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sleepynoons · 9 months ago

Text

Made for You

You're a patisserie, and now, also the proud co-owner of your own restaurant, Zhuming Dessert Bar. You're new to this whole CEO thing, and you're hoping to seek some support from those around you – like the head chef next door!

patisserie!f!reader x chef!jiaoqiu, modern!au, sfw

word count: ~9,100

cw: explicit language, use of poisons, a lil slow burn lol

notes: i haven't played through the full story quest, so sorry if jiaoqiu is slightly ooc lol but he is blind and can only eat spicy foods yeet otherwise, wanted to write smth fluffy for this tragic, tragic man. and i also wanted to geek out about delicious east asian food yep.

thank you so much to @lychniis for beta-reading and for helping immensely with the pacing of this piece! @pawpiefawn i hope this story is at least 1/1000th as sweet as you are, and welcome to the hsr hell hole <3

I. TARO Macarons and Winter Melon Cookies

Crush almonds. Toast and grind sesame seeds. Mix egg whites with brown sugar. Skin, cut, mash taro root. Bring water to a boil. Top cookie dough with candied winter melon.

The sun starts filtering in through the window.

Steam soy milk until it foams. Melt gelatin. Frost thinly. Turn off the oven and stove. Slice coconut jelly into thin, small squares. Put everything into the fridge.

The day of a patisserie begins early – 4:30AM for you. Although you’re the head of your restaurant, the Zhuming Dessert Bar, you’re unable to separate yourself from the habitual duties of prepping, cleaning, getting a head start. To be fair, it would also be improper of you to leave such a task to your teammates. After all, these macarons and cookies are a gift for your neighbors, a first impression to the locals of not only the dessert bar, but primarily, the food it serves. The taste and presentation have to be perfect, and there’s no need to burden everyone else with an otherwise tedious and irrelevant task.

The Zhuming Dessert Bar is located in a busy food district, where there are various other diners, cafés, hole-in-the-wall gems, all waiting to be discovered and savored. After a long process of bidding and negotiating, you managed to snag a larger space, a one-story building sandwiched between a complex that housed several small businesses and a well-established hot pot spot. Unsurprisingly, a large majority of the stores in the district aren’t open in the morning, due to the lack of customers, and you only have to make a few runs.

As the time approaches 7AM, you begin to make your way out.

“Good morning, everyone!”

Those are the first words exchanged between you and your team, aside from the occasional “behind” or question, and you giggle as you’re greeted with a chorus of tired moans and lazy waves.

You ask, “I’m gonna head out – no more than two hours. Can someone meet with the vendors while I’m gone?”

Someone next to you nods, and you beam at them as you leave with a few boxes of the treats you made.

You only have three stops this morning – a trendy café co-owned by two college drop-outs, a Japanese, lunch-only spot run by an elderly couple, and a Western brunch place known for its omelettes.

The college drop-outs, acting much like their age, cheer when you hand over their sweets and quite literally gobble them up in front of you. By the time you leave, you’ve been unofficially adopted as their favorite “next-door aunt.”

When you arrive at the Japanese restaurant, only the wife seems to have arrived, and she pauses from her prep work to bring you inside to chat over cups of steaming green tea. Though the conversation is brief, the two of you quickly go down a rabbit hole, discussing the best brand for knives, how to tell when a daikon is ripe, which fruits are in season at the moment. As your exchange wraps up, you promise her you’ll return, at which she slips a napkin into your palm that has “Free Meal Coupon” scribbled on it with haphazard handwriting.

The American brunch restaurant is already bustling with noise, and a sous chef comes to welcome you at the front door. He’s polite, a little younger than you, and has the excitement of someone just starting off their career. You tell him good luck, and he responds likewise, wishing your dessert bar success.

Everyone seems pleasant and friendly, and you feel a rush of eagerness to hurry back to your restaurant.

When you return, you can’t help but pause in front of the Zhuming Dessert Bar. You admire the spray-painted logo on the windows, the clean and modern architecture of the building, the little signboards out in front with chalk writings of recommendations and prices. Yesterday was your dessert bar’s opening day, and now, you and your team are about to embark on your first full week. Instead of feeling the daunting weight and pressure, you’re restless, hands and wrists itching to pick up a spatula, mouth salivating at all of the syrups and icings you’ll have to taste-test, feet poised to navigate through a crowded kitchen. After a few more seconds of admiring, you can’t hold back any longer and burst in through the back door, absolutely needing to get back to work.

Time passes quickly for all chefs. Even though you’re surrounded by timers that count down to precise milliseconds, the minutes and hours add up, and by the time service has ended, you truly don’t feel the passage of the day until you loosen the apron wrapped around your waist and sit down for a brief break. But you’re not done with all of your work quite yet, and you leave the cleaning and tidying to the others so you can make your last runs of the day.

You had taken a brief intermission after lunch to make the majority of your visits, so the only remaining restaurant on your list is the hot pot place right next door. If you remember correctly, the restaurant’s actually part of a larger chain, Yaoqing Hot Pot, that’s known for offering the spiciest yet most mouth-watering Szechuan flavors.

You jog over to the entrance, and peeking through the glass, you can see a man with peach pink hair sitting at the bar. He’s not wearing a uniform or eating, so he’s neither a cook nor a customer. That must mean he’s either a welcome guest or the manager.

You knock on the door, hoping to grab the attention of the man. His head does perk up, and he faces the door – but makes no effort to get up. You wait for another minute or so, before knocking again. Finally, the man rises from his seat, still facing you, before grabbing a cane and making his way over to you. As he approaches, you can see that his eyes are closed, and you almost fluster with humiliation.

As the man opens the door, you immediately bow, 90 degrees at the waist. “I am so, so sorry for bothering you!”

With a light laugh, the man replies, “No problem, but unfortunately, we’re not taking any more customers for the night.”

You straighten up and hold the box out in front of you. “I’m not a customer, actually. I’m from next door, we just opened.” You quickly introduced yourself and explained the contents of the box to him.

He pauses before slowly extending his palm, face up, out in front of him, on which you place the packaged macarons and cookies.

“Please enjoy! And have a good night!”

Fearing that you’ve not only inconvenienced the man but also taken up too much of his time when his restaurant’s still crammed with customers, you bow again, despite knowing he won’t see, and scuffle away, only peering behind your shoulder once to see the man still at the door and “looking” down at the box.

II. Anmitsu

“Chef!”

The kitchen’s always loud, from boiling pots of syrup to whirring mixers kneading dough to blenders grinding up crackers, but never because of the people. It’s rare, in the first place, for someone to look for you unless you’re requested to taste a component or item being served that night, but the urgency of the call tells you it’s something different this time.

You rush over to the back door, where one of your pastry chefs, a fresh graduate from culinary school, is frowning beside an equally distraught vendor.

You pat your chef on the shoulder and wave cheerily at the vendor, “Hey, whatever the problem, there’s a way out. What’s going on?”

“We’ve run out of geomeunpat,” the chef responds.

The vendor chips in as well. “There wasn’t an order for the black adzuki beans, and I don’t have any extra. I’m so sorry!”

You nod in understanding. “Don’t apologize. Gimme a second to think.”

Geomeunpat, or black adzuki beans, is crucial to making white adzuki bean paste, which in Korean cuisine, is used to make rice cakes and other confectionery. Adzuki bean paste is also an irreplaceable ingredient for anmitsu, a Japanese dessert that typically consists of sliced fruit, kanten jelly, and rice flour dango. Given that it’s summer, your tasting menu has a few limited specials, and geomeunpat is needed for almost all of them.

You ask, “Do we have any canned red bean paste?”

Your pastry chef goes to check the pantry and returns to report a number of cans.

“Alright, let’s do this.” You turn to the vendor. “We’re so sorry. Thanks for all of your help, and we’ll see you on Friday at this time, right?” The vendor confirms before leaving. Then, you turn back to your pastry chef. “Let’s substitute with the canned anko for today, but can you call me when you’re making the mitsu? We might need to adjust the sugar content of the syrup, or else it might be too sweet otherwise.”

“Yes, chef!”

“In the meantime, I’ll run to the market to see if there are any raspberries or cherries that can cut through the taste of the anko. Be right back.”

True to your word, you dash the few blocks to the farmer’s market, located at a nearby park with an open field and seating. It’s already mid-morning, so it’s likely that all of the best batches are gone, but there should be enough left over for you to find sufficient ingredients.

As predicted, the market crowd is waning, with many customers having already finished their shopping and gone home or enjoying their purchases at the picnic benches and tables. You look around, skittering around here and there, as if you’re a little child playing hide-and-seek, constantly changing your hiding spot.

This one’s no good either. Just as you take a step back, though, you bump into someone – wait, no, you step on something.

You look down, and you notice you’ve stepped on the ball of a white cane.

“Oh, shoot, sorry!” You jump away and nervously look at the owner of the cane. Your nervousness, though, is quickly replaced with something else, your eyes widening and brows raising.

You blurt, “You’re from Yaoqing Hot Pot!”

Behind the pink-haired man is a younger girl, brown hair tied into long, streaming pigtails and eyes piqued with childish wonder and unbounded curiosity.

The girl asks, “Chef, do you know this person?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

You speak up. “Yes, we have! Only very briefly, though. I dropped by with some treats, on behalf of the Zhuming Dessert Bar.”

Suddenly, the girl lets out a scream, at which you and the man wince. “Wait, did you bake those? They were delicious!” The girl clamors over to you and grabs you by the shoulders, shaking you back and forth. “How did you know to pair the taro filling with toasted sesame seeds? And the winter melon cookies were a spin on the traditional lao po bing, right? How did you come up with these ideas? Just hearing about them made my mouth water, but the real deal was –“

“Sushang,” the man interrupts sharply, “you’re being rude.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” The girl, Sushang, releases her hold on you with an awkward chuckle before returning to the man’s side.

You shake your head with a bright smile. “No, not at all! I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

Sushang gleams at you. “No, but seriously, they were delicious. You said you were from the Zhuming Dessert Bar, right? Are they sold in-store?”

“Yes, I’m the head chef at the dessert bar. Unfortunately, we don’t plan on putting them on the menu for a while because they still need some work.”

“More work?” Sushang’s jaw drops wide open in disbelief, and you shrug.

The man says, “Sushang, you should know that every item on a tasting menu is chosen with utmost patience and care. It can take months to perfect a new item.”

“Yes, chef, but I just can’t imagine how you could do even better.”

You chuckle. “I’m glad, then. If they ever make it on the menu, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

With happy claps, Sushang cheers. As for you, you turn towards the man.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” you say, “I never quite got your name.”

He gives you a small smile in the form of pursed lips. “Jiaoqiu, head chef at Yaoqing Hot Pot, though I don’t do much of the cooking anymore.”

“Well, Jiaoqiu, it’s very nice to meet you. Do you happen to have any thoughts on those treats I gave you?”

Before Jiaoqiu can respond, Sushang answers first on his behalf. “Oh, our chef never eats anything made by other people! He doesn’t even try my cooking, so I don’t even know how to improve!”

The chef nudges an elbow into his employee’s ribs, who winces and whimpers at the pain.

You simply just watch the interaction before saying, “No worries, I get it. Though, I feel like your name is familiar, Jiaoqiu…”

You tilt your head, attempting to recall. His name reminds you of a news headline, something about culinary school and graduation, but nothing else beyond that. Sushang looks like she can barely contain herself, but the set expression on Jiaoqiu’s face prevents her from actually spilling the truth.

Regardless, you move on. “No matter. Anyway, I’m guessing the two of you are grabbing some ingredients, yeah?”

“Yes,” Jiaoqiu affirms. “We always source our fruits locally. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m also looking to buy some fruit!”

“Then come with us!” Sushang suggests. “We know the best vendors in town.”

Before you can even ask if that’s alright with the Yaoqing’s head chef, you’re already pulled along by the arm and tugged towards a tent near the end of the market street.

III. Penghu Salty Biscuits

“Two beers please.”

You sigh, setting down the hardcover menu on the table. Yaoqing Hot Pot is packed with people, even though it’s late at night, 11PM. To be fair, the hot pot chain is a combination of a hot pot buffet and bar, so it makes sense that the store’s open until the unruly hours of the night. But while all of the customers seem to be partying and having the time of their lives, you and your co-owner, Yukong, sit tiredly across from each other.

“How is it only the third week,” you groan as you drop your forehead onto the table.

A waiter comes over to drop your drinks off, and Yukong takes a quick gulp from her chilled mug.

“Tell me about it,” she sighs.

Yukong co-founded the Zhuming Dessert Bar with you. In fact, the two of you grew up together, and have been inseparable ever since elementary school. When she transferred middle schools, you begged your parents to transfer you as well. When you both were preparing for college entrance exams, you chose the same university as your top pick. When you went to baking school, she got into a neighboring MBA program so that the two of you could continue rooming together. And when you both came up with the idea of starting a restaurant together, the logistics and enthusiasm naturally fell into place.

“That customer just wouldn’t back off,” Yukong grumbles. She takes another drink before picking up her chopsticks, skewering a slice of fatty beef, and dropping it into the boiling tomato broth. “He clearly already got a serving of the ice cream – I saw it with my own eyes! But he just wouldn’t stop lying and making a fuss.”

“I know,” you bemoan. “I’m just glad I have you to handle these kinds of customer problems. I would’ve just cried on the spot.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t.” She captures the beef with a flick of her wrist and drops it into her sauce bowl. “I just feel bad for Yunli. You know how she is, hot-tempered and impatient, but even she wouldn’t dare speak up against a customer. But you could tell it was taking every inch of her strength to not, just, yell back.”

“Yeah, Yunli was completely out of it for the rest of her shift.” You shake your head as you ladle a knotted bunch of Konjac noodles onto your plate.

The tomato soup, despite being completely plant-based, is rich, almost too aggressive in its flavor. But when soaked up, the oil and fragrance of the broth fuse seamlessly into the unseasoned nature of hot pot ingredients, so much so that you can arguably eat everything without dipping it in sauce. Still, you drench half of the noodles into your mixture of sesame oil, peanut sauce, green onions, and garlic. When you take your bite, you hum so happily, the chewiness of the Konjac providing great texture while heat permeates throughout your entire body, melting away the knots and strain in your muscles.

“This is so good,” you garble through a mouthful. Yukong’s also entranced with her bite of fish cake, and can only nod in agreement.

Once you finish the Konjac noodles, you slide in a platter of cabbage slices, balls of shrimp paste, and tofu squares.

“Anyway…,” you start. “Next time, I don’t think we should even bother. Most of our customers are reasonable, anyway, and it’s honestly not worth it.”

Yukong frowns at the suggestion. “Are you sure? Because, on the other hand, I don’t think we should tolerate this behavior at all.”

“I know, but I don’t want the other pastry chefs to worry about stuff like this. Besides, we always make enough of everything. Otherwise, the extras would all go to waste, and I can’t keep giving Granny Toka and the college kids our leftovers.”

Yukong huffs and crosses her arms, a pointer finger tapping impatiently at the juncture of her elbow. Yet, Yukong can’t seem to come up with a response, so she acquiesces.

“Yukong…,” you mumble. You look at her, a little expectantly and a lot more nervously.

She slides her arm across the table, a gesture for you to do the same. As you put your hand on top of hers, she says, “I’m not angry. I’m just frustrated. You and the other chefs are our top priority, and I understand you want to avoid causing them as much stress as possible. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

Yukong’s always been like this – able to read your mind, say the reassuring things you need to hear at the right time, find the best solution without compromising anyone’s feelings. You rub your thumb over the back of her hand lovingly before someone calls out your name.

“Hey, you managed to come!”

You turn to the side to see Sushang. You exclaim, “Yes, we did! Thanks for having us! The food’s amazing!”

“Of course! If you ever want another discount, just let me know.” Sushang wiggles her eyebrows, and you and Yukong laugh at her antics.

“This is Yukong, my co-founder,” you introduce.

Sushang steps aside, and only then do you realize someone’s behind her. Which is odd, because the man’s absolutely looming over her, but something about his quiet demeanor must’ve concealed his presence.

Sushang says, “Nice to meet you, Yukong! This here is Moze, one of our sous chefs. Moze, she made the macarons and cookies we had a few weeks ago.”

Moze stiffly nods, but as soon as Sushang mentions your desserts, a hopeful glint in his eyes appears.

“You know,” Sushang continues, “I’ve only seen Moze talk so much about someone’s cooking, like, literally a handful of times. He rarely compliments other people, but he totally ranted when he ate those sweets of yours.”

Moze scoffs and knocks Sushang on the back of her head. “We’ve told you so many times to not run your mouth.”

You and Yukong exchange warm looks. You say, “Sushang’s just incredibly honest. But I’m glad they were to your liking, Moze.”

Yukong speaks up as well. “We’d like to return the favor, too. Feel free to drop by the Zhuming Dessert Bar, free of charge.”

Sushang yells so loudly that some of the adjacent customers glance at your party. “Are you for real?! Moze, we need to go. Immediately.”

“By the way,” Yukong interrupts, tone more formal now, “is your head chef, Jiaoqiu, around? And is it possible for us speak to him?”

Puzzled, you glance towards Yukong. You came for a simple dinner, and Yukong never informed you of other plans.

Moze answers this time. “The head chef’s in the back. Can I ask what you plan on discussing?”

“Actually, I’m a family friend of Feixiao’s. I’d like to personally meet her right-hand man.”

It seems as if the world has stopped spinning. Yukong knows Feixiao? She knows the owner of Yaoqing Hot Pot? Personally? Huh? It seems Moze and Sushang are both stunned as well, and after a few sluggish seconds, Moze excuses himself, presumably to find his boss.

Jiaoqiu appears in no more than five minutes.

“Miss Yukong, it’s good to meet you in person,” Jiaoqiu greets. Yukong reaches her hand out for a handshake, and only when Moze guides Jiaoqiu’s hand forward does the head chef reciprocate.

“Oh, apologies, I didn’t know you –,“ Yukong begins.

Jiaoqiu cuts her off succinctly. “No worries. It’s only been a few years, after all. I also told Feixiao not to inform others of my condition in the first place.”

“I see.”

Jiaoqiu then redirects the conversation skillfully. “Speaking of Feixiao, I’m sure the two of you have come up with something that requires my assistance? I’d be happy to help out in any way that I can.”

You slide deeper into the booth so that Jiaoqiu can sit beside you. From this proximity, you can make out the sweat lining his forehead, the thick rubber band pulling his hair back into a ponytail, and the creases of his sleeves where they were once rolled up.

Yukong clears her throat, a habit of hers right before negotiations begin.

“The Mid-Autumn Festival’s coming up in a little over a month, and since both of our restaurants are based on East Asian cuisines, Feixiao and I are considering a collaboration. Do you think that’s something your team would be interested in?”

Surprisingly, despite his thoughtful nature, Jiaoqiu doesn’t even take a second to consider. “If Feixiao’s eager about the idea, I don’t see why not.”

“Great. So far, the plan is to add a few of our desserts to your existing menu, while we add some of your appetizers to ours. How does that sound?”

At this suggestion, Jiaoqiu hums with dissatisfaction. “That could ruin the flavor profiles of each of our own stores.”

“Right, of course. We considered that, and that’s why we think it’d be best if both of our restaurants created new items that’d fit both the theme of the Mid-Autumn Festival, as well as our respective offerings.”

“I see.”

From your periphery, you can see Moze looking at Yukong, trying to decipher her intentions, while Sushang’s rocking on her feet, cheeks puffed up with anticipation. You, on the other hand, have no problem with this idea either and simply accept the fact that the next two months are going to be very busy.

Jiaoqiu asks, “I think this idea’s not bad. How do we plan on executing it?”

Yukong gestures at you, so you perk up. “Uh, well, I guess we can just meet to hash out the details? I know you’re very busy, though, so that might not work.”

“No, it’s fine.” Jiaoqiu seems to sigh, almost as if he’s giving into defeat. “If both Feixiao and Miss Yukong think this is a worthwhile business project, then it’s my job to see it through. We should begin promptly.”

You nod and begin exchanging contacts with the Yaoqing folks. As you’re typing in Moze’s contact, though, you suddenly get a call from one of your chefs.

You excuse yourself, walking out of the noisy restaurant to answer the call.

“Yunli, what’s up?” you chirp.

You hear very panicked voices until Yunli directly replies. “Chef, the HVAC’s broken. The refrigeration doesn’t work. At all.”

You feel goosebumps snake down your arms and back. Suddenly, your throat feels entirely parched, and you’re not even able to swallow to alleviate the dryness. For once, when it comes to work, your body’s freezing up, rooting you to your spot on the sidewalk, preventing you from running into the kitchen.

Fuck.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

You rush back into Yaoqing Hot Pot, inform Yukong of the situation, and the two of you scramble back to the Zhuming Dessert Bar.

That night, you make several runs home, but you don’t actually get to unwind until well past 2AM. Not only did you have to make several emergency calls to your property manager and repair services, but you also had to drive back and forth to transfer the ingredients to your own fridge and freezer. Simply put, everyone who stayed past service to clean up the dessert bar was utterly exhausted. It was arguably one of your worst nights since the Zhuming’s opening.

It took the whole weekend for the HVAC-R system to be repaired, which meant the cancellation of two days’ worth of reservations. The cancellations impacted the store’s sales significantly for the week, and you were forced to revise several recipes to accommodate for cheaper ingredients. While your other teammates could take the time off, you had to come in to experiment and adjust the taste of each menu item, which is always a painstakingly arduous and tedious process. At times, you felt a hint of nostalgia, reminiscent of your times in pastry school, but those flashbacks only left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

Your meetings with Jiaoqiu also began the following week. On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, you head over and enter Yaoqing Hot Pot through the back door so you can directly walk to Jiaoqiu’s office. Inside his office, there’s a small desk which he sits at, while you situate yourself on a small, plush bean bag that was brought in by Sushang. So far, the two of you have drafted initial ideas, and tonight, Jiaoqiu will be presenting the first iterations of the Yaoqing’s appetizers to you.

Like the first time you met him, you knock on the door twice. As always, when he greets you, he gives you a tight smile. Tonight, though, his expression appears more grim than usual.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I’m afraid the dishes have not come out as expected.”

You see a porcelain white plate on his desk. In the center, there are a few strips of tofu, topped with finely diced pieces of thousand-year-old eggs, scallions, and garlic. There are streaks of red and black as well, no doubt the Yaoqing’s signature spicy sauce. Beside the plate is a small bowl. You take a step closer to see chunks of cabbage, ginger, radish, and carrots, all of the pieces slightly wrinkled, accompanied by a sharp smell of acid. Both are classic Szechuan dishes: spicy cold tofu and pickled vegetables.

Using the chopsticks laid out on a napkin, you take small bites of the dishes. You’re personally not too good with spicy foods, so you can only hope that Jiaoqiu hasn’t gone overboard with the seasonings.

The thousand-year-old eggs are chewy and dense, in delightful contrast to the softness of the tofu, which practically melts on your tongue. However, the garlic, scallions, and spicy sauce penetrate through and remain as the final aftertaste. Then, you pick up a piece of the pickled cabbages. The water and vinegar brine has been completely absorbed, and you notice that there’s a stark lack of peppercorns, which is usually a key component of this dish. With a crunch, your teeth pierce through the leaf, and you’re impressed by how tender the inside of the cabbage is. You pick around to try the other ingredients.

When Jiaoqiu hears you place your chopsticks down, he asks, “I’m sorry if they’re lacking.”

“No worries. Maybe we should call in Moze, so I can share my thoughts?”

Jiaoqiu does as you request, and a few minutes later, the sous chef joins the two of you.

You give a brief rundown of your suggestions.

“The Zhuming Dessert Bar is known for its milder flavors, and the two appetizers taste great as is but simply don’t make sense in the broader context. I was thinking, maybe for the spicy cold tofu, we can mash the eggs into almost something like a paste? I think it’d provide an interesting texture, and we can use fresh scallions to keep that hint of bite if needed. To be honest, I think there should be way less garlic. Maybe even no garlic at all.

“As for the pickled vegetables, I think this one’s pretty close to done, actually! I think the cabbage is perfect, and I like that there are no peppercorns in the presentation. I was thinking that maybe we can make this dish a little more – how do I put this – refreshing? For instance, instead of using radish, we can use cucumbers instead? The water content might pose an issue, but I think cucumbers could add a ‘clean,’ crisp touch, which I like the sound of. Oh, we should also take out the ginger.”

When you finish, Jiaoqiu and Moze look at you as if you’ve just committed a murder in front of them.

Moze can barely conjure a sentence. “Are – are you – can you not handle spicy foods? Are these too spicy for you? Wh – what are you –“

Jiaoqiu has to interrupt him. “Without the ginger or garlic, you’re essentially asking us to abandon core aspects of Szechuan cuisine.”

You try to justify yourself. “I know it’s a cardinal sin, I get it. It’s like asking pastry chefs to not use sugar or flour or whatever. But the appetizers are just too strong, and none of the desserts we have, including our Mid-Autumn Festival specials, will complement them. Maybe a subtractive method isn’t the best approach, but I honestly don’t know enough to propose any other ideas.”

Jiaoqiu tilts his chin, thinking. Finally, he states, “I think I have one.”

At the next meeting, the head chef presents you the same two dishes, but they look vastly different than before.

Jiaoqiu explains that, for the tofu, he listened to your suggestion and mashed the thousand-year-old eggs into a paste. Within the paste, he also incorporated the garlic, which should be diluted by the natural pungency of the aged yolk. The scallions and chili sauce are filled in a separate container, allowing customers to pour as little or as much as they want.

As for the pickled vegetables, Jiaoqiu added a rather unique ingredient.

“Why lotus root?” you ask.

He explains, “Lotus root is in season right now, and we took inspiration from the classic Yunnan lotus root salad. We soaked the lotus root in a one-to-one ratio of rice vinegar and water to extract the starch, before blanching the slices. We also added ginger and a bit of sugar to the brine, so there wouldn’t be a need to keep the ginger slices in the dish itself. The one thing I want you to check is if we added too much peppercorn and salt.”

One bite of each dish, and you’re grinning ear to ear.

“This is it,” you whisper, in sheer awe. You can’t help but take two more mouthfuls of each appetizer. “In just one night, and you made such vast improvements. Jiaoqiu, you’re a genius.”

What was supposed to be a celebratory moment seemed to be ruined instantaneously by your comment. Moze’s face drops and Jiaoqiu can’t help but wince, to your confusion.

All of a sudden, very shy and embarrassed, you mumble, “Did I say something wrong? The food’s great, Jiaoqiu, is there something that’s not to your liking?”

Moze states, rather gruffly, “No, we’re very happy that you enjoy the dishes so much. After all, it’s been a while since Jiaoqiu has cooked something by himself.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you both look so upset. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” Jiaoqiu sighs. “Then, these two are a go. One more left.”

From then on, your interactions with Jiaoqiu become stiff and rigid. Not that you had made much progress in the first place, but at the very least, the two of you could speak in the same fluid prose of ingredients and techniques and practically anything related to cooking and baking. Now, the two of you barely speak outside the context of the collaboration, and even the feedback you receive doesn’t come straight from him. Sushang had mentioned this earlier, and she’s absolutely right – Jiaoqiu doesn’t touch your cooking at all. In fact, Moze’s the one who munches away at your samples, while Jiaoqiu only asks for his opinions.

Are you frustrated? Absolutely. But it’s not like you can call off this project for such a small reason. It’s not like Moze doesn’t offer great advice, but it’s not up to the level of expertise that you need. So, not only do you feel frustrated, you also feel directionless, and your creative juices are running out.

You hate to admit it, but this sucks.

IV. Taiwanese Pineapple Cake

You should’ve prepared for all hell to break loose because “busy” doesn’t even begin to describe your current state.

The Mid-Autumn Festival Is approaching in a week, which means the collaboration’s also set to launch in just a few days. But before that, it seems you have other, more urgent issues to address first.

“Wait, why isn’t Lingsha here?” You look around, hoping for someone to know. You have a full house tonight, and you need all the helping hands you can get.

Yunli, who’s busy shaping some fondant, responds, “I think she’s sick.”

Alarmed, you quickly shoot Lingsha a text, asking her about her condition, in addition to a reminder to please, please, please let you know next time.

“That’s fine, but we’re going to need someone to take over her station…”

There are two halves to your team. Since the dessert bar is split between a morning bakery and an evening tasting restaurant, you’ve placed your less experienced chefs on the morning shifts. This could be a good opportunity for one of them to learn, you think.

“Huo Huo,” you call out, “can you stay for the rest of the day? I’ll make sure Yukong pays you overtime.”

A small, green-haired girl squeaks at the sound of her name. Even from a distance, you can see her body begin to shake and tremble.

“Y-yes,” she stutters as her knuckles pale from gripping onto a hand mixer so tightly.

You shoot her two thumbs up and a gentle smile. “You’ll be great, I just know it, Huo Huo. You’re in charge of presentation, so all you have to worry about is not breaking any dishes, alright?”

You, in fact, did have to worry about broken dishes that night.

Frankly speaking, Huo Huo was all over the place. She confused some of the dishes with each other, so the presentation wasn’t right at times. She also spilled glaze, so those desserts had to be tossed. The most tragic of her mistakes was that she forgot basic kitchen etiquette and almost got burned in the face with a blowtorch. Yunli’s tolerance was clearly waning, and you had to pinch her multiple times to prevent her from unleashing all of her rage.

You can’t help but think this is all your fault.

And as you trudge to Jiaoqiu’s office, your stomach sinks further. You feel the fatigue coursing through your veins, and despite your usual patient and easy going temperament, you can feel your thread of optimism thinning, dangerously close to snapping.

You just never expected it to break so soon.

“Uh, where are your samples?” Moze asks.

You can only close your eyes and cover them with your palms. You feel so weak in the knees. You want to keel over.

The burning sensation at your waterline doesn’t help either, and even though you can’t breathe, you hold back so as to not let anyone hear your sniffles.

You’re an actual patisserie now. No more groveling and self-pitying – you left all of that behind at baking school and your previous stages. You’ve made it so far, and you can’t fumble it. You need to be on top of things and be professional. Why are you even upset? What’s wrong with you? Keep. It. Together.

Jiaoqiu mutters, “Moze, leave us for now.”

With barely audible steps, you feel Moze walk away, and Jiaoqiu slides his office door closed behind you. Though it takes him a bit, he manages to feel his way down the wall so that he’s stooping beside you.

“Guess it’s my turn to ask you what’s wrong.”

“Everything,” you say, voice muffled as you hide your head with your forearms, tucking your chin to your chest.

“Yeah, running a restaurant never gets easier.”

You peek up at him. “But you never seem to be sweating over it.”

“Everyone has their worries.”

You take a deep breath. At this point, it doesn’t even matter if you cry or not because Jiaoqiu doesn’t seem to be the kind of person to care.

You ask, “I feel like I don’t know how to lead my team properly. We managed to get everything out in time, but the kitchen was an entire mess. We also had to get repairs done a few weeks ago, even though the property’s new and all. And remember when we ran into each other at the farmer’s market? It’s because someone forgot to properly do inventory. Like – these are all basic procedures. What am I forgetting to teach them?”

“From my experience, it just comes from routine reminders during meetings, and being ruthless when it comes to firing people.”

You roll your eyes. “Jiaoqiu, I’m afraid not everyone has the luxury of an inbox overflowing with hiring and employment requests.”

“Then, you have to do the hard thing and train them. Over and over again, until they finally get it right.”

You take another inhale. He’s right.

The stooping’s becoming uncomfortable, so you let yourself fall back and onto the ground.

“Thanks, Jiaoqiu. I think I’ve got my shit together again.”

“Of course. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

You begin to get up but end up deciding otherwise. You suggest instead, “Let’s just talk for a bit, if you have the time. We’ve been seeing each other so often, and I feel like I know practically nothing about you.”

You see a flash of suspicion cross his face, but Jiaoqiu doesn’t reject the idea either.

You help Jiaoqiu to his desk before finding your usual spot on the bean bag, and ask, “So, tell me. What about Yaoqing Hot Pot is stressing you out?”

“The new hires. I trust Moze, but it’s hard for him to handle everything by himself. I would ask Sushang, but it’s more important that she concentrates on honing her own skills right now.”

Something Moze said rings in your head.

“And…,” you start. “I’m guessing you can’t help either because you haven’t cooked in a while?”

Jiaoqiu remains silent. More hints from previous conversations seem to pop into your head.

You ask again, tone much quieter and more polite, “You told Yukong your blindness is relatively recent. Is… is that why you’ve stopped cooking?”

“I’d get in the way of too many people. Plus, I can really only trust Moze to help me in the kitchen, but that’d hinder his own growth as a chef. I couldn’t ask that of him.”

“So those appetizers –“

“That was a one-time thing. The others know how to replicate them by now.”

“But I want to eat your food.”

The words fly out before you can think about them. You gasp at your audacity, hands flying to seal your mouth, and Jiaoqiu has a surprised look on his face.

It takes a few moments before Jiaoqiu breaks the silence with huffs of chuckles. “You called me a genius the other day, didn’t you?”

You nod at first, but remembering that he can’t see, affirm vocally.

“It’s just a personal peeve of mine, but I detest being called that.”

Furrowing your brows and scrunching your nose, you try to think of why.

Jiaoqiu… Blind… Genius… Hate… Feixiao…

You let out another audible gasp, this time horrified.

“I remember,” you hiss.

No wonder his name’s familiar.

You’ve never paid much attention because you were so entrenched in your own work, but a few years ago, Jiaoqiu was a superstar in the culinary world. He was winning awards left and right, despite not having even graduated culinary school. But then, he suddenly disappeared, and all of the tabloids were speculating as to why. He didn’t come back into the limelight until he joined Yaoqing and became Feixiao’s right-hand man.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but…”

“I was poisoned.”

You gape at him.

He continues, indifferent to your loud reactions. “Being a ‘genius’ comes with its own share of problems. I had classmates who were envious of my achievements, and one of them slipped methanol into a dish they wanted me to try.”

The story’s horrifying itself, but what leaves you completely stunned is Jiaoqiu’s nonchalance. He’s speaking as if he’s reading the news, as if this terrible thing happened to some stranger and not to him.

“Oh, Jiaoqiu…”

“It’s alright. I owe Feixiao for entrusting much of Yaoqing to me.”

“Thanks for sharing these painful memories with me…”

Jiaoqiu simply nods. “I hope the Zhuming Dessert Bar sees better days.”

V. Fuqi Feipian

Everything does seem to calm down, though there’s never truly a peaceful day when you’re working in the restaurant industry.

Lingsha returns in good shape, and with her and Yunli’s help, the three of you begin to offer additional training sessions after work to better prepare the newcomers. You’re a small team, after all, so it’s only right that you have each other’s backs.

The launch of the Mid-Autumn Festival goes as well as Yukong and Feixiao predict. Revenue streams are the highest they’ve ever been for the Zhuming Dessert Bar, and the food seems to be well-received. There are always a few pesky hate comments on social media platforms, but those can’t be helped.

Most importantly, your relationship with Jiaoqiu has improved dramatically. You first tested the waters by sending him an hour-long ASMR video of cat purrs, and he replied likewise with a five-minute compilation of foxes yipping and laughing. Also, even though there’s no reason to meet anymore, you still drop by and bother the pink-haired chef whenever you have the time. Mostly, it’s just you pestering him to make you food and him refusing, but after ten minutes or so of pointless bantering, he relents and you help him around the kitchen, setting timers, fetching ingredients, and making sure he doesn’t cut himself.

For the most part, he does well even without your assistance. His sense of taste is incredibly acute, and his hands seem to remember how to slice at different angles, widths, and shapes, all from rote memory. Still, it seems that having you there provides an additional layer of safety, and you’re more than happy to oblige.

“What are you going to make for me this time?”

You’re holding Jiaoqiu by the hands, steering him towards the industrial fridges standing tall to one side of the kitchen. Unlike the narrow and rectangular layout of the Zhuming Dessert Bar’s kitchen, the Yaoqing’s is much more spacious and has sufficient walking room.

“The freezer should have a piece of beef shank.” You let go of one of his hands to open the door, and as he said, there’s a plastic-wrapped chunk on the top shelf. You take it out, and then walk the two of you over to the central island, where there’s a large cutting board and knife.

“Knife to your right, beef to your left. Is there anything else I should grab?”

“Can you get some sesame seeds, chili oil, and a stalk of celery?”

As you collect the items, you watch him from the corner of your eye. Jiaoqiu picks up the beef shank by the fingertips, and using his other hand to roughly measure out the length of the cutting board, sets the meat down near the center. Then, with fleeting touches, he feels for the wooden handle of his knife.

“The blade’s facing downwards,” you call out.

“Thanks,” he replies.

With his left hand, he traces the shank until he reaches the edge, where he backtracks by a few millimeters and curls his fingers in so that the first joints are tucked away. With steady movements, he brings the knife over with his right hand until the flat of the blade meets his curled fingers, and now he knows where to cut. Though he’s slow, much slower than a professional chef should be, every slice is done without hesitation. There’s no wavering, no stopping, no interrupting the motion of the knife being plunged down onto the cutting board. He continues, procedurally shifting his left hand back and right hand forward, until he’s divided the chunk of beef into beautifully thin slices.

You only come back when he’s set his knife down.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re making.”

“The name’s a little misleading,” he says, “but it’s a dish I grew up eating quite frequently. Do you think you’re up to trying something spicy?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please, when have you made something not spicy?”

His lips break into a small, genuine smile. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Grab a bowl with a short rim, will you?”

“Yes, chef!”

Into the bowl, he transfers the beef shank and pours spoonfuls of chili oil, salt, and white sugar on top. He mixes everything, ensuring that the tips of the chopsticks don’t puncture through the meat, and sets the dish aside.

He then picks up the knife again, which you follow up by placing the celery stalk onto the cutting board.

“Center middle”

“Leaf intact?”

“Yes.”

He searches for the end of the stalk, and when he finds it, he chops the leafy section off. He makes diligent work of the rest, first splitting the stalk in horizontal half before chopping it vertically into small bits. When he’s finished, he transfers the celery pieces into the bowl, giving the ingredients a good mix again, before returning to mince the celery leaves.

When he’s finished, he pushes the bowl away from the cutting board. He says, “You’ll realize that Szechuan food is quite simple to put together. This dish is called fuqi feipian.”

“You said the name was misleading.”

“Well, its literal translation means ‘husband and wife lung slices.’”

You can’t help but chuckle at the name. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be romantic or gory.”

Jiaoqiu smirks and crosses his arms. “Either way, it’s spicier than all of the other things I’ve cooked for you. Take a bite.”

Mentally, you prepare for the numbing bite of the spices and chilis as you eat a slice of beef. The acidity of the oil and celery leaf garnishing hit you immediately, and you almost choke at the sudden impact of flavor.

You cry out, “Spicy!”

“I told you.”

You quickly swallow before picking out pieces of celery and peanuts to soothe your tongue.

“Seriously, Jiaoqiu, how can you eat this all the time?”

He simply shrugs. “I can’t really taste anything else.”

“Wait, what?”

“I started losing my sense of taste in culinary school. The doctors said it was probably due to stress from the competitions and media appearances. Now, I can only really eat very strong and spicy flavors.”

You almost drop your chopsticks onto the floor.

“Jiaoqiu,” you choke, “you can’t keep dropping these severely depressing facts about yourself out of nowhere.”

“Oh, sorry, should I have mentioned a trigger warning or something?”

You huff unhappily before taking another bite, barely managing the stinging heat at the back of your throat.

Jiaoqiu suddenly asks, “Did you enjoy culinary school?”

You pause to reflect. “I kinda took an unconventional path. I actually have a Bachelor in something completely unrelated to cooking, but I couldn’t find a full-time job after graduating and decided to give baking a shot. Baking school was hellish, though, I can’t lie.”

He makes a noise of surprise when you finish.

“You didn’t enjoy baking school?”

You scratch the back of your head. “I mean, it was tough. I don’t remember much besides crying a lot and feeling very incompetent. It’s hard being surrounded by really young and accomplished people all the time.”

“I thought you were going to say you had the time of your life.”

“Why?”

“Well…,” Jiaoqiu starts, though he turns to face away from you for some reason. “You seem very optimistic and easy to get along with. People like you thrive in social environments, like school.”

You try to muster your usual smile, but you can’t will your mouth to stretch or your cheeks to lift. “I guess, and it’s not like I hated my experience. I was just… I was too concerned about making up for lost time.”

You don’t want to think about this anymore, so you take another bite.

Through a mouthful, you pivot the conversation. “By the way, there’s no way I can finish this all by myself. Have some, too!”

You tap Jiaoqiu on the shoulder so that he turns to face you again, and you tightly grip the chopsticks so that the food doesn’t drop.

Jiaoqiu tries to deny at first. “No, no, I already ate dinner.”

“But Jiaoqiu, please! You made so much, and it’d be such a waste to keep it overnight. C’mon, just one bite, it’s right in front of you.”

He opens his mouth and leans forward, but either because your hands are shaky or because he simply cannot reach, he keeps missing.

You ask with slight amusement, “May I?”

“Just hurry and give it to me.”

You slide your free hand underneath his chin and hold his head in place. Initially, he sputters out of shyness and embarrassment, but finally relents as you tell him to keep his mouth open.

When he’s chewing on it, you say, “Really good, right? You should cook for yourself more often.”

“It’s fine. Could be better,” he replies. “Besides, it’s dangerous cooking by myself.”

You shrug. “I can always come over and help, like I did tonight.”

He sighs. “You’re so demanding. You just want more free food.”

You giggle with glee and clap at his shoulders. “Of course not!” You feign hurt. “I just want to spend more time with a good friend!”

Jiaoqiu huffs and you think he rolls his eyes. “Friends,” he mutters, “don’t eat from the same pair of chopsticks.”

You feel your face burn, having been completely unaware of the implications of your actions.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you retort, though there’s really no bite to your words. “You haven’t even tried my desserts once.”

VI. Sweet Run Bing

On the last day of the Mid-Autumn Festival, you come over with some leftovers to hand to the Yaoqing staff. You’ve gotten to know them quite well, and of course, Sushang and Moze are the first ones to appear.

“What’d you bring this time?” Sushang sing-songs.

You set the boxes on a counter and list everything out. “There’s coconut cake, a Taiwanese rendition of French custard tarts, some of our special mooncakes, and sweet run bing. There’s more than enough for everyone!”

You try to take a step back so that all of the Yaoqing chefs can reach your desserts, but you bump into somebody.

Or more specifically, someone holds you by the shoulders.

You look over to find Jiaoqiu resting his hands on you, face turned towards the commotion in the center of the kitchen.

He muses, “Sweet run bing? Isn’t it usually salty?”

You laugh. “Yes, but it’s pretty popular in Taiwan to add ice cream and nuts to make a sweeter version of it.”

The question always floats in the air but is usually left unaddressed. This time, though, Jiaoqiu surprises you.

“Can I try?”

A sense of pride and satisfaction pumps through your entire body. “Of course!” you exclaim. “Let me get you one!”

The two of you retreat to the calmer corner of his office, and you watch him intently as he holds the run bing close to his nose.

“I smell peanuts, almonds, and vanilla. There’s also something sweet?”

“Yes, we added some of our homemade canned peaches!”

“I see. Let me try it.”

Slowly, methodically, Jiaoqiu rolls up the crepe and takes a bite from it. You gulp and can almost feel beads of sweat forming at your temples from the anticipation and anxiety.

Then, something in his features softens.

“The texture’s great.”

At his compliment, you bound out of your seat, whooping and cheering.

“I’ll take it! Next time, I’ll make something you can actually taste. I roasted the nuts to create a smokey flavor and to add some crunch, but I didn’t want it to be too overpowering, so I also added some herbs, like ground coriander and –“

“Wait, there’s coriander in this?”

You comically pause in the middle of your celebrating. “Uh, yes?”

It’s your first time seeing the man… so frightened.

You can’t help but glare at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t like coriander.”

Jiaoqiu doesn’t move.

“Isn’t coriander supposed to be important in Szechuan cuisine? You were the one nagging my ears off weeks ago –“

“First of all, I wasn’t nagging you. Second, I personally don’t like to eat it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t use it.”

“Sure, fine, but the run bing doesn’t taste bad, does it?”

Jiaoqiu grimaces. “It tastes fine… even if there’s coriander in it.”

You smugly croon at him. “What other foods do you hate? I’ll convince you otherwise.”

Jiaoqiu takes another big bite of the run bing, before replying, uncharacteristically serious, “I’ll eat whatever you give me.”

You flush at his words, rendered unable to speak. In fact, you have to clear your throat a couple of times in order to respond. “And… you’ll cook for me, too?”

He nods, with firm intent. “For as long as you want me to.”

You feel like the vanilla ice cream in the run bing, melting and dripping, positively overheating.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail fluff #hsr fluff #jiaoqiu #hsr jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu hsr #honkai star rail jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu honkai star rail #jiaoqiu x reader #jiaoqiu fluff #carrot cake!#nereids' realm #house of solis occasum

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fidesvirtusobsession · 4 months ago

Text

Echoes of a Thousand Nights

(Yandere Vampire x AFAB reader)

Prologue || 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9|| 10 || 11

Description: For centuries, Alaric has walked the earth, bound by the cruel hand of fate. A vampire of old blood, he has seen empires fall, lovers turn to dust, and the world reshape itself around him. Yet, through the endless nights, one thing remains constant—her. The woman who haunts his past lives, slipping through his fingers with every rebirth. She never remembers, never knows who he is, yet he finds her, lifetime after lifetime, only to lose her again.Now, in the present day, her scent resurfaces in the most unlikely of places—an underground auction house where humans are sold like cattle. But Alaric will not let fate steal her away this time. This time, he will keep her.

The evening sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the drawing room was quiet, save for the soft sound of the wind rustling outside and the occasional clink of silverware from the distant dining room. Alaric paced slowly in the hall, his thoughts still tangled with everything that had been weighing on him—the constant worry over (Y/n)’s safety, her relentless training, and the overwhelming emotions he fought to keep hidden.

He needed to do something. Something to remind her that she wasn’t just a weapon, that she wasn’t always going to be under the heavy burden of protection, of training, of the looming shadows that followed them.

The door to the study opened, and there she was—(Y/n), with her gentle smile, her eyes bright and full of energy despite the long days she’d been putting herself through. She looked like she needed a break more than anything.

Alaric took a breath, walking toward her with his usual composure, but there was a softness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

She was absentmindedly flipping through a book, her head tilted slightly to the side as she absorbed the words. Alaric, however, was watching her, his fingers lightly tapping against the armrest of his chair, his mind racing. He had been thinking about this all day, weighing his options, but now that the moment had come, there was an unsettling feeling in his chest.

Finally, after a long pause, he cleared his throat, drawing her attention. She looked up, her eyes meeting his with a soft, curious gaze.

“(Y/n),” Alaric’s voice was steady, though there was a faint tension underlying his words, “I was thinking... we should go out tomorrow night.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Go out?”

He nodded slowly, his usual composure shifting slightly as he leaned forward in his seat, a rare hint of vulnerability slipping through his facade. He hesitated for a moment, then let out a small breath. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ve seen it. The late nights, the exhaustion... You deserve a night to relax. To just... be yourself, without all the responsibilities hanging over your head.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I mean that I’ve arranged something for us. Just you and me. A break. A night where you don’t have to worry about the next fight, the next lesson, or anything else. Just us, having some time to ourselves.”

“There’s a ballet performance tomorrow evening. It’s supposed to be quite... exquisite. I thought it might be something you’d enjoy. It’s a chance for us to relax, get away from everything for a night. No business, no concerns, just... us.”

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ve seen it. The late nights, the exhaustion... You deserve a night to relax. To just... be yourself, without all the responsibilities hanging over your head.”

(Y/n) blinked in surprise, her heart warming at the thought. She hadn’t expected Alaric to suggest something like this, a night of culture and elegance instead of his usual reserved demeanor. “A ballet? That’s... unexpected. But I’d love to go with you, Alaric.”

The corners of his mouth twitched into the faintest of smiles. “I thought you might.” His gaze softened, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of the world lifted, as if the night out could offer some kind of escape from the complexities of their lives. “It’ll be a night just for us—no distractions, no interruptions.”

There was a brief pause, the air thick with unspoken emotions, before he added in a quieter tone, “I promise, it’s just a date. No hidden agendas. Just you and me.”

(Y/n)’s brow furrowed as she looked at the card, but her heart gave a flutter at the gesture. “You’ve... arranged this? For us?”

Alaric nodded, his expression unreadable but with an underlying sense of determination. “Yes. I’ve taken care of everything. It’s just a small night out—nothing extravagant. I thought you could use the time to unwind, to have fun. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, (Y/n).”

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to process his words. Slowly, she nodded, her lips curling into a small smile. “I didn’t expect this... but it sounds nice.”

(Y/n) smiled again, her expression warm and genuine, not sensing the tension in his words. She hadn’t picked up on the layers that lay beneath his suggestion, only focused on the sincerity in his voice. “I’m looking forward to it, Alaric. Thank you.”

Alaric’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He felt a twinge of something deep within him—possessiveness, protectiveness... and a quiet anticipation. He wanted this night to go perfectly. He needed it to. As he nodded slowly, his eyes hardened with determination, though his smile remained in place, fragile but sincere.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, though his mind already swirled with thoughts of the upcoming night, and of the man he knew would be there—Valen. But for now, he could ignore it. For now, he would keep his focus on her.

She was his, and he would make sure nothing would ruin their time together. Not now, not ever.

“You deserve it,” Alaric said, his tone softening further. “You've earned a moment of peace, away from all the weight you’ve been carrying. Consider it a break, a reward for all your hard work. You don’t have to think about anything except the night ahead.”

For a moment, the usual walls between them seemed to dissolve, and Alaric allowed himself to show just how much he cared for her. His hand gently brushed hers, and for a fleeting second, he hesitated, wondering if he should say more. But then he shook the thought away.

"I'll take care of everything. We’ll have some time alone, just the two of us. You can relax, enjoy yourself—there’s no need for anything else tonight.”

(Y/n) smiled, a mix of gratitude and confusion in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Alaric. This is… unexpected.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and inviting. “You don’t have to say anything. Just come with me. Let me give you a night to forget about everything else.”

The intensity of his gaze softened as he looked at her, and despite the storm of emotions he was hiding, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace knowing she would be with him. For tonight, at least, nothing else mattered.

“Let’s get you ready. It’s going to be a night you won’t forget.”

And as he turned to leave the room, (Y/n) stood in the soft light of the room, still processing his words, her heart thudding a little faster in her chest. There was something deeper in his words—something more than just a night out. She just didn’t know what it was yet.

The room was filled with soft candlelight, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. (Y/n) sat in front of the vanity mirror, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her dress. She had been in the process of dressing for what felt like an eternity. The gown was beautiful, but it wasn’t the clothes that made her anxious—it was the overwhelming uncertainty about the night ahead.

She had no idea what Alaric had planned, but she could tell it was something important. He had seemed insistent, even more than usual, about her attending the event tonight. She could feel his gaze on her whenever they were in the same room, a kind of unspoken pressure weighing on her shoulders. But she trusted him, and somehow, that made the unease easier to bear.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Elera’s voice followed. “(Y/n), are you ready? I was told you might need some help getting ready.”

“I’m fine, Elera,” (Y/n) called back, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress. She couldn’t help but feel a little out of place in the extravagant outfit, even though it was meant to make her feel special.

Elera didn’t wait for a response before entering, her usual confident smile gracing her lips. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve already seen your battle wounds from the training sessions. Let me help.”

(Y/n) didn’t protest as Elera approached, sitting beside her and running a careful hand through her hair. “You look beautiful already,” Elera said with a grin, her eyes softening. “But we both know Alaric won’t let you out looking anything less than perfect.”

“I don’t know, Elera... I feel a bit... out of place in all of this.” (Y/n) gestured to the dress and the mirror, feeling unsure in her own skin. The thought of the night ahead only made the butterflies in her stomach worse.

Elera chuckled, her fingers moving expertly as she began to style (Y/n)'s hair, pulling it back into a soft, elegant updo. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’ve earned this, (Y/n). Alaric isn’t exactly the type to let anyone be anything less than perfect, especially you.”

As she worked, (Y/n) glanced at her curiously. “I don’t really know what’s going on tonight. Alaric was a little... secretive about it.”

Elera smiled, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Well, it’s not really my place to spoil the surprise, but I can tell you that you won’t be disappointed.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Ericsson asked me to the ballet, actually.”

(Y/n)’s heart skipped a beat. “Ericsson?” She couldn’t help the surprise that flashed across her face. Alaric had mentioned something about a potential political ally, but she hadn’t connected the dots yet. “I thought Alaric said we were going somewhere?”

Elera laughed, adjusting (Y/n)’s hair gently. “I’m sure Alaric has his reasons, but don’t worry. You’re the one getting the most out of tonight. He’s taking you to the ballet as well—although I can’t say he’ll be as pleased with the whole idea as you will.”

(Y/n) blinked, the news sinking in. “Wait, so this is a date?”

“More or less,” Elera answered with a playful smile. “I think Alaric wanted to surprise you with a bit of time away from all the... shall we say, usual activities. He wants you to enjoy yourself, even if he’s the one who’s overly protective about it.”

There was something in Elera’s voice that made (Y/n) pause. She couldn’t quite place it, but it was like there was something more she wasn’t saying. “What do you mean by ‘overly protective?’”

Elera grinned as she finished styling (Y/n)’s hair, giving her an appraising look in the mirror. “You’ll see soon enough. Just relax and have fun tonight. Trust me, it’ll be good for both of you.”

(Y/n) studied Elera’s face, sensing that there was more to her words than she was letting on, but decided not to press the issue. There was something about Elera’s easy confidence that made her trust her. Maybe she didn’t know exactly what Alaric had planned, but she was beginning to feel a little more at ease. A night to relax, away from all the tension and uncertainty, was something she could definitely use.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, seeing the elegant, polished version of herself that Elera had created, she felt a flicker of excitement. Perhaps, just for one night, she could forget about the heavy burden of her past and just... enjoy being (Y/n).

“You look stunning,” Elera said with a soft smile, her eyes lingering on (Y/n)’s reflection. “Now, go enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

For the first time that evening, (Y/n) smiled genuinely, a sense of calm settling over her. “Thank you, Elera.”

With that, she stood up and walked toward the door, where Alaric was waiting, his gaze intense as ever but tinged with something softer—a quiet anticipation. As he extended his arm to her, she hesitated for only a moment before taking it, ready for whatever night had in store.

The hum of the city softened as the sleek black car pulled up in front of an elegant restaurant, its golden lights casting a warm glow onto the cobblestone street. Alaric stepped out first, his sharp suit molding perfectly to his frame, exuding the quiet dominance he carried so naturally. The driver opened Y/N’s door, and Alaric was already there, extending a hand to help her out.

“Dinner first,” he murmured, lips curling into the faintest smile. “You deserve more than a rushed evening.”

Y/N glanced at the restaurant, blinking in surprise. It wasn’t just any place—it was the kind people booked months in advance for special occasions. The name glowed in elegant cursive above the entrance, a place she’d only heard about in passing. She hesitated.

“Alaric… this is too much.”

He leaned in slightly, his hand still holding hers. “Nothing’s too much for you.”

There was no arguing with that tone—the kind that brokered no disagreement, but it wasn’t sharp. It was soft, deliberate. As if this evening wasn’t just a date but a promise.

Inside, the atmosphere was intimate, candlelight flickering across white linen tablecloths. A quiet melody drifted from a pianist in the corner. Alaric led her to a private corner booth, away from prying eyes. It was clear he’d chosen the spot deliberately—where he could see everything, where nothing could sneak up on them.

“You’ve been working hard,” he said after they ordered, his gaze never leaving her. “Training with Elera. Exhausting yourself.”

Y/N shrugged, tracing the rim of her water glass. “I don’t mind. I want to be ready… just in case.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “I won’t let it come to that.”

She sighed, meeting his gaze with quiet determination. “And what if you can’t always be there?”

His hand reached across the table, covering hers. The warmth of his skin was grounding. “Then I’ve already failed.” His voice softened, almost pained. “Tonight isn’t about that. No training, no worries. Just you and me.”

The waiter arrived with their first course—something delicate and artfully plated. Y/N picked at it, while Alaric barely touched his. His focus remained on her, watching the way her expression shifted with each passing thought.

“You’re hovering,” she teased, finally breaking the silence. “Like you expect me to disappear if you blink.”

Alaric’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Can you blame me?”

Her chest tightened. She knew the truth behind those words. The shadows that clung to his past, the enemies that circled like vultures. But tonight, she didn’t want to think about that.

“Tell me about the ballet,” she asked, changing the subject.

He leaned back, finally sipping his wine. “It’s an old production. Classic. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You’re not exactly the ‘ballet’ type, Alaric.”

His smile sharpened. “No. But I’m the ‘you deserve a night of peace’ type.”

The courses came and went, though Alaric barely touched his food. His focus remained on Y/N—how she smiled at the delicate dessert, how her eyes brightened when the waiter mentioned the wine pairing. She was glowing, and for once, there was no tension lining her shoulders.

As they finished, he stood, extending his hand once more. “Shall we?”

“To the ballet?” she teased, slipping her fingers into his.

He chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “To the rest of the night you deserve.”

But beneath his composed exterior, Alaric’s mind churned. He’d promised her a perfect evening, but the ballet was more than just a date. It was a trap—one he was walking into willingly, with her at his side.

As they stepped outside, the cool night air kissed Y/N’s cheeks. She shivered, and without a word, Alaric shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

“You always do that,” she murmured, fingers brushing the soft fabric.

His gaze softened. “Because you’re always cold.”

They walked side by side to the waiting car, Alaric’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back. The city lights blurred past as they drove toward the theater, but Y/N barely noticed. She was too focused on the rare calm that settled over Alaric’s features.

He looked… content. Almost peaceful.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, not just for dinner but for everything he never said aloud.

Alaric glanced at her, his hand finding hers once more. He squeezed gently.

“Anything for you.”

And for a moment, he allowed himself to believe that tonight could be just that—a night of peace, untouched by the shadows of the past. Even if it was fleeting.

The grand theater was bathed in soft golden light as Alaric guided Y/N through the towering arched doors. Marble floors gleamed beneath their feet, the chatter of the well-dressed elite echoing through the expansive foyer. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen raindrops, casting fractured light over the plush crimson carpet leading toward the main hall.

Y/N couldn’t help but pause, her eyes widening as she took in the elegance around her. “Alaric,” she breathed, “this is… incredible.”

Alaric, standing beside her in his perfectly tailored suit, allowed a rare smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “You deserve incredible.”

He didn’t let her linger long, guiding her forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. Heads turned as they passed—partially because of Alaric’s commanding presence but mostly because of Y/N herself, wrapped in a gown that shimmered subtly under the light. Elera’s doing, no doubt.

“Box seats,” Alaric murmured as they ascended a private staircase, avoiding the crowd below. “I prefer to watch from above. Less… crowded.”

Y/N hid a smile. Less crowded, yes. But more importantly, easier to protect. She knew Alaric’s habits by now.

Their private box overlooked the grand stage, the velvet curtains still drawn as the orchestra warmed up. The theater was breathtaking—golden filigree decorating the balconies, painted cherubs gazing down from the domed ceiling.

“Do you take all your dates somewhere this fancy?” Y/N teased as they settled into the plush seats.

Alaric glanced at her, one brow arching. “No. Just the ones that matter.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she looked away, pretending to examine the program in her lap.

Soft footsteps sounded behind them, and Elera swept into the box like a shadow, effortlessly graceful in an emerald dress that set off her sharp features. Beside her, Ericsson followed, looking far too comfortable in the lavish surroundings.

“Well, don’t you both look like a painting,” Elera drawled, sliding into the seat beside Y/N. “Alaric, you clean up nicely. Almost like you’re trying to impress someone.”

Alaric didn’t rise to the bait, his gaze fixed on the stage. “Ericsson,” he greeted coolly.

“Alaric,” Ericsson replied, equally smooth. His gaze flickered to Y/N, lips quirking in amusement. “I see you finally found a reason to leave the house for something other than bloodshed.”

“Careful,” Alaric said, voice deceptively calm. “I’m in a generous mood tonight. Don’t spoil it.”

Y/N glanced between them, sensing the undercurrent of tension but choosing to ignore it. The lights dimmed, saving her from the need to mediate.

The theater hushed as the conductor raised his baton. A breathless moment of silence hung in the air before the first note drifted from the orchestra pit—a delicate, haunting melody that wrapped around them like mist.

The curtains parted, revealing a moonlit forest painted in ethereal blues and silvers. The prima ballerina glided onto the stage, her movements fluid and otherworldly, as though she were a spirit dancing between worlds.

Y/N leaned forward, captivated. The way the dancers moved—light as air, perfectly synchronized—was nothing short of mesmerizing. She glanced sideways at Alaric, expecting him to be bored, but his gaze was fixed on her instead.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured.

His eyes softened. “Yes. It is.”

She flushed, looking away quickly.

The story unfolded gracefully—a tale of love, betrayal, and sacrifice. The ballerina, dressed in shimmering white, danced with her partner beneath an artificial moon, their bodies weaving together like threads of silk.

Elera, surprisingly quiet for once, watched with sharp eyes, though Y/N suspected her mind was elsewhere. Ericsson leaned back, arms crossed, more interested in the audience than the performance itself.

Halfway through the first act, Y/N noticed Alaric’s hand resting lightly on the armrest between them. Without thinking, she reached over, her fingers brushing his. He froze for a moment, then turned his palm upward, inviting her hand into his.

“You’re tense,” she whispered, squeezing his hand gently.

He didn’t deny it. “Habit.”

The lights dimmed further as the scene shifted to the tragic climax—the ballerina, betrayed and heartbroken, collapsing to the stage as her partner reached for her too late. The music swelled, strings trembling with emotion.

Y/N’s breath caught. The vulnerability in the dancer’s performance struck a chord deep within her, stirring memories she’d rather leave buried.

Alaric must have sensed the shift in her mood. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her.

As the final note hung in the air and the curtain fell, the theater erupted into applause. Y/N clapped along with the crowd, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“That was…” she began, searching for words.

“Intense?” Elera supplied, stretching languidly. “Tragic love stories always are.”

Ericsson leaned over slightly, voice low but firm. “A moment, Alaric?” His gaze flicked toward the upper balconies, where the dim glow of chandeliers barely touched the shadows. “He’s here.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He’d felt it too—the oppressive weight of an old, familiar presence. Without a word, he stood, smoothing down his suit jacket as his eyes swept the room. The ballet continued, dancers twirling in perfect synchronization, oblivious to the predatory game unfolding above them.

Elera, sitting next to Y/N, caught the shift immediately. “You’re leaving?” she asked quietly, her sharp gaze darting between the two men.

“Stay with her,” Alaric muttered, eyes softening for the briefest moment as they flicked toward Y/N. She was watching the performance, blissfully unaware. He hated keeping her in the dark, but this wasn’t her fight. Not yet.

Ericsson was already moving, weaving through the crowd with the ease of a man who’d stalked prey for centuries. Alaric followed, his steps silent but purposeful.

Up the grand staircase, past velvet curtains and gilded mirrors, they found him.

Valen.

Perched on the edge of a private balcony, wine glass lazily dangling from his fingers, he looked down at the crowd like a king surveying his court. The faintest smile played on his lips, cold and calculating.

He didn’t turn to face them. He didn’t need to.

“I was wondering when you’d come find me,” Valen drawled, swirling the wine in his glass. “You’re predictable, Alaric. Always chasing ghosts.”

Ericsson’s hand twitched toward the knife hidden beneath his coat. Alaric didn’t move, eyes locked on the man who’d haunted his nightmares for centuries.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” Alaric growled.

Valen chuckled, finally turning to face them. His eyes gleamed crimson in the dim light. “You had your chance. You wasted it.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “And now? I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Alaric’s blood ran cold. Instinctively, his gaze flicked down to the main floor, where Y/N sat beside Elera, still laughing at something the other woman had said.

Valen’s smile widened. “Tick-tock, Alaric.”

The moment Valen’s words left his lips, something inside Alaric snapped. A raw, primal instinct surged through him, drowning out reason, drowning out centuries of carefully restrained rage.

Before anyone could react, he moved.

A blur of darkness—too fast, too sudden. The very air seemed to shudder under the force of his movement. One second, Valen stood smirking, and the next, he was slammed against the cold stone wall with a force that cracked the surface behind him.

The wine glass slipped from Valen’s fingers, shattering against the marble floor. But he barely had a chance to care—Alaric’s hand was already at his throat, crushing, suffocating, pinning him in place like a predator tearing into its prey.

For the first time, Valen’s amusement flickered, replaced by something sharper. Wariness.

“You,” Alaric snarled, voice low, guttural—inhuman. His fangs bared, his eyes burning with a furious, molten glow. “You don’t say her name. You don’t breathe in her direction.” His grip tightened, nails pressing into flesh. “Or I swear to every god that still listens, I will rip you apart until there’s nothing left but dust.”

Ericsson took a slow step forward. “Alaric—”

“Stay out of this.” The growl that tore from Alaric’s throat was not meant for negotiation. It was the voice of something feral, something ancient and unforgiving.

Valen let out a strained chuckle, despite the pressure threatening to crush his windpipe. “Touched a nerve, have I?” His eyes gleamed, even as his fingers twitched at his sides, no doubt calculating an escape. “Didn’t take you for the possessive type.”

Alaric slammed him harder against the stone, making the entire balcony tremble. “She is mine.” The declaration was absolute. Unyielding. “And if you so much as look at her wrong, I will make what I did to Marquis look like mercy.”

Valen’s smirk wavered.

For the first time in a long, long time—he looked at Alaric and saw death staring back at him.

The tension shattered like glass as Valen slipped into the shadows, but Alaric was already moving. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Instinct screamed, and centuries of suppressed fury roared to life, drowning out reason.

“Alaric—” Ericsson’s voice barely registered as Alaric followed the faint trace of Valen’s presence, weaving through the opulent corridors of the opera house like a predator on the hunt.

Valen had underestimated him. They all did.

But this wasn’t just another political maneuver. This wasn’t about power or territory.

This was about her.

The moment Valen hinted at touching her—at taking her away—it was as if every lifetime of failure, of watching her slip through his fingers, came crashing down at once. Every scar, every moment of helplessness, ignited a rage so pure it burned away the centuries of restraint he'd built like armor.

Never again.

He burst through the side entrance, the cold night air slicing across his skin as he hit the dimly lit alley. Shadows danced across wet cobblestones under flickering streetlamps. Silence hung thick, save for the distant hum of the city.

Then—a whisper of movement.

“Tsk.” Valen’s voice drifted from above, lazy, arrogant. He stood on the rooftop’s edge, silhouetted against the moon, one hand adjusting his cufflinks like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Really, Alaric? Are we resorting to street brawls now? I expected more civility from you.”

Alaric didn’t answer. He was already there, faster than Valen anticipated, boots slamming onto the rooftop with enough force to crack the tiles.

Their eyes met.

And Valen finally saw it—the storm brewing within Alaric.

This wasn’t the cold, calculating tactician he’d known for centuries. This was something feral. Unrelenting.

“She’s not yours to take,” Alaric growled, voice rough with unfiltered wrath.

Valen chuckled, but there was an edge to it now, a flicker of uncertainty. “You’re acting like I’ve already stolen her away. Possessiveness doesn’t suit you, Alaric. Love makes you sloppy.”

Sloppy?

Alaric moved—blink and you’d miss it.

The first punch connected with bone-crushing force, sending Valen flying across the rooftop. He barely caught himself, boots skidding against loose gravel. The smirk vanished from his lips, replaced by something colder.

“Ah,” Valen muttered, touching the corner of his mouth where blood now trickled. His expression hardened. “So, it’s that kind of fight.”

He lunged.

Ancient strength met unyielding fury.

They collided like titans, each blow shaking the rooftop. Fists, elbows, knees—centuries of combat experience distilled into brutal efficiency. Valen fought with the grace of someone who’d lived too long, his movements precise, elegant, almost bored.

But Alaric?

Alaric fought like a man with nothing left to lose.

Every strike was fueled by lifetimes of failure. Of watching her die. Of holding her lifeless body. Of hearing her screams and being too far away to save her.

He wasn’t fighting for dominance.

He was fighting for her.

Valen’s defenses began to slip. He was fast, but Alaric was relentless, every movement a calculated assault, pushing him further toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Valen hissed between ragged breaths. “You can’t protect her forever. She’s mortal. Fragile. It’s only a matter of time—”

CRACK.

Alaric’s fist slammed into Valen’s jaw, sending him sprawling. Before he could rise, Alaric was on him, boot pressing down on his chest, pinning him like an insect under glass.

“I will burn the world to ash before I let you touch her.” Alaric’s voice was ice, his face twisted into something dark and unforgiving.

Valen coughed, eyes narrowing. “You think this changes anything?” he rasped, blood staining his teeth. “You’re fighting fate, Alaric. And fate—”

Steel flashed.

Valen froze.

Alaric had drawn the dagger from his coat—a vampire’s dagger, ancient and deadly.

“…fate dies tonight,” Alaric finished, pressing the blade to Valen’s throat.

For the first time, true fear flickered in Valen’s eyes.

It wasn’t just about power. It was the realization that Alaric would do it. He would cross any line, break any rule, damn himself to the darkest pits of existence if it meant keeping her safe.

“Go near her again,” Alaric growled, his hand steady despite the fury burning through his veins, “and I’ll make sure you never walk away.”

Silence.

The city buzzed faintly in the distance, oblivious to the war waged in the shadows.

Then, slowly, Alaric stepped back, releasing the pressure on Valen’s chest but never lowering the blade.

Valen coughed, sitting up with a wince. His arrogance was gone, replaced by cold calculation. “You’re a fool, Alaric,” he muttered. “She’ll be your downfall.”

Alaric didn’t flinch. “Better my downfall than her grave.”

He’d tear it apart with his bare hands.

The streets were eerily silent, save for the faint hum of the city and the rasping sound of Valen struggling to catch his breath. Broken tiles and splintered wood littered the ground, evidence of the raw violence that had just unfolded. Blood—dark and glistening—pooled where Alaric had pinned Valen down moments ago.

Valen, the ancient, the untouchable, now leaned against a crumbling ledge, wiping the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. His usual smugness was gone, replaced by something colder. Calculating.

And standing at the edge of the destruction, eyes wide and lips slightly parted in disbelief, was Ericsson.

He had followed the trail of chaos—the shattered balcony railing, the dented cobblestones in the alley below—and arrived just in time to see Alaric sheathing the vampire dagger, his face carved from stone.

“Gods above…” Ericsson muttered under his breath, boots crunching over debris as he stepped forward. His sharp eyes flickered between the two men. “What the hell happened here?”

Alaric didn’t answer immediately. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, fists still clenched at his sides, knuckles bruised and bloodied. The rage simmering beneath his skin hadn’t cooled yet. It wouldn’t cool—not while the scent of Valen’s threat lingered in the air.

Valen chuckled bitterly, wiping more blood from his jaw. “Your friend here seems to have forgotten the fine line between possessiveness and madness,” he sneered, though there was no hiding the slight tremor in his voice. “All because I dared to mention the girl.”

Ericsson’s brows shot up. “Yn?” His gaze snapped to Alaric, and understanding dawned like a thunderclap. “…By the gods, Alaric. What did he say?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away from Valen. “Enough.”

“More than enough,” Valen muttered, pushing himself to stand. He winced, clearly favoring one side. “You should leash your hound, Ericsson. Or at least remind him that wars have been started over less.”

Ericsson ignored him, stepping closer to Alaric. His voice dropped to something edged with rare concern. “You lost control.” It wasn’t a question.

Alaric’s eyes flickered toward him, the crimson hue slowly fading, replaced by piercing, predatory gold. “I don’t care.”

Ericsson blinked, momentarily taken aback. Alaric was always composed, always calculating, the one who strategized ten steps ahead while others fumbled through the first. But now?

Now, he looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to leap without caring about the fall.

“Alaric,” Ericsson tried again, voice firm but not unkind. “You nearly killed him.”

“I should have.”

The weight of those words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Valen scoffed, shaking his head as he straightened his collar. “You’re blinded by love, Alaric. It’ll be your undoing.”

Ericsson’s hand shot out, grabbing Valen’s shoulder and yanking him back before he could provoke Alaric further. “Enough. Walk away while you still can...”

Valen’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. Not this time. He knew when the odds had turned against him.

“I’ll enjoy watching this crumble around you,” Valen muttered as he stepped past them, disappearing into the night like smoke on the wind.

Ericsson waited until the last trace of his presence was gone before exhaling sharply. He turned back to Alaric, studying his friend—the tension in his shoulders, the wild look that still hadn’t fully faded from his gaze.

“You’ve fought wars,” Ericsson said quietly. “Killed kings. Faced down entire armies without flinching. But I’ve never seen you like this.”

Alaric finally looked at him, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes made Ericsson’s breath catch.

“She’s not just another mortal passing through my life, Ericsson,” Alaric murmured, voice rough and low. “She’s the only constant. Every lifetime, every cruel twist of fate—she’s always the one taken from me.” His throat bobbed with the weight of the confession. “I won’t survive losing her again.”

Ericsson was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, once.

“Then we make sure you don’t.”

Alaric didn’t wait for more words. He was already moving, boots striking the rooftop with purpose as he headed toward the edge.

“Where are you going?”

Alaric paused, glancing back. The answer was obvious.

To her.

To the only thing that kept the monster inside him from consuming what little of his soul remained.

Tags: @yune1337 @mybones537 @yourhornysister @lilyalone

#yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere oc #yandere x mc #yandere #yandere ocs #yandere male x reader #yandere male x you

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hapan-in-exile · 24 days ago

Text

Volume 4 - Post #10: Bellyache [M]

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic!

A/N: And we're back! This post follows the extended flashback Never Knew I Needed You where we return to the present timeline!

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

WC: 9K

Rating: Explicit - 18+MDNI; this scene ends with a character making threats of sexual violence (please read with ⛔️ )

“Tea?” you call over your shoulder, adding water to the kettle. There won’t be enough left for caf in the morning, but…that’s a problem for future Thuli. She can curse you on her way to the tapstand.

The spout rattles as you settle it over the flame.

The hut smells stale—heat from the long day still trapped inside the walls. Behind you, Mando’s bent over an enormous work table that dominates the common room, an array of muzzles, stocks, and barrels laid out with care.

You lean your hip against the stove, half-turned toward him, catching glimpses of his movements reflected in the kettle’s warped steel. He handles the rifle parts with a reverence that borders on spiritual, pausing to weigh a scope in his palm, testing the snap of the folding stock.

Kriffing hell, he’s really here. The Mandalorian is in your house.

It’s a shack, really—just the one room and a canvas roof. But it’s got a homey, domestic charm, and he looks so contented surrounded by its soft clutter of drying herbs strung from the ceiling, wet clothes draped on the drying rack, a pot of beans soaking on the counter.

You told yourself not to count the days, but your body kept track. Every morning, without the sound of his steady gait, pacing the Crest. Every night without that silent, resolute presence sitting beside you in the cockpit. The ache of missing him had carved itself into you, slow and steady as the river that passes through these mountains.

And now, he’s just here like it’s been no time at all.

You place a hand on his shoulder, using it to balance yourself as you reach above him for the bitterleaf. His body feels strong and sure beneath your fingertips. It fills the room like a second heat source.

That part of you that’s been holding its breath finally exhales. He’s here.

There’s a soft thump, followed by the patter of claws. The cat—half-wild, with soot-stained fur and a ragged scar over one missing eye—stalks into view. She heads straight for Mando’s boots, sniffing once, then rubbing herself against his shin with casual entitlement.

Mando glances down. “This yours?”

“No one in their right mind would claim that cat,” you huff. “She claims you.”

“Does she bite?”

“Only fascists.”

Garsa absolutely hated the men Humia brought home, hissing and flicking her tail when they tried to touch her. And yet she’s already swooned for the Mandalorian. Flopping on her back to lengthen her belly.

You grin.

“She’s a good judge of character.”

The kettle hisses, and soon the cramped space fills with the faint tang of the bitterleaf. You fish out two mismatched cups—one chipped, the other rust-stained at the rim.

“We call her Garsa. It’s the word Lakarani miners use for the most volatile clusters of coaxium.”

Mando’s armor creaks faintly as he lowers himself. His movements are careful, as though he’s approaching a rabid Targon and not an ancient Felinx who spent twenty hours a day sleeping in the linen hamper. You smile as he reaches out a finger, poised in the air before brushing it gently behind her ear. Garsa immediately shoves her head into his hand, starved for attention.

You smirk over the pot of steeping tea—and pour.

“Guess I’m trustworthy,” he says wryly.

You settle down next to him on the bench, elbow brushing his arm lightly as you hand him the tea. Mando accepts it with a quiet nod, wrapping both hands around the cup like he’s absorbing its heat through his gloves. Those armored shoulders relax slightly when you press the length of your thigh against his.

A bottle of mineral oil sat open on the table amidst brushes, rags, and sandpaper. The Mandalorian has never looked so quietly thrilled—assessing the unfamiliar weapons and modified blasters like a collector examining a trove of artifacts.

It’s maddening, the way your body responded to his nearness. The tilt of his head. The slow, careful way he reaches to move something beside you. All your senses are attuned to him.

“Cheers,” you murmur, watching him lift his helmet to take a sip.

Then he coughs, low in his throat. “It’s good.”

You raise both eyebrows. “It’s terrible. Like sucking on pine sap.”

The cough transforms into a hearty chuckle. He rests his other hand on your knee under the table, as though he needs the reassurance that this is real. That you’re really here with him.

“But it’s hot,” you concede, raising the chipped cup to your lips. “And it helps with the radiation sickness.”

Mando’s helmet turns toward you, voice suddenly hesitant. “From working at the refinery?”

“Not just that.” You shake your head. “It’s in everything. The soil’s contaminated.”

He mutters under his breath, something about how he ‘didn’t realize.’ His words are layered with a sentiment you can’t quite place. Guilt, maybe? Though about what, you can’t be sure.

“You’ve got enough iodide?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’m being careful.” You assure him, swallowing down your tea before the acrid taste can linger.

Mando nods and takes another sip. You watch the faintest shift in his posture—his shoulders loosening that tight coil they always carry.

You lean forward to nudge the blaster parts aside, making room for your cup.

“Easy,” he murmurs, but not unkindly, steadying a scope just as your knuckles graze it.

Your eyes meet his viewplate and smile. “I knew this would make you happy.”

He pauses, thumb running a slow, repetitive line over the rifle’s grip.

“I’ll admit this is not what I expected when you said you wanted to show me something.”

“Ah! You were hoping for a look at these.”

Without warning, you pull your robe open and flash him a glimpse of cleavage. It’s teasing. Silly. Exactly what you feel like doing.

He lets out a soft chuckle, helmet tilting with affectionate exasperation.

Before he can reply, the cat launches herself up onto the table with a disgruntled mrow, landing dangerously close to a pile of resin-detonators. Mando startles.

“Garsa!” you wince. “Let’s not announce the revolution with a surprise foam party.”

She flops down, swishing her graying tail with impunity. Mando pulls a blaster away from her outstretched paws with the caution of someone defusing a live wire.

“This cat’s got a death wish,” he mutters.

“I think that’s just cats.”

There’s never enough room in the hut but with Mando here, it feels even smaller. The close quarters press in, made warmer, denser, by the quiet weight of your shared intimacy.

“You can toss her on my bedroll,” you tell him, nodding toward the alcove.

“Thanks, but I need all my fingers.” Mando’s helmet turns to look at your sleeping nook, where a length of threadbare fabric hangs from a bent pipe. The rest of the crew’s mats lie open to the main room, bedding piled like discarded laundry.

“Why is your bed the only one with a curtain?”

You cock your head meaningfully. “Because I’m the only honest pervert in this crew.”

He huffs, and the modulator sizzles.

The Mandalorian’s laughter was never loud, but it stayed with you. Just like every glance—every word, and gesture—it felt deliberate. And every time it wrecked you. You’d carry the echo of it like a keepsake if you could.

You watch as he seats the bolt into the rifle’s forestock, adjusting the balance with the barest tilt of his wrist. His thumb traces along the ridged grip, testing the texture, then settles it gently into place.

“It’s got a long barrel,” you say.

“For distance and silence,” he replies without looking up. Mando tightens the stud, and you hear metal whispering under the torque. “I’ve swapped the coil. Makes it less likely to burn out on repeat fire.”

He fastens the barrel with a soft, satisfying snap. You can’t tell if he’s proud or just quietly pleased—but there’s something about the way his hands linger afterward, fingertips brushing the muzzle’s edge, that feels almost tender.

“Did you build the Amban rifle, too?”

“Yes. I did.” His tone is warm, the kind he uses when talking to the baby or working on the engine with Nito. “Piece by piece. Salvaged. Traded. Took me years.”

“Impressive. Though I’m not sure how the insurgency will feel about you cannibalizing their weapons cache to build me a rifle.”

“You’re the only member of the Lakarani Liberation Front I care about,” he says in a clipped tone.

The playfulness of moments ago recedes, and the silence thickens into an awkward tension. Outside, a light breeze stirs dust against the canvas roof.

“Why do you think I’m part of the Lakarani Front?”

Your tone’s still light, but you can feel the smile slipping. He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, measuring his words.

Mando’s steel chin points towards the front door. “Those three red stars carved into your lintel.”

How did Mando know about that? The insignia was deep Lakarani lore—a symbol that predated the Empire.

“Great way to get caught, incidentally.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the air feels thicker. “All it takes is one person to talk, and they’ll search for those stars, house by house.”

“It’s an insurgency, Mando. We’re always on the brink of getting caught.”

You expect the usual stubborn pushback, but instead, he just nods.

His hands remain on the blaster stock a beat too long before setting it down. Not in anger. It’s a meditative motion. Like he’s centering himself. When he does speak, he remains calm. The kind of calm that takes effort.

“Tell me about your new crew.”

You tilt your head, studying him. Funny. That almost sounded like…jealousy?

You shift, letting your hips rest just slightly closer to his. A shared bench. Shared air. Shared silence that prickles now. He doesn’t move away—but he doesn’t lean in either. You trace the rim of your cup with a fingertip, not looking at him.

“New crew’s fine. Competent. Not as practised at brooding dramatically in doorways, but that’s to be expected.” Your tone is light and teasing, but your eyes don’t meet his viewplate. “Their main job has been to sit on the cache, I think. Prepare the camp for when Ubaa takes the refinery.”

“Do they understand who you are? What you will—and won’t—do?”

Your head snaps up to look at him. You catch the twitch in his gloved hand, the way his thumb taps twice against the barrel before he stills it. You’ve played Sabacc long enough to recognize a tell. Mando didn’t have many. He’s chewing on something.

“Not really,” you say, reaching for the glass pipe in your pocket. “That’s the whole point.”

“Do you trust them?”

“They’re good people,” you shrug, watching him closely. “Davik and Humia are both Lakarani, posing as cousins. They’ve been working at Tagge for over a year now. Serenio is supposed to be Davik’s girlfriend. She came about five months ago along with the weapons. They’ve been gathering intel. Waiting for orders. Now we’re planning on how to seize the control room.”

“Any luck?”

“We’ve got some leads. Now that you’re here with the blueprints, maybe Ubaa will decide it’s time to launch her attack.”

“You’re calling her Ubaa now?” You hear the strain beneath the modulator. “Didn’t realize you were in that deep.”

The low-burning stove casts an amber light across the walls, flickering over shadows. Making his presence loom even larger. You can feel the sharp edge of suspicion rising in your chest, but gods, you’ve missed him. So you let it sit there, unspoken.

“Everyone else does.”

“Have you met with her?”

A new tension threads through Mando’s tone. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. You can’t help feeling there’s some deeper significance to all these questions.

“No,” you tell him. “There’s a shrine in camp we visit once a week to make reports. The nuns relay the information back to base.”

“So these nuns have seen you?” he asks sharply, before softening. “I’m just trying to determine where you’re vulnerable.”

You hear the challenge in his voice—but again, you ignore it. You’re too busy memorizing its sound. Trying not to lose him to an argument after weeks of longing to have him back.

“We don’t use names.” You take a beat. “Sure, if one of them were caught, she could confirm my identity. But it’s a vast network. The operating system is only one part of the plan. There are others. Other cells.”

You catch yourself hesitating, fingers tapping the bowl of the pipe. Some part of you doesn’t want to tell him what you’ve pieced together from eavesdropping. Not because you don’t trust him—but because saying it aloud might make it real.

“They’re going to hold the Tagge family hostage.”

Probably why Humia wants you to cozy up with Kessen. As the Tagge family’s bodyguard, Kessen would be a pivotal ally. You can sense Humia is frustrated by the narrow scope of your role. It was the keystone to everything that followed. There’s no taking the refinery without seizing the operations room.

But it would be away from the fighting. Once you make it into that control center, you’ll be barricaded inside until the refinery has fallen. Humia wanted to be at the center of the action.

Bringing Johar Kessen into the fold would elevate her status in the Lakarani Front. Her spy network is instrumental to bringing down Tagge Corp, but she didn’t want that to be her only legacy.

While you can understand her ambition, it didn’t change the threat of being used to get to Kessen.

“And you’re okay with that plan?” The filament clip in Mando’s hand stills, his focus no longer on the rifle but on you. “Knowing what could happen.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The Mandalorian’s shoulders lift, then fall with a tight exhale—calm, but laden with meaning. You can see the regret in the way his helmet dips a fraction, like he’d take the words back if he could.

“No one ever knows what could happen once the shooting starts, Mando.”

It’s not an answer—not really—but it’s the truth of war. He knows it. You know it. There’s no point in pretending. In the heat of battle, the only thing you can control is the decisions you make in the moment.

You shift away from him to pack your pipe with sweetroot before taking a deep inhale.

“Since when do you smoke?” Mando asks, caught off guard as though he’d just noticed.

“My third day of basic training on Yavin.” You exhale through your nostrils and succumb to the intoxicating release from the pressure pounding against your temples. “And I stopped the day I woke up in the company of two very impressionable young children.”

The sharpness in his voice isn’t anger—it’s poorly disguised worry. “Make sure you’re eating enough.”

Ah, yes! Mando is back. And he just doesn’t know how to be anything other than himself. There’s something oddly comforting about that. Tender concern—but make it rude and overbearing.

“Are you worried I’m going to lose my curves? Because, honestly, Mando, I could probably sustain a family of five through the winter with this jiggle.”

You slap a wide palm over your ass for emphasis, but he doesn’t laugh this time.

“You’re running yourself down, and that stuff won’t help. Make sure you eat enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s an awkward silence that just punctuates the rising tension. You stand up from the table. Not leaving. Just giving him some space. As if staying seated one second longer might lead you to say something you’d regret. If you’re not careful, the weight of frustration might tip the whole damn room sideways.

As a pretext, you move to check the grass stains impacted into your coveralls after falling off the speeder. The drying rack creaks as it shifts, fabric rustling gently.

Why does it feel like we’re fighting?

The instinct to push back is strong—but so is the ache of having gone so long without him. You tuck the edge of your bitterness under your tongue and search for some safe subject to shift the conversation. Something to break the rising tide in your chest.

“I’ve been learning Twi’lek signs from Serenio.”

“Good,” he nods, placing his cup on the table to sign with his right hand. Useful for combat.

Laughing, you raise your fingers to your forehead and sign. Your first thought?

This is the first real moment you’ve had with him in weeks. You’re not going to spend it arguing over the mission. Job.Not when you could just sit in the pleasure of his company for however long he lets you.

“Serenio can read lips, but she’s been teaching me.”

“Could you—” he swallows the words, shaking his head. “Sorry. Never mind.”

“No. What were you going to ask?”

“Could you restore her hearing?”

Your breath catches. It’s not the question itself—it’s the way he asks it. Not as though he expects a miracle, but that he’s worried someone might demand one from you.

“That would be really presumptuous—and maybe offensive—for me to offer even if I wasn’t hiding my abilities. But I have thought about it. I’m not sure. If the hairs in her ear are missing or…”

You trail off.

“That must be hard for you,” he says kindly. “Not knowing whether you could help her.”

His tone is soft, edged with understanding. He doesn’t press, and you're grateful.

As if sensing the quiet that’s crept into the space between you, Garsa pads over and hops into his lap. He stiffens slightly but doesn’t push her away. His gloved hand finds her scruff, stroking in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The motion seems to settle him.

“So you know Twi’lek signs, too? You’re really good at picking up languages, Mando.”

His helmet tilts just a fraction, the line of his spine going rigid beneath the plates of Beskar. Then you catch it—that subtle shift—the way he folds inward, as if this source of praise were a burden he didn’t know how to hold.

“Comes from traveling a lot.”

He scratches behind Garsa’s ear with a deliberate kind of focus.

“Before…you’ve mentioned that your people have to relocate a lot. That you remain hidden for their survival.”

“Not always.” The cadence of his words changes, grows slower, quieter, like he’s wading through something thick and unfinished.

“When I was a foundling, we didn’t live as fugitives. Our home was on Concordia—it’s the moon orbiting Mandalore. But I…” The silence stretches longer than it should, and you can almost feel the words trapped behind his helmet.

He reaches for the barrel adjustment, fine-tuning something that doesn’t need tuning.

“I was forced to leave in my youth. When I lost my clan.” He busies himself with the motions. His hands are precise, mechanical.

But you recognize the retreat into function. Into something he can control. “I picked up work where I could.”

There’s no blame in his words. No resentment. Just facts, stripped of warmth.

You want to say you’re sorry. That it’s not fair. That the War is over and his people deserve peace. But you’re afraid that if you open your mouth, you might break something loose within him.

Instead, you nod gently.

“Is that when you became a bounty hunter?”

He shakes his head slowly. Not dismissive, but careful, as though he’s making sure the memory stays in place.

“I joined the Guild after the Imperial Purge. To support my Tribe.”

Not for the first time, you wonder who’s providing for them in Mando’s absence. If he’s worried about the other foundlings? The weight of that must be staggering. And yet he carries it like everything else. In quiet solitude.

His devotion is unfathomable to you. How could someone so bound to tradition move through the galaxy so alone?

But maybe that’s the point. Even when he wasn’t surrounded by his people, he wore their armor—and was shaped by them. Wearing the helmet kept him connected. To his Creed. To his Tribe.

The Mandalorians had given him a home when he had no other. Yet you’ve often wondered if there was something else—someone else—who first inspired his unshakable loyalty.

Now his fealty belongs to the Child. And maybe that’s the truest form of his Creed—protecting a foundling when they need it most. Just as he once needed protection.

“Hey,�� you say, a grin tugging at your mouth. “What if we taught the kid some signs? I mean, I don’t know when he’ll start talking, but signing could help him communicate.”

Mando stills at the suggestion, gloved hands resting on the edge of the table.

“That’s…yes.”

You glance back. His helmet is tilted toward you, unmoving, but his words are gentle. “I think he’d like that.

A smile spreads across your face. “You’ll be good at teaching him.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you turn, suddenly unsure. Maybe you’ve said too much—stirred something buried deep he wasn’t ready to feel.

The Mandalorian sits, hands braced on the table, as if trying to decide whether he deserves this kind of praise. To be acknowledged as something more than a warrior. Someone capable of care.

Whatever feelings you’d surfaced, he shrugs them off with a slight roll of his shoulders, letting the moment pass.

“Come here,” he says, getting up from the table with the modified rifle. Garsa tumbles onto the floor with an indignant hiss.

The Mandalorian’s words are gentle, but his tone leaves no room for argument. The floor creaks underfoot as you move toward him.

He lifts the rifle between you like he’s sharing something sacred. His body heat radiates off the armor. The proximity steals your breath.

He angles the stock to your shoulder and cups your hands in his—warm even through the gloves as he shifts your grip. The proximity is dizzying. The familiar scent of oil and leather, the cool bite of Beskar against your skin, the weight of his attention entirely fixed on you.

“How does that feel?” He asks.

It feels perfect.

“Don’t hold it too tight against your shoulder—it should sit closer to your collarbone.”

You reach to adjust, but his hand is already there, lifting the rifle just enough to take the tension out of your grip.

“I reinforced the stock,” he says quietly. “Cut it down to your reach, fitted a recoil buffer. The C-13 kept bruising your shoulder, remember?”

Of course, he noticed.

The muzzle points upward, angled past your cheekbone, and when he lays a hand over yours, the contact is solid, anchoring.

“Here.” His command is softer now, reaching around your chest to adjust the strap. His fingertips graze your collarbone. The weight of the rifle shifts as he cinches the buckle over your shoulder. His hands are precise and steady, but your whole body comes alive under his attention.

When he repositions your fingers on the trigger, you don’t turn your head. You don’t breathe. You just surrender yourself into his arms, like he’s the only safety you’ve ever known.

Your voice drops to a tender whisper. “How long have you been going quietly insane, waiting to fix my grip?”

He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through your spine. His fingers tighten briefly over yours on the rifle grip—just enough to hold you in place.

“Since the first time I handed you a rifle.”

“Oh, so the entirety of our relationship.”

Laughter catches in your throat. Your heart stutters. Whatever this is, it’s not a relationship. He’d been very straightforward about that. There could be no ‘relationship.’ And you’d decided to take him anyway, however that worked. On his terms.

You don’t regret that choice.

“And what?” You lean against him playfully, pressing your ass into the bowl of his hips. “Were you too scared to wrap your arms around me?”

His voice is deeper now. Not quite teasing anymore. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

You feel the solid press of him against your hip, hardening through the layers of cloth. Thick and unmistakable. Maybe it was the thrill of your bodies pressed together. Or maybe he's simply getting hot watching you hold the rifle.

“Should have guessed a Mandalorian would be into gunplay.” You say, arching one eyebrow before slipping into your most sultry tone. “That’s something we’d have to build up to, Mando. Something you’d have to earn.”

You’d said it to make him laugh, but he pauses to consider your words.

“Build up to…? What is gun play?”

Is there a disintegration round on that table because you would love to disappear right now?

“Oh, um...well, you know...blasters are kind of…” you take in a deep breath, “phallic in shape, so, uh...” You hear yourself use the word insertion before trailing off into a mortified silence.

“Hmm,” he muses earnestly—completely oblivious to your embarrassment. “I’ve seen something like that on Nal Hutta. Inka blastoh.”

You blink.

“Wait, that’s—gun surprise?!”

“They send dancers to the Guildhalls,” he says in explanation, sounding caught between laughter and desperate clarification.

“How can you be friends with H’uun and dominatrix and not know about gunplay?”

The Mandalorian actually flinches. Not much, but enough to make Garsa’s ears twitch. “Why do you think I’m friends with a dominatrix?”

You feel yourself bristle defensively. What did you say that? Heat rises in your chest—though you’re not sure if it’s from guilt or the need to stay in control of the conversation.

“Nito told me about your job on Coruscant.” You shrug with feigned casualness, “...and I found a card for Mistress Anassa, owner of the Dark Garden, in the sleeping compartment.”

For the first time tonight, his voice goes cold—cutting through the warmth that had been building between you. “When did you go back to the Crest?”

“This morning.” Your stomach clenches. There’s a bite in his tone you hadn’t braced for. You feel cornered. “Where did you think I got the robe?”

The robe he bought for you. The same one you’re wearing now because you missed him.

“I didn’t think—” He falters for half a beat, his retort thinned by something close to alarm. Then it grows gruffer, like he's trying to bury the worry. “You shouldn’t have done that. Someone could have seen you.”

“It’s a lot less risky than you coming here. I’m just some woman walking through the woods. There’s no disguising what you are.”

You feel the regret bloom immediately. You hadn't meant to push him away, only to remind him what's at stake every minute of every day—that you’re both grasping for connection in the moments in between.

But it’s too late.

“I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks.”

“That’s ridiculous, Mando. You being here puts me at risk.”

His head snaps back as if you’d slapped him. Your words cut deeper than you’d meant them, raising a wall between you. He draws back, taking a slow step towards the door.

He only just got here, and already you’re tangled up in disagreement. You hate how familiar it feels. How much it hurts. The way his concern turns to silence.

“Right.” He exhales sharply, but it comes out softened by the modulator. Contained. You can’t tell whether he’s trying not to snap or just trying not to sound hurt.

“Do you want me to go?”

You can feel your temper coiling up, ready to strike—but underneath it is something more fragile. You don’t want to fight. You just want him close.

“No! Please. I just...please. I want you to stay.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

You start to spiral before you can stop it—a throb of fear, irrational and sharp. He’s not leaving, he’s not leaving. But some part of you is still expecting him to.

“I’ve missed you—”

The kettle rattles louder. Steam curls toward the ceiling. Shit! You forgot to take it off the stove.

You rush back to the burner, heart thudding beneath your ribs, the hiss of steam sharp in your ears. Mando’s footsteps are silent following behind you. But you feel him there, a solid presence at your back. His hands settle softly on your shoulders—just enough pressure to let you feel the resolve behind them.

Their weight is soothing. No words. Just his touch saying, I’m still here.

Warmth seeps through the fabric of your robe, spreading across your skin in sensuous ripples. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. His touch says everything he wouldn’t let himself say aloud.

“Did you think…” His thumb strokes the nape of your neck. “That’s not why I went to the Dark Garden.”

“I know,” you say without turning around.

His arm curls around your waist from behind, drawing you in so your back rests against the solid plane of his chest plate. The edge of his helmet brushes your temple. Mando’s version of a kiss.

“Nothing happened.”

“I know.”

You didn’t really believe he’d done anything untoward. This wasn’t about jealousy. It was just… a reminder. Of his boundaries. Of the constraints demanded by his Creed. It wouldn’t surprise you to learn that the Mandalorian did visit sex workers. In fact, it made perfect sense. How many times had he outsourced physical intimacy to keep the rest of himself locked away?

That’s what hurt. Not the thought of others enjoying his body, but the knowledge that some part of him would always remain untouchable. Sealed off beneath the armor. You have to make peace with that.

He reaches for your hand resting on the kettle, palm brushing over your knuckles.

“I know we aren’t—” Behind the helmet, Mando’s breath catches just audibly enough to betray him. “I don’t want anyone else. I meant what I said. Nothing’s ever felt as good as this.” His fingers trace up your forearm, over your shoulder, and down your back, as though memorizing the shape of you.

“It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life to find you.”

Your heart melts. The Mandalorian was all brooding storm and self-control, and yet—something about you sparked this heat, this passion within him, like flint to steel.

He pauses, as if surprised by his own words, then lets out a quiet, almost shy laugh. “I could wait another few weeks.”

But that stubborn, prideful voice in your head won’t let it go. If Mando yearned for you so deeply, why couldn’t he wait a few hours after they’d landed on Lakaran?

No. That wasn’t fair. He didn’t expect you to return to the Crest—he’s here now because he couldn’t help himself.

You want to shout, to shake him, to make him see how much it hurt. But your voice catches in your throat.

“I know.”

You turn and face him, looping your arms around his neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who would’ve stopped me from reaching into his pants.” Your hand flattens against his stomach, sliding downward with a deliberate slowness. “But you did. You wanted me so bad it ached, and still—you stopped me.”

His breath hitches. You feel the tension ripple through him like a taut wire.

“I’ve never doubted your self-restraint, Mando,” you whisper, tracing the edge of his belt with one finger. “But every night, I thank the gods, I’m the one who can undo it.”

His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s grounding himself—like if he lets go, he might do something reckless. His other hand curls around the back of your neck, heat pulsing through the contact.

“Gun play. Is that really something you want?” he asks skeptically.

You scoff, breathless with embarrassment. “I…maybe an approximation...like, they must make blaster-shaped...I mean, sex toys should really be silicone...And yes, I’m aware I’m babbling.”

“Little bit. Yeah.”

“I can’t say that’s one of my kinks, but if you—”

“Then why would you offer me that?” He asks, genuinely concerned. “What about what you want?”

“You mean, my…kinks?”

“Yes. Tell me. I want to please you.”

“You do please me, Mando.”

“Then tell me.”

“I mean, I don’t think my tastes are all that unconventional. I like it soft, I like it rough. I love that you can give me both. Our first time together was slow and gentle—and fun. But tonight when I begged you to fuck me harder…it was everything I wanted.”

There was always this pull between you. Like a current just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest spark to ignite it. You could feel it in the air between you—the way his attention lingered on you a second too long. The way your skin prickled before he even touched you. Every time he got close, your thoughts scattered like the stars reflected in his Beskar.

It wasn’t just attraction—it was gravity. Something deeper. He’s right. It’s never felt this way before.

“Then you’ll tell me when I don’t…if I’m not…giving you enough?”

You’ve had generous lovers who were eager to impress. But this? This is worship. This is Mando asking—needing—to know what makes your thighs tremble and your breath catch.

Fuck, that’s so hot. The most capable warrior you’ve ever known, saying he wants nothing more than to answer your body’s demands.

“Promise.”

He looks at you expectantly. Like he’s ready to make a checklist. “Ah, yeah. There’s stuff I like…when things veer a little more…feral.”

“Feral?”

“Hair pulling, that sort of thing.” Oh gods. Now you’re thinking about Mando’s hand gripping fistfuls of your hair while he thrusts inside you. “I mean, you like biting. That’s pretty feral.”

“So you want…feral?”

“Within reason. I don’t know about ‘getting into character.’ You have to establish a lot of ground rules before—”

He laughs when you start talking about safe words.

“What’s so funny?”

“The card? Mistress Anassa offered me a job.” His voice drops into that low gravel that makes your insides clench. “She said that Mandalorians are a power fantasy.”

“Wow,” you snort. “Uh, yes. Yeah. I get that. Bondage and domination are fantasies for a lot of people. That is the B and the D, after all.”

“Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Mando, you only ask serious questions.”

“I want to say something without...I don’t want to make you nervous.”

“Oooo-kay?”

“There’ve been times when I’ve scared you...And I see the fear in your eyes, but you also look hungry. Like when I pushed you up against the pylon to hide us from those guards. You were afraid...but excited.”

Mando’s not asking for forgiveness. He’s asking to understand.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Fear and arousal are two sides of the same coin. It’s because I’ve never thought you’d actually hurt me. So the fear turns into…lust.”

“And you like that. That’s feral?”

Your cheeks flush. You picture him rutting over you—merciless—and heat coils in your stomach.

“The target on Coruscant, he…Anassa said he loves his wife, but not enough to tell her what he needs.” For a moment, his helmet dips—shoulders drawn tight. “We can do whatever you want. Whatever you need, within your limits. Just tell me.”

“I will. I promise.” Your chest aches. Mando has so much tenderness to give, and yet he still doesn’t believe he deserves the same in return. “What about what you need? I want to please you, too.”

The Mandalorian’s tone is dismissive. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Yes, you. What you want matters to me.”

He huffs. “I think you’ve already proved that you know what I like better than I know myself.”

“That’s true,” you murmur, fingertips trailing over the seam of his thigh plate. “I may have felt your soul leave your body.”

You remember how his hips had stuttered, the way his hands fisted in your hair, how he choked down curses when you looked up at him, with his cock in your mouth. How his voice cracked when you took him deeper—desperate and unguarded, like he’d never been touched that way before.

You slide your hand higher, fingers brushing the fabric between his armor. He stiffens—just slightly—but he doesn’t stop you. Your knuckles circle lazily at the edge of his swelling erection. Heat radiates through the layers of fabric under your skin.

“Careful,” you whisper, lips curving in a slow grin. “Next time, I might swallow that down, too.”

Mando exhales sharply through his nose—an aching sound, almost in pain. His head tilts like he’s searching for the right comeback, but all he manages is a quick inhale and a quiet, “You are so beautiful. But you might be the most dangerous woman I’ve ever known, cyar’ika.”

Given what you know about Mando, that’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to you. The man has a type.

You lean in until your lips nearly brush the curve of his helmet. “I thought you said I was a good girl?”

He shifts his pauldrons, tension rippling through his body.

“You are,” he says, raw and reverent. His hand lifts—hovering at your jaw, torn between restraint and surrender. “You are so good.”

Your pulse skips. You don’t even try to hide the naked yearning in your eyes.

“I can’t stop picturing you on your knees,” he growls. His hand slides to the back of your neck, possessive but gentle. “Wanting me. Serving me. Mine.”

There’s a throb—spreading—sending glittering warmth between your thighs.

“You were trembling,” you murmur. “Your whole body.”

You smile. Not to gloat, but because it was beautiful. He was beautiful. Coming apart in your hands like it was a revelation.

Maybe a little gloating.

You hesitate—just for a breath.

“It doesn’t bother you?” you ask tentatively. “That I have more…experience.”

“What right do I have to be jealous?” He says it simply, as though his emotions don’t come into it. Commitment isn’t something he’s allowed to want, even if he already feels it. There’s no room for his turmoil.

And now you’re the one holding something back.

Are you obligated to tell him about Johar? The name sits at the edge of your tongue like a burn.

Maybe this is the opening. He won’t admit the hurt of seeing you with someone else, but you can still offer him the truth. This connection you’re building is fragile—stitched together by trust. And if you want it to last, you can’t hold anything back.

Then, suddenly, Mando turns toward the door. A subtle shift in his posture—the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his helmet.

“There’s someone coming.”

“Here?”

Mando nods. “Male, judging from the height.”

You sense it too, the low thud of approaching boots on packed earth.

Just like that, the spell breaks. You scramble to make yourself presentable, heat still blooming under your skin.

“Guess you get to meet Davik.” Mando carefully places the rifle back into the weapons stash along with the mismatched blaster parts. You close the container with a sharp clap, pull the rug over it, and head to the door. “You’ll love him. He keeps trying to get me to train.”

Boom.

Someone pounds on the door. A single hard thud, knuckles, or a boot.

You look at each other. There’s a scramble of movement behind you. Garsa, hiding under Humia’s blankets.

You hadn’t changed the ‘all-clear’ sign yet. Was it an emergency?

“Let me in!”

The walls rattle with the impact of the voice. Dust sifts from the canvas above.

Mando moves. He steps between you and the door, one hand instinctively falling to his holster, the other hovering just behind your shoulder like he’s prepared to shove you out of harm’s way. His body blocks the entrance, a shield made of Beskar and resolve.

“Wait,” you whisper. “Let’s stay calm.”

He doesn’t answer.

You move as silently as possible to the table, fingers brushing over the resin detonators. Your hand is already searching for the ion pistol tucked under the bench. Mando shifts too, soundless in his armor. His left gauntlet comes up slightly, ready to deflect or strike. His eyes—you can feel them—watching both you and the door at once.

You check the camera feed, squinting against the flicker of static. It’s not Davik. It’s not anyone you know. And somehow, that’s the worst part.

The image jitters—a man, pacing with unpredictable rhythm, a dark blot of motion against the grainy screen.

Your eyes widen. You shake your head so Mando knows it’s not your roommate.

Boom—boom—boom.

Your palm still rests on the grip of the ion pistol, but you don’t draw it. Not yet.

Mando lowers his center of gravity slightly, one foot angling back for balance. He’s not just listening, he’s ready. You can see the twitch in his trigger finger even though his blaster’s still holstered.

“I know you’re in there! Varl told me he saw you getting fucked like a whore.”

There’s a wet rasp in his voice now, like he’s been drinking—like bile and spit are caught in his throat.

Varl? Was that one of the guards who had passed by?

“Been—been looking for you all night. And you’re here giving it up.”

He’s loud. Sloppy. He’ll burn out before long.

“Just waiting for somebody to come along and fuck you. You’ll give it up to anyone, so why not me?”

He slams his palm against the door—harder this time—fingers splayed like he’s trying to claw his way through.

He’s drunk. He’ll pass out in a ditch and wake up humiliated. That’ll be the worst of it.

“Humia, open the fucking door.”

Come on. You made your scene. You’ve been heard. Go home

He’s pacing again. You hear the crunch of gravel underfoot, fast and erratic.

It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with all the rage roiling in his body.

“Hu–mee–ah! I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t walk straight.”

Like he might set himself on fire just to release it—to feel powerful.

“I’m not leaving until you open this door.”

His voice is louder now. Wrecked. Savage with resentment.

“We should kill him,” Mando says, as though it’s the only logical solution.

The air feels tight, the walls feel too close, like the whole hut is holding its breath along with you.

“No.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“No.”

Mando pulls you away from the door.

“Men like that need to be put down.”

You catch a glimpse of the camera feed—his face is flushed, jaw unhinged, pupils blown wide. Not just drunk. Gone.

You rack your brain for who it might be. The guard who had been waiting on the porch this morning—the one who’d fallen harder than he should. He’d been all smiles, but men can turn possessive. Or was it someone else entirely?

Humia had never said she was scared of any of her informants or shown signs of abuse. But she might hide that from you. Telling herself she could handle it. This was the dangerous game she was playing; she might be able to control the dynamic, but all it took was one man’s wounded pride to turn violent.

“It’s…not that simple.”

“Open the door, Humia! You belong to me!”

“It is,” Mando growls between gritted teeth. “Right now, he wants to hurt someone, and when he finds your friend, that’s exactly what he’ll do to her.”

“She’s not—” you start to say. Why did he call her your friend? “Fine. She’s not just a friend. Humia is a soldier. I can’t kill one of her informants without her say so.”

“To protect her?”

You think about what Nito said earlier. “It’s not fair to protect people without their consent, Mando. Like you said, he’s a danger right now because he’s angry. Angry about something that isn’t even true. This is my fault. I need to fix it.

He’s crashing out over something that never happened. And now Humia might pay the price for it. Humia, Ubaa Dir, the whole insurgency.

If he sees Mando, it’s over. No one forgets a Mandalorian.

“Let me see if I can diffuse—”

“None of what he’s doing is your fault.” You catch Mando’s words between the endless thudding blows as the man outside continues his feeble attempt at breaking down the door. “You really think talking to him is going to—?”

“I know, I know. If he tries anything, I’ll drop him. But we can’t kill him. Humia won’t thank us for sabotaging her work.”

“Her work? Is that what they have you doing?”

“You can save your disgust for someone else, Mandalorian. War isn’t just waged on the battlefield.”

“Thuli? Tell me.”

Should you tell him about Johar?

“Not me.” Not yet. “But sex is always a weapon used in warfare.”

“We’re not talking about luring some Stormtrooper off the base.” Mando’s fists clench at his sides. His head tips down just slightly, voice low like he’s trying to hold himself together. “You and I both know what he’s threatening to do to her.”

You swallow hard. You do know.

“And you want to let him in your house? You want to talk to him?”

It’s not just fear crawling up your spine, it’s shame.

Because you see it clearly now—the same impossible tension the Mandalorian wrestles with every time he looks at you.

That deep, gnawing instinct to protect someone, even when they didn’t ask for it.

Even when they don’t want it.

You’re straining under the weight of an unbearable choice. It’s not as simple as right or wrong.

It never is.

“We’re all prepared to put our lives—”

A pause. Then—

“Are you in there with someone right now, you fucking whore!”

“Nothing she could learn from him is worth risking that.” Mando points his finger toward the door, before his head tilts just slightly. Not a question, but a plea. “I get that this is complicated for you. So, let me make it simple. Let me protect you.”

You wish you could let him have this—wish it were that simple. But you know what it would mean to say yes. What it might cost Humia.

“You never think about the chaos you leave behind Mando. What about retaliation? What happens when someone comes looking for him? You think just far enough ahead to plan your escape, but you never think about who gets left to face the consequences.”

His head snaps back as if you’d slapped him.

“This is my call, Mando.” Your voice is firm with authority. “We need to try it my way. If he gets violent, you can kill him.”

You throw up your hands in exasperation.

“You’ll have to. No one can know that you were here.”

“I don’t want him to touch you.”

“He won’t. You have to trust me, Mando.”

You sidestep him to approach the doorway, one hand raised behind you to quietly sign—stay back.

He nods.

“Humia!”

You open the door. The night air rushes in, cool and sharp as a blade against your sweat-slick skin. “She’s not here.”

The man’s breath saws in and out in a harsh rumble. For a moment, he doesn’t speak—just squints past you, eyes glossy with confusion.

“Who the fuck are you? Where is Humia?”

Mando tenses behind you, the heat of his stare boring into the back of your head. But he doesn’t move.

“I don’t know. I’ve been home all night, and she hasn’t been home. I don’t know what Varl told you, but the people having sex outside—that wasn’t her.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I was here. I heard them. It wasn’t any voice I recognized. If it had been Humia, she would have come inside, right? I would have seen her.”

“Then where the fuck is she?”

“Why don’t you try sending her a communication?”

“She’s not answering.” He blinks, staggering a half-step back, trying to sober up through sheer will. “What are you telling her?”

“I just asked where she is. Look. See?” You hold the device at a slight angle—enough for him to see the screen, not enough to snatch it.

“Show me.”

His head tilts, squinting at the screen like the letters are swimming. His mouth works around words he can’t force into coherence.

The man is young, but rough around the edges—too much drink, too many late nights. His uniform’s partially unzipped, revealing a sweat-soaked undershirt stretched tight over a muscular chest that’s hardened with tension. His breath reeks of sour ale and desperation. There’s a frantic jitter to his movements. He’s either on something or just barely holding it together.

“Bet she’s in there right now,” he mutters, licking his lips, eyes scanning the shadows behind you. “Hiding. Waiting for me to come teach her a lesson.”

You’ve been trying not to picture it, but you do—Humia flinching under him, his weight pinning her down, voice slurred and snarling in her ear. You see it too clearly. The way men like him don’t just want control, they want to erase resistance. And suddenly you can’t bear the way he’s still standing.

“Maybe you should sit down,” you say gently. “You don’t look well.”

His expression twists in confusion and rage, like he can’t decide if you’re insulting him or offering kindness. His eyes dart again to your communicator, then to your face. Sweat beads at his temple.

“I can feel your stomach turning,” you murmur, soft as a lullaby. “Your mouth flooding. Hard to swallow, isn’t it?”

He blinks hard, jaw working as if chewing air. His throat flexes once. Then again.

“You feel it, don’t you?” you whisper, layering your voice with intention. “That sour taste at the back of your tongue. Like something rotting.”

His breath hitches. He opens his mouth to speak but only gags—shudders violently. A tremor runs through his shoulders.

“You can’t push it down,” you keep your voice gentle, steady. Hypnotic. “It’s surging up your throat now..”

He stumbles backward a step, doubling over as his arms clamp around his mouth. The muscles in his face seize—his cheeks puff.

Then he drops to his knees and vomits.

“And it’s just getting worse,” you say, unable to stop yourself even though you want to. “The pain in your guts twisting up like a knot. Needing to purge. You feel your asshole—loosening.”

He shits himself. The smell is horrific—sulfur and acid. Sharp enough to sting the back of your throat.

A sick, guttural noise leaves his mouth—somewhere between a sob and a whimper. You watch him fold in on himself, eyes wide, movements jerky and broken. And for a second, you feel nothing but power.

You startle when Mando presses a hand to your back, between your shoulder blades.

You hadn’t noticed how fast you’re breathing—rapid huffs of air through your nostrils. His touch steadies you.

You hadn’t meant to go that far. Not really. Not consciously. But some part of you knew he deserved it.

And suddenly you’re taken aback. Shocked and appalled.

You didn’t just defend yourself. You wanted him sick and humiliated. Twisted inside out from the same nauseating fear he’d tried to force onto someone else. Onto Humia.

The most shocking part—it felt easy. Perhaps this man is particularly weak-minded, or maybe it was the righteous surety of your purpose. The strength of your abilities is tied to your ability to focus. And you’d never felt so certain. You’d wanted to punish him. He’d been defenseless.

If Mando hadn’t stepped in, what would have happened?

You’d told the Mandalorian that war isn’t just waged on the battlefield. That was true. But this wasn’t strategic. This was rage. A cold, private kind of fury.

The man chokes, coughing on bile. His hands scrabble against the edge of the porch, as he manages to pull himself back upright through sheer will.

Mando steps forward. No hesitation. He plants a boot in the man’s chest and sends him sprawling into the dust with a thud, air wheezing from his lungs. His body crumples where it lands—half-conscious, retching, drenched in sweat and self-loathing.

And just like that, it’s over. The threat is gone.

But your chest is still so tight.

Your hands are shaking. Not from fear—from release. You stare down at the man lying in the packed dirt. Slurred words and guttural noises. The moment has passed, but the surge of power still hums underneath your skin, vibrating in your limbs like a static current. You did that.

Mando turns toward you slowly. Even without seeing his face, you know what’s in his eyes. He saw it too.

You don’t speak. Just shake your head—once—sharp.

“I have to erase his memory of you. Just to be safe.”

He nods, barely. A stiff tilt of the helmet. But you can tell he’s watching you. Not the man. You.

You kneel beside the body. He groans. You touch two fingers to his temple, already reaching through the fog of his nervous system, finding the right channels to sever. A few minutes sliced clean from his timeline. Just enough to protect the Mandalorian.

Enough to pretend this never happened.

When it’s done, you stand. You’re sweating. Your stomach churns, not from guilt—at least not the kind you can name—but from something heavier. Existential. The knowledge that you could have done more. Hurt him. Would have, if the Mandalorian hadn’t stopped you.

Mando hasn’t moved from the porch. He’s still looking at you like he’s seeing something new. Something dangerous.

You might be the most dangerous woman I’ve ever known, cyar’ika.

You open your mouth. Close it. There's nothing to say that wouldn't sound like an excuse.

Finally, he speaks.

“You okay?”

It’s not the question you expected. But it’s the one you need. The power’s still humming in your chest, euphoric and dreadful.

“No,” you whisper.

--------------------

Continue reading Volume 4 - Post 11: You Got Me In Love Again

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mandalorian x reader #din djarin smut #star wars smut

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bingwriterxo · 2 years ago

Text

the shakespeare exhibit - drabble 4

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which tara enlists help to find you the perfect christmas gift

warnings: none

word count: 700+

author's note: for @melrodrigo -- good luck on ur exams!

previous part | next part

Tara’s phone was pressed against her ear as she paced around her bedroom, her feet surely burning a hole into the floor below. C’mon, c’mon, she thought, listening to the dial tone. Please pick up.

There were three days until Christmas; only three days until she was supposed to drive up to your parents’ house to celebrate the holiday. In theory, there wasn’t any issue with that. However, when Tara had woken up that morning, she had realized one very important thing: amongst all of her Christmas shopping, she had yet to get something for you.

“Hello?” The voice that answered the call was small, young, boyish. Tara perked up at the sound, grinning.

“Nate! Hi! It’s Tara,” she greeted.

There was a grumble on the other end of the line. “This is Eddie,” the boy said, clearly a bit annoyed at being mistaken for his brother. “What’s up, Tara?”

She sighed, embarrassed that she had to seek out your younger brothers, and admitted, “I need your help. Yours and Nate’s.”

“With what?” he asked.

“I don’t know what to get Y/N for Christmas,” she mumbled.

Eddie barked out a laugh, and Tara clamped her eyes shut, thinking, This is why you don’t ask a middle schooler for help. “Can you repeat that?” he giggled.

“You heard me the first time.”

After a moment of laughing, the boy said, “Yeah, okay. We can help you.”

Tara nodded. “Good. I’ll be there soon.”

* * *

Nearly four hours later, Tara was roaming the streets of your hometown, both of your brothers walking beside her sluggishly; they had already been helping her search for a present for an hour, and they were growing bored.

“What if you got her--” Nate started, only to be swiftly cut off by Tara.

“Nate,” she began, glancing at the boy, “if you suggest a real sword one more time--”

Nate shook his head, pointing his finger at a store on the other side of the street. “Look, they have a Shakespeare bust over there,” he said, his eyes sparkling with the same excitement you’d always have when you talked about the playwright.

Could he be any more like his sister? she wondered as she looked at the bust. It didn’t seem nearly as nice as the one you already had in your apartment, and she shook her head. “I don’t think she needs another one of those,” she said. More like I don’t think I need another one of those staring at me while we--

“You could get her a puppy,” Eddie suggested, a sly smile on his face.

Tara groaned. All of the suggestions that the boy had given had to do with animals, and with your busy schedule, she knew you couldn’t handle one of those. “Eddie, I can’t get your sister a puppy.”

Eddie frowned. “First you said no to the lizard, then the snake, then the cat, and now a puppy? What, do you not like animals or something?” He gasped. “Are you an animal hater?!”

With all of the self-control she could muster, Tara managed not to punch the boy. Thank god my mom only had two kids, she thought. I love these boys, but I would not have been able to handle a younger sibling.

“No,” she sighed. “I love animals, but your sister doesn’t have the time for any sort of pet right now,” Tara explained, her eyes continuing to scan the front windows of stores that they passed. “Besides--”

She was interrupted by Nate as he halted, throwing his arm out. “Hark!” he shouted, practically bouncing with excitement. Tara stopped short, whipping around as worry flooded through her. Is he hurt? I am so dead if he’s hurt.

Eddie took a little longer to finally pause, turning lazily and eyeing his brother. “Could you stop being such a nerdball?” he asked, his voice teasing.

“Shut up, Edmund,” Nate retorted.

Almost as soon as the name slipped from his lips, Tara was rushing forward to pull the boys apart from each other, yelling, “No hitting!” repeatedly. When she finally got between them, she sighed.

“Is this normal for you two?” she asked, glancing at each boy.

Nate nodded. “Yup.”

“Oh, definitely,” Eddie added.

Tara huffed. “Great.” She looked at Nate. “Now, why’d you scream ‘hark’ earlier?”

The boy pointed to the store that they had stopped in front of, his finger leading Tara’s attention directly to--

She gasped, her eyes widening and a smile adorning her face. “It’s perfect!”

#museum tara #tara carpenter x reader #tara x reader #tara carpenter #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna x reader #scream 5 #scream 6

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diazsdimples · 10 months ago

Note

🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Please ignore that I'm doing this several months late 😬

🤠 - 24 for Ranch AU!

But that did leave him with an awful lot of time on his hands. Bobby and spare time have never been great friends – the last time he was left to his own devices for more than a day, he’d ended up knee deep in planning a lavish wedding that had ultimately been chucked out the door when he and Athena realised, they really didn’t need anything more than themselves and the kids. All that to say that it isn’t really surprising that Bobby downloads the Sims 4 onto his ancient laptop and creates a full-scale version of the ranch. He gets the dimensions off the listing, and with the help of a convenient floorplan and google earth, he manages to make a rather convincing version of the home. He does up the exterior to look just like the ranch house, complete with the large veranda and the ornate trims around the spandrels, and even manages to find a tile that looks exactly like the path leading to the front door. The interior is a different matter. Bobby doesn’t love the colour scheme either, and he can’t see himself coping with an oven as miniscule as the one that comes with the home, so he allows himself a little creative licence. It’s just a video game, after all. He’s not seriously planning it out. Several hours later, Bobby sits back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. Blessedly, Athena still has a job, which means Bobby hasn’t needed to worry about her finding out his momentary lapse in sanity, but it also means he hasn’t got anyone to show off his creation to – a thought that upsets him a little more than it should, were he being normal about the whole thing. He’s fiddling around with some of the furniture in the master bedroom when the front door bursts open and a furious looking Buck stalks over his threshold, followed by a harried Eddie. “What’s going –” “Bobby, you wouldn’t believe what that man made us do!” Buck explodes as he starts pacing the kitchen. Eddie leans against the countertop, running a hand over his face. “I know you said I shouldn’t let him get to me but I can’t, he’s just so –” Buck trails off, looking over at Bobby. His eyes flicker from Bobby’s patient expression to the open laptop, still displaying the Fake Ranch. “Are we… interrupting something?” “No.” Bobby goes to shut the laptop but Buck is quicker. “Is that the Sims?” Buck asks incredulously. “Man, you must be bored, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play video games.”

❄️ - 24 for Frostpunk AU!

“You did it,” he repeats, praying his voice won’t betray him. “You’re safe.” At his words, Eddie’s eyes shut, and his brings his hands up to his face as he lets out a deep exhale. His fingers shake as he wipes a tear from his cheek. “I didn’t think we’d – I thought -” Eddie swallows thickly. He looks around the tent, eyes wet, and his gaze falls on a familiar mop of brown curls. “Is that – is that my son? Can I see him, please?” Buck squeezes Eddie’s shoulder again, offering him a smile. “Of course.” When Buck reaches Christopher’s bed, the kid looks up at him quizzically. It’s clear that he wasn’t as blissfully unaware of his father’s event as Buck had hoped, despite the small crowd of medics around him, all intent on distracting him. “Is everything okay with Dad?” he asks Buck, without preamble. Buck crouches down to Christopher’s level and brushes a loose curl out of his eyes. “Yeah bud, everything’s okay. Better than, actually – he’s awake.” Buck holds out his hand for Christopher. “Want to come see him? He’d like to see you.” Christopher throws himself into Buck’s arms, taking him by surprise. Buck catches him around the middle and hauls him up, carrying him to Eddie’s cot. The moment Christopher sees his father, sitting upright, awake and breathing, a great sob escapes his lips. Buck lowers him into Eddie’s waiting arms and pauses, not sure what to do as he watches father embrace son. Fat tears roll down Eddie’s cheeks as he holds Christopher as tight as he can, muscles shaking after weeks of no use.

#james writes #make me write #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 abc #911 buddie #911 #frostpunk au #ranch au #bathena #bobby nash #athena grant #christopher diaz

62 notes · View notes

browneyedboys · 2 years ago

Text

will you walk me home

you can find my other work here!

Pairing: rafe cameron x reader

Warnings: cursing, frat parties, light discussion of alcohol, overall fluff (let me know if you find something else)

Word count: 2.3K

Synopsis: Second chance encounters with Rafe Cameron lead to discussions of fate and the idea of what happens when you go to frat parties. (second part to libraries after midnight)

a/n: okay so maybe this will be a series?! I'm having fun with this concept and I still promise nothing, feedback is always appreciated!

The next time you see Rafe Cameron, only a few days later, you’re celebrating. The conclusion of midterms means that you’re slightly less stressed on a daily basis, a cause for celebration. You manage to convince Paige, your big, and some other girls to go to a Phi Gam party with you, only slightly hoping to run into your favorite golden boy.

An hour or so passes and you’ve managed to go from sober to a flushed, giggling mess. Alcohol always manages to get your blood pumping to exactly where you don’t want it. The loud bass booms through the house and seems to come to rest in your lungs. It’s as they’ve developed their own beat. The slightly suffocating feeling manages to suck you back into reality; you need some air.

“I’m going to step outside for a few minutes,” you call to Paige, watching as she nods and turns to some of your sisters you both had been dancing with before. Shoving through the crowd, you pick up on the panicky feeling in your chest. There are too many people close to you, it’s too loud, and you’ve already had a big week.

You finally reach the back door of the house, pulling it open in time to quell your beating heart. You usually excel in social situations, well at least enough to where you enjoy yourself. It seems with the intensity of the week a party wasn’t the best idea. Finding purchase on a brick retaining wall, you bring your knees to your chest and settle your head into the space between. The 4-7-8 count of breath that you learned for your anxiety helps a bit.

Four seconds you breathe in, seven you hold it in, eight you let it go. Crowds never were your thing. Alcohol never really lets you free, it just makes you more giggly or sad, depending on the week. This week it leaned more towards the latter and the crowd around you came crashing down.

“Hey, you okay?” You’re pulled from your breathing exercise, and in consequence from your thoughts. Lifting your head out of your knees, you find the perfect picture of Rafe standing before you. He holds a drink in his hand, his eyebrows pulled together as he maintains his gaze on you. Blinking, you extract your gaze from him, returning to your shell.

You nod, a bit too quickly to be convincing, then resume your attempt to regain your breath. “I just…” you pause, marveling at the breeze on your arms, “I’ve never really gotten used to being in a crowd of people yet never feeling more lonely, you know?”

Rafe exhales, you watch him shift foot to foot through the little crack between your legs. His feet then step and disappear as you feel the warmth that radiates off of him settle beside you. A hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, thumb tracing the juts of your spine.

It’s so quiet behind the booming house you can nearly hear his breathing. You make your best effort to match your own breath to the rhythmic pace of Rafe’s thumb. As it swoops up the valley of your spine you pull air in, down you purse your lips and exhale. Little else seems to pull your thoughts from how nice it is to find peace in another person’s presence.

You’re so used to putting on a front or willing more energy to meet the expectations of others. All your life, it has felt like only a select few people truly manage to see how you are. Unbothered in the natural state, you feel at ease with this boy you’ve only really talked to twice. It’s an entirely cliche thought — but it feels like you’ve known him your whole life. You’re not sure if romantic soulmates exist but they have to in some capacity. People just seem to fit together in such unique ways, it can’t be only a billion coincidences.

It would crush your soul to learn that the little connections in daily life happen due to mere circumstance. Like people on their deathbed call out to god — you can’t go about your life with no strings. It’s a terrifying thought that nothing draws people together. Fate has to exist.

“What’s pulling you from life?” Rafe voices barely louder than a whisper. The rises and falls of his speech fits right in with the atmosphere around the two of you.

You lift your head from your legs, resting your chin on your knees. You tilt your head to the side until you’ve squished your cheek just slightly, taking in the way Rafe’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Does it freak you out how many people live on this spinning ball? How every decision you make affects the entire trajectory of your life? How you could pass by the person you belong with because of something stupid?”

“Woah,” Rafe exhales, softly grinning at you, “That’s a minor crisis, I try not to think about everything too much. It’s so much easier to go about day to day life not in my own brain but sometimes I do think about that. I like to think that everything happens for a reason, even something stupid.”

You nod along with his words, if anything, Rafe seems to agree with you.

“I mean even just me walking out here at the moment when I saw you could be seen as some twist of fate. It’s really easy to get lost in the world at times but I try to not overthink everything. How would you even know that they’re the person you belong with until you take the time to get to know them.”

“But fate has to play a part, right?” You question, lifting your head from your knees. You shift to sit like a pretzel carefully balanced on the wall.

The uncertainty of your voice throws Rafe for a loop. This version of you is starkly different to the girl who told off his dad a few days ago. The crease between your eyebrows beckons him to solve all your problems like you tried to do for him. With a gentle manner, he smooths out the creases with his thumb. “That’s up for you to decide, honey. If fate is something that makes you feel better about the world then there is no harm in believing in it. What’s the difference between believing in fate and believing in a god? Both offer the same reassurances about what we don’t know.”

“Sometimes it feels like I don’t know a whole lot.” You murmur, the air gains a chill as your words leave your lips. October means the changing of the seasons and a whole lot of things to look forward to, but right now it's all a bit too much. Life feels so demanding.

Rafe’s thumb traces your brow, pausing on your temple. Warmth cascades down the side of your face before his hand eventually settles, cupping your jaw. “You don’t have to know anything,” Rafe hums, “I mean you’re what, 20? You still have the rest of your life to figure it out.”

“I’m usually a giggly drunk,” you complain, leaning into the warmth of his hand on your face. Your eyes flutter every so slightly as the week seems to catch up to you. It’s so nice to have somebody out here with you. It would be too cold on your own. Even the pause between your own speech feels right. You don’t overthink your every movement around the golden boy. “What happened to me?”

The weight of your head in his hand prompts Rafe to shift closer to you. Your knee overlaps his thigh as you lean into his touch. “I’m sure you’ve had a long week; you’re probably exhausted and then you got overstimulated in there.” He’s so tempted to draw you into his arms and never let you go. He could spend a lifetime protecting you, like the way you did against his dad. “Maybe you should get some rest, call it an early night from the thrills of Phi Gam.” He proposes when the moments when your eyes are closed outweigh the moments they’re open. Rafe feels a new tug in his chest. He thinks an invisible string might tie your pinky to his.

Your eyes meet his. You trace the shadows across his face, sharply contrasting to how he looked the last time you saw him. Maybe if you spend enough time noting the way he looks at you you’ll understand what it is you're feeling. The feeling that prompts you to ask, “Can you walk me home again?”

Rafe’s quick to agree, with a short, “Of course, honey.” It turns your insides gooey like his term of endearment. You could get used to Rafe’s company. As you both stand, his hands leave a cold trail in their absence.

The boom of the party increases as you make your way back towards the house. The lawn, green in the way that only money can achieve, is littered with far more people than when you first pushed through the doors. Perhaps everyone realized just how suffocating the air is inside. You glance over your shoulder as you step back inside, double checking that Rafe is behind you. Or maybe it's just an excuse to take another glimpse at the golden boy. The too warm air rushes into your lungs. It stinks of too many bodies who are at least a little wasted.

He smiles at you, dropping his lips to your ear. “Do you need to make your rounds and say goodbye?” Rafe’s whisper elicits goosebumps. You shake your head; you can just text Paige that you went home. It’s not like you’re the designated driver or that you were incredibly drunk. It’s too loud for you to vocalize your entire thought process so you just continue through the house. Rafe’s hand find’s purchase on the small of your back as the people get denser. His thumb resumes its pace from earlier, moving back and forth.

Rafe has come to recognize the scrunch between your eyebrows as a stress indicator. Watching the way it dissolves slightly as he guides you through the house, only for your brows to pull together as a person stills your path. Preston, Rafe’s fraternity brother stands in front of the pair of you.

“Cameron!” Preston calls out. “I’ve missed you buddy. Where’ve you been?” He sways back and forth with the constitution of a giraffe. Rafe has always had a soft spot for Preston; they went through rush together and endured some stupid shit. He is the closest thing that Rafe has to a family out here.

“Hey Preston, I’m going to walk Cory home and then I’ll be back okay. We can hang out after that.” Rafe answers in what he hopes will be both his first and last response. He can tell you just want to go home.

Your eyes follow Preston as he stills, seemingly realizing that you’re right in front of him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Cory, Rafe’s asked me a hundred questions about you since that one night.” The implication of his statement hangs in the air, swirling with the idea of Rafe thinking of you as much as you think of him.

“Oh, it’s great to meet you too!” You flash him a smile before glancing over your shoulder, wanting nothing more than to catch Rafe looking even a little bit flustered. It’s nice to know that you’re not the only one a little hung up on your shared interactions. Rafe meets your eyes with a faint grin. He doesn’t look pink but you miss the way he shook his head when Preston said what he did. He’s had a few seconds to recover, for which he is eternally grateful.

“Well good night,” you duck around Preston, who has grown distracted by the lights dancing across the ceiling. Once you make it to the front of the house your idea of the night comes crashing back on you. Midterms and their conclusion was supposed to mean a break from the chaos that is your life but you seem to attract just a bit of chaotic energy wherever you go.

The air has grown chillier in the few minutes you made your way through the frat house, or perhaps you got used to the stale air inside. Either way goosebumps creep up your arms, something Rafe notices with a surprising amount of speed. He shifts closer to you as you walk towards Pi Phi’s house, moving his arm from your back to your shoulders. He draws you ever so slightly towards him.

Something about the ease you seem to instill in him causes Rafe to be a bit more direct. “Preston really did just call me out, but he’s right, in all his tipsy truth, I do like you…”

His honesty catches you off guard. “Rafe.” The short walk concludes as the pair of you draw on the start of the walkway to your house. You step out of his bubble, “I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts with a finger gracing your lips, it tugs your bottom lip with a comforting heaviness, “I just wanted you to know. You’ve had a long night and I’m sure you need a few days to process everything. Goodnight Cory.” Rafe takes a step back from you, his finger falling from your mouth. He hesitates just out of reach.

Against his better judgment he quickly takes a step forward and presses a chase kiss on your forehead. Warmth blooms from the spot where his lips made contact long after his figure retreats back to his frat house. It stays even after you wash your face and put on your matching pajama set. In bed you trace the spot with a memory, smiling yourself into a dream filled night.

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noona-clock · 6 months ago

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Heart of the Ranch - Part 6

Genre: Cowboy!AU, Slice of Life, Fluff

Pairing: Namjoon x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: Some light angst and mild cursing

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 | Words: 2,750

When you'd gone to sleep last night, your mind had been so occupied with thoughts of Namjoon holding your hand as he led you back to the house through the darkness that you'd totally forgotten about the impending storm he'd mentioned. Plus, you'd always been a particularly heavy sleeper -- you naturally woke up pretty early every morning, but from the time you closed your eyes to the time you opened them? You were out cold. So, it's not like a nasty thunderstorm would've kept you up all night.

But as soon as you set foot downstairs, the feeling that something was wrong was almost overwhelming, and Namjoon's voice saying Those clouds don't look friendly echoed in your mind.

You really weren't sure how you knew -- it wasn't currently storming, and the smell of coffee hung in the air just as it had yesterday morning. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

You could just feel it.

So, instead of stopping in the dining room to make your usual morning caffeine, you headed straight for the front door.

Luckily, you spotted Namjoon putting a saddle on Diego over by the stables.

"Hey," you called out as you headed over there, concern evident in your voice. "Everything okay?"

Namjoon glanced up at you but didn't pause his task for even a second. "Animals are all fine," he answered shortly. "I'm going out to check the fences. It sounded pretty bad last night."

Guilt gnawed at your stomach. You really had no reason to feel guilty, but that didn't stop the emotion from settling over you. You'd slept right through it without a care in the world!

But, then, up until now, you'd never had to worry about something as uncontrollable as the weather ruining your livelihood. The power going out was inconvenient, sure, but storm damage to a ranch could be debilitating.

"Can I help?" you asked breathlessly as you picked up your pace to a jog.

Namjoon's forehead wrinkled at your words, and you could tell he was going to turn you down.

So, you cut him off before he could even say anything.

"Please," you pleaded, coming to a stop next to Diego. "Let me come with you."

He hesitated for another moment before finally nodding his assent. "You get the saddle, I'll get Frida," he murmured.

You didn't even waste time answering him; there was an urgent atmosphere hanging in the air around him, so you simply hurried over to the stable.

After only a few minutes, both you and Namjoon had mounted your horses and were trotting off away from the house. For obvious reasons, you decided not to remind Namjoon that the only riding experience you had was from yesterday so you'd never gone faster than a very relaxed stride. But, honestly, your adrenaline had taken enough that you didn't even think to be nervous about it -- you were only nervous about what damage the storm may have caused.

Thankfully, when you passed the gazebo, you only noticed a few fallen branches here and there. Nothing major, and you were so relieved because it really was a beautiful gazebo. You needed to make a point to go there for a picnic with your friends before you left.

Once you passed the gazebo, your eyes scanned around the ranch as best as you could while you tried to keep up with Namjoon. It was quite a bit harder than it looked, actually. Normally, you were really good at multitasking -- but not when it came to riding a horse, I guess. You found that if you looked around too quickly or looked away for too long, you felt like you were going to fall off. Namjoon was under enough stress at the moment, you didn't want to --

"Whoa!" you cried, noticing that Namjoon had suddenly come to a stop.

Frida slowed immediately, and if she was a car, her tires would have skidded to a halt.

"What --" you began breathlessly, your hands white-knuckle gripping the reins.

But then you saw the reason why Namjoon had stopped.

A huge tree had fallen, and while most of it had landed in an empty part of the meadow, the very top had just barely caught a portion of the fence. But even 'just barely' was enough to completely destroy several of the posts.

"Shit," Namjoon muttered as he swung down from his saddle.

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you followed him, sliding off of Frida. But you knew probably the worst thing you could do right now was match his energy. Even though you wanted to express your dismay, you swallowed down your anxiety and said, "We can fix this."

"Yeah, with what money?" Namjoon replied with a sardonic chuckle.

"We can --"

"There is no we," he interrupted, his voice nothing short of annoyed and distressed. "This is my ranch, my problem. You're just a guest here. You'll be gone in a few days, so just -- just stop trying to help, okay? I don't need it."

Obviously, his words hurt. But your emotions weren't the most important here. You knew that if your livelihood was on the verge of collapse, you would lash out at anyone trying to help, too. Wasn't that just human nature?

So, instead of raising your voice and insisting on staying, you simply walked over to him. You put a gentle hand on his arm, and you said, "I'm sorry."

And then you turned to leave without another word.

After riding Frida back to the stable and hanging her saddle back up, you trudged back into the house -- to do what? You hadn't thought that far yet.

Thankfully, as soon as you walked through the door, your choice was made for you. Rachel had just descended the stairs, presumably to go into the dining room for breakfast, but the second she saw you, her forehead wrinkled.

"Hey," she greeted, reaching out toward you. "Everything okay?"

You let out a deep sigh and walked into her embrace.

"Oh no, what's wrong?" Rachel asked as she wrapped her arms around you and patted your back comfortingly.

You took in a breath to start explaining the situation to her... but you found you could only let out yet another deep sigh.

"All right, come on," Rachel murmured, grasping your shoulder and moving to lead you into the cozy sitting room. She sat you down on the loveseat across from the fireplace, taking the spot next to you and grasping your hands. "What's going on?"

For some reason, the first thing that came out of your mouth was, "Am I crazy?"

"What do you mean?"

"I met this guy, like, two days ago," you explained. "He didn't ask for my help. Am I crazy for trying?"

When Rachel's confused (and concerned) expression didn't change, you continued.

"There was a storm last night, right? And it knocked over a huge tree, and it got some of the fencing. Obviously, I told him we can fix it and figure something out because -- of course we can. But he got upset and snapped at me because I'm just a guest here, and this really isn't my problem to worry about. And... Yeah, I know he's right. Objectively, I know he's right. But I can't help it. I want to fix it for him."

Rachel squeezed your hands and, after a few thoughtful moments, said, "No, of course you're not crazy. You've always been this way. You're a helper, and I don't think you've ever met a problem you didn't want to tackle head-on."

"But why am I so intent on helping him?"

"...You've seen him, right?"

A soft chuckle escaped your lips. "Well, yes, but you know what I mean."

"I do know what you mean," Rachel assured you. "But I don't think you're the problem here. Or, at least, you're not the only problem."

You quirked an eyebrow at your friend and said, "Explain."

"It kind of seems like Namjoon might have trouble accepting help. I mean, the guy has let this place flounder for how long? He's been the only one working here for how long? Instead of just, oh, I don't know -- reaching out to the previous owner? His friends? His family? Anyone?"

"...You have a point."

"So, yeah, maybe you're being a little pushy -- that's a big maybe because you're perfect. But he's also being a little stubborn. Letting his pride get in the way."

You couldn't lie: you'd been guilty of that a few times in your life, too. You couldn't blame him one bit for wanting to do things without any help.

But no matter how you looked at it, he needed help with this ranch. Even if it wasn't yours.

Of course, you wished it would be yours. You were here, after all, and you were more than willing.

"...So, what should I do? I don't want to push anymore than I have, especially since he seemed like he didn't really want to see me right now."

Rachel's head jerked back, and she frowned deeply at you. "That's not the Y/N I know and love," she said. "Worried about if someone -- a man -- wants to see you? Who cares about what he wants?! He needs your help, and you're going to give it to him. He may be stubborn, but something tells me he's got nothing on you."

Her words brought tears to your eyes, and you couldn't stop yourself from sliding your hands out of her grasp so you could pull her into a hug.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice just slightly tight with emotion. "What would I do without you guys?"

"Eh, you'd be fine," Rachel replied, though she squeezed you tightly.

You pulled back then, moving your hands to her shoulders and shaking your head. "No, I don't think that's true at all."

It took you almost no time at all to pull yourself together and head right back to the front door. Rachel's pep talk and hugs had not only comforted you, but they had renewed your sense of purpose -- as cheesy as that sounds.

You almost jumped as soon as you stepped onto the porch because Namjoon had just come to a stop on Diego at the stable. The timing couldn't have been more perfect, honestly.

"Namjoon," you called, repeating the scene from earlier this morning by jogging out to meet up with him.

He didn't answer you, but you hadn't expected him to. You had just had an uplifting heart-to-heart with one of your best friends, but you were pretty sure he hadn't.

"Just hear me out," you pleaded, a bit breathless once you reached him. "Please. ...Actually, no. I'm not requesting or asking for permission. You're going to hear me out."

Your words had the intended effect, and Namjoon stopped taking Diego's bridle off. His eyebrows knit together, and he turned to look at you as if you'd gone off the deep end.

And, to tell the truth, maybe you had.

"You need help," you began, stepping close to him and reaching out to lay a hand on his arm.

God, his arm was as hard as a rock.

"Yes, you are strong and smart and more than capable. But even the strongest, smartest, most capable person in the world couldn't run this place by themselves forever. Not without help. And I understand that it's hard to ask for and accept help -- trust me, I get it! I'm stubborn, too! But what happens if you tell me not to help you? What happens if you turn me down?"

You gazed at him expectantly, eyebrows raised as you let your question sink in.

(And in the back of your mind, you were freaking out that he hadn't shook your hand off his arm.)

After a few fraught minutes, Namjoon let out a soft sigh. "...I know," he admitted, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since you called his name. "I just..."

When he didn't finish his thought, you stepped an inch or two closer. "You just what?" you pressed.

"I just can't stop asking why. Why you want to help me so much."

"I told you --"

"No, besides all that. What you said yesterday makes sense, but... I don't know. I just feel like there's something else."

...Well, he wasn't wrong. And if he was going to pluck up the courage to accept your help, then you would pluck up the courage to tell him why you wanted to.

"There is something else," you admitted. "Everything I said yesterday was the truth. I am a problem-solver by nature, and I suppose I always will be. But... I also just want to help you. I want to spend time with you. I like being around you and learning things from you. I like how the smell of pine will always make me think of you. I want to help you because I hope it will make you smile, and your dimples just might be the cutest thing I've ever seen."

You weren't surprised that Namjoon shifted his gaze as you spoke, but you were surprised when you noticed his cheeks flushing with a tinge of pink.

Did that mean...?

"I don't want to make things awkward," you continued, wanting to see how he would respond to that. "But --"

"You won't," he interrupted softly.

A smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned over to catch his eye. "I won't what?"

Namjoon grinned in embarrassment, and you almost squealed when you saw his dimples appear.

"You won't make things awkward," he clarified, just barely meeting your eye.

"Hmm, I don't know, they seem kind of awkward right now," you teased. "You're barely looking at me."

"Stop," he chuckled.

But then he took a step closer to you. He lifted his gaze to meet yours, and your faces were just inches away from each other.

For a split second, you thought maybe he was going to kiss you.

But then he said, "My dimples are cute?"

"Very," you replied, your voice soft and smiling. "Dimples are my Kryptonite, and at this moment, I can't think of anyone else who has cuter dimples than you."

"Probably because I'm standing right in front of you," he murmured.

"Good," you declared. "I've decided that's where I like you best."

Namjoon blushed again, and you had to fight the urge to request a rideshare to the nearest town to buy a journal just so you could write about how you made Namjoon blush twice in the span of five minutes.

"So, you'll let me help you?" you prodded as you stealthily caught his fingers in yours.

"Yes, of course," he answered without hesitation. "I just -- What are we going to do?"

"Oh, don't worry, I already have an idea. Have you ever seen Schitt's Creek?"

"...Excuse me?"

"There's an episode --"

"Ah, it's a TV show."

"Where they have a party in a barn, and I think we should do that, but we'll make it a fundraiser. Invite everyone in town, everyone you've ever known here."

Not for the first time today, Namjoon's forehead wrinkled, and you could tell he was about to turn you down -- or at least express his skepticism.

"You've lived here since you were in school, right?" you asked.

"Longer," he answered. "Born and raised."

"You're telling me you don't think that people who have known you for your entire life wouldn't want to help out your ranch?"

"I didn't say that!"

"But you were going to!"

Namjoon pursed his lips... but he didn't refute you.

"Just trust me on this, okay?" you assured him, squeezing his fingers. "I know we just met a couple of days ago and we barely know each other... but just trust me."

Your heart began to pound as Namjoon scanned your face intently, taking in every single inch. And then his brow furrowed, and he murmured, "Maybe I'm crazy, but... I do."

The fact that both of you were wondering about your sanity brought a grin to your face, and you said, "If you're crazy, then so am I."

A soft laugh escaped Namjoon's lips, but then he did something so awful yet so breathtakingly wonderful. He stepped up to you, too close for you to see those dimples you adored so much, and slid his arms around your waist, enfolding you in a hug.

If the price of having to only imagine his dimpled smile was being in his embrace? You'd gladly pay it.

Part 7

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts au #namjoon #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fluff #namjoon au #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop fluff #kpop au #namjoon x you

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cecedownbad · 2 years ago

Text

Hold On

Summary: A missing child's case resurfaced so many memories you wished to keep buried. Sure enough, seeking comfort from the heavy feelings came by as a form of a person. [Spencer Reid X Fem!Reader] Part 2.

Warning: Child abduction, death of a child, angst, no Y/N, made up last name: Cyrus, made up case, light fluff, hurt/ comfort, not too romance-y but alluding to it, not proof read, I don't think the mystery/crime aspect is good but let me hear thoughts guys. Something extra in tags, read after the story.

Word Count: 4.1k

Part 1

I'm so sorry this took so long, my exams, mental health, projects, assignments allll just rolled in the past months, and I've been doing everything to stay on top of writing. It's rushed towards the end but with all that's going on I hope it's okay. If anyone is up for part 3, I'm all for it .

Enjoy

"Those who cannot remember the past, are condemned to repeat it."

-George Santayana

'Okay, let's see, Conrad Miller, 16 years old, went missing on June 12th, 2007. Last seen by the local church with one of the volunteers, she was questioned once but was never linked as she had a solid alibi, her name was Grace Cyrus.' Tara paused. 'So she took Conrad, no she definitely didn't just take him, poor kid is definitely not okay.'

'Right now Stephen is our priority, the anniversary of Steven's disappearance is in 4 days, so what does she want with him now?' You pace in the room, spinning a pen you grabbed in your hand. 'I think that's something only you can answer, what happened 4 days prior to Steven's disappearance?' Tara pondered, she sat down, looking at you, intent on finding answers. '4 days prior…that was the day my dad— Daniel had come to visit, they, Grace and him got into a fight and Stevie, Steven tried to "protect" Daniel in his own way, he thought Mom was going to hurt him…'

Was it then that this all weighed down on you? Words long lost had started pouring through the cracks of memories locked away. You were never in that station in that moment, no, now you were back there.

'Stevie, get back here! We can't stop them!'

'No! No let go! I don't want Dad to go, Mom's going to send him away!'

'Steven!'

No matter how hard you tried, he slipped from your tensed grasp, landing right between two enraged adults.

Pacing the floor helped gather your thoughts, a little better.

'What was the very last thing she said to you when you left?'

The thought of how it all ended passed through your minds, each time much like a bullet to the brain but you push it all down, now wasn't the right time for you. 'everything okay there?' Tara asked you, it's only been a few minutes since you and Tara confronted the idea that Grace might have done more than anyone could have put together.

'Yeah just a lot going on in my head, I think I need a breather.'

'Hold that thought, JJ and Luke are back with Daniel,'

Your hand now wrapped around the empty coffee mug, a dad you haven't spoken to for the last two decades, what would you have to say? or better yet, what would he say to you? This isn't an official reunion, it's an interrogation and who knows what will spill out of your mouth if you see the very first man in your life that disappointed you, taught you that having a person in your life was enough to make you fall apart.

'JJ and I will go in first, you sit tight.' Tara patted your shoulder giving it a good squeeze before heading out the conference room.

It was soon after that Rossi, Reid and Emily came back in, all three harnessing disappointment with their stride. 'Hey, what happened?'

'Well, Rosa was not in her home, we searched the house and by the looks of it, she hardly came back there.' Emily sat down with her legs crossed. 'but, her room had keepsakes, maybe from the time you lived with her?'

'What did she have?'

'She had pictures, some old folded drawings, and the weirdest one, an old juice box.' as Emily finished, you sat up from your chair, 'an old juice box? Do you remember what flavour?'

'I think it was Apple? Why? Does it have something to do with Steven?'

'…'

'Cyrus?'

'That, uh, it's nothing, I think sentimental feelings do surface no matter what kind of person you are.' You began fidgeting with your sleeves, your mind now slowly began recalling events that transpired long ago. 'Is there something else? It looks like you aren't sure about something.' Rossi eyed your movements, he knew something was keeping you. 'My mother, she'd never show any sign that she felt remorse, not even as far as I could remember.'

'Okay Reid, stay with her, I'm going to check in with JJ and the rest. Rossi? Do you mind?' soon after, Rossi and Emily exited the room, leaving you and Spencer in the conference room. 'Could you tell me what kind of person your mother is?' Spencer sat down right before you, urging you to take a seat right next to him and you did.

'She was an uptight woman, she loved to be in control of her life that meant being in control of mine too, it's why I left. She loved being seen.'

'Being seen? What do you mean?'

'She was always a respected figure no matter where she went, be it at work or in the neighborhood, she pushed for that at home too. When Steven had disappeared, I would always remember how she would tell me he was in a better place, and that if I do anything to disobey her or question her authority, I would be punished.' your head hung as you remembered more, 'I would study, day and night, that was the only life I knew, if my grades dropped by a mark, she'd lock me in my room, made sure I only had books on my desk.'

'Did Daniel ever drop by after what happened to Steven?' Spencer asked gently, 'No, I never saw him after that, I thought he finally got sick of mom and left, but I see now that wasn't the case.'

'Okay—'

'You know the one thing I can't seem to remember though?' you looked up at Spencer, his eyebrows now furrowed in question. 'My mother would always say how beautiful I am, and…and that I look just like her, her very own reflection but, Spencer, I can't…I can't remember her face.' your voice sounded shattered at what came out of it. You felt the tears fall, but you couldn't turn away or hide them, Spencer saw just how much this hurts you.

'You are your own person, no one can ever take that from you, no matter what, you are you.' He held your hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of your palm, that gave you a sign of comfort and you smiled at him. 'Alright, let's get back to the case.' quickly wiping away your tears and pasting on a smile, which you flash at Spencer, he in turn regained a more unmoving figure. 'When you said Rosa knew that Steven would never come back, what did you mean?'

'I was only a kid but to me it felt like she already knew that Steven had maybe...and all I could remember was a frown anytime I even remotely related to Steven.' You return with an answer. It was then the phone on the table went off.

'What is it Garcia?'

'So I dug into Daniel a bit more, and you aren't going to like this, so he was actually never in Bakersfield until a week ago, before that he was working as a cab driver in Nevada. He was in Nevada for a long time, but he touched base sometime in 2007, in the month of June. Looks like he tried several times to contact his ex wife but she never entertained any of it. What is concerning is that he was reported of stalking a young boy, said he mistook the boy for a boy he knew and he meant no harm but he was fired from his workplace and when was that? A little before coming over to Bakersfield.' Once Garcia had informed both of you, it was then JJ, Emily and Luke walked back in.

'What did the boy look like?' Spencer asked, 'I sent his picture to your phone.'

'Thank you Garcia.' You picked up your cell and scrolled through to find the image.

'No problemo.'

Upon quick inspection, you could tell at a glance the young boy and Steven shared a few similarities, nothing too obvious except hair colour and facial structure, age is the more obvious factor.

JJ walked in, arms crossed, she sighed but began asking what Garcia checked in for, 'Looks like Daniel was fired from his work place prior to coming to Bakersfield a week before Stephen's abduction.' You informed the three.

'If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's a trigger for him.' Emily began, 'Yeah, I agree.' and Luke followed suit.

'So he not only gets rejected by his ex-wife, but fired from his work place for stalking a boy that looks like his son, then he goes and kidnaps a boy that Rosa seemingly dotes on? Something doesn't add up.' JJ looked on with confusion. 'How did it go with him?' you asked finally.

'Said he had something vital for the case but he would only discuss it with you.' Emily sat down, her voice already etching with exhaustion. 'He's hiding something and my gut is saying it can't be good.'

'I'll go talk to him.' You were close to leaving the room, but Emily had halted your motions.

'Wait,'

'Yeah?'

'Reid will go with you, Tara might want to step out.' You gave a quick nod to Emily's order.

Every step to the interrogation room, you could hear the pained voices of yours, more precisely, from when you were a child. A young girl, alone in a room with nothing but her thoughts, you swallowed hard as you stood by the entrance of the viewing room. When you entered, you let Spencer call Tara from the interrogation room to the viewing room. 'No matter what, don't give in to his requests, you need to break him down, and if you ever want to leave, you can.' Tara gave you a small nudge and she stayed back in the room.

This was it, you let Spencer lead you into the interrogation room, allowing him to get there before you creeped on behind.

'How many times do I need to tell you people? Can't you bring my daug—you, your—'

'Let me be very clear, you have something vital for this case and I'm willing to hear you out, but say or do anything and you will be escorted out of the door by agents, understood?' the firm voice you let out hid every sorry cry that was wailing in you, having not seen your father for 20 years was a shock but not something that should be seen. 'Look at you, what it's been 15, 20 years, oh my beautiful little angel, I missed you.' honey coated words slipped from his mouth and every cell in you twisted in anger and contempt, 'Mr. Carter, the case.' Spencer stepped in this time.

'Always in such a hurry, well, since you brought my little girl. I know where the kid is being held.' He sat there with no remorse, no care that a child, close to the age of the son he lost years ago, was missing.

'Where might that be?'

'I can take you there, but I'll only go if she goes with me.'

After so long, he cares or at least that's what he's showing but you knew what he was playing at, he thought he could get away light just because his flesh and blood was in the justice system, what a sorry bastard.

'I think we're done here.' Spencer had got up from his chair but you stayed seated, deal or not you wanted to break the man in front of you and that was what was nailing you down to your chair. 'Mr. Carter, what good will it do if I went with you? Was it not enough that you came in here demanding to see your daughter about a case I know damn well you don't care about?' you pressed, choice of words were clearly targeted but your composure remained cool. 'What do you mean, you know what happened to Stevi—'

'Your son that you never bothered to report missing? I don't believe you have a right to bring that up, Sir.'

'Now listen here—'

'In the time Rosa had left you behind, you did nothing but fail to bring yourself together, I have a question for you, what were you doing on June 12th, 2007? Why did you come back to Bakersfield prior to that date?' you swiped through the tablet that Tara handed to you, it contained everything Garcia had found including some case files. 'I don't know why you're asking me that, don't you have the life of a boy to save?' He avoided it with such harshness, you only wanted to pry further but somehow it felt like you knew the answer, but the words never fell into place.

'Answer the question Daniel.' Spencer sat back down now jabbing at him as well. 'I just had someone to meet, is that really so important?'

'Why did you need to meet them? Did you coming back here have anything to do with Rosa Cyrus, your ex-wife?' Your slowly tapped at the desk, it was a timed beat. 'I did visit her once but that—'

'Were you aware that a teenager was reported missing around the same time you arrived here? His name was Conrad Miller, he was 16 years old.'

'W-what? I-I don't know anything about that.'

'Really? Because it says in the case files that Rosa was the last person to have seen Conrad, but you knew that didn't you?' He flinched at the response, at this point he wore a sign that screamed suspicious.

It was then that Daniel remained silent, you believed that any word that came out of him at that point would dig his grave deeper.

You stepped out of the room and walked into the room behind the mirror. 'Now he won't speak,' Rossi now stood there with his arms in his pocket.

'We need to find Rosa and Stephen soon, the man is hiding something and Rosa is the key to finding out why.' Rossi took the words right out of your mouth, looks you both knew what he was playing at.

'I think I can help with that, how much can you guys bet on a gut feeling?' You asked the three of them, weary of their answer, 'At this point? I'll take it.' Rossi let out, the two soon followed. 'Rosa will most likely be at the house we used to live in, which is not in this area, I'm hoping that she's keeping Stephen safe,'

'Safe? How come?' Tara asked you, 'Daniel here, came a week prior to Stephen's abduction, not only did he lose his job before coming here, he needed to have a reason to come here,' you deduce.

'His reason being Rosa? But wouldn't that not trigger Rosa?' Looks like you still needed to elaborate your theory, so you continued. 'It did, Rosa having heard that Daniel came here must have caused her protective instinct to kick in, call me crazy, but I think Rosa is keeping Stephen away from Daniel.' you finally let out a sigh, your palms clammed from sweat but if you were right, the little boy you came here for was safe.

'A mother's protective instinct, I'm guessing that something happened 20 years ago that she didn't agree on, which caused her to completely reject this guy, I'll have Garcia send the address of her prior location.' Rossi curtly exited the room, Tara followed along.

Spencer stood before you in silence, you didn't register any movement from him because all your focus was on the man, sitting on the other side of that glass.

'You can go on ahead, Reid, I need to talk to him.'

'But I can't let you go in alone...'

You huffed, your eyes did what it could but meet his but looking away won't make what you want go away, 'Given the chance, I might punch the daylights out of him—'

'More of a reason for me to stay.'

Spencer interrupted, you returned with a sharp look in your eyes before you relaxed, 'Let me finish, I would want to give him a piece of my mind but I need to know, I just, he's the only one that has got to know something about Steven, maybe I can finally put him to rest.'

It was selfish, that's what you called it, asking for just one more clue when you couldn't do anything before. Maybe now that helpless little girl all those years ago, can see her brother off. 'I need to do this, alone...'

'...'

You stood there, waiting for something, a sound from him in response, anything at all. 'I'll wait here, being short of another agent will not slow down the rest of the team.' He'd finished but his response ticked you, it poked at the idea of a child being monitored by their parents.

'I don't need you watching my every move, Reid.'

'I'm just following orders.'

'Following orders? Do I look like a child to you? Do I need a leash around my neck too? I can handle him, he's one man!' Your voice raised, and you stared up at your fellow colleague with a ray of contempt.

'A man you can't stand being around for long, you sounded just fine in there earlier to anyone that watched, but do you want to know what I saw? I saw that you were holding back, hard enough your hands curled at his answers, your feet apart was enough for me to know that you would have given Emily a reason for you to be dismissed from the case.' He'd stated what was right, but it wasn't right to you, not right now, you don't know when it would be. 'I'll wait here, you can go in alone.'

Your feet put you in place for a good moment, his words tore right through you. He was right, somewhere in your clouded judgement, you understood he was right, but just because you understood doesn't mean you accepted it.

With a second left to pass, you turned from Spencer. All in silence, it was accepted that you had a job to uphold, no matter the personal toll.

-------------------------------

The dial ups in the station, voices of police officers, movement all around you had become void. Nothing, that's what you heard when you left the interrogation room, you couldn't even hear one Agent calling out to you when you had left. Something gathered, something rotten had formed in your stomach. Your body felt hot, your head on a swivel.

You felt the acid burn at your throat, the half conscious part of you managed to drag your feet to a bathroom stall for you to expel the choux pastry you ingested.

Standing before the mirror now, you washed your mouth, feeling the remnants of the expelled food at your throat.

Nothing felt right to you, not right then, not right now. Having no mind to lose any more time, Reid waited in the conference room as you begrudgingly walked yourself back into it. You said nothing.

You dialed in Emily immediately, hoping she hadn't reached the house yet. 'What have you got for me Cyrus?'

'I spoke to Daniel.'

'What did he say?'

'He'd been sending frequent messages and calling my mother, they met once, 2007. There was an argument and Conrad had gotten in-between the two of them, it didn't end well.' you informed her, almost mechanically.

'What did he say about Steven?' JJ chimed in.

'Steven was, he said he was never meant to be hurt and Rosa in the mess of things, covered up for him. He told me where...I know where his body is.' Your voice strained, as it got to harsher details.

Nothing came out though, you tried filling in the rest of the details but your voice was overtaken. A pleading look carried over to Spencer and he took over. 'He said that you have to ask where he's sleeping, Rosa's delusion right at this moment is that Steven would come back.'

'Okay, we'll get back to you as soon as we're done here.' The line cut. If you'd carried a boulder on your shoulders, the weight of it might be the same as your conscience. All that was left was you see a family reunited and you get the closure you've been searching for.

------------------------------

The team was back, so was the little boy, he was safe. The Turner family could now go home with their son safe and sound in their grasp.

'Nothing beats seeing that.' you stood, satisfied in a way, the others agreed in unison to your words.

'Cyrus, I need to have a word with you.' Emily called you to a secluded corner of the station, but you had no fear built in you, in fact you felt rather empty, exhausted enough to be emotionally drained. 'We found Steven...' she said quietly.

'Where was he?' you met her in the eyes, having nothing left to tie you down. 'Remains were found in the wall of a small bedroom, it looked like he was initially buried but moved there later.' Every word had struck you, the smaller bedroom was your shared one, no doubt. 'Was he, uh, covered?' a crack sounded in your voice.

It took Emily a moment before answering, 'He was...'

The last bit of remorse. You'd promised yourself for 20 years that he was found. Part of you wanted him to be alive, maybe he ran off and just found a better life or he was on the streets, alive at least. But you knew how far-fetched that sounded, hope was the one thing you were aware that could end you. '...Thank you, can I, um, I want to be alone.'

'Of course, take all the time you need, listen, once this is over I need to speak with you, but only when you're ready, okay?' She patted the side of your shoulders, adhering to your request, she left you alone.

You let out a wavered breath, trying to breathe in and out to calm yourself. What you needed now was to mourn, you knew that but having a hard cry at this moment would slow down everyone.

Not long after, Rosa and Daniel had gotten arrested. You couldn't catch a glimpse at her face, or more accurately, you refused to see the face you'd forgotten. That didn't bother you that much, as a mother she never cared to look out for you, there wasn't any good reason to remain adherent to the details.

Bakersfield PD would have no more reason to have you stay, for now at least but before you could leave it all behind, Steven deserved a proper burial.

The Funeral was small, no relatives, just few friends from school and the BAU were attending, with Chief Marks as well to pay respects.

You stood over the coffin, looking at how small it was, how it all came to an end, all in silence. Quietly you watched as the coffin was buried, soil tossed over it but before it was over, you had to have one last goodbye.

'I did what I promised, took you long enough to come back from playing, huh? You must be tired, rest well, Stevie.' The Carnation held in your hand had been placed on the coffin, a mark of innocence now put to rest. Once it was all over, you stood, not waiting or expecting anything but just, letting the weight gradually let go of you. This was what you needed yet, it didn't feel enough, something remained in you.

Footsteps were heard behind you, and you took a peak at the intruder before lifting the corners of your mouth to him. 'He was a handful you know, always wanted my attention no matter what, saying that one day he'd make it to the moon just so he could get me some space rock.' Spencer said nothing to your bouts of reminiscence, 'He told me once, "I'm going to be no.1, so watch me!" I thought he was being silly, Dad left right after and we were alone, it was us against the world.' It all came back, then you knew what you hadn't let go, knew what it was that made you feel utterly at loss.

'Hey, Spencer, you don't have to do this, but, um, I...' You wanted to ask just for a bit, that little comfort that you so desperately pushed away.

Without another word, he lightly turned to face you. Your mind was too caught up on other memories that when you felt his arms wrap around you, you didn't think for that second. All it took was this to let it all go, no longer in silence but in wailing agony.

He didn't need another word, he simply knew. It was like some crazed superpower of his but it's like he's always known.

He couldn't let go.

Tagging:

@treehouse-mouse

#once again Im so sorry about the late update on the fic #the ending was a bit rushed I'm sorry about that but i hope it's okay #i actually wanted to add Matt to this but because of time constraints I couldn't so #here's a little of what happened afterwards for anyone reading tags #matt was away because his wife was expecting but he dropped by after the case #he got worried about you but you were more happy about him and his family #emily asked if you wanted to continue in the bau you said yes but she said you should take time off so you did #you and spencer have this insane slow burn office romance going on after #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #cm x you #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #self insert #kinda #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #penelope garcia #luke alvez #david rossi #jj

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mediocre-shark-tales · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 4 (Timeline slightly shifted for the storyline)

Masterlist

I tore through the woods, my heartbeat pounding in sync with the rhythm of my feet. The tension from the pack was overwhelming, flooding my senses with their growing frustration. I could feel their stress spike with every passing minute, but no one would tell me what was going on. Seriously? They knew me well enough by now. If something was wrong, my instincts would kick in, driving me to find the source of the problem—and end it.

I was certain it had to do with Bella—everything always came back to her. Don’t get me wrong, I love the girl, but damn, trouble follows her like a shadow. Then again, I guess that’s to be expected when your soulmate is a cold one, whether she realizes it or not.

Suddenly, I caught a whiff of something sickly sweet in the air. A cold one. Alone, no coven. And then, Bella’s scent hit me.

I veered sharply, sprinting toward them. The scents grew stronger with every step, leading me straight to a clearing. Bursting through the trees, I slowed to a halt, staying just out of sight. My heart dropped when I saw an unfamiliar cold one looming over Bella, teeth bared, ready to bite. Instinct took over—I let out a deep, snarling growl that echoed like a warning.

Bella turned, her eyes locking onto mine. Recognition flickered in her gaze—she’d seen me in wolf form before, but only a small glimpse when I chased Paul and Jake into the forest after she slapped paul. The vampire’s low whisper reached my ears as he backed away.

“No way in hell,” he muttered, just as I stepped in front of Bella, growling, my eyes never leaving his crimson ones. I stood tall, daring him to make a move. In the distance, the pack’s howls echoed through the trees—they had caught his scent, too, and they were closing in fast.

The moment he turned to flee, I launched after him. He darted through the forest, using every tree and branch as an obstacle to shake me, but I was faster. I lunged, catching his ankle and slamming him into the ground. He scrambled to his feet, ready for a fight.

He managed to land a few blows, but I shook them off before charging him full force, crashing his body into a nearby boulder. The impact stunned him, giving me just enough time. With a savage bite, I tore his head from his body.

The pack arrived just as I delivered the final blow. Sam shifted back, running to a nearby tree where he’d stashed clothes. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he quickly set the vampire’s remains ablaze. We all stood in silence, watching as the flames consumed him, turning him to nothing but ceramic-like ash.

Soon enough, the whole pack had shifted back to human form, now clothed and gathered around the smoldering ashes—everyone except me. I stayed in wolf form, partly because I didn’t have clothes stashed nearby, but mostly because I needed to check on Bella. I needed answers.

If the pack wasn’t going to tell me what was going on, I’d get the truth from the source herself.

I started to trot away, but Paul quickly caught up, nearly jogging to keep pace with me. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice tight with curiosity.

I opened the mindlink to him. Off to check on Bella.

He sighed, almost resigned. "Alright, I know I can't talk you out of that. But when you're done..." He hesitated for a moment, looking a little nervous as he scratched the back of his head. "Would you maybe want to go on another date?"

I stopped in my tracks, turning my head sharply to look at him. His goofy smile gave away his nerves, but I could see the hope in his eyes.

I stepped closer, pressing my head against his side in a gentle, affectionate nudge. ‘Yes, Paul. Of course, I’d love to.’

His hand slid through my fur in a loving gesture before I nodded and turned, racing off toward Bella’s house.

When I arrived at Bella's house, I paused, sniffing the air to gauge who was inside. Bella’s scent was there, along with Edward’s. I focused my thoughts, pushing them outward, hoping to catch Edward’s attention. His ability to read minds never worked on me when I blocked him out, much like I did with the pack. It had taken days of practice, but now it was second nature. Opening my mind was more of a struggle than shutting it off.

I heard movement inside before Bella and Edward stepped out to meet me. Bella’s eyes met mine, a glint of recognition sparking in her expression.

“Is that you, Y/N?” she asked. I nodded, relieved that she recognized me. I turned my gaze to Edward, pushing my question toward him. ‘What’s going on?’ “The pack hasn’t told you yet?” Edward asked, tilting his head slightly. I shook mine in response.

“What?” Bella looked between us, confusion clouding her features. “The pack hasn’t told her about Victoria,” Edward explained, his voice calm yet serious.

Bella’s eyes widened in shock, clearly as confused as I felt. Edward sighed and turned back to me. “I’m not sure why the pack hasn’t mentioned it, but I think it’s important that you know. You could be a valuable ally to us.”

He paused, then added, “Before I continue, I wanted to thank you—for trying to save Bella before and again today. You may not know this, but even before you were pulled into this supernatural world, my family and I had grown quite fond of you. Even though you… don’t exactly smell great to us anymore, you're still one of our most trusted allies. How you treated Alice that day sealed it for us.”

I gave a small wolfish grin and nodded. ‘You’re all important to Bella, and she’s important to me. Protecting her means protecting you, too. Legends or not, I trust you all with her safety.’

Edward translated my thoughts to Bella, who smiled softly. Then he turned back to me, his expression growing serious again.

“With that said, the problem we’re facing is Victoria. She’s a red-haired vampire, and last year, when Bella was attacked, we killed her mate. Now she’s out for revenge. She’s been stalking Bella for a while, but lately, she’s been quiet. We believe she’s planning something, and this time, she may have help.”

As Edward finished, I took a moment to absorb the weight of his words. A looming threat, and this time, it wasn’t just Bella who would be in danger. It was all of us.

‘Thank you for telling me. If anything changes, let me know right away. No one’s getting to Bella on my watch.’ Edward nodded in appreciation, offering a quiet, “Thank you.”

Before I could leave, Bella spoke up. “While you're here, Y/N, I wanted to invite you to my graduation party. I know you might have your own plans, but if you’re free, I’d love for you to join.”

I nodded, turning to Edward to translate for me. “She says she’s not planning her own party, so she’d love to attend yours,” Edward relayed with a small smile. Bella beamed. “Great! I’ll make sure you get a physical invite soon.”

With that settled, I gave my goodbyes, nodding to them both before heading back through the trees toward home.

After just a few minutes, I transformed back into my human form, quickly dressing and making my way to the open area where my house stood. As I approached the porch, I spotted Paul sitting there, his face lighting up into a wide smile when he saw me. I couldn’t help but return his grin as I jogged up to him. “Let me just grab some shoes and check on my dad, then we can take my truck if you’d like?”

With a nod, he replied, “I get to drive, then.” I giggled and tossed him my keys from inside the door. “As always, Paul.” As he turned to start the truck, I headed inside to find my shoes.

Passing through the living room, I noticed Sue lounging on the couch, absorbed in one of her cheesy rom-coms. The delicious aroma of whatever she was cooking or baking wafted through the air, a comforting reminder of the dinner she was preparing for my father and herself. I walked up the ramp, which covered an old set of short stairs leading to the hallway at the back of the house.

Once in my room, I quickly found my sneakers and some socks. I slipped them on and glanced in the mirror to fix my hair. It had been cut short after shifting, but it still tangled and got messy. I brushed it out before heading off to find my father in his office.

As I entered my father's office, the familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the musty aroma of old books, wrapping me in a sense of comfort. He was hunched over his desk, deep in thought, scribbling notes for his latest project. The sight of him instantly warmed my heart. "Hey, Dad," I called softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up, his face breaking into a smile that reached his eyes. "There’s my favorite girl! How was your run? Did you catch any squirrels?" he teased, raising an eyebrow playfully.

I rolled my eyes, stepping into the room. "Very funny. You know I’m more graceful than that," I replied, crossing my arms with a mock pout. "But, um, I need to talk to you about something important."

His playful demeanor shifted, curiosity replacing it. "What’s on your mind, sweetheart?"

Taking a deep breath, I hesitated, my stomach knotting with anxiety. "I just found out about a rogue vampire lurking nearby. It seems to be causing trouble, and I… I don't want to take any chances." I locked my gaze on him, urgency creeping into my voice. "Dad, with everything you do as the tribe historian—protecting our legends and keeping track of our history—you’re important to us. I need you to stay safe."

His expression changed, concern etching itself into his features. "A rogue vampire? Why didn’t I hear about this sooner? Do you know who it is?"

"I don’t know yet, but the pack is on high alert," I replied, trying to steady my voice. "That’s why I’m asking you to stay inside more often. I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you, especially when you’re the one safeguarding our stories and our future."

He studied me for a moment, his eyes softening as he took in my worry. "I appreciate you looking out for me, and I understand your concern. But you know I can’t ignore the responsibility of preserving our history, especially with new threats emerging."

"I get that, but please promise me you’ll be careful," I insisted, my heart racing. “I need you here, Dad. You’re not just a historian; you’re my father. We’re in this together, and I want you safe.”

He sighed, a small smile breaking through the seriousness. "You’re right, my little wolf. I’ll be more cautious. For you."

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, relief washing over me. "Thank you, Dad. That’s all I ask. I want us both to be here for whatever comes next."

"Always," he said, reaching out to pull me into a warm hug. "Now, how about we grab some dinner? I think Sue made enough to feed an army."

“Wish I could but Paul and I are going on a last second date night!" I said excitedly. My father smiled and bid me a goodbye as I left the house.

Here’s a revised version of the scene to improve flow and clarity:

Out front, I hurried over and hopped into the truck. Paul grumbled, realizing too late that he'd missed the chance to open the door for me. I couldn’t help but smile, leaning over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "So, what do you have planned for tonight?" I asked, as he quickly shifted the truck into reverse, backing up before spinning it around to head out.

We drove in comfortable silence until we reached the main road, the familiar trees of Forks passing by in a blur. Finally, Paul spoke up, his voice thoughtful. "I was thinking we could grab some dinner, maybe pick up a few things for a craft you like, and then head to the cliff by the beach. We could eat, relax, and work on something together."

A smile tugged at my lips. The memory of last week surfaced in my mind, when we had spent the afternoon cuddled up in my room. Paul had spotted my desk, cluttered with the remnants of old crafts—bracelets, paintings, and half-finished projects. It was a hobby I hadn’t indulged in for a while, a simple joy I kept to myself, creating little things for others or just for fun. He had been so curious, asking me about each piece, and we’d ended up talking about them all for hours.

The thought of him remembering that moment now filled me with warmth. "That sounds perfect," I said softly, glancing over at him. Paul always had a way of making things special, of knowing exactly what would bring me peace.

It didn’t take long for us to arrive at the crafting store in town. Before I even had a chance to unbuckle, Paul was already shutting off the truck and rushing to my side. I couldn’t help but laugh as he hurried to open the door for me, offering his hand to help me out. "Such a gentleman," I teased, squeezing his hand as he closed the door and locked the truck.

Grinning, I led him inside, my fingers intertwined with his. As soon as we stepped through the door, the soft, familiar scent of craft supplies enveloped me—the earthy smell of wooden beads, the subtle tang of leather strips, and the faint sweetness of paints and glue. I looked around, taking it all in. The colors, textures, and materials surrounded us, sparking memories of afternoons spent lost in creativity.

With every breath, I could feel a sense of ease and comfort washing over me, the stress and tension from the day melting away. This was my sanctuary, and having Paul here with me made it even better.

We spent the next few minutes browsing the aisles, picking out supplies to make matching bracelets. I also grabbed a few extra things for bracelets I wanted to make for some friends. As we headed to the register, I made sure to separate my extra items from the supplies we picked out for our date. But just as I started to do that, Paul stopped me, gently pushing everything back together.

"Hey, I’m paying for my stuff too, Lahote," I said, narrowing my eyes playfully.

Paul just smirked, stepping in front of me and blocking the register with his broad frame. "Yeah, no," he muttered, ignoring my protests as he quickly paid for everything before I had a chance to stop him.

I stared at him, surprised, as he turned around, holding the bag full of supplies with a smug grin. I let out a dramatic sigh, rolling my eyes as I reached to grab the bag, but he pulled it away at the last second.

“Nope," he said, shaking his head with a teasing smile. "If I can’t treat you to fancy dinners like I want, the least you can do is let me pay for everything and carry your things."

I shook my head, exasperated but smiling. “You are not paying for everything, Paul. I’m covering dinner next, and that’s final.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. "You can try," he said with a smirk, "but I won’t let you. No matter what."

Once again, Paul hurried to open the door for me, helping me in before shutting it with a playful smirk. He then opened the back door to place our craft supplies behind me before hopping into the driver’s seat and heading to a cozy burger joint. Of course, he wouldn’t let me pay for the meal, no matter how hard I tried.

Finally, we arrived at the cliff. Paul backed the truck up so we could sit on the bed while crafting, eating, and enjoying the sunset. Before Paul could make it to my side, I jumped out of the truck and made a quick grab for the bags. "Hey!" Paul called, his voice laced with surprise as he sped over, trying to catch up.

I giggled, shutting the door behind me and taking off in a playful sprint, the bags in my hands. "Too slow!" I teased, glancing back to see him grinning as he chased after me, the sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

It didn’t take long for him to catch up, his strong arms wrapping around me as he lifted me off my feet effortlessly, laughing. I squealed, my feet kicking in the air as I tried to wriggle free.

“Gotcha!” he teased, his laughter mixing with mine as he spun me around for a moment before setting me back down, still holding me close.

I pouted playfully. “Not fair! You have way too much of an advantage.”

Paul grinned, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “What can I say? I’m a man on a mission." He gently grabbed the bags from my hands. "Now, let’s get to our crafts before the sun sets."

I nodded, and we walked back to the truck, Paul quickly taking the bags from me again with a smirk. We sat down on the tailgate, the soft breeze carrying the scent of the ocean up from the cliffs. Paul began to set up our makeshift picnic, laying out the burgers and fries, while I organized the supplies for our matching bracelets.

The simplicity of the moment felt perfect—the calm of the ocean, the warmth of the setting sun, and the easy silence between us as we got everything ready. I glanced over at Paul, who was focused on arranging our meal, and a smile tugged at my lips.

"You're really going all out for this date, huh?" I teased, threading a leather strip through one of the beads.

He looked up, his eyes twinkling. "Only the best for you."

We started eating, the warm burgers and crispy fries the perfect complement to the cool breeze coming off the ocean. The sky was painted with a breathtaking array of colors—fiery oranges blending into soft pinks and purples, the sun slowly sinking behind the horizon. We sat quietly for a while, enjoying the view and the peacefulness of the moment.

“This is perfect,” I murmured between bites, glancing over at Paul. He nodded in agreement, his mouth full of fries, giving me a lopsided grin.

Once we finished eating, I pulled the craft supplies toward us, sorting through the leather strips and beads. "Ready to get started?" I asked, pulling out two small wolf charms—one for each of our bracelets.

Paul raised an eyebrow, already looking a bit unsure. "I dunno, I’m not exactly a bracelet-making expert," he admitted, scratching the back of his head.

I laughed, shaking my head. "It’s not that hard. I’ll walk you through it." I handed him a strip of leather and a few beads, trying not to laugh at the overly serious expression he was wearing. "First, you thread the beads onto the leather like this," I said, demonstrating with my own bracelet.

He copied me, but it quickly became clear that Paul’s hands weren’t made for delicate work. His fingers fumbled as he tried to thread a bead onto the strip, and after a few failed attempts, he dropped one of the beads into his lap with a frustrated groan.

I couldn’t help but giggle. "You're supposed to be a tough guy, and you're losing to a bead?"

He shot me a mock glare, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. "Hey, these things are tiny! My hands weren’t built for this kind of precision."

"Here, let me help." I slid closer, taking his hand in mine and guiding the leather strip through the bead. "See? Easy. You just have to be patient."

He watched me carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Okay, okay, I think I got it." He tried again, this time with a little more success. "Maybe," he added, half-laughing.

As we worked, the wolf charms jingled softly in our hands, adding a little extra significance to the bracelets. Despite Paul’s clumsy attempts, he was putting his heart into it, and that made it even more special. I glanced over at him as he struggled to tie the final knot.

"How’s it coming?" I asked, smiling.

"Uh... it’s... definitely a bracelet," he said, holding up his finished piece, which was slightly lopsided and uneven, but unmistakably heartfelt.

I burst out laughing. "It's perfect," I said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Just like you."

Paul grinned, a little sheepish, and we settled back to watch the last of the sunset, our matching wolf bracelets now tied securely on our wrists.

#x reader #alpha beta omega #the cullens #the twilight saga #twilight #edward cullen #paul lahote #twilight saga #jacob black

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ourtearsofrain · 1 year ago

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Paper Rings (D.R.W/S.F.K)

Summary: When Danny wants to propose to Sam, he turns to his brothers for help, wanting the evening to be perfect.

Pairings: Danny Wagner x Sam Kiszka

Genre: fluff, almost hurt/comfort, other than that no clue, way too long to be drabble but there’s no smut or angst or anything

Word Count: 6.5 k

Warnings: language? But what’s new with them, anxiety from worrying about how the proposal will go.

A/N: I would highly recommend reading Save a Horse and Ride a Cowboy as well as their previous fics, as this is a continuation of their stories within this Universe.

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4:38 pm

Those fucking bastards. Never on time a goddamn day in their lives. Danny sits in the living room of his and Sam’s apartment, his heart hammering, fingers twisting together in his lap and leg bouncing as the anxious knot in his stomach tightens as the minutes tick by. They were supposed to get here 38 fucking minutes ago. Where the fuck are they?

He checks his phone. Nothing. A minute later he checks again. Nothing. Fuck. After what feels like an eternity, a loud knock at his door yanks him from his frustrations, and he all but runs across the room to answer it. Jake and Josh stand at the center of the group, caught up in a heated, but hopefully lighthearted argument, with their partners sharing knowing exasperated looks over the twins’ heads.

Danny’s too frustrated to even care about possibly interrupting whatever argument they were having, cutting them off with a sharp, “You’re late.” He steps to the side as the group walks in, the twins talking over each other with various excuses as their boyfriends simply apologize and express that they tried to get them out of the house on time. “It’s whatever, I guess. At least you’re here now.” Danny sighs as he turns, walking away from them towards the living room and hoping they will follow. They do, and each pair takes a seat on the various chairs and couches occupying the space as Danny paces nervously across the room.

Austin is the first one to point out the nervous energy radiating from his friend, speaking over the noise of Jake and Josh trying to finish their argument from before. “Daniel, you alright? What’s goin’ on? And where’s Sam?” The twins promptly end their side argument as they also take in the state of their friend as well as the lack of their brother, causing their eyebrows to crease in unison.

“Yeah, why’d you ask us to come over? And why isn’t Sam here.” Josh questions.

Danny pauses his movements, coming to a stop in front of the other boys. His hands twist and stretch the hair tie around his wrist, needing to find some outlet for his anxiety. “He’s with Ronnie, she wouldn’t tell me what excuse she used to get him there, but I won’t question it since its working.”

It’s now Jake’s turn to question Danny. “Ok, cut to the chase. What did you need to talk to us about without Sam being present? You’re starting to make me worry.”

“I-” Danny starts, his nerves cutting him off and causing him to take a deep breath before continuing. “I need your guys’ help.”

Josh gasps dramatically, his hand flying to his heart in surprise. “I knew it!”

Danny feels like he’s been punched in the gut, his anxieties growing louder and louder in his head. If Josh figured it out so fast, Sammy could have too. Shit what if he knows and this was all for nothing.

Luckily for him, Josh continues, never missing the opportunity to make a shitty joke that often left the rest of them rolling their eyes. “You got him pregnant, didn’t you? What did I tell you two crazy kids about wrapping it before tapping it.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment before continuing, “Are you guys keeping it?” Josh is too focused on Danny (and too proud of his joke) to see Jake launching a pillow at him from the opposite end of the couch until it hits him hard on the side of his head.

“What the fuck man??” He yells as Austin wordlessly takes the pillow from him to prevent any retaliation.

“Could you be serious for one fucking second, Joshua? I don’t know about you, but I would love to hear what Danny has to say.”

Josh’s head drops slightly, now recognizing this may not be the time or place for his jokes depending on the conversation at hand. “You’re right, Jake. I’m sorry Danny.”

Danny removes his hand from where it had been placed on his temple in an attempt to slowly massage the stress and tension from his head. “It’s fine. Anyways, I need your help.” All four boys sit in tense silence as they wait for the other shoe to drop, each of them curious and worried about what had Danny so worked up like this.

“I’m going to propose to Sam.” The room is silent for a few seconds as they process what Danny had just said. Eventually, Josh shoots out of his seat, jumping up and down as he whoops in celebration.

“THAT’S FUCKING FANTASTIC OH MY GOD FINALLY!” He tackles the taller man in a massive hug, almost tipping the pair over as Danny stumbles to regain his balance before looking over to Jake to see him slowly standing from the couch with a wide grin on his face. When Josh finally let’s go of Danny, it’s Jake’s turn to embrace the other man, still enthusiastic but not enough to almost send them to the floor as Josh had.

“I’m so fucking happy for you, Danny. Couldn’t ask for a better man to take our annoying kid brother off our hands. I thought we were gonna be stuck with him forever.”

Danny lets out a deep breath as he laughs, beyond relieved at the reactions he recieved from the twins. After them, Austin and Sebastian take their turns congratulating him, each word of affirmation lifting a small weight off Danny’s shoulders until the anxiety he had previously felt is almost fully gone.

“So, what do you need our help with, hun?” Sebastian questions, voicing what the others had been thinking.

“Ok so, I want to propose to him at Bradley’s, in the spot we had our first kiss. But I want to be alone with him when I do it, but I don’t want him to suspect anything leading up to that.” Danny sighs, the frustrations formerly plaguing his mind resurfacing as he attempts to explain what little semblance of a “plan” he had. “I don’t know, that’s all I got. Do you guys have any ideas of how I could pull that off?”

A broad grin breaks out on Sebastian’s face, having already put together an entire evening for him and Sam in mere seconds in his head. “Oh, I got the perfect idea, kid.”

One week later

“Alright people, settle the fuck down y’all!” Sebastian shouts over the many loud side conversations occurring between all the drag performers as they wait for their monthly meeting to begin. They do as he asks, wrapping up their various conversations and turning their attention to Sebastian.

“Thank you. Imma keep this short and sweet and to the point, now. As y’all know, our usual club we perform at is undergoing renovations, so next month’s show is gonna be at Bradley’s Honkey Tonk.” A few excited whispers pass through the crowd, the performers knowing that they always got the most tips when they had shows there. “Our next, and last, order of business is the theme. Now the votes are in from y’all, and the theme with the most votes was Money, Money, Money. Now, I’ve already called that ABBA song but when y’all are ready to claim yours, put your name and song down in the group chat so I can start organizin’ the set.”

He looks at the small crowd, eyeing them to see if he could sense any unspoken queries. “If y’all aint got any questions, y’all’re free to leave.” Many chairs skid across the floor as they pull their phones out, already typing out the songs they wanted in the group chat and excitedly discussing group numbers and outfits with each other as each small group slowly made their way towards the exit.

Josh elbows Sam in the side in his haste to claim his song, frantically typing his message into the chat and hitting send with a satisfied grin, seeing that no one else had taken his song choice yet. He slips his phone back into his pocket before turning towards Sam. “Ready to go?”

His question snaps Sam out of his thoughts. “Oh- uh actually I wanted to talk to Sebastian about my song really quick. Don’t wait up, I’m meeting Danny down the street for lunch so I can just walk there.”

“Alright, have fun.” Josh says with a smile, turning and making his way towards the door with the rest of the crowd.

Sam approaches Sebastian, quietly waiting as he begins scribbling down who had taken what song so far in his notebook. He finishes, letting out a deep sigh before finally looking up. “Oh- hey, kid! Didn’t see ya there. What’s up?”

“I uh-” He starts, nerves getting the best of him as he looks down, his fingers picking at his cuticles as he gathers his courage. “I need help. Picking a song and… and with something else.”

A look of concern passes over Sebastian’s face, not used to seeing the usually confident Sam so sheepish. “Of course, I gotchu Sam. What’s up?”

“I- I want to propose to Danny. After the show, considering it’s where we had our first kiss. I just, I don’t really know how to do it. And I want to do a song that sort of hints at it, but not so much so that he knows it’s happening before I actually do it. And my brothers can’t know, I don’t want them to accidentally spoil the surprise.” He looks at Sebastian hopefully, feeling vulnerable and anxious as he asks this of him. “Do you think… do you think you can help me?”

Sebastian’s face splits open in a wide smile as he makes his way towards Sam, pulling him into a tight hug before he responds. “Of course, I got the perfect idea, kid.”

Three weeks later, Danny finds himself back at Bradley’s Honkey Tonk, seated next to Jake and Austin as they wait for the show to start. Jake’s voice across the bar table snaps him out of his anxious daze, and Danny looks over to see a concerned look painted across Jake’s features. “Hey man, you alright? You look a little pale.”

Danny takes a deep breath, having to remind himself to breathe as his nerves send him spiraling. He nods slightly before reaching for his glass of water and taking a large gulp of it. “Yeah, just nervous.”

He brings his hand to the pocket of his black jeans, checking to make sure the box holding Sam’s ring was still there for the 15th time that night. The knots in his stomach slightly loosen when he feels the outline of the box safe and snug within the fabric. As much as Danny was worrying about Sam’s reaction, he knew deep down he would love the ring; the second he had seen it, he knew it was so perfectly fitting for Sam. It had pansies engraved around the band, Sam’s favorite flower (and “coincidentally”, Danny’s star sign flower), the detailing dark black against the shine of the white gold.

“Everythin’ll work out just fine, Daniel. Your plan’s solid as it gets, and I’ll be damned if Sam says no to you." Austin brings his hand to Danny’s shoulder, offering him a small pat of encouragement before Jake joins in on relieving his worries.

“Exactly, we all know the plan, everything will work out. And I’ve known Sam for his entire life, I can’t think of one reason he would say no to you.” Danny offers a small smile at both boys, his nerves slowly dissipating from their words of encouragement. A distraction from any remaining nerves is provided when Sirena takes the small stage, mic in hand, and the crowd begins to quiet their side conversations in anticipation.

“How’re we feelin’ out there tonight?” She enthusiastically questions into the mic. She’s met with a loud roar of cheers and applause, as always joined by a few stray wolf whistles. She grins at the crowd’s obvious excitement, giving them a moment before continuing. “Fantastic! Just what I like to hear. I am your host tonight, Sirena de Lune, thank y’all for comin’ out tonight! And let’s make sure to give a big thank you to Bradley’s for hostin’ us tonight!”

The crowd erupts once more in appreciation of the owners allowing them to use their space for the night. “Now before we start our performances off for the night, I just have two things to say. First, consent is fucking sexy! If you don’t want extra attention or interaction from a performer, just throw your arms up into an ‘X’ and they’ll respect that. Consent also goes two ways, so make sure to not touch a performer without them initiatin’ that interaction. Lastly, tip your motherfuckin’ performers! Especially for tonight cause our theme is ‘Money, Money, Money’, so I better see some tips in the air for our amazing artists tonight! With that, I’ll introduce you to our first performer of the night, give it up for Elle Fernanda!”

The crowd nearly drowns out the upbeat intro of Material Girl with their applause as Josh sashays towards the stage. With his already unruly hair teased and donning bright pink lipstick, he looks like he walked straight out of the 80’s. Austin’s eyes linger for a moment on the short hem of his sequined, deep pink bodycon dress before they trail down his legs clad in fishnets, the stage lights catching on the small rhinestones scattered across the fabric, and down to his platform glittery heels, not once tripping over the various cords and steps in his journey towards the stage. His arms, neck, and ears are weighed down under as many pieces of flashy jewelry as he could fit, sending small beams of rainbow light around the room.

Jake snorts from his place beside him. “He looks like a fucking disco ball.” Both Danny and Austin smile at his comment, keeping their eyes on the performer as he teases the audience with the instrumental intro. He drops low down into a squat, grabbing more bedazzled bracelets from the stage floor before standing slowly, pushing his ass out towards the crowd. Finally, he turns around to face the audience as the first verse starts.

“Some boys kiss me,

Some boys hug me,

I think they’re ok.

If they don’t give me proper credit,

I just walk away.”

He makes his way off the stage, taking careful steps down so as not to trip in his heels. He motions along with the song, dropping low and bringing his hands together as if in prayer.

“They can beg and they can plead,

But they can’t see the light (that’s right).

‘Cause the boy with cold hard cash

Is always Mister Right.”

Working his way through the crowd slowly, he turns as he snatches tips from outreached hands, lip syncing in practiced perfection. He makes his way towards Austin, ignoring his tip and pulling him off his seat when he reaches him, placing his pink gloved hands on his hips as he still securely holds his fists full of bills.

“Some boys romance,

Some boys slow dance.”

Josh sways them both to the beat, once again teasing the crowd (and mostly Austin) by intentionally over-exaggerating his hip movements and pushing his ass out.

“That’s alright with me.

If they can’t raise my interest then I

Have to let them be.”

With that, Josh taps the tip of Austin’s nose with his finger, offering a wink before snatching his tip and turning to make his way back to the stage. Austin takes his seat again with a lovesick grin on his face as he watches his boyfriend weave through the crowd.

“Some boys try and some boys lie

But I don’t let them play.”

Josh reaches the stage, taking a large step onto it and turning to face the crowd as he raises his hands above his head.

“Only boys that save their pennies

Make my rainy day.”

He throws his tips in the air, and they flutter down around him as if they were droplets of rain. For the rest of the song, Josh continues spinning his way through the crowd, enthusiastically interacting with every patron he came upon whether they tipped him or not. As the song comes towards its end, he finds himself back on stage, gesturing dramatically as he uses his theater experience (and personal experience with Austin) to flash his biggest doe eyes flirtatiously at the crowd as a more “calm” part of the song plays.

“A material, a material, a material, a material world.”

His energetic energy is back as just quick as he had put it on to play up that part as he sways his body on stage, dropping down to a squat sideways from the crowd as the last few beats of the song play. He suddenly tips back, falling on his back dramatically and cocking one leg in the air as his arms sprawl around his head, perfectly timed with the last beat of the song.

The crowd erupts, their applause deafening with a few stray wolf whistles (most of which belonging to Jake and Austin) as Josh stands, blowing kisses to the crowd before exiting the stage, leaving the stagehands to quickly retrieve his fallen tips for him.

“Thank you, Elle, for that sensual performance.” Sirena says into the mic with a wink. She introduces the next few drag performers, one after the other, one of them being Shimmer performing to Rich Girl. Sparrow takes the stage after Shimmer’s tips have been collected, and all three boys seated at their table immediately know that it’s Sirena’s turn next. After a brief introduction, Sparrow jumps off stage as the intro to Sirena’s song starts.

Donning a different outfit than she had at the beginning of the show, Jake recognizes it instantly, not even needing to listen to the intro to know what performance she was about to give. Wearing simple converse, black overalls over a flowy light blue blouse, a light brown wavy wig with the front strands tied at the back of her head, and minimal makeup (for a drag queen, of course), she’s instantly recognizable as Donna from Mamma Mia!

Her face is set in serious frustration as Maryl Streep’s voice begins singing over the speakers.

“I work all night, I work all day

To pay the bills I have to pay.

Ain’t it sad?

And still there never seems to be a single penny left for me,

That’s too bad.”

Her eyes lock on Jake as she steps off stage, slowly singing her way through the song as she weaves through the crowd towards him.

“In my dreams I have a plan:

If I got me a wealthy man,”

Her left hand comes up to his face as she slowly trails the back of it down his left cheek. She turns, her back leaning against him and keeping her hand on the side of his face, applying the slightest amount of pressure to get him to turn his head towards her.

“I wouldn’t have to work at all, I’d fool around and have a ball…”

Just as Jake’s lips are about to brush her own, she slips the tip from his hand and struts away from him, continuing her play of frustration to fully embody the show. She continues this energy throughout the performance, heavily interacting with the crowd as she collects handfuls upon handfuls of tips. When the song ends, the stage lights cut out on beat, sending her into darkness before they flash on again and an appreciative smile replaces the scowl she had donned for the performance. Sparrow hands her the mic again as the crowd applauds her, impressed at how accurate her act had been.

Once again, she introduces the next few performers; names that Jake, Danny, and Austin had grown familiar with from their partners’ involvements with the drag community. Faebelle and Sparrow give an animated duo rendition of Partners in Crime until, at last, she breaks the sad news of the show’s imminent end.

“Now I hate to remind y’all, but the night must come to an end at one point or another. Please give a warm welcome to our last performer of the night, Callie Bungah!” A familiar pop-ey intro begins and Jake instantly knows that Sebastian had helped Sam pick his song. He struts up onto the stage with a bounce in his step as he waits for his cue to sing.

Danny’s first though is: oh my god he looks so cute, when he takes in the image of Sam, wearing a wavy blond wig with the front strands dyed blue, a white turtleneck tank top, a long, flowy, baby blue skirt, and light pink go go boots decorated with red hearts.

“The moon is high

Like your friends were the night that we first met.”

He points to Jake and then Josh, watching his performance from the standing group of kings and queens in the corner, drawing a laugh from both.

“Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet.

Now I’ve read all of the books beside your bed.”

Sam keeps his eyes on Danny for most of the performance, yet intentionally avoids the area around him until a little over a minute is left in the song. The song calms down just as he reaches him, all instruments except the piano and guitar playing softly in the background.

Suddenly he’s reaching into the pocket of his skirt, pulling out a small piece of paper in the shape of a ring, carefully folded to have an origami heart. He holds it out towards him, lip syncing to the words as Danny extends his hand with a smile, allowing Sam to slip it onto his right ring finger.

“I like shiny things, but I’d marry you with paper rings.

Uh huh, that’s right.”

Despite his cool outwards appearance and the grin gracing his features, Danny’s mind is racing in worry. Shit. Does Sam know? Did one of the twins tell him? They would never… would they? His internal panic is silenced momentarily by the lovestruck look on Sam’s face, his hand coming up to hold the side of the other man’s face, who brings his own hand up to rest on it.

“You’re the one I want.

I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this.

Uh huh.

Darling, you’re the one I want.”

He offers one last small smile to the other man before turning to make his way back to the stage, grabbing the last of the tips from outstretched hands on his way. As the song begins to fade out, he walks towards the group of other performers, weaving through them and “hiding” behind a couple as he lip syncs with his head next to theirs, before he exits the room through the performers door as the song finally fades to silence.

The quiet is short lived as the crowd quickly shows the last performance a round of applause for the night. Sirena takes the stage once more, calling up each performer in order, for one last show of support to each artist. The crowd cheers equally as loud for each, and each time one of their partners is brought up, Jake, Danny, and Austin let out shrill wolf whistles and whoops.

“Once again, thank y’all for comin’ out to support us tonight. Big thank you to our tech crew and to Bradley for lettin’ us hijack his bar for the night! We’ll see y’all at the next show!”

Jake, Danny, and Austin patiently wait for their partners to finish taking pictures with the other patrons before they make their way towards them, the group of performers slowly dispersing back to their green room to get undressed for the night. By the time they reach the stage, there’s only a few patrons left in the building as groups file out the door and into the night. Josh is the first to spot them from his spot on the edge of the stage as Sebastian and Sam are caught up in a quiet conversation to the side. “So, what’d you guys think?”

Austin wraps his arms around the other man’s waist, lifting him up and spinning him a few times before gently placing him back on his feet next to him. He stoops to plant a kiss to his lips before answering. “Fuckin’ amazing, darlin’. You are drop dead gorgeous, if I do say so myself.”

Josh laughs, lightly placing his hand on Austin’s chest as he looks up at him. “Mmmm you flatter me. But thank you, love.”

Drawn to the show Austin and Josh had just put on, Sebastian and Sam make their way towards the group smiling. “You trying to turn Sammy boy into a Swiftie, Seb?” Jake says with a grin.

“Maybe, maybe. He put on a damn good show though, don’t ya think, Danny?” At his name, Danny’s trance is broken, his eyes having been glued on Sam since his performance began and he turns to look between Sebastian and Sam.

“Mhm, you all did fantastic. As usual of course. Love the pockets, baby.” Sam’s face lights up at the observation, immediately sticking his hands into the pockets of his skirt and slightly turning back and forth to flare it as he looked down happily.

“Thank you, Daniel. I love them too. All skirts should have pockets in my opinion.”

“I’ll second that!” Sebastian interjects with a laugh. “Alright, I don’t know bout y’all but I’m dyin’ do get outta this wig so imma go change. Y’all comin’?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice; these heels are killing me.” Josh says as he tentatively transfers his weight between each foot.

Sam grimaces in agreement. “Same here.”

“We’ll be here waitin’ for y’all when you’re done.” Austin says as the other three file back towards the green room. The remaining boys make their way towards a table, taking their seats as they wait for their boyfriends. Both Austin and Jake notice Danny’s anxiety creeping up on him, his leg bouncing wildly under the table as he fiddled with the paper ring still on his finger. “You alright, Daniel?”

His gaze shoots up to Austin, finding a slightly concerned look on his face. “Mhm, yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just nervous. Do you guys… do you guys think he knows? That I’m going to propose. With the song he picked and all it’s just… too much of a coincidence.”

Jake shakes his head, offering a small smile to Danny. “I know Sam, and I know Seb. Sam definitely didn’t even know where to start for a song choice and Sebastian gave him an idea. That’s like, one of his favorite songs. I swear I hear it at least once a week.” He finishes with a laugh.

Danny lets out a deep breath, slightly relieved from the information. “Ok, yeah, ok. He doesn’t know, it’s just a coincidence that will be something to laugh at later.”

Once again, Jake pats his shoulder in encouragement. “Exactly. Just breathe, don’t think about it too much. And I mean, it’s Sam we’re talking about. He’s so in love with you, I think he’d say yes even if you passed out with the ring in your fingers. Its honestly gross sometimes.” This brings a smile to Danny’s face, easing the tension in his mind and body as he realizes what Jake said was probably true. They sit in silence for the rest of the wait, content with listening to the music playing quietly over the speakers.

Just as planned with Sebastian and Josh, Sam is the first to come back out. Now wearing loose black jeans, comfortable slip ons, and a sweater he definitely stole from Danny, he makes his way towards the group and his boyfriend stands to meet him. Sam drops his bag on the floor near his feet, immediately following their after-performance routine of Sam melting into Danny’s arms as the taller man gently rubs his back. Austin and Jake share a knowing look that goes unseen by both Sam and Danny, and Jake is the first to speak, clearing his throat before standing.

“Seb just texted me that he needs help with some bags so, I’m gonna go do that.” Austin follows suit, the pair already beginning to make their way towards the performer’s door.

“And imma go make sure Josh can still walk, those heels were tall as hell and I don’t need him stumblin’ around and possibly hurting himself.” Austin jokes.

“Probably for the best, see you guys later.” Sam mumbles, his face tucked into Danny’s neck. They leave the room without another word, both men shooting Danny a smile and thumbs up behind Sam’s back before disappearing in search of their boyfriends. The pair stand in comfortable silence for a few minutes before a song both were very familiar with begins playing. Sam removes his face from Danny’s skin, looking up at him with a small smile.

Danny returns it, cocking an eyebrow at him in question. “Wanna dance? It is our song after all.”

“Lead the way, Daniel. Just nothing too crazy, my feet sill hurt.”

Danny laughs, beginning to lead Sam towards an empty spot between tables, intentionally finding the place where they first danced together to the song so long before. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t sweep you off your feet this time.” Sam’s hands find their way to Danny’s back, beginning to slowly sway along to the song as his head comes to a rest on his shoulder. Danny brings his head down to rest against Sam’s as he closes his eyes and tries to breathe through his nerves.

“Any place is better,

Starting from zero, we got nothing to lose.

Maybe we’ll make something,

Me, myself, I got nothing to prove.”

They slowly dance through the song in silence, with Danny hoping the other man can’t feel his racing heartbeat from where their chests met.

“And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder.

And I, I, I had a feeling that I belonged.

I, I, I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone.

You got a fast car,

Is it fast enough, so you can fly away?

You still gotta make a decision,

Leave tonight, or live and die this way.”

The song comes to an end, and the pair momentarily break away from each other, just enough for Sam to look up at Danny while still being wrapped in his warm embrace. He looks around for a moment, taking in his surroundings before looking back up to see Danny watching him with so much love behind his eyes that it almost knocked the wind out of him. “Is this?” He starts. “Is this where we first danced to that song?”

Danny grins down at Sam, his heart soaring that he also remembered where exactly they first danced with each other. “Mhm, it is.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Wagner, I’d think you had something big planned.” Sam half-jokes.

“Maybe I do, Kiszka.” Sam cocks a questioning eyebrow at him, both men staring down the other to see who would speak first. Danny takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and muster up the courage to start, knowing that once he said that first word, the rest would come to him as easy as breathing. His hands trail from Sam’s back, down his arms, and finally stop with the others hands in his own as he takes one final deep breath.

“Sam…” he starts. “I think, no, I know that I’ve been in love with you since the eighth grade. And I… I’m gonna keep loving you for as long as I’m on this Earth, and even after that too.”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat as tears begin to well in his eyes. Oh my god, is he about to-? This can’t be happening.

Danny continues, tears beginning to brim in his own eyes at the sight of Sam hanging onto his every word. “You are my best friend and… and I couldn’t ask for a better person to share the rest of my life with.” Danny reaches for his pocket, his shaking hands somehow grasping the small box as he lowers to one knee. With Sam’s hands now free, they come up to cover his mouth in surprise, looking down at his boyfriend in adoration. Danny clicks the box open, holding it out as he finishes the question he had been wanting to ask Sam since they first got together. “So, Samuel Kiszka, will you do me the greatest honor by marrying me?”

While Danny had thought he had prepared himself for any possible answer or reaction, what he’s met with is somehow not one of them as Sam bursts out in laughter, his tears making streaks down his face as he sinks to his knees in front of Danny. He barely notices the look of extreme confusion painted across Danny’s face through his tears and laughter as he reaches for his own pocket, pulling out a small box and opening it to reveal a simple, yet gorgeous ring; a silver band with a singular stripe of black inlay around its center, a triangular cut diamond set into the middle. As the gears turn in Danny’s head, he joins Sam as they kneel together laughing through their tears.

Sam’s the first one to catch his breath enough to speak, bringing his hand not holding the ring up to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “And I thought I was gonna be the only one proposing tonight.” He laughs out. “I thought I was being so sly with the hint of Paper Rings.”

“I fucking knew there was something behind that! Jake tried to tell me otherwise that it was just a coincidence and that Sebastian helped you pick your song.”

“I mean Jake’s not half-wrong; Sebastian did help me, he was in on this.”

Danny’s jaw drops. “No fucking way, he was in on my plan too. Sneaky bastard.” He says with no real malice in his tone. They gaze at each other as their laughs die out, both shaking their heads at their friends’ role in both of their plans. “So, you haven’t answered me.” Danny says with a smile. “Will you marry me, Sammy?”

“Of fucking course, is that even a question?” Is all he gets out before tackling Danny, toppling them both backwards onto the floor in a bone crushing embrace. They stay this way for a few moments, letting their tears fall and dry on their cheeks before they both get back onto their knees, each placing a ring on the other’s finger. Sam admires his ring with a grin before his gaze rests on his fiancé once more. “My favorite, pansies.”

“I know.” Danny says with a matching grin before gently grabbing Sam’s chin and bringing his lips to his own. The kiss is slow and passionate, filled with all the unsaid words of how much the other meant to them. They break apart eventually, their foreheads resting against one another with their eyes closed as they take the moment in.

Sam is the first to notice the song had once again changed to something he recognized. He leans back, gazing at Danny with all the love he could muster into once single look.

“But I must admit it,

That I would marry you in an instant.

Damn your wife,

I’d be your mistress just to have you around.”

“You know, I almost thought you were gonna propose to me that night, when you sang it to me in the car.”

Danny laughs at his words. “Baby, we had been dating for three months at that point. I know we’re in a gay relationship, but we aren’t that stereotypical.”

He receives a lighthearted swat to his shoulder as Sam tries, and fails, to hide his smile. “I know, I know! But I mean, we’ve known each other since sixth grade and had already talked about how we’d been in love with each other for years. Like I said I almost thought you were gonna propose.”

Danny takes Sam’s hands in his own once more. “Well, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.”

Sam offers him gentle squeeze. “I’d wait for you forever, Danny.” Their tender moment is broken by a loud yell, their heads whipping towards the source to see Josh standing with the performer’s door cracked open as he yelled back at the others waiting silently around the corner.

“I THINK HE FUCKING SAID YES!” They all begin filing out, grins wide across their faces as Danny and Sam get to their feet.

“Yeah, think we could gather that ourselves, Josh.” Jake says in a sarcastic voice as he shakes his head at his brother. He aims his question at Sam, next. “You said yes, right?”

“We both did.” Danny says with a grin as he holds his left hand up for the others to see. Everyone but Sebastian’s eyes go wide as their jaws drop.

“You both proposed?!” Josh exclaims, rushing towards the pair to tackle them in a tight hug.

“We did, and it turns out, Sebastian was in on both of our plans and didn’t say jack shit.” Josh, Jake, and Austin turn on Sebastian who only holds his hands up in defense.

“Listen, y’all both told me not to tell no one so I didn’t. Worked out mighty fine in the end anyways.” While Jake pouts at Sebastian for not telling him, Josh rounds on Sam instead.

“You told Sebastian but not Jake or I???”

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t want you guys to accidentally spoil it.”

“You can make it up by making me best man at the wedding.”

This brings Jake’s attention back to Sam and Danny, his eyebrows furrowing. “Who the fuck said you get to be best man?”

Austin speaks up, having gotten good at diffusing twin banter over the course of his and Josh’s relationship. “Alright boys, that’s enough. I’m sure Daniel and Sam have a lot to plan before they even think about that so let’s just get back to bein’ happy for them, alright?” With their attention turned back to their engagement, each boy takes turn hugging Sam and Danny, congratulating them both. Jake is the last to hug Danny, squeezing him tight before patting his back.

“You’ve always been a brother to Josh and I, but now it’ll be legal. I’m so fucking happy for you, man.”

“Thank you, Jake.”

“I hate to break up this moment, but we better leave before they kick us out.” Sebastian half-jokes. The others voice their agreements, grabbing their bags as they slowly make their way towards the door.

“So, who’s taking whose last name?” Josh says as soon as the cool night air hits their skin. Danny and Sam exchange a look, not having had that conversation yet due to the interruption of the others.

“I don’t know, Daniel Kiszka has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it, Sammy?”

Sam intertwines his fingers with Danny’s, leaning into him as they walk. “Hmmmm, it does. But so does Samuel Wagner.”

“I guess y’all have another thing to figure out before you can even get to the question of best man.”

--------------------------------------------------------

Songs:

Material Girl- Madonna

Rich Girl- Gwen Stefani

Money, Money, Money- Meryl Streep, Julie Walters & Christine Baranski

Partners in Crime- Set It Off

Paper Rings- Taylor Swift

Fast Car- Luke Combs

Cleopatra- The Lumineers

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taglist: @gretnavannfleet @aioba1503-sdm

#fic #greta van fleet #greta van fleet fan fiction #gvf fic #greta van fluff #daniel gvf #sammy gvf #sanny gvf

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missvelvetsstuff · 2 years ago

Text

Just A Number

Bucky Barnes x Older Reader

Summary: Reader meets Bucky at a party and the attraction is more than either one of them wants to resist.

Since most stories are younger readers I felt like having a more mature reader could be a nice change of pace. Especially since I'm creeping up on senior discounts and want to believe Bucky could fall in love with someone like me.

I try to keep my readers description vague but, as always, she's female, tall and this one is obviously 40+

Note: I'm sorry this update took so long, life has been troublesome the last few weeks and I've had a hard time concentrating on writing. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 6

Warnings: swearing, angst

Sunday morning Y/N woke up refreshed but a bit frustrated from her dreams involving Bucky. She got up and showered before wandering into the kitchen for coffee.

Dawn was at the table reading the paper with her coffee and nodded to her sister as she walked in.

Y/N filled her favorite mug with coffee, took a section of the paper and sat at the table across from Dawn.

As always, they finished their coffee before either of them started talking and Dawn had a small smile on her face while she listened to her sister go on about her date.

Once Y/N had answered all of Dawn's questions about the nite before, they discussed what needed to be done for the day.

Y/N put a roast in the crock pot with some cut up potatoes and carrots for that evenings dinner.

Once the house was straightened up they went for lunch and grocery shopping before returning home where they sat down to catch up on their favorite show.

At 4:00 they heard keys in the front door and paused their show. Y/N stood up and turned around to see her firstborn, one of the few people she had to look up to.

He smiled and pulled her into a hug "Hey Mom."

Y/N pulled back to look at him and saw the bags under his eyes "Hi Michael. You look tired. Is everything ok?"

He grinned at her "Everything's fine. I've just been working a lot. Between the play and the club I don't have the energy for much else."

She pulled him into the living room and sat on the couch next to him. "I'll bet you haven't been eating either." She looked him in the eye.

He rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat "No, not like I should be."

She patted his face "Lucky for you there should be plenty for you to take some food home."

"Thanks, Mom. You know I- wait. Why do you look all smiley like that? You and Auntie been drinking all day?" He chuckled.

"HEY" Dawn shouted from the kitchen, and walked into the room. "I heard that young man and we've only had a glass of wine each."

He stood and kissed her on the cheek then nodded towards his mother "So what is she so happy about?"

Y/N scoffed teasingly "Maybe I'm just in a good mood. Can't I just be happy without some deeper meaning?"

Michael shook his head and looked at her sadly "Not since the snap."

Her smile fell and she excused herself to check on dinner

Dawn admonished him "Good work dumbass. You couldn't just enjoy her good mood and let her have it. You just have to question everything and if that's not bad enough you had to bring up the snap."

Michael looked at her confused "I wasn't trying to upset her but it's just weird for her to be so happy. So, what happened?"

"That's not my story to tell but I'm sure she'll share once your sister gets here."

Y/N was just standing in the kitchen, listening to them interact and trying to stop her tears, until the front door opened and a black bundle of fur burst into the room, making her crouch down right before it was in her lap kissing her all over her face

"Ok, ok, Luna! Calm down." She scratched the pit-mix puppies neck to calm her down some and smiled at her daughter

"Hey Jessie"

Jessie smiled back and quickly helped her up to hug her which got her puppy excited again

"Hi Mom. You alright? Why so happy, did you get some good news? What are you up to?" She teased.

Y/N feigned shock as she sat at the dinner table "Well I never! I'm just happy to see my babies and appreciating the closest thing I'll get to a grandchild anytime soon."

Jessie looked her mother over "No, that's not it." She looked to her brother "What did I miss?"

Michael shrugged "Auntie won't even spill." He looked at his mother with an emotionless face "Are you finally running off to join the circus like you've been threatening since we were kids?"

Dawn cackled "Cold! Not even close."

Michael and Jessie started throwing out every ridiculous possibility they could think of....

"Aliens are taking you away as their pet before they conquer the planet?"

"You're an android from the future and we're test subjects but you've been called back to save the galaxy?"

"No, wait, I know! You're Q and have to go run the country?"

Y/N giggled at their antics as she pet Luna on her lap.

"Stephen Spielberg discovered you in a coffee shop and you're going to be the next Meryl Streep."

"Omg, Joe Elliot finally responded to one of your fan letters and is whisking you off to tour the world with the band?"

"You met and are dating a superhero?"

Dawn coughed on her drink and Y/N gasped.

Jessie looked at her mother, noticing how wide her eyes were then looked at Dawn who looked like she was caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Michael looked at Jessie "Wait, what? Mom are you dating a superhero?"

Y/N cleared her throat "Actually, yes I am."

Michael shook his head "You didn't give in to uncle John, did you?"

Y/N shook her head "Eewww, not a chance. I would never call him a hero anyways, super soldier or not."

She looked at the clock on the wall "Dinner is about ready. Come set the table."

She sent Luna to lay on her pillow in the living room.

Jessie bounced next to her mother "So who is he? Is he cute? When can we meet him?"

Y/N laughed "Slow down little one. Let's get dinner on the table and I'll tell you everything."

Jessie kept talking, telling her mother about her week as they put everything on the table, sat and filled their plates.

Everyone was quiet as they started eating until Jessie couldn't hold it anymore. "Come on Mom. Tell us about your new boyfriend."

Her eyes grew as she looked at her mother and she whispered "It's not Captain America is it?"

Y/N giggled and patted Jessie's hand "I wouldn't say boyfriend but we are dating. It's not Captain America but it is his friend. James Barnes, he-"

Michael spat out "The Winter Soldier? Mom you're dating the goddamn Winter Soldier? Are you fucking kidding me? He's a killer."

Y/N took a deep breath before she spoke, deadly calm "Michael, no matter how old you are I will always be your mother and you will show me some respect."

He scoffed "You aren't showing yourself any respect by dating a killer like him. I read he's the one who killed JFK. How can you do this to us?"

Y/N bristled "Do this to you? Are you serious? What am I doing to you?"

She shook her head and continued before he could answer.

"I haven't even been on a date since we lost your father in the snap. I couldn't bring myself to even try to date or meet anyone and had almost accepted that my time with him was all the love I deserved in this life.

You guys keep telling me to go out and get a life but now I'm trying and you hate him before even meeting him."

She took a deep breath to calm herself "He was a killer and was brainwashed and tortured by HYDRA for decades but he's better now. I mean he still has nightmares but he's trying to help people now. The trigger words are gone, that's not him anymore."

Michael shook his head "What if you say or do something that triggers him or he has a nightmare and hurts you before he wakes up enough to realize? What if someone from his past shows up looking for revenge? You like this guy enough to risk your life? Our lives?"

He wiped under his eyes "No. No, Mom. I am not ok with this. It hasn't been that long since dad and now you want to date someone like him."

He quickly finished his drink and abruptly stood "I can't, I I just need some air" and strode out the door.

Y/N just sat there in shock, tears in her eyes. Michael hadn't acted like that since he was a teenager.

Jessie reached for her mothers hand "Don't worry, he'll walk it off and calm down. Besides, I'm excited for you so tell me everything."

Y/N looked at her sadly "It doesn't matter, obviously I can't keep seeing him if it upsets your brother so much. It was a nice idea but let's just drop it."

Jessie shook her head "No, Mom. Don't let Michael acting like a toddler stop you from being happy. You've been through so much and gave everything to us while ignoring your own needs."

She smiled "So does he treat you well? I bet he's old fashioned, huh? Opening doors and pulling out chairs."

Y/N tried to return the smile but couldn't keep it up and the tears overwhelmed her. "I'm sorry Jess, I can't do this."

She stood up "Just eat what you can and take home what you want. I'll get the dishes later."

She hugged her daughter and went to her bedroom.

Jessie ate some dinner then cleaned the kitchen while waiting for her brother to return. When he did she came at him.

"Where's Mom?" He looked at her.

Jessie didn't hold back "Are you fucking proud of yourself? Mom is finally happy and doing something for herself for the first time since Dad died and you have to shit all over her? She deserves to be happy too or do you expect her to spend her life working and mourning someone who has been gone for almost 7 years."

"But, Dad-"

She shook her head "No Michael, dad is dead. It sucks and it hurts and I miss him too but that's life. Mom isn't dead but you want her to act like it."

Michael scoffed "Don't be stupid, Jessica. I know she deserves to be happy but why does it have to be with him? With him she could end up dead too."

In her room, Y/N was getting fed up with the arguing so she got up to say something when she heard her sister step in.

"You two need to calm down, you know how your mother feels about yelling." She walked up to Michael and poked him in the chest "And you! You will knock this shit off and not judge someone before you even meet him. He's a good man with a past that wasn't his choice. He treats her well and is obviously smitten.

I won't let you take that away from her. After everything she's been through, everything she's done for you, she deserves to have someone who loves her."

Michael complained "I'm not saying she doesn't but why him? Why not one of the other millions of men in this city?"

Dawn shook her head "You should know better than most that we don't choose who we love. How is Dylan, by the way? Why didn't you bring him with you tonite?"

He looked at the floor "We don't choose who we love but we can choose not to pursue a relationship with someone who is questionable." He mumbled "Dylan had rehearsals tonite."

Dawn nodded, thinking "And didn't Dylan have a drug problem when you met him?"

Michael looked at her like she betrayed him "Yes, auntie you know he did but he's clean now, for 2 years. Besides, that's not the same as being a brainwashed assassin."

Dawn scolded him "Someone with an addiction can be very dangerous but you still gave him a chance. Right?"

"Well yeah but-"

She smacked him in the shoulder "No buts. You will give James a chance and support your mother's happiness. Just because you're 3 feet taller than me, don't think I can't, or won't, kick your dumb ass. Now take some food and go home, some of us have to work in the morning."

As Dawn went up the stairs to her room Jessie looked at Michael like she did when they were little and he got in trouble for teasing her, pure smug. She handed him a bag with leftovers.

He shook his head, kissed her on the top of the head and left the house he grew up in without saying another word. Worry about his mother and that man filling his mind.

Y/N took a hot bath and got ready for bed. When she checked the alarm on her phone she saw she had a text. Her heart sped up, it was Bucky

'Hey Doll, just thinking of you. I hope your dinner went well'

She smiled before her sons words popped back up in her mind and she held in a little sob like he could hear it somehow.

'It could have been better. My son is being difficult. He's an actor so tends to be a bit dramatic. He'll come around'

'You sure? I don't want to cause family drama'

She thought for a minute, weighing the pros and cons involved with dating James, that she had written down. Then told herself 'Fuck it' and crumpled the paper up.

'Positive. He's a grown up and can deal with it. I'm tired of being lonely.'

Bucky smiled at her words 'I know what you mean. Get some sleep and let me know when you have time this week.'

She smiled at the warmth in her chest from thinking of him.

'Yes sargent, g'nite'

Bucky growled, she was gonna make him crazy.

'Sweet dreams, sweetheart.'

@supraveng @cjand10 @440mxs-wife @kandis-mom @dtba-grey81

Chapter 7

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #angst with a happy ending #older reader #bucky barnes x female reader #james bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x f!reader

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