not breaking away when her gaze meets yours again.
“Max,” she names.
You swear you suffer whiplash for a moment as she bades him.
“Truth or dare?”
“Hmm, truth,” he says, unbothered as he lounges next to Laura two people down from you.
“Tell us about your first love,” Emma asks, smiling sweetly towards him. “If you’ve had one besides Laura, I mean.”
Max is taken back by the question, looking about as unprepared as Dylan did with his dare, who now wears his underwear over his head.
Next to him, Laura winces and stares pointedly down at her lap. You watch the exchange in befuddlement.
“Well, uh,” he breathes out a long breath, gesturing with his hand, “it was, like, back in first grade, I guess.”
“Damn, Romeo,” Ryan chuckles, only one shot in and pleasantly buzzed.
“She wasn’t in my class, but I sat by the window and saw her playing outside a lot. Our reading time was during their playground time.”
Max’s eyes glaze over as he speaks, staring through the ground as he reminisces.
“She was super polite to the other kids she played with, never fought to be the first on the tire swing and always helped decide rules for games when people were arguing—just sweet stuff? you know?
“I think what I loved was that kindness she had, always being the best for the people around her.”
He chuckles.
“She even gave up her favorite snack during lunch a few times.”
“Please tell me it was peanut-butter butter pops,” Jacobs sniffs.
Max’s hair sweeps the air as he shakes his head no.
“Nah,” he murmurs, “cosmic brownies.”
The world stops turning, the air in your lungs growing stagnant with disuse.
Blistering blue eyes flit up to glimpse at you before looking elsewhere. All in the span of a second.
“That’s really sweet, actually,” Emma says, smugness gone. Your nose flares as she smiles at you, almost as if in pity. “She would’ve been a lucky girl.”
Max gives up his turn to Nick who targets Laura. She’s the one to have gone the least so far, surprisingly.
“I don’t know, uh, truth, I guess?” she stutters, out of it. The space between Max and her seems a bit bigger now.
“What’s the meanest thing you’ve ever done?”
In an instant she looks about ready to cry.
“No,” she says, “I don’t want to say that.”
“Hey, better than some shit we’ve had to go through,” says Dylan, underwear still adorned. “What, did you kill a guy?”
“Maybe she hit a neighbors dog but didn’t tell her because she felt so bad and then she saw her crying over the body the next day,” Jacob pipes up.
“Jacob,” breathes Nick, “what the fuck?”
“Sorry, Ms. Henderson,” he sobs, cuddling an empty bottle of vodka.
“Well, he’s in for a doozy of a morning,” Dylan states before turning back to Laura. “C’mon, let loose. No one vetoed.”
“Hey,” Max snaps, “it’s a tough question, man. Give her a sec.”
“No one else has backed out. All I’m saying,” a hiccup escapes him, “is that this might be the best time to get it off her chest, you know? Who are we to judge?”
“So?” Ryan asks. “What about it Laura?”
“I’m sorry,” she sighs, refusing.
“I bet you I can guess,” Emma says, getting her feet with a grunt. She paces around the fire in slow steps, one arm wrapped around her stomach while the other swings a pointer finger around the air as she talks. “What could possibly be so mean that she couldn’t bring up in the midst of strangers that she’ll never see again?”
“Blackmail?” Nick tries as your mouth goes sour.
“Or,” Emma hums, embodying the cat whose caught the canary, “she doesn’t want to upset the people that aren’t strangers.”
Max looks to Laura just as you do. She doesn’t meet either of your eyes.
“Something mean, something mean…” Emma mumbles in pretend thought. “Something she did behind the boyfriend’s back, maybe?”
“Stop it,” Laura snaps, getting to her feet. “You don’t know shit about me!”
Emma just smiles, finger digging lightly into the apple of her cheek.
“Or something she did behind her best friend’s, I wonder?”
“Laura,” Max whispers, looking up at her in bewilderment. “What is she talking about?”
“Nothing! She’s just taking jabs and trying to start shit,” she defends, turning away. “I’m going back. This is stupid.”
“Maybe it was even both,” continues Emma, pacing again.
“Hey, guys, let’s chill,” Ryan offers. “I don’t want bad blood between counselors; we still have a month left.”
“Dylan said it himself,” she reasons. “The truth wasn’t vetoed.”
“Okay, fine, then I veto,” he says, looking around. “Guys?”
“I kinda wanna know,” Dylan shrugs, grinning guiltily. Jacob and Nick nod in agreement.
You and Max remain silent.
“I’m not playing anymore,” Laura growls. “So say whatever you want, that doesn’t make it the truth.”
“Then why are you so scared to stick around? I’m almost done.”
“Fuck. You.”
“Yes,” Emma says softly, hair bouncing as she nods, “I do believe it involves both of them. The boyfriend who was in love with her best friend and the best friend who was too kind and let her steal him away.”
Laura flinches so hard it rips your heart to shreds.
“Alright, that’s enough,” you spit, getting to your feet. Maybe you had been right about the world freezing because, suddenly, it’s catching up to speed and you stumble onto your knees.
“Fuck,” you whisper on all fours. You’re drunker thank you’d previously believed.
Dylan, next to you, puts a hand over your back and tries to help you up.
“Hold up,” Jacob barks in the background, “how is that the meanest thing if Laura didn’t, like, decide that herself?”
“Right, so where does that leave us? What mean thing could Laura have done?” Emma declares.
“You bitch—“
“Except lie?” she finishes, all to proud of her deduction skills.
“About?” prods Nick.
Max goes taut when you look towards him, eyes wide. You mouth “what?” just as Laura yells at everyone to shut up.
“I did lie,” she admits, voice scratchy, “but that sure as hell isn’t any of your business.”
“But it is ours.”
Everyone gawks at Max as he stands, facing off with Laura.
“Tell her,” he bids, so angry he looks like a whole other person. “Because I’ve connected the dots and, shit, Laura—that’s fucking cruel.”
“He cusses?” Dylan whispers in your ear.
You shake your head.
“Very rarely,” you mumble, fully on your feet as Laura twists to stare at you.
Tears creep down her face. You don’t know what to feel.
“I lied,” she says to you, sniffing. “He asked me about you junior year and I told him you’ve only ever thought of him as a friend even though I knew you didn’t.”
You gape at her, feeling your lip begin to tremble as you scoffed.
“You—he,” you gasp, glancing at Max. He’s staring at the fire, miffed as can be. “Why, Laura? If you knew that, why?”
“Because I liked him, too!” she yelps, shaking her head. “I was jealous—I’m sorry, and y-you never made a move in all the years you knew him so I went for it—”
“You fucking lied is what you did,” you hiss, swallowing a sob.
When she calls your name, you blow her off and stumble out of Dylan’s support. Some people call out after you, but you just keep walking.
It’s hard to see though all the tears, but you somehow end up at the lake shack sitting on the edge of one of the peers. You nearly fall in, just barely catching yourself and crying like a newborn baby.
Because, really, what a fucking waste of so much time, of so much love and adoration towards the one person who had always returned it without your knowing.
It feels like your chest is fracturing open it hurts so bad. No wonder people die of heartbreak.
Feeling footsteps approach, you jump and whip around.
Max stands above you, eyes dark and turning pink.
“Did you cry?” you ask dumbly.
“Yeah,” he squeaks and clears his throat. “I hate seeing you cry.”
For some reason, likely the alcohol still in your system, you start laughing. It’s lodges a few more tears down your heated face.
“What a show, huh?” he murmurs, sitting next to you. “Breakfast is going to be interesting tomorrow.”
“To say the least,” you agree.
Max swings his feet over the ledge, yours crossed and curled close to your body. You angle your head down and to the side when he offers you something.
“Last one in the snack bag,” he says, plastic wrapper crinkling around the rainbow sprinkled masterpiece.
You take it, fingertips brushing his before you lean your weight against his side. It’s colder tonight and he’s always warm.
“Was it really me?”
He hums, waiting for more.
“Your first love?”
Chuckling, he throws an arm around your back. You look up at him, faces close.
“It still is you,” he whispers.
You sniff, closing your eyes and looking away. His hand comes up to wipe away a few more tears.
“I should’ve said something, but you were always around and I didn’t want to lose your friendship if you didn’t return the feelings.” It all comes out in a slurred ramble.
“Hey, it’s not like I did any better,” he murmurs, rubbing your back.
“Guess we’re both idiots, then.”
“Hey!” He laughs and you giggle as he tugs you closer. “Don’t be mean. We’re geniuses. Just…not all the time.”
“We’re not evil geniuses.”
“You know, Ryan says it was Dylan but the real mastermind is Emma.”
“She scares me,” you admit.
“Completely,” he agrees.
You both sit there in comfortable silence for a moment or two.
“So, what now?” you whisper, a stray breeze blowing your hair back.
“We talk to Laura, I guess.”
“Do you…still want to be with her?”
“No,” he says quickly, “no, I love her, but I learned to love her to try and get over you. It wasn’t a relationship built on good sentiments and I think, deep down, she knew that.
“And I’m still in love with you,” he sighs, your heart skipping. “It’s not fair to her.”
You lay your head on his shoulder, the full moon staring down at you two.
“You gonna forgive her?”
“Don’t know,” you murmur, eyelids heavy. “I’ll figure it out.”
“You always do,” he hums making you smile and turn to look at him.
When his eyes flit to yours, the moment slows to a stop again. His hand raises to push some hair off your face and you lean into the touch, heart prepped to burst.
“It’s hell of a late start, but can I kiss you?”
Beaming, you grab the collar of his shirt and yank his mouth to yours.
Behind you in the wooden shelter, a round of cheers have you both jumping apart.
The party had followed it seemed, now with one less counselor in the mix.
Emma raises a thumb up at you, phone on display.
“Oh my god was she recording all of that?” you ask in horror.
“I think she was,” Max chuckles, guiding your face back to his. You laugh against his lips as he whines, “What? They interrupted.”
It was looking to be a good rest of your summer at the Hackett Quarry.
I FR AM OBSESSED WITH THIS FIC !! I’ve been literally searching high and low for max fics that don’t always end in sex 😭 this one was sooo good the writing was incredible and i loved how max explains why he got with Laura near the end and how he is still in love like yes I need this 🤞
A family isn't always a mom a dad and their child.
Sometimes a family is a podcaster, a prankster, the only girl who can read, a boy who loves the Xbox kinect, a boy who unlocked the two arm carrying skill, a girl who talks back to the radio, a girl holding together reality, and Markiplier.
