#... with a penchant for angst I mean whAT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joannasteez · 9 months ago

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starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity

size

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?...

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'.

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree.

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'".

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice.

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction.

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me".

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would".

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you".

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go".

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm.

"did i wake you?", you ask.

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning".

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention".

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips.

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion.

"how does it feel?"

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine.

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it".

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare.

"thank you for being here".

"of course".

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other".

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it.

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore.

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin.

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin.

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth.

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires.

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still.

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early".

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business".

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then".

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later".

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order.

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe".

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear.

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could".

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well".

"you really did".

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks.

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm.

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless.

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious".

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever".

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way".

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time.

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird.

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden".

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe.

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am".

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug.

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact.

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand.

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same.

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay.

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze.

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again".

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them".

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious".

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me".

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you".

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits".

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs.

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two".

"oh fuck you punk".

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all".

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think".

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment.

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him.

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision".

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body.

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day".

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea.

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy.

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination.

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire.

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you.

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him.

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory. his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily.

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words.

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star.

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from.

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call.

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare.

"have breakfast with me", he starts.

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body.

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate".

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?"

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine".

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do.

"can you not?"

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space.

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop".

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right".

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat".

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it".

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about".

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him.

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart".

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment".

"then give me a time and place".

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings".

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin.

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things.

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still.

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd.

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek.

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves".

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back.

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens.

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd.

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze.

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe.

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking.

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone?

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me.

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television.

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you?

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here.

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling.

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection.

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news.

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually".

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough.

"what'd he say to you?"

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv".

"well it feels pretty damn personal".

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?"

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so.

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks.

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win".

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own.

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match.

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match.

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too.

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival.

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy.

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego.

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason.

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition.

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel.

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?"

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody".

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning.

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body.

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him.

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me.

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment.

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars.

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory.

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach.

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be".

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land.

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all.

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection.

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear.

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get.

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world.

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe.

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself.

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment.

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while".

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it.

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them.

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable.

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes.

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought.

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls.

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance.

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine.

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth.

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half.

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit".

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife.

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days".

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself.

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips.

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it.

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same.

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'.

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth.

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest.

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again.

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over.

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ".

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs.

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again".

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over.

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too".

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you.

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly.

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit.

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering.

"how do you want me?"

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress.

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful.

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead.

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips.

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion.

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole.

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly.

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums.

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal.

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy.

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume.

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones.

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process.

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart.

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk?

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy.

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed".

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable.

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing".

"unfortunately?"

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence.

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?"

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure".

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it".

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?"

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over".

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways".

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are".

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table.

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves.

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere.

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same.

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help.

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in".

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good".

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus".

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing.

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true.

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that".

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it".

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace.

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly.

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..."

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear.

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up".

"will do".

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time.

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area.

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?"

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling.

"time and place sweetheart".

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chronic-escapixt · 2 months ago

Text

Crush

1994!Kai x Witch!reader

content warnings/tags ~ Minors DNI, 18+ ONLY, dubcon, smut, bully!mean!Kai, first kiss, fingering, teasing, vulgarity, innocent!shy!reader, corruption, angst if your squint hard...

wc: 3k

K.P. Masterlist

You closed your books and moved to file them away in your bag after your weekly tutoring session had wrapped for the day.

“So.. I was thinking about going down to the pier this friday—you know, arcade.. pizza.. that sort of thing..” The younger brother’s sheepish attempts to ask you out went unnoticed as your senses honed onto one thing and one thing alone: Malachai Parker. His spiced mahogany musk wafts past your nose as a calling card before the man himself stepped into the kitchen. You can’t bring yourself to look directly at him unless you can play it off as innocent curiosity, so it was mostly from your peripheral view that you caught the way his gray eyes shifted to blue in the most ideal of lighting, the way his fingers were almost always adorned with at least a couple chunky rings, his cropped dark hair that was styled lightly with gel.

He moves to open the fridge and pulls out half a litre of soda, a cold slice of pizza then goes into the cabinet for a box of twinkies and a bag of pork rinds. With his arms full of junk food, he carries the slice of pizza between his teeth and as he turns to depart, your eyes briefly meet before yours dart away into your lap. His audible sneer reaches you as he disappears back into his cave, dragging your dignity away with him.

You’d be mortified if his presence didn’t give you butterflies. It was the first time he ever really acknowledged your existence. Kai usually stayed away, but on the off chance you crossed paths, he never even looked in your direction. It was something you began to internalize after a while, like he must’ve thought you were too much of a goodie goodie, a lame, a narc.

Eye contact, however brief, was a major step up from whatever spirit of awkwardness haunted his first impressions of you.

It happened when your parents brought you to the Parker household. They were looking for someone to tutor you in spellcasting since—as they put it—your magic was underdeveloped, their delicate way of saying they worried you were a dud—the worst thing you can be in a powerful family of witches. They hoped the natural prowess of one of the Parker kids would rub off on you. Kai came down during the meeting and you moved to introduce yourself but he looked right past you and walked away without a word. Not a moment later, his father formally introduced you to his younger brother Joey, and he became your tutor.

Joey’s glower follows his brother out of the room.

“He’s so inconsiderate,” he mutters.

“.. completely,” you half-heartedly agree.

“So, back to what I was saying.. do you happen to be free Friday night?”

“For what?” You ask genuinely.

“... to go to the pier?”

“Oh, Yeah! Totally free.. I mean, I’d have to ask my parents first, but I’m sure they’ll be okay with it, granted I’m back before curfew..”

“Awesome! No, yeah. You’ll be back with plenty of time.” He grins like a fool while walking you out.

Your parents adored Joey so it came as no surprise when they said you could go. He was a parent’s dream for their 18 year old daughter, about as straight and narrow as they come with his sweater vests and penchant for punctuality. But nothing could ever make you see him as anything more than a friend, if that—when his brother came around, he was completely invisible to you.

The ever considerate Joey left a message on your answering machine Wednesday night to let you know that your plans fell through because he had a training retreat that weekend with his family. The change of plans didn’t bother you a bit considering he wasn’t the Parker boy you wanted to be spending an evening on the pier with in the first place but since you didn’t hear the message until Friday morning, you had to rush over to the house to drop off the grimoire he let your borrow, hoping you could catch him in time.

You park and ring the doorbell once, then again when no one answers. You’re about to ring it a third time when the door opens.. to the brother you weren’t expecting. Kai was still yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes at 10:30am. His perfect hair a tousled mess of short tresses, pieces stuck to his forehead. You could almost imagine waking up to that.

“Yes..?” his raspy voice, lilt with annoyance, interrupts your mindless gawking.

“Is Joey here?” you pipe up.

“Nope, just missed him,” he gives a flippant eye roll.

You let out a sigh, “but—I came to give him his spell book.” You try to hand him the heavy grimoire but he steps aside. “I’m not a drop box, just come in and put it in his room.”

Shaking off his rudeness, you come inside. You knew the way to Joey’s room, having often studied in there, with the door open, of course and only on the bean bag chairs. Truly, the only parents you’d ever encountered stricter than yours were theirs—or at least their father. He treated magic study as serious as death, hence why Joey and his other siblings were spending their weekend on a training retreat. All of them except Kai, but Kai was different and no one outside the family understood the details of his.. condition. Not even you.

After placing the grimoire on his desk, you move to head back downstairs to leave, but stop at the door jamb when you hear Kai’s voice. His back to you as he leans against the wall, the phone to his ear.

“Yeah.. babe.. no.. no.. next time I’ll give you one—yeah—somewhere you can’t cover.. I’d like that.. ” his low voice dripping with vocal fry, lewd words creating a faint throb between your thighs as your nails dug into the old paint on the wall.

“Hey, San-Sandy, I’m gonna call you back.” he hangs the phone on the receiver and slips his address book into his back pocket, likely full of the names and numbers of a roster of different girls he’s seeing.

“Enjoy that? Hope that gave you enough to flick your bean to tonight..” he snorts.

“I uh—EXCUSE ME?” you don’t know what to say, feet fixed to the floor as he stalks over to you.

“C’mon, how dumb do you think I am? You don’t think I know that you dig on me?” his eyes cut to you with a taunting edge, drinking in your shrinking flustered form. “Joey’s been trying to ask you out for weeks now, even asked Dad for permission.. but you’re too obsessed with me to notice,” he gives a deep bitter sigh, “Everyone wants what they can’t have.”

“That’s not—”

“I think it’s kinda cute.. but I prefer a girl with more..” he pauses briefly to think, pushing his lips forward, “.. substance, you know? Don’t get me wrong, you’re not completely unfuckable, but you’re no Pamela Anderson either..” His critical gaze rakes down your body, making you shamefully aware of yourself—you weren’t exactly the picture of sexiness, any semblance of your feminine silhouette swallowed up by your soft knitted sweater.

Satisfied, he spun around to leave you to stew in your humiliation, but you refuse to let him off that easily.

“You’re such a jerk! No wonder no one wants to be near you!”

He flashes you his middle finger before continuing on his way.

You gasp at his vulgarity as your rage boils over, shouting at him, “Fuck you Malachai!” You stomp toward the stairs but he grabs hold of your arms and pushes against the wall, pinning you with his body.

You take a shallow breath as he mouth comes down, just to ghost above yours, a threatening glint in his stormy blues.

“Watch your mouth,” he snarls. Everyone knew that Kai hated his birth name, so you decided to hit him where it hurt.

“You first—” you bite back.

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. You’re obsessed with me.. and if you shut up right now.. I might just let you kiss me..” he taps his cheek, “here.. or..” he taps his lips, “..right here.”

Your skin bristles with goosebumps as the heat in your body rises to your ears and you slump against the wall, ducking down to hide your face from him.

“Oh my god, you’ve never been kissed before, have you?”

You have nothing to say.

He mutters, “well this just gets better and better.”

Your frown deepens, “how incredibly presumptuous to think I'd wanna waste my first kiss on a jerk like you.”

His fingers grab hold of your chin, tilting your face to meet his, “because I’m your crush and the fact that I treat you like shit makes you want me even more.. doesn’t it?” you breathe in his words like oxygen before he pressed his lips to yours, letting him deepen it with his tongue, gently coaxing your mouth for access, which you grant willingly, before exploring your mouth.

When he finally withdrew his lips from yours, you couldn’t hide the shock on your face. lips parted, you gasped like a fish out of water.

“How was that?” He shot you a wink before leaving you alone in that hallway.

You’d take any excuse to go back and see him, the man that occupied your waking thoughts and nightly dreams, the feeling of his lips still vivid in your mind after the passing days. You finally get in the car to head over to the Parker residence on Sunday evening, knowing that the family would return on Monday, leaving you with tonight, your last chance to really talk to him and tell him how you feel.

You had to know if it was possible that the kiss meant something to him—that perhaps his knees buckled upon contact the same way yours did, that he felt the same fireworks between you. Or maybe you were just delusional, but your heart couldn’t rest until you knew for sure if there was something there.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Your feet carry you from your car to the doorstep before you ring the doorbell.

He answers on the first, lips curled into a cocky grin when he catches sight of you.

“Sorry, I don’t want girl scout cookies-”

“Move—” you brush past him into the house.

“What are you doing here? Came to collect a lock of my hair for your shrine?”

You willfully ignore his quips and take a deep breath, delicately finding your words, “you kissed me.. last time I was here.”

“I know, I was there,” he chuckled, “I’m a great kisser so I don’t blame you for coming back for seconds..” You narrow your eyes into slits as he adds, “hey, I’ve been thinking about what you said.. about why people avoid me and why I stay away.. It’s not the reason you think.”

You cross your arms over your chest and countered with a sour face, “oh, I’m so sure it has nothing to do with your attitude. You think you’re too cool for everyone and everything.” You find yourself becoming frustrated again. Wondering why you let him stir you up like this.

His face fell like a deflated balloon, no sign of that condescending sneer as he grabs you by your elbow, “Whatever—I wouldn’t expect you to understand.. just run on home to mommy and daddy before you miss your curfew and lose your tv privileges,” he pulls you toward the door.

“Wait!” you snatch your arm back and dig your heels into the floor, “why are you always such a dick to me? I’ve only ever been nice to you!”

“I don’t like nice! I like honest and you haven’t been honest once, not with me.”

He searches your eyes and you realize that he saw right through you, perhaps more than anyone else. You performed as the perfect daughter, perfect student, ever-improving witch, but you couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes the same as everyone else and that made your hands shake at your sides. You start to feel cornered by him all over again, all alone in that big house with him.

“What do you want me to be honest about?” you sigh.

“Your feelings for me..”

“Alright I like you, okay..”

“Why did you come here today?”

Now is your chance but you clam up, your darting gaze can’t avoid his vibrant blues, “to talk.. about the kiss. I’ve been thinking about it.. and i feel like..” your voice falters as you’re overtaken by your nerves.

“Yes..” he pressed, growing impatient with your shyness.

“..like I want to try it again..”

He reaches up to cup your cheek, running his thumb along your bottom lip, tugging at it as his gaze flits between your mouth and eyes, “... yeah?”

“.. yeah,” you confirm in a hushed whisper.

His lips consume yours, pulling and sucking on your pillowy pout with more ferver than before as your hands latch onto his shoulders, his hands find your waist. Goosebumps shoot across every corner of your skin, but then a thought occurs to you. You reach out and push at his chest, disconnecting from his lips.

“What?”

“This was a bad idea…”

“Why? Because your parents wouldn’t approve of their precious daughter dating the Parker family screw up?”

“no..” your faint whisper barely reaches him.

“I’m a magic dud, remember? At least when I date mortals I don’t have to be reminded of that.”

“No!” you grab onto his collar, pulling him to you, “I don’t care about that.. I just.. don’t want you to break my heart.”

The cold rings of his fingers press into your jaw, “Then don’t give it to me.” He releases you but your eyes don’t move from his as his hand trails down your neck, between your quivering breasts, past your belly button and stopping to finger the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Give me everything else instead..”

“.. okay..” your voice came out small on trembling vocal cords.

He’s back on you, ripping open the buttons of your cardigan, sliding the material down your arms while bathing your neck in unforgiving kissing and love bites that will blossom into marks you’ll need to cover in powder tomorrow. He nips at that sweet spot just behind your ear and you let out a sound, the likes of which have never escaped your virgin lips.

You slip your hands under his shirt, feeling the definition of his abs before he reaches back to rid himself of the faded band tee entirely. You could sit there and count the freckles on his skin but he’s pulling you into the nearby laundry room and pinning you to the door. The outline of his cock pokes your thigh as you ruin his hair with your fingers. His grip on your thigh keeps your leg up as he spreads you for the exploration of his hands. It all moves so fast it’s overwhelming, but you don’t want it to stop—yet undecided on how far you want to go with him right now in his dark room surrounded by baskets of laundry. What you do know is you want to get lost in the feel of his rough palms, grabbing and squeezing at whatever flesh he gets his hands on, pulling the straps of your tank down to admire your bra—the black push up one you kept in the back of your drawer for ‘emergencies’—even your modest bosom was made to sit beautifully in the lace garment.

His fingers dip into your panties, rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves now soaked in your slick as he works you up. Soft pants and moans leaving your parted lips. He spreads your folds apart, rubbing the length of your slit with his ring finger. You breath hitches upon contact with the cold metal of his chunky ring. He consumes the moans that leak from your mouth, leaving your lips red and swollen.

Lost in the eruption of your passions, you both miss the sound of the minivan pulling to the driveway. It’s only when the front door opens that you realize they came home early. Kai tenses, clasping his hand over your mouth, but he doesn’t stop. You both listen in beyond the door. It sounds like only one person made it inside so far. Kai works two wet fingers into your cunt, the twinge of pain makes your eyes water as your slick walls adjust to the unfamiliar stretch.

You groan behind his palm and his stern eyes cut to you. “Shh-”

Joey is just outside the laundry room door when he notices Kai’s t-shirt—something that isn’t out of the ordinary for his slovenly older brother, especially when mom wasn’t home to take care of his laundry—but then he noticed your lavender cardigan. He knew it was yours by the color and if that didn’t give it away, the smell did—just like your perfume.

Your back trembles against the door. Just the slab of wood separating you from complete exposure.

Joey’s voice calls out, “I know you’re fucking my brother you slut! When dad finds out you’re dead, Malachai!” he storms back out the front door.

Kai started laughing and you didn’t know why but you did too. His voice pitched up in a squeak when he got mad and it was hard to take him seriously even though you were caught.

“I’m telling dad! He’s such a bitch,” Kai mocks, chuckling to himself.

You hear more voices outside the front door and the horny haze lifts instantly. You push away from him, rushing to readjust your skirt and top before heading into the hall to grab your cardigan.

“Oh my god… oh my god… oh my god..” you panic.

“Go out the back,” Kai quirks his head in that direction. You pause to study him. He’s so calm. It’s like he’s done this before. The door knob turns and you do as he says, making it out before anyone sees you.

taglist: @daisy-renae @quinsly @trizta @mcookie @loveanndthunderr @thoughts-and-thistles @blackreaderatrisk @sadcupcake (comment or reblog if you want to be included in the taglist & notified of future posts)

#kai parker #kai parker x poc reader #kai parker x y/n #kai parker x reader #kai parker smut #tvd #tw dubcon

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thewinter-eden · 3 months ago

Text

Don't Look At Me Like That

images are mine (except middle HH pic that I got from pinterest). please do not use without permission. ATE pcs are my inspo for this series.

part 4 of the skz crack!horror series (this concludes the Hyung Line).

pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: hitman!Hyunjin’s next target is you, the child of a foreign diplomat. But when he shows up to do the job and finds you ambivalent to the threat upon your life, he can’t help but ask what the hell is wrong with you.

warnings: Terminal illness, smoking, asshole family, political family, angst, unrealistic trust fund, drugs, implications of overdose, implications of involuntary overdose, assault, discussion of surgery, depictions of cysts/tumors, USD instead of Korean Won, Gossip Girl reference, some language, kidnapping.

word count: 6k

Comment a request to be tagged.

series info PART 2 INFO

The first igniting drags of your cigarette feel like a second glass of wine. For a second, you’re lighter than air and the world tips on its axis.

Your family hates your penchant for cigarettes. They call you disgusting; unhygienic; stupid.

Although, In a way, your literal toxic trait has actually strengthened your personal hygiene—a rigorous unskippable skincare routine, to fight the weathering of your face, expensive and regular dental care to prevent the yellowing of teeth, your hands under a constant layer of hand sanitizer and scented perfume to combat the clinging stench of smoke, every surface of your bedroom cleaned daily and your laundry crisply pressed and regularly washed—just because you’re a shameless human chimney doesn’t mean you intend to wear the grime of cigarette smoke as an accessory.

Not that any of that matters anymore.

You take another drag and feel your body settle into the familiar rhythm. In front of you, on the other side of your glass cage (read: bedroom window) the city stretches out in front of you, lights poking holes in the blanket of darkness that covers it.

The clock reads 6 PM.

Lifting one hand, tapping a black-polished nail against the glass, watching your arm tremble, you give a resigned sigh and blow a puff of smoke through the opening. The plume rises and disperses into the atmosphere, vanishing before your eyes.

You finish your cigarette and crush the filter into your ash tray, yanking the curtains closed. The next few minutes are muscle memory—shrugging out of your robe, spritzing it with vodka to remove the smoke smell, exfoliating your hands and arms with a sugar scrub, brushing and whitening your teeth, covering yourself head to toe in moisturizer.

All for the sake of appearances.

When you close yourself into the bathroom to change half an hour later, all you smell is coffee from the sugar scrub and the sickly sweet aroma of your flowery lotion.

“You’re coming, right?” Your best friend Lisa’s voice booms through the phone, the sound of pounding music and raucous laughter filling the background.

You’re already dressed, brushing excess highlighter and powder off your face as you stand before your mirror. “Of course I’m coming, I promised you I would. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” You take a second to check your watch.

Lisa had made plans with you to meet at the party at 8, but she always arrives early enough to be four or five drinks ahead by the time you show up. This inevitably leads to her finding someone to spend an hour in the closest lockable room with and you calling your dad’s driver to take you home.

It’s not that you don’t ever want a hook up or a boyfriend or anything, it’s just that you’re the seventeen-year-old daughter of a politician and you have rules.

You can’t be out after 11, you can’t be seen with mile-deep cleavage or thigh-high hems, and you certainly can’t be drunk in public—especially as a minor. So you smooth the fabric of the just barely appropriate outfit you’ve chosen and check your reflection one last time.

It takes a second to convince yourself that the heaviness of your eyes isn’t because of your dark liner, that the dullness in your expression isn’t obvious.

“Well hurry on over. I’ve found someone you just have to meet.”

When you arrive, you’re wading through a house that’s teeming with high schoolers, the walls reverberating with pounding music. You find Lisa near the kitchen, one arm slung around the neck of one of her friends, the other hand clutching a plastic cup.

When her eyes land on you, she all but screeches your name over the clamor and reaches for you. The girl that she was just leaning on takes the opportunity to pull away and stretch her arms upward, trying to correct the awkward hunch that Lisa had put her in. She shoots you a grateful smile and disappears into the crowd, looking for her boyfriend.

Lisa’s in your face in the next second, her breath already reeking. She catches you in a tight, sloppy hug, the contents of her cup splashing your shoulder as she trips. “I’m so glad you’re here,” She says, and if her body language says drunk, her voice certainly doesn’t. Her lipstick is smeared and she’s staggering a little but her voice is crisp and sharp. “I was worried you’d change your mind again.”

She runs a hand up the back of your neck and playfully squeezes the knot of your hair that you’ve taken the time to elegantly pin.

It’s a ritual at this point.

You have the worst habits—smoking and drinking and slipping your curfew after everyone’s asleep—but you don’t go anywhere without a Princess Grace-like appearance. Because it doesn’t matter what you do as long as you’re not shitfaced on the front page the next morning. Even if you’ve snuck out at night to meet a boyfriend, when the cameras catch you on the streets you’re perfectly coiffed and sleekly styled.

Even now, you don’t look like you’re dressed for a high school party so much as a cocktail one, but Lisa tells you it makes you look more like Blair Waldorf than the homeschooler you’re always worried you emulate.

You push her hand out of your hair and check to make sure the pins haven’t come out. “Did you get me one of those?” You nod towards the cup in her hand and her eyes light up.

She nods towards the kitchen. “I got you, babe, come with me.”

You follow her, one hand reaching for her hip to steady her when she falls off one of her high heels, and then you’re in the kitchen and the noise of the party is muffled behind the heavy swinging door.

There’s one other person in the room with you, a tall, slender guy near the sink, shoulders hunched slightly as he gazes out the window. You’re still trailing after Lisa, but your eyes are taking in the long black hair that the guy has pulled back in a half pony, the slim-cut jacket with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, the ripped jeans that cinch at his small waist and hang loosely around his legs.

When the two of you enter, his head turns, and you see the sharpness of his jaw, the definition of his features. There’s a flutter in your chest when his dark eyes land on you, and you whip your head away, crowding yourself behind Lisa.

She’s crushing something with a spoon, dumping it in the cup she’s just poured for you. Then she spins on one heel—surprisingly stable as she does—and passes it to you. “Here.”

You stare at the powder floating on top, and then back at her. “What did you put in this?”

“Nothing heavy.” She assures you, and knocks back a couple of the tablets herself. “Just something to take the edge off. Go ahead.”

It doesn’t matter anyway.

You drink, sucking in the yeasty beer with fervor, trying your hardest not to taste it as it goes down. Before you can finish the cup, Lisa catches your arm and turns you towards the man at the window. She introduces you without giving you a chance to question her, and tells you his name is Hyunjin—the guy she wanted you to meet.

He turns to you fully, eyes tracing you head to toe. There’s a gentle smile on his full lips as he notices the blush that rushes to your face. “Nice to meet you,” He says kindly. “I think I’ve seen you on TV.”

As the words reach your ears, you feel yourself growing more guarded despite the opposite effects of the alcohol. You’re used to being recognized, you’re used to being used for your dad’s fame and fortune. You’ve been burned before, and you have no intention of using this time to be manipulated again.

So you pull yourself up into a respectful posture and prepare to treat him like the occasional politically-conscious “fan” who asks you to take a picture. It doesn’t happen often, but you do tend to be popular amongst the poli-sci students at the local college.

“He’s a senior.” Lisa says, and gives you a nudge towards him. “He’s going to study art.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, and you look over Hyunjin again. At second glance, he does look the type. He’s effortlessly fashionable, quiet, reserved—at least on first impression. You extend your hand politely. “Pleasure to meet you. Are you a practitioner or a history buff?”

At your strictly professional tone, Hyunjin laughs under his breath and steps in to take your hand, enveloping it in the warmth of his own. “A little of both, I suppose. I sketch and paint. Lisa tells me you’re quite the watercolorist?”

You blush a little at the recognition of your most intimate hobby. “I play around with it a little, but it’s just for fun.” When you notice he’s still grasping your palm, you gently pull your hand back.

Lisa grips your arm again, and leans in so close that you can smell the cologne of the last boy she had her hands on. “Why don’t you two hang out a little? You’re both the same about parties, so I figured you’d get along. Cool? I’m going to go find Mingyu.”

There’s nothing you can say to make her stay, even if you could think of the words to try. So you just watch her disappear, the noise of the party warbling strangely as the door swings back and forth behind her.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Your eyes snap back to Hyunjin. “What?”

“When I said I’d seen you on TV.”

“Oh.” You pull another long sip from your drink and wince. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re standing like you’re at a press conference.” His eyes are alive with mirth as he watches you subtly try to shuffle your posture, brows lowering.

You’re coming back to yourself, your body acclimatizing to the atmosphere and whatever it was that Lisa put in your drink, your nerves no longer responding to every little glance that Hyunjin gives you. So you just shrug a shoulder and search the kitchen for your drink of choice. “I’m not uncomfortable as long as you’re not interested in some kind of fifteen minutes of fame bullshit.”

There it is.

You drain your beer as Hyunjin chuckles behind you and rinse your cup of the vile liquid, instead filling it with about four ounces of whiskey from a glass cabinet.

Hyunjin watches your movements with an eyebrow cocked. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t meant to be a party favor.”

You nurse the drink slowly, settling into the comfort of the initial burn. “You gonna tell on me?”

He examines you again, shaking his head. “Not if you pour me one.”

You do, and then settle back against the counter. “Why come to a party if you’re going to hide in the kitchen?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Kinda surprised your dad lets you come to something like this.”

You used to be, too. Now you just huff. “As long as I’m not a scandalous headline tomorrow, he doesn’t care where I go or what I do. And I don’t usually hide in the kitchen.” It’s true, you don’t. There’s a handful of people out there that you like to talk to, a couple of them you even like to dance with if the occasion calls for it, but right now you’re not itching to leave where you’re at.

Hyunjin’s eyebrows raise as he looks at you, and he glances towards the door. “Then why—”

“Because I’m talking to you.” The confidence comes with the whiskey. The taste of it in the back of your throat distracts you from the blush you would ordinarily be fighting if you had said those words soberly to someone as attractive as Hyunjin, and right now you’re just enjoying the way his eyes crinkle and the sweet smile explodes across his face.

It’s cute.

He’s cute.

He shuffles his feet beneath him for a second, the air between you comfortable as he lets the effects of your statement fade. When the flustered state is mostly gone from his face, he glances up at you again, almost shyly. “You’re really pretty.” And then, feeling the weight of his own words as they drop off his tongue, his eyes widen and he hastens to soften their impact. “I like your earrings.”

But you just smile, watching the pink in his cheeks as he swallows a regrettably large gulp of whiskey.

“You’re really pretty, too.” You say, and his head snaps around to you.

For a long second, he just stares at you.

It’s not often that you find yourself talking to someone you want to open yourself up to, someone you like to see so flustered, but he’s so completely enchanting that you can’t take your eyes off him and you don’t want to stop saying things that make him look at you like that.

There are only so many things that you can enjoy in a life like yours, and you want to enjoy this.

Hyunjin pours you both another drink.

You’re grateful, especially because there’s a nagging part of you telling you to go outside and smoke a cigarette, so instead you bring your cup to your lips and sip. You move to reach for a bottle of lemon juice and it puts you right next to him, feeling the radiating warmth of his side as you mix your drink into a whiskey sour.

He doesn’t move away.

Out of the corner of your eyes you catch the faintest tremble of his hand, and a smirk curves your lips.

His eyes are on you as you pinch a sprinkle of sugar into the drink and then suck the granules off your thumb.

You turn slightly, so close that you don’t even have to reach to offer him your drink. “Want to try?”

His eyes flick from yours, to the drink, and back to your face. Hyunjin’s tongue appears to swipe across his lower lip, and then he nods, taking the cup from you.

You thoroughly enjoy the swirling in your stomach when his fingers brush yours.

He drinks from your cup, face scrunching slightly as he takes in the taste of it.

At the crumpling of his eyebrows, you frown, suddenly interrupted from the sense of control you feel. “You don’t like it?”

Hyunjin lowers the cup from his lips with a look of surprise, shaking his head. “I love it.” He holds it out to you. “Would you show me how you made it?”

It’s not a complicated drink, the whiskey sour.

You find yourself smirking again, and push the cup back towards him. “Keep it. I’ll make myself another one.” And you take his whiskey from him, turning to fix yourself another drink. When he just stands there, mentally processing how he somehow ended up trading drinks with you, you know you have him.

So when he edges closer, the heat of his body flooding into your skin, you’re not surprised. You keep your hands moving, your eyes on your drink, pretending you don’t notice the way he’s suddenly leaning into your side.

“You smell good,” He says lowly, and your heart does a flip.

But you play it off casually, focused on getting the lid off the lemon juice bottle. “You like it? I’m not so sure yet.”

It’s gotta be the oldest trick in the book, but he takes the opportunity like it’s a written permission slip and then his face is at the junction of your neck and shoulder, the whisper of his breath on your skin.

“I like it,” He murmurs.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him place his cup on the counter next to you, and then both of his hands settle on your arms. His touch is light, gentle, his thumbs smoothing questioning strokes against your sleeves, asking permission.

When you tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck to him, it’s a yes.

His lips are on your shoulder then, his fingers wrapping firmly around your arms.

Your entire body heats up.

He’s leaning into you, trailing his mouth from your shoulder to your neck, then slowly up your throat until your head is edging back, leaning against his shoulder, giving him access. Hyunjin’s hand slides up one arm, cupping the curve of your neck as he litters wet kisses across your jaw, and his other hand reaches around to cover both of yours where you realize that at some point you abandoned your efforts to make a drink.

He turns you around and you let him, throwing your head back as his mouth leaves a glistening trail across your collarbones and up your throat, moving up to suck gently at the point of your jaw beneath your ear. “I really do like your earrings.” He whispers, and you feel him flick the dangling gemstone with his tongue.

You’re trembling under his hands, and you wish you could say it’s from his highly effective ministrations, but you know it’s not. You peel your eyes open, all but panting as his arm circles your waist, pulling you closer. His forehead drops against yours, and you watch his tongue dart out to lick his lips.

“Can we move this somewhere more private?” He whispers, and then he’s sucking at your jaw on the other side, his fingers gripping the flesh at your hips.

You can’t help a laugh. “More private than the closed kitchen where it’s just us?”

“Please?” He whimpers against your throat.

You have absolutely no reason to protest. You’re nodding, aching, allowing him to push you towards the kitchen door, because this could be it. This could be your last. He’s every fantasy you’ve ever had, the absolute embodiment of beauty and seduction, and even one night with him could be everything.

What do you have to lose?

You stand to lose more by turning him down at this point.

So when his hands guide you through the living room, your ears barraged by music and laughter, your eyes assaulted by the flashes of too much skin and way too much pda, you just lean into his touch around your waist and let him find a room to duck into.

That’s how you find yourself pushed onto your back on someone’s bed, your heart in your ears as Hyunjin straddles you, his face returning to its spot against your throat, kissing his way towards your collar.

You feel his hands trail up your sides, his thumbs sweeping at the swell of your breasts, and for a second, you panic.

You’re not sure what he’ll think of you, how he’ll react to you when he finally gets his hands on you, but you can’t even worry about it for long because he’s nipping at your throat, his hands dragging your arms above your head.

Breathing in gasps, heart hammering as he laces the fingers of one hand through both of yours, trapping your hands above your head, you arch yourself into him as his free hand comes back towards his hip.

“You really are very pretty,” Hyunjin breathes into your ear, and then he presses a surprisingly chaste kiss to your cheek. “I just want you to know that.” Still holding your hands, he settles his weight back on your hips and pulls something out of his pocket.

You frown at him, chest heaving with breathlessness, confused. “What do you mean?”

Hyunjin brings his free hand back into view, now holding something cylindrical. Bringing the end of it to his mouth, prying off a plastic cap with his teeth, you can see the object as it catches the light.

A hypodermic needle, filled with something.

He spits the cap out of his mouth, eyebrows pinched in concentration. “Don’t move, angel, this doesn’t have to hurt.”

But you’re not moving, you’re just staring at the needle, trying desperately to make sense of the complete shift in atmosphere. You’re no longer trapped in a lovers’ embrace, you’re trapped. He has your hands immobilized, your lower body caught beneath his own, completely vulnerable.

He arches his body, reaching to slip the needle into a vein in your arm, and you understand.

You understand.

A deep sigh rushes out of your lungs.

You thought you’d have more time, but at this point, what does it matter?

Just before the needle pricks your flesh, Hyunjin seems to realize that you’re not fighting him at all. His eyes flick down to you, and he finds you blinking solemnly at his shoulder, not a single emotion on your face.

He pauses.

You close your eyes, suck in a deep breath, and let it out.

There’s no fear, no more surprise, no apprehension.

Just exhaustion; resignation.

It doesn’t matter. He leans in towards your arm again, angling the needle to prod your vein. You don’t even flinch as it pricks your skin, sliding into your flesh. His thumb hovers over the plunger, but doesn’t press.

He’s never had a mark just lay there.

They’ve never just…accepted it.

He glances at your face again. “Angel…do you know what’s happening right now?” You had only had a few drinks, and the flush of your face could be from the drugs or the drink or his lips on your throat, but surely you should be a little concerned by the sheer volume of what he’s about to push into your bloodstream.

“I know,” You respond flatly. “He shouldn’t have bothered, honestly, but it’s not like he knew.”

Hyunjin’s brain stutters with confusion. “He?”

“My father,” You say, and your eyes meet his. “He wasted his money, hiring you to kill me.”

Huh.

That’s not at all how he expected this to go.

“I guess he’s paying Lisa, too, since she started with the pills.” It stings, knowing your best friend would accept cash to kill you, but you also know that your father wouldn’t have offered an insignificant sum.

Whatever he’s paying Lisa will set her up for life.

“So they’ll find me, tonight or tomorrow, just another stupid teenager who tried to have too much fun, and the two of you are just the dumb high school friends to corroborate that it was just an accident. Right?”

You don’t cry, you don’t fight, you don’t yell.

He stares at you, shocked. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“You don’t seem apprehensive about killing a girl for money.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens. “It’s my job.”

“So you don’t go to this high school, then.” You mutter sarcastically.

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t go to any high school.” Then he catches your gaze again. “But it really is my job. It’s not like it’s personal.”

You take a second, absorbing the reality of what’s happening to you. It’s over.

It’s over.

This is it.

Forget three months.

It’s over now.

You weren’t prepared for this timeframe, but you are prepared. You have coped.

It’s not a new idea.

So you just nod. “Okay.”

It’s like he starts to lean to finish the job, and then pulls himself back. “Why did you say he shouldn’t have bothered?”

You laugh then, a loud, inelegant burst of laughter, almost directly into his chest.

He’s startled, eyes wide, leaning back on your hips to stare down at you. “Angel, I’m literally about to kill you, why the hell are you laughing? There’s no way you’re that drunk.”

And you’re not.

The sheer adrenaline of his lips on your skin burned through that alcohol what seems like hours ago, and now you’re just sinking into oblivion, still laughing.

Finally, tears of irony in your eyes, you wheeze up at him. “Go ahead and finish it, Hyunjin, or whoever you are. It doesn’t make a difference anyway. I’m alright. Finish it.” You nod upwards, towards the direction of your joined hands, and wish that the scent of his skin wasn’t still making your head swim.

It’s really not the time to be attracted to the assassin whom your father hired to murder you.

But he’s stuck, indecisive.

Because you’re laying underneath him, sniffling past a rush of humor—of all things—completely unconcerned and telling him that you’re alright with him killing you. That you’re alright with him subjecting you to a drug overdose that’s going to be painful and terrifying and the end of your life.

At this point, you seem to be more alright with it than he is.

And then you’re smiling at him. “Thanks for being nice about it.”

His heart lurches. “What the hell.” He yanks the needle out of your skin, releases your hands, and sits back on your hips again, eyes wide and unbelieving. “I mean—what the hell? What is wrong with you?”

You roll your eyes. “He must not be paying you much if you’re willing to back out just because I’m pitiful.”

Which isn’t true, he’s supposed to be paid quite a lot for this job, but he just can’t comprehend how you’re reacting.

“Why shouldn’t he have bothered?”

You’re no longer trapped except for the way he’s straddling your hips, so now you’re just laying against an uncomfortable pair of pillows, feeling the pins of your updo poking into your neck. If he’s supposed to kill you, why won’t he just do it? You search his eyes, finding only confusion and concern.

Sighing, you reach for his hand—the empty one that used to be holding both of yours against the headboard.

Oh, how you expected a very different outcome from this situation.

He flinches as he suddenly finds you bringing his hand towards your chest, jerking it back when you lay his palm over your breast.

It’s almost comical the way his face heats up.

Clearly, his earlier show of attraction towards you had been aided by a hurriedly consumed volume of alcohol and a professionally put-on flustered attitude, but now, when you made him touch you, he seems genuinely awkward.

And, for your side of things, you were going to let him feel you up anyway, so what’s the difference now?

You quirk an eyebrow. “I’m not asking you for anything, just give me your hand.”

He doesn’t protest when you catch his hand again, his cheeks flushed pink, until you drag his fingers across the slope of your breast and they trip over a lump of flesh that’s hard as a rock. The flustered color drains from his face, and then he’s frowning, leaning in, moving of his own accord to swipe his fingers over the place once more, as though he wasn’t sure he felt it the first time.

You let him.

When he pulls his hand back into his lap and stares at you, you just smile. “Did you know, in the early days of breast cancer surgery, a woman went in to have a lump removed, and when she came out of anesthesia, she was missing an entire breast, some ribs, and like half of the muscle wall of her chest? And the fuckass doctors were like “we got it!” Like, you don’t burn down the house in order to kill a spider and then say, “Don’t worry, we got it!””

Hyunjin blinks at you, mentally parsing your unexpected rambling. “They’ve, uh…come a long way in terms of cancer surgeries, I think.”

A puff of breath escapes your lips, another sardonic laugh. “It’s too late for that. It’s in my bones, my lymphatic, everywhere. I got to it too late.” You roll your eyes and press a palm to your forehead. “So, yeah, he shouldn’t have bothered. Three months and I would have been out of his hair for free.”

A few seconds pass as you process the words you haven’t yet admitted out loud to anyone, as he processes what you’re telling him.

He’s trying to kill a girl who’s already dying.

No wonder she didn’t care.

“So, how much is he paying you?” You question lightly, eyes searching for the syringe. You assume he’ll finish the job—everybody has to pay the rent, and it’s not like you’ve got your life ahead of you anyway.

Hyunjin scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Three million.”

You outright scoff at that, shocking him once again. “He’s ripping you off, dude. Did he tell you why he hired you?”

“I don’t ask. I am a professional, you know.” He brings his hand to his chest like he’s offended, and allows the slightest smile to twist his lips when you roll your eyes again.

You wedge your hands under you. “Can I sit up? I need to smoke and you’re killing my back.” You wiggle your hips and try to scoot yourself back. As he lifts his own hips off of you, you raise an eyebrow. “Not that I mind.”

At that, he flushes again.

Laughing softly, you pull yourself up to sit against the headboard, dragging your knees to your chest, and watch as he sits himself in front of you, cross-legged. For the time that it takes you to slide a cigarette from your purse and light it between your lips, he’s silent, watching you.

The syringe is at his side, laying between the wrinkles in the blanket, forgotten.

“My trust fund defaults back to him if I die before I hit eighteen.” You inform him. “And it’s 25 million dollars.”

His mouth falls open. “Why the hell is your trust fund so much money?”

“When my mom was dying, my father promised her he would help her allot her estate into a trust fund for me, plus a hefty sum from his own assets as a romantic gesture. For all his faults, he’s never loved anyone the way he loved her.” You scoff, sucking in a comforting drag of smoke. You’re careful to blow it away from him, to knock your ashes into the ring tray on the bedside table instead of allowing them to fall into the carpet. “But that was fifteen years ago, and I guess he forgot that he loved her once.”

“So he wants your trust fund.” Hyunjin says, leaning forward to rest his chin on his palm. “Because he forgot he loves you too?”

Your lips pinch. “I’m just a reminder of when he used to be a better man.”

Silence ticks between you, and the smell of your cigarette permeates the air. You can’t care enough to apologize to him for your filthy habit, because if it’s the last cigarette you’re ever going to have, you might as well enjoy it.

But he doesn’t seem put off by it, instead wrapping his hands around your ankles and pulling your feet into the criss-cross of his legs so he can scoot closer to you, resting his hands on your thighs.

You’re surprised, but not displeased with the gentle embrace of your legs.

“I don’t want to kill you, angel,” He says, and rests his chin on your knees.

It’s too much, the doe-eyed boy staring at you through the dim light, holding you close to him and running his hands up and down your thighs, fingers sweeping low enough to run across your hips.

You can’t look at him.

Turning your eyes away, you knock the ash off the end of your cigarette and laugh. “That’s so kind, thanks.” You drop the rest of the butt into the tray and brush your hands together. “Alright. I’m ready. Let’s get you paid.” You scoop up the syringe and hold it out to him, eyes wide and inviting.

He takes it from you, but he doesn’t take your arm again.

In the quiet of his indecision, you can’t help yourself. Your fingers find the soft swoop of his hair falling over his forehead, letting a few strands slide through your fingers before you pull yourself together and extend your arm to him. “Do it, Hyunjin.” You say softly, ignoring the way your movements made him look at you. “If you don’t do it, he’ll hire someone else. His campaign isn’t doing well, he’s facing asset forfeiture—he needs the money. If you don’t kill me, someone else will.”

Hyunjin’s hand finds yours, his fingertips smoothing up the underside of your forearm towards that vein that he found earlier. A drop of blood has gathered where he pricked you, the trail where it dripped dry and crusted.

You’re not scared, you’re not worried.

You’re a little relieved, actually, that you don’t have to pretend anymore. Because you’ve known for months that your time is running out. You’ve known for months that no one would care even if you told them.

The pounding of the music outside the door fills the space, reminding you that you were supposed to come in here to have the night of your life, and now, instead, the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen is going to inject poison into your bloodstream and leave you to die on a stranger’s bed.

That does dishearten you a little bit.

He presses his thumb against the vein. His eyes flick up to yours. “When is your birthday?”

You cock your head curiously, wondering. “Next month.”

Hyunjin lets the vein go and sets the syringe down near his hip. “I’ll make you a deal.” He takes your other hand, too, peering into your face with sincerity. “If I keep you alive until your birthday, we split the trust fund, 70-30. Then at least you don’t let your dad win, and maybe you can see if there’s some super expensive doctor who can help you. Or something. What do you think?”

You blink. “You’re going to trade being an assassin for being a bodyguard just for eight million dollars?”

He smirks, a flash of teeth in the dark. “Seven and a half, actually. And it’s a better gig than killing a dying seventeen-year-old just so her asshole father can take her trust fund. So, what do you say?”

You’re almost a hundred percent sure there’s no doctor or surgeon in the world who can fix your cancer at this point. All the ones you’ve spoken to so far won’t even recommend radiation or chemo, because there’s no point. They keep saying things like “quality of life” and “keep you comfortable,” not, “if only you had more money.”

But it’s interesting, this deal he’s put forward.

Die tonight or spend a month with a gorgeous young assassin?

Is it even a choice?

“We split it 50-50.” You say. “All I want to do with my half is give it to cancer research.”

He’s surprised again, his mind now struggling to grasp an influx of almost thirteen million dollars, and he nods slowly. “Okay. So we have a deal?”

He’s already holding your hands, so you can’t exactly shake on it, but you nod with a shrug. “Deal.”

You’ve never seen a smile as sweet as the one he gives you after that. “Good. Get your coat, angel—you’re coming home with me.”

Eyebrows skyrocketing, you follow his movements as he bounds off the bed and scoops up your purse. “So you’re going to kidnap me instead of murdering me?”

He holds out a hand and waits for you to take it. “Are you arguing?”

You let him haul you off the bed and find yourself laughing as his arm circles your waist and he hurries you out of the room. “Not in the slightest.”

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rootedinrevisions · 6 months ago

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Five Years

SUMMARY: Five years of friendship. Years of silent longing. One night that changes everything. When Tyler Owens, a charming, rugged man with a penchant for keeping things casual, finds himself at a crossroads with the woman he's secretly loved for years, he realizes he might have waited too long. After one too many moments where you've been left wanting more, you find yourself torn between the comfort of their deep connection and the pain of being stuck in the friend zone. Tyler has one last shot to show you that he’s not just the man you turn to in the hard moments—but the man who can make you believe in love, again.

A/N: Sorry for all the angsty Tyler lately! It's just been the mood/vibe lately so I've been rolling with it! Thanks to the person who sent this request in! I hope you like it!

PROMPT: "What was he doing back there? Flirting with you like he has a fucking chance?"

WARNINGS/TAGS: Angst.

WORD COUNT: 5.6k

TAG LIST: SEE COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

It’s late, the kind of quiet that comes when the night has softened everything into shadows. You and Tyler are back in the motel room, tangled together in bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arm drapes over you, and you’re curled into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. The scent of whiskey lingers between you, mingling with the warmth of his skin, and you can still taste him faintly on your lips. Another night, another round of kisses exchanged under the dim motel lights, like something fragile and fleeting.

He stirs, his hand brushing along your back, and you wonder if he’s on the edge of sleep or just drifting in that space in between like you are. For a moment, you’re tempted to ask him the question that’s always on the tip of your tongue: What are we doing?

Instead, you stay silent, breathing in sync with him, wondering if he can feel the way your heart skips each time he holds you like this. He shifts, drawing you a little closer, and you catch a glimpse of something in his expression—something soft, maybe even vulnerable. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and slightly slurred. “You’re comfortable, right?” His hand rests at the curve of your hip, fingers grazing your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you.

You nod, managing a quiet, “Yeah. Always.” You know he’ll pretend he doesn’t remember this in the morning, brush it off like it’s nothing, and you’ll let him because it’s easier that way. But tonight, you can pretend a little too—that these quiet moments mean the same to him as they do to you.

You close your eyes, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear, wondering how much longer you can keep pretending before you’re forced to admit the truth—to yourself, if not to him.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “So… I just found out I’m being inducted into the PBR Hall of Fame.”

You blink, lifting your head from his chest to look at him. A smile lights up your face. “Tyler, that’s amazing! I mean, I knew you were a big deal, but… Hall of Fame?”

He chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head with that familiar modesty. “Yeah, kinda crazy, huh? Guess all those years getting tossed around finally paid off.”

You laugh, knowing he’s downplaying it. You’ve seen some of those old videos, clips of him taking on bulls with more force and heart than anyone you’d ever met.

“No one deserves it more than you,” you say softly, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest. “I’m so proud of you.”

A faint blush colors his cheeks as he looks away, and then, clearing his throat, he glances back at you.

“Thanks, means a lot,” he says, his voice softer. Then, after a moment, he adds, “Actually… I get a plus one to the induction ceremony. I was thinking maybe you’d want to come with me?”

Your heart skips at that. He doesn’t even pause to consider anyone else; he’s asking you. For a moment, you feel a surge of excitement that maybe this is more than just a friendly invite. But just as quickly, doubt seeps in. If he had a girlfriend, he’d take her, wouldn’t he? A familiar ache settles in your chest, the quiet reminder that maybe this is just about convenience for him.

“Are you sure?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, and casual. “I mean, you could take anyone.”

He glances at you with a soft smile, his eyes sincere. “Nah. Can’t think of anyone better. You’d come, right?”

The words are on the tip of your tongue—Of course, I’ll go.

Instead, you hesitate, just for a second, wondering if this is just a placeholder invitation until he finds someone to fill the spot he’s never openly said he wants to be filled. But you can’t bear the thought of missing the moment, so you nod, managing a smile. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

He grins, pulling you back into his chest, and you settle against him, feeling the warmth of his arm around you. But even as you breathe him in, letting the steady beat of his heart calm you, a question begins to take root in your mind. Where do we really stand, Tyler?

It’s a question you keep to yourself, swallowing it down as you close your eyes and listen to the silence settle around you once again.

* * * * *

The ballroom buzzed with energy and anticipation, and you could sense the excitement radiating from Tyler beside you. The event space was elegantly decorated, with every table set with crystal glasses and gleaming silverware. But you hardly noticed any of it; all your focus was on Tyler. This was his night. And you were honored to be here with him, even if you didn’t quite know what that meant for the two of you.

You eventually found your way to your seats near the front of the room, and Tyler’s hand brushed against yours as you sat down. His fingers lingered just a moment, a subtle contact that sent a rush of warmth up your arm.

Before you could say anything, the lights dimmed as the emcee took to the stage, announcing the start of the ceremony. The audience fell quiet, and Tyler’s hand was warm on your knee, a comforting weight that made your heart race. You glanced down at his hand, then back up to his face, wondering if he even realized the effect he had on you.

A part of you wanted to reach for his hand again, to close the gap between you both once and for all, but you stayed still, holding your breath as the ceremony began.

As the awards were announced one by one, you couldn’t help but steal glances at Tyler. He seemed to sit straighter with each name called, his eyes never leaving the stage. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the emcee announced Tyler’s name, and the room burst into applause. You clapped the loudest, your heart swelling with pride.

You watched as Tyler walked to the stage, his stride steady and confident, shoulders back with that natural charisma he carried wherever he went. When he accepted his award, he stood there with his plaque, his gaze scanning the crowd until it landed on you. The spotlight hit his face, highlighting the small, crooked smile you knew so well. And his eyes—dark, intense, focused on you—seemed to say something unspoken.

You felt your breath catch, frozen under his gaze, and for a second, it was like you were the only two people in the room.

His acceptance speech was simple and heartfelt. He thanked the people who had been there with him through the highs and lows. He spoke of long, hard days, the sacrifices he’d made, and the passion that drove him. But you could’ve sworn that when he mentioned his gratitude for “the people who kept him grounded,” his eyes found you once again.

As Tyler wrapped up his speech and made his way back to his seat, you barely had a chance to process the pride you felt for him, for everything he’d accomplished. But that brief moment when he’d looked at you on stage lingered in your mind, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Could it have meant something more?

He sat back down next to you, and you leaned over, unable to keep the smile from your face. “That was incredible, Ty. I’m so proud of you.”

He looked at you, a soft chuckle escaping as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks. I think I might’ve fumbled a little bit up there.”

“Not even close,” you replied, squeezing his arm. “You were perfect.”

The atmosphere at the afterparty was more relaxed, a contrast to the formality of the ceremony.

The room buzzes with laughter and clinking glasses, everyone here to celebrate the achievements of legends, past and present. You’re standing beside Tyler, trying to blend into the background of the room’s energy. But then, without warning, Tyler reaches for your hand, his fingers brushing yours before intertwining them completely. It’s such a small gesture, but it sends a rush of warmth through you. He glances at you, his eyes searching yours for a brief moment, almost as if he’s silently asking if this is okay, if you’re okay. You squeeze his hand, hoping he’ll understand that, yes, this is more than okay.

“Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet,” he says, his voice low and soft. He leads you through the crowd toward a man with a broad smile and lines etched deep around his eyes—Tyler’s old mentor. Tyler introduces you with a genuine warmth that makes you feel like you belong here, like you’re not just an accessory to his big night but someone he wants by his side.

As they begin chatting, Tyler’s hand drifts to your waist, his fingers pressing lightly into your hip as he pulls you closer, fitting you against his side. You feel a warmth blossom in your chest, and for a moment, the nagging doubts you’d been harboring vanish. His mentor jokes about old times, and Tyler laughs, giving your waist a small squeeze as if to share the moment with you. You let yourself lean into him, letting his warmth melt away the walls you’d tried to build around your heart.

But then, as the conversation comes to a close, he lets go. Just like that, his hand falls from your waist, and he takes a step back, sliding his hands into his pockets, a casual smile on his face. He glances around the room, no longer focused on you, and the sudden distance sends a chill down your spine. You’re standing side by side, but the connection feels fractured, like a missed beat. He begins walking next to you, his attention now elsewhere, no hand-holding, no gentle touches to keep you close.

Half an hour later you’re standing next to Tyler, trying to stay engaged with the conversation he’s having with an old friend he used to ride with, someone who knows a side of him you’ve only heard about in stories. Tyler’s posture is easy, his laugh warm and unguarded in a way that you rarely get to see. You watch him as he reminisces, letting yourself get lost in the sound of his laughter, in the way his eyes light up with a spark of the past. But as they continue to talk, it becomes clear that he’s in his own world, like you’re not even there.

The laughter between them grows, each memory shared drawing them further back into the years before you knew him. You shift your weight, feeling a slight ache in your chest as you realize just how separate you feel from this part of his life. A sense of loneliness creeps in, one you can’t shake, and you find yourself glancing toward the bar. Maybe a drink will help dull the sting.

You start to turn, your heart heavy, but just then, you feel Tyler’s hand reach out, his fingers wrapping gently around yours. The touch is so familiar, so comforting, and for a brief second, that hopeful warmth flickers back to life.

You glance over your shoulder, catching his eye, a hint of something unreadable there.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter, as if trying to break through to you despite the noise around.

You swallow, forcing a smile to cover the twinge of sadness that’s growing in your chest. “Yeah,” you say softly, nodding toward the bar. “Just thirsty. Thought I’d grab a drink.”

He nods, giving your hand a slight squeeze before letting go, turning back to his friend with that easy laugh that now feels like a barrier you can’t quite cross. You turn away, your heart sinking as you walk toward the bar, feeling the absence of his hand like a chill creeping over your skin. You can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment that settles heavy and cold. Just moments ago, he was intertwining your fingers, holding you close with his hand on your waist, like you were more than just a companion for the night.

How did it change so quickly? How did he go from holding you, grounding you with those intimate touches, to leaving you in this limbo of almost but not quite? You realize that, despite how much he means to you, there’s a line between you that he doesn’t seem ready to cross. And that thought hurts more than you want to admit.

You’re leaning against the bar, lost in thought, when a voice breaks through the noise, smooth and warm. “Hey there. You look like you could use some company.”

You glance up to find a guy with a charming grin and a relaxed confidence that’s instantly disarming. He extends a hand. “Eli Vastbinder,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

For a moment, you’re taken off guard, but you shake his hand and introduce yourself, motioning to where Tyler’s standing in the distance. “I’m here with Tyler Owens.”

At the mention of Tyler’s name, a flicker of something—maybe disappointment, maybe surprise—crosses Eli’s face before he recovers his smile. “Owens, huh? How do you know the Tornado Wrangler?”

You can’t help but laugh at the nickname, feeling some of the tension ease as you explain. “We work together. I help him run his YouTube channel.”

Eli’s gaze shifts from Tyler back to you, a curious glint in his eye as if he’s sizing up the situation. He doesn’t linger on it for long, though, before flashing you a daring smile. “So, just coworkers, huh? In that case, you wouldn’t mind if I bought you a drink?”

The question lingers, sparking a twist of hesitation in your chest. You glance over at Tyler, hoping for some kind of sign, some acknowledgment of what you’re feeling. Your eyes meet his, and he offers you a casual smile before turning his attention back to his friend. The moment leaves you cold—another reminder of all the times he’s pulled you close, only to leave you feeling as if you’re just out of reach.

You turn back to Eli, a decision settling in your mind. Tyler isn’t claiming you. He never has. And he’s had five years to do so.

You give Eli a small smile. “Sure, why not?”

Eli’s grin widens as he orders your drink, leaning in just slightly as he asks about your work with Tyler. He’s charming, effortlessly making you feel seen and appreciated. There’s a warm intensity in his gaze, like he’s genuinely interested in hearing about your life, in learning the pieces of you that Tyler seems to take for granted. You laugh at his jokes, leaning in as he tells stories about the crazy things he’s seen on the road. Every so often, his hand brushes yours, sending a little thrill through you—like something you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in far too long.

It doesn’t take long for you to feel the weight lifting from your shoulders. There’s no ambiguity with Eli; his attention is clear, unburdened by mixed signals or unspoken boundaries. It’s refreshing, exciting, even, to be the center of someone’s focus without second-guessing their intentions.

You glance over at Tyler once more, but he’s still wrapped up in conversation, seemingly unaware of the ache you’ve carried alone. A part of you wants him to notice, to see what’s happening, to finally feel the urgency you’ve held onto for years. But there’s another part of you that’s finished waiting.

As you turn back to Eli, you find yourself smiling, the kind of smile that feels like letting go.

You’re laughing at something Eli just said, a relaxed warmth in your chest that’s been missing around Tyler lately, when you feel a familiar presence behind you. You glance back, and there he is—Tyler, wearing that easy smile that’s disarmed you a hundred times before. He leans close, his hand slipping around your waist, fingers warm and possessive against your hip. “Hey there, darlin’,” he greets, the pet name rolling off his tongue as naturally as the smirk tugging at his lips.

But Tyler doesn’t stop there. His gaze shifts to Eli, assessing him for a beat, and then extends a hand. “I see you’ve met my date,” he says, voice casual but with a certain edge, like a claim staked.

You freeze, glancing up at him, surprised and confused by his sudden assertiveness. Eli’s expression mirrors your own—slightly perplexed, eyebrows lifting as he takes Tyler’s hand and shakes it firmly. His eyes flicker back to you, questioning. “Date? I thought you two were just coworkers,” he remarks, eyes shifting meaningfully to Tyler’s hand, still resting on your hip.

Before you can answer, Tyler lets out a dismissive scoff, as if the notion of you two being “just coworkers” is absurd. “Coworkers?” he echoes, his hand tightening just a fraction. “Yeah, we’re a little closer than that.” He shoots a look at you that’s both playful and possessive.

You feel your blood simmer, heat rising in your chest at the presumption in his tone. As if you’re some claim he can lay when it’s convenient, without any real commitment. You step out of his grip, your voice firm as you say, “We are just coworkers.” The words come out sharper than you intend, but you don’t soften them.

Tyler’s smile falters, his brow furrowing, but you’ve already turned away, excusing yourself quickly to Eli before slipping out toward the exit.

Humiliation washes over you, prickling your skin as you push through the crowd, needing fresh air, needing space. You had been enjoying a perfectly nice conversation with Eli, feeling appreciated and even flattered, until Tyler decided to swoop in and turn the moment into something possessive and confusing.

As you reach the hallway, you feel a sharp sting behind your eyes. Tears blur your vision, and you blink them back, furious with yourself for letting Tyler get to you like this. You’re tired—tired of being in his orbit only when he wants you to be, of being treated as something more only when it suits him. Because heaven forbid another guy notices you.

The hallway is quiet, save for the soft murmur of voices drifting from the ballroom as you stand there, waiting for the elevator. The moment stretches, tense and thick, when you hear his footsteps behind you, his voice calling your name.

You don’t turn around. “Tyler… don’t.” The plea is barely above a whisper, but he ignores it, closing the distance between you, his face etched with frustration.

“What was he doing back there?” he asks, motioning down the hall toward the ballroom, his tone hard, possessive. “Flirting with you like he has a chance?”

Your heart twists painfully at his words. His tone says it all—like he assumes you’re his, like it’s obvious. Like you should know.

But you’re done with the assumptions. The words spill out before you can stop them, thick with months, years, of unspoken hurt. “And why would you care, Tyler?” Your voice cracks, and you feel the first tear slip down your cheek, quickly followed by another. “It’s not like we’re together, right? You said it yourself—we’ll never be anything more than friends. We’re just…” You falter, searching for the right words, but the truth tumbles out, raw and painful. “We’re just really close, and we make out sometimes. Nothing more.”

The weight of it hangs in the air, and you can see the impact of your words in the way his face falls, his expression softening, regretful.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching out, but you shake your head, a mix of anger and sadness bubbling to the surface.

“No, Tyler.” You step back, keeping the space between you. “I’m done. I’m done with this… with you.” Your voice shakes, but the conviction is there, clear and sharp. “I’m done not being good enough. Done being yours only when you want someone on your arm or in your bed. I can’t keep doing this.” You wipe a tear from your cheek, gathering whatever strength you have left. “I’m done with everything. Our friendship. The channel. All of it.”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open with a quiet chime. You glance back at him one last time, taking in the hurt and confusion in his eyes.

“Go back to the party, Tyler. It’s your night. You deserve it.”

You step into the elevator, pressing the button as the doors start to close. The last thing you see before they shut is him standing there, looking lost and completely, utterly alone.

Back in the quiet solitude of the hotel room, you feel the emotions from the hallway encounter with Tyler crash over you. It’s almost overwhelming, but you shake your head, determined to focus on the immediate task. You kick off your heels and reach for the zipper at the back of your dress, letting it slide down as the gown falls in a pool around your feet. You step out of it, scooping it up to drape over the chair, and head to your bag, ready to change and leave before you can overthink it.

Digging through your clothes, you pull out the first shirt, but frustration prickles at you when you realize it’s one of Tyler’s. With an annoyed huff, you toss it on the bed. You dig deeper, pulling out another… his again. Why didn’t I pack more of my own clothes? you think bitterly, remembering that his shirts have been your usual comfort, your routine.

Finally, you find one of your own t-shirts and pull it on, then slide into a pair of jeans. You run a hand over your face, taking a deep breath to keep yourself from falling apart, and open your suitcase, methodically folding the rest of your things and stowing them away. As you pack, a plan begins to form, each step sounding clearer in your mind. You’ll finish packing, get a car downstairs to a nearby hotel for the night, and fly back tomorrow. It might be an awkward plane ride home, but you’ll put in headphones, turn away, and then… you’ll walk away from Tyler James Owens for good.

With your bag nearly ready, you look around the room one last time, eyes falling on the small pile of his things on the bed. His shirts, the ones you’ve wrapped yourself in so many times, now just reminders of all the blurred lines that never became anything real. You turn away, inhaling deeply to steady yourself, willing the resolve to carry you through whatever comes next.

You reach for the handle of your suitcase, ready to walk out of Tyler’s life for good, when the hotel room door opens behind you. Your heart races, and for a second you want to pretend you don’t notice him there, but when you turn, his expression says he’s already figured out exactly what’s happening. His eyes drop to the half-packed suitcase, then back to your face. His look of confusion shifts into something desperate.

“Please,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, almost raw. “Please, stay. We can talk about this. Just… don’t leave. Not like this.”

You shake your head, fighting the tears that are already building again. “Tyler, I’m done,” you say, your voice trembling. “You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me, either. You keep me close enough to feel like there’s something between us, but it’s never anything more. It’s just not fair anymore.”

You curse under your breath, blinking hard as the tears spill over. You don’t want him to see you like this—vulnerable, broken, hurt. Swallowing back a sob, you start to walk past him, head held high even as you feel yourself shattering. Just as your hand reaches for the door, he says it. Those three words you’ve been waiting for, holding onto, for what feels like forever.

“I love you.”

It stops you cold, and you stand there, hand frozen on the doorknob, not sure if you actually heard him or if it’s just some desperate wish in your mind. But then he speaks again.

“I love you,” he repeats, his voice steady, almost pleading. “And if you love me—if you can still love me—then I’m asking you to stay and just… hear me out. But if you’re done with me, really done, and I’ve already lost you… then go.”

The silence hangs between you, thick and charged. You turn slowly, meeting his gaze, and there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Vulnerability, sincerity, something real and unguarded. He’s finally opened himself up, given you the one thing you’ve been longing to hear, but the choice to stay or leave is yours.

Your chest tightens as you search his face, feeling the weight of all the years, the almosts, the near-misses, the longing. He stands there, his hands clenched at his sides, waiting, as if he’s holding his breath.

“You… really love me?” you whisper, the words barely audible.

“Yes,” he breathes, stepping toward you, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I just… didn’t know how to show it, and I was afraid if I did, you’d walk away. But losing you… that’s the one thing I’m really afraid of.”

You take a shaky breath, looking into his eyes, feeling every bit of his honesty, and for the first time, he’s offering you everything, without conditions, without holding back. The pain and hurt are still there, but as he waits, the tears in his own eyes now, you feel something else rising to the surface—a glimmer of hope.

The words are out before you can stop them.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Tyler steps forward, his eyes searching yours as if trying to understand the storm inside you. He reaches up, hesitantly at first, as though unsure if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, his hands gently cup your face, his touch warm and grounding. His thumbs swipe at the tears still streaking down your cheeks, wiping them away as if he can erase all the pain he’s caused with one simple gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with regret. “I’m so sorry. For not telling you sooner, for not making a move sooner… for making you feel like you don’t matter. For making you cry. You deserve so much more than that.”

You’re frozen, his words sinking deep into the cracks of your heart that you didn’t even know were there. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, a silent apology that speaks louder than anything else could.

He takes a deep breath, his voice low but sincere. “I know I’ve messed up, but I’m asking… can you give me another chance? To do it right this time? To take you on a real date, to buy you flowers, to tell the world that you’re mine… to be proud to have you by my side. I want to do this right, with you. Will you give me one more chance?”

The weight of his words hangs between you, and you feel the walls you’ve built around your heart begin to crack. He’s standing there, fully exposed, offering you everything he’s held back for so long. The room feels smaller, the air thicker as you look into his eyes, where you see nothing but vulnerability and hope.

You swallow hard, emotions warring inside you. You’ve wanted this—wanted him—to say it, to fight for you. And now that he is, you’re not sure whether to run or to stay. But as you stand there, feeling the sincerity in his touch and his words, something shifts. The hurt, the confusion, the loneliness—it all starts to unravel, replaced by a flicker of something new: hope.

You take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper, but clear enough for him to hear. “Last chance, Owens.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but it’s softer, more relieved than triumphant. He doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Instead, he just pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a hug that’s full of promise, the kind that says he’s never letting you go. And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe him.

You stand there, still in his arms, the weight of his words sinking in. The tension that had built up over the last few days—hell, the last few years—seems to fade away in that moment. Tyler’s hands are warm on your back, his arms strong around you as if he’s holding on, not just to you, but to everything that was between you two. His breath is steady, the pulse in his chest calming yours. He doesn’t let go, not yet. You don’t want him to.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. There’s no need to. Words were said, the hurt was aired out, and now, the only thing left is the silence between you—a silence that feels like the promise of something better, something real.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze soft, full of regret and hope. His thumb brushes against your cheek, wiping away the last of your tears. "I meant every word," he says quietly, his voice steady but raw. "Thank you for giving me this chance."

You nod, feeling something inside you shift, finally able to let go of the heaviness that had been pulling at you for far too long. You offer him a small smile, your fingers brushing his lightly as you give him a gentle squeeze.

He exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Hey…” His voice is quieter now, almost like he's considering his next words carefully. "How about we skip the rest of the party downstairs? We can grab some pizza, put on a movie, just... relax in here."

You glance at him, surprised by the suggestion, but something about the simplicity of it feels perfect. You nod, the corners of your mouth lifting into a genuine smile. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

Tyler’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across his face. “Good. Go ahead and get comfortable. I’ll order the pizza. Whatever you want.”

You feel a sudden sense of relief wash over you. It’s not just the break from the chaos of the night, but the quiet, intimate comfort of knowing that it’s just the two of you, no expectations, no pressure.

Tyler watches you for a moment, his smile softening as he watches you dig through your suitcase for something comfortable. You pull out a pair of sweatpants, replacing your jeans, and as you move to crawl onto the bed, he’s already a step ahead of you.

Before you can sit down, he reaches for the bottom of your t-shirt, pulling it up over your head. You freeze, giving him a confused look, about to protest. "Tyler, I’m really not in the mood—"

He cuts you off with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Not like that," he says, his voice teasing but warm. "Trust me, I’m not asking for anything like that."

Your brow furrows slightly in confusion, but Tyler doesn’t give you a chance to dwell on it. Instead, he reaches down into your suitcase and pulls out one of the t-shirts you had tossed aside earlier—one of his shirts. He holds it out to you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Here,” he says, “put this one on instead.”

You take the shirt from him, still a little baffled. “What’s wrong with my other shirt?”

Tyler grins, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He steps closer, leaning down slightly as if he’s about to let you in on a secret.

“Because it’s not your boyfriend’s,” he says, his voice low and almost teasing. “If you’re gonna be my girl, you wear my shirt to bed.”

A smile tugs at your lips, and you can’t help but feel a flutter in your chest. It’s the little things like this—the small gestures, the inside jokes, the way he’s already making you feel like you belong—that make the tension from earlier seem a little less heavy.

You slip the shirt on, and Tyler's eyes soften when he sees you in it, the way it fits just right, the way it looks like it belongs on you. You glance up at him as you finish adjusting it, your voice quieter now, full of warmth. “This better for you, boyfriend?”

"Yes." He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "I think you look pretty damn perfect in it."

You laugh softly, and for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened earlier melts away, leaving you with nothing but the quiet comfort of his presence. You sit down on the bed, pulling the blankets up and patting the spot beside you. "So, pizza and movies?"

Tyler nods, settling in beside you, having traded his tuxedo for sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hand finds its way to yours as he lets out a contented sigh. "Sounds like the perfect way to spend the night."

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like things are exactly where they need to be.

#Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens x reader #Tyler Owens x you #Tyler Owens Fic #Tyler Owens Fanfic #Tyler Owens Fanfiction

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 1 year ago

Text

Follow Me

Luke Castellan x daughterofares!Reader

Summary: Luke's girlfriend is excited to finally become a year-round camper so she can spend it with him. But Luke has other plans for them.

Warning: Major spoilers if you haven't finished the first book(/season depending on when you read this), canon-level violence, weapons, injuries, angst

Word Count: 5.5K

Masterlist

A/N I haven't watched the show because I don't have Disney+ so I'm working from (memory of) the books. No characters are specifically book or show so descriptions are left vague. Imagine whatever you want.

I stumbled my way up Half-Blood Hill, determined to get to Thalia’s tree. This was my last year being a summer camper. After I graduated high school I’d decided to become a year round camper seeing as the real world was getting more and more dangerous for me. And I'd be damned if I let myself be killed right before I was in the safety of camp for good.

I was in so much pain, there was blood pouring out of my abdomen caused by the crocotta’s razor sharp claws slicing at me. My short break gave it enough time to catch up to me so rather than continuing to flee, I was forced to turn and face it. I pulled out my father’s gift to me, a sword made of celestial bronze that grew from a steel knife that could harm mortals. When he claimed and gifted it to me I found the steel useless. Why would I ever need to harm a mortal? The reasoning behind the dual blade still eluded me. The only reason I could think of was just that Ares had a penchant for violence.

As the crocotta bounded closer to me, all I could do was stand and wait for it to get within range. But upon reaching me, it just swiped the sword from my grasp, pouncing on me. I felt a tear slip down my face as I realized I’d failed to reach safety one final time. As it growled in my face and opened its jaw, I sent a silent prayer to my father and a goodbye to Luke. But before it’s jaws could clamp down on me, the weight lifted and a shimmery cloud of ichor rained down on me.

As the golden dust settled, I could see my boyfriend’s face above mine, standing over me, clutching his dagger. “Luke,” I practically sobbed in relief.

“Oh my gods,” he exclaimed, kneeling down next to me. His hands went to my stomach, pressing against the open wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “Can you walk?” he asked, fear in his eyes.

“Yeah,” I nodded, letting him take my hand as he stood. Truthfully I probably couldn’t really walk but it was either walk 10 feet to the tree or lie here waiting for someone else to help Luke carry me in and potentially getting attacked by another monster.

I let out a groan as Luke slung my arm over his shoulder, pulling me up from the ground. “C’mon,” he urged, “just get to the tree and then we’ll get some more people to help you.” I nodded, not bothering with a verbal agreement as I let my boyfriend practically carry me just past Thalia’s tree. “There we go,” he said gently as he eased me to the ground.

“Go. Go get Lee or Michael,” I urged him as he kneeled by my side again.

“No,” Luke immediately shot down. “I’m not leaving you like this and so close to the edge of the barrier.” I glanced to my left. We were about three feet from the edge of the camp’s protective barrier. “Help!” I heard him yell towards camp.

“What? Do you think I'm accidentally gonna roll down the hill?” I tried to joke. But my chuckle made my wounds hurt even more.

Seeing my pain made Luke even more unamused. Soon enough a few other campers ran up to us, having heard Luke’s call.

“Y/N, oh my god.”

“What happened?”

“Another one?!”

I heard the various reactions from other campers. Another one? What did they mean another one? But I didn’t dwell on my questions for long because Lee Fletcher and Michael Yew were running towards me. A few of my siblings followed them carrying a stretcher. As the Apollo boys started to try to stop the bleeding, I was moved onto the stretcher. But the pain of being lifted was so bad I blacked out.

When I came to in the sickroom of the Big House all I could feel was pain. I let out a soft groan, snapping Luke to attention. He was slumped over on my bedside, seemingly sleeping. He immediately grabbed a piece of ambrosia off the nightstand next to the cot, bringing it to my lips. I immediately rejected it, not feeling like eating anything.

“C’mon, it’s ambrosia. It’ll make you feel better,” Luke pleaded. Reluctantly I let him coax the food into my mouth and ate it. The comforting taste of my mother’s chocolate cake filled my mouth. Despite the fact that it tasted good, it felt heavy in my stomach and I pushed the food away. “You gotta eat more than that,” he tried again.

“Let’s start with water or nectar,” I suggested, my throat sore.

Luke looked at the floor angrily. He sighed. “We’re out of nectar for a while. Ambrosia is all we have.”

“What?” I asked in shock, sitting up in surprise. Luke was quick to coax me back down.

“Grover and the kid he was helping got attacked by the Minotaur on their way here. Just like the crocotta attacked you.”

“Oh my god,” I murmured. “Is that why someone said ‘Another one?’ as they were bringing me here?”

He nodded once again. “His name was Percy. He showed up the night before you did.” He suddenly stopped talking. Like he had something more to say. I urged him to continue and he did so reluctantly. “Poseidon claimed him the second night he was awake… and now he’s on a quest.”

I looked at him sympathetically. I knew all about Luke’s anger about going unclaimed for so long. And then when he finally was claimed and had trained to be a great hero, all Hermes could give him to do was steal some golden apples. But after countless rants about this I knew he wouldn’t want sympathy. “You said he’s on a quest already? How long have I been out?”

“A couple days. Chiron and Lee kicked me out for a while.”

“What’d you do?”

“Well, we already need new practice dummies for combat training,” he admitted sheepishly. I laughed and fortunately Luke did too.

By now, Chiron had sensed I was awake and entering the sickroom. As he ducked his way through the door he shrunk down back into his wheelchair so as to not overwhelm me. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. You gave us quite a scare for a few days,” he smiled.

“So I've heard.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like my guts were ripped out by a crocotta,” I answered.

“Well the ambrosia should help the pain and scarring. Lee stopped the bleeding and stitched you up but he said you’d be out for a few days.”

“Can you get her some nectar?” Luke interrupted. “She’s not exactly in a place to be eating solid foods.”

“Mr. D is trying to get into contact with Apollo. Apparently he’s concerned that Dionysus is overindulging.”

“That’s crap!” Luke suddenly burst out.

“Luke!” Chiron immediately cut him off. “I know you’re concerned for Ms. L/N, here but the food of the gods is in of itself a privilege.” He then turned his attention back to me. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well but ambrosia will have to do until we’re able to get more nectar.”

“Thanks, Chiron,” I tried to dismiss him, giving him a tight lipped smile. Sensing my disappointment he took his leave, wheeling out of the room.

Luke was back by my bedside with more pieces of ambrosia that I reluctantly took.

Thanks to the godly food I was up and walking within two days much to cabin 5’s relief. So many of my younger siblings were saying that Clarisse had been a terror in my absence. Something about a bathroom exploding and then she apparently tried to electrocute the new camper. I made a note to talk to her later but for now I was focused on getting my cabin back in order. They responded best to authority and a routine so I quickly had them out in training, telling them that I wouldn’t tolerate us losing capture the flag again.

We made our way down to the arena for sword fighting lessons. Luke and I were both instructors seeing as we were the oldest two campers and the best with blades. Our childhood competitiveness had eventually grown into love but for a while, we hated each other. We used to spend hours trying to get the upper hand over one another.

But now that we were dating, the younger campers always tried to goad us into sparring with one another. We always said that we’d save our sparring match for our own training or a reward for the others doing well but usually a few teasing comments had our swords pointed at one another.

I was correcting a Hermes camper’s form when he asked me to try fighting Luke. “Not today,” I laughed.

“Why? Is it because you’re scared?” he asked, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“No,” I corrected him. “It’s because once we fight, none of you will care about what we teach you.”

“Sound like you’re scared,” the boy just repeated.

I just rolled my eyes, prepared to dismiss him when Luke’s voice interrupted. “Yeah, Y/N. It sounds like you’re scared.” I rolled my eyes again as he approached. “I wouldn’t want to fight the capture the flag champion either.”

“You only won because I was recovering from being chased across the country by a monster. Just wait until the next game, I’ll show you how Cabin 5 does it.” That elicited a few cries of encouragement from my cabin, eager to win their flag back.

“You need a bit more time to train, I get it,” he mockingly offered. A few of his siblings joined in on the taunting with their exaggerated reactions.

“I don’t need time. I’d just rather not cut you up this early into the summer,” I smiled. A few ‘ooh’s came from our audience.

Luke bristled a little at that. “C’mon,” he gestured to the arena, “let’s settle this once and for all.”

I picked up one of the practice swords that resembled the size and weight of my real sword, stepping into the middle of the arena. “You say that every time.” Luke smiled, taking his spot in front of me with his practice sword as the other campers backed up.

I barely gave him a chance to settle before I was moving. I had the advantage of my father’s knack for fighting and aggression but I wasn’t as strong as Luke. Unfortunately, he knew all my moves and tricks so he was able to block me. But that also meant I knew all of his moves and tricks because I could anticipate his subsequent moves.

We continued on, trying to outmaneuver each other. He kept forcing me out of range, protecting his body, whilst I tried to find an opening to get close to him. The other campers had been within the walls of the arena but we moved around so much they were forced to jump out.

The only reason we stopped was because our little “lesson” had gone on too long and Chiron was wondering where his students were. Neither of us noticed him until he yelled our names. “Y/N L/N! Luke Castellan! What are you doing?” We both immediately stopped, facing the centaur like guilty children.

“We were just introducing them to technique,” Luke offered. I could tell Chiron saw right through his excuse but it was good enough reasoning.

“You both know you’re supposed to hold off on sparring one another. Children,” he turned to the other campers, “what did your instructors teach you?”

“Stance!”

“What to do if your opponent has a longer sword!”

Those were the answers our siblings offered but one Aphrodite camper’s answer ruined the whole thing. “How to waste time.” Luke and I both sent her stares.

Fortunately Chiron didn’t take it too seriously. “Save the sparring for your own sessions,” he warned us. “Everyone move on to your next activities. I’m sure your instructors are waiting.”

As everyone else filed off, Luke and I looked at each other. “You’re disgusting,” I laughed, observing his sweaty shirt.

He looked baffled at that. “Wow. I was gonna ask if you’re okay but clearly you don’t value me that much,” he answered in mocking offense.

“No, no, no,” I corrected through laughs, going to him. But as soon as he tried to hug me, I pulled away with a wrinkled nose. Seeing my disgust, he forcefully hugged me, drowning me in his B.O. When I finally wrestled my way out of his arms I was disgusting. “Ugh we both need showers.”

He smiled. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he promised. He stepped closer to me, kissing me quickly before heading off towards the showers. I watched him leave for a moment before heading to my cabin.

Later that night at dinner, I was talking to my cabin-mates when Luke came over, crouching by me. “Hey,” he smiled up at me as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi,” I laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“Being a good boyfriend. I’m just giving you a heads up that our spar from earlier isn’t over yet.”

“What?”

Chiron stood up and so did Luke. “Gotta go, bye,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple before scurrying off.

Bewildered, I looked up at Chiron. “We have a special activity tonight per the request of the reigning capture the flag champions. We’ll be playing again tonight seeing as some claimed our last games were unfair due to a missing counselor.” Cabin 5 erupted into cheers, eager to win the flag back. “Luke Castellan and Y/N L/N are captains. Same rules as the prior games.”

Not willing to let my cabin lose again, I jumped into action. “Cabin 5, armor on, get to the creek in 5!” They all quickly scrambled off. Our allies for this game, Dionysus, Aphrodite, Demeter, and Hephaestus followed their lead.

I followed after them to get my armor as well and soon enough I was stood by the creek, discussing strategy with my teammates. Once our discussion time drew to a close, I faced my opposing captain. “You’re going down, feather feet,” I sneered.

“We’ll see, hot head,” Luke taunted.

I laughed. “Oh yeah, one more thing,” I told my teammates. “Bring me Luke’s sword and helmet.”

“In your dreams,” he taunted back. He looked at his team. “Bring me Y/N.”

“Okay,” Chiron interrupted us. “Before we begin I think we need a reminder that killing is not permitted. Are we clear?” A few unenthusiastic agreements came from the crowd. Nodding, Chiron blew into the horn, signaling that the games had begun. Some of my campers who hadn’t already been stationed bolted into the trees, doubling back so they could hopefully sneak through Hermes’ cabin’s defenses. The others stayed with me to defend the most obvious point.

One Hermes kid immediately jumped at me but I slashed him in the chest, (his armor protected him so he just got the wind knocked out of him) knocking him back into the water.

He got back up, running at one of my campers but he was immediately disarmed and taken prisoner. By the time I looked back, the other campers and Luke were gone. I realized with a frustrated scream that this kid was a distraction. “Find them!” I yelled at the others.

“Their territory or ours?” I observed the 5 campers in front of me. “You three, stay on our side. Fan across the creek, look for signs they crossed into our territory. The rest of you, we’re gonna either hunt them down in their territory or take their flag.”

My group leapt over the creek, running into the forest.

As we searched, we picked up a few of our own teammates, running through the woods and strangely finding no opposing campers. We continued on nonetheless until Athena and Apollo campers all of a sudden started darting through the trees.

Eventually they stopped moving enough for us to have a proper fight. I faced Malcom Pace, easily disarming him. But suddenly his older brothers were on me. As I was busy fighting twins, Leo and Cato, another one of the boys found an opening. Quinn wrapped his arms around me, a dagger at my throat. “Drop the sword,” they told me.

Seeing as I wasn’t getting out of this but my teammates were gone while many of the Athena and Apollo campers were still here, I dropped the sword. Most of my campers got away and were likely hunting down the flag.

Before they could decide where to stash their prisoner, the horn blew again, signaling the end of the games. But as I tried to leave, the others stopped me. “Woah, Luke said he wanted you so we’re taking you.”

I rolled my eyes, letting them lead me to the creek. “Yeah, well when my cabin gives me his stuff and the flag, you can apologize to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quinn dismissed. “You’re just mad I beat you.”

“You only ‘beat me’ because there were three of you. And you guys still lost the rest of my team.”

“We still got you!” Leo taunted in a sing-songy voice. By now we had reached the creek and I saw Clarisse holding the flag, a helmet, and a sword. Luke was kneeled beside her looking humiliated, clearly a captive.

Both sides let us go and I went to Clarisse. “Your spoils,” she presented me the flag, helmet, and sword. I smiled, wrapping the flag around her shoulders and taking Luke’s stuff.

“Thank you!” I said emphatically, pointing a look of victory at Luke.

He just shook his head, standing up. As he approached me I figured he was grabbing his belongings but instead he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in for a kiss. When he pulled away he explained. “You’re my spoil.”

Camp life continued on as normal for a while. I finally met the newest hero who had returned Zeus’ masterbolt— he did not like my father. He seemed surprised that Luke and I were dating and I learned that Luke had become a sort of mentor to Percy over the days that I had been asleep. That also surprised me, given how resentful Luke had seemed towards him when I first woke up. Regardless, everything seemed normal as we continued our routines throughout the summer until I was woken up one night.

“Y/N,” a voice whispered, shaking me. “Y/N.” I reluctantly opened my eyes, finding one of my younger brothers, Aiden, shaking me. “Luke’s asking for you.”

“What?” I asked, sitting up.

“Luke wants to talk to you. He gave me a coke if I woke you up.” The boy excitedly held up a shiny red can as if to persuade me to go.

I rubbed his messy hair as I sat up. “Don’t let Clarisse see that,” I advised, throwing on a hoodie. He nodded, going back to his bunk as I headed outside. “Luke!” I whispered into the night upon exiting the cabin. I didn’t notice him sneaking up towards me until his hands were around my waist. “Luke!” I exclaimed in surprise.

He quickly hushed me. “Do you want the harpies to find us?”

“Well we wouldn’t have to worry about that if you weren’t trying to talk to me in the middle of the night. What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing it’d be serious. He let his playful facade drop as he urged me to follow him, taking my hand. I went with him, silently trusting him until I realized we were heading to the woods. I stopped, letting my hand fall out of his grasp. “What? Are you gonna kill me in there?” I laughed shallowly, trying to lighten the mood and quell the alarms in my brain.

Luke returned my shallow laugh, clearly nervous. “Of course not. Look, I have to talk to you. It’s serious.” I could see the genuineness in his expression so I let him retake my hand. “I’d never hurt you,” he promised. So I followed him further into the woods until he deemed us far enough. “The nymphs may hear us but it’s kind of impossible to avoid them,” he chuckled.

“Hear what?” I asked.

He took a breath, seemingly composing himself. “You know how I went on that quest? For my dad?”

“Yeah. What? You want to go out into the world again?” I asked, a little relieved.

“Sort of,” he offered. “But on that ‘quest,’” he mocked the word, “I realized something: the gods are useless.”

“Luke!” I immediately reprimanded him.

“No,” he cut me off. “You don’t have to pretend like not fawning over the gods is a crime. We shouldn’t be blindly worshipping them. Y/N,” his hands were clasping my shoulders as if begging me to believe him, “your father waited for the last day of summer your first year to claim you. Why? Just to mess with you? Because he just couldn’t be bothered to do it until he remembered at the last second? That’s messed up. The gods aren’t fit to rule. The West is going to hades. My quest? To repeat Heracles’ quest? All the gods know how to do is repeat the past. Their glory days.”

“Luke, you’re scaring me.” I was practically begging him to stop talking so we could go back to the way it was. This was the first year I’d be staying year round. We were supposed to be celebrating Christmas together for the first time in a few months. Yet here he was, spouting off heresy.

“Open your eyes,” he insisted. “The gods are poisoning the world and they’ve been using us as pawns to do it. The only way to fix it is to destroy it and start over with something more honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been having dreams sent by the Titan Lord.”

A shiver ran down my spine and I stepped out of his grasp. “No,” I heard myself whisper. “Luke, he’s using you. You remember what Chiron taught us. We are not better off, no one was better off when the Titans ruled. We didn’t even have fire. He will kill all the humans. He’ll kill us.”

“Not if we join him willingly,” Luke promised, trying to take my hand again but I pulled away. “He said when I bring down the gods he’ll reward me. He’ll make me immortal. He promised you’d become like me too.” He quickly grasped my wrist tight enough so I couldn’t escape, pulling me closer. “We can rule together, forever.” He was pleading with me to take his offer, his hands finding a stray lock of hair to tuck behind my ear.

“Luke… this isn’t- you can’t…” I was at a loss for words.

“Please, Y/N,” his voice was cracking.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. This isn’t right. This is dangerous, can’t you see that?”

“This isn’t me just trying to get back at my dad. I’ve thought about this.” He stiffened, still tightly grasping my wrist. “Y/N, I need you with me.”

“Then don’t go,” I begged him. “I won’t even tell anyone. We can just go back to how things were.”

“No, we can’t,” he shook his head. “Because you’re gonna try to help me by telling Chiron and he’s gonna turn me in.”

“No he won’t! Luke, he trained you. He’ll want to help you.”

“Camp isn’t safe for us anymore. We have to go.”

This was the first time I actually started fearing for my safety. I tried to pull out of his grasp but he held firm. “Go where?”

“Our Titan Lord got us a ship. We’ll be safe there until I get my next orders. The monsters on it won’t harm us.”

“What?!” With a hard wrench I pulled my wrist out of his grasp. I immediately started running, hoping a nymph would find me before a monster did but Luke was on me in seconds. He knocked me to the ground and after a little struggling he had me pinned. “Luke, please don’t do this,” I begged as I saw him reach into his pocket. When I saw the milk of the poppy I began to thrash underneath him but I couldn’t manage to throw him off of me. He forced my mouth open, dropping the liquid onto my tongue and forcing me to swallow. Before I blacked out, I could vaguely hear him speak.

“You’ll be okay in a few days and then we can talk.” A few days???

The next morning Luke was woken by frantic cries of his girlfriend’s name heard throughout camp. He immediately rushed out of bed, putting on a concerned boyfriend facade. Finding one of his brothers, he asked what was going on. “What? Did you just wake up?” Luke nodded frantically. “Oh, I’m sorry man. Uh, Y/N wasn’t in bed this morning. No one can find her. One of her little brothers said you asked to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah to talk about potentially allying for capture the flag but she went right back in,” he insisted frantically. He ran a hand through his hair, acting stressed. He kind of whished he’d be gone by now but he needed to get rid of Percy before he could go.

He ran out of the cabin, immediately going up to Cabin 5. Clarisse spotted him, her expression becoming sour. “What’d you do Castellan? Aiden said you wanted to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah, we were talking about capture the flag but she went right back in 10 minutes later. You sleep 20 feet from her, where’s my girlfriend?” he challenged. Clarisse sent him a scowl but otherwise stormed off, the other Cabin 5 campers following her with similar expressions.

“Luke, I'm so sorry,” a young voice called. He turned, finding Annabeth running towards him. As she hugged him, Luke couldn’t help but think about how much he’d miss her. She was too smart for her own good but he still couldn’t help but think of the seven year old he had found hiding from monsters. “She could just be out somewhere?” she offered, trying to console him.

“I hope so,” he smiled down at her. He then spotted Mr. D and ran over to him. “Mr. D, can you find where she is?”

The god gave him a tired expression. “I’m not omniscient in this state. All I know is she’s not in camp.”

“Well can’t you get a god who is? Surely her father wants to know where she is,” he insisted. But Ares had plenty of demigod children and most of them went missing in action or died tragic deaths. Y/N would be just another hero child that fought in his name.

“Lord Ares has other concerns,” Mr. D at least tried to soften the blow. “If she hasn’t returned by the end of the summer then we must assume she is dead. Even if she left of her own volition.”

“But summer is ends tomorrow. You can’t do this. She could still be out there. She could need our help. Let me go out and search,” he pleaded. By now, Chiron, Clarisse, and a few others had joined them.

“No one is leaving,” Chiron declared. “I’m not letting anyone else go missing. Luke, I understand your concern but her blade was found in Cabin 5. If she’s not in camp she is likely already dead.”

“No,” Luke insisted, putting on the performance of a lifetime, “you’re wrong.”

After nearly two whole days of searching camp and the closest borders, (that was the furthest Chiron would let anyone go) Y/N L/N was declared dead. Her siblings reluctantly built a funeral pyre, decorating it with some of her things. Luke did his best to look devastated and it seemed to be working because no one looked at him twice other than to offer their sympathies. That at least made it easy to lure Percy off into the woods just before he left.

When I woke up I was in a strange room. It looked like a hotel room except for the fact that the floor to ceiling windows showed that I was on the ocean. That triggered all the memories of Luke. A sense of hopelessness came over me and I was immediately breaking down in sobs. I didn’t want to believe that he had joined Kronos and turned his back on everything he knew or that he was determined to drag me with him.

Once I finally managed to compose myself I went to the door, hoping to find a radio so someone could get me. Or maybe even find Luke so I could talk him into letting me go. But once I opened the door I was met with the massive jaws of a hellhound. I immediately shut the door and locked it.

Still feeling unsafe I went to grab the dresser to block the door but either it was too heavy or bolted down. I tried the desk next resulting in nothing. I was running out of time as the monster was probably just trying to process what it saw. Soon it’d smell me and start trying to break down the door. So I resorted to the chair, dragging it across the floor and jamming it under the door handle. I then went to the massive windows, realizing there was a hidden door. I wrenched it open, stepping out into the fresh air. I looked around, seeing no land I’d be able to swim to. But just as I was considering my chances, I noticed the body of a massive whale-like creature. I was willing to bet that whales weren’t just swimming around a cruise ship, this was a cetus.

Seeing as I had nowhere else to go, I went back into the room. I went to the attached bathroom, searching for something to defend myself. There wasn’t really anything in there except bar soap and toilet paper. Luke must have removed everything, even the towels, so I couldn’t hurt him or anyone else. Frustrated, I went to the closet, finding it completely empty. Not even a hangar to pull apart and stab someone with. So I reluctantly grabbed the soap seeing as it was literally the only thing remotely resembling a weapon, and sat on the bed, watching the door.

I don’t know how long I sat there but eventually I heard the door shake, like something was trying to get in. As I was preparing to clobber the monster with my bar of soap, a voice I recognized called through the door. “C’mon, Y/N! Open the door,” Luke said. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t want to see him. “Open the door or I break it down!” he demanded.

It was either open the door or have absolutely no protection from the monsters so I reluctantly got up. “Okay, okay!” I answered. “Just give me a second.” I climbed off the bed, removing the chair. I only twisted the handle, letting the door open slightly before going back to the bed to put some distance between us.

As Luke was locking the door again, I took my chance. Jumping, I tried to bring the bar of soap down on him but he turned, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, you had to have known that wouldn’t work,” he smiled.

I only gave him a burning stare. “It was worth a shot,” I said, trying to pull my hand away. But his grip held fast, not letting me pull away.

“So I guess you still hate me?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “You kidnapped me and are now holding me hostage on a monster infested ship.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he dismissed, once again brushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “Then we’ll be together forever.”

Masterlist

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #pjo x reader #the lightning thief #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #ares #daughter of ares #x reader

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fluentmoviequoter · 8 months ago

Text

Paying for the Sins of Our Fathers

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: A new serial killer arrives in Los Angeles with a penchant for girls with bad relationships with their fathers. After you offer yourself up as bait to catch him, Deacon shows you that you're not as hard to love as you think.

Warnings: angst to fluff, serial killer, secondary character deaths, age gap, depiction of terrible father-daughter relationships (going to say allusion to DV just to be safe but if there is it's nuanced not explicitly stated)

Word Count: 3.6k+ words

A/N: Alexa, play Glasshouse Children.

*This is not a rewrite of Sins of the Father, just a titling coinkydink.

Picture from Pinterest (I love this scene so much)

“Caramel pumpkin chai for Lia!”

Lia sighs as she stands and walks to the counter. The coffee shop, one of Santa Monica’s hidden gems that most people walk right by, is nearly empty at this hour. A writer wearing headphones slaves over a laptop in one corner, three young girls read together, pausing every few minutes to discuss the previous chapter, and a man draws in a weathered leather journal. This is how Lia likes the café, but she’s not sure it’s what she needs tonight.

Sitting with her drink, she ignores the envelope in her bag. Her father sent a message from prison, where he’s been since she was a freshman in high school nearly a decade ago, but she’s yet to open it. She’s not sure she can, not sure she wants to, even. Tapping the screen of her phone, she smiles when she sees a reply from her best friend.

Come over, and we’ll talk. Catch this love <3

“Excuse me,” the man with the journal says, standing sheepishly by Lia’s table. “I just wanted to say hello, and, uh, I hope you don’t mind, but I included you in my sketch of the coffee shop.”

“Oh,” Lia replies, smiling at the interruption. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Good, good. I won’t keep you, but it’s a hard anniversary for me, but drawing helps and it was nice to have a friendly face in the scene.”

“I understand completely. I hope the rest of your night is good.”

“Thank you,” he replies, nodding once. “You, too.”

“Wait,” Lia calls as he turns. “Could I maybe see the picture?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he answers with a chuckle. “I’m not very good. My father told me I should find another hobby, but, well… he’s why I’m here tonight drawing instead of remembering the past.”

Lia shakes her head and offers, “Dads are tough, believe me, I know. If you enjoy drawing, though, keep doing it. Good for you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The man pauses and waves generally as he adds, “About your dad, I mean.”

“It is what it is,” Lia says, shrugging. “Are you sure I can’t see the picture?”

“Yes, I am.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

“The last scene I drew was a visiting area in a state prison, so it’s a light in this sketchbook.”

“I haven’t been in a prison in years, but I’m sure a setting that grim can’t be easy to draw.”

“I like the challenge, but the distraction was the real reward. After I visit the prison, I go up Getty Center Drive just to get away from it all, you know?”

“It’s gorgeous up there,” Lia sighs.

“You should go sometime, to clear your mind. Even alone with your thoughts, everything just seems more peaceful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

The man nods and steps toward the door. Lia pushes the envelope from her father deeper into her bag before she stands and picks up her drink. She’s ready to talk, and her friend is waiting, like always. As she walks toward her car, Lia smiles.

“Good night,” the man calls from beside his car. “You should really go to Getty after you return your dad’s letter in person.”

Lia’s smile drops as she presses the button to unlock her car. “How did you know that?”

“On second thought,” the man muses lightly, walking toward Lia’s car. “Why don’t we go together? Right now?”

Lia tries to scream, but his hand presses against her mouth, a damp rag silencing her cries.

You yawn as Street continues his story about the motorcycle race he allegedly won last night. Before he can tell you the epic conclusion, a group of at least thirty cops walks into SWAT HQ and heads directly to the situation room. Street silences, and you watch the officers and detectives walk through the building.

“20 Squad, situation room!” Hicks yells. “Now!”

You follow Street inside and find a place at the back to stand. Deacon, Hondo, and Luca enter from the other side and look at you questioningly as they join you. You shrug, and Street stands by Luca as they theorize what the large meeting could mean.

“I’m Detective Ryan Carradine of the Mid-Wilshire division,” Carradine introduces, gesturing for everyone to quiet. “We have patrol officers, Metro SWAT, UCs, and the homicide division from several different stations here today because we have a county-wide case.”

A map with nine red dots appears on the screen behind him. Each dot has a date and time beside it, each one five days apart.

“By which I mean there is a new serial killer in Los Angeles. In the last 45 days, we have located nine bodies, each a female in her early-20s to late-30s. Early this morning, we found Lia Carter, a 24-year-old woman from Rustic Canyon. Carter was attacked sometime between midnight and 2 a.m., and she was left for dead in brush off Getty Center Drive. She’s in critical condition, but if she pulls through, she will be the only survivor.”

“What’s the connection between victims?” a homicide detective inquires.

Carradine tsks, then answers, “Our teams are working on that now. What we’ve got tentatively is the age range, females, and…” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he adds, “They all seem to have strained or nonexistent relationships with their fathers.”

You look at Street, who purses his lips and shrugs.

“Carter was found with an unopened letter from her father stapled to her shirt, he’s serving life in Lancaster State Prison for killing her high school boyfriend,” Carradine explains.

“What does this have to do with us?” Street whispers.

“So, because of the extent of this case, we need everyone in this room on their A-game. If that’s not you, I want you out and I will find someone to take your spot.”

No one moves, so Carradine nods and steps to the side as Commander Hicks joins him.

“I’m Commander Bob Hicks,” he begins, “I’ll be assisting Detective Carradine in an operational capacity. I’m also placing my 20-David SWAT team on standby for anything related to this case. The moment we get a warrant, they’ll be ready to roll.”

“That being said,” Carradine interjects, “Mid-Wilshire’s Metro is prepared to pick up slack for other tactical calls. If you need immediate tactical support for this case, alert Hicks, otherwise, dispatch will get you a team from another station.”

“What other information do you have?” an officer asks. “Suspects, forensics?”

“Short answer: nothing.”

The undercover chief suggests, “We can get UC officers out, advertise poor paternal relationships, try to bring this guy into the light.”

“It won’t work,” an officer states as he enters the situation room. “Lia Carter regained consciousness. She said he knew; that the man had details about her relationship with her father, things she’d never told anyone other than police and therapists.”

“Then UC is out,” Carradine murmurs, rubbing his forehead. “Any other ideas?”

You inhale before you say, “Send me in.”

The officers standing between you and Carradine look back and step to the side so he can see you clearly. Hicks looks from you to Hondo, then back to you, and shakes his head gently.

“If he can get his hands on that kind of information, then he could find out that I fit. I’m the right age, no relationship with dad,” you explain. “It’s as good as a UC as you’re going to get in this.”

Standing beside you, Deacon tenses his jaw. He doesn’t want you to do this; he wants you to be as far from this serial killer as you possibly can, but it’s not his place to ask you to stay. No matter how much he wishes it was.

“Absolutely not,” Hondo says instead.

“There’s way too much at stake,” Luca adds.

“He could know even more,” Street exclaims. “We don’t know his MO, what he does before or after the killings.”

You look to Deacon rather than answering your other teammates, and he licks his lips before he says, “It’s your decision. We’ll be here for you, whether you stay or go.”

Nodding, you keep your eyes on Deacon as you say, “Then let’s catch a serial killer.”

“Oh, he’s got a name now,” a cyber-tech says from one of the desks. “Papers are calling him The Fatherless.”

“Classy,” you murmur.

“Get prepped,” Hicks tells you. “20 Squad, you’re on standby, so stay close.”

“The rest of you stay here to receive your posts,” Carradine announces. “We’ve got five days until he strikes again. So, let’s do this in four.”

In the locker room, you sit in your civvies and prepare for the worst. The door opens as Street walks inside, his steps purposeful and hurried.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, stopping beside you. “No one will blame you for changing your mind.”

“Street,” you begin.

He squats before you and shakes his head. “No, listen, I understand. Probably better than anyone else here. I know that you still feel that pain, even if it’s the last thing on your mind. Those wounds, the ones that your parents carve into you as a child, they never fully heal, and they reopen easily.”

You nod along with Street. He’s right, you know that. Yet, you know what you have to do.

“We’re glasshouse children, Street, you know that. But I’m done paying for the sins of my father. And I’m not going to let another innocent woman be murdered because of hers.”

Street sighs and leans back against the lockers. “We’re here for you. You better be careful, or I’ll tell Deacon that you have a crush on him.”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms to match Street’s stance. “I’m always careful. Don’t confuse your recklessness for my perfection.”

Hondo knocks on the open door, serious and sympathetic, as he says, “Hospital just called. Lia Carter didn’t make it.”

Over the next two days, every moment outside HQ is spent setting up your role as the perfect target. On a walk, you slow by a park and watch a father and daughter play together, letting yourself long for something you don’t remember having. In crowded areas, you identify men who remind you of your dad or are alone and steer around them, giving yourself a wide berth. You avoid talking about your family, even inviting a friend to dinner just so someone asks how everyone is. No matter where you go, you keep your guard up with your gun within reach. You’re living like someone is watching your every move because you want them to be.

The most important thing you do requires help. With a picture stowed in your backpack, courtesy of the forensic team, you return home at the end of the second day. Carefully, you hide the picture in a book, then make dinner and try to forget it. When you settle in with the book for the night, you “accidentally” find the picture. The ink shows you and your father, cheek-to-cheek and smiling, and you stare at it until it blurs. Then, you shove it back in the book and throw it against the wall. Dropping your head into your hands, you feel like you’re being watched, and if the picture hadn’t affected you more than you anticipated, you might be scared by that.

Sitting alone in a rundown diner, you tap a sugar packet against your cup. It’s been five days since Lia Carter was attacked, and if you aren’t approached by The Fatherless tonight, he’ll kill another woman. You shift as if you can feel the picture of your dad in your pocket. It’s halfway out, so anyone who approaches your table can see it, yet another piece of bait to get yourself on a serial killer’s radar. You wish he could see it so no one else has to see him.

“Evening,” a man greets as he slides onto a barstool directly to your right.

You look over your shoulder, and when the man’s eyes drop to the picture, you fight down a smile. A killer sits beside you, his complete attention on you, and you’re exactly where you wanted to be.

“Good evening,” you reply lightly.

“Young love, huh?” he asks, gesturing with his chin to the young pregnant couple sharing a milkshake at the other side of the diner. “I bet they’ll be fun parents.”

You laugh humorlessly and look down at your sugar packet as you murmur, “I wouldn’t know what that looks like.”

He frowns sympathetically and offers, “Let me get you another drink?”

Though you want to agree and speed through this part, you remain hesitant, a faux vigilance. The Fatherless leaves plenty of room between you, making it feel like you’re in charge.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says to the waitress. When you look at him again, he smiles and shrugs. “It looks good.”

“It is good,” you reply, letting your eyes drift back to the happy couple.

“I used to imagine that my parents looked like that,” he muses. “But then I remember my dad was a deadbeat who left before I started preschool.”

“Now that I can understand.” You nod as you look at your empty cup.

“Ready for that drink?” he guesses.

You smile sheepishly, and he turns to order another drink before he slides off the barstool and sits on the other side of your booth.

“Your dad leave too?” he inquires, treating it like another mundane subject.

He asks open-ended questions but feeds you information he shouldn’t even know. You know what he’s doing, and you will play his game for as long as it takes.

“Yeah. I mean, in hindsight, I guess I should’ve seen it coming,” you answer.

“You were older?”

As you continue answering his questions, talking more and touching your drink less, you notice his eyes keep flitting to your cup. There was no evidence of him drugging the previous victims, so he must be pulling out all of the stops for you, his first target who defends herself and others for a living.

“So, you go hang out by yourself when you’re feeling like this?” The Fatherless asks.

“Depends on the day,” you say. “And the feeling.”

“I used to go sit on one of the bridges over the Los Angeles River and just stare into it.”

“That helped?”

“Almost every time. Something about the concrete lining on what should have been natural just… put everything into perspective, I suppose.”

“Typically, I try to escape thoughts of my dad,” you point out with a smile.

“And staring into murky water doesn’t help with that?” he challenges.

“That’s fair. I think I’d like to see it, give it a try.”

“We aren’t far from a viaduct.”

“I didn’t drive,” you complain. “The one time I decide to walk to clear my head.”

“I’ve got a car. If you’re comfortable with that.”

You pretend to deliberate his offer, then smile and stand. He leaves some cash on the table – cheap tipper, you think – and then leads you to a nondescript black Mustang. As he walks to the driver’s side, you slow and memorize the license plate.

“You know, one thing I never considered before is how lucky I am that I don’t have to worry about who will walk me down the aisle,” he says as he opens the door. “I guess your daddy issues are why you go for Sergeant Salt ‘n’ Pepper, though, huh?”

You don’t expect the comment, and it makes you stop. How The Fatherless managed to find the one thing you haven’t thought about for years, your wedding day, and how strange it might be without a father figure confuses you. More, the fact that he brought Deacon into this causes you to freeze.

“C’mon,” he urges, likely sensing your sudden discomfort.

“Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “Got lost there for a second, didn’t I?”

As you get into the car, you know you’re doing the right thing but are admittedly scared now. If he knows that much about your life presently, who knows how much information he has on your childhood or family. He talks during the short drive to the viaduct, and you force yourself to keep the conversation going.

It’s weird. Your dad is who he is; you’ve moved on from the pain and heartbreak he put you through, and that’s what this guy is supposed to care about. But, because of The Fatherless, you’re thinking about something else. Is it possible that everything that exists or could exist between you and Deacon is just because of that?

Standing on a viaduct over the Los Angeles River, The Fatherless stands too close to you. He reaches for a weapon, but you’re too slow, not even raising your hand before there’s a gun in your face. Defenseless, you stand still as an engine rumbles before footsteps pound against the pavement.

“LAPD SWAT, drop the weapon!” Hondo yells.

“You’re surrounded, man,” Luca adds. “It’s over.”

“Put the gun down and step back!” Hondo repeats.

You stare into his eyes, looking past the gun. The moment he begins to lower his arm, Luca and Street rush forward and detain him before passing him off to another officer. With the police lights reflecting off the water below you, you look to your team as you fight to keep your emotions inside.

“That was the stupidest, most reckless act of incompetence I have ever seen!” Hondo yells, taking a heated step toward you.

Street raises his arm quickly, slapping his hand against Hondo’s chest. When Hondo stops, Street shakes his head but keeps his eyes on you. He can tell there’s something else wrong, more than you not defending yourself. You’re surprised, however, when someone else seems to notice it.

Deacon walks toward you, where you stand at the edge of the concrete platform. Stopping several steps back, Deacon doesn’t touch you but waits for you to do something. Down the bridge from you, the surveillance team that was watching and listening from the moment you stepped into the diner tells Hicks, Hondo, Luca, and Street what The Fatherless said to you.

When they hear that he brought someone you care about now into the conversation, they look back to you and Deacon. Hondo sighs while Luca runs his fingers through his hair, and Street murmurs, “No,” under his breath.

“I told Street I didn’t want the daughters of Los Angeles to pay for the sins of our fathers,” you begin. “But we can’t escape it. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to forgive him and move on, I’m still broken inside because of what he did.”

“You’re not broken,” Deacon insists.

“Then why do I look for love everywhere but only find it where I can’t have it?!” you ask, your voice rising as you step back.

Deacon raises his hands as you near the edge of the overpass. Your team moves forward, too, but everything else slows down.

“He was right, Deacon,” you murmur.

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Yes, he was! I love things that I can’t have because one of the few times I loved something with my entire heart, my dad shattered it.”

“Look where you are now,” Deacon demands, his arms still out toward you. “Despite that pain, in spite of everything he did to you, you are here. You have a career you love, a team that loves you like family, a-“

“Please stop saying love,” you interrupt.

“We love you,” Deacon finishes. “And we don’t care about what your dad did or didn’t do because we love you, scars and all."

You wipe a stray tear from your jaw, and Deacon takes another step toward you.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Differently than I’ve ever loved anything before.”

Your breath catches, but Deacon would never lie to you. You sniff and ask, “So, you don’t think I’m attracted to you just because of my daddy issues?”

Deacon smiles at your question, shakes his head, and offers his hand. You place your hand in his, grateful for the warmth of his glove, and then he pulls you against his chest and hugs you tightly. Safe in his arms, you let yourself cry, barely registering his movements as he carefully directs you away from the viaduct.

A moment later, more arms wrap around you as your team joins in your group hug. You laugh through the tears, loving each one for different reasons. And, just as you love them, they love you. This is your family, and this kind of love transcends generational curses and past traumas. You’re all different people, shaped by your pains and experiences, but you fit together. The people in this hug are your family: perfect pieces held together by love.

As Deacon follows you into your home, you know he will offer to stay, but you have something you’ve needed to say for a long time.

“I love you, too,” you admit. “I’m in love with you, and I have been for years.”

Deacon smiles as he offers his hand again; you take it, willing to go anywhere with him. He kisses your forehead and then leads you to the kitchen. The possibilities are endless now that your feelings are out in the open. You can do anything, be anything with Deacon.

For tonight, though, you want to sit with him and remember that you’re loved, and you can love as hard as you want because the sins of your father are not your responsibility nor a weight you must bear. Who you are now is who Deacon loves, and that’s exactly what you want to be.

#david deacon kay x reader #deacon kay x reader #david kay x reader #david deacon kay #deacon kay #fem!reader #hanna writes✯#swat cbs #swat x reader #swat

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jjkamochoso · 1 month ago

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Yuji Itadori SFW Alphabet

Angst, Fluff

Yuji Itadori x gn!reader

Request from Wattpad

Warnings: none

A: Anxiety: does he get nervous around you?

He definitely does but not in an awkward, can’t-breathe-around-you type of way, more of like you’re-so-attractive-I-can’t-believe-you-like-me-like-that type of way. He lives to laugh and have fun so if he ever gets nervous, expect him to be open and honest with you about it!

B: Balloon: how does he celebrate milestones with you?

Yuji LOVES a good get together. Any excuse to bring his favorite people together in celebration of anything (birthdays, holidays, the newest installment of Human Earthworm…). If it’s your birthday, expect a huge party filled with your favorite foods and a bunch of presents. Anniversaries are quieter with him and he would treat you to a large bouquet of flowers and a well thought out gift that will bring tears to your eyes.

C: Cute: what does he do when you call him cute?

His smile is so big and bright, it can be seen across the globe, blinding millions!

D: Dates: what kind of dates does he prefer?

Movie dates!

Did I mention movie dates???

He pounces on any chance to snuggle up with you and watch a good (or bad!) film; it fills him with indescribable joy to laugh along with you at comedies or have you cling to him during scary scenes.

E: Erupt: what do disagreements or fights look like between you?

You often debate silly things such as which chip flavor is the best or what seat in the subway has the greatest views, which can admittedly get pretty heated. True arguments are few and far between, and mostly surround his penchant for running into danger headfirst as you don’t want to see him get hurt or die any more than he already has.

F: Favorite: what’s his favorite body part on you?

Yuji loves your stomach! No matter if you’re lean, chubby, hairy, or anything in between, his hands always find their way to your stomach, eager for the comfort he feels when pawing at your skin. His favorite part of the day is when he can lie with his head on your perfect stomach and rest; it’s his most sacred safe space.

G: Goals: what does he want from this relationship? (Long term, casual, etc.)

Yuji is a simple man when it comes to romance: he’ll be with his partner as long as his partner wants to be with him. If that means you’re together forever, that’s more than fine by him! He definitely isn’t envisioning marriage any time soon, but he’s excited for it after he hits a certain age.

H: Hugs: does he like giving/recieving hugs?

You genuinely have to PRY this boy off of you if you don’t want his hugs to last all day. Yuji takes any chance he has to envelop you in his arms and hold you close to him, smushing your bodies together tightly as he rambles about whatever is on his mind.

Can you tell physical touch is his favorite love language?

I: Insecure: what are his biggest insecurities in the relationship?

They definitely have nothing to do with the fact that he’s hosting an ancient, extremely deadly and bloodthirsty curse that could take control of his body and mind at any given moment.

Nope, not at all.

But really, his biggest insecurity is that you’ll wake up one day and realize there are so many other men that could provide you with the stability and protection you deserve. Yuji often stresses about hurting or killing you if Sukuna ever takes control of him again.

J: Jealousy: does he get jealous often?

Not really! Yuji’s not shocked that others flirt with you; you’re stunning! He usually just laughs it off, happy that you got a discount from the cashier who thought you were cute or enjoys the free drink you received from the employee at the boba place. If it somehow seems like you’re liking the attention from others too much, though, he’ll get down in the dumps until you reassure him that you’re his.

K: Kiss: where’s his favorite place to kiss you?

Your cheeks! He loves the up close view of your eyes crinkling with joy every time his lips land on your face.

L: Love: who says “I love you” first?

He does! The words easily slipped from Yuji’s mouth one day while you two were hanging out. It all felt so natural and instinctual that it took you a few minutes to register what he had said!

M: Mornings: how are mornings spent with him?

One word: lazy.

Yuji never wants to get out of bed. You would describe him akin to an anchor, holding you down in your giant sea of a bed and blankets. Never does he wake up early and rarely does he get up on time, choosing to cuddle with you as long as possible.

N: Nights: how are nights spent with him?

Yuji is one of those people who immediately falls into deep sleep as soon as their head touches a pillow. There’s no nightly routine with this boy—he’ll be snoring before you have your pajamas on.

O: Open: when does he start to reveal things about himself to you? Is it gradual or all at once?

Beneath the bubbly, happy-go-lucky exterior, Yuji is very thoughtful and caring. He’d be ready to tell you things about himself quickly, but would do so in a manner that wouldn’t be overwhelming to you since he’d been through many hardships in such a short amount of time.

P: Protective: is he very protective of you?

YES. YES YES YES. Did someone look at you wrong? He’ll talk to them. Wrong order? It’ll be fixed, don’t you worry. A man is making you uncomfortable? He can and will fight him if needed. Yuji doesn’t want anyone else he cares about to get hurt so he’d do his best to protect you from anything and everything.

Q: Quiz: how much of the little things does he remember about you?

He remembers some things about you, especially surrounding your likes and dislikes, but his memory could use a little work. His saving grace is that he’s an extremely good guesser which works out in his favor when he buys you gifts for holidays.

R: Regret: what does he wish he could change about your relationship?

He wishes he had a family to bring you home to. Growing up, the prospect of his family hosting a huge dinner in honor of the first time they met his partner sounded like such an amazing time to him, yet when he came of age, all of this family members had passed on, leaving him to be the last Itadori. That doesn’t bother you in the least bit, however Yuji gets upset that he’ll never be able to experience big family holidays with both of your families.

S: Show Off: does he show you off to his friends or family?

Does a star shine in the dark? Is the sky blue?

Um YES. He takes any chance he can get to show you off to anyone and everyone who looks your way. He’s proud to hold you tight in a crowd and is quick to shout words of approval your way and tell everyone exactly who you are to him (i.e him yelling, “good job, y/n!” *turning to strangers around him, beaming like a lighthouse in the depth of night* “that’s MY partner!”)

T: There, there: how does he comfort you when you’re upset?

Yuji is the king of distraction! To get your mind off things, he’ll offer to take you somewhere fun, watch a movie, even pick at grass outside, anything to wash away the sadness you’re feeling. Between all the distraction, though, Yuji will grace you with profound sayings and wise advice that helps you work through whatever you’re going through.

U: Utopia: what’s his dream life with you?

This poor boy needs a break from all of the suffering he’s dealt with in the short span of his life thus far. His dream life is sure to come true as long as you’re there—he’s not picky about the details. He wishes for fun days with you and his friends, and easy nights with the two of you cuddled up on a couch.

He also can’t wait to adopt an animal with you one day :)

V: Values: what are fundamental traits he looks for in a partner/relationship?

Kindness—he needs someone that treats him with a special kind of tenderness he can’t find anywhere else

Positivity—someone who can usually keep a smile on their face, and in turn, his face, is a definite plus for Yuji

Trust—as the vessel for the monstrosity that is Sukuna, Yuji can barely trust himself; to know that his partner has his back no matter what they both experience is a huge deal to him

W: Work: what effort does he put in to keep the relationship strong?

Academically, Yuji might not be the best, but when it comes to personal relationships, he’s the top of his class. He works HARD to keep your relationship on the right track, making sure you’re feeling secure and loved the way you deserve to be. He never gives up on anything he believes in and refuses to let one of the best things in his life (you, of course!) slip through his grasp due to a lack of caring or communication on his part.

X: eXpressive: how does he show his love?

Yuji shows love through physical touch and words of affirmation. He likes to keep at least one hand on you at all times, often slinging an arm around your shoulder or holding your hand while in public. He throws you compliments like they’re candy and you’re at a parade; that’s to say, you’re never going to be without sweet words from him!

Y: Yikes: what bad habits or red flags does he possess?

Yuji’s propensity to run headfirst into danger is commendable, but this bad habit stresses you out to no end. If you ever try to talk to him about it, he’ll understand where you’re coming from but would never agree to turning the other cheek in the face of injustice.

On a lighter note, I feel like he’s also a bit messy and doesn’t keep up with cleaning his room as much as he should, clothes and old snack packages strewn about the floor and bed.

Z: Zany: what silly things do you do together?

You two love to take silly pictures! You always strike the funniest poses whether in the frame together or with one of you behind the camera. Of course, your phone wallpapers are constantly updated with every new selfie or photo of each other!

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always-andromeda · 2 months ago

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₊⊹⁀➴ 𝑺𝑭𝑾 𝑨𝒍𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒕

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Benson x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4,107

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Soooo...uhhh...I've been into Kyle Gallner for a while now...and I've been very into him as Benson in The Passenger specifically. So this is me sort of warming up to write him in some actual fics. Forgive me if my characterization is off at all. I haven't seen The Passenger in almost a year so I'm basing some analysis on my terrible memory lol. Anyhoo. I actually enjoyed prattling this one out!! I tend to get a little longwinded and let myself write a bit more casually with these. I like having fun with alphabets. So I hope this is enjoyed by the handful of Kyle fans on here lol. Credit for all dividers goes to @strangergraphics!!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | no smut (regardless, I am not comfortable with minors interacting with my blog, period), bits of fluff and angst, elements of toxicity, allusions to Benson's neglectful childhood and possible SA, doesn't follow the canon of the film, nothing else I can think of!!

A = Affectionate (How affectionate are they?)

Benson’s generally pretty minimal on touchy-feely stuff. He thinks public displays of it are especially tacky. However, he will use it to his advantage if he can. If he’s trying to convince you of something he’ll get real close and cup your cheek or the back of your neck. More disarming than the physical aspect is his penchant for intense eye contact. His eyes themselves are just so expressive, you come to learn exactly what each one of his little looks mean and can read him better than pretty much anyone.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How does the friendship start?)

For a long while you’d sort of think he hates you. He’s on the quiet side. And not a shy sort of quiet. It’s a say the wrong word to him and you’ll regret it sort of quiet. You’d be walking on eggshells around him until he makes first contact. Maybe one day he’ll catch you doing some activity you enjoy on your lunch break. He’ll make you jump out of your skin when he says, “Didn’t peg you as that kind of girl.” And before you can even ask what kind of girl did you peg me as? he’s already walked off.

Had you ever even heard his voice before that moment? You can’t even fucking remember. But you’re kind of surprised his first words to you aren’t also the last.

Both in the sense that he just emanates that “could snap at any moment” energy but also in the sense that he just keeps randomly projecting himself into your life. He makes more little comments, watches you in a way that makes your skin crawl, yet he actually sees you.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How do they cuddle?)

Only in the middle of the night and sometimes mornings. At the end of a long day, he wants his personal space. But don’t be surprised if you wake up in the middle of the night with his arm slung around you and his face buried in your neck as he snores softly. He’ll hold you so firmly; in his eyes it’s something close to possession.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How good are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Honestly, Benson’s sort of surprised to have lived as long as he has. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine being with someone who he could tolerate and who could tolerate him in return.

So domesticity and everything it entails is completely lost on him. So many single men live like absolute creatures and Benson is on a similar level. I mean, he can clean decently enough. Hell, cleaning is part of his job. So he prefers keeping his space clean. Cleanliness isn’t an issue with him as much as disorganization and discordance is?

He has like three plates in his cupboard. None of them match. And one of them has a massive crack down the middle of it so he doesn’t use it. He has one (1) mug for coffee in the morning. And that’s the one (1) dish he doesn’t ever clean because he heavily believes that all his years of using it has “seasoned” it. Can’t really cook for shit. He can feed himself adequately enough but he still doesn’t eat very well. He sort of uses it as an excuse to find all of the cheap, hidden gem restaurants and food trucks in town. This man will get himself a burrito at some food truck and bada bing, bada boom, that’s dinner and then breakfast in the morning!! What a resourceful guy!!

E = Ending (If they had to break up with you, how would they do it?)

No matter how fucked up this guy is, I don’t think he ever would. If he loves you, he’s there for fucking life. But for argument’s sake, I firmly believe he’d be a break up in person type of guy. Even then, I still think he’d be somewhat flippant about it. He can’t bring himself to be the asshole who throws out the cliché it’s not you, it’s me routine even though that’d 100% be his reasoning for doing it in the first place.

He’d very bluntly tell you, “This isn’t working out. It’d be better if we went our separate ways.” That’s the most he’ll give you. No explanations. No opportunities to work things out. Absolutely nothing. If he doesn’t think he can be good for you, then he’ll banish himself. And since you only deserve good things, in his mind it’s incredibly simple. Probably traumatizing or at the very least moderately upsetting for you to go through and that part especially kills him. But it’s for the better. So even though it’d break his heart too, he’d deal with it.

F = Fiancé (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Loyalty and commitment? He fucks hard with those sentiments. Marriage, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. He definitely has a I don’t need the government to say it’s cool we’re together sort of mindset about the whole thing. All the formality is jack shit to him.

If you absolutely have to get married someday, he’ll settle for a small courthouse shindig and even that would be pushing it. A big wedding is the one thing he’d vehemently and guiltlessly deny you. Just the thought of all the fake family members showing up for a photo op, the relentless judgement, the pageantry, and the money wasted that could’ve gone into getting a more comfortable place for you and him? It all makes him seethe.

All he needs is you. He doesn’t need witnesses or approval from anyone. Only you.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, physically and emotionally?)

He fluctuates pretty wildly between tenderness and severity. Some moments he’s cold, quiet, and can't handle being touched. Other times he’s your gentle guy, laying his head on your lap after a long day just to flush out the frustration from his system.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often would they hug you? What are their hugs like?)

Not the biggest hugger in the world? And he definitely doesn’t consider himself to be the kind of guy who wants or needs them either. I think he’s just so touch starved that he doesn’t even recognize how truly starved he is. If you’re more inclined to expressing your love through physical affection, it takes a while for him to get used to it. Slowly but surely he’ll become your stubborn black cat that cuddles up with you as if this is just part of the job description as your boyfriend. But you best believe if you disentangle yourself before he’s ready to let go, he’s pulling you right back against his chest.

I = I love you (Who is the first to say, "I love you"?)

You would absolutely have to be the first to say it. Because he just wouldn’t see the importance in stating it outright. In his mind, words don’t impact anything. He knows how he feels. And he tries as best as he can to show it. If you need to be told it, he must be fucking things up. Verbal communication isn’t his strong suit in that way.

So when you first say it, he’s almost startled. There’s a small voice in him that immediately wonders what did I do wrong? Are you breaking up with me? Because why else would you look at him like that? Why does he suddenly feel like a dog being fed chocolate because they’re being euthanized the next day? He doesn’t really understand that sometimes words do matter and just hearing them aloud can be reassuring.

A lot of the time he’ll return you saying it with a gruff, “Love you too,” before pushing the anxiety from his mind as quickly as he can.

J = Jealousy (How jealous are they?)

Benson’s jealousy is uhhhh…borderline lethal? Granted, that anger isn’t directed at you. And he knows you wouldn’t fuck around on him. But even when he’s getting up in the face of some other guy and telling him that you’ve already got a boyfriend, it can get a little too intense.

For your sake, he tries to keep his fists out of the equation. He’ll still keep a mental note of any guy around you who might be a little too close for his liking. Juuuuust in case.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like?)

Benson kisses the correct way (according to him): deep and slow. There’s no quick, sloppy kisses with him. Just ones that completely steal the air from your lungs and all thoughts from your brain. He’ll typically grasp your chin or cup your jaw while doing so. He also has the tendency to groan into them a little bit which makes it all the worse. When he pulls back for air, he’ll rest his forehead against yours and keep his eyes closed for a few seconds. Even if he’s not intending to go any further, he kisses like he wants to.

L = Little ones (How are they around kids?Do they want any?)

Kids make him a little antsy. Working in the service industry almost his entire life he’s seen droves of shitty parents who let their kids scream and run around the store rubbing their sticky little hands all over everything. It makes his job about a hundred times more difficult.

Say you’ve got younger relatives or children of friends that you bring him around. He’s very reluctant about spending much time around them. They’ll show him their toys or whatever “cool trick” they learned and he’ll just tersely smile at them before saying, “That’s great, kid.”

He’s annoyed by them at first. But if they’re decently behaved, they’ll grow on him. He’ll let your niece practice hair braiding on him (as long as she washes her hands at least twice beforehand). He’ll reluctantly sit in on tea parties even though he thinks it’s kind of silly that he’s being expected to pretend your nieces teddy bears and dolls give a single shit about etiquette. But hey, if it makes you and her happy, fine.

He’ll play action figures with them too. You know how kids will “yes, and…” their way through playing pretend? Benson is fucking brilliant at it. Your little cousin will go, “My guy has laser eyes and he just cut your guys leg off!!” and Benson will go, “Well…my guy is part lizard so his legs grow back.” And he says it with such a “yeah, that’s right, get fucked” sort of tone that you have to roll your eyes at your boyfriend beefing with a child through Minecraft action figures.

Despite all this, I still firmly believe he wouldn’t willingly have kids of his own (unless it was an accident…but that’s a whole different story lmao).

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Mornings can be a little messy. If he’s scheduled for an opening shift, he’s probably out of the door before six. If you don’t have to be awake, he’ll try his best not to wake you. But he’ll softly kiss your head before leaving for the day and telling you he’ll see you when he gets home. He definitely uses his off days to catch up on sleep. That means waking up to him clinging to you like his life depends on it and groaning grouchily if you pull away.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Benson’s first priority at the end of the day is having a nice, long shower. He probably reeks of sweat and oil and his skin just feels disgusting. So he won’t even let you touch him too much when he gets home. He gives you a quick kiss at the most before heading off to the bathroom and washing away the day.

And I’m sorry, but the man isn’t afraid to bitch about his day. Like when he emerges from your shared bedroom with some comfier clothes on, he is venting about something one of his stupid coworkers said or a difficult customer he had to deal with. Whatever semblance of a “customer service attitude” he puts on at work is just GONE.

Once he’s tuckered himself out, he’ll ask how your day went, hoping it was better than his. Aside from the talk, he likes spending evenings catching up on whatever shows you and him watch together or diving into a shitty movie; maybe I’m just projecting (I’m 100% projecting) but he really strikes me as a guy who enjoys laughing at a bad horror movie in order to destress.

O = Open (When do they start revealing things about themself? Is it all at once or bit by bit?)

Benson is very much a mixed bag. When you’re first getting to know him, you wonder where his angst and pessimism comes from. Has he experienced some sort of trauma that’s influenced him in this way or is he just another guy who thinks being a dick is cool? You aren’t sure which one you’d rather it be.

Unfortunately, however, it’s the former. And Benson keeps it extremely close to his chest. For one, he refuses to let you meet his mother for an extremely long time. And when you finally do, he promises himself that that’s the only time you’ll be in the same room as her. After that point he’ll start to tell his story in bits and pieces. He’ll admit that he used to be a pretty happy kid but won’t go much further than that. He’ll explain that his dad left the picture when he was young so he doesn’t remember much of him. He’ll list the string of shitty, nameless boyfriends his mother brought home.

You gather that she wasn’t there for him almost ever. Not even when it mattered the most. You start to understand why he wears such a hard shell. Though there are a lot of things he leaves unspoken, you make it as clear as possible to him that he doesn’t have to be afraid of whatever’s left inside him; that if you can ever lighten the load for him, you would in a heartbeat. He appreciates it, truly. But there are some things he’s not ready to see in the light of day yet.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

You’re probably one of the only people in the world he extends any amount of patience towards. Because most things sort of annoy the shit out of him. And even if you’re trying to annoy him, he probably just finds it sort of silly?

I just have this image in my head where you played a joke on him by signing him up for some random ass mailing list. So now whenever he gets an email for fucking farmersonly dot com or a Michael Jackson fanclub that’s all in Bulgarian, he can’t help but roll his eyes and tell you that you’re so dumb while laughing under his breath. He could never really get truly mad at you unless you were doing something sincerely stupid.

Q = Quizzes (How much do they remember things about you? Do they remember everything in passing or do they forget everything?)

This man remembers fucking everything. Even the smallest, unspoken things end up seared into his mind. Of course there are the mundane things like the way you take your coffee or tea. But then he’ll recall just how much you spent on jeans the last time you went clothes shopping. He’ll remember the exact date you said you got your childhood pet. He has a pretty phenomenal memory but he’ll always brush you off when you point out how crazy his accuracy is.

R = Remember (What is their favourite moment in your relationship?)

It’s the most innocuous moment from before you and Benson really defined your relationship, actually. Back then it was this nebulous connection; not quite a friendship, but definitely not a romantic relationship yet. Instead it was some strange third thing where he found himself wanting to be around you more than most people.

So he invited you to a little get together with some of his friends. They’d meet every once in a while to catch up. They’re old friends; people he trusts. So he asks if you’d like to come with him sometime.

You’re hesitant. For one, you couldn’t fathom him having friends. Then you scold yourself internally for the assumption. Of course he has friends!! And he must consider you something akin to one too if he’s inviting you to go out with them outside of work!! The butterflies are fluttering in your stomach before you even say yes to tagging along.

Perhaps you like Benson. Perhaps you’d like him to like you too. So you try the whole night to make the best impression possible. His friends tease him about bringing a girl along until you clarify that you and him are just friends and Benson agrees. Then both of you try to pretend that that assertion doesn’t sting just a little teeny tiny bit.

But there’s a moment when he’s dropping you off at home when the night ends. You thank him for the invite and say you had a lot of fun as he pulls up to your place. And when you get out, he expects you to be gone. Instead, you walk around his truck and linger at the driver’s side.

Then you say with a tired smile, “See you tomorrow, Benny.”

Benny.

Normally only his mother calls him that. And he fucking hates it when she does. It makes his blood boil and pound in his ears. Makes him want to tear something apart and scream at her for daring to treat him like he’s still a boy. And yes, hearing you say it puts him on edge and his blood starts to simmer. But it stays right there. The nerves in his fingers begin to twitch and he’s fidgety the whole drive back to his place. Like he’s just waiting to hear it again. Waiting to hear your voice call him that sweet little nickname again. Knowing that he’d now forever think that just Benson was so stuffy and ancient sounding.

His favorite memory is the moment he realized he wanted to be your Benny.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Extremely protective. Similar to his jealousy, when Benny goes into protection mode, all bets are off. As far as protecting him goes, he likes to think that he doesn’t need protecting. He’s got all the answers. He can take care of himself.

So, naturally, you often end up protecting him from himself. Which means talking him down from the occasional anxiety spiral before he slips too far down the drain, encouraging him to be a little gentler to himself, and reminding him that he can’t solve every issue with brute force.

Benson tries to protect you from the world, you try to protect him from the big black void that is his anger.

T = Try (How much effort do they put into dates/anniversaries/etc?)

He tries his best, truly he does. He never forgets an anniversary and is as attentive as he can be when you’re together. But sometimes he just doesn’t have the cash to give you everything he wishes he could. The cynical side of him says that the fancy dinners and expensive gifts are all superficial bullshit and that he shouldn’t care that he can’t give everything on a silver platter. The other part of him (the part that’s in looooove <3) so desperately wants to give you everything. He wants to give you a reason to look at him with that soft expression of pride you get sometimes.

To make up for it all, he takes you to all of his favorite spots in town. The back alley food trucks, the hole in the wall bars, the takeout places where everything on the menu is in a language he doesn’t even understand. He shows you the few bright spots in his world and hopes that you’ll see what he does in them.

U = Ugly (What is a bad habit of theirs?)

Aside from the jealousy and overprotectiveness, Benson’s definitely got some bad habits that are a little less cerebral. The worst is probably his smoking. He tries to break the habit a few times, especially when you remark once that his kisses taste like ash. But he ends up getting another pack at the gas station after less than a week of trying. The least awful of his bad habits are how he picks at his skin. I just know this man chews the fuck out of his cuticles, especially if he can’t have a smoke for whatever reason.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He’s pretty average as far as the care he takes in his appearance. He keeps clean, grooms his facial if it starts to get unruly, and tries to keep his work uniform as spotless as possible (though he’ll never be able to get rid of the stench of beef fat and stale fry oil).

He’s actually got a pretty fun sense of style outside of work. He’s got an exquisite collection of t-shirts with super metal art pieces on them that he takes pride in. And man, we’ve all seen his furry hazelnut yellow cardigan!! The man likes to be comfy!! So I definitely see him as the type to typically lean towards comfort over fashion. Still got some dope ass t-shirts though!!

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He’d be reluctant in admitting it to himself; being so dependent on someone is so far out of his wheelhouse. But he’s inclined to believe that he has no clue what he’d do if you weren’t there.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

I see him being a big vinyl enjoyer. And a guy with a DVD collection. He’s just a massive physical media snob in general in my eyes. Those are pretty much the only things he has an abundance of and he gets really defensive if you tell him to just stream something lol.

Y = Yuck (What is something they wouldn't like either in a partner or in general?)

Straight up? Asshole behavior. Like if he sees you being mean to a service worker? Or witnesses you being needlessly rude to anyone in general? His opinion immediately sours. Everything he once thought was interesting about you immediately becomes so ugly to him.

Z = Zzz (What are their sleep habits?)

Terrible!! Benny’s sleeping habits are terrible!! Those tired eyes of his aren’t a fashion statement!! They’re a lifestyle, babe!! You don’t get dark circles like that on accident lmao.

He tries to sleep most nights. But there are some where he’s just…awake. He’s getting up just so he can stop staring at the ceiling; just stop thinking about the world and his life and how you fit (or don’t fit) into it all. Then he’s mindlessly turning on the TV but not really watching it before going outside to smoke a cigarette.

He’s taking a long puff of his cigarette when you find him outside. Your eyes are bleary, face a little puffy, and hair a bit of a mess. And you’re freezing standing out in the cold night air with your thin pajamas. Immediately the guilt overwhelms him. Just because he’s fucked, it doesn’t mean you’ve gotta be fucked too.

Even though he says you don’t have to wait up for him, you do anyway. With your arms crossed over your chest and chattering teeth, you wait. Benson doesn’t even finish his smoke. He puts it out and lets you lead him by the hand back to bed. He lets you wrap yourself around him, holding him to you as if you hope it’ll keep him there until the end of time itself. He breathes deeply and gradually melts into your embrace as your body warms back up.

Floating somewhere between reality and dreamland, you manage to mumble, “Love ya, Benny. Night.”

Amongst all that trauma and guilt and the overwhelming desire to take care of you always, he can occasionally admit that it’s a little nice to be taken care of too; to be seen.

Just because he’s fucked now, it doesn’t mean he’s gotta be fucked forever.

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#the passenger #the passenger fanfic #kyle gallner #kyle gallner fanfic #benson the passenger #benson the passenger x reader #benson x reader

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jamilelucato · 4 months ago

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Secrets We Keep - 4 [F. W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Summary: As [y/n] Malfoy prepares for her arranged marriage, she grapples with her disillusionment and longing for freedom. Fred Weasley haunts her thoughts, and she ultimately escapes the life set for her.

Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.

A/N: And here we are, the end of this story. It’s been a journey filled with both sadness and relief. Writing this was tough, especially with [y/n]’s bittersweet path. I hope some of you found something to connect with, even if it’s dark. Thank you for sticking with me!

PART FOUR

The beginning of planning her arranged marriage came the summer after her seventh year at Hogwarts. [y/n] Malfoy stood in the ornate study of Malfoy Manor, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and old parchment. She turned the first reply card over in her hands, its edges embossed with gold. Thanking them for the invitation, it read, with all the decorum expected from their circle. The white, gilt-edged invitations had already been sent—date, time, and place meticulously planned by Narcissa, who had a penchant for perfection.

“The Carrows are a respectable family,” [y/n] muttered under her breath, echoing the words her parents had so often said. Her voice was low, sardonic. “This union secures alliances and ensures my… comfortable life.”

Comfortable. The word tasted bitter, coated in disillusionment. It would undoubtedly be a life of luxury; she did not doubt the Carrows' wealth could rival her own family’s. But what did comfort mean in the world her parents envisioned? Gilded cages and polished chains.

Her eyes landed on a parchment resting atop the mahogany desk—a letter from Alecto Carrow’s eldest son, her husband-to-be. She had never met him. His handwriting was beautiful, each stroke elegant, the ink gliding across the page as though it carried importance. The words, however, felt hollow: “I am glad to unite our families through you. I have heard a great deal about your refinement and grace.”

She snorted softly. Refinement and grace? Was that all she amounted to in his eyes?

Well, not shockingly, she knew almost nothing of him—his name only barely etched in her memory. Aiden, or perhaps it was Alec? The family seemed fond of ‘A’ names, but for all she knew, she might as well have been marrying the patriarch, Alecto himself. The letter continued, a boastful recounting of his horses, estates, and their holdings in Scotland.

[y/n] skimmed the page, her interest waning. A man should write of himself if he hoped to court a woman properly. How tall was he? Athletic or slender? Did he carry himself with dignity or merely posture? Was he clever—prone to unconventional thoughts and daring solutions? Was he kind or fierce, perhaps fire-hearted enough to intrigue her? What she needed was not a list of properties, but a glimpse of the man behind the name.

But none of that mattered. Not really. Whether charming or dull, she would marry him. She had no choice in the matter. Yet, as she stared at the letter, she found herself scoffing not only at its lack of substance but at the bitter truth beneath her dissatisfaction: he wasn’t Fred Weasley. No description of his athleticism or cleverness, no fiery wit or daring spirit leapt from the page. Her fiancé’s words painted no picture of a man who could make her laugh, challenge her, or infuriate her with his reckless bravery. He wasn’t Fred, and that fact gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.

Fred Weasley—a reckless, foolish symbol of rebellion. And look what it had earned her: nothing but a hollow engagement and a life she could barely stomach. Nothing had changed.

“You are a Malfoy,” Lucius’s voice cut sharply through her thoughts, heavy with authority. “Act like it.”

And so she did. Or, at least, she performed.

The Death Eater meetings were a far cry from the glittering parties of her youth. Held in secret locations, they carried an oppressive air of dark rituals and whispered schemes. As the engagement solidified, [y/n] found herself attending more often. As a woman among men, she was dismissed as an accessory—a passive observer left to linger in shadowed corners or in the kitchens of the grand houses that hosted these gatherings.

She loathed every second. The words exchanged were laced with cruelty and bloodlust, ambition tainted by the iron tang of violence. In those moments, she felt like an intruder in a world where morality had been strangled. Yet, she could not leave. Not without consequence.

Her introduction to her betrothed came at one such meeting. The parlour was steeped in tradition, its atmosphere stifling with expectations. She wore her finest robes, their emerald sheen catching the dim light as she extended her hand. She almost faltered when introduced, realizing she had barely committed his first name to memory. Was it Aiden, Alec, or perhaps another forgettable 'A'? The realization brought a faint blush of irritation to her cheeks, but she masked it swiftly, her polished exterior remaining intact.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Aiden,” she said, her voice polished and detached.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss [y/n],” he replied, brushing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. His touch was impersonal, his gaze measured. A performance, like hers.

She held back a sigh. What was this, 1878? She half-expected him to recite poetry while fanning himself with a handkerchief. Every word exchanged felt rehearsed, devoid of any genuine curiosity or intent to connect. He seemed as uninterested in knowing her as she was in him, their interaction a hollow charade orchestrated by their parents. She still didn’t know the man before her, and he had done nothing to change that.

All of it felt like a relic of another age, a carefully choreographed performance where neither party could deviate from the script. The whole evening felt less like her life and more like a contract being signed on her behalf, one inked with duty and sealed with tradition. And yet, she entertained a sliver of hope. Perhaps their closeness in age—a mere four years—might bridge the gap. Perhaps he would turn out to be interesting, a distraction from the thoughts of another boy with fire in his heart.

Her mother’s subtle gestures through the evening—a gentle touch on her arm, a fleeting glance—were meant to reassure her. Instead, they felt like chains tightening with every breath.

The final straw came at the dress fitting. The shop was a cathedral of decadence, its silk-draped walls and crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over racks of gowns. Madam Yvette, a master seamstress, fluttered around [y/n] like a diligent bird, pinning, measuring, adjusting.

When she finally stood before the mirror, she gasped. The dress was a marvel, its white silk threaded with silver and encrusted with tiny, sparkling gems. It clung to her frame like a dream, each movement casting ripples of light. It was everything a bride could desire.

She desired it.

She hated how much she loved it. The gown was a masterpiece, a testament to wealth and artistry. Yet, staring at her reflection, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls from her childhood—beautiful, fragile, and utterly lifeless.

There was a need to loathe it. To make the dress a symbol of her rebellion, a thing she could despise as easily as the life it represented. But it was perfect, and that perfection mocked her. This was no rebellion. It was surrender.

That night, beneath the pale light of an enchanted candle, [y/n] made her decision. It was not a sudden resolve, but one that had been growing, coiling tighter with every restrictive expectation placed upon her. She packed quietly, methodically, her movements almost reverent. Into the small trunk went a few priceless robes and pieces of jewellery—not as tokens of sentimentality, but as a means of survival, a safeguard for a life she had yet to imagine.

Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of a silver bracelet Narcissa had gifted her years ago. It was delicate, intricate, and entirely impractical. She hesitated, her hand hovering before snapping the trunk shut. Her mother’s face rose unbidden in her mind, not cruel, but weary, burdened by her own sacrifices. There was love there, but it was a conditional love—bound by family legacy, by bloodlines and obedience. Sentimentality was a luxury she could not afford, and so she left it behind.

Where could she go? The question loomed, heavy and unrelenting. Not to any wizarding family, not even to a distant cousin. Her parents’ reach would be too great, their eyes everywhere. She needed a place that would not just hide her but make her invisible, unworthy of pursuit. A world so mundane it bordered on offensive.

[y/n] could see it in her mind’s eye—everything her parents despised, everything they deemed beneath them. And that was precisely why they would never look for her there.

Her decision made, she approached the gates of Malfoy Manor. The iron bars, etched with serpents, seemed almost alive in the moonlight, their coiled bodies gleaming as though watching her, judging her. Her hand trembled as she gripped her wand, drawing in a steadying breath. The house loomed behind her, a fortress of memories both bitter and sweet. A place that had shaped her, bound her, and now sought to consume her.

With one last glance, she disappeared. The crack of magic echoed faintly in the still night, leaving the grounds of Malfoy Manor silent and emptier than ever.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Funny how time changed the meaning of a word. Comfort. It had been a foreign concept once—something she scoffed at, even feared—but now, it fit snugly around her life, like an old jumper. The Muggle world, of all places, had become her sanctuary. A strange thought, given its lack of magic, but perhaps that was why it worked.

[y/n] Malfoy—though she’d long since shed that infamous surname—had carved a niche for herself among the oblivious. She moved smartly and swiftly, carefully constructing a life that Muggles wouldn’t think to question. To them, she was just another ambitious young woman with a knack for getting things done. If they ever wondered why her productivity seemed superhuman, well, they didn’t wonder for long. Humans, she’d learned, preferred explanations that fit their neat, non-magical world.

Factories, offices, anywhere requiring efficiency—she conquered them all. While others struggled through tedious tasks, she worked quietly, subtly enhancing her efforts with spells too delicate for even a squib to detect. Within two years, she’d climbed to the top of her field, her desk now buried under contracts, cheques, and invitations from Muggle elites. The money poured in faster than she could spend it, not that she cared much for the luxuries it offered. A second flat in one of London’s poshest postcodes? Sure, why not.

Her heart, if she allowed herself to examine it, still belonged to the Wizarding World. But that life was closed to her now, and perhaps it was better that way. She’d caught whispers of how things had unfolded after the war. Malfoy—the name she’d once worn like armour—was now more curse than legacy. Her brother had slipped back into the family’s fading business; her father had disappeared entirely, becoming little more than a shadow haunting whispers in darkened rooms. The family had been shunned, tolerated at best. Good.

She thought of them rarely, their faces blurred by distance and time, but she liked knowing that the world had sided with the good and the brave. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. The ones who stood up and stood firm. For once, she could admire them without bitterness.

Her own exile was self-imposed, but necessary. The Wizarding World had become too tangled with pain and shame. Better to focus on the Human World, with its predictable rules and simple ambitions. Her life here was steady and controlled, though sometimes, late at night in her quiet flat, she caught herself wondering.

Would they even recognize her now? The girl she had been, the choices she had made—they felt like they belonged to someone else. Here, she was no one special, and yet, that was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Still, no matter how far she moved from the magic, it always lingered, a soft hum in the back of her mind.

But life in the Muggle world wasn’t entirely solitary. Over time, [Y/N] had made a few friends at her office, a small but lively group of young women who had welcomed her into their fold. They were sharp, driven, and wonderfully uncomplicated. They cared about promotions, weekend plans, and the latest trends, but never about where she’d come from or why her accent carried the faint trace of an old-world upbringing.

To them, she was just [Y/N]—quirky, a little guarded, but always reliable in a crisis. They called her the “office wizard,” a nickname she laughed at far harder than she should have, and often dragged her to after-work drinks at pubs where the music was too loud and the lights too dim. She found herself appreciating their company more than she’d expected.

They didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer, didn’t pry into a past she would rather not share. Sometimes, as they swapped stories over pints, she marvelled at their ease, at the way they seemed to carry their lives so lightly. When the inevitable topic of relationships came up, as it always did, she listened quietly, smiling in all the right places but contributing little.

It was inevitable, of course, that someone would notice.

“Alright, Miss Mysterious,” teased Clara, a vivacious blonde from accounting, one Friday evening as they sat crammed into a booth. “You’re always so quiet when we talk about boys. Come on, spill. How many guys have you dated?”

[Y/N] froze for a split second, her hand tightening around her glass. She should have seen this coming. She could lie, of course, craft some plausible story to satisfy their curiosity, but she hated lying to them. These were good people—Muggles, yes, but kind ones.

“Not many,” she admitted with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve been… focused on work.”

Ah, the classic dodge. Clara raised an eyebrow, and the other women exchanged knowing glances, but mercifully, they let it drop. The conversation flowed back to safer territory—Clara’s latest Tinder misadventures and the office intern’s questionable taste in trousers.

[Y/N] sipped her drink, grateful for the reprieve, but her mind had already wandered, unbidden, to the one boy she couldn’t seem to forget.

Fred Weasley.

She could still see his cheeky grin, the way he made light of everything, even when the world had been crumbling around them. The memory of him had softened with time, but it hadn’t faded. And then there was the kiss.

She still remembered it; his hands cupping her face, his lips warm and insistent against hers. For that fleeting moment that she had let herself respond, her guard dropping entirely. And then, as if on instinct, she had ruined it. She’d pulled away, stammering something incoherent, her walls slamming back into place. Fred had looked at her then—surprised, confused, and just a little hurt.

The memory still haunted her, no matter how much she tried to bury it.

She knew very little about what had become of him after the war. He was alive—that much she knew, though for a while, even that had been uncertain. He worked with his brother in a shop she barely understood, something to do with jokes. That was all she allowed herself to gather, never daring to dig deeper.

And yet, the name Weasley—his name—remained stubbornly lodged in her thoughts.

It should have meant nothing to her by now. It should have been nothing more than a relic of a life she’d left behind.

So why wasn’t it?

TWO MONTHS LATER

Damn Clara and her Muggle curiosity.

It was eight a.m. [Y/N] should already be in her glass-walled office on the seventh floor of one of London’s most prestigious buildings. She should be there, sipping coffee and reviewing contracts. She wasn’t.

Instead, she stood in front of a shop whose garish facade practically shouted for attention. Vibrant reds and oranges painted its tall walls, while enchanted displays in the windows whirred, spun, and sparkled with an almost irritating glee. Occasionally, one of the joke items would roll or float to the glass as though inspecting her. Each time, her sharp, impatient glare seemed to say, Yes, I’m still here. Now open already.

Above it all, a bold, playful sign declared: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

It was past eight a.m., and the shop showed no signs of opening anytime soon. That should have been her cue to leave. You do not belong in Diagon Alley any more, a small, sharp voice in her head reminded her.

Maybe it was right. She didn’t belong—not any more. Her dyed brownish hair might fool the casual observer, but the telltale silver-blond roots gave her away, a reminder of the family she had tried so hard to leave behind. No amount of Muggle integration could erase the threads of her Malfoy past; they clung to her like cobwebs, woven into her very identity.

Even her appearance gave her away. She had dressed with what she thought was a flair for eccentricity—a calculated blend of high fashion and Wizarding nostalgia. Her knee-high designer boots gleamed under her long, luxurious black fur-lined coat, both costly and ostentatious. She’d imagined herself blending in effortlessly, perhaps even standing out in a way that would make her look authentically at home. But no, she realized now, she’d got it wrong. The bustling streets of Diagon Alley, alive with the warmth of fresh-brewed coffee and the hum of early morning commerce, seemed to whisper to her as if the cobblestones themselves carried a message, “We see you, Little Malfoy.”

And she was certain they did. Witches and wizards passing by spared her sidelong glances, quick and furtive, as if confirming what they thought they recognized but dared not voice aloud. Perhaps a chatty house-elf had already darted off to Malfoy Manor to announce her return.

And yet, here she stood, waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly? A confrontation? An explanation? Or simply a distraction from the restless questions plaguing her mind ever since Clara had barged into her office yesterday, looking pale and uneasy.

“Are you alright, Clara?” [Y/N] had asked, raising an eyebrow at her normally unflappable friend.

Clara hesitated, biting her lip. “You told me about that boy from your… younger years, didn’t you? The red-haired one?”

[Y/N] stiffened but nodded cautiously. “Fred?”

“I think… I think I saw him in my dream last night,” Clara said, her tone unsure. “I’m not much of a dreamer, really, but this felt… strange.”

That had caught [Y/N]’s attention. “Go on.”

Clara fidgeted, her unease growing. “He asked about you. Called you a coward, if I remember right. It was—well, creepy, honestly. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know what he looks like. Not only that, but I only know one ginger person, my cousin Elena. This wasn’t her. He was tall with broad shoulders.”

The description hit [Y/N] like a Bludger to the chest. That was Fred. It couldn’t be anyone else.

For hours afterward, Clara’s words had replayed in her mind, feeding a gnawing unease. It was one thing for her dreams to be haunted by Fred Weasley—that she could accept. He was a ghost from her past, after all, a lingering shadow of what could never be. But Clara? A Muggle who had never set foot in the Wizarding World?

It wasn’t normal.

It had to be Fred’s doing. Or something tied to him. And so, despite every instinct telling her to turn back, [Y/N] had Apparated to Diagon Alley at dawn, standing in the shadow of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes as if the answers she sought might come tumbling out with the day’s first customers.

But the shop remained stubbornly closed.

“Typical,” she muttered under her breath, glowering at the enchanted shopfront. Her fingers curled into fists inside her coat pockets, knuckles pressing against her wand. She could almost imagine him inside, laughing at her expense.

After everything it had taken her to get here—alright, so Apparating wasn’t that hard, but the thought of doing it again after so long had been daunting—she wasn’t about to turn tail and leave. If Fred wanted to keep avoiding her, well then, fine. She’d be the one to show up in his dreams next time, calling him a coward. That thought was satisfying enough to momentarily soften her scowl.

Still, she couldn’t shake the frustration simmering under her skin. She glanced around Diagon Alley, careful to avoid meeting the curious gazes of passers-by. Every other business was already up and running, their doors open, their owners busy tending to customers. But Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes? Quiet as the grave.

Her eyes roamed the building’s vibrant facade, taking in the rotating joke items in the windows that almost seemed to mock her. Then her gaze snagged on something she’d nearly missed: a side entrance, discreet but not entirely hidden. It didn’t lead into the shop itself—that much was clear—but to a narrow staircase ascending to what had to be the flats above.

“Bingo,” she murmured to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in satisfaction. Of course, Fred and George would live above their shop. That was obvious now. And why wouldn’t they? The arrangement was practical, convenient, and knowing them, probably a little chaotic. She herself might have done the same if her office building had been zoned for residential living.

Her eyes narrowed at the staircase. If Fred wouldn’t come to her, then maybe she’d just have to go to him.

The first door—the one leading to the staircase—was conveniently ajar. She hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to wizarding security measures she might have forgotten. Surely, the Weasleys had something in place? But then again, in the Muggle world, all you needed were keys and staff. Simpler times, simpler problems.

The staircase ahead was steep, the narrow space cramped and dimly lit. She glanced at the steps as she ascended, her thoughts wandering idly. How did anyone carry furniture up here? She wondered, picturing Fred or George wrestling with a sofa on these stairs.

Oh, right. Magic.

The realization was immediate, and she caught herself smirking at her own forgetfulness. It was strange, almost comforting, how much her thinking had shifted to match the Muggle world. Keys instead of charms, staff instead of wards—it felt… simpler.

At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a narrow corridor with four doors, two on each side. She paused, scanning them curiously. So the twins shared their building with three other flats. Interesting. Why she found this detail intriguing, she couldn’t say, but she filed it away in her mind nonetheless.

The real question, however, was which door led to Fred’s flat. She could knock, of course—work her way down the line, one by one—but the thought made her stomach twist with self-consciousness. What if she was mistaken? What if she interrupted someone she would rather not see?

Her gaze lingered on the nearest door, but her imagination had already run off. It wasn’t just strangers who might answer, but ghosts of her past, familiar faces she hadn’t seen in years. Fred wasn’t the only Gryffindor she remembered vividly. Could Angelina Johnson live here? Lee Jordan? Oliver Wood?

Her pulse quickened, and not in a good way. She had no idea where any of them were now, no sense of their lives post-war. Would they recognize her? Would they even want to? For all she knew, these doors could open to a past she wasn’t ready to face, filled with memories of Quidditch captains and old rivalries she had tried to leave behind.

And here she was, almost a CEO—practically guaranteed to inherit the title once her boss retired—and she was hesitating like a schoolgirl afraid to get caught out of bounds. How absurd.

Ultimately, she chose to embrace the absurdity. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she leaned against the wall closest to the stairs, her knees buckling as she slid down to sit. She drew her legs up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let her gaze wander down the hallway of doors. Eventually, Fred—or George—would have to leave the flat.

A question nagged at the back of her mind, one that she hadn’t thought about until now. Could she still tell Fred apart from George?

Shaking her head and trying to let that for later, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand, the one she hadn’t touched in years. The familiar wood felt cool beneath her fingers as she absent-mindedly ran her hand along its length. It had been so long since she’d used it, tucked away in the back of her wardrobe like some forgotten relic.

In the human world, she'd built a life from the ground up—money, prestige, luxuries she never wanted to give up on—and the wand now felt as useless to her as a pair of glasses without a prescription. It was a piece of her past, a reminder of the world she had left behind. And yet, here it was in her hands, as if to remind her that no matter how much she’d changed, some parts of her would always remain.

“Blimey! Is that [y/n] Malfoy?”

The voice came out strong, firm, with a hint of surprise—definitely not accusatory or worried, but it certainly had her attention. It wasn’t one she was expecting to hear.

She blinked and slowly looked up from her wand, her knees relaxing as she processed the words. Ron Weasley? Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It was him.

She hadn’t seen Ron in years, but as her eyes took him in, it hit her: he was no longer the whiny, awkward redhead she’d remembered from their school days. He was taller now, solidly built, with the familiar red hair still untamed but now paired with a more confident air. He stood in front of her, his broad shoulders practically filling the doorway, casting a shadow that made her feel smaller than she already was.

Ron was leaving one of the flats—the second one on the right—and just behind him, another familiar ginger was emerging. As Ron stepped aside, making room to pass, [y/n] realized with a jolt that it could only be one of the twins. With a key in hand, Fred—[y/n] could feel the certainty in her gut that it was him, not George—peered over Ron’s broad shoulders, his gaze searching.

Fred glanced over Ron’s shoulder, and his expression shifted instantly. What had begun as mild confusion deepened into a quiet, almost disappointed suspicion when his eyes landed on her.

“Hello, Ronnie,” [y/n] ventured with a smile that felt a little too sweet, too forced, as if she were trying to hide the confusion swirling inside her. Why was she even here again?

From Ron’s reaction, she couldn’t help but think that he had probably greeted everyone with that same warm, almost automatic smile since the war. It seemed genuine enough, but [y/n] suspected it wasn’t really for her. It was that unspoken relief that everyone who’d survived shared—the one where you were thankful to be alive, even if some of you came from families with blood-stained histories.

Despite that, [y/n] returned his smile, this time with more sincerity. After spending so much time in the mundane, human world, genuine smiles had become easier—no longer the practised, photogenic grins she once wore for show.

As Ron stepped closer, Fred Weasley took his time, carefully locking the front door to his flat. He turned his back to both Ron and [y/n], choosing to focus on his simple task, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the ghost of his past standing just a few feet away.

[y/n] straightened herself, trying to play it cool, and Ron kindly offered a hand to help her up.

“Thanks,” she smiled again, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as she brushed off some imaginary dust from her clothes, now that she was upright.

“It’s good to see you,” Ron said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I don’t even remember the last time we saw each other. Was it at Hogwarts… in that damn battle?” he asked, uncertain, with a faint of hardship creeping into his words.

She could lie. She could say yes, tell him she’d been right there beside him in the thick of the fight, bravely standing her ground. But she didn’t.

“No, I think you saw me last at my graduation,” [y/n] answered honestly.

“Oh!” Ron’s face lit up. “The one Fred and George didn’t get.”

[y/n] couldn’t help but grin at the memory. In another life—one where she wasn’t standing here like an uninvited ghost—Fred would have laughed and given Ron a light thump on the back of the head. But not today. Not with her in the picture.

Instead, Fred stood there, silent, his gaze flicking between the two of them. His brow furrowed, and he arched an eyebrow. The expression wasn’t for Ron—it was for her. And it asked the unspoken question: “What on earth are you doing here?”

Or perhaps it was more like: “What the bloody hell do you want?”

[y/n] couldn’t decide. Either way, it didn’t seem good.

She quickly slipped her wand back into her coat pocket, where it seemed safer than being out in the open, and left her hand there, just in case it would prevent her from doing something foolish. She was already feeling the stirrings of anger, both Fred’s and hers, and it was only a matter of time before things escalated.

“So, what brings you here?” Ron asked, saving Fred the trouble. The younger brother suddenly realized that it made no sense to find the Malfoy girl (Malfoy woman now, let’s respect her age) on Fred’s doorstep.

Or did it make sense?

As [y/n] cleared her throat, Fred's gaze sharpened, narrowing into something that could only be described as curiously bitter. Meanwhile, Ron, bless him, took a step back, looking anywhere but at her, his lips twitching into a mischievous grin of his. Clearly, he’d misread the situation entirely. Ron had a knack for romance ever since Hermione presented him to the genre.

“I need to talk to your brother, Ron,” [y/n] explained, her voice firm as she addressed the younger Weasley, though her eyes remained firmly fixed on the older ginger. She couldn’t help but notice, with a faint feeling of surprise, that Ron was, in fact, taller than Fred.

That wasn’t to say Fred was ugly. Quite the opposite. Far from it. Time had only been kind to Fred Weasley. In fact, time had given him that rugged charm that many men only dreamt of—broad shoulders, a jawline that seemed sculpted by a particularly talented artist, and eyes that could make even the hardest of hearts pause.

And then there was the hair. Oh, the hair. At twenty-two—or was it twenty-three? [y/n] never bothered to ask his birthday, but it didn’t matter—Fred had something most men his age would envy. Hair. Proper hair. Thick, straight, and voluminous, with a sheen that made [y/n] momentarily question the state of her locks. It looked as if it had been kissed by a thousand golden suns, and God help her, she could still remember how it felt to run her fingers through it—soft as silk, far too soft for someone who was so damn irritating.

What had initially seemed like disinterest—no, scratch that, anger—suddenly morphed into a more subtle form of curiosity on Fred Weasley’s face.

Ron grinned awkwardly. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I think I’ll head over to the shop now, if that’s alright with you, Fred?”

Fred didn’t bother to respond verbally, merely offering a nod that lacked any real enthusiasm. He was still too busy trying to process why [y/n] was standing in his doorway with all the poise of a person who had every right to be there, when he had been certain he’d left her—and her family—far behind.

“Do you open at nine?” [y/n] asked suddenly, her voice light, the question easing the tension in her muscles. “Who opens at nine?” she almost laughed.

“It’s my shop,” Fred snapped back, his tone rougher than he’d intended. “I open whenever I want.”

[y/n] straightened her back, feeling her sharp words come back with more force than she'd anticipated. “Well, you're losing money, then,” she remarked, as naturally rude as any Malfoy could be. It was in the blood, really. Besides, the Muggle world had taught her a thing or two about business—and how to make a proper profit.

Fred blinked, momentarily stunned. “Do you want me to show you my income statement?” he retorted, genuinely flabbergasted by her cheek. And there it was—Fred was rolling in it now, with a business that could make even the tightest of Gringotts goblins envious.

“There’s no need,” she replied nonchalantly, eyes fixed on him as though they were discussing the weather.

At this point, Ron, who had been lingering, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Invite her in,” he suggested helpfully. “Offer her the tea I just made. It should still be warm.”

Fred attempted to summon a comet to smite his brother’s head—unsuccessfully, given his wandless ineptitude. Ron left, down the stairs with easiness.

The ginger that stayed sighed, gestured at the door with all the staged grace, and rolled his eyes. “Fine, come on in, then. Can’t have you standing out here, with all the neighbours, one step from seeing you.”

Rude, she thought, but waited for the door to be open again and walked in.

The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her fate. It was, of course, quiet inside. Where was George? She wondered. The flat was a little too cosy, although it was as if two grown men had perfected the art of cramming chaos into every nook. It was classic Weasley: part 'creative charm,' part 'why bother?' with a smattering of 'it’ll do' thrown in for good measure. The space was cluttered with various items, mismatched furniture, and—strangely enough—several unclaimed joke products scattered about like forgotten experiments. A few odd contraptions blinked softly in the corners, their flashing lights flickering like distant stars.

There was also the smell that hung. The green tea was sharp and familiar, a good morning choice, but beneath it lingered something distinctly masculine—warm, like well-worn wood, a trace of shaving cream, and the faint, spicy note of what [y/n] supposed was Fred’s cologne, which seemed as roguish as its owner.

[y/n] turned to find Fred in the kitchen—a narrow, galley-style space that somehow managed to be both cramped and charming. The marble counter separating it from the living room was a surprising touch of elegance, though slightly marred by scorch marks and stray stains. Fred was heeding Ron’s advice, fussing with the tea kettle as though brewing it required profound wizarding expertise. Spotting two tall, battered stools nearby, she perched on one, the wood creaking in protest. Fred didn’t join her. Instead, he slid the cup across the counter with controlled ease, before leaning casually against the counter with the sink.

“To what do I owe the honour of hearing your voice again?” he asked, casually annoyed.

“To yourself, I suppose,” [Y/N] replied crisply, lifting her teacup with a deliberate air of disinterest. The cup's delicate edge pressed against her lips, muffling what she muttered next. “I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t tormented me.”

Fred’s brows shot up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I torment you?” he repeated, mock incredulity dripping from his words. “Blimey, I don’t see how, but somehow I’m proud of myself. Although…” He trailed off, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. “I suspect, somehow, it’s all your fault.”

The look she shot him—arched eyebrow, narrowed eyes—spoke volumes. It was a “don’t-you-dare” glare so potent it could have stopped an army of garden gnomes mid-chaos. Fred held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Or,” he added quickly, a trace of nervousness slipping into his tone, “your unconscious’s fault, maybe?”

“I don’t see how,” she said evenly, her voice carrying the same clipped, deliberate cadence he’d just used.

His grin broadened.

“Now, Malfoy,” he teased, dragging her surname out as though it were the punchline to a private joke, “it’s not my fault you’re still losing sleep over a teenage fling. Over a little peck.”

Her teacup clinked loudly as she set it down, the sound slicing through the air. A little peck? Her fingers tightened slightly on the table’s edge, her posture straightening. He couldn’t still be a lunatic, could he? Surely, he’d grown up, matured, learned to let bygones be bygones. Apparently not.

Two paths stretched before her, like diverging trails in the Forbidden Forest: she could bite back, dragging him through the truth of their not-so-innocent history—a truth they both remembered all too well—or she could stay the course, pressing her accusation that he had been invading her dreams with magic.

The “what ifs” always stung sharper than the “so it was.”

“Fred,” she said at last, her voice measured, a sigh lacing her words, “I won’t get into this petty squabble with you.” She paused, collecting her thoughts, before fixing him with a steady look. “I only came here because you had the nerve to pick on a Muggle—an innocent person.”

Fred’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. “A Muggle?” he echoed, straightening slightly.

“Yes,” she pressed on, her tone sharp. “I wouldn’t be here if your little haunted nightmare game involved just me. But tormenting Clara? That’s low, even for you.”

The confusion on Fred’s face deepened. “Clara?” he repeated, as though the name was foreign to him.

[Y/N] crossed her arms, frustration bubbling just beneath her composed exterior. “She’s my friend,” she said pointedly, watching his reaction carefully.

Fred’s head tilted slightly, his expression now hovering somewhere between perplexed and intrigued. “And… she’s been having nightmares about me?” he asked slowly, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips again.

[Y/N] didn’t answer immediately, her jaw tightening as she debated her next words. “She dreamt of you,” she admitted, her tone clipped. “But that’s not the point. The point is…” Her voice wavered for a fraction of a second, betraying the frustration she was trying to mask. “If this is your doing, you’ve crossed a line.”

For a moment, Fred simply stared at her, his usual swagger replaced with something closer to disbelief. And then, much to her irritation, he laughed—a low, warm sound that filled the space between them.

“Malfoy,” he said, shaking his head as his laughter subsided, “you think I’m invading people’s dreams now? What do you reckon I am—a rogue boggart with a wand?”

Her glare didn’t waver. “Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, though she wasn’t entirely sure he was playing. “You’re capable of far more than you let on.”

Fred’s grin returned in full force, his confidence clearly undented. “Well,” he said, pushing off the counter and leaning toward her slightly, “if I’m such a menace, then you’re just going to have to teach me a lesson, aren’t you?”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, biting back the retort that rose instinctively to her lips. Instead, she took another deliberate sip of her tea, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. If she wasn’t careful, this conversation would spiral completely out of her control. It was Fred, after all—and if there was one thing he excelled at, it was pulling strings until the entire tapestry unravelled.

“For God’s sake, you're still annoyingly incapable of seeing things, aren’t you?” [Y/N] exclaimed, frustration edging her voice. “I’m not going to curse you. I want my peace—and Clara’s—back. Just tell me you’ll fix this, and I’ll leave. Go back to my life.”

“‘For God’s sake’ and friends with a Muggle? What happened to you, Malfoy?” Fred mocked, a laugh bubbling up. “Turned into a squib?”

“I wish I was,” she muttered, no longer bothering to mask the exhaustion in her voice. “Then at least these nightmares would stop.” She glanced up at him, no longer caring about his ridicule. “You know magic, Fred. You know how it works. It’s more about emotion than the fancy incantations.”

“Yes,” Fred tilted his head slightly, “and so what?”

“So,” she pressed, “we need the goodbye we never got. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want your goodbye, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want mine, either. But a part of us does, and until we get that, these dreams… they won’t stop.”

For a moment, silence fell. [Y/N] felt her heart race. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, but the truth was now hanging between them like an electric charge.

Her voice softened, the usual sharp edge gone. She looked at him, the boy who once held her while she cried in the dead of night in the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office. “Tell me you haven’t been dreaming too, and I’ll walk away. Tell me I didn’t show up in your dreams and turn them into nightmares, and I’ll go away. I’ll claim to the world that I’m the emotionally immature one, that I couldn’t get over you. Go ahead, tell me that.”

Fred opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words got stuck. For a split second, his ever-present smirk faltered. The silence stretched, and [Y/N] knew—knew—he wouldn’t be able to say it.

“I knew it!” [y/n] hissed triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at him as if she were a Ministry prosecutor about to win a case. “You have been dreaming about me.”

Fred let out a dry, hollow laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to his chin as if physically bracing himself. “Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he muttered, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“No,” she snapped, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. “And don’t act like this is my fault. I didn’t invite myself into your dreams—you did. Or your subconscious did. Frankly, this emotional magic is a bloody difficult one to cast, since it even involved a Muggle.”

Fred tilted his head back against the counter, eyes briefly closing as if seeking divine patience. “It’s not like I can help what we dream about, can I? Merlin knows I wouldn’t choose you as my nightly torment.” He glanced at her then, a spark of familiar mischief lighting up his gaze despite his irritation. “Unless you’re saying I’m just that irresistible?”

She groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to haunt you—”

“Funny,” he interrupted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing a smashing job of it in real life right now.”

“Fred,” she breathed, and this time, it wasn’t a sharp rebuke. Her voice held a weariness, like the weight of everything between them had finally caught up to her. Fred stilled, his usual bravado faltering. There was something unnervingly raw about her tone. Something unguarded.

The room felt smaller suddenly, and the world outside quieter.

She sighed deeply, almost to herself, her gaze flicking briefly to the cup of tea she still held. “They were right, you know,” she said softly, as though admitting a secret she’d kept hidden for years. “It’s all about the ‘what ifs.’”

Fred didn’t reply, his brows knitting in faint confusion as he watched her. She continued, her gaze flickering from him to the cup of tea she still held, as though she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I tried to forget everything after the Hogwarts. I left it all behind—my name, my family, and, eventually, the magic. I thought… if I acted like none of it happened, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps you wouldn’t matter.”

She paused and forced herself to look up, her eyes locking onto his. “But it didn’t work. You’re still there, Fred Weasley, haunting me like some poorly written Victorian ghost.”

Fred blinked, momentarily taken aback by the weight of her words. It wasn’t often someone accused him of being anything besides a pain in the arse, let alone something important. He recovered quickly, though, because Fred Weasley was nothing if not annoyingly quick on his feet.

“Poorly written ghost?” he echoed, leaning forward with a mock-offended expression. “I’ll have you know I’m the stuff of literary genius. Dickens himself would weep at the sheer brilliance of me.”

“Fred—” she started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Or Shakespeare,” he added with a smug grin. “Can’t you see it? ‘O Fred, Fred! Wherefore art thou, Fred?’ It’s tragic, really. Doomed romance and all that.”

Her lips twitched, but she bit down hard to smother any sign of a smile. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he shot back cheekily, though something softened behind his jest. He held her gaze, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of mockery there. “It’s the ‘what if,’ isn’t it? Our ‘what if.’ What are we supposed to do with it? Because, damn it, Malfoy, it’s us—haunting and being haunted.”

SAME DAY, ONE MINUTE LATER

Oh, her silence spoke volumes.

That Thursday had shaped up to be a day of surprises—none of them pleasant. First, Ron had barged into the flat at seven in the morning, a time when Fred was still blissfully asleep, just to offer him company (completely unnecessary) and tea (completely uninteresting). George had been off gallivanting around the world for two years now, putting, for the first time in their lives, a real, tangible distance between the twins.

The war had changed everything. During the final battle against the Dark Lord, Fred had been badly injured when a wall collapsed on him. By some miracle, the healing magic of those around him had been enough to stabilize his life force, but the full recovery came slowly, over a week of unconsciousness in the hospital wing.

It was a hard blow for all the Weasleys, but George had taken it the hardest. Fred and George weren’t just twins; they were one soul divided in two, and when Fred was nearly lost, George had felt like he was adrift on a sea without a shore. For a week, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus. It was as if half of him had vanished. The months that followed were a blur of worry and exhaustion, as George poured all his energy into caring for Fred. But slowly, he realized something: his obsessive behaviour wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t just fear—it was a fear of losing the very thing that made him who he was. Without Fred, George didn’t know who he was any more. And that was terrifying.

When the dust settled and the shop was up and running again, George had asked Fred for some time alone—to figure out who he was without being defined by “Fred and George.” Fred, ever the understanding twin, had agreed. He knew that, in part, he felt the same. Sure, he had been unconscious and had no idea of the emotional chaos around him, but he also knew that just as George was lost, so was he. He had never known who he was beyond being the other half of a pair. Who was Fred without George? It was a question that gnawed at him.

In the first year of George’s travels, everything had felt relatively surreal. The letters, messages, and photos kept coming, keeping the illusion of his brother being close, even though he wasn’t. It was easy to forget that George wasn’t his neighbour next door.

But recently, that comfort had started to fade. The letters had become less frequent, and when they did arrive, they were filled with long paragraphs about George discovering a passion for painting and his ever-expanding collection of international relationships. Meanwhile, Fred was still stuck in the same place—discovering nothing beyond the shop and his role in it.

It hadn’t been a shock when the nightmares had started, three months ago. They were relentless. [Y/N]—his siren, his tormentor—appeared in his dreams, calling to him, luring him in with the promise of something more, and then pushing him away with anger and disgust. Her rejection, especially in his dreams, was always the worst.

Ron had noticed Fred’s downward spiral. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss. For the first month, Fred had avoided sleep altogether, afraid to face his siren again. And so, Ron had taken it upon himself to help, thinking it was all due to George’s absence. After all, none of the Weasleys knew the truth about [Y/N] Malfoy. They knew her only as the troublemaker Malfoy—just like her brother Draco—and someone Fred always scoffed at whenever her name was mentioned. George had suspected there was more to the story; however, Fred had never mentioned the kiss to anyone. That was a secret he’d carry to his grave.

But now, here she was—his siren, standing before him as beautiful as a teenager. Her dyed hair did not completely hide her roots, which were also evident in her expensive clothes. The coat she still wore, even inside the flat, was made of fluffy fur, like her nightgown had once been.

Her eyes were still sweet, her jawline as defined as it had ever been. Though her body was hidden beneath her clothing, Fred knew well enough that it hadn’t changed much. Her hand, delicately holding the teacup, was perfectly manicured. But the pink nails were new. Not the familiar green or black that used to symbolize her defiance, her Malfoy heritage. She had changed, sure—but not in the ways she claimed.

She was still a Malfoy witch, whether she liked it or not. Fred couldn’t quite understand her insistence on claiming to be someone different now. Sure, she was lighter, a little less guarded. She’d smiled at Ron a moment ago. Her forehead was more relaxed. But her tone was the same. Yet, her voice? The tone was the same. He could still hear the sharpness, the bitterness underneath it all.

The scent of something faintly spiced lingered in the air—not cinnamon, but something warmer, deeper. It reminded her of everything Fred Weasley was: audacious and unruly, yet oddly comforting. She glanced around the room, taking in the cluttered worktops and the faint hum of the kettle.

It was almost… domestic. And that was the problem.

Fred leaned against the counter opposite her, arms braced casually on either side, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His eyes, sharp and searching, pinned her in place. “So,” he began, his voice low, measured. “Are we going to talk about it? Or are we just going to keep pretending we don’t have a difficulty with our what-if? You know where it starts. It’s your fault.”

[Y/N] let out a huff, turning slightly to avoid his gaze. “Not me, Weasley.”

“Right,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because running off after a kiss isn’t a concern at all. It’s perfectly normal behaviour, Malfoy.”

She shot him a glare, her silver eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Fred straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Try me.”

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, [Y/N] hesitated. But the weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on her chest, and the longer she stood there, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing ache inside her.

“Fine,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “You want to know why I ran? Because I’ve spent my entire life believing that the only way to escape my family’s destiny was to find someone to save me from it. Someone who wasn’t like them. Someone who could… break the cycle.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought kissing you would be the answer. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I had to grow up and realize that no one—not even you—could be my saviour. I have to be my own.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Fred said nothing. The tension between them crackled like static, filling the silence with unspoken truths.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said finally, his voice quieter now, edged with something raw. “Do you know what it’s like to hear people whisper about you? About your family? To have everyone think they know who you are because of where you come from? Malfoy, I grew up in a house that barely held together, with a family that everyone laughed at because we didn’t have two Sickles to rub together. You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to prove them all wrong?”

Her head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features. Fred stepped closer, his voice gaining strength.

“I heard about your engagement,” he said, his tone dipping. “The moment I found out, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Some pure-blood match, right? Another puppet for your father to string along? I wanted to… Merlin, I wanted to break every rule in the book, storm in and drag you away from it all. But then I realized…” His voice softened. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Because it had to be you, [Y/N]. It had to be your choice.”

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. She wanted to respond, to tell him that she understood, but her throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come.

“When I heard that you ran off, disgracing your family’s name when we were on the brink of war, I just laughed so much, so loudly. I was somewhat proud. But I also hoped you would come to me. You never did. Were you alone all this time?” Fred dared ask and she nodded yes. His voice steady. “You don’t have to… any more.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to stay composed. “You make it sound so simple,” she whispered. “But it’s not.”

Fred’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “It never is. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

The space between them felt charged, like a taut string pulled to its breaking point. Fred took another step forward, his presence warm and grounding. They were close now, so close that [Y/N] could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“This is a bad idea,” she said aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped to his lips, betraying her resolve.

Fred’s breath hitched, and he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “I like bad ideas. They’re the bestsellers at the shop.”

And then his lips were on hers, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, as though they were both testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, the air between them crackling with intensity. Fred’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and [Y/N] responded in kind, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed against him.

It was as if the universe had aligned for this one perfect moment. Their worlds—so different, so at odds—collided in a way that felt both impossible and inevitable. And for the first time in what felt like forever, [Y/N] allowed herself to believe in something apart from destiny.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the kitchen. Fred’s eyes searched hers, a flicker of mischief returning to his gaze.

“See?” he said, his voice soft but filled with humour. “Bad ideas can be brilliant.”

[Y/N] couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and unburdened. “You’re insufferable, Weasley.”

“And yet, you like me like that, Malfoy,” he shot back, grinning.

At that moment, standing in Fred’s cluttered kitchen with her heart racing and her walls crumbling, [Y/N] allowed herself to hope. Perhaps bad ideas weren’t so bad after all.

Fred stepped back first, his hand lingering at her waist, as though reluctant to let her go completely. [Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze flickering between his eyes and the faint smile that still played at his lips. It felt surreal, this moment—something plucked out of the pages of a story she hadn’t dared to believe could ever be hers.

“So,” Fred said, breaking the silence with his characteristic cheek. “Does this mean we’re friends again? Or do I need to officially apply for the position? I heard you have some now, with Clara and what’s her name.”

[Y/N] snorted softly, a sound that felt strangely freeing. “Friends?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s what I’d call us.”

“Oh?” Fred’s grin widened. “And what would you call us, then?”

“Two idiots,” she replied, though there was no malice in her tone—only a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

Fred let out a laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, stepping closer again, “I say we’re bloody brilliant at it.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside that tiny kitchen ceased to exist. It was just them—two people who had spent years running from what-if’s, finally standing still long enough to see what might be.

TWO YEARS LATER (EPILOGUE)

The sun beamed down on the expansive garden of The Burrow, transformed for the day into something almost unrecognizable. Though it remained the cosy Weasley home at heart, today it sparkled with an air of opulence that could only come from [Y/N]'s insistence on keeping some of her luxurious customs intact. Every corner of the garden was adorned with charmed fairy lights and elaborate floral arrangements that shimmered faintly in the summer light, while silver table settings and flowing satin ribbons added an undeniable touch of grandeur. It was clear that with her fortune and Fred’s mischievous ingenuity, The Burrow had never looked so fancy.

[Y/N] adjusted her veil for the third time, glaring at Clara, her maid of honour, who was trying—and failing—to hide her grin.

“I don’t know how this house is still standing,” Clara said suddenly, gesturing toward The Burrow with a bewildered look. “I mean, look at it! The angles are all wrong, it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy, and I’m certain that top floor is breaking at least seven architectural laws.” She paused, then added, “Honestly, it’s like a miracle.”

“Structural spells,” [Y/N] replied smoothly, before quickly backtracking. “Er, I mean, I’m kidding! Fred’s dad’s very… handy. Built it himself. A bit of a genius with tools, really.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were on the cusp of figuring something out. But then she shook her head, letting out a laugh. “Well, whatever the reason, it’s… charming. Ridiculous, but charming.”

Then, as kind as always, she added, “It’s… unique. Just like you two. And stop fussing with your dress,” her Muggle practicality shining through. “You look perfect. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

“Nervous?” [Y/N] scoffed, though her hands betrayed her, fiddling with the intricate lace of her dress. “I’m a CEO. I don't get nervous.”

And it was true. After years trying to reach for the job, she finally got it. Just in another company this time. A shop, with a very funny name, that sold very funny products.

“Oh, is that right?” Fred’s voice cut through the air as he appeared around the corner, already in his dress robes but as insufferably casual as ever. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Because from here, it looks like you’re about to bolt.”

“Fred,” Clara said with mock exasperation, “you’re not supposed to see her before the ceremony!”

“It’s bad luck,” [Y/N] added, her tone clipped but her lips twitching in amusement.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Bad luck, good luck… I think we’ve already broken enough rules to make our own luck.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her eyes softened as she looked at him.

Before Fred could retort, a commotion erupted from the far end of the garden. Heads turned as a figure emerged from the apparition point, his dishevelled red hair unmistakable even from a distance.

“George!” Fred exclaimed, his grin widening. He turned to [Y/N], his eyes alight with excitement. “Told you he’d make it.”

George Weasley strode toward them, his expression equal parts sheepish and triumphant. On his arm was a stunning woman with an air of effortless confidence, her sleek black dress a sharp contrast to the cheerful chaos around her.

“Sorry, I’m late,” George said as he approached, his voice carrying that familiar Weasley humour. “Had to pick up a plus-one.”

“Fashionably late as always,” Fred quipped, clapping his twin on the back. “I was starting to think you’d run off to Peru again.”

“Not this time,” George replied with a grin, before turning to [Y/N]. His gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition softening his expression. “Couldn’t miss this. Took you too long enough to make it official.”

[Y/N] tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t lost your charm, George.”

“Nor my memory,” he quipped. “Always knew I’d see you again, Malfoy.”

“Lovely to finally see you again, George. Now, if you don’t mind…” [y/n] gestured toward the arch, her impatience evident. “I’d like to get married sometime this century.”

George raised his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more.” He turned to Fred, giving him a sly wink. “Good luck, mate. You’re going to need it.”

Fred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. He turned back to [Y/N], his expression softening as he offered her his arm. “Shall we, Siren?” he teased, the nickname slipping out as naturally as ever.

“Let’s,” she said, her heart racing as she took his arm.

The ceremony was short but sweet, filled with laughter and a few tears. Clara sniffled loudly as she handed [Y/N] her bouquet, earning a teasing nudge from Fred. When the officiant finally asked if they took each other as husband and wife, their answers rang out in unison, clear and certain.

“I do.”

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Fred leaned in, his voice low enough for only [Y/N] to hear. “Told you bad ideas are brilliant.”

She laughed, her heart lighter than it had ever been. For the first time, she felt free—free of her past, her name, her burdens. As they walked back down the aisle together, hand in hand, she couldn’t help but smile.

After years of trying, she had finally let go of the Malfoy name for a new one.

Weasley.

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x malfoy!reader #fred and george #fred weasley #harry potter #fred weasley fic #george weasley

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nerdybookworm25 · 2 months ago

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Caitlyn Kiramman Angst Headcannons

All trigger warnings that are about to be listed are pretty light in their discussion, but I didn’t want anyone to feel disarmed. TW: grief, loss of a mother, explosions, non-sexual grooming (kind of), self-loathing, and self-harm (no cutting)

Caitlyn Kiramman who is a perfectionist to a crippling degree

Caitlyn Kiramman whose stoic mask has been carefully cultivated and later maintained to the point that sometimes she doesn’t even know she’s wearing it anymore

Caitlyn Kiramman who was the subject of Piltover tabloids from a very young age

Caitlyn Kiramman who never had any real friends other than Jayce and her Dobermans because no one wanted to hang out with the weird girl AND/OR people only wanted to hang out with her because she was a Kiramman

Caitlyn Kiramman who has a deep-seated fear of failure

Caitlyn Kiramman who experienced adversity but not trauma for the first 23 years of her life until suddenly, she was overwhelmed by a never ending stream of traumatic events that lasted practically a year

Caitlyn Kiramman who refuses to take anything other than an ice cold shower after what happened the last time she took a hot one

Caitlyn Kiramman who has only cried about her mother’s death when someone else was around twice

Caitlyn Kiramman whose father abandoned her in his grief and left her to the wolves

Caitlyn Kiramman who lost the mother she felt she could never impress, who ends up spending a lot of time with a woman with a penchant for violence, a love of attractive young people, and a maternal inclination

Caitlyn Kiramman who pushes away everyone close to her when she feels vulnerable because she doesn’t want anyone to see how horrible she really is (according to her, anyway)

Caitlyn Kiramman who ruins her relationship with the one person she has left and sobs about it because she knows it’s her fault in the same way she knows it’s her fault her mum died (she didn’t take the shot she had the shot and she didn’t take the shot why didn’t she just take the shot)

Caitlyn Kiramman who dates someone she thinks her mum would’ve approved of to numb the pain she has inflicted on herself

Caitlyn Kiramman who doesn’t notice that she’s allowed herself to become a monster until it’s too late

Caitlyn Kiramman who trusts no one, who is suspicious and on edge constantly, who is constantly looking over her shoulder, who sleeps with one eye open

Caitlyn Kiramman who enables the person she loves most to leave her and run away from everything with her sister — the same sister that blew her and her coworkers up twice, kidnapped her naked out of her shower, and blew up her mum

Caitlyn Kiramman who enters the holding chambers to confirm to herself that she has finally pushed everyone away once and for all

Caitlyn Kiramman who does not find any of this predictable because she has only ever inflicted pain, especially recently and especially on her and what does she mean she wants this? What does she mean she doesn’t care?

Caitlyn Kiramman whose brother is unrecognizable after having been missing for months (she needed him and he was gone why is everyone always gone when she needs them she just be the problem she must she must she must)

Caitlyn Kiramman who realizes that someone she trusted was using her just like everyone else has

Caitlyn Kiramman who would rather die than give into her manipulator again

Caitlyn Kiramman who sits in her study feeling like a failure as a daughter, sister, girlfriend, leader, and person because she knows with certainty that she did fail all of those people in massive ways

Caitlyn Kiramman who sometimes hand washes dishes after dinner instead of having her staff do it because the hot water burns her hands so nicely

Caitlyn Kiramman who was never told she was allowed to be angry suddenly has all the anger in the world and once she realizes the damage it does to the people around her turns it inward

Caitlyn Kiramman who loves her girlfriend as much as she hates herself

#caitvi #arcane #violyn #caitlyn arcane #caitlyn kiramman

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bradshawssugarbaby · 1 year ago

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Beer Never Broke My Heart - Jake Seresin x Reader

A/N: another country music inspired TGM oneshot because why not. Beer Never Broke My Heart by Luke Combs is a fave and it's been stuck in my head all day so, here we go.

Pairing: Jake Seresin x reader

warnings/content: fluff, a little angst if you squint I guess? Bob and Bradley playing cupid. Jake's a commitment-phobe.

word count: 2.8k

The stories about Jake Seresin’s Fourth of July parties were the thing of legends. At least, that’s what your childhood best friend, Bob Floyd told you. Growing up together in the quaint corners of Kentucky, your friendship persisted even after Bob enlisted in the Navy, bridging the geographical gaps that separated you. Upon encountering Jake, Bob wasted no time in regaling you with tales of the charismatic, albeit arrogant and cocky, pilot he had befriended—someone he cheekily deemed "perfectly your type." With a mischievous grin, Bob couldn't resist teasing you about your penchant for less-than-stellar romantic choices. However, as Bob grew closer to Jake, his jests evolved into genuine affection, a burgeoning belief that perhaps you and Jake were destined for each other. Your recent trip to San Diego had you attending Bradley Bradshaw's birthday bash at Bob's insistence, albeit with the conspicuous absence of Jake. Despite assurances from Jake himself that he wouldn't miss it, he was reportedly detained by a rigorous training exercise on base, but Bob hadn’t been buying it.

"Has Jake ever mentioned having a significant other, like, ever?" Bob quizzically posed one evening at the Hard Deck, the favored haunt for Navy personnel and their circles.

Bob's squadron pondered, their heads shaking in unison while exchanging contemplative glances. A few scanned the ceiling, delving into their memory banks to recall any fleeting encounters where Jake might have been accompanied by a woman for more than just a passing night.

"Bradley, Javy, you guys practically grew up with him. Have either of you ever seen him with a girl for longer than a one-night fling?" Bob chuckled, arching an inquisitive brow.

Bradley and Javy exchanged a silent glance, both shaking their heads softly. Bradley took a sip of his beer, placing the bottle down with a soft laugh, as if a distant recollection had suddenly surfaced.

"I take that back, I do remember this one girl. What was her name... Heather, Jessica, something like that. This was way back when I first met him, over a decade ago. Jake would've been, what, 21 tops? He was ready to tie the knot with her—or so we all thought. Then she decided she couldn't handle dating someone always on the go, and it broke poor Jake's heart. After that, he seemed to reckon he had something to prove, which might explain why he can be such an insufferable dick most of the time now."

Bob raised a knowing eyebrow, nodding thoughtfully. A smirk crept onto his face as he glanced around at his companions, then back at you.

"Jake's got cold feet when it comes to commitment. That's why he skipped out!”

“Nothing gets past you, does it, Bobby?” Bradley grinned, shaking his head as he sipped his beer again.

“Look, I think we need to just bring you to his annual Fourth of July party. He’ll love you when he meets you. He’s just scared of the idea,” Bob nodded as he turned to you, grinning.

“Guys, if Jake doesn’t want to meet me, it’s ok. I’m not offended. If he’s a commitment-phobe, I’m probably good just…not meeting the guy,” You shrugged as you sipped your cocktail, laughing softly. “Besides, Bobby, you’re the one who said he was perfectly my type because he’s an asshole. I mean, maybe I should change my type.”

“Nah, Jake’s not a bad guy,” Bradley shook his head quickly, an awkward chuckle escaping his lips. “He’s just not a smart guy, at least not when it comes to social settings. Trust me, he’ll be fine. We just won’t tell him you’re coming.”

A few nights later, you and Bob rolled up to Jake's party, the warm summer air buzzing with excitement. You sported a laid-back ensemble: denim shorts hugging your curves and a tie-dyed halter top in patriotic hues of red, blue, and white, exuding a festive vibe. Your sunglasses rested atop your head, adding a touch of effortless coolness to your look.

As you stepped into the backyard, the scene unfolded before you: Bradley and Jake engaged in their customary banter, beers in hand, the ambiance alive with their friendly squabble.

"I'm telling you, the Astros are taking it all this year," Jake asserted confidently.

Bradley scoffed, retorting, "And I'm telling you, they'll crash and burn like they always do, Bagman."

Bob chimed in with a chuckle, playfully interrupting their debate. Adjusting his glasses with a grin, he shot Bradley a teasing glance.

"Are we interrupting something here?" Bob quipped, his tone lighthearted as he ushered you forward.

Bradley's smile widened as he greeted you warmly, introducing you to Jake, who turned to you with a suave grin, his eyes sparkling with charm.

As you laid eyes on Jake for the first time, a rush of sensations flooded through you. Standing tall with a commanding presence, his tanned skin glowed under the party lights, accentuating the golden hue of his tousled blonde hair. His bright sea-green eyes, vibrant and captivating, seemed to hold the entire universe within them, drawing you in with their magnetic gaze.

A charming grin played upon his lips, exuding confidence and warmth, while his strong southern accent, dripping with Texan pride, resonated through the air like a familiar melody. Your heart skipped a beat as you took in his rugged yet effortlessly handsome features, feeling a flutter of anticipation mingled with a hint of nervous excitement. In that moment, it was as if time stood still, and all you could do was offer a tentative smile in return, your emotions swirling in a whirlwind of curiosity and intrigue at the enigmatic man before you.

As you stood before him, captivated by his presence, Jake extended a hand with a confident smile.

"Well, hi there," he drawled in his rich southern accent, his voice smooth as honey.

"Lieutenant Commander Jake Seresin, US Naval Air Force." he said, his bright green eyes twinkling with charm, emphasizing his title as he shot Bradley a competitive smirk. You knew Bradley was a Lieutenant, and you knew from what Bob had told you that the Jake and Bradley bickered over Jake’s newly-appointed higher rank.

"Pleasure to meet you," you replied, your voice betraying a hint of admiration for the accomplished officer standing before you.

With a nod of acknowledgment, Jake's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of confidence and charm. "Likewise," he responded warmly, his grip on your hand lingering just a fraction longer than necessary, sending a jolt of excitement coursing through you.

His handshake was firm yet gentle, sending a tingle of electricity through your fingertips as you exchanged introductions. In that moment, his genuine warmth and charisma enveloped you, leaving you eager to uncover more about the man behind the captivating facade.

As the conversation flowed, you found yourself drawn further into Jake's magnetic presence, each moment spent in his company deepening your intrigue and desire to unravel the layers of the enigmatic man before you. Jake excused himself politely after a few minutes of lively conversation, and you watched on with a dreamy-eyed expression on your face as he slipped away into the party to converse with someone else. Out the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob and Bradley exchange knowing grins as they observed what was unfolding.

The night carried on, and you headed into the house to find your way to the bathroom. Closing the sliding patio door behind you, your eyes scanned over the house, taking in the crisp, white walls adorned with different pieces of country-themed decor, as if Jake was trying to bring as much of Texas into his Californian home as he could. A simple cactus sat on the coffee table, a Stetson hanging on the wall, next to a vintage rodeo poster, framed and on display. The decor was somewhere between vintage Americana and a country bar, but it seemed so perfectly Jake. At least, from everything you’d been told about him, and from your five minute exchange with him earlier.

As you headed down the hallway to find the bathroom, passing by the entryway to the kitchen, you could hear muffled voices, deep in discussion. You paused for a moment as you recognized both voices. One was unmistakeably Bradley, his Virginian lilt echoing slightly out of the kitchen. The other, an equally deep and recognizable southern drawl, one you’d only just heard a short while ago, but equally ingrained in your mind.

“Listen, Bradley, I’m sure she’s a great girl. Bob wouldn’t have brought her if she wasn’t. I’m just not interested,” Jake protested, and you felt your heart sink slightly as you heard the words that weren’t intended for you.

“Jake, it was 11 years ago, man. Don’t you ever think about what it’d be like to meet someone? Settle down? Have a kid?”

“No,” Jake replied stubbornly.

“Now you’re just being a jackass,” Bradley sighed, and you could just envision the disapproving glance and head shake that Jake was on the receiving end of right now, “You can’t just keep having drunk one night stands, dude. You’re gonna wake up one day and realize you basically pissed your whole life away. The Navy’s not gonna be there forever. One day you’re gonna have to retire.”

“And I’ll retire happily. On a ranch somewhere in Texas.”

“Alone.”

“I’ll buy a dog if you’re that fucking concerned about me being lonely, Bradshaw,” Jake spat back angrily.

“What if she’s not like what’s-her-face?”

“Chelsea. And it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. You’re pissing away a chance with a really nice girl because of what, your pride? Your ego? You’re afraid to get hurt? You’re gonna end up drunk and alone.”

“Beer never broke my heart. Women have.”

“Oh come off it, Bagman. You were 21. You’re how old now?”

“Thirty five.”

“Exactly. Almost fifteen years ago. Give yourself a chance to be happy.”

As you listened in on Jake and Bradley's conversation, hidden from view in the hallway, a sudden tickle in your nose sent an urgent signal. You pressed a finger beneath your nostrils, desperately attempting to stifle the impending sneeze. However, despite your valiant efforts, a soft, involuntary sound escaped into the air, betraying your presence to the two men engrossed in discussion.

The gentle echo of your sneeze disrupted the flow of their conversation, prompting both Jake and Bradley to turn their heads in unison, their brows furrowing in mild surprise. Caught off guard by your sudden interruption, they exchanged a quick glance before Jake's gaze settled on the source of the noise.

You stood frozen in the hallway, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as you met Jake's curious stare. In that fleeting moment, you felt like an intruder, an eavesdropper stumbling upon a conversation meant to remain private. Yet, despite the awkwardness of the situation, a part of you couldn't help but wonder if this unexpected encounter might offer insight into Jake's guarded heart and the walls he had built to protect himself from the ghosts of past heartbreaks.

“Sorry, I uh, I was just looking for the bathroom,” you blushed, nodding your head quickly as you smoothed a hand over your hair.

“Down the hall, second door on the left,” Jake nodded once, remaining awkwardly guarded as he spoke.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bradley held his hand out, shaking his head, “I promised Bob I’d sort this out and I’m damn well gonna do it.”

As Bradley stepped forward, determination etched into his features, you couldn't help but feel a mix of curiosity and apprehension. His insistence on addressing the situation piqued your interest, but you also couldn't shake the unease of being caught in the middle of a potentially sensitive conversation.

Jake glanced at Bradley with a hint of skepticism, his guarded demeanor softening slightly as he awaited Bradley's next words.

"Look, Jake," Bradley began, his tone earnest yet firm, "I know you've been hesitant about getting involved. But trust me, she's not like anyone you've ever met before."

You blinked in surprise at Bradley's unexpected endorsement, feeling a rush of gratitude toward your friend for advocating on your behalf. Bradley gave you both a knowing look before nodding once again and heading out of the room to give you both time alone. Jake shifted awkwardly on his feet, avoiding your gaze.

Jake's expression softened, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his eyes as he absorbed Bradley's words. After a moment of contemplative silence, he finally spoke, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“I’m sorry,” Jake nodded slowly, looking up at the ceiling before glancing over at you. “Bob and Bradley have been so bent on getting us together. I guess I’m just hung up on some shit from fifteen years ago. An ex-girlfriend told me she didn’t want to live the whole military spouse life after I had an accident in training. I never got over it. Had a ring for her and everything. Was gonna have the whole 2.5 kids and a dog and a white picket fence thing going on. Then she decided she couldn’t be a military spouse, and I decided I couldn’t give up what I’d been working on achieving, so I let her leave.”

“You haven’t dated in fifteen years?”

Jake's lips curved into a rueful smile, tinged with a hint of self-deprecation.

“Not really, I mean, I’ve been with girls, but not seriously.”

Your laughter rang out, tinged with discomfort as you shook your head in incredulity. "And here I thought my dating history was a train wreck," you confessed, a nervous chuckle punctuating your words. "Bob likes to rib me about it, but I have a knack for attracting men allergic to commitment, unless it's to Sunday night football and beers with the boys."

Jake's laughter echoed yours, a genuine warmth infusing his expression as he nodded in understanding.

"Now it all makes sense," he remarked, a glint of realization illuminating his features. "Bob kept insisting you were my type, and I couldn't figure out how he knew."

You frowned in confusion. "I'm lost."

"I tend to gravitate toward women who epitomize everything I'm not," Jake explained, a note of introspection coloring his words. "The ones wanting marriage, stability—all the things I shy away from. It's why I've avoided serious relationships. I thrive on being the best, but in that arena, I’m like…a football team short of a quarterback."

“I mean, you could. You just have to want it.”

“Part of me does.”

“But?”

Jake lets out a heavy sigh, shaking his head remorsefully as he looks down. He leans his body against the counter, shrugging his shoulders before speaking.

“But, I’m 35. I guess I could retire from service if the right girl came along. I just…it’s all I know. I know I’m a good pilot, ya know? I don’t know how I am at this boyfriend shit. “

His eyes met yours, earnest and vulnerable, as he confessed, "I mean, sure, I wanna be the kind of man who can sweep a woman off her feet, who knows how to cherish her and make her feel like she's the center of the universe. But truth be told, I ain't got a clue how to do that. I'm afraid I'll crash and burn before I even get off the ground.”

Jake frowned at the can of beer in his hand, shaking his head with a hearty chuckle.

“I’ve had too many of these, I don’t normally share my life story. Not with pretty girls at least.”

“Well,” you responded, pulling up a bar stool beside him before resting your elbows on the counter, holding your head in your hands as you looked at him, “I’m listening.”

"You know," he mused with a wry chuckle, "I never thought I'd feel betrayed by a cold beer, but here I am, questioning my trust in beer of all things." He shook his head, a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. "Seems I've stumbled into uncharted territory here, darlin’.”

As Jake's laughter subsided, a lull settled over the conversation, punctuated only by the distant hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses in the background. You sensed a shift in the atmosphere, a moment bursting with unspoken thoughts and emotions.

"Maybe it's time to navigate these unfamiliar waters together," you suggested softly, breaking the silence with a tentative smile.

"We can figure it out as we go, right?"

Jake's gaze softened, a flicker of gratitude shining in his eyes as he met your gaze. "I'd like that," he admitted, his voice tinged with sincerity.

"It might be a bumpy ride, but, I reckon this time I might stand a chance of finding my bearings."

And in that moment, as the weight of his words hung in the air between you, you felt a spark of hope ignite within your heart—a flicker of possibility for something beautiful to bloom amidst the uncertainties of the journey ahead.

#jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin fic #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x you #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick imagine

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fatalitysficbakery · 1 year ago

Text

𓆰♥︎𓆪 I Choose Me. —

Elijah Mikaelson x Black Fem!Y/n

genre: angst | fluff | SMUT.

warnings: breeding kink, soft dom!elijah, hybrid!y/n, desperation, need, man falls first, woman falls harder, soft smut, gentle dirty talk. grab tissues for your eyes and tomatoes for niklaus, it’s time for elijah’s ending.

synopsis: but what about elijah’s happiness?

↳ 𓆰 Fatalitysficbakery navigation menu 𓆪.

↳ 𓆰 Fatalitysficbakery multifandomed &&’ oc menu #2 𓆪.

❦ ⌫ ❦

To be an elder Mikaelson sibling you had to be strong, resilient...patient. You have to be ready for anything, your back mustn't touch the wall lest the foundation crumbles and you are right back where you started. ... Sacrificing anything to provide your family with everything. Anyone.

And that's when the lines get blurred and you start to question if family is even a thing that exists, is there a family at all if you're at each other's throats, a dagger just itching to imbed itself in your poor beloved siblings, but do they deserve it? Had they ever not?

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

Elijah Mikaelson was a very stubborn individual when he needed to be, he had to be if he were to keep his family safe from any and every threat posed to them. To be a Mikaelson was to command respect the second you should enter any room. The quarter was growing more tense by day and there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep his people alive and healthy.

Elijah believed in the principles of familial relationships, they meant everything to him, if he had to lose it all he would do so all in the name of saving his family, he had done so before and he'd do it again.

That didn't mean family was easy, nothing about being a Mikaelson was anywhere near. Being an Original vampire was something that came with a target on your back, especially with so many bridges built and then subsequently burned, bodies left behind, and bloodshed.

—

Niklaus Mikaelson was a testament to how complicated family ties could be. A product of adultery and lust, condemned to a lifetime of abuse, and far far worse when the truth is exposed his claws begin to lengthen, and the first hybrid is born. Vampire and Werewolf.

The man he thought was his father shuns him, calls him a beast, a bastard, hunts him to the ends of the earth armed with a white oak stake to take his life more times than can be counted in one therapy session. So the hatred and anger...It festers. Brews. Until a beast is truly born, one that takes on his 'father's' traits more and more by the day and still...Elijah has hope for his brother, and in some ways, he envies him, in one very specific sense of the word.

You see, vampires cannot procreate but werewolves, they can and do. Niklaus is a hybrid with a penchant for an affair or two, such is one case with a little wolf so special she held Elijah's heart in her hands from the moment they met even as she'd carried his younger brother's child.

And that brings us to Elijah's sudden hesitation on his principles, his own rules becoming sour on his tongue when he thinks about them any further.

When baby Alyssa was born, her mother and father barely got a moment with her before she was sent off with Cami to be kept safe when the factions started going to war, and the witches specifically had taken a liking, more so a hatred—to the first hybrid having a child they were told he could use as a weapon to make more like him. They needed to kill her.

Instead, the family killed her. As far as anyone knew baby Alyssa had died an hour after she was born, mourned by Y/n, the wolves, the Mikaelsons, hell the entire town felt the loss. Others were happy to be rid of the potential threat.

Only the trusted knew the child was still alive, but her loss in the household was felt nonetheless...especially by Y/n. The birth was traumatizing, she'd been murdered, her baby had been kidnapped, and she'd woken up feeling brand new. — A hybrid.

When they'd gotten Alyssa back before Genevieve completed the ritual, she knew she'd sacrifice anything for that little girl, even if it meant handing her over to Cami and being away from her.

It was for the better.

Elijah had held her tightly in his arms as she sobbed into his chest after they'd returned to the compound without her daughter.

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

It was midnight in the compound when he heard a soft knock on his bedroom door. Despite himself, he feels a smile tug at his lips, he knew it had to be only one person and it took everything in his bones not to snatch the door open just to see her face a little quicker, but he refrained.

Met with those familiar almond-shaped caramel eyes, a deep brown freckled complexion framed with sandy brown butt-length soft locs, lips parted slightly suggesting she was just about to call for him when he opened the door turning her cheeks a rosy pink when she's caught, there's a hint of amusement in his eyes which begin to wander her being, noting the ponytail her locs are in, to the oversized shirt she wore to her glasses sat on her nose and the expression that told him she'd just woken up.

"Y/n." He begins, only to be cut off by the feel of her arms wrapping around his neck and a little sob meeting his ears. He feels it turn on instantly, that protective instinct he'd always felt around her is switched the second the slightest whimper reaches him.

❦ ⌫ ❦

"I had another nightmare." She whispers, leaving me no time to answer before she's inside my bedroom and I begin to tow that invisible line. Temptation on my mind, but my concern for her outweighs.

This has become quite the routine since Alyssa's 'death'. The little wolf had a way of tugging on your heartstrings and with those puppy dog eyes, I can't even begin to unravel the mystery of how more aren't utterly addicted. She bats those lashes and suddenly nothing matters. She speaks like a siren and suddenly I'm weak in the knees. Jelly. If the blood were to pump through my veins, it would pump solely for her. My heart beats solely for her.

I take her into my arms without hesitation though I know there should be some distance and boundary. She's the mother of my younger brother's child. Yet...

I reel in my emotions and keep my composure but the battle within myself is one I continue to lose when it comes to her. When I see the mascara tears streaking her cheeks, I become but a fool; as always, I break.

...

She needs me.

↳

The little wolf's beauty is simply unrivalled, and more often than not do I find myself entranced, lost admiring her and ensuring every detail, down to the smallest becomes engraved in my mind so much so that I'm sure I could identify her by beauty mark alone.

As she sits in front of me and I watch her wiping away the streaks of black tears, her eyes focused in on the handheld mirror she'd told me once belonged to her grandmother. — You see, I inevitably notice everything that goes on with the wolf. I always have; the slightest shift, the newest look, expression, what have you.

My eyes are still on her, and as they roam, my sights are occupied when I come to the sudden realization that the shirt the wolf wears, one that had caught my eye from the moment she stepped into my bedroom and set my undead heart aflame, was in all actuality, one of mine.

I'm sure my jaw has dropped but I pay no mind to my expression, all too enthralled in what the little wolf had going on, I find myself unable to look away. Who would want to? She's a creature crafted by the Gods and Goddesses themselves.

I guess I was a bit overzealous in my efforts to admire the beauty that she is; She breaks me free of my stupor, eyes directing that chocolate brown gaze my way and I find my stomach churning and tightening all with the thought that she might be the one thing to make me forget all my principles. — The possibility of angering Niklaus seems so worth it when I look to the art that the world hasn't proved itself worthy of revelling at; It seems even further worth it when that honeyed angelic voice of hers finds its way into my psyche and takes home there.

Siren to sailor. I find myself lured, and there's not much effort on her part. There doesn't need to be. Not when I am ready and very willing to fall into the many pieced puzzle that Y/n Y/ln was turning out to be.

"You're staring." I hear her sigh, we're sat face to face. Her in front of me on the sofa; Me, sat in the chair across from her. I feel myself growing a tad hot under the collar when she scoots herself forward a little closer, those hauntingly beautiful eyes of hers staring directly into mine. — There's a look in her eyes that I can't quite read, and though we'd grown closer, and I'd become quite the expert in all things Y/ln; Right now, and still, she was quite the mystery.

All I know is how that stare made me feel...She'd weakened and buckled my knees without me ever needing to stand up.

"Ah." I clear my throat, I wish to respond but my mouth moves not with my mind. She has rendered me defenseless in such a short period of our knowing each other that it feels as if I have known her a millennia.

"Do I still have something on my face, Lijah? You're worrying me. So zoned out..."

I have lived through and survived wars, I have watched famine and plagues kill off entire villages. I have seen the wickedness of man, I have existed and survived, myself, as the wickedness of man. I have torn through villages, leaving blood and carnage behind, killing in the name of family and letting nothing stand in my way, all in the name of protecting my loved ones.

To be a Mikaelson is to be fearless, confident, strong, ruthlessly loyal, and commanding; A leader, and in so many aspects I humbly admit to embodying just that. Yet as I sit here, staring into her eyes, struggling and stumbling over my words like a schoolboy with a crush, I am met with the knowledge that I might've just found the one thing, one person that both makes me weak, renders me speechless.

No, no this is something I am sure of. I have found the one person capable of knocking me down a peg, reminding me that I had once been human; Fragile, meek, and susceptible to a beautiful woman's charms.

I don't think she knows exactly how deep her powers reach. She has the ability to make an Original a nervous little boy.

"No, no. Nothing at all." I muster, but I don't even believe my own words and by the look on her face; She doesn't believe them either and at first I hesitate, wondering if I should let it slip that when I look at her I see a masterpiece. A work of art in my midst.

The little hybrid is one otherworldly creature, never had I ever met a woman as elegant, and ethereal as she. My lips parted, words silenced as I argue with two sides of myself; One so ruthlessly loyal to his family he'd do anything, lose anything for them and though it's normally the former…I find the other side winning me over.

The side that is tired of not living for me. The side that sees me as deserving of love and the little hybrid as worth every consequence.

I finally find my voice. "My apologies, you are just...something else. A vision of empyreal elegance. While I apologize for marveling, I recognize that in your perfection...You are something to be marveled at in all your glory...Gods woman." The words stumble out before I can attempt to hit the brakes. My bed is made.

She flashes that pretty little smile. I am ready to lie in it.

"You sound awfully smitten, Mr. Mikaelson."

A chuckle rumbles through me if only she knew just how much. This storm had been brewing for far too long, and I was no longer willing to try and stop it. Fighting seemed futile.

I find myself moving to sit beside her, my hand reaching out to tuck a few stray locs behind her ear, and I revel, I completely and utterly revel in the way pink dusts those beautifully high cheekbones of hers with a soft blush.

I don't want to fight.

"And what of it, little one? That a bad thing?" My voice is a mere whisper, lost in those eyes of hers. It feels as if she's ripped my heart from my chest and claimed for her own, and I, a willing fool; allow it.

"No...I just see the way you look at me. It matches my gaze when it falls upon...you."

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

Their eyes remain locked on one another and the world drifts, it simply drifts away when the lovers fall into one another, ready and all too happy to drown. Elijah simply can't hold it in anymore, his attraction to the hybrid. Niklaus could be angry later, he'd handled his younger brother before, he could do it again. But no longer would he wait. His Persephone sat only inches away, he could feel her breath hitting his skin. He leans in closer, tilting her head up to look back into his eyes.

"May I trouble you for a kiss, sweetheart? It seems I can no longer control my urges. You- You are too tempting." His voice is soft and breathy, and Y/n can feel herself falling all the same. Just like she'd been doing from the moment they'd met. Locked eyes.

This had been building up and it was bound to explode. She nods, her forehead pressing against his. She lets out a breath she didn't know she'd even been holding, a hand resting on his cheek. "I- I have been waiting for you to ask since that night on the balcony."

It was like a switch flips in Elijah because suddenly he wraps an arm around her waist tugging her closer towards him, impish grin spread across his lips, eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation; He finds none, and that's all he needs. His lips meet hers and by no means is it rough or sloppy, their lips a choreographed routine filled with a tender, gentle, and romantic passion. One that set fireworks off in the room and butterflies off in the pit of Y/n's stomach.

When they part from the kiss, at last, Elijah once again tugs her closer until she's sat in his lap with his arms wrapped tightly around her to ensure she was secure and protected, as if she were the most delicate thing he'd ever come across. "Allow me to apologize for my tardiness. I assure you I see the error of my ways, and I assure you no longer am I able to deny myself the pleasures the little goddess in my lap brings. You...You are something so sinisterly entrancing, Y/n Y/ln."

Elijah Mikaelson has a way about him that no one can quite resist, a charm that shines through and blinds you to his last name. There was a reason the factions of the quarter were more open to forming alliances when it was him speaking on behalf of his family. The noble gentlemanly way in which he carries himself could charm the panties off the toughest of Mikaelson critics, and Y/n, herself for that matter.

Perhaps it was a little somber to say but she's never met anyone quite like Elijah before, a man so romantic and passionate she was sure she'd stepped into a fairytale starring a Prince Charming so handsome he could stop hearts with a simple glance. "My, you have such a way with words. You're gonna make a lady's knees week."

That rumbling chuckle once again reverberates through the woman's body, sending a shiver down her spine. She's once again forced to look into his eyes, and this time it almost stops her heart. That half-grin that shows he knows his power, those chocolatey brown eyes filled with love; filled with lust.

"And what happens, little wolf, when you realize that that is precisely my intention? My dear, you see, when it comes to you...that has always been the end goal. Not only do I wish to take claim of the intelligence that is your mind and the heart I hear beating so very loudly for me...No. I am a selfish greedy man, and I want it all." Elijah leans down to whisper gently into her ear, no longer would he take into account those who merely disregarded him in turn. He was so...hungry.

One could define his behavior as obsession, greed, gluttony. Maybe it was all of the above when it came to her. He was mad for the little wolf, and more than anything he needs to feast; His eyes linger on her neck for a moment too long until she's looking up at him through those lashes of hers with a look that speaks nothing but trouble into the atmosphere. —Her next words become a beacon, his fangs can no longer control themselves.

"A sample?" The way she presents her neck to him is all too erotic though vampirism had always been nothing short of, and the male feared his hunger would not dissipate with a 'sample' nor was he sure he'd have the self control to pull himself away, and yet...

He brushes her locs from her shoulder exposing more of her neck to him; leaning down, he inhales deeply and the scent of her. The mere scent. It was enough to have his trousers feel three sizes too small. "Stop me now, dear. I'm not sure I can stop myself." He whispers, breath kissing her neck with a gentle blow.

Y/n, god the minx — She merely tilts her head even further, eyes flickering back over to him. "A sample, Elijah."

The universe was testing him. It had to be so. His breath hitches, eyes flickering over from the spider tattoo that rests on a pulse point to the beauty marks and freckles scattered about the very surface. He looks into her eyes for one last chance. One last chance to stop him where he sits.

In case he ever thought he couldn't find more reason to think the wolf the most attractive creature to him, she'd always been there to prove him wrong. He feels himself letting a silent chuckle escape, his eyes turning black and fangs descending the moment he sees that look of challenge cross her features. "You are a dangerous one, Miss Y/ln...The day you take the Mikaelson name. Dear...You'll fit right in."

She lets out the sweetest moan and it's like music to his ears, something that rivals and trumps the greats. If he were to hear nothing more than her voice for the rest of his eternities, he would live a contented life. And her blood...

Why it's like nothing he's ever tasted, something so sweet, so delectable; He'd be a fool to allow it to be shared with someone else. No. This was his. She was his. When he finally regains his self-control and pulls himself away, his lips are immediately on hers, and lying her down — His body hovers over hers.

His tone is breathy and strained with desire when they break for air, looking down at the little wolf with such lust in his eyes it'd make the strongest fall to the knees in front of him. "It seems I was right in my assumptions...I need more. Much more. And I...Sweet wolf..."

He brushes the hair from her eyes and leans down so they're eye to eye, lips close enough to steal another kiss. He continues. "Don't think I possess the self-control needed to not simply take it, so I again implore, darlin'. Do you wish to go any further?"

As he says this, she watches his hands move to the buckle of his belt and her eyes stick to the scene for a brief moment neglecting to give an answer right away until her eyes meet with his again and her own hands move to help unbuckle his belt.

"Nous sommes toujours jeunes, ma douce...and I could spend all my eternities...drowning in you." She finally speaks, one hand helping unbuckle his belt whilst the other tugs him in by the tie for another kiss.

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

They say you only live once, though I have found such to be untrue. My family and I have died a million deaths, hunted, persecuted, making enemy after enemy as we go but I swear. In this moment, I am sure I have never experienced anything coming close to the wolf's soul-piercing, hypnotic, stomach-churning gaze.

No, no, I had never experienced anything coming close to the wolf. End.

My hands run from her chest to her stomach to those deliciously built hips that I had endlessly fantasized about within those quiet nights, fingers roaming to the hem of her lace white panty. I can feel the goosebumps on that beautiful caramel complexion of hers when I slide the lace down her smooth long legs; She busies herself with removing that damned shirt and soon before my very eyes is my every dream.

Her body is a temple and I am here to worship, her cunt stares back at me glistening and dripping onto the sheets immediately in such a way I can't help myself to tease, "You're gushing sweetheart. So soon?"

This, this is what makes the little wolf so alluring. She bites back, and she bites back in a way that makes you want to make her absolutely eat her words, and that alone puts the vivid image of her pretty lush little lips wrapped around your cock, drooling and gagging with tears in those beautiful eyes, mascara streaking down her cheeks.

"And you? That looks painful. I'm surprised you haven't cum in your pants yet." She gives me this smug little smirk as if she's gotten one up on me, and in a way, she has. Hell, in multiple ways, but there were ways to rectify this, and I would rectify this.

I chuckle at her attempt to provoke. No dear, all you've done is provoke me since we've met. It is time I finally allow you to see what exactly wakes up when you do so. "No, no, my sweet doll, I? Oh, I desire to relieve my woes in something far better, in fact? I intend to do just that. You see..."

I take my slacks and boxers down with little regard for where they're thrown. My grip returns to her hips and I can't help to admire the sweet thing I have beneath me, so damned beautiful. So damned inviting. "I intend to breed this pretty cunt until I'm satisfied, and sweetheart I hope you think no less of me when I say this but...Foreplay is the last thing on my mind right now. I need to bury myself in you. I need to drown myself in you. Say the word."

Gods. Gods. The wolf never fails to give me a goddamned run for my money. She wraps her legs around my torso and uses her strength to pull me in, those soft plush lips of hers curling into that same smirk that seemed to want me damned to hell. She's a succubus, and it's only made clearer when her hand entangles itself in my hair and I'm pulled closer, her breath hitting my skin when she breathily whispers into my ear, sending a shudder down my spine.

"The word."

Before I can even blink my body moves before my mind is able to catch up, a growl thundering within my chest, nails slightly digging into her hips whilst the other aligns myself with her cunt hole, sliding in slowly...

I hear her whimper, I hear it dissolve into a pretty little moan, I feel her clench, I feel the way her cunt hugs my cock, and yet all I can focus on is how much better she feels than my fantasies of her ever envisioned. I attempt to give her time to adjust but I can feel my hips twitching ever so.

I attempt to wait, I do. It's my hips that have a mind of their own.

The first thrust into her heat nearly has my body stuttering, her warmth is tight, and the little wolf is so drenched it helps me set a delectable pace. "Elijah..." She moans my name, and I swear I've never heard it sound so good. I watch her face, eating the way her eyebrows knitted and her lips parted in pleasure. She's like no woman I've had the pleasure to bed with, there's something so different about how I feel with her that it feels like I've reached the end of the red thread and am now face to face with my soulmate.

"Listen to that...How pretty you sound when you moan my name."

I hoist her legs over my shoulder to get a better angle, only to slide deeper into the addictive drug that her heat is turning out to be. My pace is nowhere near slow but at the very least I am in control, no, allow me to rephrase. — At the very least, I hold onto a string's length of control and the string threatened to snap with every thrust into the little wolf's cunt.

I see a blush rise to her cheeks, which only serves to rip a grunt-tinged moan from my throat. She looks so beautiful underneath me. Delicate with a slim thick figure, curves in all the right places, it was absolutely no wonder I couldn't keep my hands off of her.

Her nails run themselves down my chest the moans of my name becoming an echo that livens me more than I initially thought possible. She is the perfect definition of a succubus and I, oh I've become a willing victim. A fool for her affections. "I need more. I need you deeper, Elijah." She compels me, and I for once, fall under the spell. I allow my mind to be hers. My body to be her toy in any way she needs it to be. Her hands move to my rear and before I can even think she's pulling me closer, deeper, and I am human again.

My hips thrust with the wildest of abandons and my head is soon buried into inviting neck of hers as I push my way to my final goal; the puppy beneath me was just begging to be bred.

There are such simple pleasures that I take joy in, the ones that remind me of a humanity I'd long since lost, and this. This was one of those simple pleasures. You see, as I bury myself to the hilt in the little things cunt, I inhale the scent, the pheromones she so naturally exudes. I hear her every breath shudder and her walls flutter around me. I smell the scent of her jasmine shampoo. I feel the smoothness of her flesh, the warmth of her body against mine and the feeling of chest pressed to chest.

There was nothing more real. More human than how her body embraced mine, moulded together, moving in perfect harmony. I grunt into her ear with each hard, rough thrust. "Deeper is what you want? Well, sweetest. I think we can come to an agreement. Our wants are aligned."

I can feel myself getting closer to the edge and by the way her walls tighten, I gather she's close as well. I grab onto one of her legs, my lips meeting every inch of skin from calf to thigh, my moans hoarse and strained as euphoria steals me away. I let out a breathy whisper.

"Y-yeah?"

The stammer in her voice is enough to nearly send me flying but I manage to ground myself. I need this to be special, to take my time. To take my time... “You want deep. You want more? Good. You wanna know what I want, pretty one?"

The look on her face only gets me further worked up, I can tell she's about to climax so I stop my movements for a moment just to lean in and get a good look at her face. "I said...Do you want to know what I desire, little princess? Let me hear how pretty you sound all flush and breathy, sweetheart and I promise...We both get what we want. So?"

Ah, there it is. "No- NO. I wish to know what you desire."

There we go. Such a good girl, I don't think I've given in to anything faster than I have now. My hips resume their movements and for a moment all I can do is grunt and moan so primally it reminds me the beast that lies underneath, until I look down to her and I am broken free of my daze. "Me, dear? I want to breed you full of my bloodline. Is that too. much. to. ask?"

My teeth grit together and her nails dig into my back, all that is heard is skin-to-skin and the soft words of two lovers embracing the night.

Have I mentioned how the little wolf continuously surprises me? I am hanging on by a mere thread and soon is my collapse when I feel her lips latch onto my earlobe that voice of hers a melody when she whispers my undoing, "Drown yourself in me. Let all your worries go as your seed spills into me, Elijah. We figure out the rest later."

My pace quickens, my thrusts more erratic and uncontrolled chasing a high I never wanna come down from. It's as soon as those lush lips part, and her eyebrows knit, her heat clenching so tightly I could barely move an inch, the moment I feel her cross that edge? There's a low groan of her name, strained, hoarse, and raw. My hips stutter and I bring our heads together, intertwining our hands, my eyes running over that beautiful face of hers until I am finally too taken to focus, my seed spilling into her and my grip getting tighter on her delicate hands, I take joy when I feel that second orgasm rocking through her body. I find myself laughing a little when I look down at her.

"Again?"

She blushes in embarrassment and it's like another switch is flipped in my head the moment I pull myself away from her and lie down with the little wolf taking no time to come lie in my arms. "Shut up. It was-."

"Cute." I finish for her and pull her closer to me, "It was so damned cute."

I do as she says, I drown in her. I let her take me away to sea. We could figure out the rest later.

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

Niklaus Mikaelson, the beast of the compound, merciless and ruthless is he. Elijah had high hopes for his youngest brothers redemption but that had been before the objectification of the wolf had begun shortly after finding out she was carrying baby Alyssa. Niklaus had become more than possessive over the poor woman and Elijah knew there was only one way this would end when it came to the hybrid.

The sun begins to rise but Elijah himself hadn't slept a wink, he'd been too energized to do so with the little angel by his side, head resting on his chest and light snores heard whilst she sleeps peacefully. He had almost been too afraid to move but the jitters find him soon enough and he's carefully removing the tired thing from his embrace, jonesing for a mug of tea to help calm his excitement. He hadn't felt so happy in such a long time.

Unbeknownst to him there were far too many people in the compound for his dealings to be kept secret, a head peeks out of a nearby bedroom with a smile of genuine happiness for the Original all the same. — But not everyone could be so.

He's stood in front of the tea kettle, his back turned until he hears a boisterous clap and his eyes roll so far back into his head he's almost discovered the secret to life when the familiar cocky English accent belonging to his younger brother hits his ear. Tea time would have to wait, he disappointed-ly supposed before turning around to deal with Niklaus's already felt anger.

"So I see the little wolf has woven you into her webs. Splendid brother." Niklaus sarcastically speaks up, his hands falling to his sides eyes scanning his elder brother in utter contempt. Only this time, Elijah feels himself struggle to care for Niklaus's hotheaded-to-be-expected mood swings.

Elijah lets out a breathy chuckle, lips wrapping around the rim of his mug with a finger up to signal Niklaus to wait whilst he takes a sip. He sees the hybrid's jaw clench. "You know brother, I never really cared for your taste in women but that one upstairs? Oh, she's the best decision you've ever failed to make."

"Failed. She is the mother of my heir, my legacy. That is not a failure, no. No, the failure is yours for neglecting to keep your promise, dear brother and all for the likes of..."

Elijah puts his mug down when he feels the disrespect towards Y/n on his brother's tongue, stepping up to him with no hesitation; He gives him a smile with zero joy beneath it, only a calm, levelheaded warning. "Think carefully of your next words before you speak them Niklaus. I plead this for your sake."

Niklaus laughs in disbelief, clapping his hands together before taking a mimicked step forward as well. "You would fight your own over a woman you've barely known a year?"

"You've killed your own for less."

Niklaus's glare falters when Elijah speaks, he dares not refute the truth but oh it stings his ego to hear his flaws thrown back at him, Elijah isn't the least surprised when he's pinned to the wall with Niklaus's hand wrapped round his neck. "Well then, since I am the bastard son. The beast. Maybe I should live up to my title. Tell me, brother, are you prepared to die behind the little wolf? I simply can't allow my own sibling to be with the mother of my child so it seems I'll simply have to fix this...My way."

"Oh drop the victim complex, Niklaus. No one is calling you a bastard, nor a beast but you are acting like one, no? Yes, I'd die for her, and so so much more because you see to me she's more than a walking incubator. Tell me Niklaus...Do you think she feels safe around you? Happy? When all you've done is treat her like a possession to be had? Or is she afraid? Terrified of the monster you're turning int-."

Niklaus is seething, throwing him into the nearest wall with a growl, his eyes turning that familiar black and silver, fangs popping out as he rolls his neck, fury absolutely steaming from his ears. "Oh, the little wolf has you in the palm of her hands. Wrapped around her finger. But you know, I get it. The whore was a wonderful lay."

❦ ⌫ ❦

It was like a switch flipped in Elijah's head the moment he heard the disrespect towards the woman he cherished more than the air he breathed, his eyes mere voids in contrast to their natural chocolatey brown. "Y'know Brother, I've always prided myself on my love and loyalty for my family so hear me when I say this," He clears his throat, cracking his knuckles and taking a page from Nik's book when he rolls his neck, "Because you are family I will give you one chance to right your wrongs, you're allowed to repeat yourself, but I surely and strongly advise against it."

Niklaus growls, a rumbling sound that feels as though it may shake the compound without so much as a care or thought for the survival of those who inhabited the rooms or roamed the halls. "Well I wasn't planning on it but maybe I should go upstairs, find your little wolf and truly make the whore my, what was it you called her? Ah yes, my possession."

It was then that Elijah could feel himself lose it the moment the words were uttered once more, and it's at the moment Niklaus says the word possession that Elijah makes his move, pinning his younger brother to the nearest wall and landing a punch to his jaw.

Always and forever be damned. There were so few siblings other than Rebekah and Freya that actually used the oath wisely, and Niklaus had gotten away with the opposite so many times with his "woe is me" act — turning his traumas into a crutch that had held the Mikaelson clan hostage for decades; Millenniums. No more.

He should've listened to Rebekah from the very start when she'd told him that Niklaus was simply too far gone to be saved. Still, it tears at his being that it has to come to this.

"You should be thanking me for not snapping your neck where you stand, dear brother for the words you speak are so disrespectful I'm not sure I wish to stop myself."

Niklaus pushes him back only for Elijah to slide back with a hiss tearing through his throat, ready to fight for his happiness. Ready to fight for her. Nik runs at him, wielding a piece of white oak in his hand that Elijah dodges just barely, the stake mere centimetres from his neck stuck inside the compound walls. They struggle and fight for the stake but in the end, no one wins for something stops the men where they stand.

Freya stands exhaustedly next to Keelin and Rebekah who didn't look too amused themselves, all in matching states of unrest. Then and only then is it noticed that Niklaus's free hand held a dagger which pierced into Elijah's stomach.

An agonized scream is heard so gutturally and before Niklaus can take another breath, he and the blade are both pushed away from the Original, a familiar head of sandy brown locs coming to Elijah's aid. “ELIJAH!!”

Niklaus looks between the women and his brother; all he can muster is a scoff. "You dare betray your own flesh, your own blood for the little wolf? How noble." He licks blood from his lips just as Freya pulls the stake and dagger from his hands with no more than a wave of her hand.

"Niklaus, listen to yourself for a second." Freya finally speaks up, ushering her girlfriend behind her in case the hybrid gets any bright ideas.

"You drone on about family and loyalty without knowing what either mean." Rebekah swallows, tears in her eyes; she gestures to Y/n and Elijah, the wolf wrapped in his arms whilst the vampire groans from the pain but dares not pull away. The agony seemed more than worth it when it's her causing it, "You were about to end our brother's life, and for what? Your ego? Pride? Insecurities that run so deep now that you're a father? Is that it?"

Niklaus's face falls, and that's when Freya tells Keelin to head back upstairs before she takes part in the conversation. "You know nothing...nothing. She is the mother of my heir and he..."

"He's treated me more like a person than you ever have since you found out Alyssa was to be born."

"You will no longer blame Elijah for your losses, Niklaus. Your tendency to do so is a flaw that's been ignored too long." Freya whispers fully prepared to snap her own family's neck if need be.

Niklaus is stunned. He's frozen on his spot at this point, looking from gaze to gaze and seeing nothing but disappointment and fury.

"Elijah has done nothing but fight for us, our happiness...your redemption. And all that you give him in return is control over his life. Over ours. Have you ever thought, Nik...That- You'd be a better father if you stopped behaving like ours?" Rebekah is nearly pleading with him now, her hands shaking like never before. She walks up to Niklaus, grabbing his hands in hers. "You starved me of my love, my family, my happiness. I am begging. Begging. That you not do the same to Elijah. I will never and I mean never trust you again if you don't."

A tear falls down his eye, breath shuddering as he once again looks around the room incurring the wrath and sorrow that lie within it. His eyes fall to his bleeding older brother and his child's mother, embraced safely within each others arms. He looks back to Freya and Rebekah and his hand lifts with his final words.

"I'll go. A family should stay here. I fear I must relearn what that is before I trust myself enough to be apart."

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

I sit in front of him, my hand dabbing away at the wound which would no doubt heal in only an hour or two, but still, I get lost in my thoughts blaming myself for he and his brother's fallout tonight. I guess I'd been more out of it than I thought.

His hand catches the wrist that held the towel I use to clean his wound, and suddenly I'm brought a breath apart, my hand on his chest. I feel his heartbeat beneath my fingers, his index and thumb coming to tilt my chin up. Our eyes meet.

"Always and forever, Little wolf." He whispers, breath tickling my cheek as he leans in to press a sweet, slow, and gentle kiss to my parted lips. — I feel my breath is stolen. I feel my chest is tightening.

When he pulls away, all I can muster is a weak nod, those five special words close to follow. My eyes close, our foreheads pressed together. "Always and Forever, My lover."

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

A/N: this took way too fucking long to write cause sickle cell kept kicking my ass but it was soo worth the wait, genuinely think this is my best work. made niklaus the slightest bit bearable at the end because i’m still mad at actual niklaus’s actions. 😭

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imastrangeone98 · 1 year ago

Text

Carved Into Time Immemorial

(A/N: I'm back with my bullshit 😄 I've reemerged from the depths of legal hell and I will not hesitate to repeat this again)

Based off of a dream I had, started off as a zombie apocalypse dream but it suddenly changed to a reincarnation au so there's that

Warning: fem!reader, ooc modern!alhaitham who's a simp, reincarnation angst to comfort, just general bad attempt at hurt/comfort fluff

"I'm merely attempting to tell you to stop deluding yourself with your fantasies."

"So you're telling me to screw off, right?" you sniffled, tears running down your soft cheeks. "If you didn't like me, you just had to say that. Why are you being so cruel?"

"It's not being cruel, it's simply being realistic," he retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "With my status as the Scribe, the requirements for a romantic partner must be near equal to or higher than my own. And with your low grades, unruly personality, and penchant for idiotic decisions, the answer is quite obvious:

"You don't meet any of my prerequisites."

Alhaitham's eyes crack open, and he blinks at the sunlight peeking through the blinds.

With a grunt, he hoists himself up and stretches with a soft yawn, before rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

Another dream.

What a shitty way to start the morning. He runs a hand through his hair and ruffles it rather aggressively.

"I need a coffee."

[...]

Never mind. He doesn't want coffee anymore.

Because the new barista taking orders bears a striking, near-identical resemblance to the crying woman in his unnaturally realistic dreams.

But it's too late to back out, because Alhaitham is next in line, and your gentle eyes peer into his own so deeply, he almost doesn't notice the way your hands shake just the slightest at the sight of him.

Despite the brief stutter in his voice, he manages to give you his order, even placing a small tip inside the jar, which he normally doesn't do.

Given the terror in your eyes which you so desperately tried to hide, he feels as though you earned it. That, and the coffee you handed over to him (ignoring the softness of your fingertips when they brushed over his knuckles) is surprisingly delicious- perfectly bitter with a smooth undertaste that the previous baristas could never achieve.

As he heads off to work, he finds himself savoring every sip.

Meanwhile, you're still reeling at the sight of the mysterious, yet familiar man this morning. How could it be possible, that the figure you saw hurting you with words so sharp they could've cut through your skin in your dreams be a living, breathing human being in your reality, especially when said man spoke with such a surprisingly quiet voice?

Could it be possible that we met before? you couldn't help but mull over, before shaking your head resolutely.

It's just a coincidence, nothing more, you try to reassure yourself, returning to grinding coffee beans with diligence. Nothing more, nothing less.

It's not like you're ever going to see him again.

[...]

You ought to smack yourself right in the head, because you end up meeting the familiar stranger- Alhaitham, you recall from the name on the cup- again at the tavern.

Your coworkers had dragged you there against your will, despite your lack of enthusiasm. So you sit at the bar, a mocktail in your hands, watching the other baristas get more and more drunk.

"You're not a fan of alcohol, I presume?"

The sudden voice close to your ear makes you flinch, and it's only thanks to the man's solid chest that he doesn't go tumbling to the ground when you smack him.

"I- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No need to apologize. You have quite the arm strength."

You flush at the reminder of your actions, as well as how firm his stomach was. You'd slap yourself silly if you weren't in public.

"If that's all, I hope you have a good rest of your night-"

"We've never met before."

You look at him, confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"We've only met once, yet you seem strangely familiar. Like someone from the past," he says. "And from the way you seem to avoid my gaze, would I be correct in presuming that you also view me in a similar light?"

Something within you- almost like an inner voice- whispers at you to not answer his question, to leave and not turn around for a final glance. And it's so unnerving that you're speechless.

"I'll take your silence as an answer." He gazes at you with unbridled curiosity, eyes sparkling in the dim bar light that you can't look away. "If it's agreeable with you, would you be interested in going out for a meal sometime? Perhaps we could compare notes."

You should say no. The voice within you tells you to say no.

But he tilts his head, and somehow, your voice cannot bring itself to vocalize what you should say. So you simply nod, albeit hesitantly. And with a brief exchange of phone numbers, you hurriedly grab your things and ditch your coworkers to rush home.

Alhaitham watches you until the door swings shut, then moves his attention to his phone screen, swiftly typing a message to his newly-made acquaintance.

"I've never seen you so excited about meeting people before," Kaveh chortles with a swig of his wine. "Were you hoping to bring her home tonight? The way she darted away says otherwise."

He rolls his eyes. "Says the one who pulled zero people in the span of the hour we've been sitting in this bar."

"Why, you-!"

"Alhaitham's and Kaveh's love lives aside," Tighnari jumps in and glares at his two friends, "it's about your time to roll, Cyno. We came here because you wanted to play cards, yet here you are, staring at nothing."

Their attention turns to their card-loving friend, who is merely staring at the door.

"...She's a marathon runner," he says simply.

"...What?"

"A marathon runner. Because she's been running laps in Alhaitham's mind."

The men stare at him blankly.

"...Do you not get it? Allow me to explain- Alhaitham has been exceptionally distracted for the past hour-"

Tighnari immediately tries to stop him, leading to an objectively hilarious argument that even has a chase sequence ("Enough with the shitty puns, you pea-brained lummox!"). But Alhaitham isn't laughing.

He stares at his phone, at the little notification indicating a response from you, agreeing to lunch in a few days' time.

He sets about looking for a nice cafe.

[...]

The booths are small in this restaurant, because the two of you pick at your food with your knees practically bumping each other under the table. But the panipuri appetizers are good, so at least you have that silver lining.

He's not particularly chatty, as his answers to your icebreaker questions are short and straightforward. But you sense that it's not out of malice, but simple directness.

At least you learn some things: he works at Sumeru Corporations, he holds a relatively high yet comfortable position, he has a "terrible roommate with no sense of rationality or common sense," and he enjoys a good book at the library. It suits him, you think.

It isn't until your lunches arrive that the conversation turns more serious.

As you nervously take bites of your fish with cream sauce, he asks you a question: "Did you sleep well last night?"

You flinch. The answer is: you did not. The dream prevented you from doing so.

"Dropping out of the Akademiya? I knew you were always foolish, but to think you'd stoop so low as to throw away your future," Alhaitham said, watching you throw away boxes upon boxes of your schoolwork and rejected theses.

"You said so yourself, Grand Scribe," you sighed. You refused to give him any more attention than this; the sting in your heart wouldn't allow it. "I was never meant to be a scholar. This is the best case scenario for everyone involved."

He huffed, and scanned through some of your old papers- papers you spent days, weeks, months on, even. Papers that he would've written in an hour or less. You bit your lip; you refused to give it any more thought, lest the grief in your chest mutate into rage.

"You do realize that some of these could be published, yes?"

You rolled your eyes. "If you're done mocking me, Grand Scribe, you can return to your duties now."

"I'm not mocking you; some of these papers would easily be approved by the Grand Sage-"

"Don't even get me started on that incompetent old fool!" you hissed, and you squeezed the old papers in your hands so hard wrinkles formed. "If that was your attempt to have me stay in the Akademiya- which seems beyond your best interest, mind you- then you did a horrible job. Leave at once!"

"Just listen to-"

"LEAVE!"

"Are you alright? You're crying."

The voice jolts you out of your memory. You jump in your seat, the feeling of a warm finger gently rubbing under your eye further pulling you out of your unexpected funk.

Alhaitham stares at you, leaning away. "My apologies. You just seemed very lost in thought."

You wipe your suddenly wet eyes. Why would you cry over a silly dream? "Sorry; I don't know why I did that. It was just a bad dream I had last night, please don't worry about it."

He hums and stares at you thoughtfully, a cheek rested on his hand. "I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you I also had a dream last night."

You look at him, eyes wide.

"You were leaving some institution called the Akademiya, and I made some attempt to stop you for unknown reasons."

The blood in your veins chilled you; you stare into your plate, appetite gone. He eyes you, swiftly switching his empty plate with yours.

"I admit that I'm not one to be superstitious. But for us to share the same dream cannot merely be a coincidence."

You want to deny it; there's no way some complete stranger happens to share the exact same dream as you! It's just a coincidence!

...But is it really? To both know the words that were spoken between your dream self and his? Could that truly be called a coincidence when it seems like every dream of yours is known by this man?

You stay silent.

Alhaitham takes the time to briefly study your face: the corners of your eyes are etched with laugh lines, your hands are rough and calloused from months- maybe even years- of hard work from your various areas of employment, and even though you're visibly upset, your head still bobs gently to the soft music playing above. You live a different life than he imagined.

He swiftly handles the bill, and when you complain and try to hand him your share of the receipt, he merely says, "If you'd like to repay me, I know a good place that has excellent baklava."

And when his eyes glow and he extends his arm to you, you- against your better judgment- say yes.

[...]

"Y'know, he's been in quite the good mood ever since his date~" Kaveh chuckles at his roommate from the comfort of his cramped desk. "He's finally appreciating all those love lessons I taught him!"

"Sure, if you can even call those lessons," Tighnari laughs at his friend. "More like screaming matches to me."

"I swear to the archons, if you try to mock my teaching skills again, I'll give you a 'love lesson' too!"

"No need, I don't need another one of those."

"What are you talking about, I never gave you one-"

"On the contrary, Alhaitham has been rather cranky at work." Cyno watches his friend typing away at his phone while simultaneously managing his leftover paperwork, oddly determined on finishing the last of his duties before work ended so he could focus his attention on other, "more important things worth my time than slaving away over a desk," as he put it. "He seems very intent on 'throwing a wrench' in all of my proposals for the upcoming case."

"...Not gonna lie, Cyno, that doesn't sound very off-brand from his actual personality," Tighnari says bluntly. "Also, stop with the archon-forsaken puns!"

"No. And correction- he's intent on rejecting my proposals. Setaria's and Zandik's went through without a hitch. And their plans almost never get approved by him."

That fact left the lawyer's two friends utterly confused. While Alhaitham was never an active fan of Cyno, they knew that the former always respected the latter's opinion regarding legal matters. The fact that he is actively avoiding Cyno's advice is... concerning, to say the least.

They all turn towards Alhaitham, who had seemingly paid them no heed, and observe him in silence.

"...If you focused on your duties as fervently as you do your gossip, I'm sure this office would be much better off," said man cuttingly says to his friends.

"I will once you tell me why you're rejecting my proposals," Cyno huffs, arms crossed.

"I would accept them if they were not so riddled with nonsense."

But Alhaitham knows that the words he spills so smoothly are actually directed towards himself. After all, no reasonable man would be doing such ridiculous things as he is solely because of a dream.

...Or perhaps, a distant memory.

"Do you happen to know what flowers she likes, Alhaitham? Perhaps not flowers..."

Alhaitham watched Cyno mumble to himself as the general pored over the selections of bouquets, a strange feeling in his gut. But he rolled his eyes and pointed one out to his friend. "This one."

"Ah, so she likes Sumeru roses. Simple, yet classic and elegant. A fitting flower indeed for a blooming beauty."

It was strange to see the General Mahamatra himself with such a wide, love-struck smile on his face. Everyone around him was placed on edge, including the Grand Scribe himself. But there was no real reason to feel this way. After all, he had long since cut ties with you ever since you left the Akademiya to start up your own food stall, selling fresh chai and charcoal-baked Ajilenakh cakes to eager customers.

But ever since Cyno became interested in getting closer to you, Alhaitham found it more difficult to avoid you. He began inviting you to the tavern for TCG, then to the Grand Bazaar to watch Nilou's latest performance, then to walks around the city at night to stargaze. Soon, you and Cyno were practically inseparable- where one was, the other would most certainly be as well.

It was... odd, to say the least. Alhaitham was always used to your gaze on his back. Now that your eyes had moved elsewhere, the feeling was unusual. He should have felt relieved. Yet all he felt was an unnatural wrongness.

But he said nothing. He gave Cyno his advice, and watched as the general practically sprinted to where you had promised to meet him that night for dinner. He watched until his friend's back disappeared, then returned home, feeling abnormally bitter.

"Don't play dumb, Alhaitham," Cyno says cuttingly, eyes piercing. "You've never approved of Zandik before. So what's really going on with you?"

"I already said my piece. Maybe instead of standing around and blabbering about how your proposal didn't get chosen, your time would be better spent fixing your mistakes."

Alhaitham turns back to his computer, headphones slid over his ears, effectively tuning out Cyno's further complaints in favor of the playlist you sent him a few days ago.

A playlist that you certainly did not give to Cyno.

[...]

"Wow. These are beautiful, but..." You gaze at the bouquet of rainbow roses Alhaitham placed in your hands earlier. "...Where did you get these? They don't look local to Sumeru."

"The florist imported some unique flowers from Fontaine. I thought you'd like these ones."

His eyes fixate on your small, sweet smile as you nod and breathe in their scent. "Yes. I do. Thank you, Alhaitham, that's very sweet of you."

Not as sweet as you, he thinks. But he can save those thoughts for another time. A more appropriate time.

[...]

...He just didn't think that time would be now.

Because you and Cyno are playing TCG. Together. At the same table.

Alhaitham knows he shouldn't feel this way. He was the one who invited you to join him, after all. He knew this could have been a possibility- you're soft and likable, it's only fair that his friends would be drawn to you.

But the look in the lawyer's eyes is unnaturally familiar. And it grates on his nerves.

Because he saw it before. At your wedding. He saw you walk down the aisle, with a smile brighter than he had ever seen grace your lips.

And across from you, Cyno. With hearts in his eyes, he held out his hand for you, and Alhaitham watched as you took it in your own and held his hand close to your heart. And he watched, bitterness on his tongue, as you were whisked away in the general's arms, dancing the night away.

That could have been me. The thought thudded so strongly in his mind he nearly knocked himself over. But he knew he only had himself to blame. And Kaveh was more than eager to rub that fact in his face as he helped his stupidly drunk friend back to their shared home.

"If ya weren't such a... such a hard-ass, maybe she... she would've gone out with you," the architect cackled, the smell of booze so strong it made Alhaitham's nose crinkle in disgust.

Just as it does now, at the sight of the two of you, chumming it up like peas in a pod. Like the two of you were meant to meet.

To fall in love all over again, as you did before.

His hands clench, and the wineglass nearly shatters.

Kaveh eyes him knowingly. "Y'know, if you're gonna be such a hard-ass-"

"Do not." He snaps at the architect, before rising from his seat to march over to you, completely ignoring Kaveh's baffled gasp at the sheer audacity of his junior.

"Alhaitham!" you greet him so cheerily, he almost forgets why he's so upset. Almost. "Come sit with us, we're just about to start a new game!"

"She's quite the talented player," Cyno nods at you. "You should bring her around more often."

"I'm afraid not for a while, as we have somewhere to be." He grabs your wrist and escorts you out of your seat and towards the door, choosing to ignore your confused pout. "I'll see you on Monday."

He doesn't turn back around to Cyno's brief protest, nor to Kaveh's knowing guffaw as the two of you exit the tavern into the cool night air. He breathes in deep, trying to ease the tightness in his chest.

"...Alhaitham?" Your soft voice cuts through the silence, compelling him to turn towards you. "Is something wrong?"

He chews on his lip. "...Do you like him?"

"Who? What are you talking about?"

He sighs; no way could you be this adorably oblivious. "Cyno. Do you like him?"

Your eyes widen briefly, before you rub your chin, deep in contemplation. "He's very friendly, I'll give him that."

He glares at the ground.

"But I don't think I would go out of my way to hang out with him outside of hanging out with you," you laugh, scratching the back of your neck and looking up at him. Your eyes glow in the moonlight, and he's so captivated, his hand reaches out to brush against your cheek.

Your face feels hot, and you're suddenly even more bashful than you already are. But when you try to hide your face, he immediately gets a gentle, yet firm grip on your chin.

"Don't hide," he whispers. He stares at you, a fond look in his eyes. "You don't need to hide from me."

You're once again reminded of how utterly handsome Alhaitham is. And you want to kiss him. So you lean on your tiptoes, face moving towards his-

DON'T.

The voice echoes loud in your mind, and you grab your head in pain with a yelp.

"I'm merely attempting to tell you to stop deluding yourself with your fantasies."

Alhaitham immediately reaches out for you, grasping your chin and tilting your head this way and that. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"With your low grades, unruly personality, and penchant for idiotic decisions, the answer is quite obvious..."

"My- my head..."

"Your head? I'll take you to the Bimarstan, just hang in there-"

"You don't meet any of my prerequisites."

"NO!" You pull away from his touch, like his skin burned you, and turn your back to him. Every cell in your body seems to be screaming: LEAVE. "I- I have to go."

"At least let me walk you home-"

You don't hear any more of him- you can't, not with the voice in your head demanding you to turn your back on him and return home immediately.

You don't see the pain in his eyes as he watches you leave him.

[...]

You don't contact him for a while. His messages go unread.

Alhaitham spends most of his time staring at his phone instead of his papers, waiting for a message that never comes.

"You keep staring at that screen, your eyes are gonna pop out," Kaveh chortles as he sips his coffee. "And then that woman will really never want to see you again."

Alhaitham doesn't reply. He instead thinks back to his last conversation with you: the fear on your face, the tremble in your hands, the shakiness of your voice.

Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he push too far against your boundaries? Did he make you remember too much, too fast?

Did he remind you of something... or someone... you'd rather forget?

"You haven't brought your friend around recently," Cyno comments lightly from his desk. Alhaitham's hands clench. "You should invite her to join us again sometime. I'm looking forward to another rematch."

"I'm just surprised Alhaitham is capable of thinking of someone other than himself," Kaveh scoffs. "This man reeks of haughtiness, what makes you think he's capable of having friends, let alone a love interest?"

"Sounds like somebody's jealous," Tighnari chimes in. "Kaveh's right, by the way; staring at a computer screen doesn't do well for your eyes."

Alhaitham simply mumbles, "Pardon me if my eye health is the least of my concerns at the moment," and continues typing and deleting his message to you, trying for the nth time to make it perfect.

"...I knew it," Kaveh gasps, and he points dramatically at his roommate. "It is because of your lady friend! Let me guess, trouble in paradise? Want your best friend to give you some love tips?"

"That would actually be greatly appreciated."

"I knew that those would come in handy- Wait, what?" It's not just Kaveh who looks at him utterly flabbergasted; Cyno and Tighnari also stare him, dumbfounded at why the ever-rational secretary would want romance advice.

"Since when did you...?"

"Why would such a lovely lady ever want to..."

"I KNEW IT." Kaveh lunges towards Alhaitham, dramatically grabbing him by the collar and vigorously shaking him back and forth. "Ever since that woman showed up, you've been so googly-eyed; it freaked me out for weeks! And here I thought you were physically incapable of feeling love."

Alhaitham rolls his eyes. "Excuse me for wanting to keep my private life private."

Tighnari coughs into his hand, silencing the two men. "Well, since it's not so private anymore, you may as well tell us what's plaguing you."

"The lady lost interest?" Cyno chimes in, resting his head on his hand. "Or perhaps she's being distant. Like an iceberg."

"What does an iceberg have to do with-"

"She hasn't responded to me ever since I tried to kiss her. I'm worried I may have breached her personal space." Alhaitham sighs heavily and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I'm aware that I might have done something wrong, but she won't even let me apologize."

Kaveh simply rolls his eyes. "Then isn't that the solution? Just leave her alone; clearly she no longer wants anything to do with you, for good reason."

Alhaitham grits his teeth. "It's not that simple; she looked like she wanted to reciprocate, but something held her back."

"Well, you're not gonna know what until you ask her yourself," Tighnari says with a shrug. "See if you can meet her. If she gave you her address, go to her house or something. You're just gonna keep asking yourself questions until you go crazy."

"He's plagued with the love bug," Cyno hums thoughtfully. "You should bring flowers. She seems like the type to like Sumeru roses."

Alhaitham's eye twitches. "Actually, she prefers rainbow roses. I'll be off; it's exactly 5 PM."

He swiftly gathers his things and leaves the office, glaring at the piles of unfinished work he's intentionally putting off until the next week. He has much more important things to contemplate than the office goals for the next month.

He needs to find a way to meet you. He has too many things to say, and no way to say them.

What should he do? Should he go to your workplace and see if you're in? Should he be a freak and try to track down your phone? Should he-

Ding~

The soft tinkle of his message tone hits his ears, and he yanks his phone out to look at the screen... and nearly drops the device onto the ground.

Rainbow Rose 🌹: Sorry for not responding. Please come meet me. I'd like to talk to you about some things.

Attached is the address to Puspa Cafe. He immediately starts calculating in his head the fastest way to get there, what to order, what to say to you.

I'm sorry for invading your privacy. I want us to be closer. What can I do to be allowed into your space? How can I prove to you that I'm different from the person in your dreams?

By the time he's finalized what he wants to say, he already sees you through the window of the cafe, sipping on some specialty drink. The setting sunlight frames your face so perfectly, the words he planned fall through his mind and onto the floor beneath him.

But he swallows the rock in his throat and approaches you.

You blink up at him and smile softly. "Alhaitham. Sorry for calling you in such short notice. Please, sit." You gesture down at the seat in front of you.

But he's unnerved; you're polite and distant again, just like how you were when the two of you first met.

He has so many questions, but they all narrow down to the same thing: Were the dreams too much for you? Are you still willing to see him again?

"How is your head?" is all he can manage to ask you.

You nod. "It's alright. Thanks for asking." Then you scratch your head and lower your gaze to the ground. "Alhaitham. I don't think we should meet anymore."

The words don't process in his mind until you're halfway through some spiel. Then his blood turns to ice.

"...Pardon?"

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "That night, when my head started hurting after we..." Your cheeks flush, and you glare at your cup. "The dreams wouldn't let me sleep. Every one of them involved you, hating me. They're so vivid, I know you and I both know that it's not a coincidence anymore. And I'm worried that-"

Alhaitham stops listening.

You don't want to meet him anymore. Cyno's words echo in his mind: the lady lost interest.

You don't want to see him. He may never see you again.

He's brought out of his mental spiral when you brush your hand against his.

"Alhaitham?" you ask quietly, too softly. Like a hunter speaking soothingly to a dying animal. "You lost focus."

"I..." He's dumbfounded; Alhaitham has never been lost for words, yet now his tongue refuses to move, his lips refuse to speak, glued together with fear and desperation.

You stare at the ground, hair covering your eyes. "...I understand. I'll take my leave. Thank you... for everything. It was..." He sees you bite your lip, a tear slipping down your cheek, and you stand up and leave.

He simply stares at your seat until the doorbell chimes lightly behind you.

He cannot process anything, not with your rejection still echoing in his mind, clouding his senses, your tears polluting his conscious.

...Your tears.

...You were crying.

The cogs in his brain turn once more.

He stands up so abruptly, he knocks his chair back, and throws himself outside the door, sprinting towards you.

And when he calls to you, your shoulders turn.

His heart burns with hope.

"I can't accept that," he pants, grabbing hold of your shoulders and gently turning you towards him. His hold is weak, enough for you to slip through his fingers if you pull away hard enough.

You don't pull away.

"Alhaitham, what are-" you start, but he cradles your face in his hands, staring deep into your eyes, and you fall silent.

"You said we shouldn't meet because of the dreams." His thumbs draw circles onto your soft cheeks, and archons above, he wants to kiss them. "Would it be more accurate to say that you feel that way towards the man in them?"

You blink at him, confused. He nearly coos at how adorable you look.

"What do you think about me? Do you think of me as someone who hates you?"

"No." His heart warms at your instantaneous answer. But it stops at your next sentence. "But my body doesn't feel that way. My head doesn't feel that way. The dreams... You hated me since the moment I..." You freeze, and become stiff in his hold.

But when he rubs your cheeks again, you melt into him, stumbling on your own two feet into his arms. And he cradles you against him, as though if he pressed his body into yours hard enough, the two of you could combine and never be apart.

"...I can't promise you that I won't be like him, the one in your dream...The me of the past," he whispers into your hair. "But I can tell you this now: I am not so foolish as to let you slip from my hands yet again."

Your eyes water with tears; you don't know whether to move closer or move away. Your brain is mush; Alhaitham's cologne fills your nose until all you can see, smell, hear, is Alhaitham.

"He was foolish; he made his choices and regretted them too late. I have already made my choice, and I choose you."

You gasp, just the lightest of breath, and he traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

"I chose you, and I will always choose you. And under no circumstances are you obligated to choose me in return." But he smiles so sweetly at you that tears well up, both in your eyes and his. "But if you choose me, I swear that I will never repeat his mistakes. I will build us a future here, from the ground up, and earn your trust, piece by piece. And I will never let you go again."

Your body flushes hot, urging you to flee his grasp and never return.

He hasn't changed, your mind whispers to you. He is just as cruel, callous, and selfish as ever.

He gently places his forehead on yours, and closes his eyes. "Take as much time as you need," he says. "I will always be here."

"...Will you?" you ask, voice so quiet that it blends into the background.

But Alhaitham hears you. Loud and clear.

He smiles. "Always."

Your body hates you. You should hate yourself, perhaps, for being too weak.

But you melt into his arms, where he encloses you with his warmth and security.

And when your mind tries to overwhelm you, your heart tells it to be silent.

[...]

"It's been awhile."

You scoff, refusing to look at him. Alhaitham chooses to look down below at your respective reincarnations sleeping peacefully. He- the newer him- embraces you tightly in his arms, and you- the newer you- snuggle closer to his warmth.

Alhaitham- the old Alhaitham- smiles. You- the old you- do not.

"Foolish girl," you sigh heavily. "I tried to warn her, yet she never listened. She's only going to fall into the same trap I did."

"...Perhaps she won't," he counters, hovering closer to you. "Perhaps she, and he, are a little more intelligent than we were. Wisdom comes with age... and experience. Something we lacked then." He glances down at them again. "Something they have now."

"Only because of us," you grumble. "And here I am, trying to pass down my wisdom, and she refuses to listen. Is stubbornness just something we're destined to have, I wonder?"

"Perhaps," he chuckles. "And perhaps, she is also building her own wisdom based on her own experiences. As is he." He glances down at his other self. "If he only relied on my memories, he would have never even approached her. He would be a coward like I was, and hold all his feelings in until it's too late."

You say nothing. He smiles softly, and gently touches your hand. When you don't move away, he slowly wraps his arm around you, resting his head on your shoulder, savoring your warmth (or what you have... given you're both spirits).

"Our story has long come to a close," Alhaitham murmurs. "But theirs is different. Let's let them be. Maybe they'll be much different from us."

You grumble in his hold, but don't pull away. "I didn't take you to be the type to make irrational predictions."

"Death does do things to a person's mentality," he muses. "After all, you wouldn't let me touch you like this in life."

You huff, but don't say anything in retort.

And he holds you, just as his counterpart does, until the sun rises and melts the darkness away. Them with it.

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

A/N: this took way too long to write (thanks law school), also tumblr is a b*stard and wouldn't let me write in my drafts so I had to copy paste everything when it was 3/4 finished 🥲

And yes, this sucks- deal with it XD

#genshin impact #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader

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