Solving Mysteries, Solving Problems.

The Midnight Subway

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x GN!Reader

Deranged Five my beloved ❤️ They massacred your character

(this is not canon compliant in the slightest; prepare for gross misinterpretation of Five's new powers)

Summary: You are the only passenger on the timeline subway. You've met many iterations of the same traveler, but he never comes back. Until he does, and he finally asks the right questions. He claims to know how to stop the apocalypse, and all he needs is your help, but is he worth leaving behind all you know?

Word count: 3.6k

(AN: Confession: I never watched season 4 because I saw what a trainwreck it turned out to be, so this is very VERY loosely based in canon. Also the relationship between Five and Lila doesn’t exist because Genuinely What The Fuck. Basically I saw the vague concept of a time subway and ran with it.)

He’s covered in blood again.

He is more often than not.

In the middle of wiping arterial spray off his face with a handkerchief, he notices you, and surprise and suspicion flit over his face. Not a version of him that’s met you before, then. You’ve met him… eleven times now? All different versions from different timelines. All tired. All old beyond their years.

They get off at the same stop every time and never get back on.

This one’s wearing his school uniform. You’ve never seen him dressed like that before. His hair is long like the rest of them, though, strands hanging over his narrowed eyes.

“Who the hell are you?”

You blink. He’s not usually so aggressive. “I’m just a passenger.”

“How did you get here?”

You shrug. “Stepped off the station platform, I think.” It was a long time ago, except it wasn’t. You’ve been riding this subway for a very long time, except you haven’t. Your mind is filled with a hundred thousand identical minutes of staring out the window at the blurred lights, but you look exactly the same as you did when you boarded. “Hey, what year is it for you?” Sometimes he says something truly outrageous.

He ignores your question in favor of trying to pull open the subway doors, but they don’t budge. He curls his hands into fists. Blue light crackles around them and he pushes, but nothing happens.

You clear your throat. “Unfortunately, that won’t work. You’ll just have to wait until we get to your stop.”

“What do you mean, my stop?”

“I don’t know. I think you just have to feel it.”

“Well, aren’t you cryptic.” He rolls his shoulders and angles his chin, a tell you’ve noticed he does just before attacking. Sure enough, out comes the gun from his pocket. He angles it square at your forehead and snaps, “Explain. Now.”

“I can’t.” You raise your chin, daring him to shoot. You’re not sure if people can die on the subway. You’re not sure if you can die. You’re not sure that you don’t want to. “Obviously I’ve never felt it.” You gesture pointedly at your seat. “I’ve been here a long time.”

“How long?”

“Time doesn’t really exist here.”

For a moment it’s obvious that he’s internally debating whether or not to shoot you. “Fuck.” He shoves the gun back into his pocket. “When’s the next stop, then? I need to get off, I need to save my family. There’s an apocalypse—”

“I know,” you say gently. He’s always worried about one apocalypse or the other, always running from a million different ways to end the world. “You might as well sit. There’s no way to stop the train. It’ll stop when it’s meant to.”

“No. No, I don’t have time for this.” He shakes his head. “I’m finding a way out. You can rot here for all I care.”

“I won’t,” you say serenely. Until the timelines implode, you’ll continue to ride the subway. And once they do, you probably still will. It exists outside of the continuum. All that will change, you think, is that there will be no more stops. It’ll just be one long subway ride for eternity. If not, then at least you’ll go out painlessly.

He sighs and looks around for anyone to commiserate, but there’s only you. Without so much as a goodbye, he’s stalking away in that little ramble that reminds you sometimes of an adolescent bear: a dangerous beast that thinks it’s as large as it will be, not as it is now.

He slams the door to the next compartment. You sigh and scratch the cheap paint on the pole to your right. Sometimes he stays longer, sits down in a seat across from you and asks questions meant to seem casual, but you always know they're an interrogation.

You'll see another him soon enough. There's no indication of time on the subway—if it was real, it would be in an underground tunnel, and the only light comes from the flickering fluorescents above and the occasional tunnel light through the window. Days don't pass with the indication of a sun and moon. You're not sure if you've ever even slept. So you're not sure how long it will be before another shows up. Once two showed up at the same time and tried to kill each other. At least the survivor was nice enough to drag the body away before he got off.

Some time later you feel the subway shudder. You tilt forward slightly as it starts to slow down and eventually stop. Both sides of the doors open to a nondescript subway station, and the train repeats its usual monotone monologue. Time for him to get off, then. Maybe there's a difference in the destinations depending on which side you choose, but probably not. You're pretty sure the subway knows what its riders need.

An hour, a day, or a year passes, and the door to the next compartment opens. He steps through again. This one is wearing the same schoolboy uniform, and he doesn't look surprised to see you.

In fact, he's strangely intent.

"There's no one else on this train," he says, and you realize this is the same boy you just saw.

He came back.

He's never come back before.

Something stirs inside of you, something you haven't felt in a long time. It's still trapped beneath the blanket of dull apathy you've nurtured for so long, but its shape starts to rise in your throat.

"So why are you here? How are you here? Who even are you?" He stands in front of you close enough that you can see blood on the side of his neck that he didn't wipe off.

"I told you before. I got on. Why didn't you get off at your stop?" He's never stayed on the train longer than he has to. He's never stayed.

"This isn't a subway you can just 'get on.'" He uses finger quotes. "Do you work for the Temps Commission?"

"No," you say slowly. "I don't know what that is."

Abruptly he sits down across from you, loosens his tie, and asks, "What day were you born?"

"What a strange question. I don't know."

"You don't know an awful lot."

"I was born sometime in the fall of 1989," you say. "Sometime in September, I think, or maybe early October. That's what they estimated at the orphanage, anyway."

He sits back and runs a hand through his long hair. "You don't know."

"What do I not know."

"Who you are." He looks at you curiously. "That's why you keep ignoring the question."

You snort. It's not even very funny, but you haven't had anything to find amusing ever since you stepped on the platform. What a relief to learn that you can still laugh. Of all the things the universe stole from you, laughter isn't one of them. "Of course I know who I am. I'm one of you."

"What?"

"Or I was supposed to be." He still looks confused, so you elaborate, "One of the umbrellas."

"How do you know about that?"

"I didn't grow up on the train. I got on when I was nineteen. I saw your team all over the news growing up." A familiar hurt pangs in your stomach. "Why was I the only one your father didn't adopt?"

He lets out a long breath, then says, "Jesus." He stands up, then sits back down. “Well, if it makes you feel better, you weren’t the only one. Reginald only needed seven. He made forty-three.”

“Oh.” You slouch a little in your seat. It’s comforting to know that your exclusion wasn’t personal. You and thirty-five other kids hadn’t been found. Had their parents kept them? They probably had families. And even though the Umbrella Academy’s families hadn’t kept them, at least they had each other.

It’s comfortable to sink back into self-pity.

“So what can you do? Do you have a name, at least?”

“Of course I have a name,” you say, and tell him what it is. “Funny you ask me that when you’re the one that doesn’t. Is this where you went when you died?”

“No.” A shadow crosses over his face. “I went somewhere much worse.”

“Sorry,” you say after a pause. It seems like the appropriate response. You haven’t had a real conversation in a while. Or maybe you had the last one yesterday, just before stepping onto the subway.

“So what can you do?”

“Change time.”

“Excuse me?”

“How do you think I made it here?”

Technically, time broke when you and Five were born, bunching into little pockets like the one you made your home. When he jumped through time, though, he started the branching of realities.

The only real difference between you two is that you can manipulate time, and he can get in and out of it. That's not to say that he doesn't have its own influence over it, though.

"I made this little pocket of time into a circle, and around and around we go.” You spin your finger in the air. “But it’s because of you that it looks like a train. Five, who do you think broke the timeline in the first place?”

He stares at you, speechless.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say defensively. “And you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“That’s—just so—how does that make any sense? People are still dying! My family will die!” Instead of the gun, this time he pulls out a switchblade and flips it open. The tip glints under the fluorescents.

This has never happened before. The Fives never come back. They’ve never asked the right questions. After all, you’re not hiding anything.

“You can’t kill me,” you say wearily.

“I can try,” he growls, and lunges.

Here, you exist constantly. It's a circle and it's one stationary point. The track is an ouroboros, and the train isn't even moving. Five lunges and he doesn’t, and your throat splits and it doesn’t, and blood spills all down your front and it doesn't. You choke as it rushes out, and—

There is no blood. No cut. Five is back in his chair holding the switchblade, and you’re still in yours.

“You can’t surprise me,” you say apologetically. “I’ve seen everything. Before you even try to kill me I’m stopping you.”

“I’ll figure out a way,” he growls.

The subway grinds to a halt. You look around, surprised, when the brakes squeal. That’s never happened before. The announcement over the speakers is so gravelly you can barely understand a word.

The doors open. Five looks between you and the exit several times, then makes his decision.

“I’ll be back,” he promises. Threatening, like that’s supposed to scare you. You’d be glad for the company, you think. You’ve been sitting in silence for so long.

He steps off the train and the doors whoosh closed.

The ride starts again, and you fall back into the comfortable lull of the engine’s rumbling.

Some time later, the subway stops again. Its words are still garbled through the speakers. Technically, no time exists here, but you're pretty sure these intervals are out of the ordinary. Are they affecting the subway?

It starts back up again, and the connecting compartment's door opens. In walks a new Five. He's wearing the same schoolboy uniform as the last—you think. Instead of a spray of blood on his face and collar, though, he's completely soaked in it, like he drained a hundred bodies and bathed in their entrails. His hair is soaked flat against his head, and his teeth are red when he bares them.

"I'm back," he growls.

It's the same Five.

He came back again. No one's ever come back for you even once, let alone twice.

"What did you do?" Your stomach twists. You're not squeamish, but this is... a lot.

"I went to a diner," he huffs and sprawls in the chair across from you. The gaudy faux-velvet seat drinks the blood up greedily. "Met a lot of alternate versions of me."

"Did you kill them all?" you ask, horrified. Some of them had been polite. Gentle, even, beneath their hard exteriors.

"They had given up," he snarls. "They wanted me to give up on saving my family. I haven't spent decades of my life fighting for them to do that." A manic light shines in his eyes. "One of them made brisket."

Your lips twitch. "You're not a fan of brisket?"

"I like brisket fine," he says, giving you an annoyed side eye. "What I didn't like was their attitude."

"So you killed them all."

"Yes."

Well, at least he remains secure in his decisions.

“So I broke the timelines?”

“We both did.”

“So we’re the only ones with a chance of mending them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Why not?” he challenges. “You said you made a pocket of time—this pocket of time—a circle. Why can’t you fix it?”

“Because our birth was what broke it in the first place,” you say sharply. “I don’t want to die.”

“You’re so selfish you wouldn’t sacrifice yourself for the world?”

“The world’s never done anything for me,” you say. Cruel foster home after foster home, orphanage between them, minimum wage paychecks kept in a box beneath your bed because you couldn’t open a bank account without guardian permission as a minor, and an abrupt stint at being homeless the moment you aged out of the system. You couldn’t afford housing even on the highest-paying job that would hire you. You couldn’t afford a college degree to get a better job. No, the world never did a thing for you. That’s why you left in the first place. “It’s not my responsibility to save it. Besides, you’d have to die, too. Are you willing to make that sacrifice?”

“For my family, in a heartbeat,” he says immediately. “I’ve killed plenty of people to save them. What’s another two more?”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” you sigh. “For as long as we exist here, the timelines stop branching.”

“What?”

“I already did the world a favor by leaving, but you kept breaking it by jumping through time.”

“If you won’t come willingly, I’ll force you.”

“You could certainly try.”

“I’m leaving.” He stands abruptly.

You sigh as he does, accompanied by the train's distorted, "Arriving now—doors clear at—see you—"

What a miracle that he visited you thrice. The company should tide you over for a long while yet.

You sit for a while, just looking at the blood stain he left on the chair across from you. Eventually it starts to stink, or maybe that’s just in your head. Either way, looking at it makes your stomach turn.

Ever since you got on the train and sat down, you’ve never switched seats. It’s almost a surprise that you can stand up. You clutch the pole close to you for balance when the floor vibrates underneath your feet just slightly with the force of the train’s engine.

You head across the compartment and sit in a seat facing away from the bloodstain, but the back of your neck prickles. It’s in the shape of Five’s body, and you can’t stop picturing it coming together as a facsimile of a person, a terrible lumbering blood-shadow creeping up on you.

You jump to your feet and whirl around, but it’s just a bloodstain.

You can’t stay here, but you don’t know what the next compartment looks like.

Will it be exactly the same? Will it be completely different?

It's the same, and for some reason you can't bring your feet to stop moving. You pass through that car, then the next. They're all the same, except none have the bloodstain that Five left on his seat. Would it still be there if you were to return? Can you even go back?

You can't stop opening the doors, but the train never slows. You want to get off. You want to explore more of this inbetween space.

You want to find the Five that came back for you.

You give up after a hundred compartments and stand in the middle of one, clutching the nearest pole for dear life, barely swaying with the train's gentle movement. The train was always an escape for you, but now it seems more like a trap. One that you sprung on yourself without knowing how to get out.

Do you even want to get out?

The air shifts, and you turn just in time to see the bag close over your head.

Five drags you away from the pole and slams you into a seat. Something poking out of it digs into your back. You can only see the faint light filtering through the bag, and that makes you hyperfocused on Five's hands on your shoulders.

"I figured it out," he snarls, the sound so close he must not be more than an inch from your face. "You and everyone else that gave up were wrong. There's a way to save the world and save my family, so you're going to get off this train now, or you get off the train in thirty minutes after I cut off each of your fingers and feed them to you and you beg me to stop you."

You suck in a breath. It's one of his more graphic threats for sure. Oddly enough, you can't see how this will play out. The bag over your head means you can't see where the blows will come from.

For the first time in a long time, you're scared.

Your mouth opens without knowing what to say. You're saved by a screech of static. The train announces, "Congratulations! All passengers—to a book club—third compartment in any direction—Ben will see you there."

The pressure of Five's hands disappears from your shoulders, and you hear hurried footsteps. He never tied the bag, so you rip it off in time to see him pass through the door to the next compartment.

Your pulse bounds in your throat. That announcement was new, and makes the train sound much more sentient than any train ought to. You're supposed to be the one in charge of this pocket dimension, but what if you're not? What if someone else has been calling the shots this whole time?

You chase after Five. At least with him, you know what he wants. You know how to appease him. He doesn't go out of his way to hurt people, at least, though he doesn't seem to think of himself as anything more than a killer.

You only catch a glimpse of his heel in the next compartment. You start to run. What if the doors lead you to separate cars, and you never see him again? The only person that ever came back for you, and he did it four times.

You're still running when you make it to the third compartment, and you run straight into Five's back. He doesn't even seem to notice it, apart from stumbling a bit. He's too busy staring openmouthed at the man sitting down. His hair is a little bit longer than it was when you saw him last.

The stranger has dark hair and glasses, and there's a book forgotten on his lap. He looks just as surprised to see Five as Five is to see him.

Five chokes out, "Ben?"

Oh. Ben Hargreeves. Number six of the Umbrella Academy. The Horror. He always seemed so gentle when you saw him on TV, at least when he wasn't covered in blood.

"Five." Ben puts the book to the side and stands. Five is already striding towards him, and they collide into a tight hug.

Seconds later, Five pulls away and demands, "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know." Ben shrugs. "I woke up on this subway a couple days ago with this book."

A muscle twitches in Five's jaw. "And instead of trying to find a way out, you started to read it?"

Ben says, "It seemed like the right thing to do." His eyes slide past his brother and land on you. "Who's this?"

You introduce yourself and Ben's eyes widen. "That's you?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's hard to explain. It's just... you exist in this subway." The way he says exist sounds like he means something bigger. Deeper. He just doesn't know the right words for it, because there might not be any. "I was waiting for you to find me."

"Why?"

"It felt right."

What on earth does that mean? If it felt right for him to wait for you, why didn't it feel right for you to seek him out? Why did it take you decades or minutes to chase after Five and bump into Ben? None of it makes sense.

Five grabs Ben's sleeve. "Hold on to me." He looks at you and says firmly, "You have to let go."

"Let go of what?"

"You know what. The reason you got on the train in the first place. Y/N, you have to let go."

Your lips tremble. "I don't want to."

"I know. But you have to." Five's hand takes yours. He squeezes it comfortingly. "I need you for this. Won't you come with me?"

You take a deep breath.

And you let go.

Five x Reader Taglist

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My requests are open! As always, let me know if there's anything you particularly want to read!

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐎 — 𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐄

"you know, i'm perfectly capable of going to the grocery store on my own," you tell iwaizumi, lingering a step behind him as he walks down the aisle, scanning the items neatly lined up on the shelves. he only hums in acknowledgement. you click your tongue in mock annoyance because, despite your resistance to his assistance, you don't mind having him around. still, you're not used to being coddled like this. "being pregnant doesn't mean i can't walk. my feet aren't defective."

"just hush and let me help," hajime speaks, resting one hand on the top of your head while the other reaches for a bag of brown rice. the weight on your head is comforting, a reminder of why iwaizumi is really here. ever since you read the positive test and the man who was meant to be with you walked out, iwaizumi, your best friend, stepped up and became your lifeline—attended all of your appointments, started reading baby books in his free time, calmed you down whenever you were feeling overwhelmed. he made sure you weren't making this journey alone.

"can i at least push the cart?" you attempt to negotiate. you may not mind having him here with you, but you'd be lying if you said that following him around while he did all the work wasn't getting boring. "wouldn't it be safer to have something in front of me in case i trip?"

"how could you trip?" he asks, more humor in his voice than usual. "you just told me that your feet work fine."

you groan at the way he twists your words, hands coming up to unconsciously rub at your belly. it's become a habit of yours, caressing the steadily growing bump whenever you're stressed or bored. it gives you something to do and floods you with an immeasurable amount of contentment.

"oh, congratulations, dear." you turn at the sound of a frail voice. an elderly woman on the opposite side of the aisle looks at you through squinted eyes, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. you figure she's referring to your stomach.

"thank you."

"how far along are you?"

"eighteen weeks." you smile. iwaizumi intently watches your interaction—the way your eyes light up and how your hands protectively cradle the little bulge. "this little one is the size of a sweet potato."

the fruit and vegetable comparison was always a little silly to you but it came in handy during moments like these. this specific week actually helped you remember something that slipped your mind while you were making the list of items you needed.

"oh!" you snap and point at iwaizumi. "that's what i forgot earlier. i'm going to go grab a few."

"hold on, i'll-" your hand shoots up, palm out, to stop him from finishing his sentence—one that you're positive would include him insisting on joining you.

"hajime." you're more than grateful to have someone to lean on but at this rate, you're going to forget how to live as an independent being. "i can walk a couple aisles down and bag some vegetables on my own."

"right," he curtly nods, "i'll stay and wait for you here."

you hurry off to grab the sweet potatoes your obstetrician recommended adding to your diet and leave iwaizumi to aimlessly shift back and forth on his feet.

"you must be excited." the familiar voice catches the man's attention, leading him to face the nice old woman.

"i'm sorry?"

"about becoming a father," she clarifies.

his lips part in understanding and he nods. there's no harm in letting one woman neither of you will see again think that he was the baby's dad. it happened quite often but you always brush off the assumptions by jokingly saying "i wish." it's never bothered iwaizumi—people's first thought being that he was the father or the fact that you corrected them. he expected as much when he offered a helping hand. what he didn't expect was that his heart would jump every time he heard any variation of the word. he kept that to himself, though.

the woman slowly approaches iwaizumi and places a soothing hand on his arm. he has to look down to meet her eye but when he does, he's met with nothing but warmth. her eyes crinkle with her smile. "i'm sure you and your wife will be great parents."

she continues down the aisle, leaving iwaizumi with her words. his arms rest on the handle of the cart as the woman's statement echoes in his head. parents. at the moment, hajime's a support system—driving you around on errands and helping with chores around the house. the two of you haven't discussed what his role will be after you've given birth, but, despite that, he knows he wants to be there for you and your baby every step of the way if you'll have him.

"i'm back and bearing potatoes," you announce your arrival, dropping the vegetables in the cart. your gaze falls to iwaizumi who's staring ahead, his eyebrows knit together in deep thought. you reach out to smooth the crease between his brows with your thumb. "what's wrong with you?"

"nothing." what's on his mind is a conversation better had not in a supermarket. "come on. let's wrap this up and get you home for lunch."

"gosh, you sound just like a dad," you comment through a laugh, hooking your arm around one of his.

like clockwork, iwaizumi's heart skips another beat. it feels different this time; he figures it's because you're the one who said it.

thanks for reading! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Annoying

Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: It’s no secret Five finds you annoying. In fact, he frequently tells you this. Maybe he even goes too far. But when someone else insults you, Five realizes that only he’s allowed to do that. Reader is gender neutral.

Warnings: Hurtful comments said to the reader

Word Count: 3500

A/N: I’m alive! So long story short, I lost the motivation to write for a while which caused my spontaneous hiatus. I honestly wasn’t sure if I would post anything again. But then, I rediscovered comfort in writing, especially when it’s about my best boys. 

My posting from now on may be a bit sporadic as I’m back in school but I do intend to keep posting.

Anyway, here’s my favourite grumpy boy as a treat!

Five Hargreeves had gotten used to working at the Commission. He still hated every second of it: the job, the people, the killings. But he had adapted, just like he had in the apocalypse, and had fallen into a familiar routine that made the situation easier to swallow. He had finally accepted his job and made peace with it. That is, until you came along.

You also work at the Commission as a field agent and until recently, Five didn’t even know of your existence. Then one day, you came into his office and tried to chat with him. He was bewildered of course and told you to get the hell out of his face. But his rude words didn’t deter you. Instead, you asked him if he wanted to be your partner in the field. Again, Five was shocked and told you absolutely not. Unfortunately, you don’t seem to take no as an answer.

Every day since then, you kept popping into his life. Every day you would make nice with him, do him favours, and were overall friendly with him. Every day, he offered you nothing but a cold shoulder. Every day you asked him to be your partner and every day he told you no.

It was extremely aggravating to say the least. He tried to report you to the Handler but she told him you were doing nothing wrong. She even made some suggestive comments that made Five regret ever going to her for help. So he was on his own.

Except none of his usual moves worked. You never shied away from his negative presence. If he blinked away, you would somehow find him again. There seemed to be no way to remove you from his life.

He’s sitting in his office working when he hears a sound he has come to dread. “Knock knock,” you say as you open his door, not waiting for a response. He once asked you, “What if I was doing something private?” but that only made him flush at the accidental implication and you laughed.

“Not now,” he mumbles, not taking his eyes off his work.

“Yes now,” you say, entering the room and taking a seat on the other side of his desk. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t just removed the chair since the only person who ever used it was you. “I brought you coffee!”

This causes him to glance up, only a little, and what a mistake that turns out to be. There you sit, a beaming smile spread across your face. Your eyes tend to light up when you smile, bringing attention to how stunning they are. Thoughts like these make him feel queasy, at least that’s what he’s deeming it to be. His face also tends to heat up and his breathing acts funny. He’s considered a few times that he was sick, but every test indicated otherwise.

This is another thing that bothers him so much about you. You bring unknown feelings that Five has never experienced before, and he hates feelings, let alone unfamiliar ones.

“The answer is still, and always will be, no,” he says blankly, his eyes focused on his computer but he isn’t paying attention to what’s on the screen.

“But I haven’t even said my pitch yet!” you complain. Without looking, he knows you’re looking at him with big puppy dog eyes. He would never admit, even to himself, that they affect him. “I think today’s speech is much better—”

“Doesn’t matter, still a no.”

You ignore him and clear your throat. “As your partner—”

“Stop.”

“I would bring you freshly made coffee every morning, just the way you like it,” you continue. He decides to stop talking to you altogether. With concentration, he’s able to read the words on the screen and continue typing. “You can still take lead on the missions, though you’ll find I’m fairly skilled on the field. This will also reduce the danger of getting hurt, and if one of us does get hurt, the other can patch them up.”

It is a pain to tend to my own wounds, Five thinks before mentally berating himself. He’s supposed to be ignoring you. And besides, he’s been taking care of himself for years, he’s used to the difficulties by now.

“Another bonus, is that with me as your partner, the Handler won’t be on you as much,” you say, and despite himself, he listens. “She’ll know that someone else has their eyes on you, and with my reputation, she’ll trust me with it.”

Now that actually sounds desirable. The Handler is always checking in on him and keeping a watchful eye on his actions. She knows he’s a good agent, he’s proved that by now, but she still worries that he might betray them. This makes him a loose canon in her eyes. Plus, with her attention elsewhere he’ll be able to make more progress on his secret project to return to his family—

Stop it, he tells himself. This is exactly what you want. You actually have him considering the possibility of becoming partners. The more your voice fills his ears and the more he thinks about what it would mean to have you as a partner, the more his face starts to burn.

He can feel himself losing control over his emotions and he panics. Clearly, ignoring you is not the solution.

“That’s enough!” he yells, causing you to pause mid-sentence. He looks over at you to see your wide eyes staring at him. For the first time, he sees a crack in your positive shield. He continues. “God, just stop already. I am so sick and tired of you groveling at my feet, it is so annoying. Why won’t you get this through your head? I am never partnering with anyone, especially not with you! So for the last time, leave me alone!”

A deadly silence fills the room. Five is panting from his outburst and when his anger recedes, he finds he’s shocked at himself. He’s never had an outburst like that, never yelled like that before. Sure he gets angry and frustrated all of the time, but he hardly ever yells and his words are never that venomous. He just got so riled up with his emotions…

You also seem shocked. You try to cover it up, but he can still tell. You seem unsure of what to say and your usual peppiness seems to have vanished as well. Five isn’t sure how to feel. He also isn’t sure of what to do.

You then clear your throat. “Well then,” you say, trying to piece yourself together. “You seem busy so I should go.” You grin but its wobbly and it doesn’t meet your eyes. And despite himself, he feels sorry. You wordlessly stand up and exit his office.

The silence remains and Five is left frozen. After a moment, he shakes his head and tries to feel unbothered by what just happened.

†††

A few hours have passed since his conversation with you, and Five is out of coffee. He blinks to the Commission’s break room but then he sees you there. You’re standing at the counter with your back to him and in a moment of panic, he blinks to behind a wall just around the corner from the break room.  

He curses silently. He can’t believe that he’s hiding from you after earlier. Maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with your emotions. Or maybe he’s hiding from his own.

He’s about to just toughen up and deal with it when he hears someone else entering the room. “Y/N, how nice to see you,” he hears someone say. He looks to see a woman approaching you. Five thinks he’s seen her around but doesn’t recognize her. He’s tried not to make friends here or fill his mind with useless information. This means he only knows a few people including you and the Handler.

“Cassandra,” he hears you say in a bitter tone. He frowns. He’s never heard you speak like that.

“How have you been?” Cassandra asks and Five doesn’t know why, but she sounds ingenuine despite her cheery tone. He also suspects her smile to be too friendly.

“Fine.” You don’t even look over at her as you continue whatever you were doing at the counter. It isn’t like you to be short with people, and Five wonders if it’s because of what he said.

“I heard you got in trouble with the Handler this morning,” Cassandra says. Oh shit, Five thinks. He isn’t sure if that happened before or after he yelled at you but either way, he doesn’t envy your morning.

“Yup,” is your only response. Cassandra doesn’t seem satisfied by your response. She walks over and leans against the counter next to you.

“That must have been awful. I hope she doesn’t fire you soon,” she says with false concern. You still don’t glance her way. You simply nod your head absentmindedly as your focus remains locked on the kettle in front of you, waiting for the water to boil. Cassandra just keeps talking. “Are you still bugging Agent Five about being his partner?”

Five’s ears begin to burn as the conversation steers towards him. Now more than ever, he thinks he should leave this private conversation, but his feet remain glued to the floor. What does he care? he tries to tell himself, but it doesn’t work.

He watches as you grip the counter tightly. Unfortunately, Cassandra also seems to notice and she takes that as an answer. “Aw you poor thing,” she says, putting her hand on your shoulder only for you to shrug it off.

“Look Cassandra,” you say, your voice filled with agitation. “I’ve had a really bad day, if you could just—”

“I can only imagine,” the woman says, and Five is starting to really dislike her. “It must be hard, getting rejected day after day. I’m surprised you haven’t given up.”

“Fuck it.” You push yourself off the counter. You turn around and Five ducks back around the corner. “I’ll come back later.”

There’s a moment of silence before, “Do you know why he keeps rejecting you?” Five risks a glance to see that you’ve turned back around.

“What?” you say, surprised by the question.

“It’s the same reason why all of the others rejected you,” she says, which takes Five by surprise. He didn’t know there were others. An illogical flare of jealousy rises in him before he stomps it out.

“You’re annoying,” she says, her tone one of false sympathy. “No one wants to be around you. You come on way too strong and, sweetie, you reek of desperation.”

“S-stop,” you say, in shock but also seemingly hit by a bullet of emotions. Even Five is surprised.

“You’re just a nuisance,” Cassandra says. “A pest that no one can get rid of. That’s why you’ve never found a partner and that’s why you never will. I mean, who could like you let alone stand you?”

“Cassandra…” you say and Five can hear the quiver in your voice. He doesn’t know why, but the sound makes his chest tighten.

“Face it, Y/N,” she says, now standing right in front of you. “You were always meant to be alone.” Finally, Five can’t take it anymore. He walks out from around the corner and glares at Cassandra. He finds himself loathing her. Only he is allowed to call you annoying.

Cassandra glances past you and looks surprised to see him there. Just like that, she has on her friendly looking face again. “Oh hey there Fi—” she starts to say to him.

“Get out,” he spits at her. Her eyes widen at his venomous tone but decides to listen, scurrying away. It’s nice to see his fearful reputation precedes him. There’s a silence that settles in the room once she’s left. You seem to be frozen in place, not even turning to face him. He isn’t sure what to do himself, whether to somehow approach you or to ignore you entirely.

Luckily, his decision is made for him as you wordlessly walk back up to the counter towards the kettle. Five clears his throat, trying to rid himself of this awkward feeling, and walks up beside you.

He doesn’t address you, after all he normally isn’t the one to start the conversation. Which is why it’s so odd when you don’t. The two of you move about silently, completing your individual tasks. He finds he can’t even look at you, for the downtrodden look on your face still inflicts pain upon him. Finally, after an agonizing amount of time, you speak.

“Five,” you say, also clearing your throat. “I, uh, I have some good news for you.”

He sees that you’re trying to plaster on your usual happy appearance but it’s broken and he can see right through it.

He expects you to say something along the lines of “I forgive you for earlier” or “I made you some coffee.” He expects you to forgive him and act as normal. He did not, however, expect your actual words.

“I will no longer be bothering you with my presence.” Normally, these words would send him jumping for joy. After all, this is what he’s been wanting. But after the conversation he overheard, something gave him pause.

“Oh?” he says, at a loss for words as he is caught off guard.

“Yeah,” you say with a forced smile. “I’ve realized that I haven’t been respecting your feelings, as you have made it more than clear that you don’t want me as a partner and that you never will.”

He hears your voice crack towards the end and he can’t help but compare your words to Cassandra’s. “Yes I uh…I appreciate that,” he says, hesitant with his words. He isn’t sure what to make of all of this.        

“Right,” you say, straightening yourself. You pick up your mug and turn to fully face him. He tries to ignore the shine of incoming tears in your eyes. “See you around. And uh, sorry for bothering you.”

Before he can say anything else, you turn and exit the room, leaving Five in a state of uncertainty.

†††

When Five walks into work the next morning, he’s not on edge like he usually is. He normally expects you to greet him on his way to his office, but there’s no sight of you. After Five recovered from his shock, he decided he should be happy about the situation. Sure, he didn’t want you to get hurt, but he got what he wanted.

He settles into his office and gets to work. He reaches to take a sip of his coffee when he realizes there’s nothing there. Oh, right. You normally got his morning coffees for him. Not a big deal, he thinks. If anything, this shows what a nuisance you had been for changing his routine.

Throughout the next couple of days, he starts to realize what an impact you had made on him. For one, the coffee doesn’t taste as good, which is odd. Then he noticed his plant started to die. Five didn’t even know he had a plant. He got rid of it and suddenly felt that his office was colder. He knows it’s illogical, but he didn’t realize how it brightened the room.

And most of all, he found his normal routine to be rather dull. Normally, you would interrupt his work and give a small relief to the boring workload. His room is quieter than ever and the days start to blend together.

But this is what he wanted wasn’t it? To finally be on his own? It’s not like he missed your ramblings, or the sound of your laugh, or your happy disposition, or the way you brightened his day. No. He’s better off alone…

He doesn’t even believe himself. He scowls. How could he let this happen? How could he let someone in and affect him so much to a point where he missed them? He thinks about ignoring his feelings and soldiering on, as is his way, but the thought of going on like this for God knows how long makes him reconsider.

Goddamn you.

†††

He had never seen your office before. He didn’t even know you had an office up until now. He thought, a bit conceitedly perhaps, that he was the only field agent with an office. Maybe you weren’t exaggerating when you said you were good.

Your door is left open, possibly to be more inviting and welcoming. It’s perfectly you. Five looks in to see your head down, writing something at your desk, and takes a moment to consider you. God, he had missed you. He feels a little excited just seeing you there. Is he that lonely and desperate?

He knocks on your door and stands in the doorway. You lift your head and your eyes widen in surprise to see him. He tries not to look uncomfortable under your gaze.

“Oh! Hey Five,” you say, cautiously. You’re not as bubbly around him anymore, almost afraid to scare him off. He doesn’t like it. “What can I do for—”

Before you can finish, Five drops a file onto your desk. You look at him in surprise. There’s a silence. “What’s this?” you ask.

“Read it,” he snaps at you, his nerves getting the better of him. You open the file and he sees surprise overtake your whole face.

“This…this is a request to have me as your partner,” you say quietly, not knowing how to react.

“This has nothing to do with your pestering, by the way,” Five says. “I thought about it and came to my own conclusion that a partner would be beneficial. I thought since you were already willing, it was the simpler choice.”

As he speaks, he watches your disbelief change into joy and a bright smile returns to your face. It’s almost infectious.

“This is incredible,” you say. And then something changes and your smile drops into a frown, which makes him upset. Not that he was doing this for you, but he thought you’d be happy. “But I thought…I thought I annoyed you. What changed?”

He feels guilt tug at him. It seems his outburst stuck with you. “I…might have overreacted the other day. You do annoy me, but I didn’t mean it like that.” You nod at this and he senses it isn’t enough to convince you. Fuck it. He’s already in this deep. “I suppose, as a gesture of good faith as your new partner, and only for this occasion…I owe you an apology.”

Your eyes shoot up at him and he falters. Then he clears his throat and prays no one else is around to hear this. “I am…sorry, for any hurt my outburst may have caused you.” He could count on one hand the number of times he has genuinely apologized to someone. But apparently it works, as your frown is gone.

“Oh, um, thank you,” you say, unsure how to respond to his sudden change in character. There’s an awkward pause before you smile. You hold out your hand and say, “Partners?”

It’s such a sweet gesture of forgiveness that Five finds his mouth twitching upwards. “Partners,” he says, shaking your hand. He ignores the sparks he feels when his hand touches yours. But he has been sentimental for far too long.

He ends the handshake and clears his throat once more. “To be clear, this is not an official contract, you still have to sign the paper,” he says but the smile cannot be erased from your face.

“Yes, of course! I will handle that right away,” you say. “This is so exciting! You will not regret this.”

“I better not,” he says. “This doesn’t change anything between us, we’re not friends.”

“Yet,” you say with a cheeky smile. He is much more relieved to see you acting as your normal self again.

“Y/N I’m serious—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is going to be so fun,” you giggle, seemingly ignoring what he just said. “Thank you.”

You’re looking up at him, a soft smile on your lips and a twinkle in your eye. He falters again as he feels heat rising in his cheeks. He looks away.

“No need to thank me, just make sure that request is signed and submitted.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” you salute him and he takes this as his cue to leave. He turns and you call out, “See you around!”

He doesn’t respond, or rather he can’t. He’s already starting to regret this and not because of the reason you think. Seeing you all happy and excitement caused his heart to swell with a feeling he isn’t familiar with. He doesn’t like this unknown territory and change. But he has to admit…

It felt kind of nice.

gone to shit

pairing : jake peralta x fem!reader

prompt : "can i have one more hug?" "aw, babe you don't have to ask, c'mere..."

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

your day had been going too well for it to continue.

you had gotten to your local coffee shop before it got too busy, gotten up to the bullpen without getting catcalled by some jackass outside and you and your boyfriend were the only ones in the office which was nice.

it was quiet and the first 30 minutes your day was spent sat opposite jake just talking until your friends and colleagues filtered in through the elevator.

and then everything came crashing down.

multiple people in the holding cell caused the bullpen to be filled with noise which was unsettling.

the coffee you had gotten this morning spilled over your desk and your lap.

your phone had died half way through a conversation with your sister and you knew she wouldn't appreciate it seeming like you hung up on her.

and you had misfiled some evidence and had to talk to holt to fix it.

you hoped he would be in a good mood so this wouldn't end up with you getting reamed out.

unfortunately that was not the case.

while he didnt yell you could sense the annoyance & slight disappointment in his tone as he told you do leave so he could deal with it.

and you did leave.

but instead of heading back to your desk you went to the evidence lock up, heading towards the back corner and sinking down onto the floor, the cool surface bringing you out of your head very slightly.

but it wasnt enough to stop the hot burning tears from falling from your eyes.

this wasnt something you should be getting so upset about, there were people in the world that had it a lot worse than you and here you were crying over the tiniest things.

just because they had happened in quick succession it felt so overwhelming.

you were way too in your own head to notice your name being called quietly into the room.

it was only when you saw a set of shoes infront of you that your attention was pulled from the spiralling thoughts in your head.

your hands instantly lifted to wipe at your cheeks to try and pass it off like you weren't crying.

" woah woah, hey. what's wrong, babe? "

the sound of jake's voice did not relax you as much as usual.

you shook your head, trying to shake off this awful tightness in your chest but that did nothing to calm jake's worry.

he crouched down beside you momentarily before sitting down next to you, knowing that his gaze on you could overwhelm you even further.

his arm dropped to around your shoulders and your head instantly dropped down onto the soft fabric of his hoodie.

" you wanna tell me why you're hiding in the evidence lock up ?" he asked, his fingertips running over the fabric of your shirt.

" everything was just going so well this morning and then i spilled my coffee, the holding cell is so full of jackasses, my phone died and then i misfiled some evidence... it all just went to shit "

his small motions on your shoulder were calming you slightly but not by much, your shoulders were still shaking and you couldnt bring yourself to take a full breath.

jake didn't reply for a few moments but his fingertips kept tracing shapes over your shoulder.

" ok, well these are all easy fixes. rosa has a charger in her desk she'll let you use, the holding cell is thinning out really quickly and you left a spare pair of jeans at my apartment a couple days ago and i brought them to give back to you, so you can change into those. "

how he managed to solve all of your problems so quickly you'll never know, but you were just so grateful.

you turned your body further into his, smiling softly when he wrapped his arm tighter around you and pressed a short kiss onto the top of your head.

" thank you "

" you're welcome, babe " he said quietly.

both of you remained sat on the floor of the evidence lock up for a couple more minutes before jake moved to stand and lead both of you back to the bullpen.

before he could take you outside you pulled him back by his hand, a soft and playful pout resting on your lips.

"can i have one more hug?" you asked, tilting your head back to look up at him.

a grin spread across his face.

"aw, babe you don't have to ask, c'mere..."

you quickly closed the two feet between the two of you and wrapped your arms around his torso, your head buried against his chest.

another 5 minutes were spent surrounded by weapons in boxes just hugging your boyfriend.

but when you returned to the bullpen, everything seemed a little bit better

me!; peter parker.

track sixteen of LOVER

pairing: tom holland!peter parker x gn!reader

synopsis: the world is black and white until you meet your soulmate

word count: 2.4k

From what you’ve heard, New York City isn’t that different in colour than it is in black and white. When you’re deep in the city and the skyscrapers are towering over you, the seas of blacks, whites, and greys that you can see doesn’t really affect anything. You’ve met people in the past that lived by the sea or in the country when the lack of colour is more prominent, but you consider yourself lucky that in a city it’s not that big of a deal. Sure it would be nice to be able to see the colour of your mother’s favourite flowers or appreciate the blue of a summer sky when there’s not a cloud to be seen, but it’s not necessarily impractical for you to not be able to see colours.

That doesn’t mean that a part of you doesn’t ache when yet another one of your friends sends an excited message to your group chat that she’s met her soulmate. You smile at the message and send the appropriate messages of congratulations but it’s a wistful smile more than anything, and it fizzles out the good morning you’d been having. The number in your group that haven’t met your soulmate yet is dwindling, and sometimes it’s hard to feel like you’re not being left behind. You know that you’ll meet your soulmate when the universe decides it’s time but you’re starting to feel the edges of frustration growing in your subconscious. You went through both middle and high school without meeting your soulmate, and now you’re in your second year of college, it’s starting to feel like the universe is just toying with you.

You finish the remains of your lukewarm coffee before saving the assignment you’d forgotten you were working on and shut your laptop down. The warm atmosphere of the coffee shop you’d been residing in seems to have dulled slightly at the news, and you’re more in the mood now to go and throw a mini pity party for yourself than worry about your communications assignment. You’re quick to gather all your belongings and load them into your backpack, swinging it over your shoulder as you make your way to the exit. You throw a quick smile at the baristas as you walk through the door onto the crowded street outside. It's almost spring and the warmth in the air seems to have brought everyone outside as you try to make your way through the crowd to the nearest subway station to get home.

It's the sound of a scream that makes everyone stop around you. Attacks in New York are sadly all too common so people quickly start to move on, hoping to avoid whatever maniac in a suit is causing chaos today. You manage half the walk home before the sound of something crashing into a building just down the street really sends people into a panic. You find yourself struggling to move forward as people become more erratic at getting away before they get hurt, and it feels like for every step forward you manage, people shoving past you pushes you five steps back. It finally seems to clear in front of you and it doesn’t occur to you to worry why that is, just that you should try and keep moving and get away from whatever is going on around you. It’s only when you hear a woman scream that you turn just in time to see a huge block of cement flying through the air and heading in your direction.

In what you're going to later categorise as a very uncharacteristic moment, you find yourself freezing in place at the danger in front of you. It's only a blur of grey and an arm wrapping around your waist that jolts you from your mind as you're pulled into the air and away from the slab of concrete that definitely would've killed you if it had been given the chance to make contact with your body. It takes your brain a good few seconds to process what's happening to you as you feel solid ground back underneath your feet and the arm is removed from your side. You’re vaguely aware of someone speaking to you but your brain isn’t quite caught up and it’s all you can do to not collapse as your legs start to shake as what just happens begins to settle in your mind. The words being spoken to you start to become clearer as the fog slowly lifts from your brain.

“Hey miss, are you okay? Can you hear me?” You finally feel like you’re able to open your eyes without throwing up and it’s all you can do to let out a groan of discomfort. When you finally look up to see the person who pulled you from certain doom, your first thought is that you didn’t think you’d ever get this close to the masked vigilante that’s been swinging around New York for the last few years. That thought is immediately shut down though, when colours start to bloom into your vision, starting with the deep red of his mask and bleeding out into everything else in your vision. He seems equally startled by the revelation, stumbling back from you slightly as if he’d been burned. “Oh my god.”

“You can say that again.” The two of you continue staring at each other, or at least you’re staring at him. The mask makes it difficult to tell if he’s staring at you but you have a feeling that he is. You can also tell that he’s panicking slightly about the situation that’s just unfolded in front of you both.

“You just almost died!” He takes one of your hands from your side and it’s only then that you notice how much you’re shaking. You can’t tell if it’s from finally meeting your soulmate or if it’s from the near death experience and you decide to chalk it up to both. “What’s your name?” The voice is softer now, quieter now he seems to have reassured himself that you’re physically okay.

“(Y/N). I’m assuming I can’t ask you yours?” Spiderman shakes his head slightly, and the shifting of the vibrant red hurts your eyes slightly as you still find yourself adjusting to being able to see colours.

“I have to go and stop Scorpion, but I promise I’ll find you. Is there anywhere I can meet you when this is over?”

“I’m meant to have a class later. I study journalism and communications at NYU.” Your soulmate lets out a noise of consideration at your words.

“What class do you have later?”

“Journalism 301.” He seems to contemplate something for a moment before speaking again.”

“I have that class too. I’ll meet you on the benches outside the building.” You step back at his words, and when you speak confusion is heavy in your tone.

“You’re a student?”

“If these guys with masks keep attacking during my classes I might struggle to graduate but for now my GPA is holding enough for me to stay a student, yeah. I have to go before I lose Scorpion but meet me after class later?”

“Will I know who you are?”

“I’m not sure. I guess we’ll find out later huh?” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go and turning around, jumping up and sending a web towards a building to pull himself into the sky. Some passers-by run over to you as he swings away, checking that you’re physically unharmed, and then you’re being walked to the nearest subway station by a friendly older woman who wouldn’t hear of you making the five minute walk by yourself. She only leaves your side as you step onto your train, thanking her for what must be the tenth time in five minutes.

The journey back to your dorm is silent, and you’re relieved that your roommate isn’t there so you can take some time to process what’s happened. It’s nice to see your dorm as most other people see it, a multitude of colours all over the walls and the pictures of you and your friends in colour. You cringe slightly at some of the pictures from a few years ago, back when none of you could see colour and you’d all refused to let your parents tell you what colours you were wearing. You make a mental note to call your mom and berate her for letting you walk around in an outfit with such clashing colours before falling back onto your bed.

When you make it to your journalism class, you can barely focus. You take a seat at the back of the class, and you barely make any notes, too busy watching every guy in the class to see if any of them look over to you more than just for fleeing glances. When your professor announces that the class is over, you’re slow to pack up your things and you’re one of the last to walk out. When you walk out of the building, there’s only one person sitting on the benches, and he’s not facing you but you know who it is. The familiar mop of curly hair gives away your soulmate’s identity and you freeze in place. Peter Parker is Spiderman? You walk towards him, only slowing when he turns to face you.

“Hey (Y/N). I’m-“

“Peter Parker.” You see a flash of surprise on his face when you say his name before him.

“You know who I am?”

“You’re like the smartest guy in our class Peter, everyone knows who you are.” The small flush of pink on his cheeks as you compliment him is sweet, even if you were being sincere.

“I figured we could talk? About everything that happened today?” You give him a slow nod, watching as he jumps to his feet, pulling his backpack in front of him and opening it. He’s quick to pull out a small bouquet of flowers, a mix of yellow and pink flowers, and hold them out towards you. “I didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked so the florist suggested these.” His nervousness is endearing and you can’t not smile at the gesture.

“They’re lovely, thank you Peter.”

"I guess we have a lot to talk about huh? Do you, uh, wanna grab a coffee? My treat?"

"Coffee sounds great. I'll buy though, I owe you for saving my life after all." It surprises you that the walk to the coffee shop is filled with conversation, like you’ve known Peter for years. It’s almost uncanny the way you seem to finish each other's sentences and are on a similar wavelength. It’s even stranger that you realise that you’ve shared a number of classes in the past few years, and how the two of you have never run into each other before feels like a mean twist of fate, to have him so close and yet so far away.

The two of you spend six hours sitting in the coffee shop talking about anything and everything. The time passes without either of you properly realising and it’s with an almost embarrassing lack of awareness that one of the baristas has to ask you to leave because they’ve reached closing time and you’re both still there. You spend the walk back to campus laughing about it, poking fun at each other for it. It’s even stranger when you work out that your dorm buildings are practically next to each other. You both decide to head up to his dorm since Peter doesn’t have a roommate so you can talk about everything that can’t be discussed in a public setting, or at least somewhere with prying ears. You’re vaguely glad you’re not going back to your dorm, you’d left it in something of a state before leaving this morning and hadn’t felt mentally up to tidying after almost dying and meeting your soulmate in the same event.

Peter’s dorm is small but cosy, decorated with pictures of him with his friends and an older woman whom you’re assuming is a relative. You can’t help but smile at how happy he looks, and a part of you is so excited to meet all these people that he holds most dear to him. You try not to make it too obvious how you’re trying to absorb everything about Peter but when you look at him and see the fond smile on his face you know you’ve been caught. He invites you to sit on his bed whilst he pulls the chair out from under his desk and turns it so he can face you. It’s the first time you’ve had a moment of pure silence between you since you met after class and it seems like neither of you are sure who should go first. You decide it should be you to speak first.

“So, are we going to speak about this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I guess we should. Are you sure you’re okay?” You break the eye contact you were holding, eyes shifting down to the floor as you think about how today could have ended. You could’ve died today. You’re lucky that Peter had been there to save you, the whole thing still doesn’t feel real.

“I think so? I mean I don’t think it’s hit me yet? Not properly anyway.” Peter nods at your admission, a look of understanding on his face.

“That’s understandable.”

“Thank you for saving me. I completely froze when I saw that concrete coming at me and I just…I dunno, thank you.” You’ve noticed that Peter gets bashful whenever you compliment him and you make a mental note to keep doing so, he’s clearly not used to receiving praise for what he does, probably because of his need to stay anonymous.

“I was just doing my job.” His humility is clearly a knee-jerk reaction to any and all attempts to credit him for just how much he’s doing to keep the people of this city alive and safe, and you make it a personal mission to spend every day of the rest of your lives together making sure he knows he’s amazing.

“Your job is incredible. To do all of that on your own whilst being a full time student? I don’t know how you do it.” You gesture for him to join you on his bed and, when he does, you take one of his hands into your own. He seems to melt into your touch and it’s in that moment you know that this is exactly where you’re meant to be and exactly who you’re meant to be with.

paper rings // gilbert blythe

or,

the 4 times gilbert blythe fell in love with you, and the 1 time he knew he’d do it all over again

⋆ ࣪.      ⁺⑅     ⋰˚     *.ﾟ    .˳⁺⁎˚     ˚⁎⁺˳ .    ༺ ˖

gilbert blythe x fem!reader

wc: 5.7k

i like shiny things, but i’d marry you with paper rings

a/n: trying something new here! i’ve never used this format (five times // one time- i tweaked it to make it four and one since i’m exhausted) so i hope you all enjoy <3 also fair warning that this is not historically accurate. but i actually spend my summers in PEI (and have for my entire life) so i think my portrayal of the environment at least is good! also, this is rushed as per usual :)

⋆ ࣪.      ⁺⑅     ⋰˚     *.ﾟ    .˳⁺⁎˚     ˚⁎⁺˳ .    ༺ ˖

one. when he walked you home from school.

the late june air was sticky in the avonlea schoolhouse, clinging to skin, beads of sweat gathering by brows. sunlight spilled through the windows, and even billy andrews couldn’t muster enough enthusiasm to tease anyone in this heat. pinafores too heavy for this weather, the girls gathered in one corner, pretending to read the excerpt mr phillips had picked out for today, but in honesty, you were all just complaining about the summer heat.

“i can’t wait until i have my hair up,” ruby gillis sighed, casting a longing glance across the room towards the boys. “my ribbon does suit my complexion, of course- but it’s much too hot in summer to have my hair down.”

murmurs of agreement spread throughout your little group. “i tried it one time,” whispered anne dramatically, “when marilla was away. it was rather romantic, but the pins hurt a great deal.”

sitting in between jane andrews and tillie boulter, you tried not to zone out. gaze drifting across the classroom, you caught gilbert blythe’s eye from where he was sitting with the boys, and he shot you a quick smile. you gave him a shy one back, and looked away before you could blush. you’d known gilbert forever- his family was close to yours- but something had changed recently, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

mr. phillips finally dismissed the class, and in a rush of rowdiness, the boys all excused themselves from the schoolhouse, whooping and hollering about a potential skinny dip in the wild waves. in a flurry of giggles and secrets, your friends gathered their books and rushed outside (in a rather unladylike manner- but it was summer and the world was their oyster, so who cared). you knew diana was hosting a tea party over the weekend- complete with ice cream, she’d said!- but as far as you knew, there were no plans for tonight, save the beach trip the boys had talked about. trying your best to avoid the heat for as long as possible, you lingered in the coatroom, taking the time to adjust your hat into place. but you weren’t alone, and you startled as a familiar face appeared over your shoulder.

“gilbert,” you said, his name sweet on your tongue. “you’re not going to the beach with billy?”

he shook his head. “i’m not quite in the mood for that today. but i was wondering. do you want- can i- would you like some company on your walk home?”

heart in your throat, you looked at the boy you’d known your whole life. was gilbert blythe asking to walk you home? you nodded wordlessly, and his eyes immediately softened. there was a nervousness you’d never seen in him before, a cautiousness, as if he were treading on eggshells and was terrified to break them. “i- i’d love that, gilbert, thank you.” a smile slowly spread across his face, and you seemed to see him in a new light. noticing the things you hadn’t before. the softness of his dark eyes and the way they sparkled. the gentle curve of his jaw. the way he smelled like rosemary and mint soap and the blythe farm’s apple orchard, mixed with a hint of cinnamon. the way gilbert blythe was the prettiest boy you’d ever seen.

“great,” he said, finally breaking you out of your reverie. “i wouldn’t want you to get heatstroke, after all. it’d be ungentlemanly of me to let you go home without making sure you’re alright in this heat.”

your stomach erupted with butterflies, and you walked in silence with him as you left the schoolhouse. treading along the path, your footsteps settled into the same rhythm, and eventually gilbert spoke, his voice clear among the songbirds and crickets. 

“how’s your family? i haven’t seen them in a fortnight.”

his tone was proper and gentlemanly, but curious and kind. you looked shyly up at him. gilbert was tall, taller than you, sturdy with broad shoulders and a grin that showed off a lopsided roguishness once in a while on his otherwise serious face. you gripped your books a little tighter, trying to focus your thoughts back to the conversation. “they’re good, thanks for asking. mother’s been wondering about you, though. she’s wanted to drop soup off for your father, but wasn’t sure if he’d appreciate it. it’s been a while since you were over, so she doesn’t know if he still likes biscuits or bone broth.”

gilbert scuffed the ground with his boot a little bit, looking down at you contemplatively. “that’s kind of her,” he said. “he’s barely been able to keep anything down, but he likes soup. i’m not sure about the biscuits, but i’d certainly like some. i wouldn’t mind some of your mother’s plum preserves either. i haven’t had much time to go into town for food lately.”

you’d noticed. there were shadows under his eyes, and he’d always been on the lanky side, but since gilbert had taken on more of the farm work you’d observed his cheeks grow more drawn. his muscles had grown, too- another result of all the wood chopping you knew he was doing- but he lacked energy, and your heart ached for the boy. cicadas chirped as you walked in unison through the path, minding the garden snakes slinking through the tall grass, and an idea sparked in your mind as you passed the field signaling close to home.

“gilbert,” you said thoughtfully, stopping in your tracks. “mother was going to make a layer cake today, with raspberry preserves and clotted cream. i’m sure it’s cooled by now. we can have a little picnic, you and i- we have lemonade at home too, that rachel lynde brought us, and father thinks it’s too tart, so he wants to get rid of it. you can bring some home for your father as well. mother wouldn’t mind, i promise- i can make us a picnic basket, and we can sit in that field.”

gilbert turned towards you, and you couldn’t quite decipher the expression on his face. “i don’t want you to pity me,” he said quietly. “much less drag your family into it.”

“no, no,” you said quickly, fearing he’d interpreted your invitation the wrong way. “just a picnic, to catch up, as friends. we haven’t talked in a while. i miss you.”

he bit his lip. you could almost see the gears turning in his head. “alright,” he said finally. “it’s almost summer, after all. i think- i think i’d like that.”

when you reached your house, your mother was more than happy to oblige, giving gilbert a big hug and fussing over how much taller he’d gotten since the last time she saw him. you cut two pieces of cake and put them on plates in the straw picnic basket along with the bottle of mrs. lynde’s infamous lemonade. your mother even let you bring the crystal glasses used for special occasions- she trusted the both of you well enough to know that you wouldn’t break them. covering up the basket with a red checkered tablecloth, you and gilbert set off again, waving goodbye to your mother and finding a spot in the field where there was a tree with enough shade to sit under. clover and goldenrod and cornstalk bloomed in the field, and the cool, sweet grass tickled the bottom of your dress. gilbert, beside you, leaned back against the tree, his broad shoulder touching yours, and spooned a large amount of cake into his mouth. it was the happiest you’d seen him in months. the thin layer of ruby jelly in between the vanilla layers coloured the cupid’s bow of your lips, and gilbert realized in that moment that he wanted very badly to take you into his arms and kiss you. but the moment was fleeting, and gilbert was left with the idea of love lingering on his mind.

that was the first time gilbert blythe realized he was falling for you.

two. when you showed up on his doorstep in the rain.

rain poured outside, streaking the windows and trickling down the roofs of avonlea’s houses. sorrow hung in the air, and black clothing had dominated the church the day prior. it was not often that avonlea had funerals, and when they were, they were a somber affair, impacting every one of its citizens. especially now. it seemed as though the whole world had watched mr. blythe’s casket descend into the soil, and now the rain was fertilizing it. perhaps flowers would bloom on top of his grave. the entirety of the little town hoped so- anything to bring comfort to the blythe’s only son.

you’d seen gilbert at the funeral, features etched with sorrow, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. but he’d looked resigned as well- putting on a strong face for those who could not. ruby had sobbed hysterically, as had rachel lynde, and even marilla cuthbert had shed a tear. normally, you would have talked to gilbert. you’d been over the day before mr. blythe had died, bringing with you a sweater you and your mother had knit together to help keep him warm. you’d known his health was declining, but it was even more heart wrenching seeing gilbert that way- expression unmoving, body stiff as he accepted the gift. you’d only had a moment with him before mr. blythe erupted into coughs again- a second in which gilbert’s mask slipped and you truly saw the fear plaguing his mind. you’d wished you could have said something to make it all better. but you hadn’t. you couldn’t.

and now you were on his porch, clutching a package of baking soda biscuits and a small posy of forget-me-nots in your hands. you were shivering from the cold rain, and you’d gotten soaked on the way over, but it was worth it. there seemed to be barely any movement in the gray house- you couldn’t spot any candles lit inside from the windows- and you were wondering if gilbert was even here when all of a sudden the door swung open and he appeared.

his expression was unreadable, brown eyes deep with emotion and seeded in sadness. “hi,” he said. “gil,” you breathed back. 

after a moment of silence, the words came back to you. “these are for you,” you said, reaching out. your hands were shaking, and whether they were from nerves or the cold, gilbert couldn’t tell. he took the flowers and the parcel from your outstretched hands, almost unsure what to do with them. “they’re biscuits,” you said, mouth dry, trying to fill the quiet. “mother’s baking soda ones. you mentioned you liked them one time, and we were out of plum preserves, but i-”

“thank you,” gilbert said, and although it sounded slightly robotic, his words felt genuine. you looked at your shoes, unsure of what to say next. your parents had always taught you to say “i’m sorry for your loss” to someone grieving, but the phrase felt too unfamiliar. “i- i’ll leave you to it, then,” you stuttered, backing away from the door and turning to go. you didn’t want to intrude- even if he was your friend. because that’s what you were, right? friends. friends visited during difficult times. friends didn’t want to hug all the sadness out of him. but gilbert’s voice cracked when he spoke next, and you turned around.

“no,” he said clumsily. the words are rushed and jumbled from his mouth, and he stumbles over the next ones too. “please. you’re freezing, and soaking wet. come in.”

up until then, you’d hoped you didn’t look that bad. your straw hat had managed to protect the top of your head, but the rest of your hair was stringy and dripping over your shoulders. your cheeks were also flushed, and even in what should have been a moment focused on his own grief, gilbert found himself worrying that you’d catch pneumonia in this weather. he hadn’t expected anyone to visit today, especially not in a rainstorm. 

seeing the concern in his eyes, you realized that walking all the way home in a thunderstorm was probably not such a good idea, so you stepped in cautiously per gilbert’s invitation. the house was warm, but everything seemed dim and gray. the door you knew led to mr. blythe’s bedroom was closed, and you could see gilbert’s eyes darting towards it as well, as if he were praying you wouldn’t say anything. gilbert set down the parcel of biscuits on the kitchen table and looked around for something.

“do you have a vase?” you asked quietly. “i can fill it up with water for you. i thought the forget-me-nots would bring a little light.”

gilbert nodded, but sucked in a breath. you turned to him with a questioning look. “the vase,” he said, voice dry. “it’s in his room. mrs. lynde brought some peonies over while he was still sick, and i didn’t take them out. he’s always hated peonies- he thinks they’re too big and bold. but he would’ve loved these.”

you lightly touched the small forget me not bouquet, felt the soft petals under your fingertips. “you don’t have to use a vase,” you replied softly. “a mug will do.” gilbert stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, and you maneuvered around him, carefully filling up the pottery with water and placing the flowers in it.

he seemed rooted to the floor, even when he focused his gaze on the posy. your glance met his, and the sorrow was evident. gilbert hadn’t cried at the funeral- you’d never seen him cry. but now tears were brimming at the corners of his soft chocolate eyes, threatening to spill over, and in a moment your body overtook your mind and you had wrapped your arms around gilbert in a hug.

for a moment you regretted it. but then he was hugging you back, clutching your arms, holding onto you as if you were his lifeline. and in a way, you were. you could feel his hot breath on the back of your neck, hear his muffled cries. due to his height, your face was nestled in the crook of gilbert’s neck, and the two of you stayed like that, intertwined, for several long moments. 

when gilbert finally pulled away, he knew that for better or for worse, you would be there for him until the day he died. 

three. when you exchanged christmas presents in the snow.

to be honest, you hadn’t expected gilbert to come back from the steamer, or trinidad. you’d kept in close correspondence with him, saving the letters he sent you in a special drawer in your writing desk. you memorized his handwriting- the candid tone recalling his tales- the stamps on the envelope. but it still came as a surprise when he’d arrived back.

everything had been awkward at the start, but as soon as gilbert told you all the tales of his travels, you’d slowly slipped back into your old dynamic. there was still a line the both of you were toeing, trying to test out the boundaries between platonic and whatever the two of you were. when you’d met bash, he’d given you a quick wink and told you he’d heard all about you, but other than that, you were positive gilbert just wanted to stay friends. “he can’t love me,” you’d told the avonlea girls a few days prior. “the letters didn’t mean anything, he was just lonely.” but all of them agreed, even ruby- who had been zoning in on moody spurgeon ever since gilbert had left- that there was something more in his words, that it wasn’t all in your head.

and now it was christmas. gilbert, bash, and the shirley-cuthberts had all come for dinner (you’d grown close to anne the past year, and it had taken some convincing but since your father knew matthew so well, marilla had deemed it acceptable). the dinner had been lovely- your mother had brought out all the stops for gilbert and bash- roast goose, scalloped potatoes (island ones, of course), cranberry jelly, chicken pie, spiced gingerbread. flames crackled in the fireplace, biting gusts of wind rattled the windows, and blurred glittery ornaments adorned the pine tree in the center of your living room. dinner was over now, and the adults were gathered around the table and swapping stories of old. anne was there too, heavily engaged in a discussion with bash, but the social aspect was getting to be somewhat exhausting, so you quietly slipped out the back door to have a few moments alone.

in a rather unladylike fashion, you got up and sat on the fence by your house, snowflakes tickling your nose, watching the sun slowly begin to set. hues of pink and orange tinged the sky, and you were surprised you could even see it right now- the weather suggested a cloudy sky. the sound of snow crunching came from behind you, and to your surprise, gilbert was coming towards you. he had his brown cap and his red flannel on, and he looked so cozy that you somehow wished you were cuddled up in his arms. pushing the thought away, you greeted him as he came to sit on the fence beside you.

“enjoying the night so far?”

“quite,” gilbert replied. there was a sparkle in his eyes that danced, one that had been noticeably absent since his father died. you suspected it had something to do with bash’s uncle-like presence, and maybe anne’s too- it was well rumored that he’d fancied her for a while when they’d first met. gilbert looked off into the sunset, puffs of his breath materializing in the cold air, and you shivered involuntarily. he offered you his wool mittens wordlessly, and you gratefully put them on, although they were too big for you.

“oh,” you said, remembering something. he turned towards you, watching you intently as you pulled out a small package from your coat pocket. it was wrapped in festive paper, and you’d written his name on it in swooping calligraphy.

“for me?” gilbert asked. he carefully unfurled the wrapping paper to reveal a small leather bound book embossed with “the complete illustrated medical dictionary (pocket edition)” on the front. “i’ve had it since you left,” you said, breath catching in your throat. “i kept it for you. all this time.”

genuine joy shone in gilbert’s eyes. he flipped through the pages delightedly, marveling at the drawings inside. “thank you,” he grinned. “i actually have something for you too.”

breathlessly, you awaited your gift, snowflakes fluttering down and landing on you. they decorated your hair and its festive ribbon for one fleeting moment before melting, and you swore there was nothing as beautiful as this moment, exchanging gifts with gilbert in the snow, watching the sunset sweep across the dove-gray sky. finally, gilbert found what he was looking for in his pocket, and produced a tiny box.

“it doesn’t look like much,” he warned, “but i found it on my travels. i was waiting to give it to you. i wanted it to be the perfect moment.”

carefully opening the small box, you gasped as the lid revealed a necklace with a pendant. a small silver locket shaped like a heart, the kind one could put a photograph in. “gilbert,” you breathed. “this is- this is beautiful.”

and it was. the locket lay on a delicate chain, and it was engraved intricately, with elaborate designs. your mittened hands fumbled to take it out of the box and inspect it more, but gilbert took it from you with a small smile. “let me help you,” he murmured, and made to fasten it on you. you stood still, hyper aware of how close gilbert’s hands were to your face. his fingers brushed against the back of your neck, securing the necklace, and you caught yourself from flinching. you didn’t know what to say, except for thank you, so you repeated yourself again. 

“a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” gilbert quoted, somewhat uncharacteristically. “keats,” he added after a moment, referencing the poet he’d read the phrase from. “i wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

“to remember you by?” you laughed. “what, are you going on the steamer again?”

he could tell the thought sobered you, so he shook his head, shrugging. “no. i just think…you’re a wonderful girl. the loveliest in avonlea.”

“i think you’re wonderful too,” you said shyly, which was about as many words as you could manage right now. the loveliest girl in avonlea? goodness. 

the sun had almost set by now, and the sky was turning dark- a good cover for hiding the red tint spreading across your face. “we should go back inside,” you said hurriedly, and the two of you made your way over to the door. you stopped before opening it, basking in the glow of the oil lamp on the porch.

“gilbert, i-”

overcome by sudden anxiety, you handed back his warm mittens. “thank you,” you said, the words lingering on your tongue. “for everything.”

quickly, so fast you almost missed it, gilbert leaned down, brushed a stray wisp of hair away, and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “merry christmas,” he said simply. and then, the two of you went back inside, as if nothing had happened at all.

as soon as you entered, bash noticed the locket and smirked. gilbert shot him a warning look, lest he say anything. the two of you immersed yourself in separate conversations- you with anne, him with marilla and your mother, while matthew silently observed your father and bash discuss politics. but you kept stealing glances at each other as if you were speaking a secret language that only the two of you knew, and each time it filled you with comfort.

it was a cold christmas, but you felt the warmest you had been in a while– and, as luck would have it, so did gilbert.

four. when you climbed a tree.

and so summer rolled around again, fading into august. university loomed on the horizon. childhood was over- gone were the days of butterflies, bumblebees, and scraped knees. yet you could pretend, and so you did. 

the soft salt breeze tickled your face, sending a pleasant feeling down your spine. you were with gilbert- on his farm, in the orchard. it was just the two of you- most of avonlea were in charlottetown for the island county fair, granting you the opportunity to do whatever you wanted, since no one was around to see.

so you took advantage of that. no more were the stolen glances, the sneaking around, your only physical touch with gilbert being brushed hands- and even then you’d both deemed it risky. neither of you wanted word to get around yet. sure, there had been rumors and some of your best friends knew (only the ones you were sure wouldn’t spread anything around). but here, now, the world was your oyster. and the two of you soaked it up blissfully.

you were lying on the grass with your head in gilbert’s lap, weaving a flower crown as he read a book- an old poetry collection ms stacy had lent him. the clouds were glorious fluffy shapes in the blue sky, and you pointed them out to gilbert every once in a while. your fingers deftly twined the daisies and their stems, finally tying them all together in a knot, creating a perfect circlet, and setting it teasingly on gilbert’s dark hair.

he smirked, leaving it on. “made it for me?”

“a pretty crown for a pretty boy,” you replied, smiling from your position in his lap. he was solid, sturdy, his hand resting securely on your waist. you felt safe with your body close to his, arms and legs intertwined. and he was pretty- “the prettiest boy in avonlea,” you said, mimicking his words to you from last christmas. he laughed and set the book down, taking the flower crown off and resting it gently on your hair. “it suits you,” gilbert said softly, and he was right.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, absorbing each other’s presence. you charted the rare freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose as if they were constellations, tracing them with the tip of your finger. it tickled him, and he smiled down at you. he finally returned to his book- “i want to read you something”- and blissfully, you obliged, settling down to listen.

“i almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days- three such days with you i could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain,” gilbert read from the poetry collection in his lap, a break from the constant medical anatomy books he was usually seen carrying around. you recognized the fragment of poetry- “keats,” you said, “just like what you said to me last winter. when you gave me the necklace.”

a smile tugged at gilbert’s lips, and you pulled out the locket from under the neckline of your dress to show him. “i’ll never take it off,” you promised him, right then and there. “it’s like a little piece of you with me, all the time.”

“you better not,” he teased. “cost me a fortune, that one. even more than all of those romance books i’m always secretly buying you in town.”

you sat up and shoved him jokingly, tousling his dark curls to purposely peeve him. gilbert’s hair wasn’t tidy all that often, but he’d let it slip once that he always tried to make it look nice for you. struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, you jumped up. “let’s go pick some apples.”

the blythe orchard was infamous for their strawberry apples, the only place in avonlea where they were available. contrary to popular belief, this was simply a variant of apple, and not a strawberry hybrid. all too happy to appease you, gilbert took your hand and led you to the best tree on the land. most of the other boughs were still blooming with apple blossoms, but this tree was different.

he pointed to a low-hanging branch, one blessed with red fruit. “my father always picked the first apple on this tree in august,” he told you, tone contemplative and wistful. “he said this was the tree he kissed my mother under for the first time. he thought if the first apple of the season was picked here, at this tree, it brought the harvest luck.”

nostalgia flickered in gilbert’s eyes, and you knew he was missing his father more than usual. “let’s do it, then,” you said, finding your voice, fingers delicately intertwined with his- giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “we’ll each pick one. in honor of him. a new tradition.”

the words you’d spoken may have been simplistic, but to gilbert they meant the world. without his father, it had been so incredibly difficult at first to do anything- carry on old traditions, much less creating new ones. but here you were, by his side, looking up at him with adoring eyes, and giving him the opportunity to heal and grow. gilbert knew he could never put into words how much it truly meant to him.

you let him go first, watching him scamper up the tree like a squirrel. he seemed a boy again, plucking an apple from the highest bough and descending nimbly. when you started climbing, you found your footing easily, but doubt wracked your mind- imagine the horrors if mrs. lynde and her posse heard about this, climbing trees like a chimpanzee! - and so you opted for a lower branch, reaching it deftly. you reached for an apple and held it high victoriously. some hint of pride shone in gilbert’s eyes.

“to making new traditions,” he said- a toast with the notable absence of glasses brimming with champagne. “to making new traditions,” you repeated, and in that moment, you in the tree and him on the ground, you swore you could see hints of a future- one with new traditions and old traditions, little feet running around and everything in between. today was flawless.

and it would’ve been perfect, except for the sound of the branch cracking under your weight. you weren’t too high up in the tree, but inevitably, you landed on the ground, a crumpled heap of petticoats and ribbons, crying out softly upon impact.

you’d never seen gilbert this way, in ‘doctor mode’, simply put. he was immediately beside you, voice laced with concern, checking you over for scrapes and bruises. you were fine, mostly- just a little shaken up and scared, save for the red-hot throbbing in your wrist. the pain didn’t exactly warrant crying, but you weren’t used to the funny feeling, and tears welled in your waterline anyways. gilbert, telling you to take deep breaths, helped you sit up.

he’d noticed straightaway the way you held you wrist, cradling it slightly away from your body, and murmuring words of comfort, he started prodding your knuckles, gently examining the swollen area. you winced, but it wasn’t too bad. “i don’t think it’s broken,” gilbert said finally, deeming it a sprain after careful inspection. “but let’s get you back home. i have some bandages- i’ll wrap it just in case.”

tears threatened to spill over again as the two of you walked from the orchard to his home. gilbert noticed, and stopped. “hey,” he said softly. “it’s okay. i’ll make you some herbal tea. that should help with the pain a bit.”

“it’s not that,” you made out, a small pout forming on your lips. “we were having such a wonderful day, gil, and i ruined it all. i’m sorry.”

“whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his brow furrowing. “you didn’t ruin anything. you got hurt, it happens. and we have the rest of the afternoon to be together- i’ll tell you what, how about once we get back to the farmhouse, we’ll make the most of it, okay? we can still have some fun.”

a wobbly smile formed on your lips, and you nodded. gilbert cupped your face gently, and looked into your eyes. “i love you,” he said, voice nervous but firm. “just let me take care of you.”

your heart caught in your throat. he’d never said that before. contrary to the rumors, he hadn’t even kissed you properly yet. “i love you too,” you whispered, voice hoarse. and before you could think about it too much, you went up on your tiptoes and pressed a small kiss to gilbert’s lips.

they were soft and sweet and filled with promise and hope, and he leaned into it, your bodies closer than they’d ever been. his hands ghosted the small of your back, your hips, your shoulders, and it felt like home. when you finally pulled apart, there was a twinkle in his eye you’d never seen before. a twinkle of something called joy.

when you got back to the farmhouse, he finally settled you on the couch, comfortably sipping a cup of tea and trying wholeheartedly to braid your hair. he’d always wanted to learn, and since you were currently unable to do it yourself, he deemed it the perfect opportunity. it made you laugh- his fingers, usually nimble and clever, were clumsy in your locks, and the braid you ended up with was slightly sloppy, but filled with adoration. a realization fluttered through your mind, and set its claws into your future. you loved gilbert- gilbert loved you- and though you wouldn’t say it out loud, at least not for several years, he would make a wonderful husband.

five. when you said “i do”.

the spring skies were blue today- flowers were blooming- grass was green. “a lovely day for a wedding,” mrs. lynde had told marilla that morning, and all of avonlea agreed. 

you were walking down the aisle in a few minutes, getting ready in reverence. a delicate white veil lay on your hair, the one passed down through your family for almost a century. the lace dress fit you perfectly, intricate embroidery accentuating your waist. your mother’s simple pearl earrings adorned your ears, glowing in the morning light. in your hands were a bouquet- a single spray of forget-me-nots, periwinkle blue, an ode to gilbert’s father, who had loved them so. and at the same time, a tribute to your past together, that awful rainy day after the funeral filled with grief and tears and emotion, yet what had brought you closer together. something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. all was well. you were ready.

the springtime realm of gilbert’s yard was immersed in devotion. petals decorated the grass down the aisle. your dearest friends and family observed, and the wedding itself passed in the blink of an eye. there was not a dry eye during the vows, and gilbert’s words were even more poetic than you had ever hoped. he promised to love you- to care for you- in sickness and in health, to be your rock. it was not the fanciest wedding- there were no messes of tulle and satin and roses- but it was yours, and you couldn’t be happier.

you were husband and wife. the dawn had come anew. and that night, when gilbert fell asleep watching you breathe, finding solace in the rise and fall of your chest, he knew without a doubt that he would do it all over again.

I think in response to Twitter, Tumblr should make it so that you can't open any other apps on your phone until you've seen at least 600 posts for the day.

could i please request a blurb w hotch like the scaring off a creep one u did with james 🥹🫶

Thank you for your request! fem!reader, tw unwanted advance

When a creep at the bar won't leave you alone, you look for the most intimidating man in the room. You know it might make things worse for you, but his suit jacket screams businessman, maybe lawyer, and while lots of lawyers are scumbags, he's standing with another man and two women, neither of which are under his arm, so you take your chances. 

"Hey, I'm talking to you." A cruel hand tightens around your wrist.

"I already told you I have a boyfriend," you say, pulling your hand away from the creeper's reach. 

"I already told you I don't believe it," he says. 

You rag your hand out of his touch and weave through people, until you're close enough to almost throw the businessman off his feet as you slot yourself under his arm. He stiffens, and his friends all react defensively, but luckily he puts up his hand and nobody tries to tackle you. 

The creeper is a couple steps behind you, and he doesn't see the strange reaction your 'boyfriend' has to your hiding in his side, thankfully.

"If you don't leave me alone," you say as bravely as you're able, hand curling with real nervousness into the businessman's shirt, "my boyfriend's gonna ask you outside." 

Creeper looks at you, shocked, and then at the businessman with raised eyebrows, as if to say, Is she fucking for real? 

The businessman's arm settles properly around your shoulder, his hand braceleting your naked upper arm. 

"Did you hear her or not?" he asks, and his voice is so steady, so commanding, he startles not only the creeper but you, too. 

"I can repeat it for you, if you'd like," says his dark-haired friend. She's almost as fierce as he is. 

Finally, finally, your creeper admits defeat and turns away. You watch him walk all the way to the door, and then you turn around and hang your head. 

"Sir," you say, "I am so, so sorry to just barge into you like that." 

"Are you hurt?" he asks. 

You look up, blinking. "Oh, no, not really. He grabbed me pretty hard, but that's when I came up to you." You smile at him and his friends. "You're the most intimidating person here. No offence." 

He rolls his eyes at the wave of his friends' raucous laughter.

"He absolutely is," says a shorter blonde woman, grinning. 

You nod your apologies at all of them and turn back to the maybe-not-businessman, who's really quite handsome both smiling and glaring. You decide you like the smiling more. 

"Could I buy you a drink?" you ask. "As an apology? Or a thank you." 

"No." He holds his arm out like he might steer you away and your heart drops, but he adds, "I'll buy you one. If that's alright." 

There's nothing forceful in his offer. The pit fills. Excitement blooms.

"That's alright," you confirm, words coloured by a tell-tale happiness. 

He guides you to the bar with a big hand behind your shoulder. Good-natured laughter follows from his table of friends, as well as a short but enthusiastic cheer of, "Go Hotch." 

"What's a hotch?" you ask, perplexed.

He laughs, a light, airy thing, at odds with his stern looks. "No idea. My name's Aaron, by the way." 

hello dark mode users :)

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🔭