#/pointedly foolish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

orangeblossomsintheair · 8 days ago

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GRIEF ASIDE (2/4) | MV33

summary : Every corner of the estate was consumed by a single, unspoken truth: Lord Jos was returning.

warnings : jos verstappen, child abuse, physical abuse, sexism.

an : thx for waiting loves! ‘25s been busy for me!

Max Verstappen prided himself on his composure.

He was a man who thrived on control, who wielded power with ease and commanded attention with the slightest inclination of his head.

Yet in the last fortnight, he had been reduced to something unrecognizable. Restless. Irritated. Unmoored.

By you.

It was your behavior that had unraveled him. So pointedly, so maddeningly deliberate.

The endless excuses, the sudden vanishing acts, the way you refused to meet his gaze when once you had met him head-on.

You had become a master of evasion, and it was driving him to distraction.

It started off with a simple question.

“Where’s your Lady?” Max asked, turning to Oscar with a box of chocolates in hand.

His fingers tightened slightly around the ribbon tied to it, his nerves betraying the confidence he usually wore so well.

He had waited weeks for the box to arrive. Painfully long weeks, during which the confectioner’s meticulous work and the rarity of the ingredients had only fueled his anticipation.

Chocolates were rare in the north, almost impossibly so.

The delicate cocoa beans were difficult to import, often ruined by the harsh weather before they could even cross the border.

Securing this batch had cost him more than he cared to admit, and not just in coin.

And now here he was, holding it awkwardly as your knight stood before him.

“She is occupied, my Lord,” Oscar said with a slight bow, his voice steady, polite, and frustratingly indifferent.

Max blinked, thrown off by the answer. “…Occupied?” he repeated, as if he’d misheard.

“Yes.” Oscar straightened, his hands resting casually on the hilt of his sword. “She has asked that her business remain private.”

Max faltered, his expression briefly betraying his confusion. “Private,” he echoed under his breath, tasting the word. He glanced down at the box in his hands, the chocolate suddenly feeling heavier than before.

For a moment, he considered the sensible option: handing it over to Oscar and letting him deliver it.

That was the proper course of action, wasn’t it? Courteous, efficient.

But that wasn’t why he’d gone to so much trouble. He hadn’t waited for weeks, chased that damned merchant, and secured a confectioner skilled enough to work with the temperamental cocoa just to have someone else deliver it.

No, he’d done all of that for the sake of seeing you.

To see the surprise and delight in your eyes when you realized what he’d brought.

To see the way your lips might curve into that rare, unguarded smile that always made the world feel a little brighter.

“Is she…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Is she well?”

Oscar’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “She is, my Lord.”

Max exhaled softly, his chest tightening. That should have been a comfort, and yet it wasn’t.

A part of him felt a flicker of unease. Was he intruding where he wasn’t wanted? Was this foolish? The thought stung, but he brushed it aside. He wasn’t the kind of man to walk away without trying.

With renewed resolve, he squared his shoulders and nodded, his voice steady. “I see. Then tell her this: I humbly request a moment of her time.”

Oscar inclined his head, though something in his eyes seemed to shift slightly. Was that curiosity? Amusement? It was impossible to tell. “As you wish, my Lord. I will deliver your message.”

Max nodded again, but as the knight turned to leave, he found himself lingering, still clutching the box. His thumb ran absently over the ribbon, tracing the folds as he stared down at it.

For weeks, he’d imagined what it would be like to give this to you. To see your face when you realized what it was.

Chocolates weren’t just a gift. They were an impossibility here, a piece of warmth and sweetness in a land defined by cold and scarcity.

And they were for you, only you.

—

He’d gone to Lando next. That had been quickly proven to be a mistake. Lando, with his quicksilver grin and eyes full of mischief, was the last person to approach for a straight answer.

“My Lady?” Lando had echoed, leaning casually against the stable door, arms crossed over his chest. His grin stretched wide enough to make Max immediately regret speaking. “Ah, yes. I believe she’s occupied at the moment.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Occupied doing what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know…” Lando’s hand flicked through the air as if the explanation were so obvious it barely needed saying. “Official lady business. I think she’s teaching the geese to curtsy this morning.”

“…The geese,” Max repeated flatly, his fingers tightening on the ribbon of the box.

“Very unruly creatures, geese,” Lando went on, his expression completely serious now, as if he were sharing a great truth. “It takes a lot of effort to get them to dip properly. I think one of them might’ve tried to bite her earlier. Terrible mess.”

Max stared at him, weighing whether it was worth the energy to argue. “Are you being serious right now?”

Lando’s grin only grew. “Do I look like the kind of man who isn’t serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m deeply wounded.” Lando placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “But I promise you, my Lord, her time is very well spent.”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. I’ll wait. When she’s done with… the geese, let her know I’m here.”

“Absolutely, my Lord,” Lando said with a little bow, the picture of polite deference. But the laughter in his eyes didn’t escape Max’s notice.

—

With that failure, Max even stooped to seeking out Lily in the servants’ quarters.

He caught her coming down the hallway with a basket of linens tucked under one arm, her steps brisk and purposeful. She spotted him before he could call out, muttering something under her breath (he swore it was a curse) before plastering on a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Lord Max,” she greeted, shifting the basket on her hip. “What brings you down here? A rare sight for the likes of us.”

“I need to see her,” Max said bluntly, holding up the box as if it explained everything.

Lily’s gaze flicked to the box, and for a moment, something unreadable passed over her face. Amusement? Pity? Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, replaced by a steady, practiced neutrality. “She’s… unavailable, my Lord.”

“I’ve heard that every day this week,” Max replied, exasperation creeping into his voice. “And not one person will tell me why. Are her knights sworn to secrecy? What about her maids now?”

Lily let out a short laugh, dry and faintly resigned, as if she’d expected this conversation. “It’s not that, my Lord.”

“Then what?” he pressed, stepping closer. “If you know where she is, tell me.”

“I can’t,” she said simply, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“You mean you won’t.”

“I mean I can’t,” Lily repeated, her tone firmer now, though there was a spark of humor in her eyes. “I’ve been given strict orders, my Lord.”

Max narrowed his eyes, studying her. “You know why she’s avoiding me.”

She hesitated for the briefest of moments, a flicker of something— guilt? —crossing her face before she sighed, shifting the weight of the basket again. “I do,” she admitted quietly.

“Then tell me,” Max demanded, his tone bordering on pleading now. “Is it something I’ve done? Something I said?”

Lily shook her head, though she didn’t meet his eyes this time. “No, my Lord. It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?”

She bit her lip, her gaze darting down the hall as if to ensure they weren’t overheard. “You’ll have to ask her that yourself.”

“I can’t ask her if I can’t even see her,” he snapped.

Lily’s faint smile returned, tinged with something like sympathy. “Then maybe you’ll have to be patient.”

“I’ve been patient,” Max muttered, his grip tightening on the box. “Do you have any idea what I went through to get this?” He held up the chocolates as if they were proof of his effort, his voice softening as he added, “I just… I just want to give them to her. That’s all.”

For a moment, Lily’s expression softened entirely, and she almost looked as if she might break. But then she straightened, her professional mask slipping back into place. “She’ll come around, my Lord. You’ll see her soon enough.”

“And what if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” Lily said firmly, then added with a faint chuckle, “Believe me, my Lady is stubborn, but not that stubborn.”

Max stared at her, his frustration bubbling under the surface, but he could see he wouldn’t get anything more from her. “Fine. Just… when you see her, tell her I’ve been waiting.”

Lily nodded, her smile softening once more. “I will, my Lord.”

She dipped into a quick curtsy and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the hallway with the box of chocolates weighing heavily in his hands.

—

Now, Max was no stranger to avoidance.

He knew what it meant to intimidate, to be held at arm’s length by those too timid to face him.

That was the life he led, and he accepted it without question. But you?

You were supposed to be his refuge, the one person who didn’t cower in his presence.

And yet here you were, skittering away from him as though he carried some plague, avoiding him at every turn.

It gnawed at him, an unfamiliar ache burrowing deep into his chest. By the fourth day of your nonsense, he could bear it no longer.

When he spotted you in the hallway that afternoon, halfway to the drawing room, his decision was instant.

You froze the moment your eyes met his, caught like a deer in the hunter’s sights. He could see the panic, the frantic calculations as your gaze flicked to the nearest door.

“Do not dare,” he bit out, his voice cutting through the charged silence.

You flinched, your hand hesitating mid-air as though you’d considered bolting but lacked the courage to see it through.

Max advanced, his long strides purposeful, the hem of his jacket sweeping behind him like a battle flag.

“This farce ends now,” he declared. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his every muscle taut as he forced himself not to reach for you. Not yet.

“My Lord, I-”

He hated that. He was Max with you. He was supposed to be only Max with you.

“No,” he snapped, his words slicing through your protest. “Not this time. You’ve spent days running from me, avoiding me as though I’m some specter haunting these halls. I will not tolerate it a moment longer.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling under the weight of his fury. “If I have somehow offended-”

“Offended me?” he interrupted, a sharp, humorless laugh escaping him. “You think this is about offense? This- this performance?”

He gestured sharply between the two of you, his frustration palpable. “This is not you. I know you, and I do not recognize the woman before me. What have I done, pray tell, to deserve this... this coldness? This game of cat and mouse?”

“Nothing!” The word tumbled from your lips, too quick, too desperate.

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Do not lie to me,” he said, his voice like a thundercloud on the verge of breaking. “I have seen the way you pale at the sight of me, the way you vanish the moment I enter a room. Am I so intolerable to you now? So monstrous?”

“Of course not!” you exclaimed, your composure slipping. “You are not intolerable! Far from it. It’s not you at all, it’s-” You stopped abruptly, as though you’d realized you were on the brink of revealing too much.

“It’s what?” he demanded, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, but his eyes burned with something raw, something unguarded. “Tell me. Speak plainly. Do not force me to claw the truth from you, piece by piece.”

“I- I cannot,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You will.” His gaze bore into yours, his frustration radiating from every line of his body. “You owe me that much.”

His nearness was unbearable, his scent, his presence, his intensity.

Everything about him seemed to crowd the air, leaving you breathless, cornered.

“Do you think I enjoy this?” he asked, his voice breaking through the silence like a whip. “Do you think I want to stand here, begging for answers from the one person I consider my friend? For God’s sake, just tell me.”

“I don’t know how to act around you anymore,” you whispered, the words breaking free before you could swallow them back.

Max paused, his sharp gaze flickering to you, his composure splintering into something unreadable. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t know how to act,” you said again, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound resolute. “Not now. Not after... not after realizing I-” You stopped yourself, frustration biting at your tongue as your courage faltered. “This is impossible. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

His brow furrowed, and his voice, low and insistent, pulled you back into the moment. “After realizing what?”

You exhaled sharply, the breath almost catching in your throat. If the truth was going to ruin everything, better to hurl it like a stone and get it over with. “After realizing I have feelings for you.” The words tumbled out too fast, harsh and unpolished, as though you were flinging them away before they could sear you further. “And now I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I? I’ve ruined everything.”

Max froze. For once, his infuriatingly unflappable demeanor slipped, leaving him uncharacteristically wide-eyed.

“Feelings,” he echoed, as though the word itself confounded him.

“Yes, feelings,” you snapped, your voice rising despite your best efforts to contain it. “Ridiculous, inconvenient feelings for you, of all people. And now you’re going to tell me how absurd it is, and I’ll have to live with the mortification of this moment haunting me forever.”

“Absurd?” His lips quirked, and you bristled at the hint of amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Max,” you warned, feeling your face burn.

“I’m not laughing,” he said, though his voice betrayed the faintest trace of mirth. “I’m simply... astonished.”

“Well, forgive me if I fail to see the humor in any of this!”

“You think I find this funny?” He stepped closer, the low timbre of his voice setting your nerves alight. “You, confessing something I’ve wanted to say for... weeks? You, standing here thinking I don’t-”

He broke off, and you caught the way his jaw clenched, his hand flexing at his side. His voice dropped, quieter but no less intense. “You think I went to all that trouble for chocolates because it was nothing?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “The chocolates?”

“Yes, the chocolates.” His frustration sharpened, his free hand gesturing toward an invisible point as if grasping for the right words.

“Do you know how rare they are here? How much effort it took? The merchants, the confectioner... and all for what? To watch you run from me? To feel like an idiot carrying them from one corner of the estate to the other while you slip away again?”

“I didn’t ask for them,” you said softly, though the words stung even as you spoke them.

“No,” he admitted, his voice quieter but no less fierce. “But I wanted to give them to you. For you. And now, they just... feel like a waste.”

“Max...”

“No,” he interrupted, the raw vulnerability in his voice stopping you cold. “They’re not a waste because of you. They’re a waste because you won’t let me in. Because you’ve spent days pretending I don’t matter to you when all I’ve wanted was a chance to prove how much you matter to me.”

You stared at him, your breath hitching as his words hit like a thunderclap.

“Do you think I don’t feel the same?” he asked, stepping closer, his tone both accusing and desperate. “Do you think I’ve spent all this time chasing you for nothing?”

Your voice trembled as you whispered, “You feel the same?”

“Yes,” he said simply, the weight of the word carrying everything he hadn’t been able to say. “And I thought I made it obvious.”

“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to make myself clearer.”

And before you could think, Max closed the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both gentle and consuming. The world seemed to fall away, the weight of your unspoken feelings pouring into the space between you.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, his urgency tempered by an almost reverent care.

Time seemed to stretch, each second filled with the warmth of him, the heady sensation of finally letting go. He tasted faintly of the cold wind outside, of something intoxicatingly familiar yet completely new.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own. His eyes searched yours, still stormy with emotion but softened now by something quieter, more certain.

He whispered, “perhaps I should have said something sooner.”

“You think?” you shot back, and to your dismay, he chuckled, a warm, rich sound that melted some of the tension twisting in your chest.

“Darling,” he murmured, and the tenderness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, “you never had to wonder.”

“Well, I did,” you managed, your voice cracking slightly.

“I see that now,” he said with a sigh, his gaze steady and unwavering as he reached for your hand. His fingers slipped around yours with a deliberate tenderness, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. The touch was so soft, so impossibly gentle, that it made your chest ache.

“I’m glad you told me,” he murmured, his voice was warm as if sharing a secret shared only between the two of you. “And I’m glad you like me. Because I…” He hesitated, his eyes flickering with something unspoken, something heavy. “I would’ve settled.”

The word hung in the air, brittle and raw, and you blinked, confused. “Settled?”

He nodded, his lips pressing into a faint, rueful smile. “For being friends,” he clarified, his voice steady but tinged with quiet resignation. “I would have accepted just having you in my life in some way, even if it wasn’t the way I wanted. Even if it meant being civil and… arranged.”

“Arranged,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze holding yours as if trying to convey the depth of his words. “I would’ve gone through with it, our marriage, without ever asking for more. I would’ve smiled at the formalities, kept my distance, played the role. Anything to keep you near, even if it meant pretending.”

Your breath caught, a lump rising in your throat. “That’s… That’s horrible, Max. Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Because it’s you,” he said simply, his tone soft but unwavering. “Because the thought of losing you entirely… I couldn’t bear it. I thought I’d rather have something small, something manageable, than risk everything and scare you away.”

“Scare me away?” you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. “Do you honestly think so little of me?”

“No,” he said quickly, his grip on your hand tightening, as though anchoring himself to you. “Never. But I know how you are. You get this look, like the world’s closing in on you, and you start pulling away before anyone can get too close, and I thought… I thought if I pushed too hard, I’d be next.”

You stared at him, your heart twisting at the vulnerability etched into his features. “You were afraid of me?”

“Not afraid of you,” he said, his voice dipping low, the honesty in it startling. “Afraid of losing you.”

The confession hung between you, fragile but unbreakable, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you managed, “And you thought being stuck in a loveless, arranged marriage was better than just telling me?”

His smile returned, softer this time, almost self-deprecating. “When you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous. But at the time, it felt safer. Less terrifying than this.”

“This,” you repeated, your voice catching. “What we’re doing right now?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin. “This. Being honest. Saying how I feel. It’s terrifying because it matters. Because you matter.”

You felt your resolve waver, your frustration dissolving under the weight of his words. “Max, you’re an idiot,” you said, your voice trembling despite your attempt at firmness.

“I won’t argue with that,” he said, his smile growing. “But I’m your idiot now, if you’ll have me.”

The warmth in his gaze, the sheer tenderness in his touch, was almost too much to bear. “You’re thanking me,” you said softly, shaking your head. “For liking you?”

“I am,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Because you didn’t have to. You could’ve walked away. You could’ve held back. But you didn’t. And now… Now we have this. Something real. Something worth holding onto.”

Your heart pounded, your breath shallow as you stared at him. “And what if I told you I didn’t want to settle either?”

His smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he stepped closer. “Then I’d tell you that you’re stuck with me now,” he said, his voice a soft promise.

“I suppose there are worse things,” you said, though your smile betrayed the fullness of your heart.

“Far worse,” he agreed, leaning in just enough that his breath brushed against your cheek. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life convincing you that I’m the best thing you’ve ever settled for.”

—-

The next morning, you were seated by the window in your chambers, the soft light casting a warm glow over the room. A knock at the door drew your attention.

“Come in,” you called, setting your book aside.

When the door opened, there stood Max. His gaze softened when it found you, and in his hands was a box tied neatly with a crimson ribbon.

“Are those the chocolates?” you asked, a knowing smile already tugging at your lips.

He stepped closer, his own lips curving faintly. “They are.”

You rose to meet him, your eyes flicking to the box as he handed it over. The weight of it was solid in your hands, the ribbon silk-smooth beneath your fingers.

You carefully untied the bow, the lid lifting to reveal an array of glossy, artfully crafted chocolates nestled in their compartments.

The rich aroma of cocoa and spices drifted upward, and your breath caught. “They’re beautiful,” you murmured, glancing up at him. “Thank you, Max. Truly.”

“You haven’t even tasted one yet,” he said, though his tone was soft, pleased.

“Oh, I will.” You picked one delicately, its intricate design almost too lovely to disturb. Almost.

You took a small bite, and the flavor bloomed on your tongue, silky and sweet with just the right hint of bitterness. A quiet sigh of delight escaped you.

Max’s expression softened further, as though your enjoyment was worth all the trouble he’d endured.

“These are incredible,” you said, savoring the last bit. Then you arched a brow at him, a teasing glint in your eye. “But you said yesterday that these were difficult to get. What aren’t you telling me?”

He exhaled, leaning against the edge of your desk, his arms crossing casually. “Do you really want to hear the whole story?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, picking another chocolate and holding it up like evidence. “If you went to that much effort, I want to know every detail. I want to appreciate them properly.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head, but there was something tender in his gaze as he began. “It started with a merchant passing through the capital. Word had it that he’d secured a shipment of cocoa that are.. let’s just say, coveted by certain circles.”

“Certain circles?” you asked, biting into the chocolate and letting the flavor coat your tongue.

“Dukes and duchesses, mostly,” he said wryly. “The merchant wasn’t even planning to stop here. His route was direct, and his stock was all but spoken for.”

“And yet, somehow, here they are,” you said, gesturing to the box. “How did you manage that?”

Max tilted his head, his smile faintly crooked. “It took some convincing.”

“Convincing?” you pressed, smiling despite yourself.

“And a fair bit of chasing,” he admitted, a rueful edge to his tone. “The merchant refused my first offer, so I had to send word ahead to intercept him at the border. When that didn’t work, I had one of my men track him to the next town and… negotiate.”

You blinked, mid-bite. “Negotiate? Max.”

He spread his hands. “It wasn’t as dire as it sounds. But it took a considerable amount of effort, and an even more considerable sum.”

Your heart softened, and you set the chocolate down, looking at him with earnest warmth. “You did all of that… just for me?”

His gaze met yours, steady and open. “Of course I did. You deserve nothing less.”

Your chest tightened, an ache blooming behind your ribs. Not unpleasant, but something overwhelming in its intensity. You smiled, the edges of it trembling slightly. “Max, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate. “Just tell me they were worth it.”

You picked up another chocolate, holding it between your fingers as you studied him. “Oh, they’re worth it,” you said, your voice soft. “But you didn’t have to go to such lengths.”

His eyes softened further, and he took a step closer, until he was just within arm’s reach. “For you, I’d go to greater ones.”

The sincerity in his tone made you pause, your breath hitching. Slowly, you took a bite of the chocolate, savoring its richness as you held his gaze.

“Well,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter but no less warm, “then I’ll savor these all the more. Thank you, Max. Truly.”

He gave a faint smile, his gaze lingering on you. “You’re worth it,” he said again, almost too softly for you to hear.

—

A few days later found the two of you nestled in one of the estate’s sitting rooms, the kind of quiet, secluded spot that felt made for winter afternoons, tucked in a corner, heavy drapes drawn against the chill, and the only light coming from the soft flicker of a fire.

You were curled up on the settee, your legs tucked beneath you, a woolen blanket draped over your shoulders, and a book resting against your knees.

Max sat nearby in an armchair, his posture lazy, his boots propped on a low table, a mug of tea in hand. The fire crackled, the kind of sound that settled deep into the bones.

“You know,” he began, breaking the quiet, “there’s not a single good reason for ‘pookie’ to exist in the English language.”

You didn’t look up from your book, though a smirk tugged at your lips. “I take it you’ve given this some serious thought.”

“Too much thought,” he confirmed, setting his tea down with a resolute air. “I’m just saying, there are standards. Imagine you calling me that in public.”

“What’s wrong with pookie? It’s cute.”

“It’s infantilizing,” he countered, his voice dripping with mock horror. “Do you want me to lose all credibility? Imagine you waltzing into the ballroom, calling me ‘pookie’ in front of Lord Leclerc. He already hates me.”

You smirked behind the edge of your book. “Maybe it’d soften him up. Who could hate someone called pookie?”

“Everyone,” he deadpanned, leaning forward as though the conversation had suddenly taken on life-or-death stakes. “And do you know what happens when dukes hate you? Wars. Wars happen.”

You snorted, the sound more unbecoming than you intended. “Oh yes, the annals of history are full of noblemen going to battle over ill-advised pet names.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t laugh. You’d be the first casualty. Imagine the gossip: ‘Her Lady, tragically felled by her husband’s indignity.’”

You laughed, the sound light and teasing. “Oh, come on. I think society would be more than entertained by your reaction. Honestly, it’d be a great conversation starter.”

Max’s face twisted in mock horror. "I’ll have you know that there’s such a thing as dignity. Standards. Not ‘pookie.’" He gave you an exaggerated shudder. "If you ever said that in public, I'd die on the spot."

“You’d be fine,” you said, grinning. “I think you'd survive. Just barely."

“Not a chance,” he muttered, clearly still distraught over the possibility. He shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter now, his hands running over his trousers as if wiping away the very thought of the word. “I’m serious about this, you know. There have to be some boundaries. What would you say if I called you something equally ridiculous?”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “Like what?”

Max paused, giving you that look, the one where he thought he had you cornered. “‘Sweet cheeks,’ perhaps.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “That’s an actual crime,” you said, grinning widely. “Sweet cheeks is... beyond reprehensible.”

He chuckled, satisfied with his small victory, but he wasn’t done. "Or, maybe... how about ‘cuddlekins’?” He dragged out the last syllable, drawing out the ridiculousness for full effect.

Your eyes widened in mock horror. "You can’t be serious. I’m telling you, that would ruin me.” You leaned forward, bracing your elbows on your knees as you regarded him with exaggerated concern. “I might actually have to divorce you.”

Max grinned smugly, clearly relishing the reaction. “See? I knew you’d understand.” He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “That’s why we need to establish clear boundaries. For your sake, as well as mine.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Fine, Mr. Standards,” you said, leaning back into the settee, settling the blanket over you more comfortably. “But what would you allow, then? What’s dignified enough for you, Your Majesty?”

He thought about it for a moment, tapping his finger against his chin in mock consideration. “Something classic. Elegant. ‘Darling,’ for instance.” He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Or ‘love.’ I suppose I could even accept ‘angel,’ if you’re feeling sentimental.”

“Angel?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “You want me to call you that? You’re nearly insufferable already, I can’t imagine what would happen if I started.”

“Angel is timeless,” he insisted, leaning forward with a dramatic flourish. “You’d be lucky to use it.”

You snorted in disbelief. “Timeless? You’re not a saint, Max.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered. “Still, I’d wear it better than ‘pookie,’ don’t you think?”

You tilted your head, considering. “I suppose I could live with ‘angel’.. for now. But you’re pushing it.”

Max grinned like a cat who’d just gotten away with murder. "Good. And in return, I will grant you the honor of calling me..." He paused dramatically. "Max.”

You blinked at him, genuinely surprised. “That’s it? Just ‘Max’?”

He shrugged nonchalantly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “It’s a classic. And besides, it has a certain charm when you say it like that.” He leaned back into his chair, an air of contentment settling over him.

You studied him for a moment, then let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. There was something about the moment, about the soft way he spoke, the way his eyes had a lightness to it, that made you feel oddly warm.

"Fine,” you said, glancing back at your book but unable to suppress a smile. “But I’ll say it right now: if you ever call me anything that’s even remotely ridiculous in public, you’re going to wish you hadn’t.”

—

The evening had started as so many did. A quiet, comfortable sort of intimacy.

The snow outside beat against the windows, the sound muffled by thick velvet curtains, while the firelight flickered across the room, painting everything in soft, golden hues.

Max lounged in his chair, one arm draped over the back lazily, his other hand swirling the last of the wine in his glass. It was the kind of night that begged for diversion.

That was when he spotted it: the chessboard, tucked onto the corner of the bookshelf, its wooden box worn smooth with use. He stood and wandered over, plucking it from its place as though the idea had been waiting there all along.

“You play?” he asked, holding it up as though it were some sort of hidden treasure.

You glanced up from your seat, where you had been flipping idly through a book, the corners of your lips lifting into a subtle smile. “On occasion.”

He arched a brow at the casual way you said it, like you hadn’t just issued a challenge in the simplest of phrases.

“On occasion,” he repeated, setting the board on the low table between you. “That sounds suspiciously like the prelude to a trouncing.”

Your smile widened slightly, and you leaned forward to help him set up the pieces. “If you’re worried about losing, Max, you can always put it back on the shelf.”

His bark of laughter was low, rich, and thoroughly amused. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to provoke me.”

“Would it work?”

“It already has.”

With that, the pieces were set, the game begun.

At first, Max played as if this were nothing more than a pleasant diversion, his moves deliberate but far from calculated.

He leaned back in his chair, tossing out playful commentary, fully expecting this to be an easy, lighthearted way to pass the time.

But then you struck.

In just a few moves, you had dismantled his initial strategy, if it could even be called that, with a precision that made him pause.

Max’s hand hovered over his next piece, his gaze flicking between you and the board as though he’d missed some vital clue.

“Was that… intentional?” he asked, a faint crease forming between his brows.

You lifted your eyes to meet his, feigning innocence, though the sparkle in your gaze gave you away. “Was what intentional?”

“That.” He gestured vaguely at the board, his tone dripping with mock disbelief. “The part where you just… destroyed my plan.”

You tilted your head, your expression betraying just the faintest hint of smugness. “Max, you had no plan.”

He blinked, then laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, so you’re one of those players.”

“One of those players?”

“The ones who think they’re too clever by half.”

“Think?” you repeated, your tone as smooth as silk.

Max chuckled again, shaking his head as he moved his knight forward. “Alright, let’s see how clever you really are.”

The first game ended quickly, too quickly for Max’s liking. He stared at the board in disbelief as you leaned back in your chair, the faintest hint of triumph in your smile.

“Was that too fast for you?” you asked, the light teasing in your tone making him huff a laugh.

“Too fast? No. Humbling? Absolutely.”

The second game started with Max clearly trying harder, his movements slower, more deliberate.

He studied the board with an intensity you hadn’t expected, his fingers tapping against the arm of his chair as he weighed his options. You almost pitied him. Almost.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” you said after a particularly defensive move on his part.

He smirked, leaning forward slightly as he moved his bishop into position. “I don’t intend to.”

It didn’t matter. Ten minutes later, you had him cornered again.

“Is this what you do for fun?” Max asked, his voice somewhere between impressed and exasperated as he surveyed the wreckage of his pieces. “Humiliate unsuspecting opponents?”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and full of mirth. “Only when they insist on playing against me.”

By the third game, Max had abandoned any pretense of casual competition. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, as he stared at the board like a general planning a campaign. His focus was admirable, though ultimately futile.

“You’ve done this before,” he said eventually, his tone a mix of suspicion and amusement.

You tilted your head, your fingers lightly tapping the edge of your rook. “Played chess?”

“No. Watched someone’s pride unravel in real time.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up at that, and for a moment, the tension of the game melted into something softer. The warmth of the fire, the rhythm of your banter.

It all wrapped around the two of you like a cocoon, shutting out the world beyond the storm.

“You’re a good sport,” you said after a moment, moving your queen with practiced ease.

Max glanced up at you, his smile slow and genuine.

“Checkmate,” you said softly, the word slipping out like a secret.

He stared at the board for a long moment before laughing, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “I should be annoyed,” he said, his tone wry, “but somehow, I’m not.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” Max said, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made the air feel just a little warmer, “I’ve decided I enjoy losing to you.”

—

Max leaned against the doorway of your bedroom, his arms folded casually, though there was a slight tension in his posture.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the threshold he was careful not to cross.

No matter how much you reassured him or how much he’d relaxed around you, he still wouldn’t set foot inside your room.

Some etiquette rules seemed etched into his very bones.

“You might want to come to the aviary,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a faint edge.

You paused, glancing up from your writing desk. The way he lingered in the doorway, shifting his weight ever so slightly, caught your attention. “What’s going on?”

Max cleared his throat and gave a slight shrug, trying too hard to seem nonchalant. “Your father’s falcon,” he said after a beat. “It’s here. With a letter.”

You straightened, intrigued. “Father’s falcon?”

“That’s what I said.” He hesitated, one hand brushing through his hair. “You’ll see. It’s waiting for you. And... watching me.”

That last part made you grin, and you rose to follow him. Max wasn’t usually nervous, but the slight unease in his tone piqued your curiosity.

The two of you walked through the twisting corridors of the estate, the sound of your footsteps mingling with the faint hum of the household settling for the day.

When you reached the aviary, the warm, earthy scent of hay, cedar, and feathers greeted you like an old friend.

Inside, the room was alive with sound, the soft rustle of wings, the gentle coos of doves nestled in the rafters, and the occasional bright trill of a songbird darting through the shafts of sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows.

At the center of it all, perched on the wooden stand in the heart of the room, was the peregrine falcon.

The bird’s eyes followed your entrance immediately, but it was Max it seemed to focus on the most, as though sizing him up. Max stopped a few paces from the perch, his hands slipping into his pockets as if to hide any sudden movements.

“Your father’s falcon,” he said again, his tone wry. “Does it always glare like that?”

“It doesn’t glare,” you said, though you had to admit the falcon’s gaze was as intense as ever. “It’s just assessing you.”

“Sure it is,” Max muttered, shifting slightly. “If it decides I’m a threat, how fast does it usually go for the face?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It won’t attack you. Not unless you try to touch it.”

“Believe me, that’s not happening.”

Ignoring him, you stepped forward, extending your arm toward the bird. The falcon’s head tilted slightly, its keen eyes locking onto yours.

Then, with a sharp trill, it launched itself from the perch. Its wings barely made a sound as it landed gracefully on your forearm, its talons light against the leather bracer you wore.

“There you are,” you murmured, stroking its sleek head with gentle fingers.

The falcon made a soft, almost affectionate chirp and leaned into your touch, brushing its beak against your cheek in greeting.

“Of course,” Max said dryly, watching from a safe distance. “It loves you.”

“It trusts me.” You glanced at him with a smirk. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

The falcon’s sharp gaze flicked to Max again, and he raised his hands defensively. “I’m not arguing. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

You laughed under your breath, turning your attention to the small roll of parchment tied to the falcon’s leg. The wax seal, bearing your family’s crest, was unmistakable.

Breaking the seal, you unrolled the thick parchment, your eyes scanning the familiar script.

The falcon shifted on your arm, leaning slightly against your shoulder as though it, too, was eager to hear the news.

My clever one,

I’ll be arriving a few days before the winter feast, sooner than I’d planned. I hope you've been well and that House Verstappen has treated you well.

It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you. I look forward to our reunion.

With affection,

Father

Your heart skipped a beat as you read the letter, the familiar handwriting drawing a warm smile across your face.

“He’s coming back,” you murmured, excitement bubbling in your voice. “Before the festival!”

Max tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took in your excitement. “Good news for once. You’ve been missing him.”

“Of course I have,” you replied quickly, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks.

A soft chirp reminded you of the falcon perched patiently at your shoulder, its sharp eyes watching your every move. It nudged its beak against your cheek, urging you to action.

“All right, all right,” you murmured with a chuckle, reaching up to stroke the bird’s sleek feathers. “I’ll send him a reply. You’re more impatient than I am.”

“Should I give you two some privacy?” Max leaned against the wooden beam as you walked to the small table in the corner of the aviary.

You shot him a playful glare. “The falcon’s far better company than you some days.”

“Harsh,” Max muttered with mock indignation, though his smile lingered.

Grabbing a strip of parchment, you quickly penned a short response, your hand steady despite your racing thoughts. The falcon ruffled its wings and tilted its head, watching you with the sharp attentiveness of a messenger that knew its job.

When you finished, you sealed the note and turned back to the falcon. “Here we go,” you said softly, tying the parchment to its leg with practiced ease. “Make sure he gets this, all right?”

The falcon chirped again, nudging your hand once more before spreading its powerful wings.

“You spoil that bird,” Max commented.

You ignored him, lifting your arm and watching the falcon take off in a flurry of feathers, vanishing through the open beams of the aviary.

—

"Lord Jos Verstappen is coming home."

The announcement echoed through the halls like the tolling of a funeral bell, heavy and foreboding. The once peaceful estate stirred to life, not with joy, but with a frantic, fearful energy.

Servants darted through the corridors, their faces pale and tense as they adjusted garlands that now felt like mockery against the gloom. Silver was polished until hands trembled, every blemish scoured away with desperation.

Knights inspected their armor with grim focus, their fingers twitching over hilts and clasps as though preparing for battle rather than ceremony.

Even the preparations for the winter feast, grand and excessive as always, now carried a frantic edge, as if the abundance might shield them from his scrutiny.

Cooks whispered curses under their breath, their knives slicing meat with fevered precision. The clatter of pots and the hiss of roasting fires seemed louder, sharper, grating against the silence that lay beneath.

The estate itself seemed to darken, its stately elegance cast in shadow by the weight of his impending arrival.

Red banners bearing the Verstappen crest unfurled from the towers like blood dripping onto the pale winter sky. They flapped in the wind with a mournful sound, their bold colors stark against the growing chill.

—

The heavy oak doors groaned open, and the room was instantly swallowed by silence. The grand dining hall, usually alive with movement and murmured activity, now felt cavernous, the echoes of footsteps hollow against the stone.

Jos entered, his presence dominating the space even before he spoke. His boots struck the floor with deliberate precision, the sound like a hammer driving nails into a coffin.

His cloak of black wolf fur swept behind him, its edges brushing the ground, and the lifeless eyes of the beast stared out like a warning. His face was a cold mask of sharp lines and quiet menace, and his gaze moved across the room before landing on Max.

“Max,” Jos said, his voice low and gravelly, yet it carried with ease, filling every corner of the room. “You look like a boy playing lord. Tell me. Do you believe you’ve done well?”

Max stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His posture was stiff, his hands braced against the table as though steadying himself. “Yes, Father. Everything is as you instructed.”

Jos tilted his head, his expression devoid of approval or interest. Instead, his piercing gaze shifted to you.

You were seated beside Max, your hands clasped tightly in your lap to hide the trembling.

His eyes swept over you and your stomach twisted under the weight of his scrutiny.

“So,” Jos said, his tone slow, deliberate, and heavy with disdain. “This is the Southern girl?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, his lip curling into a faint sneer. “I was told you were of good stock. That you would bring beauty and grace to this family. But standing here now...” He let the sentence dangle, his silence cutting deeper than any insult.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, but it felt like staring into a predator’s eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest, and the blood rushed to your face, burning with a mix of anger and humiliation.

Jos stepped closer, his movements slow and measured. He leaned down slightly, as if to examine you more closely, his eyes narrowing.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less cruel, “were they lying? Or do Southerners simply have lower standards for what they call... adequate?”

The words hit like a blow, and you fought to keep your composure. You felt your throat tighten, your nails digging into your palms.

“Father,” Max said, his voice steady but strained.

Jos turned his head sharply toward his son, his eyes flashing with impatience. “Did I say you could speak?” He scoffed. “You’d do well to learn the value of silence, child. Or did my absence made you bold?”

Max swallowed hard but said nothing, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Jos straightened, his focus returning to you. “Listen carefully,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I care little for who you are, where you come from, or what you think you’re worth. Your purpose here is simple: to provide strong heirs for this family. That is all. If you can manage even that.”

His gaze swept over you once more, his expression one of disdainful dismissal. “I suspect even that might be a challenge.”

The room was unbearably quiet, the tension pressing down like a physical weight. You felt your breath hitch, your humiliation raw and visible.

Jos’s cold smile was fleeting. “Weakness will not be tolerated. Not from you, and not from him.”

His gaze flicked back to Max. “If she fails, you know what must be done. I expect no hesitation.”

Max’s hand slipped under the table, finding yours. His fingers curled around yours, firm but not comforting. It was a gesture meant to steady you, but it felt like an apology more than anything else.

Jos turned his back on both of you, walking slowly to the head of the table. He took his seat, motioning for the servants to bring the first course, though their presence felt like little more than ghosts at the edges of your vision.

The meal passed in tense silence. Jos ate methodically, his eyes occasionally flicking to you and Max, though he offered no further words.

His presence alone was enough to fill the room with an oppressive weight.

When the plates were cleared and the servants retreated, Jos spoke one last time, his voice sharp and deliberate. “Do not embarrass this family,” he said, looking between the two of you. “My patience is not limitless, and my tolerance for failure even less so.”

He rose from the table, his chair scraping softly against the stone. Without another glance, he strode toward the doors, his cloak billowing behind him.

The grand dining hall was empty now, save for the two of you. The chandeliers above flickered with the last glow of half-melted candles, casting long shadows across the sprawling mahogany table.

Plates of untouched food sat cold on the tablecloth, embroidered with gold, while the remnants of the night’s cruelty lingered in the air like the bitter scent of spilled wine.

You sat stiffly, your trembling hands gripping the edge of your chair.

The fabric of your gown, a pale blue that had once made you feel lovely, now felt heavy and suffocating, like chains wrapped around your body.

Across from you, Max leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, his black coat rumpled, his tie loosened as though the weight of the evening had crushed him.

His lips parted, a small breath escaping, but no words came. His gaze flitted to your face, then dropped to his lap as he rubbed the back of his neck with trembling fingers.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice cold, barely above a whisper. Your hands tightened on the chair, the sharp edge biting into your palms. “Don’t ask me if I’m alright. Don’t insult me like that.”

His head jerked up, his brow furrowing. His mouth opened again, but nothing emerged. He looked lost, childlike, almost, as though he couldn’t fathom where to begin.

“Do you know what it feels like,” you continued, your voice rising, cracking, “to sit there and have every shred of your dignity ripped away, while the man you thought loved you just… watches?”

Max flinched. His knee bounced nervously under the table, but he still said nothing. His eyes, glassy with regret, darted back to yours as though searching for something, anything, to cling to.

You shoved your chair back with a screech, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.

Rising to your feet, you gripped the edge of the table to steady yourself. “Your father humiliated me tonight. He dragged my name through the mud in front of all those people, and you- you just sat there.”

“I wanted to stop him,” he murmured finally, his voice rough. He stood too, but hesitated, his hand hovering over the back of his chair as though afraid to move closer.

“Wanted to?” you repeated, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

You rounded the table, your skirts brushing against the polished floor, your heels clicking with every step. “Wanted to? What use is wanting when you didn’t do a damned thing, Max?”

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He stepped back as you approached, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw, his collar undone like a man too weary to even maintain propriety. “I froze,” he said finally, the words forced, raw. “I-”

You stopped short, staring at him, your chest heaving.

The anger burning in your veins was the only thing keeping the tears at bay. “You froze?” you repeated, incredulous. “That’s your excuse?”

He pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down in frustration.

His coat shifted with the motion, revealing the slightly wrinkled fabric beneath, proof of how tightly he’d been gripping his knees under the table earlier. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said, his voice low, shaking.

Your laugh was hollow, bitter, as you took another step closer. The train of your gown caught on the edge of a chair, but you yanked it free without breaking stride. “You didn’t know what to do?” you spat. “You could’ve told him to stop. You could’ve said, ‘She is mine, and you will not speak to her that way.’ You could’ve done something, Max. Anything.”

His hands reached out instinctively, but you recoiled, stepping back so sharply your gown swished around your ankles. His face crumpled as his arms fell back to his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

“Sorry?” you repeated, your voice trembling now, raw and unsteady. “You think that’s enough? You think ‘sorry’ is going to erase the fact that you left me there, alone, while he tore me apart?”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t,” you snapped, holding up a trembling hand to stop him. “Don’t you dare make excuses. You didn’t stop him because you’re afraid of him. Admit it, Max. You’re afraid.”

He didn’t deny it. His gaze dropped to the floor, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Your voice cracked as you took a step back, your arms wrapping around yourself as though you could hold the shattered pieces of your heart together.

“Promise me,” you said softly, each word trembling. “Promise me you won’t let him do that to me again.”

Max’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, pleading. “I…”

“Promise me,” you repeated, louder this time, your desperation cutting through the air like a blade.

“I-” His voice broke. He reached for you again, but this time you swatted his hand away, your tears blurring the edges of his face. “I can’t,” he whispered, the words breaking you more than anything else.

The breath left your lungs in a sharp, painful exhale. You staggered back, your gaze searching his face for some shred of hope, but all you found was his shame.

“Then don’t you dare call me your love anymore,” you said, your voice trembling, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “Don’t you dare.”

He froze, his hand still half-extended toward you. His lips parted, but no sound came.

Without another word, you turned sharply on your heel, the fabric of your gown rustling like thunder in the silence.

Max’s voice broke behind you, a desperate plea you couldn’t bear to hear.

“Please..”

“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking. “Don’t follow me, Max.”

His face crumpled as you walked away, the echo of your heels fading into the dark corners of the hall.

—-

The days following the dinner were marked by an aching, suffocating silence.

You didn’t speak to Max. Didn't even look at him.

Not because you didn’t cross paths, but because you couldn’t. The words caught in your throat every time you tried, tangled up in a way you just couldn’t seem to untangle.

It felt too raw, too heavy.

His silence that night, the way he’d just sat there while his father shredded you down to nothing, still stung like an open wound. It was the kind of pain that didn’t just hurt in the moment. It lingered, nestled in your chest, weighing you down in ways you hadn’t expected.

And Max didn’t push.

He didn’t try to force his way into your grief, didn’t demand your forgiveness or plead for you to move past it.

If anything, he seemed determined to let you set the pace, to give you whatever space you needed even if it meant keeping himself at arm’s length.

You still crossed paths, of course. There was no avoiding it entirely.

You still went on your daily walks through the gardens, wandering paths lined with neatly trimmed hedges and blooming flowers.

You still spent time in the library, the two of you occupying the same space while surrounded by the soft rustle of pages and the faint scent of old parchment.

But now the silence between you was no longer comforting. It wasn’t the easy, companionable quiet you’d once cherished, the kind that felt like the two of you could sit together without the need for constant words.

Sometimes, when you were sitting together, you caught him out of the corner of your eye.

Watching you, his face drawn and tired, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. Or some terrible mix of both.

And sometimes, when you walked side by side in the garden, you’d see his hand twitch, as though he were reaching out for yours instinctively.

It was a habit of his, something he’d always done without thinking. A casual, familiar gesture that had once brought you comfort.

But now, when his fingers brushed the air between you, he’d stop short. You’d watch as his hand clenched into a fist at his side, as though he were physically restraining himself.

There was nothing casual about it anymore. No thoughtless familiarity, no ease.

It wasn’t as though he wasn’t trying.

You could see it in the small, hesitant ways he tried to bridge the distance between you—the way he lingered in the same room longer than he needed to, the way his eyes softened whenever they met yours, as though silently asking if it was safe to come closer.

But you weren’t ready. Not yet.

Every time he looked at you like that, every time you caught the faintest trace of hope in his expression, the memory of that night came rushing back like a tidal wave.

So you stayed quiet, kept your distance even as you occupied the same spaces.

And Max didn’t say anything, didn’t press or push.

He just stayed there, hovering at the edges of your life like a shadow, silent and waiting. Waiting for you to decide if there was anything left to salvage.

—

“You should just talk to him,” Lily said softly, breaking the silence as she poured tea into the delicate china cup in front of you.

You looked up sharply, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “And why, exactly, should I?”

Lily didn’t look at you right away. She finished pouring, carefully setting the teapot down. “Because you look like you’re holding your breath every time he’s near you.”

Your frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze steady. “It means you’re walking around like this thing between you is strangling you. Like it’s taken up every inch of space in your chest and there’s no room left for air.”

You felt your cheeks flush, the sting of her observation cutting sharper than you wanted to admit.

You glanced down at the steam rising from your tea, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t see why I should be the one to talk to him. He’s the one who...” You trailed off, your throat tightening, the memory of that night still raw and aching.

“I’m not saying you need to forgive him. You don’t have to. Not now, not ever, if that’s what you decide. But this silence? It’s not helping either of you. Maybe it’s time to say something. For your sake, if nothing else.”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing over the rim of your cup as you avoided her gaze. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she said, her tone patient, gentle. “It doesn’t have to fix everything. But maybe it’s worth letting him know how you feel. Letting yourself breathe again.”

You shook your head, the familiar swell of anger and hurt rising in your chest. “Why should I be the one to fix this? He’s the one who stood there and let his father humiliate me. He didn’t say a word, Lily. Not one word.”

Her face softened with something like understanding, and for a moment, she didn’t respond. Then she said quietly, “I know. And you’re right. He should have spoken up. He should have done more. But...” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Have you seen him lately?”

Your brows furrowed as you finally looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he looks awful,” Lily said bluntly. “Like he hasn’t slept in days. He’s walking around with this... this look on his face, like he’s dragging the weight of the world behind him. It’s... it’s hard to watch, honestly.”

You frowned, your heart twisting at the image her words conjured. Max, hollow-eyed and exhausted, carrying his guilt like a shroud. It wasn’t what you’d wanted. You hadn’t wanted to break him. You just wanted him to understand how much he’d hurt you.

Lily tilted her head, studying you. “I’m not saying you owe him anything. You don’t. But maybe... maybe talking to him wouldn’t just be for his sake. Maybe it would help you too.”

The ache in your chest deepened, a knot of emotions too tangled to unravel.

You weren’t sure if you were ready.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever be ready.

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lily gave you a small, encouraging smile. “That’s all I’m saying. Just think about it.”

—

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just forgive him already, my lady,” Lando groaned dramatically, his boots scuffing the floor as he limped into the hall with a hand pressed to his ribs and the most pitiful expression you’d ever seen.

You blinked, startled, your gaze darting between his grimace and the faint scrape of steel from outside the window. “Forgive him? What are you talking about?”

Lando paused just long enough to throw you a deeply offended look before collapsing onto a nearby chair as if the journey from the training yard to the hall had nearly killed him. “What am I talking about? Oh, only the fact that your fiancé is trying to murder me. That’s all.”

Your brow furrowed as you glanced at Oscar, who had followed Lando inside.

The knight stood by the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, his expression calm but tinged with faint amusement.

“What happened?” you asked, turning back to Lando, who was now slumped over the arm of the chair like a man on his deathbed.

“What happened? He happened!” Lando shot upright, jabbing a finger toward the courtyard. “Your darling betrothed has gone completely mad. I swear, he’s been possessed by some spirit of vengeance. He’s brutal- relentless! My body wasn’t built for this kind of abuse, my lady. I’m delicate.”

Oscar snorted, shaking his head. “Delicate isn’t the word I’d use.”

Lando’s mouth dropped open, scandalized. “Excuse me? This is coming from the man who sat back and watched me get beaten within an inch of my life?”

He turned to you, eyes wide and beseeching. “Do you see what I’m dealing with? First, your fiancé tries to cut me in half, and now your knight mocks my pain. I’m surrounded by cruelty!”

You fought back a smile, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?” Lando looked positively aghast, clutching his chest as though you’d stabbed him. “You think I’m exaggerating? He disarmed me within minutes, then made me pick up the sword and do it all over again- six times! At one point, I was fairly certain I’d lost the ability to breathe. Do you know what he said to me? ‘You’re improving.’ Improving! My ribs say otherwise!”

Oscar’s lips twitched, though he didn’t quite smile. “You’re still standing, aren’t you?”

“Barely,” Lando huffed. He stood gingerly, clutching his back as though the act of rising from the chair had aged him twenty years. “I’ll have you know I’m going straight to the healer. And after that, I’m taking the longest bath of my life. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the tub, rethinking every decision that led me to this moment.”

With that, he hobbled toward the stairs, muttering under his breath about sadists and swordsmen who didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

You turned back to Oscar, who had remained silent through most of Lando’s theatrics. He was still standing by the door, his gaze distant now, fixed somewhere beyond the frost-covered window panes.

“He’s still out there, you know,” he said finally, his tone dry.

“What?”

Oscar tilted his head toward the courtyard. “Your fiancé. He hasn’t stopped. He’s still training.”

You moved closer to the window, peering out into the dusky evening. Sure enough, there he was, a dark figure against the pale, frostbitten ground.

His sword moved in deliberate, measured arcs, each swing cutting through the biting wind like it was nothing. His breath hung in the air in sharp clouds, but he didn’t falter.

“Why?” you murmured, your brow furrowing as you turned to Oscar. “It’s freezing out there.”

Oscar’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes. “He’s not the type to stop. Cold doesn’t bother him, not when he’s like this.”

“Like what?”

Oscar hesitated, his usual bluntness faltering for just a moment. “Like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts.”

You glanced back at your fiancé, your chest tightening as you watched him swing the sword again and again, each movement precise and controlled, like he was fighting an invisible enemy.

Oscar shifted, his voice quieter now. “Look, my lady... I’m not going to tell you what to do. It’s not my place to ask for forgiveness on his behalf. That’s something he’ll have to earn himself.”

You turned to him, surprised by the sudden change in his tone.

Gone was the sharp, pragmatic knight you knew. In his place was something softer, almost hesitant.

“But,” he continued, meeting your gaze, “as a man, I am asking you to give him a chance. Not because he deserves it. But because I’ve seen men like him before. Men who don’t know how to say what they mean.”

His words settled heavily between you, the quiet crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.

“I’m not saying he’s perfect,” Oscar added, his voice even softer now. “But I think he’s trying. And sometimes, that’s worth something.”

—

The snow fell in sheets, each flake biting at Max’s skin like shards of ice. It blanketed the courtyard, piling high in thick drifts that glowed faintly under the dull gray of the moon.

The wind howled, tearing through the frozen night, cutting past the thin fabric of his sweat-soaked tunic and carving into his flesh like jagged teeth.

Max’s breath rose in ragged bursts, visible in the frigid air, each exhale trembling with effort. His hands, stiff and raw, clutched the hilt of his sword with a grip so tight his knuckles felt as though they might split.

The steel was freezing, an unyielding weight that seemed to fuse with his palm. His fingers, reddened and cracked, struggled to keep hold, but he didn’t dare let go.

He swung again. The blade hissed through the icy air before colliding with the splintered wood of the practice post.

The impact sent a jolt up his arms, rattling his shoulders, his teeth.

Pain flared in his joints, spreading through his already screaming muscles, but he ignored it. His body ached, his knuckles bled, but it still wasn’t enough. It never was.

Snow clung to his damp hair, melting into icy rivulets that dripped down his temples, his neck. He hadn’t bothered with gloves. Or a cloak.

The cold was a blessing. A punishment. It numbed the ache of his hands, the burn in his shoulders, and dulled the deeper pain lodged in his chest.

The wind picked up, sharp and merciless, whipping across his exposed skin.

He welcomed it, leaning into the sting as though the air might tear him apart, cleanse him of the memories gnawing at his mind. He swung again, harder this time, the motion wild, unbalanced.

The blade struck the post with a sickening crack, splinters flying as the impact jarred his entire body.

He stumbled, breath hitching as exhaustion clawed at him. His arms felt like lead, his legs trembling under the weight of his own battered frame.

Every inch of him throbbed, the dull, relentless pain seeping into his bones. His body, older than it should have been at twenty-three, protested with every movement.

His hands were aged before their time, the calluses and scars a map of years spent holding a sword when he should have been a boy.

Still, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. If he stopped, the silence would creep in. If he stopped, the memories would return.

He pivoted, his breath a broken rasp as he swung again. The sword felt heavier with every motion, its hilt biting into the tender, split skin of his palm.

The wind roared, scattering snow into his eyes, but he barely blinked. His focus was razor-sharp, pinned on the shattered remains of the post as though destroying it might somehow quiet the storm inside him.

But it didn’t.

The memories came anyway, vicious and unrelenting.

Nine years old. Kneeling on frozen stone, the cold seeping through his skin as he counted the seconds between lashes. The whip cracked, the sound sharp and unforgiving, and his father’s voice followed, low and calm.

“Hold still, boy. A soldier doesn’t flinch. If you move again, we start over.”

He could still feel the sting of the leather against his back, the burn that lingered long after the blows stopped.

He remembered biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, his small body shaking with the effort to stay still. He hadn’t cried, not until his father had left the room, the echo of the slammed door ringing in his ears.

Fourteen. Standing rigid as Jos’s words sliced into him, sharper than any blade. “You’ll never be a man. You’ll never be strong enough. If you can’t endure this, how do you expect to survive out there?”

Max swung again, the blade whistling through the freezing air, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His vision swam, his balance faltering as his strength began to wane, but he refused to stop. He couldn’t stop.

Because if he did, he’d hear his father’s voice again. He’d see your face.

The memory hit him like a blow, the sound of your voice echoing in his mind. Raw. Shattered. The way you’d looked at him.

Wide-eyed. Disbelieving. Like you didn’t know who he was anymore.

The sword slipped from his hands, falling to the snow with a muted thud. His chest heaved, his lungs burning as he struggled to catch his breath. He stood there, trembling, the snow swirling around him in a blinding haze.

The frost clung to his lashes, melting into cold trails that streaked down his cheeks.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as a fresh wave of pain rippled through him. He welcomed it, needed it, but it still wasn’t enough.

The memory of your face refused to leave him.

You’d been standing in the hall, your gaze darting between him and Jos as though you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Max could still hear the venom in his father’s voice, the cruel, cutting words that had torn into you like claws.

And he’d done nothing.

He’d stood there, frozen, his body locked in place as his father’s fury spilled out. He’d wanted to move, wanted to speak, to defend you, but he hadn’t.

Because when Jos turned his gaze on him, sharp and filled with that same disgust Max had seen since he was a boy, all his courage had turned to ash in-

“What are you doing out here?”

Max flinched at the sound of your voice, the syllables cutting through his thoughts.

He didn’t turn to face you, his broad back stiff against the wind. “Training,” he said after a long pause, the word rasping out of him, half-choked with exhaustion.

“Training?” you repeated, stepping closer. The frost crunched beneath your boots, your breath clouding in the cold air. “It’s freezing, Max. You shouldn’t-”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice low, hollow. His hands moved behind his back, fingers curling into fists as though he could hide them, but even from this distance, you could see the raw, bloody skin.

“Max,” you whispered, horror prickling at the edges of your voice. “Your hands-”

“They’re fine,” he said quickly, his tone sharper than he intended. He winced at himself, sucking in a shaky breath. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point,” you said, stepping closer, the hem of your cloak brushing against the frost-laden grass. “What are you trying to do to yourself? It’s the middle of the night, you’re bleeding, and it’s so cold you can barely breathe.”

“I’m used to it,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the ground as though it could swallow him whole.

“Are you?” you challenged, your voice cutting sharper now.

He didn’t answer, the silence between you heavy and brittle. The moonlight cast a silvery glow over his hunched figure, illuminating the tension coiled in his frame.

You exhaled slowly, your breath visible in the icy air. “You’re going to get sick.”

“I’ll go inside later,” he said, his tone dull, lifeless. “You should go ahead first.”

“Max-”

“I told you,” he said, spinning to face you, his voice raw and fraying at the edges. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the depths of his anguish.

The shadows, the guilt, the broken pieces he couldn’t seem to hide. “I will settle. As long as I have you in my life, even if you hate me for the rest of it, I’ll settle for that silence. I’ll take it. I’ll endure it.”

Your heart twisted painfully, the cold biting sharper now as the weight of his words fell between you. “So that’s it?” you said, your voice trembling. “You’re not even going to try?”

His shoulders sagged, his breath hitching as he shook his head. “Do I even deserve to?”

Your chest tightened, and you took another step forward, your voice rising with the desperation clawing at your throat. “It’s not about deserving, Max. It’s about trying. About fighting for the people you care about, no matter how hard it is.”

“I’ve grown soft,” he murmured, the words barely audible as he turned away from you. His hands twitched at his sides, trembling as though they carried the weight of his shame. “If I had stood up to him- if I had spoken out- my father would’ve dragged me to the dungeons. I haven’t been there in years, and still… the memory-”

His voice cracked, and he ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands like he wanted to rip the thoughts from his skull.

“Max,” you said, your voice softening despite the anger still simmering in your chest. “What are you talking about?”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought to keep his composure. “I was afraid,” he whispered, the admission like a knife slicing through the air. “That’s why I froze. That’s why I didn’t defend you. I was afraid, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I let him humiliate you. I hate that I let you sit there, waiting for me to speak, and I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Max exhaled. “And I’m sorry. I would let him whip me a thousand times if it meant you’d look at me with softness again.”

The world seemed to stop. Your stomach dropped, your blood turning to ice. “What?” you whispered, the word barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “What do you mean, whip you?”

Max’s silence was unbearable, the way his head bowed under the weight of his words. It was as if speaking them had drained the fight from him. But then, slowly, he sank to his knees before you, his hands trembling as they moved to rest in his lap.

“Do it,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice raw with desperation. “If it will make you forgive me- if it will make things right- hurt me. However you like. I deserve it.” His head hung low, his body tense, as though bracing for some cruel blow. “I betrayed you. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if pain is what it takes-”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp, horrified. The sight of him kneeling before you, offering himself up like some sacrificial lamb, sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. “Max, get up. Please.”

He didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to fold further into himself, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “I can take it,” he insisted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve taken worse. I’ll take it for you.”

“No,” you choked out, the word trembling on your lips. You crouched before him, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to reach for him or pull away. “Max, this isn’t- this isn’t how this works. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He flinched, as if your words themselves were a blow. “But I hurt you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I stood there and let him- let him say those things to you, and I did nothing. I froze. And now I’m here, training, trying to- trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But it’s not enough, is it?” He raised his head then, his eyes wet, his expression pleading. “So tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it. Tell me how to be better.”

Your throat tightened, a lump rising that you couldn’t swallow down. “Max,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “This… this isn’t the answer. You don’t have to punish yourself to be forgiven. You don’t have to prove your worth to me like this.”

He blinked, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and anguish. “Then what do I do?” he whispered. “I don’t know how else to-”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you interrupted, your voice firm despite the tears stinging your eyes. “You’re not your father. You don’t have to fight like he did. And you don’t have to hurt like this- not to earn love, not to earn forgiveness.”

For a moment, Max simply stared at you, his lips parted, as if your words were a foreign language he couldn’t quite comprehend.

Slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek. His breath hitched, and he froze beneath your touch, like he didn’t believe it was real.

“You deserve kindness, Max,” you said, your voice breaking on the last word. “Even from yourself.”

His shoulders shook, his head dropping forward until his forehead rested against your hand

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he let himself cry.

—

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scribs-dibs · 7 months ago

Text

cherry wine

(separate) belle & wise, gn reader, kinda ooc... because im still early game i think..., late-night proofreading. godspeed if ur reading this 🫶🏾

wc; ~1.7k total

phaethon can navigate hollows with ease. but a crush?

Wise does not hear any of the words that play loudly on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t care to. Though this is one of his favorites– his brain is occupied by you just sitting here, beside him.

The documentary buzzes on about its topic, but Wise can’t make out a word over the sound of his rapidly beating heart. He’s stiff– sat up straight as a board even if the soft cushions of the couch beckon him to do otherwise. He can’t think. Usually he is the one who can iron out the folds of a situation, a cool collected mind built to play in contrast to his sister. But now his thoughts are a mess- contorted underneath the blunt of his embarrassment. If Belle were here now, she’d laugh right in his face.

It’s her fault he’s in this mess to begin with.

(“You suck at hiding it, you know,” Belle is at his side in the doorway, waving you goodbye for the day. Her words make him jolt.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Your crush, obviously.”

Wise is almost sure that for a moment, his heart stops beating. He barely manages to suppress the gasp that threatens to spill out of his throat.

Instead he brushes it off, turns on his heel pointedly and shakes his head from a sudden bout of fake-exhaustion.

“Okay. I’m calling it a night—”

“You’re probably not the only one to like them, Wise.”

He stops in his tracks.

Because she's right. In the months the two have come to know you, you've been the kind, helpful neighbor who has helped them through thick and thin. You are known on Sixth Street, a regular name heard from store to store— he'd be foolish to think that he's the only one that has warmth bloom in his chest at the sight of you. Damn.

“Buuut,” Belle nudges him playfully on the shoulder, her signature smile making her eyes crinkle at the edges, “You could be the first to make a move.”

“Belle–”

“I’ll even help! Come on Wise!”)

And now he’s here, with his heart fit to burst out of his chest.

“So…uh,”

Your attention is on him now, the smoothness of his voice pulling you from the visuals of the movie. Little does he know, Wise is a pleasant sight for the eyes. He has a soft, lopsided smile, and his complexion is tinted with warmth because of his room’s dim lighting. (It’s strange, though, that the more you look the more intense it seems to get.) His eyes are usually crystal clear and focused, but now they are glossed over with something that looks like unease.

The longer you stare, the harder his heart beats against his ribcage. It’s not fair, truly. You’ve only sat next to him and looked in his direction, yet his face feels like it burns and his tongue is too heavy to form proper words. Movies are his thing. Belle had suggested this because it should be easy. But he can’t think straight when butterflies are soaring in his stomach.

At the very least, he wants to see if you’re even enjoying the documentary, so he wills his mouth to do something other than open and immediately snap shut.

“Do you…like me?”

The movie. He meant the movie. The sentence was supposed to be: Do you like the movie.

There is something pitiful, Wise thinks, in how he scrambles to make up for his botched words. The calm, steady tones of his voice are replaced by chopped up mix-mashes of sentences, trying desperately to weave into something coherent.

To no avail of course.

His mouth can’t seem to stop now that it’s started, fragment after fragment tumbling freely out of his mouth– like it has a mind of its own. He’s flushed up to the ears, the pink flush to his skin now all- encompassing. His mouth just keeps moving– until you manage to stop it with your own.

You can feel his breath hitch in his throat. Wise doesn’t think he deserves a reward this good after fumbling so badly, but when your lips brush against his he can’t find it in himself to be truly upset. You are pulling at the edges of his jacket, hands digging hard into the material to ensure he doesn’t try to pull away. You can’t stand to see him apologize for crossing some sort of nonexistent line– your feelings are returned.

“Does that answer your question?”

Wise has to take a moment to breathe. The kiss was a short little thing, one that was chaste in nature– you just wanted him to be sure of your own feelings. The blue-green of his eyes are focused on you– truly focused, this time, not a fleeting glance that is quickly cast away.

“Wise?”

Your voice snaps him out of the daze he was in.

“Yeah. Yeah, but,”

It’s his turn to pull you in this time– subtly soft hands cupping your cheeks.

“Would you mind ‘answering’ me again?”

Belle is someone you’ve always looked up to.

She’s sweet and smart, and throughout all your errands throughout Sixth Street she’s always available to lend a hand. You couldn’t find a paper long enough to list all the reasons you’re grateful for her presence.

That being said, when you’re face to face with her, you can’t quite seem to get yourself together.

“C’mon, you’re not going easy on me, are you?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Belle pouting, brows furrowed and bottom lip jutted out. It’s adorable, and you’re so taken that you fully run into her snake on the arcade machine.

It was her idea to go out once the day had come to a close. The sun still hangs lazily in the sky, casting everything in gold. The arcade is a place where you can relax after being pulled this way and that by different people around town. This time, Belle joins you, offhandedly mentioning how she also needs to destress from such a long day at work.

You’re a bit distracted, though, when the neon lights reflect in her eyes and make her smile that much more radiant.

“You’re not answering…” Belle gasps, complete with a theatrical hand to her chest, “You are, aren’t you!”

“No, of course not! I just,” It dawns on you that the arcade is nearly empty, and suddenly this one-on-one game of snake seems far more intimate than it actually is. It’s just you and her. You can’t help but feel a bit giddy on the inside– the excitement must deal a blow to your accuracy.

“I’m just off my game, that’s all.”

Belle hums, contemplative. You can’t help but feel worried when the gears of her brain start turning.

“In that case…That just means we need to up the steaks!”

“Up the steaks?”

She nods, and her smile grows more devious by the second.

“Mhm! Let’s say…” Belle taps her chin, and though she is putting on a show of trying to think of something, you have a sneaking suspicion that she has already decided what it is she’s after, “The loser has to give something to the winner?”

You know, distantly, that this has to play into Belle’s hands somehow. But she’s never done you any harm, and her eagerness is so palpable that you can’t help but concede.

“Alright, alright. Fine.”

There is nothing but the buzz and click of the machine for a while, and Belle was right– the new motivation lights a fire underneath you, and suddenly your nerves are replaced by a burning desire to win. You don’t know what you’ll ask for if you do– by the time you two are finished here, with the score finally settled, you’re sure most of Sixth Street’s shops will be closed. But you want to win.

You swerve at the last minute to avoid Belle’s snake, grabbing a diamond on the tile in front by the skin of your teeth. But Belle has always been sneaky, able to pull a last-minute change in a situation with ease. She cuts a sharp turn, and the rest of her snake is able to encircle yours. You watch with a sickly sense of dread as your snake breaks into itty-bitty pieces.

You heave a sigh– at least it was a good game. But you’re still soured at the loss of a win that was so close.

“Aww, what’s wrong?” Belle is grinning, eyes forming little crescents, “Don’t tell me you’re a sore loser…”

You roll your eyes, but you’re far too endeared to be properly annoyed.

“’Course not. You won,”

The arcade’s lights have started to dim by now, the peachy-colored sky dipped into inky darkness as you step out.

“Even if you were sneaky about it.”

“Was not!”

You glare out of the corner of your eye, and again you are met with a playful pout.

“What is it you want, anyway?” You busy yourself with walking a few steps ahead, avoiding her moonlit face as much as possible. How can you put up a fight when she looks at you like that?

“Well,” Belle gazes upon the shops along Sixth Street, their windows dark and their doors closed, “Everything is closed for the night, looks like. I’ll have to get a bit creative, huh?”

Belle’s footsteps grow louder, and before you know it she’s made her way in front of you, eyes full of starlight.

“How about…”

She takes slow, calculated steps toward you, and your heart leaps in your throat.

“A kiss?”

Belle is but a few inches away from you, her head tilted and her gaze soft. Her voice is quiet and unusually meek as she says it, like her confidence had reached its limit.

“…O-of course, if you don’t want to–”

You pull her in before you can second-guess yourself. Her lips are plush, and though she is initially surprised by your sudden movement, it takes barely a second for you to feel them smile against your own. Her arms link around you like it’s the easiest thing she’s ever done, and the silver-tinted street is drowned out like it never mattered.

When you part, her face is flushed a pretty shade of pink. You aren’t better off– you’re so happy that you now stand on wobbly legs.

“Happy now?”

“Hm, not quite. I think you should give me another.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

ty for reading! rbs w/comments are appreciated!

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utterlyazriel · 4 days ago

Text

to see you just right

word count: 5k... my freakin sweet spot apparently synopsis: Shooting practice reveals your less than stellar vision. Arthur determinedly hunts down some glasses for you and you realise what details you've been missing out on. mutual pining, friends to lovers (almost) set during horseshoe overlook ! this is my first rdr fic so... be nice <3

Times like now, squinting at the bottles in the distance, the question of why the gang still kept you around bugs at you like an incessant horsefly.

I mean, you knew why—you've been running with the Van Der Linde gang for a couple years now. If you hadn't already proved yourself as resourceful and sharp-minded, you would've been kicked to the curb quite some time ago.

But you certainly weren’t a hunter. Nor a shooter.

You weren't even very good at picking pockets.

What you had was keen ears; good for picking up leads and the hushed conversations of businessmen with deep pockets. Not to mention your adeptness at stitching up bullet wounds, better than anyone else at camp.

Yes, yes, you weren't useless by any means.

But still... that didn't mean you could shake the envy of others' skills. It didn't take away that simmering, uneasy feeling as you stared down the targets in the distance, helplessly blurred to you. The shot from your last bullet still rings out.

You can already tell it hasn't hit its mark.

Just hit the fucking target. You think to yourself scoldingly.

You're not sure why this is so much harder for you than just about anyone else in the gang. And as much as it isn't your job, you've grown determined to be able to handle yourself if trouble ever comes knocking.

You thought that with a gunslinger as fine as Arthur Morgan himself, you'd learn a thing or two — a foolish idea that's dissipating quickly before you.

Adjusting your clammy grip on the pistol cradled between both palms, you shift your stance and squint again, rolling your shoulders back.

Empty lungs. You pull back the hammer and line up your best shot, feeling the kick of the recoil.

The lack of shattering glass is answer enough, but even so you lower your extended arms an inch or so to see closer. Scrunching your eyes to try focus, you wince at what you can make out.

No bullet holes on any of the crates, all six bottles still standing.

You're beginning to sorely regret asking for shooting practice when it only seems like a surefire way to prove yourself a fool. And in front of Arthur no less.

Arthur who—well, you'd be lying if you said you weren't fond for.

Quick to boil, your frustration wells, an itch behind your eyes. You drop your arms, lowering your gaze to the ground with another sigh.

"How you do this every damn day is a miracle to me."

You force a half-hearted laugh into your words. It's better than letting him hear that wallowing, pitiful feeling you can feel rising up your throat.

"It's jus' lots 'n lots of practice," Arthur says gently, his voice somewhere behind you.

Christ knows his intense, watchful gaze isn't helping you either.

You can't help but feel it burning into your back every time you raise the pistol—and every time you fail miserably.

Your frustration rises again and you finally lift your head, turning back to the cowboy.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," You say sincerely. "I— this was a mistake." You begin to hold the pistol out in your outstretched hand, grip lax.

You don't get very far before he's stepping in closer, his hand reaching up to yours and pressing your fingers to close around the grip again.

"C'mon now," He rasps. "Yer not just gonna give up 'cos it's hard, are ya?"

Skin against skin is enough to draw your heart up your throat, rabbiting fast and all too revealing. You pointedly ignore the spike in your pulse and let him manoeuvre you, his hand moving up to nudge your shoulder. You face the targets.

Six bottles in the distance glint tauntingly beneath the afternoon sun, as if teasing you for your failure.

"Arthur," You sigh dejectedly.

It's kind of him to keep offering encouragement but you only need ten minutes of this to realise it's a severely lost cause. "It's not use, I'm awful—"

"Hush," Arthur cuts you off, voice gruff this time. "You ain't no such thing. Just—"

He hovers just behind you, the heat of his body blazing against your back. With a quiet hum, his fingertips square out your angled shoulders, fixing your stance. They trail down to minutely adjust the twist of your hips, pressing one further forward gently.

The sun seems to burn brighter suddenly. You fight to keep your face forward and pray Arthur can't heart the traitorous inhale you give at his touch.

"'Kay. Shoot again." He murmurs lowly, his hands retreating but staying close. "Lemme watch closer this time."

You're not brave enough to tell him that you're even less likely to hit the target with his close proximity.

Instead, you just follow his instruction, raising the pistol to the bottles once more. Slowing your breath as much as your racing heart will allow, you squint.

"Wait," Arthur's voice interrupts.

You falter, suddenly unsure. Moving out from behind you, his hand comes up to push the gun down, barrel facing the dirt.

Standing close, he tilts his head up, his eyes assessing you intently from beneath the brim of his hat. It's as though he's looking at a puzzle he can't quite figure out.

After a moment, his eyes cast out to the shooting range he's set up for you. You get a stolen glimpse of his chiselled jaw before he's stepping forward, broad shouldered, with one hand resting on his gun belt.

Turning to face you, he takes a few wide steps back, then halts, raising his hand.

"How many fingers?"

Brows raised, you will yourself not to scoff. "You bein’ serious?"

Arthur doesn't move, only his head tilting forward an inch, the brim of his hat dipping lower. He smiles wryly. "Humour me."

Dropping your arms, you let the gun swing idly to your side. With a shrug, you focus on his hand.

"Two."

Arthur nods. He turns and paces back til he's in line with the bottles this time. It's far enough from you that the details of him begin to blur out, but you can still see his figure just fine.

"And now?" He calls out, voice raised to reach you over the distance.

Your careless shrug from before is nowhere to be found. A sudden sheepishness crawls up within you as you quickly try to strain your gaze.

God, is he even holding up a hand at all?

You don't get a moment to guess before he's approaching you once more, his features getting sharper as he draws closer. You can see his smile, a rare sight. He seems to have solved his puzzle.

"What was that for?" You question curiously.

"It ain't yer aim, that's for damn sure," Arthur says, coming to a stop before you.

His blue eyes assess you once more, before he extends his hand out for the pistol at your side. You hand it over wordlessly, waiting for his explanation. A dragonfly swoops by you with a loud hum.

"It's yer eyes." He says, holstering the pistol without a glance.

You blink, confused at the implication. You're sure if there was something wrong with your eyes, you'd know about it at your grown age.

Your confusion must be clear on your face because Arthur continues, resting his hands on his gun belt casually.

He nods to you. "Not all bad. 'Betcha can see just fine up close. But in the distance, not so much."

"Oh," The word escapes in a soft breath.

It hadn't really been something you had considered—that your poor performance shooting was due to that blurriness surrounding the targets. That it was due to anything other than you being utter shit at shooting.

Turning your stare out to the bottles again, you blink and squint, as if to check. You realise he may just be talking truth.

"Lord, I think you might be right." You admit, a relieved laugh colouring your tone. The frustration you felt from earlier drains rapidly, taking with it your souring mood.

A different part of you deflates at the knowledge you'll never get better at shooting. Cursed vision. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, pushing down your bitterness.

Arthur gestures to the horses with one hand, lesson clearly over.

The pair of you begin to meander back towards your horses hitched in the treeline. Side by side, it doesn't escape you the nearness you're inclined to, drawn to him, a flower facing the sun.

The leather of his jacket brushes your bare arm. You think you must be suffering sunburn, considering how your skin seems to burn in response.

Eyes flashing in his direction, you think you see a hint of colour on Arthur’s face.

He’s tilts his head, his features covered by the brim of his hat, so you can't be sure. You chalk it up to a wishful imagination.

Always unknowable. Maybe it's his private nature that's part of what allures you to the man.

Pushing forward, you approach your mare, Dragon, with a gentle greeting. You're rewarded with the butting of her muzzle against your palm, a smile curling onto your lips instinctively.

“Y'know, chances are, you're not nearly as awful as ya think.” Arthur says, his tone softer than usual—perhaps sensing your blue mood.

Despite talking to you, he keeps his gaze steadfast on his own horse, Hypatia. He dotes on her with a loving pat, hands usually meant for violence, now gentle.

After a moment, he says. “I’ll see what I can do fer you at the general store.”

Pleasant surprise curls up in your stomach in a sharp bloom.

“Arthur,” You say with a smile, sounding a bit awed. He does look up at you this time, blue eyes bright from beneath the edge of his hat. “That’s very kind but, well, you needn’t do that—“

"I ain't makin' you any promises," He cuts your rambling response off. "I'll just have a look. That alright?"

Feeling your face glow warmly, you force yourself to meet his strong gaze. "Alright."

Then after a moment, you say, "I guess I'll allow it."

Arthur guffaws lightly at that. He pushes up on strong legs to mount Hypatia in one fluid motion, one he's done countless times before. You watch, pretending you aren't staring at the powerful flex of his thighs as he settles into the saddle.

Christ alive. It takes effort to avert your eyes, stepping up to sling yourself into your own saddle.

“If she allows it…” Arthur repeats, almost incredulously, his head tilted toward you. There’s a tug on his lips, like he’s holding back his smile, even as he shakes his head at you.

A laugh titters out of you and you nudge Dragon forward, if only so he can't see the grin on your lips.

And if you spend the ride to camp lingering on the feeling of his hands covering your own hands, adjusting the twist of your waist?

Well, that was your own damn business.

—

After your shooting lesson, Arthur leaves camp for four days.

Some bounty given to him by the sheriff in Valentine that he was tracking up into the mountains — at least that’s what he’d said as he bid you a polite goodbye, early in the morning light, the day after your lesson.

You’d murmured your drowsy goodbye over your coffee cup, eyes barely open — making Arthur snort quietly — and then watched intently, your sleepy gaze softened, as he disappeared between the trees on Hypatia.

Perhaps you’d been too spoiled with his company in these last couple weeks.

He hadn’t taken any longer jobs, always back at camp for the evening, with a tip of his hat to you. Always prepared to lend a helping hand or to escort you and the girls into Valentine. You'd almost call yourselves friends. The familiarity of his presence was something you'd gotten used to.

It was one of the good reasons you found yourself particular afflicted with him — Arthur Morgan was far kinder than he ever gave himself credit for.

And far nicer to look at than he seemed to think so too.

To say you’re a bit put off by not having your usual pretty-boy cowboy to provide somewhere nice to rest your eyes wouldn’t be a lie.

“Someone’s head in the clouds.”

The jeering words from Karen pair with a playful nudge to your shoulder.

Distracted, the dish in your hands slips and lands back in the water-filled basin with a splosh. Narrowing your eyes at Karen, you fish it out and resume your abandoned scrubbing.

“Ain’t sure what you’re talking ‘bout,” You hum, nonchalant as you can manage.

Liar. You’d definitely been casting your gaze towards the trail that leads into camp and slipped away into a daydream, sweet as the cowboy’s eyes you were imagining. Surely he wouldn't be away much longer, right?

“Mmhm,” Karen says, telling you exactly how much she believed you.

At her side, Mary-Beth smothers a giggle in her palm. Clearly your attempts at subtlety are wholly ineffective.

Despite your intent glances as you work your way through the remaining chores of the day, none prove to be fruitful. The sun lazes across the sky and sinks toward the horizon and even then, Arthur is absent.

Your lovesickness abates with a sigh. The outlaw could be gone for weeks at a time, you knew that. If it was a shorter trip, he'd be back already. Tonight, you depart from around the campfire earlier than usual, heading back to your shared tent with Mary-Beth.

It’s with an absentminded hum that you potter around, straightening out the space as the sunlight dwindles. You had worked hard today and it’s filled your bones with a weariness ready for sleep.

An oil lamp burns on the crate acting as your bedside table, casting a mellow, amber colour through the tent. The idle sounds of the wildlife of Horseshoe Overlook fill the background, mixing with the crackle of the campfire.

Maybe you should journal a bit, before bed. Eyes narrowed, you scan your cot for the little book you keep nearby—you had used it just last night.

Coming up blank, you huff and crouch to your knees to hunt for it. Countless times you’ve fallen asleep with it in your hand and found it gone in the morning. It worms its way down the edge of the tent with a mission to escape you, you swear.

Peering beneath your cot, the red leather of the book gleams back at you. You smile and reach out, having to duck a little further to reach it, giving a victorious little aha! when you close your fingers around it.

Shifting back, you sit on your heels, right as someone clears their throat behind you.

Spooked and not unlike a deer, you startle with a violent jump. Whipping around, pulse jumping, your panic recedes as you narrow your eyes at the cause of your panic.

“Christ, Arthur,” you seethe at him. You put a hand over your racing heart to calm it. “You damn near scared the mickey out of me.”

“My apologies, miss,” Arthur says, tipping his hat. He sounds sincere but even so, you catch the glimmer of amusement on his lips. “Weren’t my intention.”

He’s lingering at the entrance of your tent, not quite entering. His big hands rest of his gun belt, hovering somewhere between casual and proper.

How Arthur manages both is a mystery to you; every bit at home amongst the rough of tumble of camp, yet ever-so polite to you.

He treats you like a gentlemen treats a proper lady; though both of you are neither.

Pushing to your feet, you let your journal drop atop your cot. Then you regret it, wishing you had something to occupy your hands. The all too familiar buzz of nerves that come with being sweet on someone makes you prone to fidgeting.

You brush down your skirts just to do something. “And just what was your intention?”

Amusement abiding, a different expression skitters across Arthur's face. He raises one hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“Gotcha somethin',” He murmurs, dragging his hand forward, across his beard. Rather hastily, he stuffs his hand into his satchel.

He digs for a moment and then pulls his hand out, extending it out. Something shiny glints in the low light of the tent, resting in his big palm.

You step forward and squint for a moment, realising with a jolt of unexpected delight that it’s a pair of round spectacles.

An infectious smile tugs the corner of your lips up, your eyes brighter upon seeing the gift he’s brought you. Your hand reaches out, then halts in mid-air, glancing back up at him.

“May I?”

“‘Course. They’re for you.” Arthur grunts, feigning nonchalance even as he beckons you to take them from him.

Smile turning to a grin, you pluck them out his hand, stepping closer as you do. You turn them over in delicately, drinking in the details greedily. They’re finely made.

With an ebb of guilt, you realise they must’ve cost him a fortune. If he paid for them, that is.

“Took me all the way out past Emerald Ranch to find a fella who did them.”

Gaze snapping up, the ebb of guilt grows. He hadn’t just got them for you, he’d gone out of his way to find a spectacle maker specifically.

There’s a silver lining to the guilt — the feeling sprinkled through your chest like gunpowder, kicking up sparks. He certainly had to be keeping you in mind, to some capacity, to do such a thing for you.

The thought of being more than a passing thought in Arthur’s mind is enough to set the gunpowder alight. Your chest glows brightly like a firework.

“What happened to just having a nosy in the general store, hm?” You ask.

“Well, now,” Arthur begins, giving a hesitant cough as if it’ll cover the sincerity of his actions. He tilts his head down, the brim of his hat covering his eyes, as he always did when he felt too seen.

After a pause, he says lowly, “I know how much you wanted to shoot.”

“That’s... mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the racing of your treacherous heart. “Though, I’d hate for you to go to all this trouble if they don’t even work right with my eyes.”

Holding the pair of spectacles up, you unfold the arms and peer through the lenses. They’re certainly magnifying something—Arthur looking further away in the one lens you peer through. It’s almost like a funhouse mirror. The smile on your face widens, cheeks nearly aching.

“That don’t matter,” Arthur says. He pats his satchel gently. “If those don’t work, I got three more pairs in here.”

“Three?” You lower the glasses, bewilderment colouring your voice.

“Where the devil did you get so many?”

“Turns out, folk rich enough to take the stagecoach can usually afford ‘em.” Arthur chuckles.

Somehow the image of Arthur out there, picking through the loot box, then demanding folk hand over their eyewear is enough to inspire a laugh out of you.

You stifle your laughter behind your hand, endeared even more when he opens his satchel to prove it, a shy smile on his lips.

Sure enough, he draws three more pairs out. Even the thickness of the glass even varies from pair to pair — god, who knew one could be so thoughtful whilst robbing?

“You know, that might be the most sweet thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The words come out softer than intended, your affections surely obvious.

You don’t risk a glance up at Arthur’s face, too fearful your feelings are written over your own, plain to see. In doing so, you miss the dusting of pink across his own cheeks.

Arthur clears his throat, sending a single prayer for strength to a god who’s surely abandoned him. The way you sound, he’d almost believe you’re sweet on him.

“Cmon, then,” He says, adding a touch more gruff to his voice. “Better try them on after all the damn time I spent hunting them down.”

You roll your eyes at his faux annoyance. There’s no real heat to his words.

Tilting your face down, you bring the pair up to tuck over your ears hesitantly. The world around you shifts as the lenses settle. Your sight is sufficiently more blurry than it was a second ago.

“Woah.” You murmur, looking up just to check.

Arthur’s figure swims before you, entirely out of focus. You blink, unbeknownst of the way the glasses magnify your eyes to a comically large size. It makes Arthur's smile grow, teeth peeking out, knowing for sure you can’t see for shit.

“Not those.” He says decidedly and when you slide them off, he’s already holding out the second pair, arms unfolded this time.

You mutter a quiet thank-you, feeling warmth creep your neck at the simple, polite motion.

This pair, when you slide them on, has a rather different effect. Instead of the blurriness alike to being underwater, the entire world sharpens.

You inhale at the difference. The sounds of the campfires and people around you dims and you blink rapidly, eyes jumping from detail to detail. There's something new to notice in every corner.

Head dipped down, you can pick out the individual blades of grass underfoot. The stitching on the hem your dress, the same as on the sleeves, you can see properly now. As in, see the stitches.

You swish you dress, watching, entranced.

Arthur’s comment during shooting practice may have been wrong —saying there was nothing wrong with your vision up close — because suddenly everything seems so much more. Maybe you’ve been blinder than you think.

Swinging your head round, you survey the inside of your tent with a renewed interest.

The fraying hole in your blanket, scribbled words in your opened journal, the splinters in your wooden crate bedside table — things you normally need to see up close, clearer than ever.

“I take it those ones are workin’ just fine.” Arthur says amusedly, having watched your wide-eyed and wandering gaze.

At the sound of his raspy voice, your head jerks up — and then your heart lurches forward with a hiccup, nearly tripping over itself.

Arthur is… He’s… Holy heaven, has he always been that handsome?

A dozen new details spring out at you, little secrets you've been missing. You can see the crook in his nose from being broken too many times. A scar you’ve never noticed on the edge of his chin, given away by the small patch in his beard.

He has freckles, dozens of little ones, from all his time spent under the baking sun. They gather at the edges of his eyes, blending into the crows feet. You can trace the cupid's bow of his lips.

It occurs to you that you should totally, definitely say something. You’ve been silent too long, just taking in the lines of his face, awed, but your throat has dried up.

Lord above, he’s pretty.

How are you expected to continue your day with the knowledge that Arthur Morgan might be the prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on?

Lord, if you’d been fond of him before, you’re surely smitten with him now.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably under the attention, taking your prolonged silence for the worst. His already jittered nerves fry under your stare and he ducks his head to hide himself from you.

“Probably can see what an ugly bastard I am, now you can see proper.” He huffs offhandedly, scratching at his beard and keeping his gaze low.

It hadn’t occurred to him, this downside of fetching this gift for you. You’ll see him clearly now — flaws and all.

“What?”

You sound a mixture of bewildered and crestfallen and it draws Arthur’s gaze up.

Your eyebrows have knit together in the middle and you take another step, bringing you closer together still.

Arthur forces himself to keep breathing, even as his nerves flutter. It’s an awful lot like one of Mary-Beth’s books, where she talks about romantics getting butterflies.

It feels more like a hive of bumblebees, Arthur thinks, trying to shove the feeling down. ‘Sides, the two of you weren’t romantics. You didn’t see him that way.

“Not in the slightest.” You say, eyes never leaving his face.

Arthur isn’t sure what your expression means but even as the attention makes him shift, something within him more selfish preens. Having your undivided attention when he’s surely unworthy of it has him standing a little taller, chest puffing out more.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you have…” Your voice trails off, your words soft as the dawn’s first rays of light. Arthur forces himself to meet your eye again. “A little bit of green in your eyes?”

This time, you don’t miss the flush of colour that creeps up Arthur’s neck.

He clears his throat, breaking your stare so he can rub the back of his neck; a futile attempt to cover his nervousness.

How in the hell else is he supposed to react to you all but waxing poetic about his eyes? You, enigmatic and more beautiful than a mayflower in the spring?

He’d wanted your attention, getting you the glasses, but now he has it, he’s melting beneath it like butter in the sun. He's a grown man for heaven's sake. How is it that you can make him nervous like nothing before?

“No, er, can’t say they have.” He says, stealing a glimpse back at you.

God, Arthur was a fool. You look even more beautiful in the spectacles. He’ll surely embarrass himself with his besotted stare, unable to curb his fondness for you.

There’s something new in your expression too. Your smile turned more feline, as if you’ve clued in to something he hasn’t.

His hands fall to clutch his gun belt, prepared to retreat and perhaps spend his evening drowning himself in the river to escape the mortification of feelings. He's giving himself away — and if he isn't, the heat colouring his cheeks sure is.

“Right, well,” He nods, clearing his throat once more. “If they workin’ jus’ fine, I’ll leave ya be.”

“Will you let me thank you first?” You ask tentatively.

Arthur doesn’t know what that means but he nods nonetheless. He tries to keep himself from fidgeting, his hands flexing on his belt all the while. Blue eyes dart from you, to the ground, then back to you.

You only need another half-step to get close enough to do what you wish. Pressing up onto your toes to reach, you bestow a gentle kiss onto Arthur's cheek, just above the scruff.

It takes a great deal of courage to keep your eyes steady, heart in your throat, as you sink back down onto flat feet. You don't relent your closeness.

For one long moment, you drink in the politely stunned expression on his face. This close, you can smell the scent of cigarettes and woodsmoke on his clothes. It makes your head spin. Makes your heart tremble. Your lips still sear from the kiss.

Though your heart threatens to bruise your ribs with how hard its beating in your chest, you refuse to regret your boldness.

Besides, as Arthur seems to grapple with what's just happened, his smile and blush return in equal measure.

"...Why'd you think she left dinner so early? She's probably—oh!"

Mary-Beth's voice cuts through the charged air.

Snapped from your tender reverie, you tear your eyes from Arthur and take a timid step back. You're well aware it's too late and both Mary-Beth and Tilly had seen the nearness you had been sharing with Arthur. You'll be hounded about it tonight, no doubt.

"Sorry, didn't realise we were interrupting." Tilly finds her voice before Mary-Beth does, the latter spluttering her agreements. Before they can retreat, Arthur cuts in.

"Weren't—" His voice comes out rougher than usual and he clears his throat, hat tipped down. "—interrupting nothin'. Don't worry bout it, I was just leavin'."

He takes a few steps back and then pauses, heaving a heavy breath as if he was gathering his strength. Still lingering just beyond the entrance of your tent, you wait with baited breath.

Arthur's eyes dance over to the other girls. If you could be bold, hell, so could he. He finds your gaze.

"Shootin' tomorrow? You 'n' me?" He asks, voice low.

If you didn't know him so well, you might miss the slight apprehension in his tone. As if you'd say no.

You have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip to try contain you smile. Your fervent nod betrays your excitement anyway.

Arthur smiles then, more brazenly than you've seen before, before he bids you a goodnight with a final tip of his hat.

—

The crates where targets once stood are now gloriously empty, the six shattered glass bottles banished to a life in the dirt.

You stand, pistol still smoking in your grip, and grin triumphantly. The sun glints off the delicate frames of your new spectacles. Your vision is clear and your aim is true.

Hovering just behind you, as he had some days ago, Arthur hums his contentment. "'Atta girl."

You turn, looking over your shoulder at him, and in an instant, your smile in reflected back. More reserved than your own, but entirely for you. Arthur nudges you to look forward with a gentle hand, gesturing to something out in the field.

"See if you can hit just the edge of the crate next. We might make a gunslinger of you yet."

You huff, leaning back an inch to feel more of his warmth. Arthur smiles to himself, well aware of your tactics.

His hands drop to your hips, twisting them in a minute adjustment they don't need, just to hear the slight stagger in your breath.

"Why, Mister Morgan," Your voice is threaded with humour, exactly the colour of sunlight. "I'd nearly think you're just making excuses to put your hands on me."

With a low hum, Arthur lets his hands drag up an inch to rest on your waist. Your skin is warm, as is your smile. He can pretend the hot buzz of the day threatens make his knees buckle, though he knows it's entirely your effect.

"Maybe. That a crime?"

"Even if it were," You say, gaze slicing back to meet his. The taunt of a smile on your pretty mouth rivals all the beauty Arthur's ever seen. "Thank heavens you're an outlaw."

—

i get the privilege of bugging @illyrianbitch @wildfloweroutlaw with this new fic <3 heheh thanks for the hype that lead to this actually getting finished n posted !!

#writing a new character is like AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH #anyways. hi rdr community :D i'm new here!!#prepared to write some yearning for this cowboy <3 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x female reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #rdr2 #red dead #red dead fandom #red dead redemption imagine #arthur morgan imagine #sloane writes arthur #YIPPE I LOVE A NEW TAG!

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mullermilkshake · 3 months ago

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A lasting impression - Part one

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four

You face some issues only your husband can solve.

Wife!reader x Yakuza!Sukuna

Tags: Yakuza AU, female reader, established relationship, graphic depictions of violence, gore, murder, eye gouging, blood, kidnapping, restraints, blindfold, references to non-con.

"We need you to come with us, Madam Chairman."

Just like that, two men blocked your entrance to the fourth story elevator. Two men you had never seen before.

"Says who?" you said, watching the elevator doors slow to a close behind them.

There was no real reason to be threatened, not with your body guard waiting for you down on the ground floor. You knew immediately that they were Yakuza at least by the distinction of their clan crest, but none belonging to the Ryomen clan.

That crest you did not recognise.

"Says my nine millimetre," the man on the left let the barrel of his pistol barely poke out from the fabric seam of his suit jacket.

Okay, maybe there was a little reason to be alarmed, yet you weren't. There had been times like this and far worse you had endured that allowed your calmed composure.

"Where do you want to take me?"

You were due downstairs right now, and give it five minutes, your guard would make the connection and come to you instead.

Usually it was Uraume who accompanied you on ventures into the heart of the district, but today was different.

"That's none of your business."

Well, this is interesting. Just a coincidence that a new guard arises and now you had a gun pointed at your face.

"Alright then, lead the way," this couldn't have been worse than that time in Nanami's office, before you had even met Sukuna.

All that blood.

The elevator dinged open though all you focused on was that gun cocking and clicking to the left of you. Each man either side to underestimate you.

Because you had Sukuna for a husband.

Leaning back and welcoming the cool reflective surface of the elevator glass, you brought your foot up with little time until the elevator reached the third floor to descend lower.

You were able to slip your stiletto off and get one good grip onto it, waiting for the elevator to ding past the floor and descend to the next.

With one quick countdown, you swung your arm, aiming the tiny point of the shoe into the mans eye, waisting no time to pull and yank to grab at his gun.

"Arghhh!" he clawed at his eye and thrashed around to pull out the stiletto heel along with his eye.

"What the fuck?!"

The barrel of his gun looked directly at the other man, pressing up against his chin. "This gun is mine now. You'll be foolish to try and take this from me."

As you suspected, he had a gun too, tucked just at the side of this ribcage in its own little holster. You snatched it away from him and backed away pressing all of the elevator buttons to get out.

"You underestimate me if you assume I'd go willingly."

"All we're doin' is following orders you stupid bitch. You've just made this worse for yourself."

"That's for me to know, and I guess I'll find that out too," the elevator doors opened, "so please excuse me."

Waiting for the doors to close, the cartridges of the guns dropped out and clattered on the floor. Your other shoe came off and slid halfway across the hallway.

The guns and ammunition ended up in separate trashcans whilst you tried to get through to your husband. you were no longer safe in the district let alone the building.

"What is it?" he answered after three rings from the pay phone on the wall.

“Sukuna.”

His tone shifted to a smoother score instead of pointedly answering. “Why are you calling from a pay phone?”

It was because you never called him directly. "Something's gone wrong, I need-"

You hadn't looked behind you down the long hall and the door just down the way. You only noticed when you turned and saw the largest woman you had ever seen.

It was stupid. Lights out.

Fuck.

When you came too, your eyes were covered with an opaque fabric, light like silk and heavy enough not to budge under your movement. The stringent pain lining your eye socket was more than enough to set you in a dazed state.

"Madam Chairman, you’re awake.”

You said nothing, drawing in long dreary a as silently as possible. There was a shifting like scuffling which dragged what sounded like a chair leg across the floor.

Whoever it was let out what could only be described as a disappointed sigh. “You’ll fetch a hefty sum from that old bastard to get you back... Do you think he'd still pay the same if we returned you damaged?"

There was no way you could recognise that voice just on memories alone, you meet a lot of people in diverse settings. It was deep, harsh on the lips, grating as though this man had smoked every single day of his life.

"Do what you want," despite your instincts fluttering in the pit of your stomach, you kept up your exterior, "it's not like I have a choice, right?"

The man chuckled with amusement. "That's true, you don't. Still, you aren’t what I thought you’d be. There’s not an ounce of fear in that heart, is there?”

"Will you at least explain why I'm actually here?"

“It’s not for me to tell you, that’s down to my boss.”

"So why waste my time and ask stuspid questions?" Sukuna had rubbed off on you far more than you realised.

You didn't dare let the thought cross your mind of what this lecherous man had in store for you, his mind obviously full of filth to see clearly. Most people would have panicked, but, in the end, you knew Sukuna would always come to your rescue.

Just like now when the ear splitting sound of a door being kicked in with enough force to rip the hinges off and clang against the floor.

And then, the man changed his tune. "M-mr Sukuna."

You sat still and upright, wincing every now and then to the sting at your cheek, listening to the punches thrown and various wood creaking and snapping with clear signs of struggle.

Not one word was uttered, pleaded or yelled in whatever sized room you were in, but the volume of sounds led you to believe you were inside a small one, maybe no bigger than a box room. The vibrations were close by yet nothing touched you, nothing whizzed past you in a narrowly avoided throw past your head.

Then it all stopped and your blind fold was pulled from your eyes.

"Hello, love," you said, seeing Sukuna's entire face splashed with red.

It wasn't all from one man, no way.

"Your face. Who did that?" his tone was softer than usual. “Perhaps I've already killed him. That’ll be a shame.”

Leaning into his touch as he caressed your cheek, Sukuna untied you using the point of his knife to cut through the restraints.

“A tall woman, taller than Gojo. Biggest person I've ever seen."

"A Woman?"

You nodded and took his hand to steady yourself. "Yeah, I'd never seen her before."

Sukuna looked around the room you hadn't taken a glance of yet, watching him closely rub the smears of blood from his cheek.

"I have an idea who, but for now I'll take you to the car," he picked you up and carried you out of that little room.

Blood, far too much for one person. However, there was just one body in there in a bloodied and crumpled heap in the corner.

And then the question had been answered as soon as he took you out of that little room. There were several men on the ground, all in the same viscous star as the other man, lying crumpled on the ground in separate heaps of mess.

"Someone get her feet covered. Now."

He didn't put you down even once he had walked the entire two levels down to the ground floor to the car. There was Uraume, pulling open the car door and slipping off their own shoes for you.

"It's fine Uraume, I'll be alright-"

"Take her home," Sukuna didn't get in with you, but he took a hold of your hands, "there's something I must do before this is dealt with, I'll meet you as soon as it's finished."

There was no way he was walking or getting a tact, surely? He was head to toe covered in red and it would have dram attention. There was no way he could pass this off as a costume or that he had been attacked.

The police would have a field day. Still with that in mind, you didn’t question it.

You nodded a nonverbal clarification. "Alright. Just... be careful."

In a split decision, he climbed inside the car and clicked the door shut. It was so that no one else saw.

"I'm always careful. There's a line people are foolish enough to cross and it's not even a fine one. There's a debt to be paid and I'm going to collet it personally."

He brushed the tips of his fingers over the swelling part of your cheek and eye. "No one touches you and has hands to touch themselves with afterwards."

It shouldn't have been as romantic as it was. "I knew you would come for me."

"Always."

He pressed his lips over the knuckles of your right hand and climbed back out, speaking indistinct able words to Uraume who climbed in once he left.

There was only one way this was going to end, and worrying over it was only natural. Especially when your adrenaline started to wear off and the weight of everything came down on you like a ton of bricks.

Those who crossed Sukuna never had the chance to even think about doing it a second time.

#yakuza au #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #fem reader #x reader #reader insert #jjk sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jujustu kaisen #sukuna ryomen #jjk ryomen #ryomen x reader

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mangotangerine · 28 days ago

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what if ozzie created hell's version of ao3 and then radiostatic became one of the most popular ships but alastor didn't find out because ew, technology, until one day he did, but the top 69 fics are written by the same person & have incredibly realistic aspects that only one other person in hell would know

well, i wrote it. see below the cut for what i have so far

vox writes fanfic (and his username is alastors_babygirl)

Alastor goes nearly a century without acquiring any of those ridiculous, overdesigned electronic devices that the rest of Hell rots their brain with.

Things have been odd as of late. Angel Dust has been giving him strange looks—not the usual objectifying leer meant to evoke discomfort, but something more inquisitive—and Niffty has taken to giggling every time he walks past that tacky television they keep in the lounge. It hadn’t bothered him at first, as Angel Dust has always been a strange fellow, and Niffty is… well, Alastor isn’t sure if even she understands her own whimsy, sometimes.

But now, it’s getting a bit out of hand.

“Niffty, my dear,” Alastor says, “I have a question for you.”

She giggles, likely because he is standing next to the television. She manages to get it under control, though he can still hear the laughter in her voice as she says, “Yes?”

He glances pointedly at the television, then back at Niffty, and her grin widens. She kicks her feet and covers her mouth to hold back the giggles that threaten to erupt, and Alastor sighs. He is not going to get satisfying answers from her. “Never mind,” he says, weary. “Perhaps Charlie knows.”

Charlie blushes a bright red and flips her phone face-down in a panic, when he finally asks her in her office.

“Um—um, well…” she trails off, body language broadcasting her discomfort.

“This is getting tiring,” Alastor says, letting irritation bleed into his voice. “Despite my confidence that it is not the case, because who would be so foolish, I feel as though I’m being mocked. It is quite unpleasant.”

“No! No no no!” she squeaks. “No, it’s not that, it’s just…” she takes a deep breath. “The fan fiction.”

“The what now?” Alastor asks, eyebrows furrowing.

She bites her lip, glancing down at her phone. “Asmodeus um… launched this new website,” she starts, and Alastor wrinkles his nose in disgust. Ugh, not this nonsense again. “And, well… people write stories on it about... about media or things they’re fans of. Like—like use the characters and setting, and… andyou’rethemostpopularship,” she says in a rush.

Alastor looks down at himself, and then back up at Charlie. “I didn’t take you for the type to be critical of somebody’s figure, regardless of the inaccuracy of your statement,” he says, clearly disappointed, and Charlie gasps.

“No! Ship—ship, like relationship! Not—I would never.” She’s offended now, frowning at him. “Why would you think I’d—”

“Please, Charlie,” Alastor says sharply, “Explain to me in plain language.”

She bites her lip, then shrinks a little in her seat. “Sometimes people… um, write stories about people, who they think would be good in a relationship… like romance stories.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Alastor snaps.

“You’re the top—you’re the um, most popular, uh, ship. Relationship. Well, not just you, it takes two—anyway.” She stops, and smiles at him nervously.

“Who is the second party in this ‘relationship’ involving myself?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

When she tells him, he very politely demands to be shown this website, and she meekly flips her phone over and slides it toward him. He looks through it, smile fading slowly until it’s just a barely-there quirk of the lips. “Who?” he asks, unable to hide the venom in his voice. “Who is writing these?”

“Many—many people, Alastor. It’s—there’s—I, I mean, you see how many stories!” she squeaks.

“Do you read the ones where I’m involved with your father?” he asks, suspicious, as he points at the device. She gasps.

“No!” Charlie practically yells. “No, I do—I do not read sex stories about my—”

“Sex stories?” Alastor asks, voice thick with radio distortion, and she covers her mouth in horror at her own mistake.

“I—I mean, not all of them are—I mean, there are a ton that are just—and not just with my dad, but with—you know, him, and they’re—they’re so sweet, Alastor!”

The exhaustion is settling in his bones now, his ever-present smile twisted into a sardonic grimace. “I fail to understand how there can be any stories involving me and that—that walking billboard that are sweet.”

“Well, um…” she hesitates, nervous. “You could… you could read some?”

“I will most certainly not be doing that,” he says. “I will be going now. I appreciate your transparency, as painful as the information was to extract from you.”

Alastor leaves with his signature flourish, melting into the shadows.

He goes a week before he folds, though he has one of those egg creatures Sir Pentious left behind procure an electronic device for him instead of trying to find one himself. He then commands it to demonstrate how to navigate to that vapid archive of obscenities everyone seems so enraptured by.

Though there are a lot of these creepy little stories, and just as many writers, the most popular of these ‘fan fiction’ novellas are all written under the same pen name and have very specific personal details that only one other person in Hell would know.

Well, he supposes it has been quite a while since he’s gone to terrorize that tower in person. Why, he’s been positively angelic since his return to the public sphere. It’s time to pay his old friend a visit.

He could go in the front door, cause a scene, really ham it up for Vox’s pervasive cameras, but that’s too easy. Too predictable, and what sort of performer would he be if he didn’t improvise and change things up a bit?

Alastor materializes in Vox’s office, behind his chair. He is, unfortunately, not alone, as Alastor had hoped. Startled, Velvette screams, and Alastor turns to blink at her owlishly.

“Was that really necessary?” he asks.

Vox spins around in his chair so fast it keeps spinning, makes 3 revolutions before Vox manages to stop it. Alastor looks Vox up and down, nose wrinkled in distaste.

“I just greased it!” Vox says defensively. “It doesn’t do that all the time, I can—I can control my chair!”

“Why is he here?” Velvette hisses, and Vox points menacingly at Alastor.

“Yeah! Why is he—why are you here?”

Alastor inhales deeply, and lets out a slow, disappointed sigh. “We need to talk.”

“Get out of my fucking tower,” Vox snaps.

“I’d love to,” Alastor says, “as soon as you answer some questions about the creepy little love stories you’ve been writing online.”

Vox blanches, as much as a television screen can blanch—that is, his face turns greyscale, reminding Alastor very distinctly of the picture shows his mother used to take him to as a child. It’s very amusing, on Vox.

“Velvette, get out,” Vox orders, voice sharp. The color slowly bleeds back into his face, one pixel at a time.

Velvette gets up, looking like she’s about to argue, when Alastor turns to face her directly, twirling his microphone in hand as his smile grows.

“Fine, fuck you,” she spits, and makes her way out.

Then it’s just Alastor and Vox. Vox and Alastor. Two old friends. Two old buddies. Pals. Former pals. Ex-partners.

“I can explain,” Vox says, panicked.

“Oh,” Alastor says, sounding delighted. “You’re admitting to it so easily? Usually you’re more difficult than that.”

“Fuck,” Vox groans.

#voxal #radiostatic #staticradio #alastor x vox #vox x alastor #radiostatic fanfic #radiostatic fanfiction #hazbin fanfic #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin vox

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 1 day ago

Note

i’m obsessed with your declan fics! can we get one where the reader has to calm him down? it would be even more fun if they were mad/annoyed at each other but he can’t help but seek her out when he needs comfort 👀

Paradoxical.

you currently can’t stand the sight of each other. and yet, in this moment… yours is the only face he wants to see.

declan o’hara x female reader (nickname - lucky.)

warnings - smut. cursing. angst. unspecified age gap. yeeeeeearning.

word count - 4.6k

authors note - she’s back 💋. loooved this request, so thank you so much to whoever sent it!! i’m still on my rivals shit, so please join me in this never ending journey. never getting over this man <3

masterlist. inbox.

“How are you doing?”

You snuggle further into the pillows on the bed, popping another strawberry in your mouth to avoid the question.

“Lucky.”

“Hmm?”

“I asked how you are.”

“M’fine,” you answer as you chew, praying the subject gets changed. She clearly doesn’t believe you, so you sigh and look at her pointedly. “I’m being serious. I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Taggie.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“What? No! I’d never think that.”

“Then why are you treating me like I’m oblivious? I can see that you’re not fine, but you keep lying to my face.”

Taking a deep breath, you exhale in resignation.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re caught in the middle of all of this, Tag.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. He’s your dad, I’m your friend. You are quite literally the middle man here.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she counters, perching on the edge of her bed. “If I have to be the peacekeeper, I will be.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

“I know, but these things happen. I just… if I knew what had happened, I could try and fix it.”

“You can’t fix this, Tag. I promise you, you can’t.”

She’s quiet for a moment, tracing the patterns on your socks as she thinks.

“What happened, Lucky? I swear that whatever it is, I won’t judge you. I just want to know how it all went so… wrong. One minute the two of you were the best of friends, and the next minute you’re packing up your office and leaving without so much as an explanation.”

“It’s complicated,” you murmur.

“So complicated that you had to quit your job?”

“Yes.”

“He’s never going to find a better assistant than you, you know. Never. He doesn’t even want to look for one, says he’d rather do all the work himself.”

“Well that’s stupid of him. He can’t do all that stuff himself.”

“Exactly. He’s willing to put himself through all of that stress so as not to replace you.”

“That’s his foolish choice, Tag.”

She sighs in frustration, leaning back against the footboard of the bed.

“Did he upset you? Did he say something stupid? You know what he’s like, he often doesn’t think before he speaks. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation here.”

“It wasn’t him, it was me. I quit by my own volition. He didn’t upset me, he didn’t offend me… I just had to do the right thing, which was to leave. I know you’re trying to help, Tag, but you can’t. Not with this.”

Taggie finally realises that she’s fighting a losing battle, choosing instead to shuffle over so she’s all cosy in the pillows next to you.

“I won’t tell him you were here,” she whispers, bumping your shoulder with hers.

“Thank you. I’m sorry you’re caught up in the middle of all of this.”

“I don’t mind, honestly. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“Give it some time. It’s meant to heal all wounds, after all.”

She chuckles, resting her head against yours affectionately.

“Will you help me make some raspberry tarts? I need at least forty of them, and I could do with an extra pair of hands.”

“Of course I will. But if your dad comes home, I’m sprinting out the back door.”

“Alright,” she laughs, shaking her head. “I’ll help with your escape, if need be.”

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You’re tempted to smash your head into the bar top.

You’ve been debating the pros and cons of it for the last forty five minutes, actually.

The gala is bustling, bodies packed into the beautiful ballroom with barely an inch between them. Everyone has a drink in hand, the light from the chandelier glinting off of the champagne and whiskey poured into crystal glasses.

You’d said yes to the event when you were still Declan’s assistant - assuming that you’d go together, just like always. And now, here you are, standing on opposite ends of the room and avoiding each other like your lives depend on it.

A cool hand finds your waist, spiced aftershave hitting your senses and letting you know who it is before they even have to speak.

“Hello, darling.”

“Hi, Rupert.”

He spins you around gracefully, smiling at you with a twinkle in his eye.

“You look ravishing, as always.”

“You don’t look half bad yourself, you know. You scrub up quite nicely.”

“Oh stop, I’ll start blushing.”

You can’t help but laugh, accepting his arm as he offers it out to you.

“Come on darling, let’s socialise a bit. You can’t stand in the corner forever.”

“I can.”

“Not on my watch.”

He’s dragging you across the floor before you can process what’s happening, people passing by you in blurs of colour and sparkles.

“Dance with me.”

“Is this fun for you? Torturing me?”

“Oh, immensely,” he grins, hands finding your hips.

You reluctantly wrap your arms around his neck, looking at him with a quirked brow.

“Don’t you have a thousand other women you could be dancing with, Rupert?”

He spins you playfully, laughing as you shriek.

“I do, but none of them are nearly as beautiful as you.”

“Oh god,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Does that line usually work?”

“Never on women as smart as you,” he chuckles, swaying you gently.

You stare at him carefully for a moment, realising you know him too well when you instantly see through his carefree facade.

“Ask it, then.”

“Hmm?”

“I know that’s what this is. You’re going to get me all soft and relaxed and tipsy, and then you’ll ask me about Declan. You might as well just cut to the chase, Rupert.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re much too intelligent to think that I believe that.”

His eyes don’t leave yours as he tilts his head, getting a good look at you and your unwavering expression.

“Fine, you stubborn woman. Fine. I wanted to ask you about Declan at some point tonight. But only from a place of care and concern, not because I’m going to try to wrangle the two you of back together or anything.”

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit.”

“Forgive me for being confused, alright? You were joined at the hip, and all of a sudden you can’t stand the sight of each other. It’s just so unlike the two of you.”

You sigh deeply, dropping your head forward so it rests on his chest. Rupert’s arms tighten around you, silently letting you know he’s got your back.

“It’s complicated,�� you explain, muffled by the material of the man’s shirt. “Stupidly complicated.”

“So complicated that it can never, ever be repaired? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Blimey,” he half gasps, the sound vibrating through the both of you. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day, you bastard.”

Rupert laughs so loudly that people turn their heads to see why, the cadence of it completely infectious. Declan watches from across the room, unable to help himself from at least glancing at the two of you together so cosily.

“He’s currently watching you like some sort of bird of prey,” he informs, tilting your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes. “Whatever it was that happened, it hasn’t erased the fact that he cares about you. A lot. And I know for a fact you care about him.”

“Of course I do.”

“There we go then. Surely it’s nothing that can’t be solved with a bit of good old fashioned communication.”

“You’re a terrible communicator,” you argue.

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, shaking your head as you both sway to the music once again.

“If I had a pound for every time that applied to you, Rupert, I’d be a fucking millionaire.”

He twirls you outwards quickly, watching as the skirt of your dress billows with the breeze of the action.

“And if I had a pound for every time Declan has pretended to stare interestedly around the room this evening just so he has an excuse to look at you, I’d be a millionaire too.”

You ignore the way your heartbeat picks up at his words, choosing instead to focus on the steady rhythm of the music from the piano that fills the space.

“Maybe he’s looking at you.”

“No, Lucky. He’s always looking at you.”

You sigh in resignation, fingers fiddling with Rupert’s collar as you straighten out his tie.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to respond to that.”

“You’re practically his right arm. This separation, whatever its cause, is doing both of you more harm than good. I don’t want to push you darling, because that isn’t fair - but just think about everything I’ve said, alright?”

He stares at you expectantly, brows raised in questioning.

“Alright.”

The grin on his face is almost blinding, beaming out in all directions.

“Now, you look too beautiful to stand on the fringes. I will dance with you all night if I have to, if it means showing off this stunning dress of yours.”

“So charming,” you smile, shaking your head. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse, isn’t it?”

“You’d be stupid to,” he winks, still grinning like the devil.

You let him lead you further into the middle of the dance floor, chuckling as he spins you as you go. Your hand has just slipped into Rupert’s once more when you’re both startled by a crash coming from the other side of the room.

The two of you whip your heads around towards the source of the commotion, to see two men in undoubtedly expensive suits brawling with each other. One of them is throwing punches while the other can do nothing but take them, merciless at his opponents hands. Some people are shouting and screaming, trying to physically separate them, while others turn a complete blind eye to the ruckus.

“Fuck,” Rupert mutters, grabbing your hand and dragging you towards the scene.

You’re about to ask what the hell he’s doing when you’re pushed forwards and given a clearer view of what’s in front of you, understanding Rupert’s panic immediately.

Ginger is on the floor. Declan is standing above him with bloody knuckles.

“Fuck,” you repeat.

You want to run in the other direction, desperate to not be involved with the drama. And then you look at Declan - the way he’s falling apart at the seams, nerves ruined and adrenaline rushing through his veins, clearly on the edge of something awful… and all of a sudden you’re walking towards the brawl, logic be damned.

There’s so much noise surrounding you that you can’t hear yourself think. All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and your heart pounding against your ribcage in your sudden determination to get to the Irishman.

You’re yelling his name without even realising you’re doing it, shouting at the top of your lungs to fight over the commotion.

“Declan! Oh for fuck sake… Declan!”

Your voice somehow breaks through the noise like a sirens call, the familiar melody of it finding his ears like his favourite song. His eyes finally meet yours, and the rest of the room melts away.

You have a conversation without saying anything, so many words exchanged in such a short amount of time. The two of you have always been good at this - communicating in your own language, silently and easily.

You grab his injured hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling him away from the scene of the crime with determination. You cast a look back to Ginger, who remains on the floor with blood dripping from his nose, before dragging Declan through the crowd and towards the front door of the huge Manor House. You can hear Rupert trying to mitigate the situation as you leave, using his charm as he does best.

You make your way outside, yanking the man behind you in your path without so much of a glance backwards. You trudge through the gardens in your heels, ignoring the way the dewy grass brushes across the tops of your feet occasionally. Finally, after walking for what feels like hours but was actually mere minutes, you come across a bench, sheltered by an old stone wall and neatly trimmed hedges.

You shove him to sit down, still refusing to look him in the eye. Neither of you say anything, the evening breeze and two sets of lungs heaving all that can be heard.

“What happened?” you whisper eventually, reluctant to disturb the peace. “Who started it?”

Declan looks surprised that you’re speaking to him, failing to hide the shock on his face.

“Will ya sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

“You’re not the boss of me anymore, remember?” you half joke, sitting down anyway.

“Funny,” he says, completely deadpan. He looks at you carefully for a long moment, before continuing. “It was Ginger, obviously. I wouldn’t waste my time with him otherwise.”

“What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Matters to me.”

“Well it shouldn’t.”

“Right.”

You stare at your shoes, wondering why you even bothered to rescue him back in the ballroom.

“Fuck this, then,” you mutter as you stand up to leave.

A hand wraps around your wrist as quick as a flash, pulling you back to sit down where you were.

“No. You don’t get to just walk away from me, not again.”

“Tell me what Ginger said.”

“Tell me why you quit workin’ for me.”

“I already did.”

“Liar. You gave me a poor excuse that’s absolute bollocks. I don’t believe it for a second.”

“That’s your problem, then.”

“Yes, it is.”

You stare at him, completely exasperated by the events of the last hour.

“You can’t just punch people at galas, Declan. It’s a bad look for you, for Venturer, and for every member of staff that relies on you.”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

He scrubs his hand over his face, clearly frustrated with both you and the situation at hand.

“He made some horrible comment about you. I fell right into his trap too, like a bull and a fuckin’ red scarf.”

“What did he say?”

He hesitates for a moment.

“Just… something crude about you sleepin’ with me to get to where you are. Called me a cradle snatcher, too.”

“You can’t be a cradle snatcher if I’m a grown woman.”

“Exactly. And it’s not true, anyway. We all know that.”

“So why did you hit him, then? If we all know it’s not true?”

Declan sighs, fatigue painting the sound.

“Because no one gets to speak about you like that with no consequence. And because I was angry.”

“At me.”

“At you. Yes.”

You fiddle with your fingers, entirely unprepared for the fact that you’re about to have the one conversation you’ve been completely avoiding.

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” you begin. “I’m sorry that it’s come to this.”

“Then what did you mean to happen, Lucky? Did you think that you could just up and quit with absolutely no warning, without a problem? That I’d just let you walk out? Did ya think I’d help you pack your things?”

“Obviously not,” you whisper. “I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not. Which is why I know that you thought about that decision long and hard. And that’s what I can’t seem to wrap my head around.”

“It wasn’t easy.”

He looks at you with pleading eyes, clearly desperate to resolve the issues between you.

“Please, Lucky.”

His voice is cracking just like his heart, breaking down the middle to allow all of his emotions to spill out onto the grass. You’ve never heard him sound like this. You hate it.

“I had to, Declan. For both of our sakes.”

“For fuck sake, can you cut it out?” he snaps, volume raising.

“Cut what out?”

“Speaking in these fucking riddles! I can’t even pretend that I have any idea what you’re talkin’ about. Please, whatever it is, however terrible you think it is… I just need you to say it. We’ll deal with the consequences. But I can’t keep goin’ around in circles, dancing around the subject constantly.”

You take a deep breath, bottom lip wobbling as you will yourself not to cry. You’re well and truly at the end of your tether, unsure of how much more you can take - or how much you want to. Deciding to throw caution into the wind, you exhale carefully before turning to face the man next to you.

“You’ll hate me. When I tell you.”

“I could never hate you. Never, Lucky.”

You get lost in your own head for a moment, staring off into space as you debate the best way to go about this. A large hand finds its way into your knee, comforting and grounding. His thumb rubs patterns into your skin where the slit of your dress is, warming you up from the outside in.

“I thought about it for a long time,” you begin. “A long time. Because being your assistant is the best job I have ever had, or will ever have. It was a dream, Declan. Even when we had a tough day, or week, or month, I always knew we’d be okay.”

He nods, his full attention on you.

“We were comfortable, me and you. Maybe a little too comfortable for a boss and his assistant, but in a good way, I think. I was settled, with you.”

He squeezes your thigh, urging you to continue.

“But then, I think we got too settled. People started to notice - which doesn’t matter, but they did nonetheless. I was sleeping over at your house, staying awake with you until the early hours, attending galas and events as your date. And I wasn’t sure what it was - the thing that was bothering me - until one day, it clicked.”

“Lucky…” he whispers, desperate for you to spit it out.

“I’m in love with you.”

The two of you sit the silence for a moment, listening to the breeze softly whip around you.

“That’s what clicked. And that’s why I quit. Because it felt like a conflict of interest, like a… betrayal.”

“A betrayal?”

“Yes. Like I was taking advantage, or something. And I didn’t think it was fair, for you, having me pining over you at work. I didn’t want you to feel pity for me, if you noticed eventually - I hated the idea of being treated differently by you, all through fault of my own. So I quit to get ahead of it.”

“Are ya done?”

“I, uh… yes?”

“Great.”

Declan surges forward, smashing his lips to yours with the most passion than you’ve ever experienced in your life. One of his hands tangles in your hair as the other cradles your face, pulling you as close as he physically can. His tongue slips into your mouth cheekily, allowing you to taste whiskey, cigarettes and the cool night air. Eventually, when you both need to breathe, he pulls away reluctantly, resting his forehead on yours.

“Did you do that to make me shut up?” you murmur, fighting to keep the smile off your face.

“Yes and no.”

He’s grinning like the devil, chuckling as the palms of his hands find your cheeks.

“Yes and no?”

“Yes and no. I took the action needed to stop you rambling. But I’ve been thinking about doing that for a long time.”

“… What?”

“Why do you think we got so comfortable, Lucky? It works two ways. You were just the only one brave enough to make a change - even if it was the completely wrong thing to do.”

“So you don’t hate me?”

“The opposite,” he laughs. “I can’t remember when it happened. I woke up one day and I just knew. And I knew that you’d never feel the same way, but I love being around you so much that I was willing to make that sacrifice. So I was a coward, and I stayed silent.”

“We’ve made this complicated. Too complicated.”

“Much too complicated.”

“But… it is. You were my boss, and you’re older than me, and I’m good friends with Taggie now, and-”

Declan kisses you again, sweeter this time.

“We can figure it out, Lucky. You know we can.”

“Maybe,” you whisper.

“And I want you to come back to work.”

“Declan-”

“I’m serious. I cannot cope without you. I will never find an assistant as good as you, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. I want you. No one else.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a conflict of interest, like I said earlier.”

“But it isn’t. Not anymore. Before all of this, we were two people in love working together. And when you come back, we’ll be two people in love working together.”

You can’t find it in you to argue, realising that he’s actually making a good point. If anything, it should be easier now that you’ve both communicated your feelings - no more skeletons in the closet.

“Tell me you don’t miss it,” he provokes. “Tell me you’re not even remotely tempted to come back.”

“I can’t.”

“Exactly.”

You take a deep breath, moving the hair away from his eyes tenderly.

“I’ll think about it, alright? I’ll have a think when I go home.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He smiles like the cat that’s got the cream, entirely too satisfied with the outcome of this conversation.

“I know we’re in uncharted territory here, Lucky. But we can figure it out. You know we can.”

“I know. It’ll be hard, but… I know.”

You lean up to kiss him softly, sighing as your eyes drift closed. He winds a hand around the back of your neck, deepening the kiss as he pulls you closer, trying to plaster every inch of his body to yours.

You lose yourself in everything Declan - the way he tastes, the way he smells, the way he feels underneath your fingertips. You want to strip him bare right here and memorise every curve of his muscles, every line in his skin, every mark on his face.

His hand slips further and further up the slit of your dress, gripping at your thigh as if he’s worried you’ll slip away. You’re half in his lap, draped over him on the bench as he still pulls you impossibly closer.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he whispers against your throat. “Every. Single. Night.”

He kisses his way along your neck, revelling in the way you squirm at the feeling of his moustache on your skin. You grab fistfuls of his white shirt, crumpling it in your hands to try and give yourself some sort of anchor.

When Declan’s fingertips slip into your underwear, all you can do is sigh, resigned to the fact that you’d let him do absolutely anything he wanted in this current moment.

“We’re in public,” you protest weakly, both of you knowing you don’t want him to stop.

“We’re at the bottom of the garden, surrounded by three hedges and a wall. If anyone sees, that’s their fault.”

You drop your head forward onto his shoulder, parting your legs to give him a better angle. He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels just how aroused you are, practically vibrating with want.

“Are ya this wet f’me?”

You nod against his shirt, not trusting your voice.

“Oh, sweetheart. Well I can’t leave you like this, can I? That’d be cruel.”

He pulls your underwear to the side fully so he can slip a finger into you with ease, both of you groaning at the sensation. Sliding a second one in, you hold onto him for dear life, panting like you’ve run a marathon.

“Please,” you whisper. “Declan, please.”

“I’ll do anything to hear you say my name like that again, Lucky. Anything in the world.”

“Declan.”

He sets a steady pace, crooking his fingers as he goes to make sure you see stars. Your eyes are rolling back, lip caught between your teeth to stifle any sounds that threaten to escape.

“God, I wish I could hear how pretty you sound,” he groans, looking at you intently. “You can make as much noise as you want when I take you home. Promise.”

You whimper softly, bucking your hips up to meet his rhythm. The bench is cold underneath you, the air turning chilly, but neither of you pay any mind to it. You’re too far gone to care.

You grab Declan’s other hand and stick two of his fingers in your mouth, laving your tongue around them to keep you quiet. He moans at the sight, all deep and rumbled, the sound reverberating through both of you.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

All you can do is look at him with big, bright eyes, pleading with him silently to finish the job at hand.

“You want me to make you come, sweetheart? That it?”

When you nod, he picks up the pace of his fingers, thumb pressing circles into your clit.

“Have ya thought about this? In bed, alone, getting yourself off in the dark?”

You whine at his words, nodding your head in answer.

“That’s a good girl. Come for me, sweetheart. Come for me and I’ll take you home and fuck you properly, yeah?”

You see stars as you climax, gripping onto his shirt and his hand for dear life. He works you through it, murmuring filthy promises into your ear as he does it.

Lifting his fingers from between your thighs, he pops them straight into his mouth, both of you groaning in unison.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs against your lips, leaning in to kiss you softly. “Perfect girl.”

You shuffle sideways so you’re pressed into Declan’s side, two strong arms encircling you immediately.

“Thank you.”

“For the orgasm?”

“Yes and no,” you laugh. “For listening to me. I’ve been going insane trying to think about what I’d say to you if I got the chance to explain myself, but no words seemed to suffice.”

“I just wish you’d talked to me sooner, sweetheart. I’ve been going insane trying to get through life without you. Not to mention that office is chaos.”

You laugh gently, cuddling into him and his warmth.

“I’ll fix it on Monday.”

“Yeah? For definite?” he asks, hope colouring his voice.

“Yeah. Like I said - best job I’ve ever had.”

“You’ve just made me the happiest man alive, sweetheart.”

You grin as you lean in to press a kiss to his lips, all soft and sugary sweet.

“Besides. Someone’s going to have to sort out the inevitable mess that’ll follow you hitting Ginger at a charity gala.”

“Ah, I forgot about that,” he laughs, planting a kiss into your hair. “What would I do without ya, hmm?”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you smile, resting your head onto his shoulder. “Never again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You sit on the bench for a little while longer, both of you looking up at the stars that paint the sky in a canopy above your heads. You’re quite convinced you could stay like this forever, just the two of you in your own little universe.

There’s paperwork to be done, meetings to be had, deals to be made. But all of that can wait.

Right now, it’s just you and Declan.

The way it should be.

reblogs are gold dust, lovers!! reblog and circulate your favourite fics, and your writers will create more. simple. <3

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velvetures · 2 years ago

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Doesn't Crease

A/N: Thanks to everyone supporting this new blog I've started working on. I'm really happy to see so many new people and get the chance to write some more. <3 Summary: You're just trying to keep Ghost from losing his eyesight from being purposefully ignorant. T/W: none :)

Looking out for the guys of the 141 typically meant doing things for them that most regular people wouldn’t even think twice about doing on a normal day. They often took care of weapons and missions far better than themselves, and it often resulted in you finding out that they appropriated objects or products for uses that had not a damn thing to do with what they used them for. And the most frustrating of all of them came from how you came to learn about Ghost’s eye paint, and how it stayed on so well for days on end.

You’d been in the Middle East for nearing five days and after being holed up in a cave just on the outskirts of a little town, a safe house was cleared for your use until the end of the mission. It was so damn good to have a shower and put on some clean clothes that you couldn’t have been in better spirits as you walked out of the bathroom into the living area and noticed Ghost sitting in a change of clothes and a much less dirty mask with his face half-painted in that unidentified stuff he used. You watched with an admitted interest as he dipped a couple fingers into a small plastic container that held the substance before smearing more over the bridge of his nose towards the uncovered left side of his face.

“Quit starin’.” he muttered lowly, still very focused on the task at hand and getting the stuff smeared over his eyelid and up to the waterline of his eye.

You didn’t particularly care to listen and just sat down across from him and pulled your bare feet up into the chair and watched just as raptly. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him do this for sure, yet every time filled you with a sense of… excitement. Like you were watching the man under the mask slowly transform himself into The Ghost right in front of you. Certainly a childish kind of thrill, yet you never missed the chance to watch Ghost do anything, really. Curiosity always got the better of you when it came to the mysterious Lieutenant, and that black stuff he smeared on his face wasn’t exempt from your silent questioning.

“Will you leave me the fuck alone?” He growled, steely eyes darting right to you with a harsh edge to his posture.

Ghost always had a prickly attitude about everything, good or bad. Fuck, you could tell him that he’d won a million dollars and he’s just grumble about how paying taxes on it would be a bitch. Never seeing any bright side of a situation. But that also didn’t come as much of a shock. The Lieutenant always put you in mind of this black shadow just floating around wherever he pleased or was needed for the time being.

You’d made jokes to Gaz and Soap about his sandpaper-like disposition and shitty attitude before, oftentimes enjoying a short moment before sleeping -without Ghost present of course- where you mimicked him for entertainment. It always got you a bunch of laughs considering the stark contrast between your own character and the Lieutenant’s. You didn’t mean anything negative by it, Ghost just made it too easy to poke quiet fun at him every so often.

“If you answer a question, I’ll leave.” You bargain quickly, already knowing exactly what you wanted to ask about. Ghost just growled in frustration, leaning his forearms on his massive thighs and looked pointedly at you, silently demanding you got on with your foolishness so that you could go off somewhere else and be a pain in the ass for someone else.

“What is that?” You nod to the small container holding his eye paint.

“I mean… the stuff you put on your face?” Unconsciously the question comes out of your mouth a tad bit nervously and hesitant. Not that you had the slightest fear of Ghost being upset with you in a dangerous way, but more so that you were prying into something that he felt was too personal to discuss. That kind of assumption wouldn’t have typically been far off with how private he liked to keep things.

Contrary to his typical behavior Ghost gave a small huff of something close to laughter. Apparently amused and puts the lid on the small jar to toss it across the room for you to get a better look at it. Unscrewing the lid of the small plastic travel-jar, you were met with a very familiar smell. And it wasn’t the kind of cosmetic fragrance you were expecting it come from it.

“Gun grease,” Ghost answered quite offhandedly, acting as if that wasn’t a totally ridiculous idea. Speechless and naively shocked, you look up at the Lieutenant with wide eyes and your mouth a little agape. The look on your face only amuses Ghost that much more and a little flash of it shows in his dark eyes.

“You put slide action lubricant on your face!?” You almost hiss the words out, disbelieving and in total awe of how Ghost hadn’t lost his eyesight, got chemical burns, or some other type of injury from doing something so unheard of.

Ghost shrugs noncommittally. “I prefer Hoppes. Theirs lasts the longest.” He said standing up and stretching his neck side to side.

“You have a fucking brand preference?” Your mouth really does drop open now.

“Brand and color.” He replies smugly, striding over towards you and grabbing the small container and opening it back up to dab more over his eyebrow which hadn’t been fully covered earlier.

“Hoppes…” You repeat the word, thinking for a moment. “You mean that kind that comes in the syringe?” The image of the component and how it hangs in a little package in the gun care and cleaning aisle at every store. you’ve ever been to.

“One and the same.”

Your eyes roll skyward and you can’t help but groan out. “Good god…”

For weeks after that conversation, your mind revisits the thought of Ghost using a ten-dollar tube of gun grease not only as weapon maintenance but also as a skincare product. Surely he’s not stupid enough to think that it’s not harmful to his skin right? He’s got to know that when it gets into his eyes it can cause damage? It comes to a breaking point when you go into a local drugstore for a prescription painkiller for a recent on-mission injury and notice an End Cap display showing a new line of gel eyeliners that have come out boasting 48hr smudge resistance and an almost instant, comfortable dry-down.

You stop dead in your tracks, almost totally forgetting about needing to pick up the week-supply of pills for yourself as you gather up every single one of them in the color black and shove them at the woman working behind the register. The look she gives you is one of masked concern, but you just hand over the cash for it and your prescription before heading back out to your car with a sense of hopefulness that your Lieutenant won’t lose his eyesight prematurely if you can help it.

The following day you’re to report in to HQ for a meeting with the team for a pre-op report review, and have the chance to give Ghost your… gift of sorts. You’re walking out of the meeting, purposefully walking beside of him instead of talking to Soap or asking Price some lingering questions you have so your opportunity doesn’t slip by you.

“Hey, uh do you have a minute?” You nudge his arm with your elbow, looking up at him out of the corner of your eye. Ghost’s eyebrows raise, and he silently gives a stiff nod, not caring to elaborate any further.

Instead of peeling off towards his office down the corridor to your left, he keeps following you silently until you get out to your vehicle parked outside. Although he doesn’t say anything about it, you can feel his questioning look burning into your back as you unlock the doors and reach into your passenger seat for a small black bag that rattles with the sound of thick glass knocking up against each other inside. Even when handing it to him, he’s reluctant to uncross his arms and accept the bag from you because he’s much more comfortable just staring at you coldly. No doubt expecting you to do what you’re best at and waste his time for something inconsequential.

“Here… I really don’t want you going blind anytime soon.” You give him a half smile, dropping the gift bag in his hand. With that, you give a small goodbye and go around to the other side of your vehicle, and drive off before the Lieutenant can open the bag or question you about what the fuck you’d just given him thirty small jars of.

Once home you go about getting some clothes washed for the upcoming mission and take some time to make a call to your neighbor to ask if she can look in on your home and plants while you’re away and pay the water and electric bill since you’ll be out of town when the bills will be mailed. You’re halfway through telling the older woman that you’ll go ahead and write a couple of checks that she can take to the bank with her own bills when you feel your phone vibrate against your ear.

Your elderly neighbor gives her happy acceptance of helping out and gets off the phone so she doesn’t miss her nightly show while you check the notification you’ve received. It’s from a number not saved, but it’s not spam text or one of those random kinds of messages you get when someone uses the wrong number. It’s short, sweet, and to the point. The verbiage and almost awkward tone give you all the information you need to know that the Lieutenant had not only opened his gift but asked someone for your private cell so that he could give his… thoughts.

-Dries down a lot quicker. I like that it doesn’t crease.-

Reblogs & Comments are Appreciated <3

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #velvetures writes #velvetures

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cryptidghostgirl · 1 year ago

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Understand (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

Pairing: Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Wife!Reader

Description: Y/n has been using the exterminations as a way to try and search for the soul of her earthly husband for years. What happens when she actually succeeds in finding him?

Warnings: Cannon typical violence and angst. Also uh,, not healthy. (The end is kinda fucked up)

Word Count: 2,411

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Y/n slid the dark mask over her face, jiggling it slightly to make sure it had clicked properly into place. She had never wanted to be an exorcist, hated the very thought. When she had been alive, she was the type of human who felt bad about accidentally stepping on bugs. If she had had any other choice, she would’ve taken it but she didn’t and so Y/n tried her best to detach herself from the experience.

Exorcists were a handpicked group by Adam. If you weren’t one, you didn’t know about them and if you knew about them, you were fucked. Y/n’s entire existence in the peaceful afterlife had been turned on its head when she’d been chosen. Pulled out of normal day to day and pushed into harsh, year round training. There was nothing nice about it and nothing she could do. No one listened to a thing she said, not even Sera. Sometimes, Y/n caught herself wishing she’d just been sent to Hell instead.

There was, however, one small benefit to these yearly trips. While it was a pain to act like she was being more violent than she was on the field, a constant terror in her life that Adam and Lute would find out she’d been letting demons go, it also gave her the opportunity to search.

Y/n had been married in life. Her husband had been a criminal, one of the worst, something she hadn’t learned until after his death. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from loving him. Every day on earth she’d lived without him by her side had been abysmal. No other love was quite like his love.

When she had first arrived in Heaven, Y/n had searched everywhere for him. There had been no luck. It had been a foolish hope, she knew: looking for a serial killer among the blessed but, she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to hear him explain, wanted to understand. Most of all, though she tried not to think about this part, she wanted to give him a kiss. To throw her arms around his neck with abandon the way she did when they were young. She wanted to hear his voice, have him tell her he still loved her too and mean it. She wanted to know she hadn’t wasted her life, her one chance at a living love.

The gates opened and Y/n dove through with the hundreds of other exorcists. Their game was underfoot, their cat and mouse sadistic chase. For Y/n? The search was on.

----

Alastor watched as the exorcist descended upon him. He was feeling brave and stupid, empowered after his near win against Vox just a few weeks before. Cracking his knuckles, he wondered what the exorcist’s voice would sound like if added to his broadcast.

A wicked grin on his face, she hovered before him. Her wings flapped with great strength, sending gusts of wind Alastor’s way as she kept herself vertically in the air. Alastor simply looked down, pointedly away from the exorcist, and straightened his lapel with his hand that wasn’t holding his microphone. He was trying to make her angry. As she inched closer to him, Alastor assumed it had worked.

“Don’t see many of your lot around these parts this time of year.” he mused, checking his nail beds, “What can I help you with?”

There was a silence. Alastor looked up towards the angel, confused. Normally a blasé statement like that would have gotten a rise out of anyone intent on killing him. Instead, the lights of her eyes on the mask just stared at him. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground.

“Say that again.”

Her voice came out muffled and harsh through the mask, clearly altered by some equipment within. He laughed, taking a menacing step forward. Leaning down condescendingly, he conceded to her demand.

“How may I be of use?”

The exorcist was silent again. After a moment, Alastor shrugged. He straightened himself up again, his hands on top of his microphone as if it were a cane. He summoned his shadows.

“Well you’re certainly making this easy.”

His horns began to grow, throwing strange and menacing shadows across the walls of the ally way. Still, the angel stood there.

“It… it can’t be.” she mumbled under her breath.

Alastor raised his eyebrows.

“Can’t be who, darling?” he asked, feigning innocence, “The Radio Demon can’t be such a big name you folks up in Heaven hear my shows, can it?”

Alastor let out a laugh, taking a step forward as the exorcist tentatively took a step back.

“Oh who am I kidding, of course it is!” he exclaimed.

The exorcist took another step back as Alastor threw his microphone into the air, catching the center of its stand neatly in his outstretched hand. Her back hit the shadows he had put up to block the ally way and she frantically turned her head to the side, checking what it was she’d run into.

Alastor tsked her, walking up so they were just a few feet apart. Harshly, he used his microphone to turn his face to hers again.

“Don’t look away from me, dear. I might get jealous.”

“Were you married?” the exorcist asked suddenly.

Alastor froze in his tracks, his brow furrowed the slightest bit.

“Sorry if that’s weird.” she stuttered out, rubbing her arm holding the spear uncomfortably, “I just, well, I’ve been looking for my husband? He died in the early 1930s and well, he sounded a lot like you.”

Alastor’s heart dropped, crashing into his diaphragm. The angel watched him nervously as he removed his microphone from the side of her head. She let out a breath she’d been holding, something that was quickly taken in again as he used the end of his microphone to life her mask from her face.

It clattered harshly against the concrete as it fell from her face. Alastor’s eyes went wide. There was no doubt about it. Sure, she had a soft ethereal glow about her now, but hadn’t she always in a way? Sure, her hair was cropped around her ears and she was in armor. It didn’t matter, in an instant he knew. The shadows fell from around them, his horns shrunk back to their normal size.

“Y/n?”

“Alastor?” she asked back, just as breathless.

Slowly, she reached a hand out to his face and cupped his cheek. He leaned into it on instinct. Y/n’s spear clattered to the floor, her other hand finding his other cheek as she looked up at him in simple amazement.

“You…” gingerly, Alastor reached his free hand up, laying it on top of one of Y/n’s, “Of course you’ve been in Heaven this whole time. You were always so good, much too good for me.”

“Oh hush, Alastor.” Y/n scolded lightly, her eyes filling with tears, “You know I don’t like it when you put yourself down like that.”

“No, Y/n.” he let his microphone disappear, taking both her hands off his face and holding them intently in his own, “You don’t understand. I did terrible things when I was alive, I still do them now. There is a reason I am down here.”

“I know.” she responded almost immediately.

“No, y-”

“I don’t mean to interrupt but Al, I do know.” Y/n cut him off, “You were killed hurrying a body hun, hard not to. Plus, when the police searched the house they told me what they’d, um, found in the basement freezer.”

Y/n chose her words carefully, her eyes averted. When she looked back at Alastor, he was still smiling yes but, there was something confused about him too. They had grown up together. She had always known exactly what was going on in that head of his. Well, most of the time anyways.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“You have?” Alastor asked, “After everything, after… God, how long did I leave you up there alone?”

“About thirty years.” Y/n shrugged.

There was a moment of silence. A question tugged at Alastor’s tongue, one he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer to. Still, time was running out. The screams of demons being attacked were becoming more and more infrequent. He didn’t know if he’d ever get another chance.

“Did your new husband make it up to heaven with you?”

Y/n’s eyes went wide.

“New husba- Alastor, I never remarried.”

“Why not? You deserved to be treated well, Y/n. To have had a good life. Why waste it all on me?”

“I loved you. I still do.”

Y/n knew it was a bad idea, knew the risks if any other exorcist in the area heard her. Still, she couldn’t help but feel it would be worth it to die, knowing she’d found Alastor and that he knew she still loved him.

“You find anyone down here yourself?” Y/n asked awkwardly after a moment, looking around the ally.

Alastor took a step forward, closing what little space had been left between them. Like he had done it a thousand times before, because he had done it a thousand times before, he raised a hand to Y/n’s cheek and turned her face to his. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, she stared up at him.

“No one.” Alastor shook his head, “There’s no one but you.”

A horn sounded from a ways away and Y/n turned up to the sky. Waves of exorcists were flying over head, going back to the portal, back to heaven. Y/n took a step back, Alastor’s hand falling from her cheek.

“Al, I have to go.”

“Please, Y/n. Stay with me here. I can’t get to you up there, I don’t want to lose you again.”

“I have to go, Al. I don’t want to cause any more trouble for you and everyone else down here.” she insisted, turning to where her mask lay on the ground, “I’ll be back in twelve months, I promise.”

As Y/n leaned over to grab her called disguise, her wings splayed out behind her. Light hit the tip of her spear just right in that moment, catching Alastor’s eye. A wicked idea filtered into his mind. Something he never could have done, would have ever even imagined when he’d been alive. But now? Hell had hardened him, taught Alastor sometimes you had to be cruel to get what you want and not just when it came to killing creeps. He had tried life without Y/n before, tried nearly sixty years of it. Alastor didn’t like it one bit.

“We will get to see one another then,” Y/n was saying as her trembling fingers fumbled for the edge of her mask in the dim light, “and I promise I’ll find a way we can end up together for good, I really d-”

A searing pain shot through her, causing her words to catch in her throat. It was worse than anything Y/n had ever felt before, emanating from the center of her back. Panting in pain, she reached a hand behind her back. It came away wet with sticky, golden blood. Her vision blurring, Y/n looked up at Alastor. Clutched in his right fist was the head of her spear. From the other hand, he dropped her left wing to the floor.

“Alastor…” she panted, her breath weak, “what…”

He took a step forward and an arrow of fright shot through Y/n. She tried to take one back but the pain was starting to really get to her now and she stumbled, falling to the ground. Alastor stood over her, smiling menacingly down as she scooted back from him. Y/n was full on hyperventilating now.”

“Al, what are you doing? What… how… I don’t understand.”

Alastor hushed her gently, the way he used to when they were little kids and he found her crying. Tears began to drip from Y/n’s eyes and she jolted violently with fear as his clawed hand grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to twist around and giving him access to her other wing. He grabbed it, pulling it out to its fullest extent.

“Alastor please.” Y/n begged, tears rolling hotly down her face, “Please don’t. Please.”

“My, these sure are pretty.” Alastor hummed, admiring the weft of the feathers as he held Y/n’s remaining wing.

“Why would you do this!?” Y/n screamed, her voice echoing in the empty ally.

Alastor fell to his knees behind her, still holding her wing out, still immobilizing her in pain.

“I’ve already lost you once.” he said softly, leaning into Y/n’s ear. She whimpered, trying to scoot away from him but unable to due to the hold he had on her appendage, “I won’t do it again. If Satan, or God, or the fucking universe think they can keep us apart, then not a single goddamn one of them has been paying attention because you are mine. You are mine and there is nothing that I wouldn’t do to keep things that way.”

As the final words left Alastor’s lips, he cut through Y/n’s remaining wing in a single motion. She let out an earsplitting scream before passing out in a steadily growing puddle of her own golden blood.

“There, there my love.” Alastor hummed gently, dropping the spear to the ground and smoothing her her wild hair down around her face as he pulled himself to his feet.

Straightening his jacket, Alastor leaned down and picked her limp body up off the sidewalk. The injuries were bad, but nothing he couldn’t help her handle.

“I just can’t explain to you how happy I am to have you back in my arms.” he said to Y/n’s sleeping form, looking down at her tired and tearstained face with nothing short of adoration, “You might be mad for a while, but I can handle that. At the end of the day, we will both know that you’re not going anywhere.”

Leaning down, he planted a soft kiss on Y/n’s forehead. For a moment, his smile went hollow. He hadn’t meant to go this far, to hurt her this bad. Alastor had just been so scared, so utterly terrified at the prospect of losing her again.

“She will understand.” he reassured himself, “She has to understand.”

——

Part Two → Caged Bird (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

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traumxrei-archive · 2 years ago

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SCREAMMMMMMMMMMMMM TRAU IS BACK??????????!?!?!! WELCOME BACK BESTIE RAHHHH

I AM BACKKKK RRAHHHH !!!!

I'M SORRY FOR DISAPPEARING WITHOUT SAYING ANYTHING LMAO I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL LAVRENTIY <333

#/trau replies #/pointedly foolish #/moots <3 #FIRE EMOJI X 100 #(ARE YOU READY FOR BBALL FLOYD BTW)#(BC I SURE AM NOT MENTALLY READY FOR HIM)

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kingjasnah · 8 months ago

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Dalinar turned his attention to Sadeas, speaking very softly, very pointedly. “Sadeas. Surely I did not just hear you openly—before the king—call my son useless. Surely you would not say that, as such an insult would demand that I summon my Blade and seek your blood. Shatter the Vengeance Pact. Cause the king’s two greatest allies to kill one another. Surely you would not have been that foolish. Surely I misheard.”

wok era dalinar had such a particular swag i must admit but also me if anyone says anything bad about renarin ever

#stormlight reread 2024 #also adolin straight up going for his blade when sadeas said that LOL let him kill!!!!!!!!!!!#cosmere #wok

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imaginespazzi · 7 months ago

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Part 3: Miss Me, Miss Me Not

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

And it hits me when the lights go on (shit, maybe I miss you)

(In which a lazy writer somehow still manages to make her deadlines, much to her own shock)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Pining and a teensy bit of Fluff

Words: 5.8K

TW: Swearing (once again I think that's it?)

A/N: Hello my lovelies <3 I'm not gonna lie til about an hour ago, I very much did not think I was gonna give y'all a Monday update but here we are! A couple of housekeeping things, I went back and added months to the years so hopefully that's more helpful. I lowkey dislike this part but I felt like the fic needed it and I'm excited to write the next part. Ngl, the editing on this is pretty nonexistent because trying to read this back lowkey killed me so please feel free to point out mistakes so I can fix them. As always, let me know what you liked, and disliked and anything you wanna see going forward. I really appreciate all of y'alls feedback and the long reviews make my day! Have a good rest of your week lovies <3

September 2017

Azzi: just got home :)

It’s a simple text and it should be easy for Paige to conjure up an equally simple reply. Instead she finds herself typing and deleting, over and over, because nothing sounds quite right. There’s this hollow feeling thrumming in her chest, that has only gotten stronger every passing minute since she’d said goodbye to Azzi at the airport. If she tries hard enough, she can still feel the remnants of their last hug lingering against every inch of her skin. She wants to memorize that feeling and create a blanket out of its threads to numb the ice cold shiver that’s been repeatedly running through her veins from the second Azzi had gotten on that plane. But even that might not be enough. Not when she’s learnt just how warm Azzi’s presence can be and how everything else pales in comparison.

Paige lies to herself that it’s an accidental slip of her fingers, that she’d meant to press send not call, that she had every intention of hanging up the facetime on the first ring itself.

But then Azzi picks up on the second one.

And really it would be rude to hang up.

“Hey what’s up?” Azzi’s face fills the screen, tired eyes staring intently at Paige through the screen.

“Oh um-” Paige fumbles for words, awkwardly shuffling her feet that are dangling off the side of her bed, “I just wanted to ask how your flight was?”

Azzi raises an eyebrow, “you couldn’t have texted me that?”

“Too tired to text,” Paige lies and the words i just wanted to hear your voice stay stuck, burning hot, in her throat, “gotta save these money-making fingers for more important things.”

“Yeah I’m hanging up-”

“NO-” it comes out far more forceful than it should and if possible, Azzi’s eyebrow shoots up even farther, as Paige clears her throat, “I mean- uh- you didn’t tell me how your flight was.”

Paige is too busy cringing at herself to notice the light blush that tinges Azzi’s cheeks. She’s too busy wondering why this girl brings out this nervous bumbling side of hers to notice the fond smile that almost cracks through Azzi’s lips.

“The flight was okay. I actually got to sleep this time,” Azzi says pointedly and Paige laughs.

“So what you’re saying is it was boring as hell.”

“I’m saying it was really peaceful not having someone yapping in my ear while I was trying to sleep.”

“So you didn’t miss me?” Paige presses, trying to keep her voice teasing despite how desperately she wants the admission.

Azzi hesitates, as if she’s debating with herself, before, “I didn’t say that.”

It’s a little ridiculous how large Paige’s grin is but it’s okay, because Azzi’s smiling back, soft and shy. They’d look foolish to anyone else, the way they’re so intently gazing at each other through a screen as if there’s no barrier between them at all.

“It’s gonna be weird going to the gym without you tomorrow morning,” Paige confesses after a second, moving to lay down on her stomach.

“I bet. You’re gonna get absolutely nothing done without me,” Azzi teases dramatically before her eyes soften, “it’s weird that I’m not gonna see you at all tomorrow.”

There’s something gut-wrenching about that admission and yet, there’s something in it that heals a part of Paige’s heart that she hadn’t even known needed to be fixed. It means something to her that Azzi must feel it too. Because if she’s honest with herself, Paige had been just a little afraid that maybe the connection was just in her head, that maybe Azzi was simply tolerating her presence out of kindness.

“You should just move to Minnesota,” Paige replies finally, “much nicer than Virgina or whatever.”

“Have you ever even been to Virginia?” Azzi asks, eyebrows raised as she flips herself to lie on her back, holding her phone above her in a way that lets Paige see entirely too much and yet not nearly enough.

“No but it sounds boring as fuck.”

“Not with me,” Azzi says, biting her bottom lip sheepishly as soon as the words are out.

Paige smirks, suddenly filled with a brand new confidence, “yeah? You’d make Virgina interesting for me Fudd? What would we do?”

Azzi licks her lips and Paige feels her mouth go dry.

“We’d be together,” the younger girl says finally, averting her gaze as the depth of her words begin to make Paige feel like she’s being flooded by an ocean of emotions she’s not quite ready to feel yet, “anything can be interesting if we’re together.”

It would be so easy to come up with a sarcastic quip or tease Azzi for being a sap and yet there’s a certain sincerity in this moment that feels too fragile for Paige to feign nonchalance.

“Is Virginia nice in the winter?” she asks finally, hands fidgeting with the hair ties secured around her wrist, “Minny’s a little too cold sometimes.”

Azzi’s eyes shine and Paige wants to try and read them, find the little clues hidden in her irises and solve the mystery lingering behind the crimson flush of her cheeks. But the truth is that Paige is a little scared of what she’d find, a little scared that discovering Azzi might mean discovering herself too.

“You should come find out some time,” the brunette says, casual tone filled with intricacies of something far deeper. It’s the closest they’ve gotten to saying anything of actual substance and they tip-toe around saying what they both want, daring the other to ask first.

“I dunno,” Paige says, determined to win the game, “I’m not in the habit of showing up to places without a proper invite.”

Azzi scoffs, “a proper invite? Are you expecting someone to send you a carrier pigeon with a gold letter addressed to her royal highness or something?”

“That would be nice,” Paige surmises and Azzi rolls her eyes.

“Does your back ever hurt from carrying that ego?”

“Only hurts from carrying my team.”

“Oh my god you’re so full of it.”

“Full of talent? Yessirrrr.”

Azzi huffs, “Paige.”

“Azzi,” Paige hums.

“Do you wanna come visit me in Virginia during winter break?” Azzi says finally, a small smile playing on her lips like she’s okay with losing this game as long as it’s to Paige.

“If I must,” Paige says dramatically, shrugging her shoulders and everything as Azzi lets out an offended squeak. But inside, her heart flutters at the offer, at the idea of seeing Azzi again, even if it feels like a lifetime away. Because as long as it’s Azzi on the other side, Paige and her impatient self can wait however long it takes.

“Actually you know what nevermind, you don’t gotta come,” Azzi concedes bitterly, scrunching her face (and Paige would never tell her this but she thinks Azzi looks just a little too cute when she’s mad and so maybe she riles her up on purpose)

“No takesies backsies Az,” Paige sing-songs before her lips uptick from a smirk into something more sincere, “hey Az,” she whispers, giggling to herself when Azzi pretends to ignore her, “I’d really like to come see you in Virginia during winter break.”

And as a brilliant grin dazzles across Azzi’s face, Paige realizes that her favorite thing about Azzi’s smile isn’t when her dimples show or when her eyes twinkle, it’s when it’s there because of Paige, when it’s there just for Paige.

“Good,” Azzi whispers as they fall into a comfortable silence.

There’s this serene sense of calm that laces itself around Paige’s nerves. Her normally fidgeting body is content to be perfectly still, an anomaly to her usual demeanor. The truth is that Paige isn’t the kind of person who’s okay with just existing; she likes to spend every second in motion, living out the high. There’s a part of her that’s scared of missing moments, scared that the people around her will leave her behind if she doesn’t chase them. But it’s different with Azzi. The younger girl makes Paige feel like it’s okay if she takes a moment to just breathe. Because Azzi will wait. Because Azzi won’t leave Paige behind.

“Wait,” it’s a little while before Azzi pipes up, shaking Paige out of her thoughts, “what time is it?”

Paige’s eyes flicker to the time on her phone, confused by the line of questioning, “it’s almost 9 why?”

“Don’t you have a team party or something to go to tonight?” Azzi asks, face scrunching, “I swear you told me you had something tonight.”

“Oh-yeah- Amaya’s back to school thing,” Paige sheepishly scratches her neck, suddenly feeling itchy in her flannel shirt. She’d forgotten she was wearing that instead of her daily clothes. Hell, she’d forgotten she was supposed to be going somewhere in the first place, too occupied with other thoughts.

“Bro get up,” Azzi orders, “you’re already late.”

“Nah it’s fine. I don’t think I’m gonna go,” Paige says and she thinks she should probably feel a little more guilty about it.

“What do you mean you’re not gonna go?” Azzi asks in disbelief, “dude you’re the star of the team. You have to go.”

“Amaya will understand besides-” Paige drags in a deep breath, feeling vulnerable as the next words fall out in a quiet whisper, “I don’t wanna hang up yet.”

“Paige c’mon we can talk tomorrow,” Azzi tries to protest but it’s half-hearted at best.

“I wanna talk right now,” Paige argues, “you don’t wanna talk to me?”

For a second Paige thinks Azzi might just say no, might just chip away a little bit of heart with a well-intentioned rejection, but she doesn’t, “always wanna talk to you P.”

“Then don’t hang up. Talk to me.”

And Azzi does. All night.

Two weeks laters there’s a letter, in an envelope with a picture of a carrier pigeon, that arrives in the Bueckers’ mail box.

To her royal highness,

Unfortunately I couldn’t find an actual carrier pigeon (I swear I tried) so this envelope and the mailman will have to do.

~ You are formally invited this winter break to the Fudd family residence in Virginia. ~

(And you better show up Bueckers)

Yours,

Azzi

February 2033

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me,” Ice whines petulantly as she makes herself comfortable on the couch across from where Paige is getting her makeup done, “this is parental neglect.”

Paige laughs, eyes closed, her makeup artist does her mascara, “you’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that” Ice argues, plucking a grape from the fruit basket before segueing into a rant about how boring Arlington, Texas is.

Paige is grateful for the distraction her younger friend is providing. Her nerves had been on edge since the moment she’d woken up this morning, anxious to get the impending farewell press conference over with. She’d already started accepting that the Wings weren’t the right place for her but that feeling had only been heightened by her trip to the Valkyries. And ever since she’s come back, Paige feels a little bit like she’s sleepwalking through her final moments in Dallas. If she’s honest, she’s probably rushing things a little bit. There’s still plenty of time before she really has to move to Oakland but it had been her choice to move there as soon as possible. Paige had always been good at conjuring excuses and she had plenty as to why she needed to be in California so soon. But at the end of the day it isn’t about training or team bonding or any of the other hundred justifications she’s given anyone who’s asked. It’s about a little girl who’s eyes had been brimming with tears when saying goodbye, a little girl who had made Paige pinky swear that she’d be back as soon as possible.

Really, Paige thinks she should be applauded for her restraint, because truth be told, the second Stephie’s lower lip had trembled, Paige had been prepared to ask Ice to just ship her stuff to Oakland so that she’d never have to let go of the little girl’s hand.

And here’s the thing, Paige is willing to admit she wants to go back to the Bay Area for Stephie. It’s that pesky little part of her that’s desperate to go back for Stephie’s mother, to go back for one more hesitant yet lingering touch, that she won’t ever share with anyone else.

“I never thought I’d live to see you and Azzi willingly playing together again,” Ice says as soon as Paige’s makeup artist leaves the room, “KK and I didn’t even try betting on it, we were that sure it wouldn’t happen. Shit I should have. I totally would have won.”

“Don’t y’all get tired of betting on my life?” Paige asks, rolling her eyes, trying to ignore the first part of what Ice said.

“Betting on your life has made me hundreds of dollars bro,” Ice says, before a more earnest look crosses her face, “but genuinely P, are you sure about this? There’s a lot of history there.”

Paige sighs, “it’s not about our history. It’s a basketball decision. And we’re both mature adults who know that. I’m just tryna win. Nothing else.”

“It’s never nothing when it comes to you two.”

“It is this time,” Paige argues adamantly and Ice raises her hands in surrender.

“I just don’t want another set of teammates to have to deal with y’alls bullshit,” the younger girl teases, but it’s laced with a hint of seriousness that sends a flare of guilt shooting through Paige’s body.

“Ice-” she begins.

But Ice is quick to change to a lighter subject, “can’t believe Jana’s the one that gets mom and dad back together. I always knew she was the favorite.”

“We didn’t have favorites,” Paige plays along, thankful for Ice and her ability to always keep the tension to a bare minimum.

“Oh don’t lie. We all know you did,” Ice scoffs and then lets out a chuckle, “and now Azzi’s actually a mom. That’s kinda insane. And you met the kid right?”

“Yeah. Yeah I did,” Paige says and she can’t help the way her entire face breaks into a gleaming smile as her thoughts turn into memories of Stephie. She doesn’t even realize she’s gotten lost in a different world until Ice coughs, an amused grin playing on her lips.

“You’re so royally fucked Paige,” Ice shakes her head, “the only person I’ve seen you smile that big for before is Azzi.”

“She’s a cute, smart, adorable kid, that’s why I’m smiling,” Paige tries to defend herself.

“She’s Azzi’s cute, smart, adorable kid,” Ice counters.

“That has nothing to do with it,” Paige protests again but it rings hollow to her own ears.

“Oh my god I needa call KK and get this bet started. It’s only a matter of time for real,” Ice says, more to herself than to Paige, as she whips out her phone, probably texting KK.

“A matter of time till what?”

“You’ll find out Paigey,” Ice says gravely with a mocking smile, patting Paige’s head, “all in due time.”

***

The Dallas Wings media room is buzzing, reporters desperate to ask Paige questions and the blonde tries to maintain a smile despite the fact that her heart is lurching in her throat right now. Her opening speech had been short and sweet, parroting basically the same thing that had gone out on her social media the night before; she’d been desperate to just get it out. Generally, Paige is pretty good with the media, having been immersed in the spotlight since basically forever. The attention and how to maneuver it has always come naturally to her so she’s not sure why she feels so unnerved by it all today. From the back of the media room, Ice sends her a thumbs up and a reassuring grin and Paige lets out a breath, glad to have at least that comforting presence with her.

“Aidrian Ginsburger with Bleacher Report, Paige, you’ve obviously spent all of your career so far with the Wings, can you tell us a little bit about the impact this organization has had on you?”

Paige smiles at the question, letting her brain skim through pages and pages of fond memories she has of time spent with this team. It might be time to move on but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have plenty of cherished moments.

“Yeah um- this place has really shaped who I am as a person. Since day one, the front office, obviously it’s a different one to the one I came in with, they did a lot to make sure that I was comfortable. My teammates through the years have been incredible and I wouldn’t be the player I am today without them. And of course the fans you know, they always showed out for the team, for me. Always supported me in anyways and I hope that I was able to give back the love to them that they always gave to me,” she says, suddenly nostalgic for the team that had started it all.

The next questions are similar in nature and Paige’s answer varies only in words but not substance. She feels herself start to settle into it, now fielding the expected questions about the Wings and Valkyries with an air of confidence. There are a couple questions about Azzi that make her heart thump, but that was to be expected. It’s a pretty brilliant story in the making, two MVPs who used to play on the same college team coming together. Talia had warned Paige in advance that there was no avoiding it. But for the most part the questions have an easy answer about how Azzi’s a brilliant player and she’s excited to play with her old friend again. That is until a familiar hand shoots up and all the tension that had previously dissipated, comes roaring back with a vengeance.

“Olivia Reynolds with the Dallas Morning News, Paige, as others have said today, you and Azzi Fudd played together at UConn and you were best friends.” Olivia’s eyes glint viciously, “I mean it’s pretty well documented how hard you tried to recruit her to UConn. But despite being best friends, the two of you have been never seen hanging out, outside of games and formal events, unlike your other teammates that is-”

“Is there a point to this?” Paige asks, hands fisting in her lap as she tries to keep herself calm.

Olivia smiles, sugary sweet, “I was just wondering if maybe there was some tension and how that would affect your on-court chemistry at the Valkyries?”

“There’s no tension,” Paige lies through gritted teeth, “we didn’t hang out because we live far apart. There isn’t much else to it. And even if there was, Azzi and I are professionals. We wouldn’t let anything off the court affect our goal to win.”

“You lived far apart before UConn too, but that didn’t seem to stop you guys. What changed?” Olivia presses.

“Time did. Our lives did. There’s nothing sensational here. It’s just a case of two people drifting apart,” Paige says and the fabrication feels heavy on her tongue. If only it really had been that simple.

“But clearly not that much,” Olivia says, and Paige glances at the moderator, desperate for an intervention, “there were plenty of fan pictures of the two of you out getting ice cream with Azzi’s daughter. It seems like you’re already fitting into that Bay Area life-”

“I’m not hearing a question at the end of your sentence,” Paige hisses and she can practically already hear the scolding she’s going to get from Talia once her agent gets wind of how this press conference had gone. The entire media cohort is watching the exchange with wide eyes, no doubt questioning whether they were embarrassed or impressed by their colleague. Ice is mouthing something to Paige, probably something along the lines of please keep your shit together, but Paige is steaming. Really, she should have expected this.

“Well if you’d let me finish,” Olivia snarls, the façade of innocence dropping, “even if the two of you have drifted, as you put it, clearly there’s still a relationship there. How big of a role did Azzi Fudd play in your choice to move to the Valkyries?”

Paige sucks in a deep breath, nails digging into her palm at the question, “Azzi is the best shooting guard in the country. That was her role in my decision to move to the Valkyries. I don’t know what else you’re trying to imply, but I want to play with her because we play well together. That’s it,” she stands up and there’s pin drop silence, “thank you all for coming but we’re done with this press conference.

***

Paige is seething as she exits the media room, Ice hot on her heels trying to calm her down. The sane part of her knows she should head back to the makeup room or even to her car, instead she finds her feet carrying her in the direction of where she knows Olivia Reynolds will be, reviewing her press conference notes by the coffee machine like she always is.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Paige spits as she comes to a halt in front of the reporter.

“I know you think playing basketball is the only job in the world Paige, but that was a reporter doing her job,” Olivia says, her calm and composed voice only furthering Paige’s irritation.

“Bull-fucking-shit.” Paige sneers, “that wasn’t a reporter out there, that was my ex-wife grilling me like we were back in fucking divorce court.”

Olivia cocks her head, “oh so you do remember who I am to you then?”

“Oliv-”

“Because if you did remember, I’d like to think you’d have the courtesy to at least personally tell me that you were moving to your,” she drops her voice, “ex-girlfriend’s team instead of letting me find out with the rest of the world. You don’t think you owed me that?”

“That’s what this is about?” Paige sighs, “Olivia we’ve been divorced for almost three years now, I don’t owe you-”

“You didn’t owe Azzi anything either,” Olivia whisper-yells, the calm in her voice replaced by the same anger that had tainted the last year of their marriage, “but when we first started dating, you kept us a secret for months. You wouldn’t even tell your fucking teammates cause you were so scared she’d find out,” her eyes drift towards Ice who looks like she wishes she’d made a different decision rather than following Paige out here, “you said she deserved to hear it from you but apparently I don’t-’

“I didn’t mean it like that Olivia. Look, I meant what I said up there. There’s nothing between- ”

“Spare me,” Olivia says, as she stuffs her notepad into her bag, “you can lie to all those other reporters out there about how all of this is a basketball decision. You can even lie to yourself if you want. But you can’t lie to me, not when I spent four years fighting to keep our relationship from getting crushed under whatever it is that Azzi is to you.”

***

It doesn’t matter how far Paige burrows her head into her pillows, she can’t seem to stop herself from hearing Olivia’s words reverberating through her ears. The two of them had done well at co-existing in their social circles after the divorce had been finalized. While no one could quite call them friends, they’d done a good job at being friendly, being able to converse and share an occasional drink when in their combined friend group. And if Paige is honest, she knows she’s fucked up, knows she probably did owe Olivia a call. But calling Olivia would have meant calling someone who would inevitably make Paige face the truth, just like she had today. The truth that, even with the deal Talia had concocted with the Liberty hanging in the background like a dark presence, the move to the Valkyries was about a lot more than just basketball for Paige.

She’s so entrenched in her thought that she doesn’t bother checking who it is when the facetime rings, irritation seeping into her voice as she answers it, face still buried in her pillows, “WHAT?”

“Miss Buecks?” a tiny voice comes through the phone and for a second, Paige thinks she must be dreaming, until she finally lifts her head to look at her phone, and Stephie’s small face lights up the whole screen. And it’s like she can feel little hands on her shoulders, slowly unknotting her tightened muscles.

“Stephie,” she breathes out, a sudden sense of serene calm washing over her previously tense body.

“Hi Miss Buecks,” Stephie says happily before she squints at the screen, “you sleep weird.”

Paige laughs, “and why’s that?”

“You’re not wearing pajamas and it’s only seven. ‘Dults don’t sleep at seven,” Stephie says matter-of-factly.

“It’s actually nine here,” Paige says, a little surprised by the time; she hadn’t realized she'd been moping in her bed for that long. Ice had forced her to get lunch together, not wanting to leave Paige alone after the encounter with Olivia. Once she’d finally gotten back to her apartment, Paige had flopped on her bed, taking out her frustrations on her poor pillow.

“That’s not poss-ble,” Stephie scrunches her face, “Mama’s phone says it’s seven.”

“It’s seven in California, it’s nine in Texas,” Paige tries to explain though by the way Stephie’s looking at her, she thinks she’s probably just confusing the girl more, “how’d you figure out how to call me babe?”

Stephie gives her an exasperated look, “Miss Buecks I’m five. I know how to use facetime.”

“And does your Mama know you're facetiming me?” Paige asks, eyebrows raised.

“She’s in the shower,” Stephie whispers, grinning sheepishly.

As if on cue, Azzi appears on the corner of the screen and Paige feels her mouth run dry. The darker skinned woman is clad in a light pink fluffy bathrobe that ends right above her knees, giving Paige the perfect view of her long, toned legs that seem to shimmer despite the shitty quality of the facetime. Rivulets of water cling to her neck, delicately cascading down the valley of her breasts before disappearing from sight. And Paige must be dehydrated because never has she wanted to taste a drop of liquid more than she does right now.

“Stephie,” Azzi groans, as she walks towards the phone and Paige gulps, heart beating faster with every step the other woman takes, everything about her becoming clearer and clearer, “what did I say about using my phone.”

“Only in em-a-gencies,” Stephie recites, “but Mama I had an em-a-gency.”

Azzi tilts her head, eyebrows raised as she gives her daughter a knowing look, “and what was your emergency?”

“I really, really, really, this much” Stephie stretches out her hands as far as they’ll go, really, really, really, miss Miss Buecks.”

Paige feels her heart flutter. Stephie’s words feel like a hand carefully pulling her out from under the pile of stress she’d been buried under the whole day. It’s like the little girl is pushing away the rubble pressing against her lungs, turning the rocks into dust with a light touch and Paige feels like she can finally breathe.

“Sounds like a pretty big emergency to me,” she says, relishing the way Stephie’s face lights up at the admission, “cause I really, really, really miss you too Steph.”

“See Mama,” Stephie says, placing the phone against a wall so can place her hands on her hips and look up at Azzi with a pleased smirk.

Azzi rolls her eyes before glaring at Paige, “you’re a bad influence on her.”

“I’m the best influence on her,” Paige argues, sending Stephie a conspiratorial wink, “just you wait Az, I’mma teach her all the good things.”

Something unreadable flashes across Azzi’s face before she’s back to looking at Paige with an unimpressed arched eyebrow, “I am not letting you corrupt my daughter Paige Bueckers.”

“We’ll see,” Paige says slowly and Azzi shakes her head before turning to Stephie.

“Alright Stephie bean time to go brush your teeth. It’s almost bedtime babes,” she says with a stern look

“But Mama-”

“No arguing, you have school tomorrow missy,” Azzi reminds the little girl and Paige can’t help but marvel at the mother that Azzi’s become. And it makes her heart ache for the fantasies she’d dreamed of when she was in her early twenties. She’d always known Azzi would be a great mother; Paige had just naively thought she’d be there alongside her too.

“Can Miss Buecks stay on the phone till I fall asleep?” Stephie asks, peering up at Azzi with big doe eyes, “please Mama pleeeease.”

“I’m sure Miss Buecks has other things-”

“I don’t,” Paige cuts in far too enthusiastically, clearing her throat to get back some semblance of restraint as both mother and daughter turn to look at each other, “I don’t have anything to do tonight so I can stay till you fall asleep Stephie.”

“YAYY,” Stephie cheers enthusiastically while Azzi studies her with a weary look, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and then you can read me, my story Mama.”

With that, the little girl runs in the direction of what Paige can only assume is the bathroom, skipping with childlike joy as she sing-songs about something Paige can’t quite make out.

“You know you don’t have to say yes to everything she asks right?” Azzi says slowly as she grabs her phone and sits on the couch.

Paige shrugs, “I have time to stay.”

“Do you?” Azzi asks skeptically, “because from what I heard the Wings are having a little farewell party tonight, for you.”

Paige narrows her eyes, “and how exactly did you hear that?”

“I have connections.”

“You talked to Ice.”

“I talked to Ice,” Azzi concedes, “and I’m pretty sure you’re already an hour or so late for it.”

“Exactly. I’m already an hour late so why bother,” Paige says, sitting up so she can rest head against her headboard, “why were you talking to Ice?”

“I can’t talk to my friend?” Azzi asks slowly.

“Of course you can but why specifically today?” Paige presses

Azzi bites her lip, “I um- I watched your press conference today. You uh-” she averts her gaze, “you seemed really stressed at the end and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A soft grin upturns Paige’s lips before she can stop it, “were you worried for me Fudd?”

“That’s not-” Azzi groans, “shut up.”

Paige smirks, “you were worried for me.”

“I was concerned for my future teammate," Azzi huffs, “besides,” her face hardens, “she was way out of line.”

Paige sighs at the implied mention of Olivia, “maybe but maybe I deserved it.”

“No you didn’t,” Azzi protests and that oh so familiar protective tone in her voice carves itself into every crevice of Paige’s heart, “no one deserves to be put on the spot like that. She was being unethical trying to dig into your personal life like that.”

“This is nice,” Paige says softly, unable to help herself.

“What is?”

“Seeing you get all defensive over me. It's nice to see you still care. I didn’t know if you still did.”

Azzi’s quiet for a second, gnawing at her bottom lip as she looks at Paige, “I’ve always cared Paige. And-” she hesitates as the tightrope beneath them wavers, “I’m always gonna care.”

There’s years worth of unsaid words lingering in the silence between them as they breach some unspoken rule they’d both inadvertently agreed to. And they both know that they shouldn’t be saying things like this to each other, that they’re teetering on the edge of falling into an abyss that has nothing but destruction at the bottom. But Azzi’s words feel like sunshine, like heat waves across her skin and Paige is so tired of feeling cold.

Before either of them can say another word, Stephie comes back into the room, crawling into Azzi’s lap.

“I’m back,” she beams, completely unaware of the way the two adults are scrambling to act normal around her.

“Here baby,” Azzi hands the phone to Stephie, “take Miss Buecks to your room. Mama’s gonna go change and then she’ll come read to you okay?”

“‘Kay Mama,” Stephie complies, pressing a soft kiss to Azzi’s cheek before running towards her room. For a second Paige’s screen is blurred in motion until Stephie fixes her again and Paige catches a glimpse of Stephie’s room, specifically the walls that are painted the perfect shade of Valkyrie purple.

“I love your walls Stephie,” she compliments.

“They’re pu-ple,” Stephie exclaims, “that’s my favorite color.”

“First the ice-cream, now the color, you’re stealing all of my favorites kid,” Paige teases but she’s secretly pleased by this revelation. It’s dangerous how fast Stephie’s starting to whittle down Paige’s walls and build herself a permanent shelf in Paige’s cabinet of my people.

“Can I tell you a secret Miss Buecks,” Stephie whispers, bringing her lips closer to the phone.

Paige smiles, “of course you can.”

“I think Mama misses you too,” Stephie says softly and Paige feels her heart catch in her throat, “I heard her tell Nanna on the phone.”

“Can I tell you a secret Stephie?” Paige lowers her voice, leaning into her phone.

“‘Course you can Miss Buecks.”

Paige swallows as the admission falls from her lips, “I really miss your Mama too.”

I miss her always and I think I’ll miss her forever.

“What are you the two of you whispering about,” Azzi’s voice cuts in as she tucks herself next to Stephie, a children’s book in her hand.

“Nothing Mama,” Stephie says immediately, winking at Paige through the phone.

“Yeah,” Paige echoes, ignoring her erratic heartbeat, “nothing Azzi.”

Azzi looks between the both of them, clearly aware she’s being left out of something, but doesn’t push further. Instead she flips open the book, pulls Stephie closer into her arms and starts reading. If anyone were to ask Paige later, she wouldn’t have the faintest idea about a single word in that damn book. Because as Azzi’s soothing voice begins to lull Stephie to sleep, and the younger girl, despite her yawns, holds the phone up so the blonde can be included in every second of it, Paige feels herself being pulled into a dream she has no right to dream. She dreams of being in Stephie’s purple bedroom. She dreams of her and Azzi lying against Stephie’s lilac bedspread, their hands entwined in the middle over Stephie’s little body. She dreams of a forever that she’d long forsaken.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

354 notes · View notes

zarnzarn · 4 months ago

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Epic post canon fluff for the soul!

"Athena, help, help!" Odysseus hisses, darting behind her. Athena tenses up, grabbing her spear. "Your wife is after me!"

"She is your wife," Athena rolls her eyes, relaxing and letting the weapon dissolve. Odysseus presses himself between her stature and the wall, arranging her robes around him to make it seem she was sitting on the settee alone.

"As are you," Odysseus says pointedly. The delusion never fails to make an odd rush of emotion go through her, something both bashful and giddy and embarrassed to be feeling both. "And speak softer, she's going to hear you."

"What did you do anyway?" Athena sighs, leaning back against him and stifling a grin as he squawks at the heavy weight of her. "Penelope is a calm, rational woman- she's not one usually to send you running like this."

"What are you talking about?" Odysseus says, outrage muffled behind her. "Calm and rational- do you know she once made me fistfight a merchant who she thought was giving us low quality carpets for our wedding? Carpets, Athena!"

"I don't know how you two keep this kingdom running," Athena sighs, shaking her head as she picks her weaving back up. Two arms sneak around her waist, and she shifts downwards with a soft smile no one can see, letting him hug her tight as if he can squeeze his affection into her body. She does not know how it continues to feel like this, even ten years later, like every day is filled with nothing but satisfaction and content and happiness. "What-"

"Athena!" Telemachus crashes into the door as he loses grip on the marble flooring with his old sandals that really need to be burnt. He shakes his head and turns to run at her, throwing himself at her side like intends to crawl behind as well, like he is not a lad of twenty-six summers now. "Mom is- oh, hi, dad!"

"Hey, Tele," Odysseus says warmly, and Athena begs for patience as they both try to adjust themselves behind her. "Did she see you?"

"No! But-"

"What," Athena slams her hands down on the loom. "-did you two even do? And why am I collateral in your foolishness?"

"Because we're your favourites," Telemachus says shamelessly. She regrets the day she and Penelope decided to leave the sweet child alone with his insufferable brat of a father for that holiday they took together around the island. He was never quite the same ever again. "And shhh, she's gonna hear you!"

"Let her," Athena says mutinously. "And you're wrong- Diomedes is my favourite. The calmest, quietest one of all of my students."

"Then stop sending him away to guide youngsters on magical quests!" Penelope snaps as she storms in. Athena is ashamed to admit she quails back at the furious entrance with wide eyes. "Maybe then I'd get someone else in this house who isn't an absolute fool!"

"Penelope-" She says, as if she's done something wrong and she is also not an ancient goddess of war who fought the Titans themselves.

"Athena," Penelope says dangerously. "Where are those rascals?"

Said rascals are frozen still like deer behind her, so much so she barely remembers she's there. "What... rascals?"

Penelope wears a look of incredulity at the terrible attempt at a lie, something that Athena also shares in vague disbelief at her own self, before suddenly changing her tune, looking for all the world a weary, middle-aged, fond woman.

"My darling Athene," she coos, sweet as honey. "Beloved husband mine. Where are those annoying brats, please tell me?"

Athena's heart skips a beat and her fingers stutter on her shuttle.

This nonsense had all started some accursed months ago when she had woken up one morning beside Penelope, Odysseus already gone ahead for the morning to bathe, Athena pressed into the warmth he'd left behind after a particularly bad migraine the previous night.

"I am- not your husband," she manages, trying not to blush at the words. "I do not why you insist on calling me so."

Penelope pouts.

Then Penelope had stretched and thrown an arm and leg over her, and suddenly she was wide awake as the other nuzzled into her neck and murmured, "Good morning, husband."

Athena had burned for that one brief moment, then abruptly teleported out of there to Odysseus in their bathhouse, wading into the water with all her clothes on, babbling apologies and awkward explanations to the bewildered man, while fighting the sudden mortifying realisation of Why have I been sleeping in their marital bed? followed shortly by WHY HAVE THEY BEEN LETTING ME?

And after Odysseus had gotten the whole story out of her- she had not been hysterical, fuck off, Odysseus- he had almost laughed himself sick with mirth. Then after she'd bellowed at him to take it seriously, he'd chuckled and swam closer to her.

Athena had not slipped into the water in shock.

"I won't lie, I do like the sound of it, though," Odysseus had purred. Swam closer and placed his hands on her hips, scalding hot and real. "Penelope would look good with two husbands, don't you think? What say, Pallas Athena, will you be my wife too?"

It had hit her like a sword to the gut, the realisation that he was teasingly seducing her, and it hit like a second sword to the face that even if he didn't really mean it, she wouldn't mind, which was a horrifying development to suddenly be aware of, and the result of that was-

"CEASE!" She had shouted and splashed the entire floor in her mad scramble to get away from him, Odysseus cackling behind her. She had promptly gotten as far away from the entire mad island of Ithaka as she could, and then picked a fight with poor Eros, who was probably the only innocent party in this whole situation.

But after that, they had not stopped, the bastards that they were- went about calling her that all the time, introduced her to people with the title they felt like inflicting on her that day, held her close with the same casual possession they used with each other.

"Are you worried about being the second?" Penelope says brazenly, bangles jingling as she puts her hands on her hips. "Don't worry, love, once I get my hands on Odysseus, you will be my one and only, and we can replace that donkey I call a son as well. Now, I heard you talking to them, where are they?"

"Aw, how come I don't get the title of donkey?" Odysseus says as he peeks out from behind her, and Penelope's face becomes full of rage.

"YOU-!" She hitches up her skirts and chases her laughing husband around the room, shouting insults and curses.

Athena sits there silently, still trying to recover from what Penelope had said so casually to her.

Maybe- maybe it wasn't a joke after all? Were they actually serious-

"You know they are not joking, right?" Telemachus says, sudden sharp knowing in his voice. She looks over at him, and he smiles softly, lifting himself to his knees as he makes his way past her open hair to press a fond kiss to her cheekbone. "They really love you, ma."

Athena makes a truly undignified gurgling noise. Then narrows her eyes. "Manipulation."

"It can be manipulation and truth!" Telemachus says as he reaches out and straightens out the threads of her look that had gotten tangled in all the mess. "I am the product of your intellectual labour, am I not?"

"Are you?" Athena grumbles darkly, and he laughs high and sharp. He has dozens of suitors of his own now, children of heroes and gods alike- and he has every last one wrapped around his finger as easy as breathing, toying with them all so gently they can't do anything but enjoy it as he lazily chooses between them, all father's charm and mother's beauty and smile as sharp as any wolf's.

Athena is so incredibly proud of him.

"Yes," He says, then slumps against her as they watch Penelope pull off her sandals to throw at Odysseus. She misses, and a vase goes crashing to the floor instead as Odysseus slips past her once more. "Mom really is in love with you, though. I can tell."

"I-"

"She knows that too. But maybe come for dinner more often, that's enough to make her day." Athena turns to look at him, raises an eyebrow. Telemachus smiles sunnily. "And there isn't a mortal or Olympian alive who knows what the hell kind of insane dynamic you have going on with dad, so I'm not going to bother asking."

"You used to be such a sweet child," Athena says despairingly. "Why were you tainted so."

Telemachus guffaws.

Another vase crashes to the floor and Athena sighs.

"My most beloved," She calls out, words fitting awkwardly in her mouth. Still, it's worth it to see them both freeze and whip around to stare at her with wide eyes and red cheeks, strangulation and excuses forgotten. She snorts, Telemachus giggles excitedly. "Please. May we forget these petty squabbles and go to lunch? I find myself hungry today."

"Yes!" The two of them practically teleport to her side, looking up at her with adoring, worshipful expressions. Telemachus gestures something encouraging in the side of her vision, and goes on ahead to get the cook ready, successfully escaping his mother's ire.

Athena smiles. Builds up her courage and leans down once on either side to peck them both on the lips and pushes down a smug smile at their stunned expressions as she straightens back up, relishing in the satisfaction of getting one over them after weeks of teasing.

"Well?" She says as she reaches the door, turning back to see them clutching at each other and staring at her, cheeks scarlet. Such beautiful idiots they are, the both of them. She huffs in amusement. "I'll let whoever reaches first call me their wife in front of Hermes tomorrow."

Odysseus and Penelope both shout in dismay and start tussling with each other to reach the door first and Athena laughs as she shifts into an owl and flies overhead, towards yet another day with her favourite people.

#odypen #if u cant approach her to have an emotional convo abt how much she means to u gaslighting it is ig #also! a few words abt my odypenath stuff #most of the time it Is a handwavy queerplatonic situation #like. they dont have the words for the things they feel!!! its romantic and platonic and fond and 'i can crush em like a bug' and laughing #also omg FINALLY.#telemachus #THE BOY!!!!#26 and thriving. heartbreaker supreme #odysseus #penelope #athena #my fic #no but im very firm on the fact that post odyssey Telemachus is the most feared individual in the entire civilization lmao

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

Text

Someone New 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: why am I so anxious all the time?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

If Peggy’s party promised everything would change, the ‘yes’ you give to Arturo pays on that promise. Almost at once, everything is different. Your boring, orderly life is suddenly thrown into chaos. You have a hundred worries at once and not enough times; passport, visa, packing, flights. Not too mention all that you’re leaving behind; apartment, furniture, and... friends.

It’ll be good. You keep telling yourself that, just like Arturo, just like Sam. They seem more excited than you are. You struggle to see past the grief of saying goodbye to the life you built there; the life you built around Steve and false hopes. It’s foolish and naive but it still hurts.

And you’re scared. Norway. It’s far away. And you’ll be all alone. You survived college because you found Steve; you could stomach the furor of the city for Sam and Bucky, but on your own, what could you do? You’re not brave or bold or anything like that.

It doesn’t matter. You’re going to work. To forget. Focus on the dig, don’t think about everything else.

You’ve already lost so much. Steve’s busy, you are too. Maybe that’s good. You have to condition yourself for the trip. For a new life. A year is a long time. You feel like the newly graduated teen heading off to college, the one who walked into the wrong lecture hall on that fated day, the one he picked out and put firmly in her place; a friend, just a friend.

As you sort through your closet, tossing fabric into one pile or the other, your music stops playing and your phone buzzes loudly against your nightstand. You hurry to pick it up as that noise makes your neck bristle. You hate it.

You pick up without checking the display. You hope it’s the visa office. No, it’s Sam.

“Hey, chicky poo,” he chirps from the other end.

“Chicky poo?” You echo flatly.

“Hm, you’re right, I’ll keep workshopping,” he chuckles, “so you’re leaving in a week?”

“As long as my paperwork shows up,” you sighs and cross your arm over your middle. You sway as you look around at the clutter of your bedroom. “And I can get all this shit out of my place.”

“When’s your flight?” He asks pointedly. He’s not subtle. Men never are. For years, you’d hoped Steve was being subtle and look how that turned out. You know now he was so obviously not into you.

“Thursday, 5am,” you answer.

“Ah, that’s pretty early to be hungover but it will be worth it.”

“Hungover?” You wonder as you slowly sit on your bed, “why?”

“You’re leaving us so obviously, you need a final hurrah,” he insists, “I’m throwing you a going away party. Just the four of us, unless you have any plus ones?”

“Going away party?”

“Neither of the other jerks are gonna do it,” he scoffs, “nothing fancy, promise. Just some drinks.”

“What about Tuesday? Give me a day to recover?”

“Wednesday works. Steve’ll be back by then.”

“Back by then?” You must sound like a parrot.

“Oh, yeah, the lovers went up north to look at venues for the engagement party. Too bad you won’t make it. I’ll have to drink myself into a stupour all by myself,” he intones.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you grumble and pick at a wrinkle in your pants.

“Don’t be sorry. You deserve this. I’m so fucking excited for you,” he chimes, “you have to tell me everything. I want pictures of vikings and castles and stuff. All of it.”

“Sam, I’m just going to be digging,” you mutter.

“And? You can’t just go over there an put your head down. Go sightseeing, go out on the town, have a wild one-night stand--”

“Sam,” you drone.

“You need it,” he cackles, “it’ll be a story to bring home with ya. Make us all jealous with your wild Norwegian adventure. Hey,” he pauses and sucks his teeth, “you’re like Uno reversing a whole country. Vikings used to invade others, this is your chance to go right in there and raise hell.”

“You’re stupid,” you laugh and shake your head.

“Never said otherwise.”

“Hm, fine, Wednesday,” you agree, “if I'm gonna be there, I gotta get all this shit packed.”

“Did I not say if you need anything? I can help,” he offers.

“No, no, I got it,” you say, “really, it’s not that much.”

“Right, well, I should get back to it and let you do the same,” he says in a resigned tone.

You hang up and heave. You put the phone down and drop your head into your hands. You feel like you should cry. You’ve felt that tide of tears pushing on your eyes since the party but they just won’t come. All that tension is driving you mad but you just can’t dislodge the nail driven deep into your chest.

💟

Your life is hectic but you’re not surprised Steve isn’t part of the whirlwind. Why would he be? He has so much going on. A wedding is much more important than what could possibly be the most spontaneous and naive decision of your life. Impulsive more than anything. Cowardly when you think about it. You’re running away because you can’t face the truth. Because it’s just easy to leave your emotions in New York.

Still, you thought you’d hear more than this. More than a thumbs up emoji or hearsay from Sam. Even after your conversation on the balcony and his reassurances, you still feel his discontent. Will he really miss you that much or is he just upset you won’t be there to celebrate the love of his life?

It doesn’t matter, does it?

It’s gone so fast and you hope the next year goes just as quickly. That all this passes. Not just the trip but everything else. The sadness, the pain, the fear. You try to be positive. You thought college was scary and look how that turned out.

Ugh, you’re really doing this. You're leaving is all behind. You’re leaving your friends and your family and your home. You have no one to blame but yourself. You could’ve gotten over Steve Rogers a decade ago. More than that. You couldn’t rip the band-aid off, you had to pull it slow so ever hair rends painfully from the flesh.

The GPS guides you between the shining marquee. You can see the pulsing dot of your destination on the screen. You don’t drive towards it, instead hunting for a parking spot among the cramped lots and lined curbs. You should’ve taken a cab but you’re only having one drink and you’re saving for the inevitable expense of hurling yourself halfway across the world.

You get out and grab your phone, your purse hooked over your elbow. You raise the small screen and get your bearings, squinting as you set yourself in the right direction. Just across and at the end.

As you approach the bar, you stop short. This isn’t exactly the flavour. Well, not for them. You peer up at the neon light in the shape of a martini, a bright pink beacon, under which a large group of women cluster. Whoops and hollers go up as they enter and leave you standing out in the technicolour-tinted night. Did you get the address wrong?

You check your messages with Sam. No, it’s correct. Strange. Maybe he didn’t know.

You pull open the violet-shaded glass door and peer around as you step out of the way of the patrons behind you. You text Sam to check if he’s there already. You can’t seem to keep up with the clock hands these days.

As you wait for a response, you glance around. It’s like a Sex and the City reenactment. The guys always teased you for your rants about Carrie Bradshaw’s selfishness. They weren’t much for the genre. With them, it’s sports bars and beers and what ball game is in season. They never notice your cute new earrings or your efforts to spruce up your work clothes with a flashy belt.

‘Here. You’re looking cute.’ Sam’s response comes.

You narrow your eyes and stand on your toes to look around. He’s sitting at a tall table with Bucky, the two of them looking out of place before the feathered centerpiece and glitzy wall art of high heels. You can’t help a grin. This is absolutely ridiculous.

You weave through the tables and bodies, past the bar of gabbing girl groups and a few men mixed in. You near your friends and claim one of the tall stools around the round table. You use the bottom bar to haul yourself up onto the seat and hang your purse from your knee.

“Hey, this place is... sparkly,” you look around with a dumb smile. You can’t help it! You never get a girls’ night.

“It is,” Bucky agrees in a grit.

You stop short. You look at him then at Sam. You didn’t notice before. They’re wearing bows on their heads. Sam has a head band with a gregariously big pink ribbon, whereas Bucky has a glittering purple bow pinned into his thick locks. You laugh and smother it behind your hands.

“What is this?” You snicker.

“We are your ladies tonight!” Sam announces and shifts to stand, bending under the table, “and you get to be queen bee!” He reaches to the floor and you lean to see the huge tote underneath, “here is your tiara!”

He pulls out the plastic tiara with fake pink gems and white feathers. You giggle again as he places it on your head. This is too much.

“Sam! How—this is so stupid. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“What? It’s about time. Don’t worry about us. It’s all about you,” he snaps his finger and points at you, “we’re going to order girly cocktails and dish on the cute dudes.”

Bucky shakes his head as he fixes the bow in his hair, “I wanted a flower.”

You bring your hands down to your next and wiggle on the seat giddily. This is amazing. Your eyes sting and your throat locks up. You’re going to miss these idiots.

“You guys,” you breathe.

“No crying!” Sam claps his hand, “I already got this guy moping around.”

“I’m not moping,” Bucky sniffs.

“We have to decide who’s who. I know you hate Carrie so we’ll save that for Steve. He is the stuck up blond, after all,” Sam smirks, “I’m definitely Samantha, it’s already in my name. And you,” he points at you, “Miranda. The level-headed one who has to put up with our BS. That means Bucky--”

“Charlotte?” Bucky frowns, “can’t I be Stanford?”

You nearly gasp, “Bucky, are you a stan?”

“I’ve seen some episodes,” he shrugs.

“Well, that’s decided,” Sam checks his watch, “where’s that bozo?”

You frown and look around. You look at your phone. You were just on the cusp but Steve is late. Bucky takes out his cell too and all three of you scroll through your screens.

“Whatever, we don’t have to wait for him, drinks,” Sam blacks the screen and sets down his phone. He reaches for the pink pleather drink menu, “I was looking at the Paradise Punch. Sounds interesting.”

“Mm, I’m just having one,” you state, “I gotta drive home.”

“Pfft, don’t worry about it. You can get your car tomorrow.”

“Sam, I leave at five in the morning.”

“Fine, I’ll take care of the car. You’re storing it, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t expect--”

“Tonight is going to be fun. No arguing,” he points a long finger at you.

The phone jitters and his phone lights up. He picks it up as your cell remains lifeless in a rare moment of peace, though it’s fraught nonetheless. You peek over at the empty fourth stool.

“He’s not coming,” you utter.

Sam huffs and puts his phone down, “he’s not. Peggy has a work dinner and he’s invited.”

“Oh,” you nod and try not to deflate entirely, “that’s... that’s fine. He said he’d come to the airport but I wasn’t counting on that either.”

“Asshole,” Sam sneers.

“Hey, no,” you shake your head, “he’s busy. He has a wedding and all that--”

“You’re going away,” Bucky surprises you with the emotion in his tone, “and he can’t be here.”

“Really, it’s not--”

“It is,” Sam insists. “How long are you gonna let him walk all over you? Isn’t that why you’re leaving?”

“It’s work, it’s nothing to do with Steve.”

“Sure,” Sam accepts hotly, “keep telling yourself that.” He cringes and swallows, “tonight isn’t about him. For once. It’s about you. Us. Having fun. Saying goodbye. It’s gonna be terrible without you. I hope you know that.”

You could laugh at his rebuke. The conflict between celebratory and reproachful is amusing. You exhale and put your hands up.

“Alright, I got it.”

“Buck,” he gestures to the other man, “go.”

You turn to the Bucky and he slides off his stool. He reaches down under the table and brings up a gift bag. Your mouth falls open. Your chest tweaks, a mixture of glee and guilt. You’re happy to have friends with them but you feel so bad for not seeing it earlier. For being so tunnel-visioned that you couldn’t appreciate them fully.

“This is so—you didn’t have to,” you say.

“We did. Obviously,” Sam scoffs, “don’t worry, my gift is the grand finale.”

“Right,” you smile and accept the bag from Bucky. You push through the tissue paper and pull out the heavy shape inside. You reveal it and just as quickly hide it back in the polka dot bag, “Bucky!”

You let go of the taser and retract your hand. Sam guffaws and Bucky gives a confused grimace, “you need it.”

“What?” You hiss.

“You’re going to be all alone over there. You should be safe.”

“I... appreciate the thought but it’s a bit extreme.”

“He’s right,” Sam adds, “you know, going to the land of the vikings, you can never be too safe. I’ve heard they like to carry women off in their boats.”

“You two,” you roll your eyes.

“My turn,” Sam says, “you’ll love this.”

He once more searches under the table and the tote crinkle. He pulls out an envelope and you tilt your head. Really?

“Money?” You wonder.

“What am I? Your grandma?” He snorts, “here.”

You take the envelope and turn it over. You pull the flap open and reveal a pamphlet within, along with a second slip of paper. A reservation...

“I found this place over there. It’s at some coastal castle, there’s a spa and all that. They do like ancient types of treatments, hot rocks or whatever,” he explains, “I made sure you can adjust the dates too if you need. You just have to call.”

“Wow, that’s... Sam, I’m going to be so busy--”

“I told you not to work yourself too hard. That’s a good excuse for you to get your head out of the dirt. Literally. Just think of me when you’re in a mud bath with a glass of champagne.”

You put the envelope next to the gift bag and drop off the stool. You open your arms to them. Sam is up first and Bucky drags himself to his feet. You wrap them in a hug and they do the same in turn. It must be an absolutely ridiculous sight but you don’t care. You tuck your head against Sam’s arm and feel a rumble in Bucky’s chest.

“Sam, that’s my ass,” Bucky snarls.

“I was just making sure you didn’t forget your wallet,” Sam chuckles.

“You’re a moron,” Bucky pulls away and shoves him.

“Peas in a pod, bud,” Sam lets you go as the hug breaks up, “now, I need a drink and you...” he points in your direction, “need a double.”

#steve rogers #thor #thor x reader #steve rogers x reader #someone new #series #au #fic #grayish fic #angst fic #marvel #mcu #avengers #captain america

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