Hi Hi Hiiii. My name's Molly, he/them. Yes, I know that's a girl's name. Mind your business Austin.
This blog is supposed to be for x reader's and self ship works but honest to the gods and myself, I am not going to be consistently writing
No, I haven't finished Supernatural yet, I am just incredibly emotionally attached to the guy who died in season 2. I also don't really mind spoilers because I've already been given all of the major ones lmao
Fandoms, fandoms, fandoms -- Supernatural, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, The Umbrella Academy, honestly i dont remember ill just get to writing it down when i do
hii here to say i LOVE your writinggg your style is so comfortable to read ♡♡
can i request a oneshot of patrick jane and agent!reader who was an underground boxer before joining cbi? no worries if not :)
Unlocked
Hii!! Thank you so much!! Since it wasn’t specified and I hadn’t really written fluff before, I decided to give it a shot 🤍 Here you go!!
Contains: fluff, hurt/comfort
⤷ NOW PLAYING: ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။•
The ritual was always the same: two turns of the deadbolt, the heavy metallic thud echoing through the hollow silence of the foyer. It was a muscle-memory reflex, a relic of a life you’d tried to bury.
You leaned your forehead against the cool hallway wall, eyes fluttering shut as you finally let your breath out. It wasn't fear that made your lungs hitch—that had been burned out of you years ago—it was the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of existing. Every inhale was a negotiation with your cracked ribs. The graze on your shoulder hummed with a low, rhythmic heat, and your knuckles were a messy map of split skin and drying crimson.
You felt like a ghost haunting your own skin.
"Charming place. A bit minimalist, but it has character."
The voice was like silk over gravel. You didn't even flinch; you were too tired to be startled by a man who treated every locked door like a polite suggestion.
"Door was open," he adds casually.
"You picked it."
"Semantics."
You turned to find Patrick Jane already draped across the center of your living room. He looked infuriatingly composed in his three-piece suit, his hands tucked into his pockets, but his eyes—those bright, terrifyingly observant eyes—were already stripping away your defenses.
"You shouldn’t be here," you muttered. You tried to shrug off your jacket, but a sharp, jagged bolt of pain shot through your shoulder, forcing a hissed breath through your teeth.
Jane was across the room before you could steady yourself. The playfulness didn't vanish, but it shifted. "And you shouldn't be bleeding through a perfectly good shirt, but the world is full of disappointments."
"I’m fine."
"Sure you are," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from your arm. "The suspect was ‘unarmed,’ you said. I suppose he just bit you with a very small, very fast lead tooth?"
You shot him a glare, but it lacked its usual venom. There was something in the way he was looking at you—not as a puzzle to solve, but as someone worth tending to—that made your throat feel tight.
"Go home, Jane," you said, though you didn't move toward the door.
He ignored you, naturally, following you into the kitchen as you fumbled with a first-aid kit. Your hands, usually steady enough to hold a sight on a target for an hour, were trembling. The bandage slipped. You hissed, a frustrated sound catching in your throat.
"Give me that before you accidentally mummify yourself," he said.
"I’ve got it."
"You don't."
You tensed, the old instincts screaming at you to pivot, to strike, to protect the perimeter. But as his hands—warm, steady, and devastatingly gentle—brushed against yours to take the gauze, the fight simply drained out of you.
"Easy," he whispered, his breath warm against the side of your neck. "You’re not in the ring anymore."
The words hit harder than any physical blow. You went still as he began to work, his touch remarkably practiced. He didn't just patch you up; he moved with a deliberate, quiet care, as if he were handling something fragile. Something precious.
"You wrap your wounds like you’re expecting them to be ripped back open," he said softly, his focus on the white fabric as he looped it around your shoulder.
"Don’t profile me, Jane. Not tonight."
"I’m not profiling," he countered, his eyes finally meeting yours, blue and searching. "I’m just observing."
You exhaled, a long, shaky shudder that felt like a surrender. "It paid the bills. For a while."
"And then?"
"And then they don't let you leave," you whispered. "You become an asset. Or a liability. There is no middle ground."
Jane’s jaw tightened, a rare flicker of genuine anger crossing his face—not at you, but for you. He finished the knot on the bandage, his fingers lingering on your skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"There," he said, his voice barely above a breath. "Try to stay in one piece for at least twelve hours. For my sake? I hate the smell of antiseptic."
You tested the bandage. It was perfect. Of course it was. You looked at him, really looked at him, standing there in your dim kitchen, looking like he had all the time in the world.
"Why stay?" you asked, your voice cracking. "I’m terrible company. I’m grumpy, I’m bleeding, and I’ll probably snap at you again in ten minutes."
Jane tilted his head, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You’re very good at pretending you don’t need anyone."
You stiffen.
"And I’m very good at ignoring that."
A small, reluctant laugh escaped you. It hurt your ribs, but it felt better than the silence. "Unbelievable."
"So I’ve been told."
You wandered toward the couch, sinking into the cushions with a groan of relief. Jane stood over you for a moment,
"You’re shivering," he noted, his voice dropping into that honey-thick register he usually saved for calming skittish witnesses.
"I’m just... adjusting," you murmured, your eyes already half-closed. "It’s a drafty building."
"It’s a drafty soul," he countered softly.
Before you could muster a witty retort, you felt the shifting of fabric. He slipped off his charcoal blazer—the one that always looked far too expensive for a crime scene—and stepped closer. With a deliberate, sweeping motion, he draped it over you.
The warmth was instantaneous. It carried his heat and the faint, lingering scent of jasmine tea and old paper. It felt like being shielded by something much stronger than wool.
"Jane, don’t," you whispered, reaching out to push it back. "Your suit... I’m covered in—I’m a mess."
He caught your hand, his fingers encircling your wrist with a light, steady pressure. He didn’t let go. Instead, he tucked the lapels of the jacket snugly around your chin, his knuckles grazing your jaw.
"It’s just fabric," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "And you’re worthier than a tailor-made coat."
"You’re being sappy," you breathed, the exhaustion finally winning the war against your defenses. "It’s nauseating."
"It’s my best quality," he whispered back. He reached out, his hand hovering over your hair for a heartbeat before he finally let his fingers comb through the messy strands, smoothing them away from your tired eyes. "Sleep. I’ve already checked the locks. Both of them."
You let out a shaky, relieved breath, burying your face into the collar of his jacket.
"You’re staying?"
"I have a very interesting book I’ve been meaning to finish," he lied, his voice a soothing hum.
You felt his hand move from your hair to the back of the couch, just inches from your head.
"Jane?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"Don’t mention it," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Really. It would ruin my reputation."
As the world blurred into the soft edges of your vision, the last thing you felt was the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing in the quiet room.
You close your eyes. For once, you don’t feel like you have to keep them open.
Hii may i request another oneshot of patrick jane where the reader gets jealous when he gets too close to another girl and he teases her about it until she starts to ignore him and he just makes up for it?
It could be any categoryy, fluff or smut are both fine. Luv ur jane oneshots theyre all super good!!
Beyond the Act
Hii 🤍 thank you so much for the request and for the kind words, I really appreciate it!! I decided to go for a fluffier approach this time since I don’t do it as often :) Enjoy 😉
Contains: fluff, jealousy
⤷ NOW PLAYING: ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။•
Working with Patrick Jane was like living inside a magic trick—sparkling, dizzying, and occasionally infuriating. He flirted with everyone: witnesses, suspects, even the sternest of judges. It was his armor. His "charm offensive."
But today, Jane was being particularly... Jane.
He was leaning against a witness’s desk, his waistcoat perfectly tailored, his golden curls catching the fluorescent light. He wasn’t just interrogating her; he was practically seducing her. He lowered his voice, that signature half-smirk playing on his lips, and tilted his head in a way that suggested she was the only person in the building who mattered.
Then came the touch. A light, lingering graze of his hand against her forearm as he "comforted" her.
The woman practically melted. You, however, felt a cold, sharp spike of irritation settle right behind your ribs.
"If you grip that file any harder, you’re going to turn it into pulp," Lisbon remarked, her voice low as she passed your desk.
"I’m just organizing," you said, your voice a pitch too high.
"Right." She shot a glance at Jane. "He’s doing it on purpose, you know. He saw you walk in."
As if on cue, Jane’s eyes snapped toward you. He didn't look away. Instead, his grin widened—bright, sharp, and entirely predatory. He’d seen the tension in your shoulders. He’d won.
He excused himself with a flourish and wandered over, the click of his leather shoes sounding like a countdown.
"You look like you’ve just sucked on a lemon," he said, stopping inches from your desk.
"Work, Jane. Some of us do it."
"Ah, the 'busy bee' defense." He leaned over, resting his hands on your desk, invading your space. "But your pupils are dilated. Your breathing is shallow. And your jaw... well, if you keep clenching it like that, you’ll have a headache by five."
You looked up, meeting his gaze with a flat stare. "Observation noted. Anything else?"
"Just one," he whispered, his voice dropping into that dangerous, intimate register. "You’re jealous. It’s adorable."
You didn't snap. You simply closed your file, stood up, and walked away.
You didn't look back, but you felt his gaze heavy on your spine.
The rest of the day was a masterclass in erasure.
When Jane tried to show you a card trick in the breakroom, you walked out before he could pick a card. When he made a joke during the briefing, you didn't even sigh; you simply kept writing. You treated him with the polite, sterile professionalisms of a stranger.
To anyone else, it looked like a busy workday. To Jane, it was a sensory deprivation chamber.
He tried to bait you. He tried to "accidently" trip over your feet. He even tried the "sad puppy" look that usually worked on Lisbon.
Nothing.
By 6:00 PM, the smugness had drained from his face, replaced by a restless, twitchy energy. He realized the "game" only worked if both people were playing. And you had just forfeited.
You were at your desk, packing up for the night, when a shadow fell over your paperwork. You didn't look up.
"I brought you a witness," Jane said. His voice was different now—stripped of the theater, soft and cautious.
You looked up, ready to give him a sharp dismissal, but your eyes landed on his palm. Resting there was a small, slightly lopsided origami frog folded from a yellow sticky note. It was ridiculous. It had tiny googly eyes and a disproportionately large tongue.
"He's a specialist," Jane said seriously, though his fingers were trembling just a fraction. "He tells me that I was being an arrogant, insensitive idiot today."
"He's a very smart frog," you murmured.
"He is," Jane agreed, stepping closer, his voice losing its playful edge.
He paused, his throat bobbing as he searched your eyes.
"But he’s not the only one who’s been watching you all day."
He paused, his usual confidence crumbling to reveal something raw and incredibly rare: uncertainty.
"I realized I’m a bit of a fraud," he whispered, his usual showman’s vibrato replaced by something thin and fragile.
He didn't look away, but his eyes searched yours with a restless intensity. "The flirting, the theatrics with everyone else… it’s just noise, really. Background static. It’s easy to charm people who don't actually matter."
He stepped closer, his hand drifting up—not with his usual flamboyant grace, but with a slight, human hesitation—to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin so softly it was barely there.
"They’re easy," he said quietly. "People like that… they tell you exactly what they want to hear."
His thumb brushed your cheek again, slower this time.
"You don’t."
He swallowed hard, his thumb pausing against your cheekbone.
The sincerity in his voice broke the last of your resolve. The frustration that had been simmering all afternoon evaporated, replaced by a heat that had nothing to do with anger.
"You're so difficult, Patrick Jane," you whispered, your hand finding the lapel of his waistcoat and pulling him just a fraction closer.
You didn't wait for him to make another deduction. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the soft, golden curls at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down.
The kiss was quiet, unhurried, and completely honest. He made a soft, caught sound of surprise before his arms wound tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. It tasted like faint tea and total surrender.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his eyes were bright—not with mischief, but with a warmth that made your knees weak.
He looked down at the lopsided yellow frog sitting on your desk.
"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" he murmured against your lips.
You smiled, finally picking up the origami.
"It means he is forgiven. You still have to buy me dinner."
Jane laughed—a real, bright, unburdened sound—and kissed your forehead.
"Anything you want," he promised, his eyes dancing as he started to guide you toward the elevator.
"But keep in mind, if we go to that Italian place, I’m probably going to send my compliments to the chef just to get us free dessert."
a/n: "jess wtf is this??" well it's an idea that wouldn't leave my brain until it was done ok. i don't even know who would fuck with this but here you go enjoy patrick jane being soft. is this the thing that gets me back into writi g period?? who knows man but this felt nice to write enjoy yall
- - -
“What are you doing on my couch?” The soft voice that worms into your ears only makes the pressure behind your eyes pound even more.
"It’s not your couch, Jane," you grumble, "and it should be pretty obvious what I'm doing."
Even with your eyes closed, you can still hear the faint smile in Jane's voice. "Okay, fine. I'll redirect. Why are you on my couch?"
You take a grounding breath through your nose; your exhale escapes like a whistle from your lips. It helps. A bit. "Guess?"
If it's even possible, you can hear Jane's grin get wider. "That's no fun."
"It's all you do, guess," you grumble. The leather underneath you squeaks as you shift your weight. "Shoot, Sherlock."
Jane goes silent a moment. You think he's probably scrutinizing you the way he does your suspects, with those unreadable eyes of his and a vague smile on his lips.
His footsteps shuffle against the floor of the station, echoing against its silent interior. It's just you and him tonight. You make quite the duo - insomniacs whose jobs are never done.
The air shifts. When you crack one eye open - against your better judgement, as the harsh lamplight bores into you and into your brain - Jane has crouched down to meet your gaze.
The quip you have behind your lips dies when you actually see Jane's face. Instead of the wry smirk you're expecting him to wear, he looks strange. The look in his eyes is as unreadable as ever, of course, but it's not assured or even amused. It's something else you can't place, something duller.
"Are you okay?" you ask. You move to sit up - he gently, but firmly, lays one hand on your shoulder.
"That's my line," he quips. His other hand lifts to your forehead, his fingers gently coming to rest against your chilled skin. Under his breath, he mutters, "I was right."
"Aren't you always?"
The look in his eyes snaps away, that strange look disappearing the moment one side of his lips curls upwards. "I suppose." He releases your shoulder but keeps his other hand on your forehead. “Time for my line. You okay?"
You shrug noncommittally. "It's not that bad. Just a headache. Figured I could crash on your couch."
The other corner of his lips lifts. "So you think it's my couch."
"Shut up, Jane,” you grumble. Jane’s hold on your shoulder relaxes, but he doesn’t let go. “Let me rest my eyes in peace, will you?”
“No,” he says simply. No? He cocks his head to the side. “Lift your head up.”
You quirk an eyebrow, but do as he says. He smoothly moves to sit where your head once was, places his fingers gently on your face, and guides you so your head lies - surprisingly comfortably - in his lap.
Something is wrong, yes, but it’s not the headache drumming behind your eyes or the growing chill in your bones that makes you ache. It’s the fact that your head is in Patrick Jane’s lap and it’s… fine. It feels normal. What it should be doing is making your heart beat out of your chest, not slowing it down.
"That’s good, thank you,” Jane murmurs. He brushes his fingertips against your forehead. He squints at you. Frowns. That strange look appears again. His eyes seem focused, but vacant, sad. His pupils dart around your face, searching for something. “Sure you’re not sick? Pretty sure you’re burning up right now.”
“Scorching?” you ask, trying to smile.
He mirrors it, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Positively. Third degree burns.”
One of Jane’s hands comes to rest in your hair, the other settling on your shoulder once again. And again, against your better judgement (which you’re beginning to believe just may not be in the room with you right now), you raise your hand to your shoulder, placing it above his.
His eyes widen a fraction, then soften. “You don’t have to do that. You’re the one who’s sick. I'm just trying to help.”
“Had to do something.” Thinking is getting harder to do. You let him hold your hand. It’s firm, and comforting, and is he rubbing his thumb against your palm? “You’re doing that that thing you do.”
“I don’t do a thing,” he protests, then frowns. “Correction, I do many things, but I’m not doing one right now. You’ll have to be specific.”
“With your face.” God, has Jane always been this warm? “Your eyes.”
Jane smiles. This time it reaches his eyes. They crinkle kindly, but something lingers.
“Windows to the soul,” he murmurs, running his fingers through your hair. The pressure against your scalp feels amazing, and he must notice, because he doesn’t stop. “You should try to sleep. You’ll feel better.”
"No,” you mumble, but Jane’s warmth and the way he’s running his fingers through your hair and how he’s holding your hand is taking you away, somewhere far and soft and gentle, away from your body’s aches and pains. You can feel his chest as he slows his breathing, buoying you into the clement waves of sleep.
The last thing you remember before sleep pulls you under is the soft brush of lips against your forehead.
patrick jane doesn't believe in ghosts. (of course, he has them anyway. and sometimes they follow you.)
word count: 1, 532
gif credit: @flipperbrain-awakes
what's this jess another impulsive mentalist reader insert because the idea wouldn't leave ur brain before it was finished?? why yes it is!! brainrot left me temporarily because i was reading a lot of the murderbot diaries (which i highly recommend) but i started watching s2 of the mentalist and my brainrot is back a little bit. sorry y'all. anyway i hope u enjoy! let me know if u liked this product of my small obsession
Patrick Jane doesn't believe in ghosts.
In fact, he's not even sure he believes in anything anymore. He used to have pillars - shakey, fraudulent pillars, but pillars nonetheless - but those had been demolished greusomely long ago. He knows he doesn't have much to hold onto except for a dream of revenge. He knows he's selfish, and pathetic, and filled with enough self-loathing to fill the Sacremento River. Those are facts he knows.
That belief's shaken when you walk out of the motel room with a child in your arms.
He stares for about a minute, but that minute stretches into a million years.
"Found this little one hiding in a cabinet," you say, your forehead wrinkled. She looks only about a year old, but with a shock of curly blonde ringlets. Jane's heart stutters in his chest. "Poor baby. This is awful."
It takes a second for Jane to snap out of his reverie and remember why he's here. Another homicide - a young woman bludgeoned to death in her small apartment. She was a fresh college graduate, bright-eyed and trying to find her footing in the world. Filled out resumes scattered on the coffee table and classified clippings. They had thought she lived alone. Jane did too. He isn't sure to be amused or annoyed that he was wrong. He settles for both.
"It is awful," he agrees, and you nod with your lips pursed. He leans down to look the child in your arms in the eyes. "Hello there," he says with a smile. The child stares at him, bright wide eyes quivering - frozen, he notes that their color matches yours.
"Do you think she heard it?" you ask. You shift your weight and the baby so she's resting on your hip, and Jane short-circuits.
It's the only way he can describe it. A memory surges through his mind like an electrical current, scorches his synapses and leaves them raw. It feels like a billion years ago and yesterday that Angela held Charlotte like that, her weight resting against her hip, her hair brushing against her face, her little hands reaching out to him because she wanted her father to hold her, too.
Jane doesn't believe in ghosts. He swears he doesn't. But they're right there, floating over your shoulder and lingering in the blond curls of the little girl in your arms. You smile at her, warm and familiar, and then you turn that beautiful smile of yours to him. Hair like his. Eyes like yours. It shouldn't - it couldn't be possible. It can't. The line between dream and memory blurs.
Your voice sounds like it's underwater. You're calling his name. He almost doesn't want to come up for air, can't decide whether to drown in the memory of his family, drown in this strange dream of his, suffocate on his regret and guilt, because he can't think of you like that when -
"Jane?"
That does it. Jane blinks back into reality. He's not sure why he was expecting you to be glaring at him, or impatiently frowning, because when you aren't it turns his complex mess of emotions bubbling like flowing hot lava under the surface into cooled stone. Instead, you look… sad.
Do you know? What he saw?
In that instant, Jane decides that he hates you looking sad, and that he should start devoting the rest of his life, however short it may be, to making sure you never look at him like that again.
"Sorry," he says, slipping on an easy smile. "Do I think she heard what?"
He knows his smiles don't fool you, because you just look sadder. Damn it.
But you don't press. Don't poke at the wounds he keeps fresh and weeping everyday. "What happened to her mom," you say instead of any platitudes, which somehow is worse/better. Again, not sure. This is a pattern with you, Jane notices. He never seems to be sure around you. He's usually pretty sure about a lot of things. "Or if she saw. I don't really want to think about it, but…"
"I know." Jane reaches out, squeezes your arm. The darkness over your face fades slightly as your lips curl up into a small smile. Bingo. One point for Jane. "We can only hope, right?"
"Right," you say grimly, but your expression isn't as grim anymore. "Will Social Services pick her up?"
"Yes," Jane replies. He stretches out a finger to the girl and she grabs it, holding it tight in her small hand. Small hands like that used to hold his heart in them. "They'll take care of her until we find the victim's family."
"Okay," you say quietly. "Do you want to hold her?"
He isn't - but you're looking at him so earnestly - "Sure," slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
You smile at him, subdued. Dimmed, but bright enough to loosen the darkness gripping him. Slowly, you pass her to him, staring at the child the entire time. He remembers this weight, this feeling, and he starts to gently bounce the child in his arms. Memory taking over from consciousness. For a moment, his vision obscured by this little girl's mop of blonde, he catches your eyes twinkle with unshed tears.
Don't cry, Jane wants to say. Not over me. "You okay?" he asks instead.
You shake your head and sniffle. Wipe at your eyes before the tears can roll down your face. Part of him is grateful for that. "I'm sorry," you mumble. "This is hard."
"You've never found a child at a crime scene before?" Jane asks, and again, like before, your forehead wrinkles.
"It's not that," you huff, finally tearing your eyes away from the little girl to look him dead in the eyes. He isn't sure why it freezes him in place. "It's just… she looks like you."
The words knock the air from his lungs.
He knows the child looks like him. He just didn't know you thought the same too. Are you reading his mind? Obviously not, but -
"And it must be hard for you too, with what happened," you continue. Before he can reply, your whole body stiffens, and you reach out for the child again. "I'm sorry, this was stupid of me, I can take her - "
"It's okay," Jane says, maybe a bit too quickly because you flinch and drop your hands. He tries again, gentler. He always wants to be gentle with you. "It's okay. Really. You don't have to apologize."
It isn't just your admission of the little girl's resemblance to him that's making it hard for him to breathe. It's the thought that you thought of it at all. That you remembered it (of course you would, who would forget that, Lord knows he can't), but above all considered it. Considered him, his thoughts and feelings. Looked at him with such pity and empathy and not annoyance and discomfort. Mentioned his tragedy and loss without talking about his thirst for revenge.
You knit your eyebrows together in silent doubt. "I do." Your voice is no more than a whisper. "I don't mean to bring up old ghosts."
You have no idea. "No harm done," Jane tries, but your brows knit together even more, if its at all possible. Okay, that one didn't land. He glances down at the little girl if only to find respite from your almost mournful gaze. She's staring up at him still. "Besides, I don't believe in ghosts."
But there they are again, hovering in the corner of his eyes. He's going insane, he is - because why can he see the curve of her frown in yours as you reach for the baby? It isn't fair to her, or you. You especially.
You take the little girl from his arms without much comment. She finally stops her staring, her little face stretching into a gap-toothed smile once she's settled into your embrace. Something twists, swiftly and painfully, in his chest, when your gaze flicks to hers and you smile.
You don't deserve to be stuck with his ghosts, his past, his loss, him. You're so alive; he already feels halfway dead.
"I'm sorry for that," you say, shooting him an apologetic smile. "I'll go, uh, look for Social Services."
Jane reaches for you - then plays it off, waves his hand. "There's really no need to say sorry. It 's not your fault."
He doesn't have time to regret what he says before your head snaps up to look at him. Suddenly he feels exposed, laid bare under your gaze. You're searching for something. You, the vision of both dream and memory, one he's buried deep in his mind made flesh, standing in front of him. He's not normally this poetic. What are you doing to him?
After a silence that stretches a thousand years, you say quietly, "It's not your fault either."
It's not your fault what happened to them, goes unsaid, but he hears it. Sees it on the look on your face. He doesn't believe you. He can't let himself believe you.
When you walk away, the blonde-haired bright-eyed child in your arms, Patrick Jane wills his ghosts off of your shoulders and onto his where they belong.
Summary: Jane is bored. He craves drama, mystery, and maybe a nice cup of tea. In search of at least one of these things, he knocks on the door of one the CBI’s IT specialists, curious to see if they could be of use for a case. Or at least entertaining enough to keep him occupied until Lisbon isn't mad at him anymore. His unfortunate victim, on the other hand, just wants to get through the work day without the commentary of an overly confident consultant.
Warnings: bad writing :p (english isn't my first language and this is also my first ever fic so be kind pls), not much else to be honest, IT job inaccuracies (I made it all up so I'd honestly be more surprised if it turns out to be accurate lol)
Note: sorryyy forgot to tag @cafekitsune for the dividers!
Part 2 here!
The CBI’s IT department wasn’t anything particularly impressive. A few identical offices for the small team of technicians. Well, calling them offices might be a bit too generous. An overgrown carpet of cables, boxes of hard drives, dusty monitors, and mugs of stale coffee, all stuffed into a bigger than average storage closet...
To many this doesn’t seem like an ideal workspace, but in practice it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. The IT specialists are nice folk, they keep to themselves, mainly due to the heavy workload, but most are friendly. They’re used to their spaces, having tailored them to their individual needs over time, and that particular part of the building is quiet, away from the drama of the bullpen and interrogation rooms.
But as always, peace never lasts when a certain consultant is around.
Patrick had always been curious about the room at the far end of the second floor hallway. He had known what was behind that door in theory but, Jane being Jane, he couldn’t stop himself for knocking on it. After all, what better way to improve department collaboration than get to know other CBI employees? (In reality, Lisbon had put him in time out for offending a witness and he was painfully bored).
A chair creaks behind the door and the clacking of computer keys stops.
…
“Come in,” you call out, silently praying you’re not about to get handed an box of tapes to digitize or some other convoluted task to add to your never ending to-do list.
The door creaks open and you look up, frowning when you recognize the person stepping in.
“Can I help you?”
“Hm? Oh, yes,” Jane re-centers his attention towards you, turning away from the rusty metal shelving that had caught his attention when he opened the door, “This isn’t very safe. Too many things on it. It looks like it could buckle any minute and drown you in a sea of cables and unlabeled…computer parts, or whatever you store in these boxes.”
You glance at the shelf then back at him, unfazed by his warning.
“That's rich coming from the guy who keeps intentionally causing complete and utter chaos to solve cases,” you reply, humming in thought.
He shrugs, “It works.”
You shake your head, already feeling your headache worsening.
"So...why are you here, Jane? Computer acting up?" you say, leaning back in your chair.
He shakes his head, turning to take another look at the organized chaos in your office, picking up random objects to examine them. "Just curious," he replies, "and bored. Lisbon is mad because I called a well-connected suspect a 'pompous fool'." He inspects a box of files, tracing them with his finger.
You frown in disbelief. Is this guy being serious?...
Well, no point in wasting any more time trying to figure him out, you're already drowning in work and you're not exactly in the mood to entertain a random coworker you barely ever talk to.
Sighing, you turn back to your monitor and resume typing, dismissing him "Look, I'm sorry you're so painfully bored but I have work to do and I can't afford to be distracted right now."
He turns to face you with a grin, brows raised. "Oh busy, huh? Well, what are you working on? I know a thing or two about computers, 'main frames' and all that, maybe I can help."
It's hard to pinpoint exactly, but something about his smile makes it hard to believe him.
"Really?" you reply, clearly unconvinced, "The great Patrick Jane is secretly a tech nerd?"
He shrugs "Nope, I'm useless around technology. By choice, mostly. I'm not a fan of all these fancy gadgets," he grimaces in distaste, "too unpredictable."
Patrick steps closer to your desk and, confused, you instinctively look up.
"But, you seem like you could use some company. Working alone in a badly ventilated storage room without any natural light can't be good for you," he continues, fingers drumming against the wooden desk.
You can't find it in you to fight him, already bled dry by all the overtime you had to do recently after another team had presented you with a dozen damaged hard drives you had to recover 'important evidence' from. (Said evidence turned out to be hours and hours of amateur bird-watching footage. And, of course, you still had to watch every second to make sure the suspect hadn't murdered someone between pointing out a blue bird and zooming in on a kingfisher).
Maybe a bit of mischief wouldn't be so bad after that.
Your exasperated sigh seems to be the only answer he needs as he straightens up with a smile that's so painfully wide and bright, you can't stop your own lips from tilting upwards.
Patrick extends a hand to help you stand from the desk chair you'd practically merged with, and pulls you towards the door, already planning out your little adventure, "There's a great bakery a couple of blocks down the road-"
...
Thank you for reading! This is the first fic I've ever written so it's definitely not the best, and I honestly didn't know how to end it so I decided to leave it kind of open
I wanted to do more with the premise of this fic but couldn't figure out where I wanted to take it so I might pick this back up at some point later when I've gotten more comfortable with writing
Would appreciate any constructive feedback you may have, please be kind still :))
Could I have something with Kimball Cho using the "I’ve tried being subtle but it doesn’t work" line from the prompt list? 🩷
You don’t expect Cho to kiss you, you don’t expect his lips to feel as soft as they do, as heated as they do. His hands run through your hair and you can feel yourself falling, hurtling towards oblivion as his firm body presses against yours.
God he feels good, better than you imagined.
You’re breathless when he pulls away, your cheeks flushing with colour as he looks into your eyes. His thumb traces lightly over the blush of your cheek as he murmurs.
"I’ve tried being subtle but subtle doesn’t work"
“No.” You whisper, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him back to you. “It doesn’t.”
Love Cho? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Various Golden Wind antagonists x reader and their habits you don’t like
Headcanons style
Content, plz read: MEAN and aggressive behavior, toxic behaviors, creepy behaviors (I mean Melone is here he’s kinda a warning in his own right), slightly suggestive
Characters: all of La Squadra (no Sorbet and Gelato), Squalo+Tiziano (they’re a couple+reader), Diavolo/Doppio
-Formaggio: Besides the blatant animal abuse, he also does that really obnoxious thing where he eats whipped cream right out of the can. Staring at him with horror or disgust will not dissuade him, might even encourage him honestly. He likes doing stuff just to get a reaction out of you, which is Another problem. Sometimes he’ll shrink your furniture just to mess with you. And he totally shrinks you too, but only a bit, and only when he thinks it’s funny, such as when you’re trying to reach something on a high up shelf. Jerk.
-Illuso: He’ll just invite himself into your apartment whenever he wants. You’ll get home, and hear your shower running, and unfortunately he’s done this enough times you don’t bother with freaking out or rushing him to get out of your shower or begging him to not use all your shampoo this time. You just go in there while he’s showering and flush the toilet so the shower water gets really hot for a minute. He has SOME NERVE getting mad at you for that. Doesn’t he have his OWN shower somewhere?? But Nooooo it’s More Romantic and intimate or something to use yours, and the bastard even uses your towel-
You curse that he is a professional assassin…no matter how thoroughly you locked the doors, Illuso would find a way in, and make himself right at home.
-Prosciutto: He never learns how to speak nicely to you, smh. Sure he’s not as horribly harsh as when you were just acquaintances, but he’s still very. Mean. It’s just how he is…you gotta wonder if he even hears himself sometimes. Whether it be mean names, bossing you around, or just generally talking harshly to you he is Always so MEAN in a way that definitely goes past “tough love”. And he gets very dismissive if you try to say anything, but at least he can tell when he goes too far and severely hurts your feelings, and he’ll Try to tone it down just a bit for the sake of his marriage. Getting an apology out of him is nigh impossible but at least he’s not bullying you over nothing constantly anymore.
-Pesci: He’s honestly not that bad, but you really wish he was a bit more confident in himself and a bit less attached to his big brother. Like, he’s hard to plan stuff with, because he often has plans with Prosciutto…oh but…you can come along too, his big brother probably won’t mind…
You really don’t want to hang out with both of them though. Just Pesci. And you honestly don’t really like Prosciutto, suspecting his smothering type of “tough love” is much more of a burden for Pesci than a help. But you have literally no idea how to approach that conversation without sounding like the bad guy. No matter how you cut it, at this point in your relationship, Pesci is much more likely to listen to Prosciutto’s logic than yours, much to your irritation.
-Melone: WHERE TO START. He says everything that comes to mind when he’s around you. Every. Thing. He does not hold back, licking his lips, ALWAYS in your personal space while he makes weird comments about you. You swear if he could he’d just fuse himself to you so he could always be physically close to you. He practically crawls into your lap when he gets the opportunity to sit close to you, and he takes asking him to back up or give you space as a joke until you’ve been pushed far enough to consider smacking him away. And he is very, very obsessive, remembering every detail about you in a creepy way. And also one time early in your relationship before you had Ever even started discussing sharing a bed with him you woke up to him just IN YOUR BED WITH YOU?! And he was genuinely confused when you yelled at him and kicked him out of your bedroom. He’s your boyfriend, right??? Why are you chasing him out???? It’s romantic and normal for couples to share a bed right??? What does it matter if you’ve only been on 1.5 dates??
You had Nero talk with him about leaving you alone at night until when you were ready to proceed to that point with him. He really doesn’t understand but at least he doesn’t argue with his boss.
Oh and he totally steals your recently worn clothes. It’s “romantic” to put them under his pillow at night, smh.
-Ghiaccio: If you didn’t know he had a temper when you started dating him, I’m afraid that’s on you at this point lol. He gets angry SO easily over EVERYTHING, and YEAH you are not immune to his rage just because you’re his sweetheart. He doesn’t put his hands on you when he gets into his awful moods (he’s got enough sense to know that would end Extremely badly for everyone involved) but everything else around you is fair game. Expect him to trash his or your apartment when he’s in one of his (frequent) foul moods, flipping and throwing furniture, punching holes in the walls, purposefully breaking anything he can get his hands on…most of your arguments aren’t even about his temper directly, more often about the amount of money he’s costing both of you with his outbursts.
And the YELLING. He talks so fast and so loud and expects you to hear every word…a man who goes into frequent rants…you love him a lot but sometimes he talks way too much. And eventually you get somewhat used to it but…Ghiaccio even rants and twitches in his sleep (he has got to be one of THE most unpleasant men to sleep next to oml). Snoring would be one thing, sleep talking too, but Ghiaccio sleep yells at some invisible offender. Never in your life had you considered smothering him with a pillow until you hear him yelling full freaking sentences for five straight minutes in his sleep.
-Risotto Nero: He is SO stoic, no matter how he Feels about something he’s barely going to show any sort of reaction at all. You absolutely cannot surprise this man or make him smile no matter what you do. The worst part is he picks up on your frustrations that he doesn’t really emote or laugh or anything like that, so he’ll fake reactions, but he’s Not a very good actor, so you totally know he’s just pretending for you. And it’s honestly kinda creepy watching him fake smile or fake laugh, like, “ew, Risotto what are you doing with your face?” He sounds like he’s…barking slowly when he tries to fake a laugh. You tell him he does Not have to do that but for some reason he feels obligated to fake such things for your sake. Honestly you find it a little bit hurtful he thinks he has to change his mannerisms for your sake, but it is admittedly a bit funny when he freaks out the rest of his team by trying to react to you.
-Squalo and Tiziano: Squalo can be SO impulsive sometimes, SO impulsive. He takes it Very personally when he thinks either you or Tiziano have been disrespected, and that means he might freak out a bit since he feels like he’s the one who has to protect the two of you, for whatever reason. You and Tiziano often have to calm him down before things Escalate. And Tiziano…he frequently explains things to you and Squalo that you really don’t need explained. And he’s almost always very levelheaded, which can make him feel a bit condescending when Squalo or you get upset but you both know he’s just trying to help when he doesn’t give in to your more fiery emotions. He won’t usually let the two of you just let it all out when you’re stressed, expect him to always give advice even when you just want to rant.
-Diavolo/Doppio: The paranoia drives you Insane. Diavolo is a very smothering partner, always hovering around you, keeping those poisonous green eyes on you, watching for any sign of betrayal or malicious intent from you…any hint that you’re scheming something, any excuse to cut you down and finally reach that perfect anonymity. But as long as he enjoys your companionship, without any real motivation he won’t kill you. And Doppio is frustrating to deal with, in charge of keeping you entertained when Diavolo was not in the mood to deal with you. If he was going to be such a loner, you didn’t see the point of him practically handcuffing you to him. Most often you only had Doppio for company. He was sweet but even with his understanding of the situation, he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. How far was he supposed to go to keep you happy? The Boss said to just buy you whatever you asked for, and give in to all your demands but…eventually you were gonna get experimental with what you would ask for, right? It’s very annoying that every time you ask for anything, he gets a call from Diavolo telling him if it’s okay or not to comply with what you wish for. If it’s not okay, you’re certain to get into an unpleasant argument with the Boss about it when he’s finally ready to appear in front of you again. Sometimes he’ll disappear behind Doppio for weeks or even months, but you know he’s always watching and listening. You really wish he’d put some effort to being a little less elusive with you, given that you were the only person actually allowed to look at him.
So someone in TikTok had said that apparently Ghiaccio’s rambles are a to show how much cognitive skill it takes to use White Album. I feel like it would be perfectly reasonable to Headcannon that Ghiaccio does a lot of brain-gear-working things like insane ass puzzles, writing, sudoku, and more.
Like he’d just be doing a 1000+ puzzle piece and wouldn’t even ask you to join cause if you put a piece in the wrong place he’s gonna lose his shit and the both of you don’t want him to get upset at you LMFAO
tags: uterus owner reader but no physical descriptions beyond that so I'm keeping it gn!reader, menstrual cycle, witchcraft, shenanigans, established relationship
A/N: I hate my cramps...so I'm giving them to John. I kinda hate this but I need to get out of writers block somehow so I'm taking all the inspiration I can get.
That time of the month was never a problem in your relationship, sure some plans were cancelled here & there but most of the cancelling was John drowning in his usual sea of problems that you'd help out when you can. Most of it was just a fun case of overwhelming emotions while still having to function as a human being, or the classic isolation episodes due to finding every little thing about people infuriating. Oh and the blood of course.
But sometimes it got on your nerves how nonchalant John would be about it, waving it off or relating it to a hangover stomach ache. You recognized he understood some of the pain you experienced, but it did make a good joke imagining him comparing being terrorized by entities to the aching pains of menstrual cramps.
"I've been through hell I think I'd understand your torment love," He assured you, far too confidently for your liking while you struggled to choose between giving into comfort or continue working.
"That's nice John, but I doubt you go about a day feeling like every movement is a hydraulic press on your insides." You countered trying to ignore the temptation while he leaned over you.
"Oh try me, I've been through any ringer the universe has got to throw me into."
Wasn't a huge problem, but it sure as hell was annoying to have a pain in your ear while your anatomy tortured you...but hey that's what being a witch is for!
If he thought the cramps weren't that bad, you'd just give them to him.
You did hesitate before conducting the spell while he was out, any more time spent being able to feel the bone structure of your pelvis would be happily banished. And you knew John wasn't on a life threatening case at the moment so there wouldn't be any casualties.
So you cast the simple transmutation spell, threw his name in and set it aside before going about your day, soon enough your pain slowly faded and you honestly forgot this was at John's expense.
Until he called you of course.
"Bloody fucking hell are you trying to kill me (Y/N)?!" He prattled over the phone line.
"Just thought you needed the real true 'uterus owning experience' thought you said you'd had worse?" You smirked with some sympathy for your poor boyfriend.
"I did say that shitty nonesense didn't I? Blimey my pricks gonna fall off with all this damn aching in my bones, ya better got a way to fix this little witch."
"Oh just the usual warm bath, lying in the fetal position, painkillers, chocolate & shitty raspberry leaf tea should fix you right up honey."
You wished you could see the utter look of dissapointment and agony on his face at your words instead of hear him groan in defeat.
"If an apology s' what ya lookin for here luv, I'll give ya that n more once I come by the flat."
"Who says I'm looking for an apology John? You said you could handle it."
"Well I'm eating the fucking curb n my words right now so quit ya teasin."
In the end, after some one sided bickering & promising to dismantle the spell, you got some of your usual remedies ready when John practically crawled up the stairs in pain. Collapsing against the door and sliding down to lay on the floor in agony as you loomed over him.
"Ya learnt your lesson Mr. Constantine?" You smile gently rubbing his back, sure you caused this but John wouldn't leave you suffering when you got like this.
"Sod off..." He hissed, making you bite back a laugh.
"Let's get you some painkillers and a warm bath shall we?"
John hated how nice that sounded.
"First ya give me your pain then you turn around n play caretaker? Your a real sadist ain't you?"
"You said there was no ringer the universe had-"
"Oh piss off you! Just get me in the tub before the cramps get to my knees."
˚.⋆𐙚 Parings: Kaz Brekker x Reader
˚.⋆𐙚 Synopsis: Kaz Brekker takes care of you in your drunken state. You, who can't stop rambling, and him, who can't stop his affections.
˚.⋆𐙚 Word Count: 1983
˚.⋆𐙚 a/n: I absolutely loveddd writing this, ty for the request!! (also, I'm so sorry u had to wait so long 😭) I hope u like it <33
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You should have stopped at 3 drinks. It was quite clear to you, even in your drunken state, that it was a bad idea to go for the fourth. And the fifth. Possibly the tenth.
You couldn’t really remember the details.
Either way, you ended up laughing hysterically with Jesper and rambling off about something you couldn’t even remember seconds after you said it.
It was clear that Jesper was as drunk as you were. He couldn’t stop talking about how big his next game would be.
“So let’s say I sitttt…” His words are broken off by a deep intake of breath. “Excuse me… In a chair, right? You can sit on the other side. And boom! We win! S’gonna be soawesome.”
His words don't make much sense to you, and they begin melting together. You aren’t sure what he said, but you knew he said something, so you settled on giggling.
“Yessss!” You cheer. “We can do anything!” The words boom from your mouth. You aren’t sure what you’re replying to, but the statement is true enough.
Inej watches from the other side of the table, smiling silently to herself as you and Jesper continue to make a fool of yourselves. She had a few drinks, but stopped taking shots long before you had.
She had just sat here, silently watching over the two of you, and talking when she understood the words you were saying.
Kaz, you noted, was standing across the room from you. He watched silently, never stopping you, but his gaze always narrowed each time you took another shot.
He had drunk a couple of shots, but it was nothing compared to the way he was drinking you in now.
He was, no doubt, looking for you. It was obvious at the way he stared at you now that he didn’t like the way he found you.
You weren’t normally like this. You hated the vulnerability alcohol presented you, hated the dizziness, and you especially hated the headache you would inevitably wake up to in the morning.
But you felt like some celebration was warranted after the Crows were able to successfully carry out a mission without a single thing going wrong. It was rare when things went according to plan for you without any issues.
You felt like a fool for celebrating such a thing when you found yourself trying to stand up and failing.
Inej rushed to you, gracefully holding you up. How did she get to you so quickly?
The world was a whirlwind of scrambled dots clouding your vision. The Wraith was by your side, carefully supporting you without you even detecting her presence.
“Saints, are you alright?” She yelped, grabbing your waist with one hand, and desperately trying to hook your arm over her neck with the other.
Her graceful hands were quickly replaced with a harsher one, helping you rise to your feet fully. The familiar feel of leather caressed your skin, sending a chill through your spine.
Kaz’s arm wrapped from one of your arms, touching your back, and holding your other arm. You held a smile on your face, grinning at the floor. You hadn’t even looked at him yet, and yet, you were smiling like a fool.
“I’ll take responsibility for her now, Inej.”
His words managed to sober you for a split second. Kaz was always careful with the way he interacted with you in public. He was always cautious of his tone, his actions, especially his words. And this… Well, this was very public.
It might have seemed like nothing to an outsider, but everyone who worked under Kaz knew how odd it was for him to offer to take you off Inej’s hands.
Your eyes darted around the Slat, moving from place to place, making you dizzy from the movement. You were surprised to find the room mostly empty, filled with others just as drunk as you were.
Jesper laid sleeping on your forgotten table as Inej stood on your right side, ready to pick you up if Kaz accidentally let go. But he wouldn’t let you fall; it was this that you were sure of.
Still, you eyed his other arm as he was still clutching to his cane.
It couldn’t have been easy for him to be supporting your weight with one hand. And looking after you certainly can’t have been an ideal way to spend his night.
“I look after you all the time.” Kaz breathed, adjusting his arms. “You being drunk is no different.” His words were quiet, only loud enough for you and Inej to hear them.
Your breath hitched. Had you really said that out loud? You could only silently blame the heat spreading across your cheeks on your drunken state.
Inej looked between the two of you now, silently slipping away to help Jesper to his feet. Kaz began moving his own feet, making it surprisingly easy for you to follow.
You were stumbling a bit, but it was far easier to climb the stairs now than it would have been if you had done it alone.
The thought made you quietly giggle to yourself. Of course you weren’t going to do it alone. Kaz Brekker always made sure you never had to do any of the hard parts alone.
Kaz heard your giggling fit, looking at you with his eyebrows raised, but he didn’t question you.
You reached the second floor before trying to plead your own case.
“I’m not drunk.” You declared, almost tripping over your own feet.
Kaz scowled, reaching for you before you made it to the floor. His hand was steady and warm through the leather surrounding his hands. “Lying won’t change the truth. Either way, you won’t be alone tonight.”
You smiled at that. He was most likely trying to reprimand you, but it wouldn’t get through to you tonight.
“So that means I get to spend the entire night with you?” You beamed. Kaz paused at that, frowning more.
“I like spending time with you.” You crooned, not waiting for his response. “I think I just like you.”
Kaz’s body tensed. You had forgotten how strange it must have been for him, how foreign your affection was. You would dedicate the rest of your life teaching him how to be fluent in it.
“I like you with your leather hands, and the scowl on your face. I like you with the smell of money, and even violence.”
“You’re rambling.” He murmured, although he didn’t say it in an unkind way. His eyes met yours, shining with something that felt a lot like a secret he was trying to hold tightly in his chest.
“What are you harboring in there?” You interrogated, pointing to his heart. “I’ll force it out of you. Secrets don’t last long with me.” You claimed, slurring your words now.
Kaz Brekker had no doubts in his mind that you would be able to force it out of him.
Your legs were threatening to buckle under you now. Gosh, how long did it take to get to your bedroom?
“I’m not drunk.” You repeated again, although when you opened your eyes, you were facing the walls, talking to it instead of your boyfriend.
“So you’ve said.” Kaz responded cooly, turning you around and continuing to guide you.
You didn’t mistake the constant glances he was sending you every time you remained silent for more than a couple of seconds.
You couldn’t help but stare. You were always bold, but the alcohol seemed to make you outright shameless.
“You're so handsome. I’ve always wondered how someone can be so pretty.”
Kaz didn’t respond this time, although you could practically hear his heart picking up its pace.
This boy, who had come close to death so many times, was becoming nervous over you. The thought made your stomach feel warm, something you knew you couldn’t blame on the alcohol this time.
Staring at him helped clear your mind, even if you were still dizzy. There were motions around you, but he was in the center of it all, the clearest picture you had ever seen.
Now, looking at him, you couldn’t believe he wasn’t a painting.
Beautiful. He was so painfully beautiful that it hurt.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Kaz faltered, his voice snapping you out of your trance.
“Because you’re so beautiful.” You replied, not bothering to pull your eyes away from his face.
Once again, Kaz let in a shaky breath. You could tell he was already trying to shut out your words, like a gift he was hesitant to accept.
I could stare at him all day, you thought. You knew the words were true when Kaz had reached for the knob of your bedroom door without you even noticing you were just outside your room.
Taking a big step in, you follow the nightly routine that seemed to have embedded itself into your mind.
Your shoes are off, scattered on the floor before you realize it. You manage to slip an arm out of your jacket, leaving it to slip off of your other arm sloppily.
Kaz says nothing, but manages to lead you to your bed without you falling on your face.
You make a mess of your bed, pulling all sorts of blankets over yourself and cuddling up to them.
“Can I tell you a secret?” You whispered, smiling at him after watching him move in silence.
Your stare burned through his back, and every muscle in his body fought to turn and look at you the same way.
Kaz paused, picking up your shoes to settle them next to the door.
A secret.
It felt almost humorous, the way you would trust him with your secret, when most wouldn’t even trust him with their silence.
Finally, he turned to look at you, his body straightened in a way that felt almost calculated. He tried so desperately to look as though he was calm, but he couldn’t help the affection slipping through him now.
“I like you, Kaz Brekker. Secrets and all.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. Harder than any beating he ever endured, any punch he had ever taken.
Better than anything he had ever had in his life.
Kaz stilled when picking up your shoes. He let out a soft breath.
It almost felt like in between the silence, he too, was telling you a secret he swore never to reveal.
He looked at you, hoping you could hear the emotions he had not yet been able to name. Hoping you could hear the words he had not yet been able to say.
You smiled at him, as if you knew. As if you could feel everything he wished he could say.
Kaz had broken the stare first, pulling a chair next to your bed.
By the time he had turned back around, you had already silently begun drifting off into sleep.
You slept, peacefully, as your name reverberated in his mind.
You slept through him taking off his gloves, pulling up your covers, and slowly grazing his hand over your face.
He waited, silently, for the water to drown him. But it never did, not with you.
He stayed throughout the night, watching you, memorizing the sight of your chest rising and falling in your sleep. He watched every movement of your face, every line that had appeared, wondering what you were dreaming of.
And when he drifted into his own sleep, it was you who had shown up in them.
Because for him, it was about you. Everything was always about you.
Kaz Brekker loved you in his own special way. He hoped, for now, that it would be enough.
Silently, he vowed to himself that he would spend the rest of his life learning how to love you the way you deserved.
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I literally can't, I absolutely love this one 😭 I hope y'all enjoyed 💓 I'm trying to write more fics asap!!
Hii! Can I have a request for Movie Michael and Game Michael? (Seperate)
What would their reaction if their crush (reader) gave him a drawing of him like how she saw in her eyes as if it was like a love confession towards him?
Reader is an artist and a coworker working along with him, ofc she secretly has a crush on him too but doesn't know how to say it.
A/N: Thank you for the request! We're on a Michael roll rn lol. (not complaining, I love Michael so much. I prefer movie!Michael but I love writing for game!Michael too). I have way too much time on my hands tonight, but this'll probably be my last work before I sleep for the night :) I'm so happy you guys are here!
Through Their Eyes
Word Count: 662 words
— MOVIE MICHAEL 🎬
His first reaction is… stillness. Is he shocked? Flustered? You're not sure. It was a pause that lasted just half a second too long. He takes the drawing from you carefully like it was fragile. Then he smiles. That unnerving, pleasant smile that reaches from ear to ear.
He asks questions that feel too perceptive. “What made you want to draw me like this?” Not accusatory. Curious. Soft. Almost intimate. He wants to hear you explain yourself; wants to know how deep it goes. Validation is his oxygen, and this? This is premium fuckin' grade.
He pretends to assess the art seriously. Tilting his head, murmuring artistic-sounding things. But really, he’s analyzing your attention, how you looked at him, and how you felt about him. Every compliment is a subtle fluster disguised as intellect: “The shading… it’s very… intentional. I like that.”
He keeps it. Of course he keeps it. Somewhere private. Somewhere important. Not displayed. Protected. It becomes proof. Someone sees him. Someone chose him. Someone admires him without him having to perform for it. That realization digs in deep. He looks at it everyday. he's mesmerized.
He rehearses how to act normal around you afterward. Smooth small talk, leaning slightly closer, casual touches on your arm or shoulder. Internally, it’s a disaster. He wants to kiss you, hug you, make some grand declaration, but he cannot ruin the dorky “I’m fine, just confident and calm” facade.
If you ever mention the drawing again, he pretends he forgot it existed. “Oh, that? Yeah, it’s… very good. You’re talented.” Slight chuckle. Slight blush. Heart racing. He’s 90% embarrassed, 10% thrilled, 100% in love.
Internally, it feeds something dark and hungry. The drawing becomes a mirror he likes too much. He doesn’t just want your affection, he wants it secured. Controlled. Something that can’t be taken away the way his father’s approval or attention always is.
IF he does confess... Flustered and slightly dorky, he corners you after a shift, grinning like he’s joking as he says the words: “I like you… and if anyone ever tries to take you away, they’ll regret it.”
— GAME MICHAEL 👾
He thinks it’s a joke at first. Not because he doubts your talent, but because he can’t imagine being the subject of something so gentle. He blinks at the drawing, then at you, like he’s misread the situation entirely.
He's immediately caught off guard. He hesitates for just a moment before taking it, like he’s afraid it’s too personal, but quickly composes himself. There’s no panic, just a quiet awareness that he’s unprepared for being seen in this way.
He doesn’t joke. Unlike Movie Michael, he’s awkward verbally, stumbling slightly: “I… uh… didn’t know… you felt that way,” or “I mean… wow… this is… really good.” He avoids as much as he can to mask his nerves with humor.
He asks if you're sure. Not fishing. Genuinely uncertain. He needs reassurance that this wasn’t a pity gesture, that you weren't mistaken.
He keeps the drawing near. Like Movie Michael, he might keep it somewhere private for a couple of days, like in a drawer or on his nightstand. But eventually, it might end up in his pocket or wallet (if the drawing was small enough to fit).
His affection shows in subtle gestures. Not words at first: helping you with tasks, walking slightly closer, offering to carry something for you, making sure you're safe or comfortable. Quiet but deliberate.
He's trying to process his affection deeply. While he may seem reserved, the drawing and its meaning linger in his thoughts. He reflects on it, trying to reconcile it with his past trauma, his guilt, and his desire to be seen as more than his actions and family.
IF he does confess... It's deliberate and serious, but still awkward. He'll gently take your hand while the pizzeria hums around the both of you and whispers: “I care about you… more than I should, but I can’t hide it anymore.”
MADE BY TARO.ᐟ any translations, reposts, and usage of my written works are strictly prohibited. reblogs are appreciated.
summary: you are forced to partner up with fiyero on a history project. things don’t go as you imagine.
a/n: wicked was really good, i love jonathan bailey, and we're coming up on finals season which means im writing about how stressed i am. also halfway through this i realized reader is lowkey paris geller coded lmao. this got away from me so im splitting it into 2 parts, i had a lot of fun writing it so enjoy! also im high posting this so if there's any editing issues im sorry lol!!
wc: 5.5k
warning(s): reader is stressed to the max constantly. she is kinda mean to fiyero but he's into it so it's okay. mostly fluff
Your fingers were beginning to cramp.
You should have been used to this by now with Doctor Dillamond. You’d been in his class for a few months now, and you graded essays for him often. He often had a propensity for verbosity, but this lecture had been an especially hefty one in preparation for your midterm projects.
He would be announcing partners before the end of class—much to your dismay, for you worked far better on your own than with others holding you down—and you figured you would want to have as much of a head start as possible.
Great Oz, how you hoped you would be paired with one of your friends. Coralie and Ezura were your only contenders for top of the class—Elphaba had potential as well, not because of the magic she couldn’t control but because of the brain she very well could—and anyone else would frankly slow you down. Doing a large research paper with someone who didn’t care as much as you did would be a drag you didn’t care to go through.
Midterms were only the most important thing, for they set the track towards finals and affirmed your skill with your assignments, and your first midterm was potentially the most important thing for, when completed successfully, set you on the correct track altogether.
You tried not to think about it too much (though you failed almost immediately), for you were sure Doctor Dillamond would honor all the work you’d done for him by putting you with a suitable partner.
“I see some of you are getting restless, so I will cut class short today.” Your eyes snapped up from your paper to see the professor smiling, and you could hear sighs of relief around the room. “I’m sure you’re all eager to know your partners for the midterm paper.”
The sighs of relief turned to groans, and you had to agree. Assigned partners should have been considered archaic at this point in time.
Doctor Dillamond trotted back to the projector and, with a bit of difficulty, replaced the image with a piece of paper. Everybody in the class was paired off in groups of two—you immediately started searching for your name, squinting slightly to see despite your spot in the front, and the furrow between your brows deepened when you realized you couldn’t find it.
You searched instead for your hopeful options. Coralie was with Mayara, Ezura was with Nicholas, Elphaba was with Galinda—of course. You let out a slight huff of annoyance, not just at your disappointment but at the continued lack of your name.
Perhaps he’d merely forgotten. You didn’t know how Dillamond could have forgotten you, seeing as you were only his best student and literal TA, but things happened. Your anxieties only grew as you heard the beginnings of whispers throughout the room as your classmates saw their pairings, either excited or dismal.
“Class is dismissed,” Doctor Dillamond said. The room began bustling as students gathered their things, already talking with their friends or searching out their project partner—you heard Galinda squeal and saw her grab Elphaba’s hands out of your peripherals. You could only worry your lip between your teeth as you swept everything in your bag, hardly waiting a second before rushing up to Dillamond’s desk.
“You didn’t call my name, professor,” you said, managing a smile as you tried to act like it wasn’t killing you. How could he have not called your name? Was there something wrong? Great Oz— had you been somehow moved out of the class? Was your work not exemplary enough? Your assistance not assisting enough? “I don’t have a partner.”
His mouth opened, but you only found yourself continuing, the words practically tumbling out of you.
“Of course, if you intended for me to be on my own then I am perfectly alright with that!” Your smile widened as your fingertips dangled over his desk. “I— I prefer it, in fact, so if that is it then there is really no issue at all—”
“Mr. Tigelaar!” he interrupted, and your head turned on instinct to see the eponymous boy arm in arm with Galinda (who was arm in arm with Elphaba) just in front of the door. “I hope you are not about to leave.”
Fiyero flashed a look at his companions before offering one of those easy smiles he seemed to always have up his sleeve. “You dismissed the class. I believe I am part of your class, am I not?”
“You are,” he said, “but you were not assigned a partner. Surely you wouldn’t be trying to get out of the project.”
Your free hand clenched as the threads started to connect. Doctor Dillamond wouldn’t do this to you. Would he?
That easy smile remained on his lips as he turned to Galinda and whispered something in her ear. She giggled and pecked him on the cheek before she walked out, pulling Elphaba behind her, and Fiyero sauntered over.
“Of course I’m not trying to get out of it,” he said. “Whyever would you think so?”
“Your attempt at a quick exit before you could be assigned a partner,” the professor said. “But it is no matter, for your partner is right here.”
You blinked. He would do this to you.
Why would he do this to you?
“Well, pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. “Fiyero Tigelaar.”
You ignored him, for you couldn’t look away from Doctor Dillamond. Would it be mad for you to strangle a Goat?
“Professor,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “why?”
“Mr. Tigelaar’s grades in my class have not been satisfactory, as I’m sure he is aware.” Dillamond moved away from his desk, prodding the chalkboard with his head to move it out of the way. “I care about all my students, even if they seem not to care for my course. I believe a partnership for the two of you would be beneficial.”
Your jaw clenched. “So you’re forcing me to tutor him because he hasn’t got a brain.”
Fiyero chuckled. “Ouch.”
“Not tutoring, just working on your midterm together,” he said. “And if you end up teaching him a few things along the way, then we would all be better off, wouldn’t we?”
“Professor, with all due respect, this is ridiculous!” you exclaimed. “Why should I have to risk my grade, my midterm, my standing altogether at Shiz just to help him?”
“Should you perform the way that is typical of you, there should be no issues.” Doctor Dillamond gave you that professorly look and your teeth grinded against each other. How dare he try to take the moral high ground. “Now, the two of you better hurry off. You haven’t got forever to work on this project.”
“Professor,” you whispered, determined to not let up, “why are you punishing me like this?”
“I’m not punishing you, my dear.”
“Fiyero couldn’t care less about any of this,” you insisted. “I’m going to fail my midterm and it will be all his fault!”
“If you believe he can make you fail, then you haven’t got as much faith in yourself as I believed.” Doctor Dillamond looked at you. “Trust me—and yourself—that this will all work out.”
You stared back—it was rather difficult to have a staring contest with a Goat. “I don’t suppose I can change your mind on this?”
“You’d be correct.”
You huffed and glanced away. “Fine. But expect those test scores to take an extra day.”
He let out a bleaty sort of laugh while you walked away. You considered it a credit to yourself that you held back the childish tantrum you wanted to throw as you moved back over to your desk to gather the rest of your things. You shoved your books into your bag with a bit more anger than necessary, and you heard footsteps behind you. You glanced over to see Fiyero sidled up beside you, leaning against the desk next to yours.
“Surely you won’t be this irritated at me the entirety of our project.” He still had that unbothered smile on his lips, and it made you want to hit him. “It might make this a much more miserable partnership.”
You let out a mirthless laugh as you shouldered your bag. “Don’t act like this pains you. You’re just going to ride my coattails the entire time.”
“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Fiyero mused. “But now that you bring it up, I just may have to.”
“For the love of Oz,” you muttered to yourself before mustering the strength to look up at him. “I have a myriad of things I need to do today. Why don’t you go bother your girlfriend for the rest of the day, and then you can meet me at the library first thing tomorrow morning so we can discuss all of this.”
He shrugged. “Sounds alright to me.”
“Good,” you said. “Because I meant every word I said back there. I will not have you ruining all my progress thus far because of your absolute refusal to think.”
“It looks as if you could take a page out of my book,” Fiyero said. “You seem awfully stressed.”
Your lips tightened into a mirthless smile. “I’m stressed because of you, Fiyero, and we have hardly even interacted. I dread to think of my mental state after a week of working together. Now, good day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You swept past him and walked out of Doctor Dillamond’s classroom. You felt his eyes on you until you turned the corner, and you had to resist the urge to look back.
Oh, how you loathed group projects.
-
The rest of your day was far more demanderating than it should have been, and you blamed Fiyero for it. You swore the clock went by half as quick and your lectures twice as long—it didn’t help that you were so distracted in chemistry that you nearly burned your eyebrows off from a potion gone wrong.
You’d practically thrown yourself onto your bed when you got back to your dorm, and you didn’t get up until your roommate got back and demanded to know what had gotten into you. She didn’t exactly give you the response you wanted.
“The prince is your partner?” Coralie sighed dreamily. “Oh, you are so lucky.”
“Lucky is not the way I’d put it,” you mumbled, words muffled by the sheets. You finally tore yourself up off your bed and picked your nightgown up from atop your dresser. You went behind your folding sheet and began to change. “And I didn’t know you had eyes for Fiyero.”
“I hardly have eyes for him,” she said wryly. “I just have eyes—anyone can see that he’s attractive.”
“It doesn’t matter how attractive he is if he makes me fail this midterm,” you said. You straightened your nightgown then folded your school uniform while you walked back into the open, passing a glance at your roommate as you placed it on your desk. You then settled on your bed with a huff. “I just don’t understand why Doctor Dillamond is punishing me like this. It makes me reconsider all those late nights spent grading papers for him.”
Coralie shrugged. “You’re one of his best students, Fiyero is probably one of his worst. I bet Doctor Dillamond figured you would be happy to take him on, what with how happily you take on everything else he throws at you.”
You grumbled as you laid back against your pillows. “I just don’t know if I can take him on. Fiyero seems to care more about flirting with every student at this school than any actual material.”
She gave you a mischievous smile. “Maybe he’ll turn the full force of his affections on you in return for your studiousness. Oh, how that would be a sight to see.”
“Don’t even put that idea into the air, Cora,” you scoffed. “Besides, he’s clearly involved with Galinda. Even if I was interested, which I’m not—” you emphasized with a pointed look at her— “that isn’t something I want to touch.”
“Well, you can’t deny that he’s dreamy,” she said. “He just showed up at Shiz and people started falling left and right. It’s more impressive that you haven’t.”
“Because I’m here for one reason,” you said. “His whole… thing doesn’t fit into any of it.”
“I know,” Coralie mused as she fell back onto her pillows. “You’ve told me your whole plan ten times over. I just think you should also try to enjoy your life instead of bulldozing your way through it.”
You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I’m enjoying my life just fine, thank you.”
Interestingly enough, Fiyero was going through something similar a myriad of rooms away.
He laid on Galinda’s bed, his head in her lap as she trailed her fingers through his hair. She’d been going on about something for the last couple of minutes, but he hadn’t really been able to focus on any of it.
“Dearest, did you not hear what I said?”
Fiyero blinked at the sound of Galinda’s voice. He hadn’t indeed.
“I’m sorry, beloved.” He absentmindedly reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze once he found it. “I was thinking.”
Elphaba laughed from across the room. She sat on her bed with a book in her lap. “That’s a first for you.”
“It is,” Galinda said, though with much more concern laced in her voice. Her hand moved from his hair to his forehead. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Just fine,” he assured. “What was it you were saying?”
“Just lamenting on how awful it is that we’ve been separated for this project,” she sighed. “I’m sure I could persuade Doctor Dillamond to put us in a group of three.”
“You can’t even get him to pronounce your name correctly,” Elphaba said wryly. “How could you get him to do this?”
“Well,” Galinda huffed, “maybe you could do it. He appears to like you more than me.”
“I’m sure that really hurts,” she said.
Galinda placed her hand on her chest. “It does!”
“It’s fine,” Fiyero interrupted. “I’m alright with my partner. She’s nice.”
“Nice?” Elphaba scoffed. “I heard her lecturing you the whole time we were out in the hallway.”
“She’s passionate,” he decided. “Besides, I don’t really care. I haven’t thought about it since she left.”
That was a complete lie. In truth, Fiyero hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since you left. Very strange for someone who preferred to go through life with less thinking and more doing.
He honestly didn’t know why his mind was so occupied with you.
He’d always been aware of you, obviously—all your professors adored you, your name was always brought up when talking about top of the class, and he was sure you held the record for most time spent in the library at once—but he didn’t know anything about you other than your academic record. And for someone with such strong opinions, especially about him, Fiyero found himself with the strange need to know more.
He would be at the library tomorrow. Maybe not on time, but certainly there.
Fiyero would make this the beginning of a beautiful partnership, one way or another.
-
True to your word, you were in the library bright and early after a quick stop at the dining hall. You went through the effort of gathering everything you thought you would need—a myriad of textbooks and encyclopedias, your well-weathered notebook and another one for Fiyero because you doubted he had one, and enough writing material for the two of you.
You sighed. You had to do so much just to even the ground between your groups and the others. Coralie was always so prepared whenever you worked together.
Fiyero, to your surprise, was only ten minutes late. You already had your head buried in a book when he said your name and scared you witless.
Your eyes widened as they darted up to look at him, and he chuckled.
“Sorry. You were in the zone.”
“I just wasn’t expecting you,” you said. “You’re late.”
“Hardly.” Fiyero took the seat across from you, his eyes sweeping over everything you had on the table. “You’ve got quite a collection.”
“I doubt you know your way around the library,” you said.
“I know my way around a lot of things.”
You leveled your gaze at him. Leave it to Fiyero to make everything an innuendo. “And is a library one of them?”
“I’m sure I could make it one.”
“If you bothered to think at all.”
“Darling, you know I’d never,” he said with a smile. “Now, what are we doing here?”
“Do you really not know what our midterm is?” you marveled.
“I have more important things to worry about,” he said.
You scoffed and shook your head. Ridiculous— it was ridiculous that you had to put up with this. Maybe Doctor Dillamond really did hate you.
“Our assignment is an extensively researched ten page paper on any great Ozian,” you said. “Anyone who has contributed to our society in a relevant way and made our lives better for it.”
“A ten page paper?” Fiyero frowned. “That seems a bit much.”
“Between the two of us, it’s just five pages each, and we’ve got two weeks to get it done,” you said. “I’ve written five pages in a few hours of inspiration.”
“Your life truly sounds thrilling,” Fiyero said. “We could do the Wizard.”
“Half the class is going to do the wizard,” you scoffed.
“Because he’s a great man,” he said. “There’s no shame in it.”
“There is absolutely shame in copying half the class,” you said as you pushed over a sheet of paper to him. “Now, I’ve already got a list going. Look it over; see if there’s anyone you like or anyone worthwhile you want to add.”
You looked back down at your encyclopedia, opened to your personal favorite choice, and continued scribbling down basic notes. You glanced up a few moments later to see Fiyero’s gaze hadn’t wavered from you.
You frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“You’re awfully prepared,” he said instead.
“I figured you wouldn’t be,” you responded.
Fiyero’s lips quirked in a smile. “Then I believe that means you deserve to choose our subject.”
Your frown deepened. “Really?”
“Are you always this suspicious of everyone?”
“Just you.”
“Then consider this an olive branch,” he said. He slid the paper back over. “Who’s your top choice?”
“…Ilara Mayfair,” you finally said as you pointed at her on the top of your list. “She was a historical linguist, responsible for half of what we know about Ozian languages and how they connect and differ. She’s…” you cleared your throat and shrugged, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, “she’s kind of my hero.”
“Your hero?” Fiyero’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what you want to do?”
“…It’s always been my dream,” you admitted. “I grew up helping around my parents’ bookstore and her mark was on nearly everything. I really admire it. I want to make that sort of difference in the world.”
“How noble,” he remarked. What surprised you was how genuine he sounded. “It’s impressive how much of your life you have planned out already. All Galinda knows is that she’s majoring in sorcery—she hasn’t really got anything else worked out.”
“What are you majoring in?” you asked.
“Undecided,” Fiyero said. “I was kicked out of my last school before I could declare, so I figure there’s not really a point in doing it here.”
“Not really a surprise,” you said.
“Really?”
“On your first day, you snuck off campus with half of Shiz to go dance at Ozdust,” you said. “That’s not exactly a good first impression.”
“I’d argue the opposite,” he said. Fiyero tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he focused on you for a moment. His gaze made you uncomfortably aware of yourself. “I don’t recall seeing you there.”
“That’s because I wasn’t there.” You looked back down at your encyclopedia to avoid his eyes. “I had more important things to do.”
He frowned. “Do you ever take a day off?”
“Of course,” you said. “There isn’t any class on the weekends.”
“I mean with this,” he said, gesturing at all the books around you. “It doesn’t seem like you allow yourself a single moment of respite. When you’re not in class, you’re studying. When you’re not studying, you’re doing work. When you’re not doing any of it, you’re probably dreaming of your future assignments.”
You felt your skin heat. Surely you weren’t that transparent.
“...I don’t dream of them,” you defended. “Not— not always.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous. Do you know that?”
You frowned. “How am I ridiculous? You’re incapable of taking a single thing seriously.”
“And you’re incapable of not taking everything seriously,” Fiyero said. “It can’t be good for your health.”
“I plan to get out of here a year early,” you said, looking back at your books. “I can’t slack off like you do if I want that plan to come to fruition.”
“Oh, I’ve gotten out of every school I’ve been in a year early,” Fiyero said. “Sometimes two or three— Oz, sometimes I don’t even make it through the first semester.”
Your eyes snapped back up to him, widened in instinctual panic. “What?”
He burst out laughing, and it grinded every one of your gears. “Oh, I wish you could see the look on your face! It’s priceless— truly priceless!”
“You’ve been kicked out of every school you’ve been to and you think it’s a joke?”
Still laughing, he shrugged. “It is. Nothing bad has happened, and I’m still having the time of my life wherever I go.”
You just shook your head as you stared at him, eyes still wide. “Are you always like this?”
“Utterly charming?”
“Entirely insufferable.”
You didn’t understand how he laughed. Everything rolled right off him, like oil off a duck’s back, no matter how many times you insulted him.
“You know, there are other things to life than your studies,” he said.
“Not while I’m here, there isn’t,” you said. “It’s the whole point of university.”
“The point of university is to have fun,” he said. “You’ve seen how this place has perked up since I’ve gotten here, haven’t you?”
“Not really, no,” you said. “I’ve been more focused on other things.”
“Like?”
“Like my studies.”
“It’s like I’m talking to a broken record,” he marveled. “Have you ever had fun in your life?” His eyes widened comically. “Do you even know what the concept of fun is?”
“Ha ha,” you said dryly.
He tilted his head. “Do you?”
You frowned. “Of course I do.”
“Okay, then.” Fiyero leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about yourself.”
Your frown deepened. “We aren’t doing a research paper on me.”
“We’re working together on this,” he said. “Is it a crime to want to know my partner?”
A muscle worked in your jaw as you stared at him. He stared back, entirely unaffected.
“If I humor you, will you actually work with me through this?”
Fiyero held up his hand. “Prince’s honor.”
Finally, you broke. You folded your arms with a short sigh then glanced away. “Fine. I’m from a tiny village in Gillikin that you’ve probably never heard of. I’m here on scholarship with the plan to graduate, become a historian, and make a name for myself.” You looked back at him. “Is that good enough for you?”
“It’s excellent,” Fiyero said with a smile. “Dare I say I’ve learned more about you in one short day than I have in the entirety of my time at Shiz?”
You gave him a fake smile as you tapped your book. “Open your textbook. We have a lot to catch up on.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not going to ask about me?”
“I mean this with all due respect—what could there possibly be to know about you?” You raised an eyebrow as you counted off on your fingers. “You’re from the Vinkus, you’re a prince, and you’ve never read a book a day in your life.”
“Oh, that’s not true,” he chastised. “I’ve read at least one—I just choose not to.”
“Well, how about we make that two?” You reached across the table and opened his book for him. “Unless that prince’s honor isn’t worth a thing.”
“Oh, it’s worth everything,” Fiyero said.
You raised your eyebrows expectantly. “Then prove it.”
“Very well,” he nodded. “I believe I can be serious for the next… fifteen minutes.”
“You won’t even get through a chapter,” you said. “Thirty.”
Fiyero frowned. “You set awfully high expectations.”
“Why do you think Doctor Dillamond forced me to help you?” you asked.
“Because you’re oh so nice and charitable?”
That got a genuine laugh out of you. If you’d been looking closer, you would have seen Fiyero’s smile grow, his eyes soften.
“Of course. Now, go to the glossary, find Ilara, and start writing. I know practically everything about her already, so you need to catch up.”
“I don’t have—”
You held out your extra notebook and fountain pen and cocked your head. “Don’t have what?”
Fiyero chuckled as he took them from you. “You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”
“Always,” you said with a satisfied smile. “Now get reading, my prince.”
He pressed his hand to his chest and bowed his head. “At once, my lady.”
-
You looked at the clock on the wall. Fiyero should have been here by now.
Granted, he was ten minutes late to your first meeting, but that was before he’d changed your expectations ever so slightly. Almost an hour had passed, and there was still no sign.
Of course, it wasn’t as if it hindered your progress. You kind of always expected him to fall short—if he showed at all, that was a credit to him—so you already had half the outline done. But a small part of you that you’d never admit to might have actually been looking forward to his presence.
You enjoyed the bout of verbal sparring he engaged you in. A lot of your classmates thought you were mean, and it never bothered you. Like you told Fiyero, you were here for one reason and one only, and the amount of people that liked you at university didn’t influence that at all. Your professors liked you and your grades were perfect—that was all.
But you couldn’t lie and say it wasn’t… nice. For Fiyero to take everything you said in stride, with a smile and a retort of equal measure.
It was nice. But that was all.
You were jarred out of your thoughts by someone calling your name. You looked up to see Fiyero sauntering over, bearing his usual smile and not much else.
“This is a library,” you said once he got closer. “You aren’t supposed to shout.”
He took the seat across from you. “I’d hardly call that shouting.”
“You aren’t meant to be loud,” you decided. “Why are you so late?”
Fiyero shrugged. “I lost track of time?”
“You know, we are partners,” you emphasized your last word, “so it would be helpful if you could try to put in the same amount of effort as me.”
“That seems impossible.” He gestured at your notebook with his head, your current page already nearly full. “You’ve got me beat on nearly everything.”
“It’s not that difficult,” you intoned. “I mean, just do some research outside of class.”
He stared at you expectantly, and you rolled your eyes. “I don’t know what I expect with you, honestly.”
“Exactly what you see, darling. Now,” Fiyero's gaze drifted over to the window, then looked back at you as he stood up, “what do you say we put a hold on things and enjoy this beautiful day?”
Your brows furrowed. “What, you mean do our research outside?”
“Is your work truly all you think about?” he asked in exasperation. “I mean leave the books and your notes and your stress here, and take a stroll around campus.”
“I’ve had my entire life planned out since I was ten years old,” you said. “Of course it is. I am not going to have some— some—”
“Some what?” Fiyero interrupted. He still looked remarkably unaffected by your outburst, that sideways smile of his infuriatingly charming.
“Some ridiculous, pompous, self-absorbed, lazy Winkie prince ruin it!” you exclaimed.
“Lazy,” he mused. “That’s a new one.”
“Of course you’re lazy! Why would we take a break when we have a project to do?”
Fiyero looked at you like you were crazy— no, like he was worried about you. He shook his head. “You really do have a one track mind.”
“When we’re in midterm season, yes, I d— what are you doing?”
Fiyero had started stacking all of the books you had on the table away from you, then he grabbed your notebook and your pen out of your hand.
“You need a break,” he said.
“I don’t need a break, and give that back—”
You reached for your materials but only just grazed his hand before he pulled them back and set them on top of the pile. “When was the last time you saw the sun?”
You scoffed. “I see the sun all the time.”
“Not from a window in the library or your dorm.”
You bit your tongue. Fiyero smiled and held out his hand.
“You need a break.”
You stared at his hand. He gave you a cloying look.
“It’s not a good sign that you’re this against self-care,” he said wryly.
You sighed and reluctantly placed your hand in his. “Fine.”
Fiyero grinned and he pulled you close. You yelped at the unexpected speed and you tumbled into his chest. Fiyero’s hand dropped to your waist, and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, wide eyed.
“Shall we?” he murmured.
You jolted away from him once you came back into yourself, your skin burning where he’d touched you.
“We shall,” you said, a bit too forcefully as you started walking a bit too fast.
Fiyero chuckled. He matched your pace easily, soon coming up beside you. “You’re already that excited?”
“Oh, shut up,” you bit out. “You’ve already gotten what you want. No need for more.”
He feigned naivety. “What would I possibly be doing?”
You shook your head with a huff. “I’m not entertaining that with a response.”
Fiyero simply hummed. You glanced over at him, still staying even with you, and then you let out another huff as you stopped. He didn’t miss a beat, pausing at the same time as you, then met your flustered expression with a smile.
“Yes?”
“You’re the one that wanted to do this,” you said, gesturing in front of you with a hand. “So lead the way.”
“Gladly,” he said. “I’m very good at taking the lead.”
Fiyero started walking and, though you had half a mind to take the opportunity and dart back to the library, you found yourself following him.
Cora’s words spun around your head as you and Fiyero walked together, about him turning the full force of his flirting on you in return for you being such a stickler for your midterm.
That was the embarrassing thing; you didn’t even think this was half of it, and he already had you blushing—and for what? It was as if you’d never even talked to a boy before.
You’d had plenty of experience back home. Village boys coming into your parents’ store to flirt at you, leaving notes in your desk in class, offering to walk you home at night—plenty of experience.
It didn’t matter that you denied them all and never went anywhere because you had a one track mind even then, and that Fiyero had done what no one else had and gotten you take a break simply because he asked nicely—
You sucked in a sharp breath as Fiyero’s arm suddenly pressed against your chest, stopping you in place. Your head snapped up to look at him, mouth already open with questions loaded, but he gestured with his head before you could ask any of them.
You’d nearly barreled right down the stairs from being lost in your head, without care nor consideration for actually taking the steps.
“Mind the gap, darling,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you damaging that brain of yours.”
“…Thank you,” you said once you’d regained the ability to speak words again. “One of us ought to have one.”
Fiyero laughed as he took his arm away. “Certainly.” He used it to gesture down the stairs. “Ladies first—unless you’re unsure of your ability to conquer them.”
“I’ll be just fine, Fiyero.” You started the descent, Fiyero right behind you, and you let out another short sigh.
There had to be something wrong with you. That was the only explanation for why you were acting this way.
Maybe you really did need to start getting more sleep.
I low-key already had this in the works because of this post by @your-mercurial-majesty but you know...might as well share with the class 👀
It started with longing looks. Just here and there when you ordered food or walked through the grocery store. Even when he stared dead eyed into the vending machine after a long shift.
He just longed for foods that crunched or snapped. Sweets and savouries. His lunch was always wet. Cutlery always slipping from his hands. Sandwiches always soggy and cardboard containers always melting.
So you started small.
Sharing your fries with quick movements, slipping them between his lips before he could react. Ripping him off chunks of your sandwich and feeding them to him as his noodles whirled around in the microwave. Dipping crackers in dip and feeding them to him as he cooked barefoot in your kitchen.
But then the z-team found a video of a raccoon trying to wash its cotton candy treat. Laughing over it at lunch and sharing it in the group chat.
And his face fell. Sinking into himself as Flambae nugged his side, roaring in laughter.
So you bought a tub.
Hiding it in your bag as you walked home together, slipping it under his bed as he updated Grandma on his day. Waiting there while you had meatloaf for dinner and watched Judge Judy until he carried her, fast asleep, to bed.
"Come on, I have a surprise for you"
You tugged on his arm as he closed the door, adorned with embroidery and dried flowers, dragging him down the hallway and sitting him down on the plastic lined mattress with a confused look.
You sat down next to him, bouncing on your knees as he pulled his own to his chest. White shirt and pyjama pants already soaking, clinging to him in a way you knew was uncomfortable but it wasn't quite time to undress and snuggle under wax covered sheets just yet.
"I know, well I hope you know, that I've been trying to hand feed you a bit more these days"
He blinked, wiping water out of his eyes. Cogs slowly turning.
"Is that what...?"
You nodded, leaning forward to push his hair back, out of his face. Cupping his cheeks and running fingers down his jaw along the way.
"You looked so sad with your soggy sandwiches and avoiding foods when we go out. I just...I wanted you to be able to enjoy food again. I hope you don't mind"
He reached for your hands, cupping them in his own. Long fingers running over your knuckles. Thinking about soft bread and crunchy crackers. Hot and salty fries between his teeth.
"No, no that's...thank you. I was-well I didn't want to say anything in case you..."
In case it stopped
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. Removing one hand from his grip to tug at the collar of his shirt. Felling him relax just a bit more, remembering its just you two in the room, he didn't need to put up a front, no one was here to tease him or embarrasses him, he could just be Hermy.
"I'll fed you ever bite for the rest of your life if it would make you happy"
He smiled, all soft cheeks and white teeth. It made your heart race, the tub sitting temptingly under the bed. Calling out to you in a way you couldn't ignore anymore.
"I actually have a treat for you, if you don't mind trying it. Close your eyes"
You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, lifting his hands to cover his eyes as you wiped moist hand on your own shirt, drying them off and retrieving the tub.
The lid was stuck on fast but you managed to pry it open, pulling out a chunk of fluffy pink sugar and lifting it up to his mouth. Cupping his jaw as your thumb wandered, brushing across his bottom lip.
"Keep them closed, and open up"
And he did. Mouth open wide, tongue suck out comically, making you giggle as you slide the pink cloud inside. Watching it melt in his mouth as he closed his lips, whole body lighting up at the sweet taste.
"Is that...?"
He lowered his hands, eyes wide as he looked down at the tub on your lap.
"It is! You-I-its so..."
"Sweet?"
He nodded, reaching for the fluffy pile but quickly pulling back, cupping wet hands to his chest.
"Yeah, yeah that. I can't believe-how did you..?"
You tugged another mouthful free, pooping it into his mouth, watching the smile that spread across his face. Eyes full of happiness and adoration.
You almost melted faster than the the cotton candy coating his tongue. Dying it red with each morsal.
"Believe it or not, I actually do pay attention attention to you. It's almost like I have a crush on you or something"
He carefully moved the tub, pulling you in for a sugary kiss. Hands cupping your face, dripping down your neck as you smiled. Sucking the sugar granules from his lips. Tugging on his shirt, pulling wet fabric away from his chest as you swallowed sugary water, sucked that tantalising red tongue until you were breathless.
Headcanon John Constantine gets hit fucking heavy with food comas, like once he’s taken the last bite of a large meal? He’s dead to the world in the closest thing to a peaceful sleep as he can get. But not only getting a good, filling meal, but having a significant other who loves cooking? Making vegetables he used to hate likable, or having something for him to eat even while gone? He is all yours, but especially showing his gratitude after meals about to fall deep into a food coma.
Drowsy & grumbling praise about how delicious your cooking was as it’s hard to tell if he’s hugging you or using you as support to stay upright with his head resting on your shoulder. Yeah you’re not cleaning up anytime soon, you’re dragged to the nearest comfiest surface for him to sleep on, hogging you more than the covers for once through mumbled praise as he falls asleep in your embrace.
“What would I do without you luv?” He hums his eyes too tired to open.
“Starve.” You smirk brushing some crumbs off the corner of his lip.
“Bloody right I would…”
A/N: I show I love people through cooking for them…& I would love to give John delicious food considering how horrible his self care is.
