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deen-djarin · 4 hours ago

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Soft Reins — Day One

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: Groundskeeper/Rancher! Joel Miller x City Girl! Reader

Summary: Her family made her want to leave, Joel made her want to stay.

Tags: Age Gap (50s/20s), No Outbreak, Familial Tension, Mentions of infidelity, Snobby and judgy family

Word count: 3.6k

a/n: HELLOOOO okay so this is my second fic heheh and i’m hoping i can stick with it and actually finish it because its definitely a huge learning curve for me lol. i’ve had this idea brewing in my head for months and i’ve gotten to the point where i just gotta write it. tysm for my beta readers ily all and also ty for reading this!

Summer 2025

You're behind the wheel, cruising down a winding road framed by towering pine trees—a striking contrast to the usual backdrop of glass and steel skyscrapers. Ahead of you, a line of sleek, high-end cars snakes along the road, unmistakably belonging to your wealthy, highbrow extended family.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming isn’t the kind of place you'd expect to find people like them—it’s a little too middle-of-nowhere America. And yet, that’s exactly what draws them in.

Nestled in the valley is a ranch—but not your typical one. This is a luxury dude ranch, “Silver Spur Ranch” where the wealthy come to sample the Western lifestyle. Well, sort of. The real West usually doesn’t come with spa treatments and gourmet meals. Still, there are horses, rustic cabins, and sweeping mountain views which are pretty close enough for them.

“Noah would love this,” your mother sighed, gazing out at the sweeping valley.

Your neck stiffened at the mention of his name.

“Can you not bring him up, please, Mom?” you murmured, eyes locked on the winding road ahead.

“I can’t help it, hun. He became the son I never had,” she replied, throwing up her hands in mock surrender.

“Well, he’s not. And we’re not together anymore,” you said, sharper now. “So I’d really appreciate it if you could just... let it go.”

She fell silent—not in compliance, but in calculation. You knew her too well to believe otherwise. She was building her next line, rehearsing it in her head like a lawyer preparing closing arguments.

“I just don’t get it,” she finally said, her voice soft but edged. “You were with him for what, five years?” A beat passed before she pushed forward again, “Have your father and I not set a good example for you? Even your grandparents—fifty years, happy as ever! And you gave that good man up just because—”

“Cheating is not a just because reason, Mom,” you snapped, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles went white.

She waved her hand like she was swatting a fly. “Well, no, of course not. But Noah is a good man. He just made a... lapse in judgment.”

You laughed once, hollow and humorless. “A lapse in judgement? A lapse is forgetting an anniversary. Not sleeping with someone else. For months.”

Your mother looked away, lips pursed, like she couldn’t quite argue but still didn’t agree. The silence between you thickened, stretching across the cabin of the car and the valley beyond.

“I’m just saying, honey, a man like Noah—he’s hard to come by.”

You grimaced inwardly. Of course she’d say that. You still couldn’t quite wrap your head around your mother’s unwavering loyalty to him.

Sure, he was polished. He came from old money—more than your family ever had. He knew how to dress, how to charm your mother with just the right words at just the right moments. He wasn’t bad looking either. On paper, he was perfect.

But inside? He was hollow. And for the last stretch of your relationship, so were you.

The rot had been setting in for months, invisible at first, until it was all you could feel. Then came the final blow: you found out he had been cheating. Days before he proposed.

And still—he did it. With your entire family watching, he dropped to one knee, smiling like nothing was wrong. A last-ditch effort to lock you in before the truth could catch up to him.

But you said no.

And you walked away.

It hadn’t gone over well. There were whispers, long stares, your father refusing to speak to you for weeks. Your mother never stopped calling it a “mistake” you’d made in the heat of emotion.

But it wasn’t emotion. It was clarity. Maybe for the first time.

The trip was meant to celebrate your grandparents’ anniversary—fifty years together. A milestone that, given what you knew about how awful men could be, felt almost impossible to grasp.

The entire extended family would be there, and you could hardly wait to be cornered with questions about your recent breakup and failed engagement. For seven whole days. A real vacation.

To say the timing was less than ideal would be generous. You could’ve opted out—God knows you wanted to—but that would’ve only fueled the whispers. And despite everything, under different circumstances, you would have wanted to be there. You loved your grandparents. They were the rare ones in your family who didn’t judge, didn’t press. Maybe it was because, unlike their children and grandchildren, they hadn’t grown up with money. There was a softness to them that hadn’t been bred out by status or social games.

They were the reason you came. Not the charade. Just them.

The ranch finally came into view, peeking through the tall trees like something out of a movie. It had a rustic charm, but you could tell it had been carefully renovated—polished just enough to suit the tastes of its upscale clientele.

Your car slowed as you passed through the front gate and followed the long gravel driveway toward the main cabin. The second your tires came to a stop, you were already reaching for the door handle, eager to escape the tension that had been simmering in the car with your mother.

You stepped out and made a beeline for the trunk, popping it open and reaching for your suitcase. But just as your hand closed around the handle, another—larger—hand landed over it.

“I got this, sugar,” came a warm, slow drawl, thick with a Texas accent.

You froze.

He was close—close enough for you to catch the scent of sandalwood, sun, and flannel. You instinctively stepped back, your eyes scanning upward.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of man who looked like he actually belonged on a ranch. You caught a glimpse of his profile: strong nose, weathered skin, hair streaked with silver that matched the salt-and-pepper scruff along his jaw and mustache.

“Long drive?” his voice broke through your thoughts, low and easy.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. It’s, uh... pretty far from, well—everywhere,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

He didn’t laugh, but his eyes lingered on you for a beat—curious, unreadable. Then, without a word, he reached down and hoisted your bags, one in each hand like they weighed nothing.

“Welcome to Silver Spur,” he said with a small, polite smile.

And just like that, he turned and walked off, disappearing with your luggage before you could even think of a reply.

The main lounge buzzed with the energy of your entire family gathered together. The interior was stunning—tall ceilings draped in dark wood, a grand stone fireplace, and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a breathtaking view of the land. You stood by your cousin Amy, the one you were closest to growing up. You’d shared so many memories, but things had shifted a bit since she married and had a baby. You were still close, just not as much as before.

One of the staff passed around welcome drinks—icy cold lemonade. You accepted with a grateful smile.

“How are you holding up?” Amy asked, her voice full of concern. You sighed. “So far, so good. You?”

Amy leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Lily wouldn’t stop fussing the entire way here, and Justin was no help,” she murmured, glancing over at her husband, who was bouncing their three-year-old daughter on his lap. “He somehow always appears to be there when she’s calm, though.” Amy chuckled softly, and you followed suit, shaking your head.

A sound of glass clinking drew everyone's attention to the man standing on the small stage by the piano. He looked strikingly similar to the guy who’d taken your luggage earlier—maybe a bit younger. Next to him stood a stunning woman with dark skin and a warm, radiant smile.

“Howdy, y’all! Welcome to Silver Spurs Ranch!” he called out, his voice smooth and welcoming. “I’m Tommy, and this is my wife, Maria,” he gestured to the woman beside him, who waved her hand in greeting. “We’ll be your ranch hosts during your stay.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the man from earlier walking toward the stage and standing right next to it on the corner. You couldn’t tear your eyes away once you realized he was there.

“You like him too, huh?” Amy whispered, leaning closer.

“What are you talking about?” you whispered back, your voice a mix of surprise and mock offense.

Amy giggled, eyes twinkling. “What? You’re free now!” She gestured to her family with a smirk. “I, on the other hand…” She trailed off, pointing to her husband and daughter.

“You’re being ridiculous. We just got here,” you scolded playfully, rolling your eyes.

“Hey, he’s hot, so…” Amy teased.

You cut her off, whispering, “Amy, shut up.”

She laughed quietly. “Alright, alright!” she relented.

After a brief pause, as everyone focused on the ranch hosts listing activities for the stay, Amy leaned in again. “I didn’t know Silver Spurs Ranch came with a silver fox cowboy,” she whispered.

You bit back a laugh. “I hate you,” you muttered under your breath.

“That one over there is my brother, Joel,” Tommy said, pointing to the man standing a little off to the side. Joel. The name felt just right for him. He offered a small wave before slipping his hands back into his pockets, his gaze scanning the room.

“You’ll be seeing a lot of him,” Tommy continued, a proud smile on his face. “He takes care of the land and will be leading some of your excursion activities.”

You couldn’t help but watch Joel for a moment longer. There was something about him—steady, grounded.

Amy leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I gotta admit, he’s got that ‘I work with my hands’ kind of charm.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. “You mean he’s got the ‘I wake up at 5 a.m. to ride horses and shovel dirt’ look?”

Amy grinned. “Exactly.” She looked back at Joel, her gaze lingering for a moment too long. “He’s definitely got that whole ‘silent, mysterious cowboy’ thing going on.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t deny that there was something magnetic about him. Not in a typical ‘movie star’ way, but in a way that made you want to know more. Maybe it was the confidence that seemed to radiate from him without ever needing to say much.

At that moment, Joel turned his head and caught your eye. His gaze flickered toward you briefly, almost like he was assessing you. It wasn’t a stare, just a quiet acknowledgment, but it still sent a little pulse of awareness through you.

Amy caught it too, her smirk widening. “Uh-huh. I see that look. He noticed you.”

“What look?” you asked, feigning innocence. You turned back toward the stage as Tommy and Maria continued talking, but your mind kept wandering back to Joel.

“Don’t act coy. He definitely noticed you,” Amy teased. “You’re going to have fun here, I can tell.”

You glared playfully at her. “Just because I glanced at him doesn’t mean I’m about to go on a horseback ride into the sunset with him.”

Amy let out a short laugh. “Not yet, anyway.”

Maria's voice cut through the conversation, bringing everyone's attention back to the front. "Alright, everyone, feel free to explore the ranch, or just take in the view. We know it's a long journey to get here so your rooms is ready, and dinner will be served in an hour."

As the crowd began to move in different directions, you felt a strange mix of anticipation and curiosity swirling inside you. You were supposed to be here to relax, but for some reason, everything—especially Joel—seemed to be pulling you in.

Amy nudged you with her elbow again. "So... what's the plan? You gonna go for it or just pretend you're not interested?"

You sighed, trying to hide your grin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, sure," Amy teased, "keep telling yourself that."

Dinner was set like something out of a magazine. A long, weathered farm table stretched down the center of the dining hall, dressed in ivory linens, wildflowers, and flickering candles that made the roasted dishes gleam like still life paintings. Your grandparents sat proudly at the head, fingers intertwined, laughing like they hadn’t seen fifty years go by. The rest of the family filled the table in loud, familiar clusters, the wine flowing too easily, the conversations layered over one another.

You were somewhere in the middle, boxed in by a distant cousin on one side and a sea of aunts and uncles on the other. You kept your head down, halfheartedly pushing food around your plate, bracing for the inevitable.

It didn’t take long.

“So… no Noah this year?” Aunt Debby asked, tilting her head with feigned casualness.

“Nope,” you replied, stabbing a perfectly innocent carrot.

“I figured we’d see him again. Didn’t you two usually take trips like this together?” someone else chimed in. A cousin’s wife, maybe—you didn’t bother to look.

“Not anymore,” you hummed, your hand curling into a fist beneath the table.

“That’s a shame. I really thought we’d be getting a wedding invite this year,” Aunt Debby said, swirling her wine with theatrical sadness.

“Well, there won’t be one anytime soon.”

Uncle Rick joined in without looking up. “Still can’t believe you let that one go. Good job, good family, good-looking.”

“Not good at staying faithful,” you muttered.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Aunt Debby asked, all syrup and fake concern.

You didn’t think before the following words that came from your mouth, you’re fed up by all the judgement coated with faux sugar coated concerns, You looked up. “I said, he cheated. For months. Before he proposed.”

The table fell quiet. Someone clinked their fork against a plate, a few chairs shifted.

Aunt Margaret recovered first. “Well... relationships are complicated. Everyone makes mistakes. Your mother and I both—”

“I know,” you cut in, turning your gaze to your mom. “You’ve made that very clear.”

The silence was heavier this time.

You folded your napkin, set it on your plate, and stood. The scrape of your chair on the wooden floor sounded louder than it should have.

“I’m gonna get some air,” you murmured.

“Oh honey, don’t be dramatic—” your mother sighed.

“I’m not. I just need air,” you said, sharper now, and without waiting for a response, walked out into the night.

The door swung shut behind you with a quiet thud.

You slipped off into the dark, wandering past the edge of the cabins until you found a quiet spot beside what looked like the horse stables. You needed to be somewhere out of sight—far from the dining hall, far from your family. Because after all that, you needed a smoke. And if anyone in your family ever found out, it’d be a full-blown intervention before sunrise.

From your pocket, you pulled out a small tin, flipping it open with muscle memory and placing a cigarette between your lips. You were just about to flick your lighter when—

“You know smokin’ ain’t allowed on this property.”

You jumped so hard the cigarette nearly fell from your mouth. “Jesus—fuck!”

You turned and saw him. Joel. Standing half in shadow, half lit by moonlight, looking more amused than stern.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, chuckling.

You let out a breath, your hand over your heart. “Yeah, well, you did.”

He nodded toward the cigarette. “You still gonna light that?”

You hesitated. “Can I?”

Without answering, Joel reached out and gently took hold of your arm, guiding you farther back into the shadows—near a thick row of bushes. Your heart stuttered a bit from the contact, the feel of his large calloused hand against your soft skin, and you were suddenly glad it was too dark for him to see the way your face flushed.

“Cameras,” he murmured. “You’re safe here. Go on.”

“Thanks,” you exhaled, grateful, and finally lit the cigarette. You took a long drag, the smoke easing something tight in your chest.

The night wrapped around you, quiet and still, save for the soft hum of cicadas and the slow rhythm of your breath. Joel didn’t move far—he stayed just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching the horizon like he had nowhere else to be.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, gentle. “Saw you stompin’ out here like you were fixin’ to do some damage.”

You laughed under your breath. “Might’ve, if someone hadn’t stopped me.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at you in that steady way that invited you to keep going.

You sighed, watching the smoke curl upward. “They think I ruined my perfect life. That I threw it all away because I said no to a proposal.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, listening.

“He cheated on me,” you murmured. “For months. And then had the nerve to propose like nothing happened.”

Joel let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a real catch.”

You barked a laugh. “Yeah. All sunshine and rainbows, that one.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a steadiness to him—like he knew how to be still in a way most people didn’t.

After a moment, he shifted. “Listen, uh… it ain’t really my business, but—sounds to me like you dodged a bullet.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so too.”

Joel looked at you, earnest beneath all the roughness. “You did the right thing.”

You glanced over at him. “Thanks… Joel, right?” you asked as if his name hasn’t been echoing in your head eversince Tommy said them.

He smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah.”

“And I’m—” you said your name, almost shyly.

He repeated it back to you, the sound of it low and unhurried as it rolled off his tongue.

You gaze up at the sky, the stars shining much clearer here than in the city. It’s mesmerizing—you can’t remember the last time you saw more than two tiny dots scattered above.

Slowly, you sit down on the grass, and Joel lets out a soft chuckle. “You’re gonna ruin that pretty dress,” he teases.

You smile up at him. “I don’t really give a damn.”

He grins at that, then joins you, sitting down beside you.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” you murmur.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m actually obligated to keep an eye on troublesome guests.”

You turn to look at him. His serious face slowly breaks into a smirk, and you chuckle softly. “Asshole,” you murmur.

Taking another drag of your cigarette, you sigh. “Must be nice, living out here, huh?”

Joel nods, eyes still fixed on the stars. “Gets real quiet. Makes it easier to think.”

You glance down, voice soft. “I could use a little of that.”

He looks over at you, expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly: “Then stay a while.”

You smiled to yourself and kept your eyes on the stars. The silence between you and Joel was comfortable, but there was something simmering beneath it—something you weren’t sure you wanted to acknowledge just yet.

“The stars are beautiful out here,” you murmured.

Joel let out a quiet chuckle. “Bet you don’t see many of those back in the city, huh?”

You shook your head with a faint smile. “Kind of forgot how many there actually are.”

“They’ve always been there,” you said softly, more to yourself than him. “Just hard to see when the sky’s all polluted.”

Joel hummed low in his throat. “That sounds like a metaphor for a lotta things in life.”

You turned your head toward him, a light laugh escaping you. “You always been this wise?” He grinned, subtle and a little self-deprecating, eyes still on the sky. “Nah. Just old.”

That made you giggle, the sound easy and real, and something in Joel’s expression softened. Then, without a word, he pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you back before they send a search party.”

You hesitate, just for a second, then take his hand. His grip is solid and warm, and when he helps you up, he doesn’t let go right away.

You both stand there for a moment—closer than before, still caught in that soft, uncertain pull—before he clears his throat and lets his hand fall away.

“This way,” he murmurs, nodding toward the path.

You follow him into the quiet dark, heart beating a little louder than before.

Joel walked with you back toward the main cabin where the guest rooms were. You led him through the quiet hallways, the old wood creaking underfoot, until you stopped in front of your door.

“Well, uh… this is me,” you said, a little awkwardly, your hand hovering near the doorknob.

Joel nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Get some rest. Breakfast’s at seven,” he said, then added, almost hesitantly, “Me and Tommy are leading a horseback ride along the river tomorrow. If you feel like joining.” His eyes flicked from the floor up to yours, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost nervous.

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Alright then. See you tomorrow, city girl.” He started backing away, slow and casual, and you turned to open your door. “See you tomorrow,” you murmured.

Just as he turned the corner, you called out softly, “Joel?”

He stopped and looked back, quick like he’d been waiting for it.

“Thank you… for tonight,” you said, meaning it.

He nodded once, that same quiet smile still on his face. “Anytime, sugar.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, and you stood there for a moment longer, heart just a little too full.

a/n: thank you so much for reading guys <3 i know its a short one but i’m just laying out the vibes and tone of the series before we get to the good stuff on the upcoming chapters!! your feedback is greatly appreciated!! ily all

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller fic #softer reins fic #rancher joel miller #yeehaw #fuck aunt debby #fuck noah #ily joel

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mierins · 14 hours ago

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it's hot, and we rot in this oven // nanami x reader; chapter i

Welcome to the Night Parade.

x Masterlist x

next chapter >

Rating: M Word Count: 6.4k Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, blood, gore, JJK 0 Arc/Shibuya Arc focused Notes: Back at it again playing fast and loose with the lore so I can shoehorn in Wheel of Time References (your CT is literally just Balefire)

At 11 PM on December 24th, 2017, I finally reach Special-Grade potential after years of gruelling training, missions, cursed tools, and the internalization of uselessness.

By the time I’m 24, I’ve long accepted the indignity of being a lifelong Grade Three, with decent cursed energy reserves but scant little in the way of a cursed technique, though I consider myself lucky enough in other ways-- out of the five in my graduation class, by the time we’re six years out of school, there’s two of us still standing: Nitta Akari, and I. A Grade Three, and an auxiliary manager-- a far cry from the prodigies that populated the prior years of alumni at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

(Blessed be the meek, and all that, considering our ever-powerful upperclassmen don’t exactly have happy statistics on their side either, with one of them dead, one of them retired, and one of them evil.)

It begins like this: Geto Suguru descends upon Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, announcing his intention to declare war on all of Jujutsu society, and to unleash curses upon Shinjuku, the crucible of curses, and Kyoto, the cradle of Jujutsu.

The call goes out for all hands-- clan sorcerers, Jujutsu High Students, the Ainu shamans, retired exorcists coming back for one last battle, and even auxiliary managers-- a level of collaboration and muster unprecedented since the exorcism of Kamo Noritoshi back in the Meiji period.

We’re gearing up in one of the weapons rooms at Kyoto Jujutsu High, Akari-chan and I, and the air sits heavy with tension. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary, controlled mission-- patrols, exorcism of petty curses, support for stronger sorcerers-- it was all out, no-holds-barred war. What had Geto said as a parting phrase?

Let’s curse each other to our hearts’ content!

“Are you nervous?” she’d asked me on the train ride over.

Way too much so. I’d barely managed a nod, gripping onto my crossbow until my knuckles turn white.

A cursed tool pouch is located for me that can hold all my crossbow bolts-- I’d counted out a hundred of them (granted, I don’t think Geto literally means he’s unleashing a hundred curses, he probably had thousands, but still) painstakingly once, then again as I deposit them into the quiver, too nervous to do much else but ensure my weapons were in working order.

Akari-chan had left to make a phone call to her parents and little brother, and so I’m alone in the weapons room on bolt sixty-eight when a knock resounds from the doorframe.

“Come in,” I’d muttered, continuing to count under my breath and barely looking up-- and suddenly, polished shoes edge their way into in my periphery, attached to tan suit pants.

I look up, and my mouth goes a bit dry, and I lose complete count of where I was in my process.

Broad shoulders, fitted in a teal blue shirt, a harness holding his cursed weapon, bright hazel eyes behind a pair of tactical goggles and a jaw so sharp it could be used as a blade.

Hey, at least if I die tonight, I can die knowing I’ve seen a beautiful man.

“Are you looking for anything--” I realize I’m staring a bit long, and scramble to stand up, holding out my hand in introduction.

I track the motion of his eyebrows scrunching together in slight confusion-- “Nanami Kento,” he says. “We went to Jujutsu High together?”

Oh.

Well, I hadn’t seen Nanami Kento since he graduated and nearly immediately noped out of the sorcerer life into becoming some salaryman somewhere-- so the last recollection I have of him was as a lanky, dour upperclassman with a baby face and long, side swept bangs. Throughout the years, I’d heard through the grapevine that he came back, part-time, at least, though until now, our paths had yet to cross again.

No-nonsense, but dutiful, Nanami Kento, which made it nearly as surprising that he decided to pursue the civilian path, as when Geto decided to defect to become a curse user.

Two years my senior, he’d been out of Tokyo Jujutsu High by the time I was a sophomore, and it’s been nearly ten years since then as well.

I tell him as much-- “It’s been a long time, but I’m glad you have our backs here.”

I’m not sure if my sincerity lands or not-- he just nods quietly, taking up a post by another rack of cursed tools while I turn back to my bolts-- unsure which number I’m on, and debating whether or not I should just bite the proverbial bullet and start the count over.

“Seventy-one,” he says, watching me, arms crossed over his chest

“Hm?” I’d peeked up at him again-- and then realize within the split second after-- “Oh, thank you.”

Seventy two, seventy three, seventy four…

We are dispatched in units around Kyoto-- I managed to hug Akari-chan tightly before she’s sent off earlier in the day, with promises of going out for drinks afterwards (holding onto that oath as a lifeline, even knowing the absolute calamity that was about to fall down upon our heads)-- the auxiliary managers are being deployed to the borders of Kyoto’s main population centers to manage the evacuation and then maintain barriers, in hopes of decreasing the human toll of the burgeoning attack, which leaves me with Nanami-- a relief, considering Kyoto’s non-student vanguard consisted mostly of clan sorcerers, and I would have been less than enthused to deal with both a Zen’in and a wave of cursed spirits on the same day.

The waiting feels like the worst part, somehow-- the sun rapidly descending beyond the mountains, the streetlights flickering on one by one, the December chill biting at my cheeks.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask him-- he remained in the same blue dress shirt and slacks as earlier, seemingly impervious to the conditions. I seem to remember him saying something once, back in high school-- one of his grandparents being some kind of Scandinavian, hence the hair-- maybe also the resistance to winter weather?

He shrugs-- “The fighting will start soon anyways.”

Puffs of mist dissipate into the air as we speak.

How soon is soon? I wonder-- we keep at our patrol, coordinating locations through a small in-ear with a group of third year Kyoto students located three blocks away, and it makes me feel like someone waiting for their execution, with the way that time drags on and on, till every ticking second from his watch feels like something to flinch at.

But he’s right, and it doesn’t take long. True to form, just ahead of us, a shadowy puddle flickers, oozes, and from it comes a knobbly hand, followed by a grotesque, gaping mouth, then a segmented, buglike body the size of a small car.

I load up one of my arrows, aim, fire. With the hiss of a deflating balloon, it rears back its head before it explodes into a shower of viscous ichor. “Grade Four sighted, Kawaramachi-dori,” Nanami’s reporting over the earpiece.

More reports begin to buzz in right after.

And so, it begins.

I barely have the time go retrieve my bolt before another curse lumbers out of the shadows-- Nanami turns, strikes it once, twice-- hewing off its arm, then its head, and I load up my bolt again-- no use throwing away my weaponry right now, when I might have to worry about finding more later on.

“Grade Three, Kawaramachi-dori,” I say over my earpiece.

I get some garbled reply back that higher-grade curses were converging closer to the city center, and then the Zen’ins replied that they were coming onto the scene for backup-- I glance over at Nanami, seeming unfazed, and reply back that we would keep coordinating with the student groups for any assists.

At the perimeter, the fighting is a lot less intense-- to the credit of the auxiliary managers, most of the civilians have long since evacuated the city limits, so the only sounds in the streets of Kyoto were us, the curses, and the war between us. Explosions of cursed energy light up the night sky, along with the sound of shattering glass or the extraneous alarm, as the sorcerers fight back.

But the curses keep coming-- on and on, some slow, with ponderously heavy steps that I can feel beneath my boots like an earthquake, others being sly, quick on their feet. I keep my crossbow loaded as we continue our patrols-- and eventually, picking the bolts back up becomes more inefficient, more dangerous, than just leaving them behind with the swarm of curses that pour forth from the shadows like an infestation.

“Grade One incoming, southbound onto Kawaramachi,” someone manages to say over the earpiece, before their voice ends in a choked gasp of a breath leaving the body for good, and the line goes dead.

I am not naive enough to assume this is the first casualty of the night. I wonder how many we’ve suffered already, who weren’t able to throw out one last warning of stronger curses coming through.

Of course, in our line of duty, our destiny is to die.

Spiderlike, covered in eyes, and taller than the lamposts, it skitters down the street towards us.

I aim up, loosing a bolt at its carapace that bounces off its hard shell.

It draws closer, its pincers dripping in red-- blood, I realize. The blood of a compatriot-- perhaps the one who had called out a warning towards us.

“Fuck,” I mutter, fumbling for an additional bolt, an unsteadiness in my abdomen translating to a a shaking in my hands, and finding my store becoming close to being depleted.

I place a hand-sigil over the reload, trying to imbue the arrow with some of my cursed energy-- nock, aim, and fire as the curse finally gets close enough for Nanami to dive underneath it, hack at its legs, and its head bursts into the blue flame of cursed energy.

With a shriek, it’s exorcised, and Nanami turns around, looking surprisingly unruffled despite the Grade One we’d just faced down, but then a scream rings out, and he takes off running down a side street.

“Nanami!” I shouted, sprinting after him, still keeping my crossbow loaded just in case-- his broad frame holding steady in the distance ahead of me, the wrapped blunt cleaver strapped to his back once more.

We skirt around a building, and there’s an eyeless beast looming over the entire street, certainly the size of a department store, and I swallow down a hint of bile in my throat as I see the prone, headless figure lying just before it, in an expanding pool of crimson that shone with the near-iridescence of oil in the lamplight.

The Kyoto Jujutsu High uniform is all too obvious despite the grisly scene, and I turn to his classmates. Kids, really, no older than 16. Two separate cohorts’ worth, likely pushed together into this bottleneck by the curse. The girl in front of the gaggle stares at her classmate’s body with a trembling lip, and I think to myself, poor kid, as I herd them back.

“Out of the way,” I breathe, more out of breath from urgency than from the sprint, something roiling in my core from it all.

Nanami has loosened his tie, unsheathed his cleaver, and run at the beast, unfearful of its open maw that drips with blood, and I can almost pause to admire the scene, before I send one arrow, and another, flying into the jaws of the curse.

It shrieks in pain as the arrows aim true, and then, roars, as Nanami’s blade strikes true, slicing a brutal line down its long neck and soft belly.

The telltale flame of cursed energy flickers in the back of its mouth as it rears its head, only for Nanami to slice open its tendons next, and we barely have time to celebrate taking down that, only for numerous more skittering, buglike curses to burst forth from the streetside stores, glass shattering as they swarm.

“Go,” he’s turning to me, half a block away, panting. Despite this, I somehow know what he’s saying, perfectly, in the moment before impact. “Get the kids to safety.”

I have no choice but to comply. “Weapons out and at the ready,” I bark, “You two, lead the way, and you,” and I point to the bespectacled boy, “Help me watch our six.”

We scramble down a back alleyway whilst Nanami wraps his tie around his knuckles, and leaps out of the way of the curses swarming him, hits one with the cleaver, winds his fist back-- and then there’s the curious sensation of atmospheric decompression all around us and then--

BOOM!

-- As sparks fly out from the impact of his blow, black and red like glowing embers.

Black Flash.

The millionth of a second after impact, in theory-- when a Jujutsu user supercharges their blow with cursed energy, the resulting backlash more than doubles the output of the hit.

Even so, this was rare, and instinctual, and none could grasp onto the motion at-will, not even Gojo Satoru-- and so it remained one of those enduring mysteries of Jujutsu abilities.

And Nanami Kento is hitting once, twice, thrice, four times, cleaver, fist both, showering the street around him in both cursed blood and the telltale shockwaves and scintillations.

“Four times!” the boy gasps in awe as we turn another corner, “That’s supposed to be some kind of record!”

“Shut up, nerd, we’re all about to die!” snaps the shaggy-haired boy in front, as all of our earpieces crackle at the same time.

“Special Grade incoming on Shijo-dori!” calls the voice over the radio, before the line fizzles back out into static.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck.

All three of them collectively let out whimpers, and I feel half-inclined to join them before I realize that in this situation, I am now the responsible adult in question-- I can’t just wait for Nanami to catch up to me, especially not when he might still be held up by the other beetle curses, not when he specifically asked me to take care of the kids while he covered our escape.

“Stay behind me,” I tell them all as we duck behind a van in order to regroup and strategize. “Cover each other, okay?”

The three all nod at me, and there’s this feeling blooming in my chest at that-- not necessarily warmth, given our circumstances and the weather, but-- goddamnit, I’d die defending these kids if need be.

(Which I probably will, given the power disparity between me and the beast that was about to descend upon us-- of which I didn’t know what the nature of was.)

Then, the streetlights go out one-by-one, a cruel chill running through the air, and the kids huddle even lower to the ground, practically clinging to each other by this point.

“I’m going to go give it all I’ve got,” I tell them. “If it looks like the fight isn’t going well- I want you to request backup and evacuation.”

With that, I step into the street, only for a sickly green, clawed arm, to swing at me immediately from the shadows-- palm nearly the size of a pothole, connected from the elbow with a string of red sinew.

I jump back as the full form of the beast crawls out of the darkness-- a grimacing visage that resembles a kabuki mask, a humanoid form, but gaunt, spindly, hunched, with one arm severed and connected only through ligament to the rest of his arm.

It swings the arm like a morningstar above his head, white foam around its mouth, before casting it at me again, a decisive clank sounding as it hits a nearly lightpole, bending its shape.

I loose my arrow, immediately try to reload, only to find the quiver empty.

Fuck!

The beast lets out a roar, the arrow having flown true, lodged itself into the sinew of his arm-- but it seemed to only serve to enrage him-- and I barely have time to raise up by crossbow to block its next blow as it swings its arm back at me, and I can feel the reverberation down my forearms despite my reinforcement with cursed energy as my crossbow splinters.

I spring back, trying to lead it away from the kids-- and trying to conserve my own cursed energy, using its attacks as momentum to push further away.

It pants, a vicious grin spreading across its ghastly face, and it’s swinging at me again for the third time with its severed arm, like a particularly disturbing imitation of a sticky hand toy.

I don’t wait for its blow to hit-- I run at it, jump, aiming for its eyes with my splintered fragments of the crossbow-- connecting with its shoulder instead when it dodges out of the way, and I thud to the ground, letting out a bitten-off groan when I land badly on my side.

A giant webbed foot looms over me, and I manage to muster up enough force of will just to roll aside, a tatter of my jacket catching and tearing on its giant nails. I’m down to nothing but my hands now, I realize-- half-crawling for safety in the form of the open road-- and my earpiece has fallen somewhere during the fight-- not sure exactly where, or when.

I hope the kids are calling to be evacuated, I think to myself, picking up a fist-sized piece of asphalt that had dislodged itself from the road. I skitter back, skating on my butt as it pounces towards me again-- looking for all the world like some botched acupuncture diagram with an arrow in its severed tendons, and two splintered haves of the crossbow bolt in its shoulder.

It’s moving a lot slower now, too, I realize-- and given its motion, it needed all three of its attached limbs for full speed, with the severed arm naturally throwing off its center of gravity.

But it was durable, and equally dangerous long-range and short as a result.

I have a rock in my hand, a giant menacing me, and the observation almost sparks a hysterical laughing fit. Like a reenactment of David and Goliath, but I’m so sure that in this world, David is about to be eaten.

I think I can hear the kids screaming from behind the van.

Fuck, look away, be quiet, I think, desperately wishing I could yell at them, as the curse turns its head-- and, dragging its arm behind it, lunges towards the vehicle, its severed arm reaching out to slap it over, crushing the kids--

No!

I was asked to look after them-- I was once their age myself, surrounded by friends who left me behind with the brilliance of their abilities, only to be left behind by them when they go to their early graves in this everlasting war against curses.

I think of the empty classrooms of their grade level, I think of the yearly reunions that get sparser and sparser for my own graduating class.

And in my last, desperate rage, I wind my arm back, let the cursed energy flood through my body with all I have, and throw the rock at it.

The projectile doesn’t connect.

But something else does, instead.

Out with a bang, they’re calling it-- or at least, Tsukumo Yuki does-- and I’m under the impression that something must be very wrong indeed, if she of all people, renegade Special Grade and Star Plasma Vessel reject, were willing to work with the higher-ups to… study me, of all people.

Along with Gojo Satoru as well, bless his soul.

“It’s possible that since you had no cursed technique, but average-to-excellent reserves of cursed energy, that at a moment of high stress, you managed to essentially, blast the curse with pure energy,” she informs me.

“And what about the deaths of the students?” Gojo asks, looking more somber than I’ve ever really seen him.

Geto Suguru had been executed in Tokyo after the Night Parade, apparently-- which would be reason enough for his mood.

“It could be a collective stress-induced hallucination from it being a near-death encounter instead,” Tsukumo-san says, “but I’ll reserve my judgements until I can see it up-close and personal for myself instead.”

“Any theories?” Gojo asks.

“I’m right here,” I snap, slightly peeved.

I’d survived the Night Parade relatively unscathed, with a cracked rib and a bruised arm, but otherwise, I’d seemed fine. More than fine, really-- though I wasn’t quite sure how to explain the Special Grade fight to any of the reinforcements that’d shown up, really.

Neither were the students able to give any kind of consistent report, because all three of them clearly remembered the van being pushed over, the moment before impact, the way they were all being crushed under the weight, the last few feeble heartbeats, and then suddenly the curse was gone, the van was standing, and they had no injuries except those from earlier curses.

“Wouldn’t it be something like Nanami’s four Black Flashes?” I asked. “It didn’t feel like anything particularly big, to me. Just… that the kids needed to be protected, and I guess in that moment, I transcended the limitations of having no cursed technique. I just, acted, I suppose.”

Nanami had been first on the scene, given his proximity, since one of the kids did in fact call for backup-- sometime when I’d fallen after my failed assault with the remnants of my crossbow, for which Yaga did reprimand me for after returning to Tokyo.

Stunned after the-- blast-- I hadn’t come back to myself fully until he had been in front of me, hands in a firm grasp around my arms, goggles off, hair tousled, peering into my face, a thumb coming up to carefully wipe away the droplets of blood that was trickling down my nose.

Despite myself, I could feel my face heat up, along with the points of contact, and then I nodded, muttering some confirmation of my status. By that point, the sky was becoming tinged with pink again, and as the night faded back into day, the number of spirits decreased. I’d fashioned myself some kind of makeshift bat out of some snapped length of rebar, and the group of us-- Nanami, the three students, and I, continued making our rounds, and it wasn’t until the sun was dawning, and the barriers were lowered, that it was said that the Night Parade was truly over.

Stock was taken of the property damage, the amount of curses exorcised, the casualties. And the sorcerers that could be expecting a promotion in the timeframe after. The clans had their own candidates for such-- on a wholly different system, this concerned me little.

But names, familiar and unfamiliar were also being touted around. Several of the students, some approved for leveling up immediately, others under review due to politics, like Zen’in Maki to Grade Three, or Grade Two, or Kamo Noritoshi to Grade One.

And me… to… something.

Much was made of what happened there on Shijo-dori. The idea of a Grade Three exorcising a Special Grade curse single handedly without a technique. The vivid memories of the students’ collective deaths. The disappearance of the curse beyond exorcism, with not even residuals remaining. The erratic cursed energy reserves I’d possessed in the aftermath.

For the time being, I was being kept under observation for answers.

“Perhaps her biology is wired in such a way, that with the analogy of cursed energy being electricity, and a cursed technique being the appliances that channel it--” Tsukumo-san trails off.

“Are you saying that essentially, she managed to naturally decrease the circuit resistance to allow for more electricity to be generated, and to flow through her?” I feel like I can sense Gojo raising a brow, even under his blindfold.

“If we were to run some tests, we can get a bit further with the hypothesis,” Tsukumo-san tells me.

“Fine,” I breathe. “Whatever it is you need to do.”

Whatever it is, turned out to be, unfortunately, training with Gojo.

I can’t land a hit on him, even using cursed energy, and I’m gritting my teeth as any attempt at sparring simply ends in me barrelling down to the ground and biting back swear words as he stands, the impervious fucker, hands tucked into his pants pockets and a smug grin on his face.

His students are ogling our training too, and I wish desperately that Akari-chan were here, only she’s in Kyoto to help with recovery efforts since her family’s there. I’d even take Nanami, though our only camaraderie seemed to be forged through battle rather than anything else--

He’d kind of melted back into the woodwork after the Night Parade, though apparently there were rumours floating around the staff room that Gojo was trying to get him to come out of his partial retirement, and ditch civilian life completely for being a Jujutsu Sorcerer once more.

I scowl, glaring at Gojo as he stooped down slightly. “Giving up?” he asks in his usual teasing lilt.

Something about it pisses me off enough that I grit my teeth, raise my right hand, and try very hard to channel the rage I felt in Kyoto, gritting my teeth.

It does nothing, and he guffaws at me again.

To her credit, Tsukumo-san is a lot more accommodating of me, and a lot less annoying, too.

“Come on,” she says, peeking out from over the strike pad. “Put all your cursed energy reserves into punching this.”

I nodded, bouncing on my feet, back and forth, trying to develop the momentum, until she tsks at me.

“Nope! Don’t treat it as a sparring match. I want all your energy output, right here,” she gestures to the center of the mat.

I nod, try to gather up all the nervousness that was roiling in my stomach, and wind back, and punch, pushing as much of my cursed energy into the strike as possible, feeling my ears actually pop from the exertion.

I fall to my knees in time to see Tsukumo-san stagger back a few steps, and I feel somewhat inordinately proud of that-- given that she’s the most experienced of all the Special Grades currently. Of course, being a Special Grade, she can practically tank everything thrown at her, hence why she’s now training me given that Gojo was both swamped with his actual students (including another new Special Grade), and seemed more likely to fuck around during observational sessions.

“Okay. Good.” she nods in approval at me. “Very good.”

I’m not wholly sure what it means, but I do hope it’s acceptable to some degree.

She hauls me back to my feet. “Again.”

Maximum Output: Bang.

At least, that’s what Tsukumo-san decides to call it. What cursed technique is it attached to? None, really-- just a blast of pure energy that vaporizes any object or entity with cursed energy, and, essentially, unmakes the previous ten seconds of their actions and impact. She shows me a hand signal to channel it better-- just a finger gun, and I vaguely suspect that it’s for the rule of cool factor when, for the first time, we’re out on a mission, and she directs me at a Grade Two cursed spirit.

Bang!

Gone in a flash, and the car it had just dented up now looks practically brand-new.

“Congratulations,” she tells me afterwards, back at the school, handing me a copy of her research notes. “You have Special Grade Potential.”

“Potential?” I ask her.

“In terms of your raw strength, and the fact that your body simply doesn’t need to charge up on cursed energy-- it just continues to naturally produce its own. Potential, in that as far as I’m aware, you’ll pretty much be a one-trick, one-strength pony. It’s like instead of being able to light a small candle, you’ll always be igniting a forest fire no matter what, because that’s the only output setting you have, in a sense. We don’t know your upper limits, yet, or how consecutively you can use your abilities.”

“But we can try,” I reply. “Right?”

“Given that you may also have an instinctual grasp of Reverse Curse Technique, that’s possible too,” she noted. “There’s a section about how you’re able to consistently power your hits with maximum cursed energy possible, without burning out your energy reserves. Page 7.”

“Or, if the Maximum Output is pure energy,” I say, reading on, “It might mean that I’ve taken both cursed energy, and reverse cursed energy, and combined it together into something else, right?”

“Possible as well, though that’s also a potential area of testing,” she concedes. “I’ll need to compare notes, though-- have you use Maximum Bang, and Gojo use his Hollow Purple, and measure the residuals from those techniques, as well as your cursed energy levels in the direct aftermath.”

“You think I can try to lob Maximum Bang at him and see if he can tank it with Infinity?” I ask.

“I’d rather you not.”

The Jujutsu Headquarters are eerie, to say the very least of it-- there’s a building it’s housed in, an ancient temple, but the space itself feels downright liminal within anyways-- timeless and placeless.

I hadn’t been exactly briefed on the procedures here, not exactly-- just the generally cavalier way that both Tsukumo-san and Gojo spoke of them, old geezers who were more concerned with status and tradition than developing Jujutsu to ever-higher levels.

I, having been only potentially all-powerful for the last half-year, have no such nerve.

So as I’m led by a veiled attendant into the dark audience chamber, and the sliver of light vanishes as they slide the door shut behind me, I suddenly am aware of the lanterns from the ceiling that illuminate, starting from where I stood in the center of the room, and expanding outward.

Well, I had to give them their points for drama, I guess-- I think to myself, as shrouded figures behind shoji screens advance upon me, forming a ring.

I cannot see any of their features, or faces-- I don’t know where to really even turn, just that these faceless men (and perhaps, women?) were the movers and shakers of Jujutsu society, for all that not even their names were known. Even Gojo and Tsukumo-san, for all their Special-Grade bravado, still, if not deferring to them, had to collaborate with them.

“You come here with the purpose of petitioning for promotion as a Special Grade, up from a Grade Three Sorcerer, citing your use of a unique Maximum Output technique?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” I had nodded-- not even sure if I could actually be seen by then anyways, turning to face the source of the disembodied voice.

“According to incident reports, you first demonstrated this ability during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons?” asks another.

I shifted to face it as well. “Yes, it was a Special Grade with the appearance of the Rashomon-no-Oni.”

I hear some shuffling behind the screens, some murmuring. “And you have been training under the guidance of former Star Plasma Vessel, Tsukumo Yuki, in order to identify and hone this ability?”

“Yes,” I replied-- wondering, didn’t you guys tell her to find out what I was? I declined to further keep turning myself around in a circle to face each new inquisitor. “And her findings were that this Maximum Output seems to involve a mix of cursed energy and reversed cursed energy, combined together to form a blast of pure energy-- and due to the nature of its combining, it can erase not just the physical traces of something-- anything, so long as it possesses cursed energy-- but also the spiritual and temporal traces as well.”

“You say this cursed technique reverses events?” asks yet another higher-up. Something was brewing under the surface of his voice-- and I realize suddenly, that these men think I am dangerous.

“No-- not really,” I shake my head. “Maximum Bang can only unwind up to ten seconds from the moment at which it is cast. It’s not an undo button on everything, or some kind of time-travel paradox. It's not infinite, and it's not something I can use lightly. There’s a physical strain.”

Tsukumo-san had written down the exact words in her recommendation for me-- one trick, one strength pony. Like asking an inferno to light a candle. Strength, but an inability to hone into precision. Use only for Special-Grade missions, if applicable. Further research may be necessary. Ability only usable on items with cursed energy (refer to research findings, page 12).

“And what happens when you use it on something without cursed energy?” a voice to my left.

“Nothing,” I reply. “There’s no risk of collateral damage in regards to that.”

The murmuring behind the screens intensifies, soft whispers, low rasps, the sharp flicker of pages flipping.

Then:

“Your petition will be deferred,” a voice says. “No current classification upgrade will be issued.”

It continues on: “Your technique is newly developed, and not yet fully understood. You have no clan connections to vouch for your abilities, your allegiance to Jujutsu, or your ethics. Therefore, until further notice, you will be placed under probationary missions, in order to determine your suitability for a classification upgrade.”

I didn’t expect too much from this, but still having the stamp of Grade Three all over me after I vaporized a Special Grade and undid its last ten seconds of damage and unlife, felt like an insult of some kind. Why the hell did they ask Tsukumo-san to train me, if they were gonna just give me this response anyways?

“This meeting is now adjourned.”

I stand there a moment longer, biting back the protest on the tip of my tongue. They don’t want me to have the title, because I have no one to recommend me, except for Tsukumo-san, who they’re already on bad terms with. Because I don’t come with the backing of a clan. Because I’m someone who might as well have just sprouted a world-changing ability out of thin air one day.

But more than that, I know they’re afraid. Of me, and of the one thing that none of them can control-- time, and the wheel of fate.

I bow stiffly and turn on my heel to leave, the shoji screen sliding shut behind me with a clang.

I’m considering a London Fog to take my mind off the current bullshittery from the higher-ups (see, who says I’m not Special Grade? I already have the mindset down) when I hear my name from behind me-- and there he is in the flesh, Nanami Kento himself, in the closest he’d possibly get to civvies-- goggles off, watch still on, trousers, polo shirt. “I thought it was you.”

“Hi,” I wiggle my fingers in an approximation of a wave, one hand laden with a tray of sweets, and the other with my purse.

“Hi yourself.” He sidles right up next to me, shoulder-to-shoulder, peering at the drink menu. In his hand is a pineapple bread roll.

“Are you taking it to-go, or staying at the bakery?” I ask him, slightly unprompted.

“Hm?” He glances down at me, and I am suddenly struck by how tall he is.

The thought makes my face feel hot for whatever reason. “Oh, since I was planning on eating on the patio outside-- it’s such a nice day, and I kind of need a bit of a pick-me up.”

I am sure I spoke quite quickly and with a bit of forced breeziness, but to his credit, he doesn’t call me out on it. “It is nice today,” he agrees.

We get to the front of the line-- and before I can swipe my card for all my purchases (bread for the week, a pastry for the patio, and some macarons so Gojo doesn’t whine my ear off)-- he’s reaching across to cover the card reader.

“Allow me,” he’d said.

“What a gentleman,” I tease in return, though I’m suddenly wondering if the bakery’s AC unit broke or something, because I am sweating under my collar.

Afterwards, we’re sitting outside, Nanami with a green tea, me with my London Fog, watching the pedestrians mill about the city.

“What brings you around?” he asks.

I tap my fingers idly against the lid of my cup. “Interview with the higher-ups.” I make a face so he knows exactly what I think of said interview.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “My condolences.”

I giggle slightly at that, feeling a bit giddy. All of us underclassmen, back during their time at Jujutsu Tech, were kind of mere shadows compared to the rising stars that our seniors were. And now I was a potential Special Grade, and here he was, deigning to have a conversation with me, of all people.

(Don’t get it wrong, I did not have a crush on him in high school. That dubious honor was reserved for Geto Suguru, because sue me, the bad boy thing was, in fact, hot. And I was just an insignificant small fry in the grand scheme of things, so I was able to just blend in well enough into the background to admire his pretty hair and basketball skills.)

“I hear that Gojo’s trying to cajole you into coming back full-time?” I ask.

He presses his lips together, poking at his pineapple bun. “Yeah,” he sighs.

“My condolences,” I parrot back at him with a wry smile.

He rewards me with a chuckle, and I feel something downright botanical start winding its way through my chest at that. “I can’t say I miss being a full-time civilian either.”

“Really?” I ask, having never experienced what he did, exactly, with working in Jujutsu, and working as a civilian. “What made you go back to sorcery?”

Nanami’s quiet for a while-- enough so that I’m almost worried that he’ll elect to ignore the question altogether. I’m about to rack my brain for topic changes, when he says, “There used to be a bakery I’d go to all the time. There was a girl working the counter, she always carried around this little curse around her shoulders-- it grew larger and larger over time, and she would complain about how much her neck hurt.

“I was working as a salaryman at the time, but I felt like… watching her go on day by day like that, it felt like more of a sacrifice of my morals than even the slog of the corporate machine.

“So I exorcised the curse. Barely a Grade Four, but even then, it burdens the ordinary people. And as soon as I left the bakery, I called Gojo, and let him know I wanted to come back as a part-time sorcerer.”

“It’s that itch, I guess. To use your abilities. To protect the weak. To change the world.”

#fic: we rot in this oven #fics by mierin #jjk fics #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fic #jjk #kento nanami x reader #nanami #kento nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader

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meggalice · 1 year ago

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Had to sketch out the closing moments from Chapter 13. Wow that really is an unlucky number, hey Dee? I have been obsessed with @remedyturtles' fic Fire Fight. Seriously if you haven't already go give it a read. They are absolutely killing it and the last chapter has left me in pieces, said pieces are still on the edge of my seat though.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #my art #tmnt #rise donnie #tmnt 2018 #rise leo #tw blood #tw torture #or well implied #they're both mild in the imaghe but tagging anyways #stay safe cuties #anyway this fic fucking rules seriously #I will be white knuckling it until the next chapter #remedy if you see this ur doing amazing

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suguann · 1 year ago

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✎. he’s nice. well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, simon is an excon, non-linear narrative for future chapters [18+ only]

part one | part two

He’s always been a little obsessed with pretty things, even as a child.

It only makes sense that the habit would follow him into adulthood.

He sees you once while he’s walking by the bus stop. A timid thing wrapped up in an oversized sweater and parka coat, not looking up from the little book in your lap until the bus stops before you and takes you away.

The next time he sees you, he makes sure to come a few minutes earlier, lighting a cigarette and keeping his distance while he watches you read the same book from the day before. Simon knows it’s you, the girl from the letters, even if it’s a big city. It has to be—his pretty, lonely, silly girl.

He thinks about walking up to you just to make sure, but he doesn’t really need to. The address on the envelope brought him here, and you’re the only one he’s seen wearing a university sweater in this neighborhood.

But when he hesitates too long, a boy starts talking to you, and he watches you smile at somebody else.

Simon runs his thumb over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath to fill his chest with the soothing feeling of menthol and the burning taste of nicotine, trying to relax his white-knuckle grip on his steering wheel.

You’ll learn, he thinks, when the bus drives off, and the boy doesn’t follow you on. He’s a patient man—it’s possibly one of his finer qualities.

He lets his car idle as he climbs out before crushing his cigarette bud underneath his shoe, straightening his black tie, and crossing the street. The boy sees him and freezes, but Simon can only laugh, wiping blood off his cheek several seconds later.

You’ll learn.

He’s nice.

Well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you. But nice, you've learned, can mean any number of things: a nice laugh, a nice house, a nice job, et cetera.

But how he holds himself—tall, broad, and dangerous—hardly screams nice.

It’s funny because you don’t remember seeing him around the office before—the company, including IT, occupies only four floors in the building.

Someone tells you he’s a friend of a friend. This initially sounds odd until Rose, the office gossip, says he’s someone rich who helps fund the company's social events. Hence, the crisp suit and the wide berth of space you’d give someone who wields their smile like a weapon.

You quickly look away twice when you find that smile aimed at you, heat traveling up to your hairline at an alarming rate.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not your type.

“Enjoying the party?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice so close to your ear. Careful not to spill your drink, you turn your head to find him smiling down at you with a sharp curl of his mouth.

Then he’s in front of you, eyes dark and crinkling in the corners.

“Uh, yeah. It’s not bad, though,” you squeak nervously when you realize you haven’t answered him. “It’s different from what I’m used to.”

He raises an amused brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He’s intimidating up close, and you take a small sip of your drink to ease your nerves. “Well, no kegs or trashy music playing, and boys with egos bigger than the room.”

The man lets out a low chuckle as he considers your honest reply, and you swear you see something ripple across his features, but when you blink, it’s gone. “I suppose that differs from top-shelf liquor and live bands, huh? Which is better?”

You shrug. “Well, it depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Honest answer?”

He nods.

“Neither. I don’t really care for parties.”

“Then it’s quite unfortunate that you found yourself at one tonight.” He seems privately amused, in on a joke you have no part of. Then he says, “You want to get out of here?”

“I probably shouldn’t follow a stranger home,” you tell him bashfully.

“That’s very responsible of you. Then how about I get you a drink? There’s a hotel across the street, and the bar’s not shit.”

You bite your lip, and his big, warm hand is on the small of your back before you say anything. It must’ve been written all over your face like he knew you would say yes.

He’s ever the gentleman, unlike most boys your age. Though, perhaps that’s the difference. He isn’t a boy—nothing about him can hardly be described as such. This fact becomes a bit overwhelming and more evident once he has you on your back, thighs nearly up to your ears, and held in place by a firm, intricately tattooed forearm.

His smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “Let’s play a game.”

You whisper into the night air. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple. You tell me yes or no.”

Your brows furrow, unsure of the rules of the game. “But—”

The slap against your cunt isn’t harsh, but it’s the suddenness of it, how no one has ever thought to touch you like that, is what makes you squeak and tremble underneath him—the rings on his fingers sharpening the sting—trying to scurry up the bed, but hindered by his iron grip.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yes.”

“There’s a girl,” and then his fingertips drop down to where you're slippery-wet and sensitive, moving in hard, tight circles until you're clenching down on a curse between your teeth. "Messy little cunt."

It's too much, you think when he plugs two fingers (feeling like three of your own) into your pussy. The muscles in his shoulders roll as he shoves his fingers in and out, batting your hands away when you try to get him to slow down. Too much, too—

“It’s not. I want you to cum like this,” he says, teasing, nudging your clit with his thumb and swirling it in tight spit-slick circles; you have no choice but to chase that bright light feeling until you cum, sticky and sweaty.

Just like he promised you would, your orgasm is a shivery thing, molten heat, incandescent, settling in your veins until it pours out of you like liquid wax against the scratchy hotel sheets, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his fingers curl up and press into where you’re soft and tender.

He smiles. “This is fun, isn’t it, love?”

“I can’t,” you whimper, not exactly answering him. “No more, please.”

His eyes, already pupil-fat, go dark at hearing you beg, nostrils flaring. Please, the key for the small amount of mercy he grants you as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit and lightly sucking it into his mouth. His lips are just there, and then they’re gone.

“Say it again.”

Your response is a wet little hiccup at the back of your throat. “W-what?”

“Beg me.”

“Please.”

“Again,” he says one more time.

“Please, please, please…”

It’s all you can think to say, strung between that dreamy space and reality, that you don’t even notice him flipping you onto your tummy with ease, not until the light in the room is blotted out as he leans over you. He wraps a hand into the scruff of your neck and presses your face into the bed, the other tucked under your hips to keep them at the right angle—held down with nowhere to go.

He leaves biting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck—Simon—he manages to tell you his name from one little bruise to the next. Somewhere between the buzz in your ears, you hear him telling you that he wants you to moan it for him, nice and loud.

The haze clears a little, however, at the metal clink of a belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone before you feel his cock prodding you open—raw, without a condom.

“There you go. Lay there, and just—just give me what I fucking want,” Simon rasps as if you could actually move with his hands pinning you in place.

There are many things you should feel: scared of his words, trapped by the rings digging into tender flesh, by his thighs forcefully pushing yours apart. The red flags look more like flashing lights at this point.

Instead, you feel wanted—your walls tighten around his cock, fluttering, pulling him deeper inside, letting him turn you inside out. A small smile buried into the pillow.

#simon ghost x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost imagine #ghost smut #cod smut #cod imagine #cod fic #cod x reader #mw2 smut #mw2 x reader #mw2 imagine #.things i write

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buckysleftbicep · 10 days ago

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letters though time (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

warnings: angst.

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: i love this chapter so much. please leave some feedback or a reblog if you enjoyed it! i tend to forget about tags, please be patient with me, thank you loves. stay safe out there!

series masterlist

You reread his letter so many times the edges began to curl.

He was leaving.

You stared at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun history. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to read them again. You already knew.

You knew the date, April 8th, 1944, etched into your memory long before his handwriting ever reached you. You had seen it in textbooks, beneath faded photographs, on a bronze plaque mounted inside the Smithsonian: Sergeant James Barnes, deployed with Captain Steve Rogers to intercept a HYDRA transport in the Austrian Alps.

You knew that mission. Everyone did.

It was the one where he fell. Where the world believed he died.

Except he didn’t.

You knew what came after, how HYDRA had found him in the wreckage and broken him in ways no one should ever be broken.

How their scientists, cruel and methodical, stripped him down to nothing. Rewrote him. Erased him. Until all that remained was a killing machine, sharp and merciless, a ghost with a metal arm and no name.

When you first started working at the museum, you had gone down that rabbit hole, read every article, studied every declassified file, perhaps even the ones you were specifically told not to read.

You had seen the stills, the grainy footage, the Winter Soldier moving like a machine, swift and ruthless, with eyes that held no trace of the man writing you these letters now. The man you had fallen in love with.

And now he was writing to you, sweet, hopeful, himself, without knowing what awaited him on the other side of that mission.

You gripped the letter until your knuckles turned white, heart lodged so high in your throat you could barely breathe. You blinked, hoping the words would change. That maybe this letter would say he wasn’t going, that he had changed his mind. That somehow, knowing you, and perhaps falling for you had altered the path of fate.

But the words stayed the same.

And so did history.

Please wait for me.

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn't.

You sat on the floor beside the cabinet, the old walnut drawer yawning open, its linen lining wrinkled and worn from too many anxious, trembling hands.

His letters were everywhere, scattered like fallen leaves around you. Pages upon pages, thick with ink and hope, with quiet jokes, whispered dreams, and all the soft, unspoken pieces of him that had stitched themselves gently into your heart.

And now history was threatening to take him away.

You couldn’t stop pacing the next morning.

Couldn’t stop chewing at your bottom lip, eyes flicking toward the drawer every five minutes like it would somehow answer you.

When the next letter came, you nearly dropped it from the tremor in your fingers.

April 1st, 1944 Sweetheart, You’ve gone quiet. Did I say something wrong? I hope I didn’t scare you with what I wrote. I just… I need you to know I’m serious. About all of this. About you. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Falling for someone through paper and time. But I have. I’ve fallen for you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you feel the same. I’ll write again tomorrow. Just… say something, will you? Please. Always, James

You sat down that instant and scribbled out a reply with shaking hands.

Bucky, Please don’t go on this mission. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you can’t just walk away from orders. But something terrible is going to happen. I can’t tell you how I know, it would change too much, but please… don’t go on this mission. You won’t come back the same. If you do come back at all. Please, just trust me. Please.

You folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into the drawer.

So you waited. And waited.

But no letter came the next day. Or the one after that. Or the day after that.

The silence grew heavy, pressing. Like the space between heartbeats stretched too far apart.

By the fourth day, the ache settled deep in your chest—sharp and constant, like something vital was missing. You kept his photo tucked in your wallet, pulling it out so often the edges had started to wear.

You stared at it until the ink blurred behind tears you refused to wipe away. You paced the apartment like a ghost in your own life, whispering his name into the quiet, as if somehow, just somehow, it might find Bucky. Might bring him back.

On the fifth day, you found a letter.

But the paper wasn’t soft with affection, it was creased, angry.

April 4th, 1944 (Y/N), You ask me to trust you, but you won’t trust me to finish this mission. You want me to believe you, about this, about danger, but you won’t say why. Won’t explain. You just beg me not to go. You say I won’t come back the same. That I might not come back at all. Do you know how that feels to read? Like you’ve already written my end for me. Is this all just a game to you? Some story you’re writing? Because it stopped feeling like fiction to me a long time ago. I care about you. I’ve trusted you with more of myself than anyone else in years. And now I don’t know what to think. I need time. - J

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then you sank to the floor, hands cradling your head.

Tears slipped down your cheeks soundlessly. You didn’t blame him. Not really. You couldn’t explain how you knew what was coming. No, you couldn’t tell him he’d be taken, tortured, frozen. You couldn't tell him that his future was a blur of blood and silence and death.

You couldn’t say it without breaking something sacred.

But still, it hurt. god, it hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not right away.

You told yourself he needed space. That maybe he would feel your silence and understand it wasn’t anger, it was fear. A fear too heavy to put into words.

You wanted to give him time. But you didn’t realise just how little time he had left.

Four days passed. Each one sharp around the edges, like they had been carved from glass. Fragile and ready to shatter.

And still...no letter.

And then, on the morning of April 8th, you opened the drawer and found his letter.

Your breath hitched before you even touched it.

The envelope was different. Heavier. The paper thicker than usual.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

April 8th, 1944 Doll, We leave for Germany in a few hours. I couldn’t go without writing you one last time. I didn’t want things to end on anger. I’m sorry I pushed you. I just...it scared me, that’s all. The way you spoke like you knew what would happen, I was shaken, and I don’t like feeling helpless. But I trust you. I do. I told Howard what you said. I didn’t give him details, just that someone I cared about, someone important, warned me something could go wrong. He seemed to believe me, said that maybe time’s not as solid as we think. He told me he’s been working on something. Said he might have a way to pull me through. So if I make it back, if I survive, maybe there’s a chance we would meet. I'll find you. Please wait for me, (Y/N). And if nothing else, just know this, I love you. Always yours, James

You folded the letter in silence, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The ache in your chest made it hard to sit upright, let alone think.

Your hands trembled as you reached for paper, fingers cold and clumsy around the pen. You didn’t write paragraphs, didn’t spill your heart across the page in desperate, sprawling confessions.

There was nothing left to say that could rewrite history. So instead, you wrote only three words, quiet, aching, infinite. Words that had lived in your chest for weeks. Words that felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

I love you.

You placed it in the drawer, fingertips lingering on the edge like a goodbye you weren’t ready to give. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried every unspoken word you hadn’t dared to write.

You closed the drawer gently, too gently, like slamming it might break something irreparable.

And that was the last time.

You never got another letter again.

For days afterward, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it. Couldn’t even glance at the cabinet without that familiar sting behind your eyes, without your chest tightening like your ribs were trying to hold something broken together.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was cruel. Loud in its finality.

You told yourself maybe tomorrow. Maybe the drawer would open and there would be something waiting. Another slanted signature. Another piece of him.

But there was nothing.

And eventually, the ache settled in deep, bone-deep, the kind of grief that didn’t scream but pressed down slowly. You found yourself avoiding the cabinet altogether, skirting around it like it might hurt you if you got too close.

You stopped checking.

Stopped hoping.

Because it felt like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but who had still somehow left you behind.

a/n: i hope you love this chapter as much as i did! thank you for stopping by!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5

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vamptizm · 3 months ago

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hotel ii. — p. bueckers

pairing: paige bueckers x notre dame!reader (+ slight olivia miles x reader)

synopsis: after a win against uconn, you find yourself caught in a tug-of-war between your on and off ex and one of your biggest rivals, who you simply can’t stay away from no matter how hard you try.

warnings: angst. hints of guilt tripping and controlling behaviour. flashback. reader is a little stupid. no smut (yet)

word count: 4.6k

note: i actually hate this chapter ngl. it feels like such a filler, even tho it’s important to the backstory?? anyway next chapter will be sm better (and nastier) i promise.

The first thing you noticed when you stirred awake was warmth—solid, steady warmth that wasn't yours. The second was the slow, even rise and fall of a chest beneath your cheek, the rhythmic beat of a heart against your ear. For a moment, still tangled in the haze of sleep, it felt... nice. Safe.

Then it hit you.

Your eyes snapped open, breath catching as you took in the sight in front of you. Paige was still fast asleep, her arm slung loosely around your waist, her face relaxed in a way you rarely saw—unguarded, peaceful. Her blonde hair was a mess, strands falling across her forehead, and the faintest traces of last night's touches lingered on her lips, somehow still slightly swollen from kissing you senseless.

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of everything. The cool air against your bare skin where the sheets had slipped, the dull ache of muscles used in ways that had nothing to do with basketball, the way your body still felt Paige's hands on you like a ghost of last night.

You shouldn't have been here.

The thought sent a jolt through your limbs, panic curling around your ribs. This—whatever this was—wasn't supposed to feel like this. You were used to Paige in fleeting moments, stolen touches, short-lived memories, rushed hookups fueled by competition and adrenaline. Not... this. Not waking up wrapped in her arms like you belonged there.

Before you could think about it too much, you carefully slipped out from under her hold, freezing when she stirred slightly. But Paige didn't wake—just shifted onto her back with a sleepy sigh, lips parting slightly as she settled again.

Your chest tightened, but you shoved it down.

Grabbing your clothes, you dressed as quickly and quietly as possible, slipping on your sneakers and reaching for your phone. Your fingers hesitated on the door handle for half a second before you shook the thought away. No goodbyes. No second-guessing.

You slipped out, shutting the door softly behind you.

The hotel hallway was eerily quiet at this hour, but you kept your head down, walking with purpose despite the way your stomach churned. Every step felt heavier than it should, like guilt was trying to drag you back, but you didn't stop until you reached the parking lot.

Once you were inside your car, doors locked, you finally let out the groan that had been building in your throat, your head dropping against the steering wheel.

Your mind replayed it all—the way Paige had kissed you, slow and deep, like she had all the time in the world. The way she had whispered against your skin, teasing but sincere. The way she had looked at you afterward, something soft and open in her eyes that made you want to run.

And so you did.

With a deep breath, you started the engine and pulled out of the lot, the cold morning air doing little to cool the heat still simmering under your skin.

You didn't know if you regretted it. But you did know that facing Olivia was going to be a whole different problem.

You took another step into the room, your heart pounding in your chest like a ticking clock counting down to an inevitable explosion.

Olivia sat on the edge of your bed, her posture rigid, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned white. She was staring straight at you, her dark eyes burning with something unreadable—something controlled, but barely.

The air between you felt thick, suffocating. Then, finally, she spoke. "Where you been?" Her voice was quiet, but sharp—like a knife wrapped in silk.

Your throat tightened. She already knew. There was no way she didn't. But she wanted to hear it from you. Wanted to watch you squirm under the weight of your own admission.

You inhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to stay loose. "Out."

A sharp scoff left her lips, her head tilting slightly as she studied you. She looked almost amused, like she couldn't believe you had the audacity to play this game. "Out," she repeated, rolling the word on her tongue like it disgusted her.

Your stomach twisted.

She let the silence hang between you before standing, slow and deliberate, closing some of the distance. The tension in her frame was palpable—like a coil wound too tight, ready to snap.

"So, who were you 'out' with?" she asked, her voice deceptively even.

You swallowed. "Liv—"

"Nah, say it." Her brows knitted challengingly, her fingers flexing at her sides. "Say her name."

You held her stare, unwilling to look away, but you didn't answer.

The muscle in Olivia's jaw ticked, and suddenly, she was chuckling—low and bitter, the kind that wasn't really laughter at all.

"You know, I sat here and waited for you," she said, shaking her head. "Gave you the benefit of the doubt. Thought maybe—just maybe—you'd come back here and at least be honest with me." Her voice wavered slightly, just for a second, before she forced herself to steel it again. "But nah. You just walk in here with that look on your face—like you don't feel even a little bad about it."

Your brows furrowed, frustration creeping into your veins. "What exactly am I supposed to feel bad about?"

Olivia's nostrils flared. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I am," you shot back, voice rising. "We're not even together, Olivia."

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to argue, but she hesitated. Then, as if snapping back into place, her expression hardened, her eyes scanning over you—taking in the mess of your hair, the faded smudges of Paige's touch along your neck. Her fingers curled into fists.

"I bet she loved that, huh?" she said, voice thick with something dangerous. "That you 'love it over there'?" She quoted.

You sucked in a sharp breath, something twisting painfully in your chest. "Don't do that."

"We can fix this."

You blinked. "What?"

"We can still work this out," she said, gaze flickering between your eyes like she was searching for something—anything—to hold on to. "I know we can."

Your stomach churned again. This was the moment you should feel relief, right? This was what you had wanted for so long—for Olivia to finally let down her walls, to finally stop running from you.

So why did it feel like something in you was pulling away instead?

"As long as you promise to never see her again."

Your breath caught in your throat. You weren't even sure you wanted to make things work with Olivia anymore. The constant back and forth, the push and pull—it exhausted you. But the thought of never seeing Paige again, never hearing her voice, never seeing the sparkle in her eyes, never feeling her touch—

It struck you like a blow to the chest.

And Olivia saw it.

She saw the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the way your lips parted but no words came out. For the first time all night, she looked afraid.

Olivia stood still for a moment, her face a mask of mixed emotions—anger, hurt, and disbelief. You could see her struggling to reconcile what was happening, but she didn't say anything. She just watched you, the silence between you both thick, suffocating.

Then, without warning, she took a step toward you.

You didn't back away. Your feet felt like they were rooted to the floor as she came closer, and before you could think, her hands were gently cupping your face, her fingers warm against your skin, tracing the contours of your jaw. Her touch was careful, almost hesitant—as though she was afraid you might slip away if she wasn't careful enough.

Her gaze locked onto yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you couldn't look away. There was a vulnerability in her eyes you hadn't seen before, a desperate plea hidden behind the walls she'd built up.

"Please," she whispered, the word catching in her throat. "Don't walk away from me like this. We can fix it, baby, we can make it work—I swear. Just... don't do this."

You didn't respond right away, your heart pounding in your chest. There was a burning ache in your chest, and the way her hands trembled ever so slightly as she held your face only made it harder.

Slowly, Olivia leaned in, pressing soft kisses to your face—your forehead, the tip of your nose, your cheek—her lips lingering in places that felt too intimate for everything that had happened. The closeness, the familiarity, felt like an anchor, pulling you back into the past, to all the moments when things had been simpler, when you hadn't known the weight of this choice.

She kissed you again, more desperately this time, her lips brushing over your mouth, a soft, lingering press that left you breathless.

But you couldn't do it. Not again.

You pulled back slightly, your hands coming up to gently push hers away, feeling a pang of sadness when she didn't resist. Olivia sighed, her eyes a little misty, but she didn't argue, didn't try to force you to stay. Instead, she stepped back, running a hand over her hair, frustration clear in the tightness of her jaw.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice breaking just enough for you to hear it. "I don't want it to end like this."

For a moment, you just stood there, watching her, unsure what to say. The pain of the situation—the rawness of everything—was too much, too overwhelming. The world outside your apartment seemed to fade away, and in that small, quiet space, it felt like the last thread of something between you was finally unraveling.

"I'm sorry too, Liv," you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper. "But this shit isn't healthy and we both gotta let it go."

With a heavy, final breath, Olivia nodded, stepping back one last time. The door closed behind her softly, leaving you standing in the silence of your own thoughts, your chest aching in the emptiness she left behind.

And so you stood there in the quiet of your room, chest heavy and heart torn, wondering if you'd made the right choice. The weight of it all pressed down on you, the end of something that was never really meant to be, and yet still felt like a loss.

You sank down onto your bed, your body aching with the exhaustion of the emotional turmoil. But despite the emptiness in your chest, despite the tears you could feel threatening to spill, there was a sense of clarity.

Over the next few days, you couldn't stop thinking about her. Paige was everywhere. Every corner of your mind, every inch of your body seemed to ache with the memory of her. Her hair—so perfectly tousled, blonde strands framing her face just right. The way it smelled, like a mix of fresh shampoo and something more intoxicating, like the scent of the air just before it rains. You could still feel the warmth of her touch, the way her fingertips had tingled against your skin, the nails pressing into your back, sending electricity shooting through you.

Her eyes. Those damn baby blue eyes. No matter where you searched, you had never seen anything like them before—bright, curious, yet so dark and hungry. Every glance felt like she was peering into the very depths of you, knowing things about you you hadn't even realized yet. And the way her gaze softened one moment, only to turn intense the next. You could still feel the weight of it, even now, as if it was still following you around.

The image of her—the girl you'd walked out on more than once—was imprinted in your mind, and there was no way to escape it. She had been on your mind since you'd left her hotel room, and now it was starting to feel like you had made a terrible mistake all over again. Regret was seeping into your thoughts. The way you'd left, without a single word, no text, no call—it felt like a betrayal now. You had walked out on her, and now the guilt gnawed at you every waking moment. She hadn't reached out either. You figured that she simply didn't care much—after all, it was just a casual thing, right? But the more you thought about it, the more it felt like self-sabotage. Something you were a pro at.

Even in practice, it was all you could think about. Every shot you tried to make, every pass, every dribble felt off. Your mind was miles away, far from the court, lost in thoughts of her. Your teammates were noticing too, whispering to each other in hushed voices as they glanced your way. You tried to focus, to shake the thoughts of Paige out of your head, but it felt impossible.

Then, when you finally had a moment to yourself and picked up your phone, the universe seemed to taunt you. Your social media feeds were flooded with pictures and videos of her—Paige smiling at some event, making a joke on a court, laughing with her teammates, several sports channels posting about her. Your heart twisted each time you saw her face, the way she glowed on screen. A pang of jealousy hit you too. How could she be out there, living her life, so effortlessly happy, when all you could think about was her?

You found yourself scrolling through her pages again and again, watching her smile, seeing her live her life without you in it. It was like an ache you couldn't ignore like you had been doing for so long. How did you walk away from someone like her?

It made sense in your head and despite that, you couldn't stop wondering if she even cared about you at all—if she'd cared about any of it. That was the worst part—because now, all you could think about was how to fix it and you had no idea if it was even worth it.

It had been a week. A week of silence, of uncertainty, of trying to push past the thoughts that refused to leave your head. No matter how much you tried to focus on basketball, on your life outside of Paige, you just couldn't shake her.

She was everywhere, in everything. In the music playing through your headphones, in the scent of someone's perfume as they walked past you on campus, in the depth of your camera roll, in the way your phone screen felt too empty without her name lighting it up.

And now, finally, you were willing to do something about it.

You stared at your phone, fingers hesitating over the screen before finally tapping her name. You nibbled on your bottom lip, heart pounded in your chest as the call attempted to go through. But the line didn't even ring—it went straight to voicemail.

You frowned, confusion settling in as you opened her contact and tried again. Straight to voicemail.

A sinking feeling grew in your stomach as you switched to text.

You: can we talk?

The message never sent. Instead, a small red exclamation mark appeared next to it, accompanied by the gut-wrenching realization: Message Not Delivered.

Blocked.

You blinked at the screen with parted lips as if willing it to change, as if there had been some mistake. But no—Paige had cut you off completely.

A heavy weight settled in your chest, defeat washing over you like ice-cold water. For a moment, you sat there, gripping your phone tightly, fingers twitching as if you could somehow undo the damage that had already been done.

She was actually done with you this time.

The thought burned—made you wanna throw up and for a second, you considered giving up. Maybe this was what you deserved for walking out on her, for leaving without a single word. But the thing about you—when you wanted something, when you cared about something—you didn't just let it slip through your fingers.

So, you tried a different route.

It wasn't hard to figure out her schedule—after all, UConn's games were public, and you knew Paige well enough to remember or at least guess how her daily routine went. The real challenge was finding the right opportunity, the perfect timing that didn't interfere with your own demanding schedule.

And when you finally found the opening, you made your decision. You impulsively booked a flight to Storrs, Connecticut.

The moment the confirmation email hit your inbox, nerves slammed into you full force. The idea of showing up unannounced, of seeing Paige after all this time—after she had clearly chosen to cut you out—was enough to make your stomach twist.

Would she even listen to you? You didn't know. But after everything, the least she deserved was a face-to-face apology.

Before making the trip, you reached out to someone you knew you could trust. Someone who had been there since the very beginning.

You: Aubs, I kinda need your help.

The response was almost immediate.

AubDawg: With what?

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing out exactly what you needed to say.

You: I need to see Paige. Like I really need to talk to her.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

AubDawg: You realize she's mad at you, right?

You swallowed hard. Of course you knew. You had felt the weight of it every single day.

You: I know. That's why I need to do it in person.

The pause this time was longer. A minute passed. Then another.

Then finally—

AubDawg: Fine. But I'm not promising anything.

The plan was simple.

You'd fly in, keep your presence quiet, and attend one of UConn's home games disguised—or at least, as discreet as possible. A hat, a hoodie, glasses, something to keep you hidden in the crowd. You just needed to see her, to get through to her somehow.

The anxiety built up as you boarded the flight, as you landed in Connecticut, as you made your way to the campus you were all too familiar with.

It felt surreal, being back here. Walking past familiar buildings, recognizing places where you had spent hours practicing, laughing, learning. Memories surfaced with every step, each one pressing into your chest like an old ache.

You tried not to focus on that.

Aubrey met you at the arena just before the game, her arms crossed as she gave you a look that was somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement.

"You're insane," she muttered.

You smirked, pulling the brim of your hat lower over your face. "Call it insanity, call it dedication. Same thing."

She sighed. "You sure about this?"

"Nope,” you admitted, popping your ‘p’, “But I guess there’s not much to lose if I don’t try.

Aubrey studied you for a moment before shaking her head. "C’mon. I got you a seat where you won't get caught."

Your stomach twisted as you followed her inside.

You weren't sure how this was going to go. You weren't sure if Paige would even give you the time of day.

The energy inside Gampel Pavilion was electric. The air buzzed with cheers, the pounding of basketballs against hardwood, the screech of sneakers cutting across the court. UConn was locked in a battle, but you weren't paying attention to the score.

Your eyes were locked on one person.

She was poetry in motion, every movement sharp and precise, every shot falling effortlessly. Even from your seat—hidden beneath the brim of your cap, swallowed in a hoodie pulled high around your face and through your glasses—you could see the fire in her eyes.

She played with a vengeance. And you had a sick feeling in your stomach that you were part of the reason why.

You watched as she drained a three-pointer, barely flinching as the crowd erupted. Watched the way her jaw clenched, the way her muscles tensed with an unspoken frustration.

She was mad. Not just at the opposing team. Not just at the game.

But at you.

Your fingers curled into fists inside your hoodie pocket. Had she always looked this good when she played? Or were you just now letting yourself see her again?

The final buzzer sounded. UConn had won, but Paige hardly looked satisfied as she stormed off the court, towel draped over her shoulders, sweat glistening under the bright lights. She barely celebrated with her team, barely acknowledged the noise around her.

And now came the hardest part.

Getting to her.

You waited. Let the crowd thin out, let the team disappear into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Aubrey had already told you to meet her at one of the back exits, where the players sometimes slipped out after games.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around you, moving swiftly through the hallways that you had once walked. Some things never changed— bound to stay the same as they’ve always been.

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice stopped you cold.

Paige stood just outside the exit, her duffle bag slung over one shoulder, her body still humming with adrenaline. She was fresh out of the locker room, her damp blonde hair pushed back, her skin flushed from the game.

She looked pissed and your heart lurched.

You took a cautious step forward. "Paige, I—"

"No." She held up a hand, her jaw tight. "You don't get to just show up here like this."

Your mouth went dry.

She scoffed, shaking her head as she took you in—your face, your posture, the nervous tension rolling off of you.

"Unbelievable," she muttered.

"I had to talk to you," you said quickly, voice almost breathless.

Paige let out a bitter laugh. "Had to talk to me?" She took a step closer, and you caught the flicker of something beneath her anger—hurt. "You disappear for almost weeks. Not a text. Not a call. Nothing. And now, suddenly, you have something to say?"

You swallowed hard. "I was scared, okay?" you replied, a subtle crack in your voice. "I—"

Paige let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair. "Scared of what, exactly?"

Of you. Of what this could be. Of feeling something real. Of the past.

You struggled to find the words, but Paige shook her head.

"Nah. You don't get to come here and give me half-assed answers," she snapped. "You don't get to just waltz back into my life after—" She exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "Do you have any idea how much it fucking sucked to wake up and realize you were gone again? To realize I was stupid enough to actually think..."

She trailed off, lips pressing together like she couldn't let herself finish. Guilt churned inside you.

"I fucked up," you admitted, voice softer now. "Big time. I know I did. And I don't expect you to forgive me just because I flew here. But I just needed to see you. I needed you to know that I regret it. All of it."

Paige's eyes searched yours, stormy and unreadable.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then she let out a bitter chuckle, shaking her head. "You really think you can just show up, say sorry, and I'll just—what? Act like it never happened?"

You stiffened at her words, but before you could respond, she continued.

"I'm not doing this again," she muttered, adjusting her duffle bag over her shoulder. "I'm not letting you back in just so you can run the second shit gets too real."

You felt a pang in your chest. "Paige—"

"Nah," she cut you off, eyes flashing. "You don't get to 'Paige' me right now."

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. For the first time since you arrived, you wondered if this had been a mistake.

Paige exhaled sharply, glancing away for a moment before shaking her head, almost to herself. When she looked back at you, there was something raw in her expression, something you hadn't seen before.

"Go home," she said quietly.

And just like that, she walked past you, disappearing into the night. Leaving you standing there, feeling more lost than ever.

july 27th 2021

The room felt emptier than it should.

Your half of the dorm had been stripped down to the essentials—no posters, no clothes spilling out of drawers, no sneakers tossed lazily near the door. Just a few boxes stacked near the bed, waiting to be carried out.

You were crouched in front of your dresser, grabbing the last of your things, when you heard the door open.

You didn’t have to look to know it was Paige.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching as you packed away the final remnants of your life at UConn.

“You’re actually leaving.” Her voice was even, but you caught the slight edge underneath it.

You huffed a quiet laugh, stuffing a hoodie into the last box. “Well, yeah. We’ve been over this.”

“Yeah, I know.” Paige crossed the room, dropping onto her bed, elbows resting on her knees. “Doesn’t make it any less shitty.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up to sit on the edge of your own bed. For the first time that night, you looked at her.

She looked… frustrated. Sad, maybe. But mostly frustrated.

“So… Notre Dame, huh?” she muttered, thrumming her fingers against her knee.

You nodded. “They want me.”

Paige’s jaw tensed. “UConn wanted you.” ‘I want you’ , but she doesn’t say that

You exhaled sharply. “UConn wants you. You’re the star.” Your voice held no venom, not a trace of envy.

Paige’s gaze snapped up, something flickering in her blue eyes.

“You know that’s not why I’m leaving,” you said, voice softer now, less defensive. “It’s not about you.”

Paige scoffed, shaking her head. “Feels like it.”

That caught you off guard.

You stared at her, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

It had always been complicated with Paige—this thing between you, this unspoken something that neither of you were ever brave enough to name. Maybe it was easier that way. Or maybe it was just safer.

You swallowed. “Paige—”

“Don’t.” She leaned back on her hands, tilting her head toward the ceiling like she was trying to keep her emotions in check. “You already made up your mind.”

Silence settled between you again. The worst part? She was right.

You were leaving. And she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

You sighed and stood up, grabbing the last few things off your desk. When you turned, Paige was already up, crossing the room to the half-filled box by your bed.

She didn’t say anything—just started gathering loose items and placing them inside.

You watched her for a second. There was no irritation in her movements, no unnecessary force. Just quiet resignation.

You didn’t stop her.

For the next few minutes, neither of you spoke. The room was filled with nothing but the occasional rustle of packing and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Eventually, Paige picked up a framed photo from your nightstand—the two of you from freshman year, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning after a big win.

Her thumb brushed over the glass. “You taking this?”

You hesitated, shrugging your shoulders. “I don’t know yet.”

She nodded once, then set it gently inside the box.

And that was that. No more arguing. No more trying to change your mind. Just Paige, quietly helping you pack up your life—piece by piece, moment by moment.

taglist (if you’d like to be removed from the series taglist LMK i promise i won’t be offended!) @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @starlighttsv @ekisokay @st4rrzynight @tndaqlwifwy @ohmybueckers @yailtsv @omg-imtumbling @xxloveralways14 @cowboylikeavaa @prettygirl-gabi @itsstavy13 @kaelaheartsyou @jnkbueckers @shootingstarrrrr @melpthatsme @sierrale8ne @unadulteratedcyclepaper @janessabaker @rosemariiaa

#⇢ ˗ˏˋ vamptizm writes ࿐ྂ #uconn wbb #paige bueckers #paige bueckers oneshot #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers smut

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mercvry-glow · 18 days ago

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My Name, My Undoing | In Another Light (3)

In Another Light masterlist - Jack x Ex!reader

warnings. warnings. age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 27), exes to lovers, slowburnish, jack and reader are bad at feelings, mentions of sex, reader is hinted to have some form of depression and anxiety, death of a child, reader has a panic attack, possible suicidal ideation, jack talks reader off the ledge, more to come as series continues

summary. You couldn't take it anymore, and then jack finds you.

notes. guys they actually talk! are we so excited? I actually love this chapter, and it really shows how jack and reader feel about each other right now so enjoy until next time!

wc. 3500+

You don’t remember how you got to the roof.

It wasn’t on purpose, not really. You couldn’t even say it was by choice. Just motion. Just instinct. You’d moved through the hallways like a ghost, past the flickering lights of the other floors, past the rest of the hospital still stained with echoes of its wrongdoings and failures. Up the back stairwell—where it took you three flights of stairs to realize you were running.

And now, here you were.

Always here.

The rooftop of PTMC was still, except for the soft hum of the HVAC units and the buzz of a broken security light above the door. The city sprawled beneath you like it was asleep, distant and disinterested. It was nearly midnight—too late for visitors, too early for any sort of real relief. That strange hour when the hospital turned into something else. When everything you’d been holding back started to claw its way out.

You gripped the black metal of the guardrail with both hands, knuckles white.

Your heart was pounding—too fast. Way too fast.

At first, you thought it was just residual adrenaline. A bad trauma, the worst one you’ve had in a while. Then you caught sight of Jack again after the code, leaning against the supply closet door outside the room like he owned the ER. Like you didn’t just lose a little girl. Like what just happened was normal or inevitable.

But it wasn’t just that…

Your chest felt tight. Not like in the poetic, sad way. In the real way. Like your lungs couldn’t quite inflate. Like every breath was getting caught halfway down.

You sucked in air through your nose, out through your mouth. In. Out. You’d coached patients through this before. You’d knelt beside stretchers and whispered them through panic, through pain, through the kind of fear that turned people into strangers.

But now you couldn’t even talk yourself down.

What could you do right?

Your fingers were tingling. Your vision was dark and swam at the edges. You tried to focus on the skyline, the blinking red tip of the UPMC tower. You tried grounding yourself—five things you could see, four you could touch—but your body was already moving without you. Too far ahead. Too loud.

You tried so hard.

The air was so loud.

Everything was spinning and you couldn’t get a grip. Couldn’t stop the thoughts from tearing you up inside.

You’d done this before. You’d worked this shift before. You’d lived through worse than losing just one patient.

So why did it feel like you were dying?

Your knees buckled a little, and you dropped into a crouch beside the ledge after passing the railing, arms wrapping tight around yourself like you could hold your tired bones together if you just squeezed hard enough. Your face pressed against the sleeve of your undershirt as the tears came—not gently, not soft.

Violent.

Gut-wrenching.

Shaking sobs that left your throat raw.

And still—your chest wouldn’t expand.

You felt stupid.

You felt weak.

You hated every bit of this.

You hated that you had come back. Hated how easy it had been to step into your old shoes, like no time had passed. Hated how Jack still looked at you like he knew you’d fall apart eventually.

And here you were.

Falling apart.

A sound—distant, metallic—rattled behind you. Maybe a door, maybe a car below, maybe just the wind playing tricks. But you didn’t turn.

You stayed curled up on the rooftop ledge, hidden from the light, hidden from the world, letting the worst of it bleed out of you into the dark August night.

You didn’t need help. You Couldn’t help.

You just needed space.

Just five minutes to breathe again.

Just five minutes to stop pretending you were fine...

40 minutes earlier

They’d rushed Sophie into Trauma 1 just after 11:00 p.m.—John had been the one to call you in.

"She’s crashing," he’d said. "We need the whole team!"

Sophie. Three years old. Belly pain. Fever. You’d seen her plenty of times tonight, tucked her into her bed with a warm blanket and a quiet promise that she’d be okay. Telling her mother it was probably just appendicitis, and that the scans you were about to present her would tell you more.

She wasn’t supposed to code.

You weren’t supposed to be losing her.

But by the time you got back to her bedside, she was blue around the lips, more so than she was when she arrived, and barely breathing. Her tiny body limp on the stretcher as two nurses started compressions. The rapid response team was already in motion. You jumped in without thinking—hands moving, voice steady even as the inside of your chest cracked open.

Epinephrine. Airway. Fluids. Chest compressions.

The clock ticked louder than the monitors.

You watched her flatline twice.

You noticed when Jack stepped into the room, silent at the edge of the chaos, watching as you, John, and the rest of the team worked in tandem. He didn’t say anything—just nodded once when the other attending looked to him.

Backup, or oversight. A cold sort of comfort.

Everyone tried for sixteen minutes.

And when Johen called time—23:28—you were the one holding the bag mask still pressed to her mouth, your normally steady hands trembling.

The room emptied quickly. Too quickly. You were left standing near her side, eyes locked on the stuffed bunny clutched in her arm, matted with sweat and betadine.

You didn’t realize how hard you were breathing until the ringing in your ears started. You stood frozen in the middle of Trauma One, the silence around you so sharp it felt like glass. The monitors were off now, the code cart was already wheeled out, and the team had cleared with a kind of practiced sorrow that only came from too many nights like this.

You were still staring at Sophie’s bunny, your fingers curled slightly like you didn’t know what to do with them now.

“Hey.” John’s voice came from your right, gentle, low—carefully measured like he knew how you felt. He wasn’t wearing gloves anymore, and his white sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, forearms still dusted with powdered latex and sweat. His dark eyes didn’t move past your face.

“I’ll talk to her mom,” he said, nodding slightly toward the hallway, toward the quiet room—where you knew Sophie’s mother had been waiting. “You don’t have to.”

You blinked. Swallowed. “No. No, I should—”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “I’ll do it. I’ll… I’ll figure out what the hell happened here. Go upstairs or sit down or—I don’t care, just take a second. You don’t need to be a hero right now.”

You opened your mouth like you were going to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. You were barely holding yourself upright.

“She liked you,” John added, softer this time. “That kid lit up every time you walked in the room, you didn’t deserve this either.”

That broke something. You let out a shaky breath, looking anywhere but the stretcher.

John squeezed your arm briefly, then moved past you toward the door. “If you’re not gone in five minutes, I’m kicking your ass out of here myself.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a lifeline.

John was good at giving you those.

You stood there a moment longer—just long enough to see the dark haired male disappear down the hall—and then you turned, heart pounding as you walked straight past Jack.

He was outside the trauma bay. Leaning against the far wall where one of the supply closets was, arms crossed. Not smug. Not distant either. Just watching you like he knew what was coming. Like he could see the unraveling starting at your seams.

And maybe he could.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t say a word.

You just walked—through the ER, through the hospital, into the stairwell, and kept going until the weight of it all finally knocked you down.

Present

You curled further in on yourself, forehead pressing to your knees. Your scrubs were damp with sweat and tears, your fingers cramping from the way you’d been gripping your sleeves.

You couldn’t stop seeing her face.

Three years old, with curls stuck to her fevered forehead and those wide, scared eyes that had looked up at you for reassurance in place of her mother. You had given it to her. You had promised her she would be okay.

You lied.

And now a mom was down there somewhere without her baby. Sitting in a quiet room with the weight of the world collapsing on her chest. While you were up here—useless. Shaking. Sobbing. Falling apart because the truth was you didn’t know how to carry this anymore.

The night held a weight the day could never carry.

The door behind you creaked faintly again, metal on metal.

You flinched but didn’t turn around.

Heavy steps crossed the gravel-dusted rooftop. Slow. Sturdy. Hesitant.

And then silence. Whoever it was stopped a few feet back, giving you space. Maybe unsure of whether to come closer, or maybe just unwilling to intrude on a grief this loud.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You knew who it was.

Of course it was Jack.

The silence stretched out between you, hanging there like the fog of your breath in the thick air. He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t reach for you like someone who had the right to touch you. He just stood there, a steady presence on the periphery—anchoring you in a way that made you feel both seen and raw.

“I told her she’d be okay,” you croaked out eventually, voice wrecked and hoarse from the sobs. “She was scared, and I told them it was probably just appendicitis. I told her she’d be okay.”

Jack didn’t answer.

You finally looked over your shoulder. Just a glance. He was standing with his hands on his hips, his jaw clenched but not too tight, hazel eyes locked on you—not pitying. Not judging. Just… there, always there. Like gravity. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

Your breath hitched again, chest spasming.

“She died thinking I lied to her,” you whispered.

This time, he stepped a little closer, but still didn’t cross that invisible line. Just enough that you could feel the weight of him beside you, the way you used to feel it late at night, when the world was too quiet and his presence was the only thing loud enough to hold you together.

“She didn’t die because of you,” Jack said, his voice low and firm. “You did everything right.”

You shook your head, curling back in. “It wasn’t enough.”

“It’s never enough,” he said, after a beat. “But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing your damp baby hairs back from your face. You were still shaking. Still crying. But there was something about hearing his voice that made the panic in your chest loosen just a fraction.

Not gone. Not better.

But less alone.

And sometimes that was the best you could hope for.

You didn’t ask him to stay, you never have.

He just did.

Quietly. Unmoving.

Like he knew what it meant to come undone in the middle of the night, on the roof of a trauma center, where the only thing keeping you from breaking was the sound of another person breathing just a few feet away.

Like he remembered what your silence sounded like.

And knew exactly what it meant.

You don’t know how long you two sat there—sweat cooling, panic fading into exhaustion. The sobs came less frequently now, worn out by the force of them, replaced by tremors that wouldn’t stop no matter how tightly you hugged your knees.

Jack still hadn’t moved.

Eventually, you spoke again, voice cutting the silence.

“I shouldn’t have come back.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. The silence lingered for a beat longer than you could handle. And then:

“But you did.”

You flinched at the sound of his voice again—more than a whisper now. Real. Solid. Like you couldn’t pretend this wasn’t happening.

He stepped closer again. Still not too close. Still giving you the space you needed. But near enough now that when you finally looked up again, you could see the shadows under his eyes. He looked tired. Not just shift tired, but something deeper.

You wondered if he saw the same thing in you.

“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” he said. “Not like this.”

That got to you. You laughed, or something close to it—hollow and mean. “Not like this,” you repeated back, wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand, definitely smearing your mascara. “And what would be the right way, Jack? Crying in front of the woman who just lost her daughter? Losing it in front of everyone downstairs?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a frown. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” you cut in. “I know what you meant.”

There was a thick pause between you. Then, quietly:

“This is the first time you’ve said anything to me in over a year.”

Jack’s shoulders tensed. You saw it. Just barely. But he didn’t deny it.

You didn’t mean to look at him like that—raw, vulnerable. It slipped out anyway.

And it was too much.

Too much to be near him like this. Too much to feel everything that had been packed away and ignored and buried beneath a year of silence and pretending you didn’t care. You couldn’t do this. Not now. Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

“Don’t,” you said, voice cracking. “Please, Jack. Don’t do this now.”

“Do what?”

“Talk to me,” you snapped, harsher than you meant to, the words burning in your throat. “Pretending like nothing happened. Like we can just—pick up right where we left off, like before we got together and pretend that we’re just friends.”

Jack didn’t flinch. But he didn’t look away, either.

“I’m not pretending nothing happened,” he said. His voice was lower now. Careful. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I? Because I distinctly remember you saying that I didn’t know you at all,” you whispered.

Silence again. And this time it was the kind that cut.

You stood up slowly, every muscle trembling from effort and exhaustion, your heart pounding again—not from panic now, but from the weight of his presence. The sound of his voice. His stupid face. That look in his eyes that still undid you.

Your arms wrapped around your middle like they might hold in the scream rising in your chest.

“I’m not ready for this.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” you said, voice higher, sharp with panic again. “I can’t do this. I can’t talk about us—not tonight. I can’t breathe, Jack. I can barely fucking think.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to.”

You let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and turned away again, facing the skyline like it might ground you.

Your voice was smaller when you spoke again. “Why did you follow me up here?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Because I knew you’d come up here to suffer alone… and I didn’t want that for you.”

That almost ruined you.

Your throat clenched tight. Your jaw shook.

“I thought you didn’t care anymore,” you said, barely audible.

“I never stopped.”

The words hit you square in the chest. No warning. No soft lead-in. And suddenly it was all too loud again—the wind, your breathing, your thoughts, your past slamming into you like a freight train.

You dropped your face into your hands and shook your head violently. “Shut up! I can’t do this—”

Jack didn’t move closer.

But he didn’t leave either.

So you stood there, falling apart all over again—heart racing, chest squeezing, eyes burning—while the man who broke your heart watched it all happen in silence. Not asking for forgiveness. Not offering a fix.

Just staying.

Just standing there with you.

Because maybe that’s all either of you could give tonight.

“Hey,” Jack said, voice low. “Can we… maybe take a step back from the edge?”

You didn’t answer.

Your knees still felt like they might give out again, and your lungs were tight, your hands trembling from where you’d braced them on your thighs.

“I know you don’t want anyone to see you like this,” he added, softer now. “Least of all me.”

You blinked hard, staring at the roof gravel, the skyline blurring past the haze in your eyes. Jack exhaled, steadying himself, maybe steadying you. “You don’t have to say anything. But just—c’mon. Let’s step back a little, yeah?”

You were quiet for a few seconds too long, until he took a half-step closer and offered his hand—not reaching, not pushing. Just there.

“Can’t have you doing your best Batman impression up here,” he murmured. “You’re way too tired for vigilante hours.”

It was a weak joke, but it landed gently. Your breath hitched in something that could’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt so much.

“You’re not funny,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

“Never claimed to be,” Jack said, just as quiet.

You finally took his hand.

His grip was warm. Solid. Familiar in the way that made your chest hurt even more.

He helped you to your feet slowly, like he remembered how your body locked up when you were overwhelmed. Like he still knew you, even after all this time.

Once upright, you swayed slightly, and he didn’t let go. Just stayed steady beside you, his hand still loosely curled around yours, like if he let go too quickly, you might fall apart again.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, trying not to look at him.

“I know.”

You swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Probably not,” Jack said gently. “But I am.”

Silence fell again, thick and full of everything neither of you were ready to say.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you finally admitted, the words leaving you brittle.

“I know,” he repeated.

You stared out at the city, your chest aching, your eyes hot. Jack stood close—close enough that you could feel his presence, but far enough not to crowd you.

“Do you wanna sit down again, now that we know you’re not going to hurl yourself off the roof?” he asked. “Or do you wanna go back down?”

In truth, you didn’t know what you wanted. Everything was too much right now. But the one thing you knew was that you didn’t want to be alone, even if that meant your company was Jack.

Not right now.

So you nodded, to what you don’t exactly know.

And Jack didn’t say anything else.

He just stayed. Right there with you, in the quiet. Not fixing it. Not filling the silence.

Just staying.

Something you didn’t know he could do.

Eventually your breathing slowed, falling in pace with Jack's own. The sniffles still continued, accompanied by a few quick, short breaths. The stutter in your chest did nothing to dull the overall ache, but for the time being, it was enough to just sit in silence.

You glanced over at him. He was sitting forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on some far-off point on the floor like it held all the answers he didn’t have. The overhead light cast soft shadows over his face, catching the curve of his cheekbone, the dip in his brow. His salt-and-pepper curls were disheveled, pushed back like he’d run his hands through them too many times tonight. The freckles lined across his nose and cheeks were more noticeable under stars tonight, like faint constellations on skin gone pale with stress.

His hazel eyes were tired now, or maybe they always were and you never took the time to notice. Dull around the edges, just like your own. There was a tremble in his jaw, not quite a twitch, more like tension he hadn’t figured out how to let go of. A few days’ worth of stubble darkened his face, and beneath it all, his muscles tensed beneath his scrubs like he was bracing for impact from you that never came.

The two of you hadn’t said much. Just sat there, breathing beside one another like the old days, holding silence like it was the only thing keeping you two upright. But you didn’t need words. Not when the grief was so visible on him—etched in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his thumb moved absently against the seam of his pants, like he needed to do something with his hands or else fall apart.

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging again. Not because you were alone in this—but because you weren’t.

Because he looked just as wrecked as you felt right now.

And you didn’t know what to say to him.

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onlymexsarah · 7 months ago

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Burning Flames I || Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!reader Summary: Since you became High Fae there were only two things that scared you: your deadly power and your attraction toward the male you should hate most after Tamlin, Eris Vanserra. Warnings: less Eris than what you might expect, but with the next episode you'll forgive me; and english is not my first language :)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

The first time Eris saw you was at the High Lords meeting. As soon as he had entered the room something flickered in Eris' chest, something warm that made his eyes looking around, a bored look on his calculated face, as he studied where the source of that flicker was. Then, his eyes laid on you, and oh gods if he had to call all his five centuries of practise to keep his breath from catching.

Before his eyes was the most beautiful female he had ever seen. He felt an unknown urge to know your name, your story, what had brought you there. Your eyes were on his father, studying him as the Vanserras had entered the room.

Eris took a second to realize that you were seated between the High Lady of the Night Court and another bautiful female. All three of you looking oddly similar to one another, and it was that moment that he realized who you were. You and the female at your left were two of the three High Lady's sisters, turned High Fae by Hybhern. Twins, he realized as he looked at the two of you. So close you looked like fire and ice. Your features were warm, even the colors of your hair, skin and eyes were a warm contrast to Nesta's cold features, all sharp and icy.

Your eyes scanned all his brothers until they fell on him, and Eris kept a cold face as you studied him, his posture, how his brothers obeyed to him.

Your eyes flickered quickly to Mor, then on him again and Eris could tell the exact moment that you connected who he was, because you grimaced and turned your face in a cold and dismissal expression. Of course the bastards would spread what happened with Mor; he thought with bitter humor. He gave you a lazy, mocking grin before turning his attention on Thesan, who now was talking to welcome everyone.

It was when Tamlin appeared that he felt that warm flicker inside him again, and when he curiously looked at you what he saw pietrified him. It wasn't cold that shimmered in your eyes. There were pure, burning flames in them.

Two punds of raging, wild, unforgiving fire were now locked on the High Lord of the Spring Court, and for a moment Eris was thankful that you have just watched him with dismissal distain, because what you were giving Tamlin was a promise of slow, painful death.

“It was so easy for you to call me a monster, despite all I did for you, for your family.” A sneer from Tamlin toward you and your twin. “Yet you witnessed all that he did Under the Mountain, and still spread your legs for him. Fitting, I suppose. He whored for Amarantha for decades. Why shouldn’t you be his whore in return?”

Eris saw your hands gripping the arms of the chair, your knuckles white from the strenght. You were going to kill him, he was sure of that. You were going to kill Tamlin someday.

***

You could feel your power, rising in your body, begging to be lashed out.

As you watched Tamlin's smug smirk a lovely imagine formed in your mind. Tamlin's body burning from the inside out, his blood boiling with your flames, his flesh coming down slowly and painfully while he begged to stop. Yes, more you looked at him and more that imagine gave you comfort.

He was the one who had sold you and your sisters to Hybern. He was the one who locked Feyre inside his house, who forbade her from doing anything she wanted. He was the one who responsible for your sisters' traumas, and you were going to make him pay.

You wondered if you were imagining his sweat on his forehead, his hand coming to adjust his shirt's collar every now and then, his breath heavier with every minute. It was if for once your power had listened to you and was now doing what you wanted.

Careful, for how much I'd like to see his blood boiling up it wouldn't win you many alliances to defend the humans. Rhysand's velvet voice appeared in your head, making you blink few times before lettiing go the arms of your chair and calming your breath.

Sorry. You answered him, not feeling ashamed at all. Tamlin was targetting Rhysand too, the male who saved you and gave you a place to call home, promising you that he would keep your sisters safe.

“You’re insane,” Feyre breathed to Tamlin as Varian bared his teeth. “Do you hear what you’re saying?” Your sister pointed toward you and Nesta. “Hybern turned my sisters into Fae, after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!”

“Perhaps Ianthe’s mind was already in Rhysand’s thrall. And what a tragedy to remain young and beautiful. You’re a good actress, I’m sure the trait runs in the family.” said Tamlin with a scoff.

"It seems like you love to insinuate what an Ancheron girl want in her life and what she doesn't." You said slowly, your voice burning with fire as you locked your eyes with his. "I hope the trait doesn't ruin in your court. If you had any left after you let Hybern in their houses."

Tamlin snarled at you, and you only lift your chin higher not feeling scared or intimidated even for a moment. Many things had changed since he had come and wrecked your cottage, and now he was the one who had to be afraid.

"You'll find out, Tamlin..." said Rhysand with a bored voice. "That nothing good come out from telling an Archeron what to do. But you should already know that."

You could feel the flames inside you ready to be leashed out, but you kept them at bay, knowing that all it needed was for Tamlin to make a move toward you or your sisters and you would let them out. It wouldn't matter if you burned too, you would make sure to incinerate Tamlin.

“Pity you didn’t bring the other sister. I hear our little brother’s mate is quite the beauty.” snorted the male you had recognized as Eris. Your eyes snapped to met his and you found him already looking at you.

As soon as he had walked inside the room your brain had gone silent for a moment. He was, with your deepest annoyance, the most beautiful male you had ever seen, and that thought alone was enough to make you ashamed. You had needed few seconds to recognize who he was, and as soon as you put the name on his face you had grimaced at the thought of have called him beautiful in your mind.

You narrowed your eyes, your hands hitching from the unleashed power you were keeping inside your body. If they did as much as to hurt Elain you would incinerate all of the red haired family in front of you.

Eris seemed to understand your look, because he only smirked amused at you before Mor's voice caught his attention. “You still certainly like to hear yourself talk, Eris. Good to know some things don’t change over the centuries.”

Eris’s mouth curled into a smile at the words, the careful game of pretending that they had not seen each other in years. “Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut.”

You had barely widened your eyes, disgusted by his words, as a flash of blue light passed in front of your eyes. A moment Eris was seated, the next he was on the ground, Azriel over him.

You hid a smirk behind your hand as you watched Azriel's hands around Eris' throat, and the heir of Autumn running out of air. It didn't matter if you had a secret alliance with him, he had no problem into proving how horrible he was.

When the alliance had been forged the Inner Circle had proceeded to tell you and Nesta what kind of person Eris was. How he had left Mor die because she had refused to marry him. How he had hunted your sister and Lucien when they were escaping the Spring Court.

So, the show that was now in front of your eyes made you amused for the first time since you had been taken from home. Your sister, Feyre, stopped Azriel and invited him to sit beside her, making all of your shift of one chair.

He sat at your right, and after a careful speech from Feyre, Eris apologized with Mor. It was curious that the Lady of the Autumn Court, Eris' mother, watched him with an approval look as he apologized. Maybe not everyone in the Vanserra family was horrible.

Around you everything was going down. Thesand had proposed an antidote for the faebane and while the Night Court was willing to try it, Beron threw free insults to your sister and Rhysand.

Thesan asked, “And you believe the human armies there will bow to Hybern?”

“Its queens sold us out,” Nesta said. She lifted her chin, poised as any emissary. “For the gift of immortality, the human queens will allow Hybern in to sweep away any resistance. They might very well hand over control of their armies to him.” Nesta looked to you, to Feyre, to Rhys. “Where do the humans on our island go? We cannot evacuate them to the continent, and with the wall intact … Many might rather risk waiting than cross over the wall anyway.”

“The fate of the humans below the wall,” Beron cut in, “is none of our concern. Especially in a spit of land with no queen, no army.”

"There are people." You said angryly while the fire run hotter inside your body. All you could see was Beron's disgusting face and his arrogance. "There are families. A moment ago you were all horrified about Amarantha killing the Winter Court's children, but now since they are humans its different?" You asked looking to every High Lords in the eyes, watching them shocked and uncredoulous. "Humans children are less than yours?" Your eyes locked with Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court.

"Careful with your accusation." said Kallias with a low voice.

"Careful with your next actions." You said back, letting him see the fire in your eyes, calling back your emissary voice. "How many parents had died trying to protect their kids from Amarantha?"

It was Viviane who answered, her hand closed thighly around her mate's. "All of them."

You rose your chin high, watching her right in the eyes. "Every human will fight againsgt Hybern. With or without your help, they will fight for their children, their families. And they will die too, without your help, hoping for a better future."

“So go waste your own soldiers defending them,” Beron said. “I will not send my own forces to protect chattel.”

Your eyes snapped back on him. “You’re a coward,” Feyre breathed to the High Lord of Autumn. Even Rhys tensed.

At some point Feyre hit Beron with her power, breaking his shield and trapping him in a bubble of water. Your eyebrows rose, surprised to see your sister's full powers.

Let us out, your flames begged. We will end him.

No. You couldn't let them out. Your power felt too descructive to be leasshed in a room full of people. It was better burning from the inside out rather than burning everyone you cared for.

Your sister seemed to calm down after a while, letting Beron breath again with your displeasure. How could someone so horrible be still alive after centuries? Why no one had never killed him?

The display of Feyre's power got the High Lords tensed up. She had showed them she had all their powers and not all of them were too happy.

“The power belongs to us. I think it is,” Beron seethed making you close your hands on your laps in tight fits. if he did as much as take a step toward your sister he would find that your fire was hotter and more dangerous than his.

You could feel them, the flames, starting to come out from your hands. Beron would let the humans die for his own benefits, he will never see reason.

But it was when your sister apologized to the Lady of the Autumn Court and Beron called her human filth that everythink around you exploded.

You felt your power lashing out, and as much killing Beron would only bring you happiness, there was one thing you wanted more. and it was for him to be afraid of you. So when your fire lashed out you stood up and directed it to the chair on which Beron was seated, making him fall on a pile of burning wood.

He yelled in pain. Your fire was circling him like snakes ready to strike, and it felt so good to let it out finally. The room fell quiet, everyone was looking at you but your eyes were fixed on the High Lord of the Autumn Court who now looked at you with a promise of death in his eyes.

"We are here to discuss an imminet war against Hybern." I said deadly serious while every inch of you fought to control the flames that now were out and extremely close to the Vanserra's other memeber. "But talk to my sister like that again, and next time I won't be aiming at the chair."

Beron shot to his feet, his hand still tring to make the little flames on his clothes stop, and declared to no one in particular, “This meeting is over. I hope Hybern butchers you all.”

"This meeting is not over." said Nesta raising on her feet.

She stood tall, a pillar of steel. “You are all there is,” she said to Beron, to all of them. “You are all that there is between Hybern and the end of everything that is good and decent.” She settled her stare on Beron, unflinching and fierce. “You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?”

Your eyes studied all the Vanserra sons, marking how Eris gestured for his brothers to sit and how his eyes met yours again. You expected to find challenge, rage for what you did to his father, but instead something fickered in his eyes. Something like...pride?

Your confusion must have shown on your face because his expression become amused, and you quickly looked away from him. You didn't want for the heir of Autumn to study you, to think you cared what he thought of you.

“You may hate us. I don’t care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.” said Nesta at your side.

“And you know this how?” Beron sneered.

"We went into the Cauldron." You said, pushing away the horrible memories that came back. “It showed us his heart. He will bring down the wall, and butcher those on either side of it.”

Nesta looked to Kallias and Viviane. “I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent.” She shook her head. “But beneath the wall, I witnessed children—entire families—starve to death.” She jerked her chin at you and Feyra. “Were it not for my sisters… I would be among them.”

She was right. You and Nesta might have been twins, but you were born few days before her and that made you the oldest, and as the oldest you had taken upon yourself to provide for your family when the money had ended.

"We are not asking you to protect them." You said firmly, taking Nesta's hand in yours while you watched every High Lord in the eyes. "We are asking you to give them a chance to survive. To fight together for your lands. They have spent centuries starving and dying while you were here with every comfort. They hate you? Yes. They will ask for your help? No. That's why we are here, because without you there will be no human left after this war."

Thesan cleared his throat. “While a noble sentiment, the details of the Treaty did not demand we provide for our human neighbors. They were to be left alone. So we obeyed.”

"Because they are scared of you." You said. "Because most of your kind have enslaved them for centuries. And they are afraid that if they let you close it will happen again. Show them they are wrong. Show them your strenght doesn't have only evil ends, but it can help to build a future where no children, human or Fae, will have to worry ever again."

"You have been entrusted with protecting this land.” Nesta scanned the faces around her. “How can you not fight for it?”

She looked to Beron and his family as she finished. Only the Lady and Eris seemed to be considering, impressed, even, by your and Nesta's speech. You met Eris' eyes again, and you looked at him determinated. He needed to convince his father to fight together, because otherwise the human lands would be reduce to ash.

You thought you had imagined it as he gave you a subt nod, masking it with his hand under his chin. What was it? A promise? Did he understand the gravity of the situantion and actually cared? Or was it only to ensure his alliance with the Night Court?

Beron only said, “I shall consider it.” A look at his family, and they vanished.

Eris stood behind just for few seconds, his eyes scanning all of us, his expression unreadable. His eyes fell on the pool in front of us, then on you and then on the pile of ashes beside him where his father had been seated. Something sparkled in his eyes as if he was understanding something, then with one last curious look toward you he vanished too.

You let out a breath you hadn't realize you were holding, and you seated on your chair again, feeling the tiredness that the leash of power left inside you. Your eyes fell on the pool, and, even if impossible, your blood froze.

There was no water left inside the pool.

That's what Eris had been looking. That's how powerful your flames had been. They had made the magic water evaporate into nothing. You looked over Thesan apogetically, but he just waved a hand as if to dismiss it while water appeared again.

At least now they know who is fighting with the humans. Maybe it was what they needed to convince themself, Rhys' voice appeared in your head with a calming tone, as if he had sensed your terror at what you have done.

What if I hurt someone of our army? You asked panicked in your head, trying to keep a neutral face while your sister was speaking to the High Lords.

I'll make sure it won't happen. Rhysand said firmly and yet kindly. I promise you.

#eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra #acotar #autumn court #rhysand #high lords meeting #sarah j maas #cassian #azriel #morrigan #helion #beron vanserra #lady of autumn #night court #velaris #feyra archeron #elain archeron #nesta archeron

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rafeskai · 7 months ago

Text

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter One

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the movie "Life as We Know It"! Let's pretend Rafe, Sarah, and John B. had a good relationship in this one, okay?

Masterlist: Here

Your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the shrill ring cutting through the early evening quiet. You were in the middle of folding laundry, your small apartment illuminated by the fading sunlight streaming through the windows. It was a peaceful, mundane moment—until it wasn’t.

You wiped your hands on a towel before glancing at the screen. Unknown Number. Normally, you’d let it go to voicemail, but something about the pit forming in your stomach made you swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

“Is this [Y/N]?” a man’s voice asked, calm but with an edge that made your chest tighten.

“Yes, this is she. Who’s calling?”

“This is Officer Langley with the Outer Banks Police Department. I... I’m afraid I have some difficult news.”

The world around you seemed to blur. You clutched the phone tighter, your knuckles turning white. “What happened?”

“There’s been an accident,” he said. “Sarah Cameron and John B. Routledge were involved in a car collision earlier this evening. Neither survived. You were one of their emergency contact.”

The words didn’t make sense. They felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else’s story. Your knees buckled, and you stumbled to the couch, sinking into the cushions.

“What about Willa, the daughter?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

There was a pause, and then, “She’s unharmed. The baby was with a sitter at the time. But there’s... another matter we need to discuss.”

You barely heard the rest of his explanation, your mind spinning with the weight of what he’d just told you. Sarah and John B. were gone. Gone.

When the officer mentioned the will, your thoughts screeched to a halt. “I don’t understand,” you said, your voice hoarse. “What do you mean ‘co-guardian’?”

“They named you and Rafe Cameron, her brother, as Willa’s legal guardians,” the officer repeated.

The line went quiet as you tried to process the impossibility of his words. Rafe Cameron? The same Rafe who couldn’t string together a week of good decisions if his life depended on it?

“Is... is he aware of this?” you managed.

“We’ve been trying to reach him. He’s next on my list.”

As if on cue, somewhere across town, Rafe Cameron was staring at his own buzzing phone with a mix of irritation and curiosity. The caller ID was unfamiliar, and he let it ring a few extra times before finally swiping to answer.

“Who is this?” he barked, already annoyed.

“Mr. Cameron, this is Officer Langley with the Outer Banks Police Department. I need to inform you—”

“If this is about the stupid noise complaint, I wasn’t even here last night,” Rafe interrupted, pacing his living room.

“It’s not about that.” The officer’s tone was grave, and Rafe froze mid-step.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been an accident. Your sister, Sarah, and her partner, John B., were involved in a fatal car crash earlier this evening.”

Rafe’s mouth went dry. He sank onto the edge of the couch, gripping the phone so tightly it felt like it might crack. “What... what do you mean, ‘fatal’?”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” the officer continued, his voice gentle. “They didn’t survive the collision.”

Rafe’s world tilted. His first instinct was disbelief—this had to be a mistake. But the silence that followed the officer’s words told him otherwise.

“And the baby?” Rafe asked after a long pause, his voice low and strained.

“Willa is safe. She wasn’t with them during the accident,” the officer said. “But there’s something else. According to their will, you and Ms. [Y/N] are named as her co-guardians.”

“What?” Rafe snapped, his disbelief quickly giving way to anger. “That can’t be right. Why would they do that?”

“You’ll need to meet with us to discuss the next steps,” the officer said. “I’ll send over the details.”

Rafe barely heard the rest of the conversation before the call ended. He dropped the phone onto the couch beside him, running both hands through his hair as his mind raced.

Co-guardian? With her?

It wasn’t long before your phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Rafe. His message was short and sharp:

“We need to talk. Now.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The next few hours blurred into a painful haze. You and Rafe found yourselves sitting in the cramped office of the Outer Banks Police Department, a thin folder containing Sarah and John B.'s will resting on the table between you.

The room smelled of coffee and stale air, and the fluorescent lighting above only made everything feel more surreal. You glanced at Rafe from the corner of your eye. He was stiff in the chair beside you, his jaw clenched, eyes red-rimmed but steely.

Officer Langley sat across from you, his expression carefully neutral. Beside him was a lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman in a navy suit who looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

“The will is clear,” the lawyer said, her tone crisp and no-nonsense. “Ms. [Y/N] and Mr. Cameron are the appointed co-guardians of Willa Routledge. In the event of Sarah Cameron and John B. Routledge’s passing, the two of you are to assume all parental responsibilities.”

Rafe let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, that’s great. But let’s be real, you think either of us is qualified to raise a kid?”

“You don’t have a choice,” the lawyer replied without missing a beat. “Unless you want to contest the will, which would result in Willa being placed in temporary foster care until the matter is resolved.”

“No,” you said immediately, your voice firmer than you expected. “That’s not happening.”

Rafe shot you a glance, his eyes narrowing. “And what exactly do you think is going to happen here? You think we’re just gonna team up and play house?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. “This isn’t about us, Rafe. It’s about Willa. She needs stability, and we’re all she’s got.”

Rafe rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Whatever. But don’t expect me to know what the hell I’m doing.”

The lawyer nodded, seemingly satisfied. “We’ll arrange for a formal meeting in a few days to finalize the transfer of guardianship. For now, Willa will remain with her current sitter until the two of you are ready to take her home.”

The word home hung heavy in the air, an impossible concept when everything felt so fractured.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The hours that followed were a whirlwind. After leaving the police department, you and Rafe were directed to the funeral home to begin arrangements for Sarah and John B.’s services.

Rafe took the lead, though it was clear the responsibility weighed on him. He stood stiffly in front of the funeral director, nodding silently as they walked through options for caskets, flowers, and the service itself.

“They’d want it simple,” Rafe muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Nothing flashy. Just... something that feels like them.”

You could see the cracks forming in his composure, the grief seeping through despite his best efforts to hold it together.

“I’ll handle the guest list,” you offered softly, hoping to lighten his load in any way you could.

He nodded but didn’t look at you. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice tight.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Later, you found yourself sitting in the corner of the funeral home’s waiting area, scrolling through your phone to contact people who needed to know. It was an exhausting task, one that made the reality of the situation sink deeper with every call.

Rafe was pacing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. From the snippets of his conversation, you guessed he was calling his father, Ward.

“No, Dad, I’ve got it under control,” Rafe said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “I don’t need you coming down here and making it about you. Just... send what you need to send and stay out of it.”

The conversation ended with Rafe tossing his phone onto a nearby chair and sitting down heavily. For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down on you like a physical force.

“She didn’t deserve this,” Rafe said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You looked over at him, surprised by the rawness in his tone. His head was in his hands, and for the first time, he looked utterly broken.

“No,” you agreed softly. “She didn’t. Neither of them did.”

Rafe didn’t respond, and you didn’t push. Grief was a strange, solitary thing, and you knew better than to try to force him to share it.

But as you sat there in the quiet, Willa’s face flashed in your mind—those wide, innocent eyes that didn’t yet understand what she’d lost. And you realized that no matter how fractured things were between you and Rafe, you’d have to find a way to piece them together. For her.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The morning of the funeral was gray and cold, the sky heavy with clouds that mirrored the weight in your chest. The Outer Banks, usually vibrant and alive, seemed subdued, as if the island itself were mourning.

You stood at the back of the small church, clutching Willa to your chest. She was dressed in a tiny black dress that Sarah had once bought “just in case,” her soft curls pinned back with a white bow. She didn’t understand what was happening, her chubby hands reaching for your necklace as if this were just another day.

But it wasn’t.

The pews were packed with people from all corners of the island—friends, family, neighbors, even people who barely knew Sarah and John B. Everyone had come to say goodbye.

At the front of the church, two caskets stood side by side, draped in simple white flowers. The sight of them made your stomach churn, a wave of nausea rolling over you as the reality hit again. They were gone.

Rafe sat in the front row, his shoulders hunched, his hands gripping the edges of the pew. He was flanked by Ward and Rose, both of whom looked perfectly composed, their grief hidden behind practiced masks. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger toward them—toward Ward, especially. How could he sit there so calm when Sarah, his daughter, was gone?

The service began with soft hymns, the sound of the organ filling the air. The pastor spoke of love, loss, and legacy, his voice steady but kind. He shared stories of Sarah’s infectious smile and John B.’s unyielding spirit, painting a picture of the lives they’d led and the love they’d left behind.

When it came time for eulogies, Rafe surprised you by standing. He adjusted his tie awkwardly, clearing his throat as he approached the podium.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring out at the crowd, his usual bravado nowhere to be found.

“Sarah wasn’t just my sister,” he began, his voice hoarse. “She was my anchor. She kept me grounded, even when I didn’t deserve it. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”

He paused, his eyes glistening. “And John B.? He was... he was family. He took care of Sarah, made her happy in a way I couldn’t. He was my brother, even if I never said it out loud.”

His voice cracked, and he gripped the edges of the podium tightly, trying to steady himself. “They didn’t deserve this. They had so much left to give. But... they left us Willa. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure she knows how amazing her parents were.”

Rafe stepped back, his head bowed, and you felt an unexpected lump rise in your throat. For all his flaws, his grief was real, and it was impossible not to feel the depth of his pain.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

After the service, the crowd filtered out to the cemetery, where Sarah and John B. would be laid to rest. The air was heavy with the sound of muffled sobs and the soft rustle of the breeze through the trees.

You stood a little apart from the others, bouncing Willa gently to keep her calm. Rafe was nearby, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his expression unreadable.

As the caskets were lowered into the ground, you felt an ache so deep it seemed to hollow you out. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t wipe them away. Grief deserved space, and today, there was nothing to do but let it exist.

When the ceremony ended, Rafe approached you, his face pale and drawn. He hesitated for a moment before gesturing to Willa.

“Can I hold her?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You nodded, carefully passing her over. She went willingly, her small hands gripping the lapels of his coat. For a moment, Rafe just stared at her, his features softening in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“She looks like Sarah,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“She does,” you agreed, watching as Willa rested her head against his chest.

In that moment, standing beside the fresh graves of the people you both loved, it became clear that nothing about this would be easy. But as you looked at Rafe holding Willa, you realized that maybe—just maybe—there was hope. For her, you would find a way.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A few hours after the funeral, the weight of the day still hung heavy in the air as you and Rafe sat in the conference room of the law office. The small table between you seemed to represent the chasm that had always existed between you two—now more evident than ever.

The lawyers—two of them now, both stern-faced and clearly used to handling the messier sides of life—sat across from you, speaking in professional tones about the formalities. Child services was represented by a no-nonsense woman in her mid-forties who seemed to take notes every time either of you shifted in your seat.

Willa, still in your arms, had drifted off to sleep, her tiny breath soft against your chest. She had no idea that her life was being turned upside down today.

“Everything seems to be in order,” one of the lawyers said, flipping through the paperwork in front of him. “Guardianship has been transferred to both of you as per the will, and now, we just need to finalize arrangements for Willa’s immediate care.”

Rafe, who had been largely silent up until this point, suddenly leaned forward. His sharp eyes met the lawyer’s, and his jaw tightened as he spoke.

“We’ll be taking Willa home with us today. Both of us,” he said firmly, his tone brokering no argument.

The child services worker, Ms. Anderson, looked up from her notepad, her brow furrowed. “Mr. Cameron, I understand the circumstances, but we would like to ensure that both of you are prepared for the responsibility of guardianship. Willa’s safety and well-being are paramount. It’s important to assess—”

“I’m prepared,” Rafe cut her off, his voice cold and final. “I’m not asking, I’m telling you. She stays with me.”

The room went quiet for a beat as Ms. Anderson studied him. You could see the flicker of concern in her eyes as she turned to you, silently asking for your input.

You hesitated. Part of you was reluctant to let Willa stay in that house, with Rafe—the person who had been nothing but trouble for years. But the other part of you knew that, for better or worse, you didn’t have many options. You were in this with him now, and if he was willing to take on that responsibility, you couldn’t exactly argue against it.

“She’ll stay with me, too,” you added softly, catching Rafe’s eye. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to let her stay alone with you, not yet.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened again, but this time, there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. A flicker of understanding. “Fine. We’ll take her. But we’re doing this together. It’s not just your decision, [Y/N].”

You didn’t argue with him. He was right. This wasn’t just your choice anymore. You shared the responsibility, whether you liked it or not.

Ms. Anderson nodded, taking notes. “We’ll have to conduct an assessment in the next few days, and I’ll be following up regularly. But for now, if both of you are in agreement, Willa can go with you.”

Rafe stood abruptly, crossing the room and grabbing the folder of documents from the lawyer’s desk. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

As he turned to leave, the lawyer called after him. “Mr. Cameron, please ensure that you maintain contact with child services for further evaluations.”

Rafe gave a terse nod without looking back.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The drive to the Cameron estate was a tense one, the silence thick with unspoken thoughts. You sat in the passenger seat, holding Willa close, her tiny body pressed against you as she slept. Rafe drove, his grip on the steering wheel tight as he focused on the road, the sound of the engine and the occasional rustle of Willa’s breath filling the quiet.

When you pulled up to the house, it felt like a different world. The sprawling estate loomed ahead, the grand, cold structure seeming to mock the chaos of the day. You could feel the heaviness of the house before you even stepped inside. It was too big, too empty. It had always been a symbol of something Rafe wanted, something that didn’t fit with the life you’d grown up with.

But now, it was where Willa was going to stay.

“Welcome home,” Rafe muttered as he parked the car and cut the engine.

You weren’t sure if he meant it sarcastically, or if there was something real underneath the bitterness.

He led the way up the stone steps, unlocking the front door with a swipe of his key. The house felt colder inside, and Willa shifted in your arms as the air conditioned chill wrapped around you. Rafe glanced over his shoulder.

“I’m not leaving her with you alone,” you said firmly, setting Willa down into the nearby high chair as you followed him further into the house. “You’re going to need help. You’re not capable of just doing this on your own.”

Rafe gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah, no kidding. I never said I was. But if she’s gonna be here, she’s staying in this house. So you’ll just have to suck it up.”

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel in this house with him—this house that was too much like a battlefield, and not enough like a home. But there was no escaping it now. You were stuck here together, as guardians. You took a deep breath and tried not to let the tension eat away at you.

For Willa.

"She’s still a baby," you murmured, brushing a stray curl from Willa’s face. "This isn’t about us. We need to figure it out for her."

Rafe didn’t respond, but he didn’t argue, either. He just stood there, watching you with that same unreadable look he always had. But for the first time, there was a sliver of uncertainty behind it.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—there was a chance, however small, that you and Rafe might actually pull this off.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #outer banks x reader #obx #obx x reader #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron request #rafe cameron season 4 #drew starkey fanfiction #lifeasweknowit

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sheepispink · 6 months ago

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A Night to Remember ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི COD MASTERLIST

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Part two of Sweet as Sugar Series. Part one here.

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Prev Chapter Next Chapter

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: After receiving Ghost’s text, you havent been able to get him out of your head. Lost in a daydream, you may have forgotten an important detail, but luckily everything goes ahead as planned and you end up taking more than a warm heart back home.

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི WC: 3k

To say he hadn’t consumed all your thoughts was a severe understatement, especially considering you were currently staring into the bathroom mirror at two am with your cheeks still flushed and that last sentence ringing out in your head. You have to forcefully drag yourself into bed and refrain from picking your phone up, reading his message again. Last week you were scolding yourself for still giggling over celebrity crushes—now look at you, practically squirming over a text! It probably wasn’t even like that in the slightest; maybe he just needed to talk to you about some orders from your bakery. With a huff, you finally pull the covers snug over you and force your eyes closed, willing your mind to shut up.

Now the sun has risen high, just like the dough for tonight’s stock, the little open sign turned to signal closed whilst you and your parents churn out as many baked goods as possible before it’s time to set up. Slowly, your knuckles knead through the sticky texture, hands speckled white from flour. You had nearly seventy-five different pastries out yesterday, but with the hunger of the soldiers, that was reduced to a measly thirty or so by the time they had left. A sudden ping rings out, cutting through the yeast-powered daze you were in, and the dough is almost flung across the room as you hurriedly pry your fingers out and douse them in water before grasping at the phone across the room. It’s from the lieutenant, as you had hoped, and you hurry your password into your phone before the chat appears.

If you had to decide between the time you idiotically ate lunch right before a plane ride and what you had right now, this would definitely take the tier for the stupidest thing in your life. The text, if not an accusatory message, is simple—so simple that it doesn't even include a single letter.

’?’

Too busy stuck in your daydreams, you had fallen asleep without responding, essentially doing the worst thing you could ever possibly imagine—leaving the man on read. If you had to explain the way your heart had just dropped, it’d be clear from the way your jaw was permanently screwed open until you fixed this mess you accidentally created. Hurriedly, your fingers dance across the keys of your phone, the remnants of the stringy mass making mistypes our best friend until it ends up looking more like a keyboard smash than an apology sentence.

‘You alright there?’

The hair on your head would’ve been clawed out by sheer embarrassment if not for the fact that you feel obliged to at least clarify you did not mean to leave him hanging like a beggar on the street, eventually ending up sending a voice message instead to convey your mortification. “Sorry—I read your text message last night, and I forgot to respond because I was really tired, and I was up all day baking and even now I got up early— I'd love to go around the fair with you but only if you still want to go. I know this is kind of last minute now, and you’re probably super busy—” You squeak out, trying to stop yourself from grovelling even further into the ground before the app does you a favour and cuts the message instead. He sends back a text before you can send a follow-up and you can only imagine he’s probably laughing at you behind the screen; after all, how does someone just forget to reply?

“All that I needed was a simple yes, but I'll take the clarification. So, when will you be done with your parents?”

“We can still go??”

”Yes, now how about six?

”Yes, please!”

You wipe your face with your damp hands, breathing out a lengthy sigh now that you have finally averted the crisis known as your mess of a social life. Unfortunately, in the process of your panic, you had flattened all the dough on the rolling board, some sticking to your elbows now too. This was definitely not good hygiene-wise, and so you let out a long huff, and grab the flour for another batch to be made.

Soft blows of wind pass by you, protected by your woollen scarf that’s wrapped around your neck and your thick coat that is lined with the softest fur. As you help adjust the last of the display for the stall, you notice there was a few more stalls, likely not able to keep up with the demand of running it for two days, and so today they all chose to run theirs. After all your bakes had been sold out yesterday, you may have claimed the same mindset and went overboard on the bakes in hopes people had caught on to the little logo on all the soldier’s cups as they walked around. Somehow hanging out with the lieutenant was at the back of your mind right now; you were more focused on adjusting the bow at the edge of the table, right before making sure there were plenty of tissues available for your parents to grab. Not to mention enough paper bags, plates, checking the card machine actually worked, and the pot of tea was at the right temperature and waiting to be served. You’re just about to add a little more icing sugar onto the fresh croissants when a gruff cough echoes behind you. “Ghost?” You spin around, his callsign falling off your lips easily from how many times you stared at the contact in your phone in the past ten hours.

“Mhm, that's me. Ready to go?” You nod quickly, dusting off any stray sugar specks before walking over to him and waving at your parents. He looks a little different, still clad in his hooded jacket and thick gloves, but far more relaxed than yesterday. Due to the hectic nature of running a stall, you barely got a minute to look around, thus missing the chance to fully enjoy the simple happiness that came with every time it got a bit chilly. Orange leaves had long since decayed, leaving the trees bare and allowing a clear view of small specks of white in the darkened sky, now a navy blue even though it's never really that bright in winter. You’re even a little hesitant with where you step, considering the ground is already starting to grow a little icier. It’s been years, you think, since you’ve felt this giddy around wintertime, with university, jobs, and life pushing out the happy things you desperately tried to cling to. At least you always had the bakery to fall back on, and you hoped Ghost felt the same about your pastries.

“No soldiers today?” You tilt your head up at him, looking around the decorated paths to see if there’s a hint of camo between the sparkling fairy lights and wooden stands that make up this market. “No, they’re too busy packin’ up for the holidays.” He murmurs, his hands shoved into his pockets as his boots crunch against stray twigs from a nearby weaving stand, premade hearths hanging from the canopy. You blink at that, having always forgotten that the military base wasn't too far off this small town. After all, you used to wave at the soldiers eagerly when you were little, a loopy smile forever on your lips when they acknowledged you—kind of like the one you wore yesterday. “Oh? Guess you’ll be gone soon then, I guess. Where are you headed back to?” He just shakes his head this time before he eventually starts to walk towards a chestnut stand, intrigued by the man roasting them. “I’m stayin’ at base. Nowhere for me to go.”

Gruff is the only word you can use to describe his tone, and yet you watch as he pays the man for a portion of the roasted chestnuts. He doesn't hesitate to hand you the cup to hold as you grin at him and cradle the warmth in your hands until it cools to an edible temperature. Though you decide not to pry into his last words, instead choosing to indulge your earlier curiosity in which you were dying for an answer. “So… why did you even want to walk around with me?” In truth, he had not the slightest idea himself; all he knew was that he’d been a lonely bastard for too long, and he was sick of it. There you were with your lips pulled wide into a pretty smile every time he went to your shop, and he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t clench when you realised his own soldiers had sold out your stock. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t meant to help you out; it was only convenient, and his soldiers were hungry. Instead of dwelling on it too long, he just steals a chestnut, slipping it beneath the privacy of his mask as he crunches on the velvety taste. “Figured you’d have an eye for the good stuff. Your tea isn’t something most would find around here.” That makes you nod, remembering the interaction you had with plenty of people.

“Yeah, had a few tell me that it was nothing like the chai tea bags they get in the shops.” His head turns to you, blatant distaste written in his eyes at whoever had the audacity to ask you that question. It’s funny, you think, that someone's eyes can show you that much emotion.

“Are they bloody stupid? Of course it’s not—it’s fresh! That’s like different by a mile!” He practically scoffs out, crossing his arms firmly as he shakes his head disapprovingly, earning him a bunch of giggles from you, who can only raise a brow at him cheekily. “Oh, are you a tea connoisseur now?”

“Oi, that’s Lieutenant to you, rookie.”

That makes you laugh loudly, his mask unable to stop itself from wrinkling at the corners as he gestures to you to follow him towards a stall. “C’mere, I'm gonna get you somethin.” He points up at the plush toys hanging from a stall you had subconsciously been eyeing whilst you walked, seeing as quite a few girls were carrying them tightly in their arms too. There’s a particular one, a penguin with grey fluffy fur and small eyes but a large beak, looking at you so innocently. It’s adorable, and even if you feel a little shy accepting it from him, you’d be damned if you didn't let him at least try. But then again.. it was the largest one,’ and knowing these stalls, it probably was rigged a little to stop people from getting the really large ones.. “If you get me one, I'll show you the best spots around. A fair trade, no?”

“Deal.”

All that the stall owner can do is watch in shock, jaw dropped, as the lieutenant easily picks up the rifle and hits down all six of the cans in seconds, practically speechless. “This one.” Ghost doesn't wait a second for him, pointing up at the large penguin, and your own jaw was agape too now, having expected a small little plush to carry for the journey.

“Whoa! It’s so fluffy, you really didn't have to, but—“ The words practically spill out your mouth, fumbling with your lips as your chest brims with excitement, now hugging it close to your chest. You can definitely tell he’s smirking now, especially as he ruffles the penguin’s fluffy fur with his hand, nodding in agreement. “Soft like you.”

The pair of you traverse around countless stalls, from fresh churros to a spiced burrito to fill your stomachs. Currently you stood in front of a tea store, one that sold a selection of tea bags rather than anything freshly brewed. Seeing as Ghost really did seem to be somewhat of a big tea enjoyer, you made it your mission to get him an assortment. So whilst he was taking a call, you were haggling the steep price down to something a little more affordable. “Don't you think fifty is a bit much?” You raise a brow, your arms crossed over your chest, which contradicts your calmer tone with something more accusing. “I mean, these are all imported anyway, they’re hardly homemade.”

“Well, they’re the finest quality—“

“No, if that were true, they’d be fresh. Come on, they’ve been sitting there since yesterday now—thirty five is much more reasonable for the effort of importing and covering enough for you to make a profit.” The owner can only sigh and roll her eyes fondly, handing you the selection of tea after your little bargaining. “Alright, have at it. Only because I taught you how to haggle a price that well.”

After his phone call was over, you followed through with your promise, leading him towards a small hill a little out of the town bounds. The further you go, the darker the surroundings around you grow but he stays close behind you, watching your feet in the small chance you fall. Eventually you reach the top of the cobbled steps, revealing an old stone plaza. There’s a shack not too far off, orange light streaming out and the sound of hushed cheers as they exchange drinks. What’s more important to him is the view from here, overlooking the entire market below. Everything had seemed too crowded before, with many bustling past to queue up for some hot doughnuts and little kids dragging their parents for a chance at the hook duck game. Here, it was entirely different; the lights reflected the night sky, a sea of stars in the midst of the darkness, and the soft music seemed so much clearer now.

Finally, you both settle on the edge of the stone, your shoes in the grass, and he peels off his own gloves, noticing how your hands were buried into the penguin’s fur for warmth. You take it graciously, slipping it over your iced fingers before rummaging through your own coat pocket. “A present for my lieutenant.”

“Your lieutenant? And I thought spoiling you was my job?“

“Well, call me the colonel since it’s mine now.”

He rolls his eyes up at you, but the affection is still visible, opening the box to look at the variety inside. Each one seemed to originate from a different part of the world, and even though he thought he tried most of the flavours, there was a lot more to learn. He can't help but meet your eager face. “Fine... Thank you. But I'm getting you one last dessert for that.”

Unfortunately, just like how his life had been going so far, everything good must come to an end. His phone startles you as it buzzes loudly, his free hand fishing it out before reading the messages there. His teeth grit in frustration, not wanting to levar you so early. You’re better than that, offering him a small grin in understanding. “Military emergency?” He wants to apologize, promise you that he’ll make it up to you, and give you something even better but he can't bring himself to.

He knows he could never be that soft.

With a gruff nod, he texts back hurriedly and pulls his mask a little higher upon his face. “Yeah..duty calls. Sorry.”You shake your head, waving your hands in front of you to reassure him, even if you were already missing the warmth of his palm in yours. He pushes himself up, and you follow as he nods for you to follow. “I’ll take you back to your parents' stall.” He offers and you nod with a small smile on your lips. That was much better than being left alone while he ran off—he didn’t owe you anything, and yet he still chose to make sure you got back safely.

But before he could take his third step, your eyes are widening, hands grasping his arm and desperately pulling him back. The touch catches him in surprise yet somehow exhilarating all the same, and thus he accidentally lets his guard down just enough for you to actually manage to pull him backwards. “The ice!” You squeak out as his foot slides, making him stumble back into you slightly, your grip now squeezing him. You couldn’t possibly catch a man of his stature, no less a person of a more regular size, and yet you still reached out for him and did your best to stop him. He’d be surprised if he’d even feel anything from falling ass flat on a bit of ice, knowing the extent of his usual injuries. Still, here you were like some guardian angel, doing your best to warn him.

“Thanks..” He mumbles, glancing down at your hands still on him before you hurriedly pull back, a nervous look on your face as you sheepishly grin.

“Sorry.. didn't want you to get hurt..”

“Guess we have to be extra careful, huh? I don't want you falling either.”

His now bare fingers gently nudge against your hand, wordlessly asking to hold it. A sinner would be his title if he said he didn't adore the way your eyes widened in wonder, grasping his own hand a little tighter and nodding, cheeks flushed from him and not the cold that bites your cheeks.

He keeps his grasp on you firm as he leads you down the cobbled stairs and back towards the centre of town, the little queue outside your stall coming into view. Reluctantly you part your hands, stepping back as you glance over at the amount of sales made already, a smile curving your cheeks higher. “I’ll see you again sometime soon… Lieutenant.” You hum, a little disappointed but genuine nonetheless. Today had been entirely perfect for you, like something you’d see in the synopsis of a movie. He nods gruffly again, steps a bit forward, and tucks your scarf a little tighter around your neck. “Simon.” He breathes out, voice a little raspy from how long it’s been since he’s said it from his own tongue.

“Huh?” Your head tilts up, confused.

Giving the large penguin plush a little pat, he steps back. “My real name’s Simon.”

————————————————————————

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Taglist:

@bieberismysoulmate @hidden-treasures21

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost fanfiction #call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x y/n #cod fluff #cod fanfic #cod fic #cod x reader #cod mw ghost #ghost x reader #call of duty fic #!pinksheepfics

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alastor-simp · 3 months ago

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Panic Attack😰 - Alastor x Female Reader

📻Pairings- Alastor X Female Reader

📻Genre- Comfort and Fluff

📻Tags- Panic Attack, Alastor Comforts Reader, Anxiety Attack, Comfort, Alastor is not used to stuff like this, Alastor tries his best, Fluff, Hugs, Episode 1 of Hazbin Hotel Series

📻Notes- Sorry for the lack of Alastor x Reader stories, been busy with work also wanted to write for my other favorite fandoms like Twisted Wonderland and Love and Deep space. Hope you guys like this chapter.

📻Credit- Divider by @wetandtiny

**Key- [ ] indicates the inner thoughts the reader is having, so you don't get confused**

["Loud, Loud, ITS TOO LOUD!!!!!"] Your thoughts spiraled out of control, as you sat in the corner, voices muffled coming from other parts of the room. Charlie and the others were watching the TV, eyes widen in shock at seeing the news broadcast, showcasing the recent update to the changes to the next extermination, arriving in 6 months instead of a full year. Everyone's voice sprung out, some in anger and others in shock, minus Alastors, watching the whole ordeal with a smile on his face. Oh how he delighted seeing the utter panic in everyone's eyes, until his eyes snapped to yours, those feelings of glee drawing to a massive halt, oh dear.

The pupils in your eyes had dilated, tears starting to form. Your breathing was painful, almost like someone was suffocating you. Claws scratched at your chest, wanting the tightness to disappear. Your head felt like it was underwater, everything sounding muffled, yet only the voice in your head was clear. ["Why? Why is this happening? You had found sanctuary here when you arrived in Hell, having missed the recent extermination, feeling somewhat at ease that it was only going to come happened again next year, and now? Now its going to come again in 176 days!!! No NO!!].

Body shaking, you continued to claw against your chest, breaking the skin, blood coating your fingers. You needed to get away, away from everyone, they don't need to see you like this. Getting up with shaky legs, you slowly walked away from everyone as they continued to talk about what had just happened. The fact you could even move was shocking, considering how much you were shaking, as you still felt like your body was begging for air, lungs constricting with every step you took. Multiple voices spoke inside your mind, swirling around like a tornado, as you hurried to your room. A black portal had opened up in front of you, not spotting it as your vision was fading in and out, as your body fell into it, letting out a scream.

One second you were in the hallway and the next you were in a forest, surrounded by large trees and a massive river flowing. "W-what?" You could barely speak as you tried to figure out where the heck you were. "Ahh the little darling has arrived." A static voice called out from behind you, making you turn around, seeing Alastor walking towards you, hands behind his back. "A-Al? W-w." You whispered, hand clutching your chest even tighter, causing Al's eyes to narrow. "Well, my dear, I noticed your predicament in the lobby and decided to bring you to my room, preferably away from the other residents."

His mouth was moving, but you could barely pick up what he was saying as the dreading feeling was getting worse, causing you to drop to your knees. Alastor had not predicted this, eyes widen in shock having seen you fall to the ground, as he rushed over, getting on his knees, "Darling! Are you alright?" He placed his hands on your shoulder, peering down at you, observing you take gasping breaths, hands clutching your chest to the point your knuckles turned white. "It...it hurts. I-I can't breathe." Gasping out, you clutched your eyes shut, heart beating out of your chest. Alastor, for the first time, didn't know what his next move should be, he had hoped the ambience of his room would be enough to calm you down, but it apparently was ineffective. His hands continued to rub at your shoulders, hoping that would work, but you remained the same.

The smile on his face had almost dropped, for he was actually beginning to worry about your well-being, something that stunned him and irked him. He was not one to provide comfort to someone, but the sight of you was making his black heart clench. Moving his arms from your shoulders, he had position them to your head, pushing it down, allowing your head to hit his chest. Letting out a gasp, you didn't expect Alastor to do that, opening your mouth to say something, until your ears picked up on the soft sound coming from the radio demon. It was muffled, but there was a soft beating sound coming from his chest, laced with a bit of static due to his nature, "Bumbum.....bumbum......bumbum." Alastor remained silent, clawed hand rubbing your head softly, while the other went to your back, holding you closer.

Little by little, the suffocating feeling was diminishing, the loud voices slowly going away, allowing to focus more on his static heartbeat. Your lungs became lest restricted, finally able to breath as you took in a few deep breaths. You pushed your head closer towards his chest, nuzzling into the warm soothing feeling he was giving you. "Shhhh...its alright now, my dear." His voice was soft, no hint of static, as he continued to hold you. After a couple minutes, you slowly removed your head from his chest, looking up at him smiling, eyes still watery from your crying, "Thank you, Alastor." His crimson eyes were warm as he pulled away, yet he kept his hand on your back, keeping you steady. "Seeing that you now have a smile on your face, I presume you have managed to calm down." Alastor continued to observe you, noticing the blood scratches on your chest, due to you scratching it during your episode. Placing his hand on your chest, he whispered some voodoo chant, as he soon removed it, wounds fully healed.

Noticing what he did, you widened your eyes, muttering another thank you. Tilting his head, Alastor asked as to what had happened to cause such a reaction. Looking down, you began to explain everything, "I..I had just arrived here, having met all of you and developed close friendships. The extermination being the last thing on my mind, and now that whole announcement." Your hand grasped his own, rubbing it gently "I just...thought about losing this, losing everyone, you....it just....everything began to bubble up and it just felt like too much that I had that attack. I'm sorry that you had to go out of your comfort zone to help me." Alastor sat there, listening calmly, a bit shocked that you had that episode due to your fear of the exterminators and losing him? Part of him wanted to laugh boisterously, yet he didn't.

His hands went to your cheeks, rubbing them affectionately. "It is quite alright, my dear. But, there is no need to worry about that now. That day is still far out, so there will be time to prepare. And as for losing everyone as well as me, that will never come to pass. I swore to offer my services here, and that includes protecting this hotel and all of you." His voice was laced with honey, as he continued to rub your cheeks, like a parent would to a child. "However, if there is ever a time that you are suffering from this again, please seek me out or call my name. Placing your hands on top of his, caressing them, your lips drew up into a kind smile, "Okay."

The two of you stay like that, until you looked away, focusing back on where you were. "This is your room?" Alastor brightened up at you mentioning it, smile expanding, "Ah yes! During my youth, I had always admired the bayous in my hometown. I often times when there to calm me down after an eventful day. I assumed bringing you here would offer the same assurance that it gave me." Your heart picked up at that statement, seeing as how he almost never showed this side of himself to anyone, and he had offered to show it to you, evening mentioning his past, which he NEVER revealed to anyone. "I think I was too far into my attack to realize what was going on, sorry. Since we are here now, mind showing me around this part of your room, does it continue forever or?"

Chuckling at your questions, Alastor stood back up, hand grasping yours to lift you up. "It goes as far as I want it to. Let's take a little stroll, my dear." Hooking his arm with yours, he led you further into his dimensional room, allowing the two of you to explore, enjoying each others company, the panic attack being a thing of the past.

-END-

Sinners:

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@artemisandhunters , @thereeallink

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internetdaddy98 · 2 months ago

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The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 6

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[Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: Car crash; blood; medical procedures; I have 0 medical knowledge; if I've missed any warnings, please let me know.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday, 4:45 PM

Dana announced the oncoming trauma as you sank into the worn chair behind the nurses’ station. “Trauma 1 inbound—MVC, seventeen-year-old male, GCS seven at the scene, intubated en route,” Dana called out, already moving.

You were up before the words registered fully. The halls buzzed like a tuning fork, pulling everyone into formation. And by the time you reached the trauma bay, you were back in that strange, steady place you knew too well—half adrenaline, half silence.

You could feel him before you saw him.

Dr. Robby stood at the foot of the stretcher as EMS rolled in, white trauma gown already snapped at the collar. He didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the shift in the air when he registered your arrival.

“Dr. Williams, take the airway,” he said, voice clipped, focused. “You’re running point with me.”

You nodded, snapping gloves on. “Copy.”

The boy on the stretcher was slight. Pale. His blood pressure was bottoming out even as the medics rattled off vitals and scene details. You moved fast—tube check, pupils, lung sounds.

“Absent breath sounds on the left,” you said. “Needle decompression?”

“Agreed,” Robby said. “You take it.”

Your hands didn’t tremble this time.

You worked in rhythm—Robby to your left, calling out for a chest tube tray, You barking for labs and crossmatch. For a moment, the rest of the room faded. It was just your and the patient and the space between panic and precision.

Then, blood pressure climbed.

“He’s holding,” You breathed. “CT?”

“Let’s get him to a CT scan, then OR consult,” Robby said. “Good call on that chest tube.”

He didn’t say it like a compliment. He said it like a fact. And yet, your chest fluttered anyway.

It was an hour later when you realized your shoulders were aching. The patient had made it to surgery, vitals holding. You had charted notes so fast your knuckles cracked. Now you were slouched in a corner of the rooftop, nursing a second coffee you didn’t remember making.

You didn’t hear him enter until he dropped beside you, a protein bar in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

“Here,” Robby said simply, sliding them across to you. “You didn’t eat earlier.”

You blinked at him. “You noticed?”

He arched a brow, unwrapping his own protein bar. “I notice a lot more than you think.”

The silence between you stretched longer than it should have. Not awkward, but not comfortable either. Just charged. Like the air after defibrillation.

“I hesitated,” You said quietly, looking down. “With the CT. I thought about holding for labs.”

“But you didn’t,” Robby said. “You made the right call.”

“You wouldn’t have?” she asked, glancing at him sideways.

He took a long sip of water. “I might’ve. But the point is, you didn’t let doubt slow you down. That’s the difference between freezing and leading.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. He was leaning back, Hoodie wrinkled from the shift, trauma badge still clipped to his collar. He looked tired—but not closed off. For once.

“You ever freeze?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Something flickered across his face. A shadow of memory.

“Once,” he said. “Second year. Motorcycle crash. Kid coded. I didn’t push epi in time.”

A beat.

You swallowed. “What happened?”

“He didn’t make it.”

The quiet that followed was louder than any trauma bay. He didn’t look away, and neither did you.

“You carry them too?” you asked softly.

“All of them,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “Sometimes I hear their screams. The victims from Pittfest. In my dreams, I mean.”

Robby’s gaze softened just slightly. “Yeah. Me too.”

You sat in it together for a long moment. The quiet, the pain, the mutual understanding that neither of them would ever say out loud in front of anyone else. Not really.

You reached for the protein bar but didn’t open it.

“You okay?” he asked finally, voice low.

You looked up. “I don’t know.”

“That's honest,” Robby said. “Most people say ‘fine.’”

“I don’t really do that anymore,” you replied, lips quirking. “Feels dishonest.”

He smiled, just a little. The tired kind, but real.

“You’re better than you think, Williams.”

The way he said your last name—it wasn’t the first time, but it felt different. Deliberate. Grounding.

“You’re not bad yourself,” you said, then added quickly, “for an attending with a god complex.”

He let out a soft laugh. “Only on Thursdays.”

“You mean the days ending in ‘Y’?”

That earned her a look—mock offense, lips twitching.

“You’re mouthy for someone I just gave a protein bar to.”

“And you’re weirdly observant for someone who avoids eye contact with half the staff.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her—and she couldn’t tell if it was admiration or amusement or something else entirely.

It didn’t matter. You were suddenly very aware of the space between you. The not-quite distance. The steady hum of something neither of them was ready to name.

“I should…” she gestured vaguely toward the emergency door. “Go finish my notes.”

He nodded. But neither of them moved.

“Good work today,” Robby said again, quieter this time. You stood then, because if you stayed any longer, you might forget how to breathe.

“See you tomorrow, Dr. Robinavitch,” you said, back to formality.

He smirked. “Looking forward to it, Dr. Williams.”

As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze settle on your back. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just there.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the thing that scared you the most. That he was always there. Quiet, constant.

Waiting.

Watching.

Learning your rhythms.

And not going anywhere.

And as you turned the handle to leave, you caught his voice behind you.

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

It was the first time he’d said your name.

And then you were gone.

But your heart was still on that rooftop.

#michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #noah wyle

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chvoswxtch · 2 months ago

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by any means necessary

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: matt finds out who's pulling the strings at s.h.i.e.l.d.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood and violence

word count: 2.9k

a/n: it wouldn't be a marvel series without a cameo. ;) as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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When Matt regained consciousness, he could feel the intensity of his blood pumping through his vessels too violently, causing an incessant throbbing on the side of his skull. With a quiet groan, he lifted his hand to tenderly touch the source of the pain, grimacing at the soreness. He felt a little off equilibrium, but as he fully woke up, he realized he was in a room he didn’t recognize.

He also realized his cowl was gone.

And so was his suit.

Before he could panic, his ears perked up at the sound of a familiar heartbeat. The room smelled sterile, almost like a hospital, but there was a unique blend of spiced vanilla intertwined with jasmine. A scent he’d come to associate with only one person. His sightless hazel eyes fixed over in the direction where he knew she was sitting.

“Where am I?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters.”

He could feel her watching him, studying him. She was as calm as ever.

“There’s water and Advil on the table.”

Matt slowly pushed himself to sit up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed he’d been laying on, but he didn’t reach for the water bottle or the pills.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

“I tased you.”

Matt whipped his head in her direction, his thick brows knitting together in the middle of his forehead as his lips parted. He hadn’t even noticed she’d had a taser on her wrist. God, no wonder that had been so fucking painful.

“And I knocked you out.”

Matt pressed his lips together in a firm line. She could see his sightless eyes blazing with untamed fury. He was pissed.

“If you’re looking for an apology-”

“I’d never expect anything decent from you.”

Matt snapped suddenly, rendering her silent for the first time since he’d met her. He could tell his words had struck a nerve. It was subtle, but he caught it. She sat up a little straighter, and her nails dug into her palms harshly.

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna kill them.”

“Because it wasn’t your business.”

Matt turned his body in her direction, his expression pure vexation, although she could see a hint of disgust that sunk like a stone in her stomach, but she steeled herself against it.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You don’t think omission isn’t a lie?”

Matt asked incredulously, tilting his head to the side as his brows furrowed in annoyance.

“I never said we were going to do this your way.”

Matt let out a dry scoff, shaking his head as he let it drop slightly between his shoulders. He gripped onto the edge of the bed, clicking his tongue against his cheek.

“And is this S.H.I.E.L.D.’s way? Murdering innocent people?”

“They were hardly innocent. You know what they are. You know what they’re doing.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to execute them. That’s not justice. Whether you like it or not, there’s a system. There’s laws. They’re innocent until proven guilty-”

“Innocence is relevant to what side of the fence you’re on.”

Matt clenched his jaw so hard it made his teeth ache. His nostrils flared as his breathing became heavier. The more his temper became incensed, the harder his blood pumped in his veins, his throbbing headache now pounding like his head was being slammed against a brick wall repeatedly.

“That’s a dangerous way of thinking. You can justify anything with that logic, no matter how evil it is.”

“I don’t believe in evil, Matthew. There are horrible people in this world who do horrible things, for greed, power, or pleasure. It’s not my job to figure out which one it is. It’s my job to prevent it, by any means necessary.”

“Even if it means doing unforgivable things yourself.”

Matt’s voice was dripping with venom and disdain, his bruised knuckles going stark white as the skin became tautly stretched over the bone from his iron grip.

Her eyes narrowed when he looked at her like that. The accusation was clear as day in his tone.

“And you think what you do isn’t unforgivable?”

“I’m not a killer-”

“Well you’re not a fucking saint either. You think because of your little golden rule, and because you spend your days defending people in a courtroom, that excuses what you do at night? How many bones have you broken, Matthew? How much blood have you shed in your own city, in one way or another? How many people have you left permanently damaged in this self imposed crusade of yours? Because I can count at least four just from last night.”

Matt clenched his jaw tightly again, the bones of his teeth grinding against each other, the unpleasant noise making him twitch. He wanted to argue. He wanted to lash out, let his stubborn pride win out, prove to her that she was wrong.

But he couldn’t. Because deep down, she wasn’t wrong. And he hated that.

“If you want to throw on a costume and pretend that all the shitty things you do are committed by some darker part of you that you can’t control, then fine. That’s your business. My moral compass may not be as squeaky clean as yours, but at least it doesn’t change depending on which one of my personalities takes over.”

Matt was seething as he sat there, unable to formulate a rebuttal. He had nothing to combat with. They both knew it. She saw right through him, and that made him feel unsettled.

“Quit being stubborn and take the goddamn Advil. You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm.”

She swiftly stood up and turned to walk towards the door, her heeled boots clicking against the floor. Matt rubbed his hand down his weary face, his fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he was wearing. A frown tugged down the edges of his mouth, and he grimaced.

Cotton.

His previous frustration gave way to puzzlement. This wasn’t his shirt. He didn’t own anything cotton, it was too rough on his sensitive skin, like sandpaper. The shirt also felt two sizes too small. Brushing his hand over his thigh, he felt a blend of cotton and polyester, and his confusion mounted even further. These weren’t his sweatpants either.

“Where’s my suit?”

“In the duffel on the floor.”

Matt turned his head in her direction, cocking his head to the side.

“Did you undress me?”

“Did you want me to drag you through headquarters with your horns on?”

Matt’s lips parted to speak, and then closed abruptly, creases of confusion indenting his forehead.

“I don’t understand. I thought S.H.I.E.L.D.-”

“Only a handful of people know.”

Matt didn’t even realize how concerned he was about that until he felt the weight of relief lift off his shoulders. The idea that an entire government agency knew his secret was daunting, but hearing that only a handful of people knew made him feel more relaxed. But then his brows furrowed again as a follow up thought crossed his mind.

“So you brought me in naked?”

“You had your underwear on. But if anyone asks, you’re a civilian who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I stopped by your apartment and grabbed you some clothes-”

“How do you keep breaking into my apartment?”

“You don’t lock the rooftop door, and I know how to pick locks.”

The rooftop door. So that’s how she was getting in.

“Get dressed. Take the Advil. Someone wants to talk to you.”

Without another word, she slipped out of the room, leaving Matt with more questions than answers. That seemed to be a common theme in their encounters.

»»———　　———««

Matt grasped his cane in his right hand, tapping it back and forth on the floor as they walked down one of the hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, his left hand grasping her elbow. He picked up bits and pieces of different conversations from passing employees, some of it generic small talk, some of it details of important operations. He never stopped to think about how much intel they must have, not just on New York, or even on this planet, but all the ones that existed beyond it.

Aliens were another thing Matt had never stopped to think about. He was a man of faith, he believed in God and the Devil, but the idea of alien existence had always seemed…silly to him. A childish ideology that required an active imagination and the ability to suspend reality in a limitless way.

But then aliens had come out of the sky and attacked New York in 2012. They were real. There was another god besides the one Matt had been raised to believe in that could conjure thunder and lightning, and he was real. People with abilities were real. And all of it made Matt feel small and insignificant and…human if he stopped to think about it too long.

“Y/L/N!”

A man’s voice boomed from behind them, his heavy footsteps echoing against the floor as he advanced towards the pair, pulling Matt out of his internal conflict. Beside him, she let out an annoyed breath.

“Not now, Owens.”

Suddenly a man appeared at her side, his hand reaching out to grip her arm to force her to stop walking, tugging her to face him. Since Matt was holding her elbow, the action forced him to stop walking as well, shifting slightly in the same direction. He stiffened at the stranger’s action, his grip tightening on his cane, taking half a step forward to intervene, but he felt her hand reach up to give his wrist a subtle double tap, a silent communication.

“I’m escorting a civilian.”

“He can escort himself.”

“No he can’t.”

The man looked down at her in annoyance before his blue eyes landed on Matt. He looked him up and down, noticing the dark red tinted sunglasses and the cane, managing to put two and two together. Clearing his throat, he stood up straighter and held his hand out, making an attempt to be polite after realizing Matt was blind.

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t realize you were…I’m Captain Scott Owens.”

Matt made no move to reach out and shake his hand.

“He can’t see that dumbass.”

The edges of Matt’s lips twitched in amusement at her blunt callout. Scott’s lips pressed together in a firm line as he looked down at her.

“It’s common courtesy.”

“What? To be polite to a blind man only after you notice he’s blind? I thought they raised you Southern boys better than that.”

Matt could sense the man’s blood pressure raising, and it took every ounce of self control to not snicker at her smooth verbal lashing. Her sharp tongue and dry wit were entertaining when he wasn’t the one on the end of it. Clearing his throat, Matt gave him a faint nod.

“Matthew Murdock.”

“Mr. Murdock, can I have a moment alone with Agent Y/L/N?”

“Whatever you wanna say to me you can say in front of him.”

“He’s a civilian-”

“He’s my lawyer.”

Scott’s face twisted up in confusion, his taupe brows knitting together as he glanced between her and Matt in barely concealed disbelief.

“Lawyer? We have a legal team.”

“And?”

“Why do you need a lawyer if we have a legal team?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Scott clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring as he stared down at her in disdain. His hardened gaze flickered between her and Matt before landing back on her.

“Fine. You want him to stay, he stays. He can hear all about how untrustworthy and conniving you are, although if he’s your lawyer, I’m sure he knew that already.”

“Is there a point to your rambling, or do you just really like the sound of your own voice.”

“Goddamnit Y/L/N, that was my fucking operation. My men are the ones who went undercover to gather most of that intel. It was my men that found out that Constantin was going to be there last night-”

“He wasn’t.”

“It doesn't matter. It was still my intel. You wouldn’t have had it without me. You wouldn’t have gotten Tarasov last night without me. And I can’t even fucking interrogate him because thanks to you, he’s in intensive care with a concussion and a bullet in the knee, breathing through a goddamn tube.”

Tarasov wasn’t dead. She hadn’t killed him. Matt felt some of the weight lift off his chest at that. It also made him feel slightly guilty about his outburst earlier.

“He’s not yours to interrogate.”

It seemed as though Matt wasn’t the only one that got pissed off by her unnerving calmness. Matt could feel how wound up Scott was, like he was seconds away from exploding.

“You fucking-”

“You’re arrogant.”

Scott had taken a step forward to get in her face, but abruptly paused at her indelicate comment. Pure offense twisted up his features as he stared down at her.

“Excuse me?”

“I said you’re arrogant. You wanna know why you weren’t chosen to lead this operation? Because your ego gets in the way of your effectiveness. Your pride causes you to make stupid mistakes, mistakes we can’t afford. And quite frankly, you don’t have what it takes. You can’t make the hard decisions that need to be made. This isn’t the Boy Scouts. This is the grey area between black and white. It’s messy, it’s complicated, and sometimes you get your hands dirty.”

Scott stood up straighter and squared his shoulders, glaring down at her with a dry scoff.

“I’m a Captain in the Army, you think I haven’t gotten my hands dirty?”

“I think you prefer to make other people pull the trigger so you don’t have to. And you fall back on shifting the blame to whoever your orders came from so that you don’t have to be the bad guy, because you can’t stand not being the hero.”

Scott took another step forward, letting out a dry humorless laugh as he stared down at her. Matt stiffened once again, preparing to intervene.

“And you don’t mind being the bad guy, that it?”

“No. I don’t.”

The way she said it made the hairs on the back of Matt’s neck stand up. She meant it. Her heartbeat didn’t waver. It was more strong and steady than he’d ever heard it. Scott clearly hadn’t expected that answer either, or the intensity of her delivery, because her icy tone seemed to melt his anger, and he promptly took a step back.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. Unless you wanna come up and explain to him why I was late?”

She cocked her head to the side, and Matt could hear the taunting challenge in her voice. Whoever she was talking about, Scott did not want to piss off, because he immediately cleared his throat and backed off, shaking his head.

“No. We’ll uh…finish this later.”

Giving Matt’s arm a gentle tug, they continued walking towards the end of the hall.

“Who the hell is he?”

“Dimestore Captain America wannabe.”

“He’s a super soldier?”

“No. He’s just another blonde haired blue eyed white guy that did well in the Army, and now thinks he’s special. He’s also delusional enough to compare himself to Steve Rogers, and to even think that he’s worthy to be the new Captain.”

“I thought Sam Wilson was the new Captain America?”

“Sam Wilson is Captain America.”

“So what does that make Owens?”

“A narcissist.”

Matt let out a chuckle despite himself, following her into the elevator.

“Well, I think we‘ve finally found common ground.”

As they slipped into the elevator, Matt let go of her elbow, holding his cane vertically in front of his body with both of his hands.

“Director’s Floor.”

“Matthew Murdock does not have clearance for Director’s Floor.”

An automated female voice sounded through the speakers, and Matt’s brows furrowed in confusion hearing his name.

“Override and update access. Y/L/N, Y/N.”

“Confirmed.”

With that, the elevator doors shut, and they began to ascend.

“What was that?”

“Security protocol.”

“The elevator knows my name.”

“The A.I. security protocol knows your name.”

“How?”

“Facial recognition.”

“What if I don’t want my face to be recognized?”

Letting out a deep sigh, she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

“For fucks sake Murdock, I just gave you clearance that ninety percent of the people in this building don’t even have. Are you always this bad at accepting gifts?”

Matt opened his mouth to fire back, but then the elevator doors opened with a ding to signify their arrival, and a voice called out.

“Mr. Murdock.”

Matt’s head snapped in the direction of the voice. He’d heard it before. It was unmistakable who it belonged to. He hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the elevator, but he only took three steps forward. Steady footsteps grew louder in volume and closer in distance until they stopped right in front of Matt.

“Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters. Pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Nick Fury.”

tags: @the-swift-escape @lambmurdock @lunakkey @Lfdybadgirlsdiw @devilmurdock64 @moonyinthestars @suits-and-smirks @day-dreaming-goddess @natashasotherhalf @rebel13lion39 @pixelfaery @ebsmind @mattmurdocksscars @ahhhhhhhydbhdg @ayupcap @thepassionatereader @awenthealchemist @zomtart @superrbffun @buckypops @snicksbabe @redroomproperty @angel113431 @18raven @a-sunflower-in-bloom @shadypaperwitch @lizziela @givemylovetoall @dreadful-secrets @dreadfulxives18 @jjprxntiss @bigratbitchsworld @s1xthirty @daisy-the-quake @raven18 @hipwell @scorpiovelaryon @yiiiikesmish @mel-thefrog @ponyosmom35 @daisydark @xoxabs88xox @punkshyteee @abbyhaslongshorts @wolvierinee @snowflames-world

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starkeymeow · 1 month ago

Text

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter seven, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, insight on one of the spots in the arena, lots of blood, violence, panic, anxiety, jj and kie <3, toppers just exisiting, and sorry we’ll get more rafe and y/n soon LMFAO i just needed a little trouble, might be an abrupt ending but next chapters fair warning someones gna die LOOL, not proofread

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

the water’s still red when you first step in.

like it’s not thick, it’s just stained. that’s the thing about blood. it never looks real when it’s in the water. it disappears within a few splashes.

your jacket’s already halfway off. you ease it off your arms and crouch at the edge, scrubbing at the fabric in circles, trying to work out what you can. in front of you, jj and topper are already knee-deep in the shallows, laughing under their breath as they slap at the water and try to rinse themselves without freezing. topper’s shirt is still on him, soaked and clinging, but he pulls at the collar and dips under, letting out a rough curse when he surfaces again.

“cold as shit,” he mutters.

you don’t laugh, but kie does. she’s crouched beside you, elbows braced against her knees, dirt under her nails as she sets up something with wire and a few spare twigs she found in her bag. she’s got that look in her eye, like sharp and focused, like every movement matters.

you squeeze the sleeve of your jacket tighter. water runs down your knuckles and drips off the hem, the tension from the bloodbath’s still in your muscles. you can’t shake it. can’t scrub it away.

“what’s that one for?” you ask quietly.

kie doesn’t look up, just ties a knot with her teeth and flicks her gaze toward the water. “gonna leave it in there. if someone tries to wash off, this’ll clamp down on ‘em.”

you blink. “seriously?”

she shrugs. “works. it’s low. hidden. hurts like hell.”

“good idea,” you say, and mean it.

a shadow falls over your shoulder. the sun dims just slightly.

you glance up and see rafe standing there, shirt clinging to him. he’s wringing out the hem of his shirt, arms tensed and droplets flicking off with each twist. water traces lines down his chest before soaking into the waistband of his pants. it’s almost enough to make you look away, but you don’t.

he doesn’t say anything either. just stands there like some unbothered statue, watching the rest of the group move around the bank, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before glancing back out at the trees.

you finish with your jacket and shake it out once before slinging it over your lap. it won’t be dry by night, but it’s better than nothing. kie finishes her trap and stands, brushing her hands on her pants and starting to walk deep to where jj and topper are to bury her trap, probably muttering to them to be careful where they stand.

you whiste low between your teeth to get their attention.

topper’s folding his jacket over his shoulder as he looks back at you, “we movin’?”

“yeah,” rafe says before anyone else can. “enough light left to find somethin’ decent.”

the walk back to the forest is quieter. the birch trees start tall and sparse, with white trunks and peeling bark, like they’re trying to shed skin. the deeper you go, the less sound there is. birds don’t chirp. wind doesn’t carry the way it did near the water. it’s all damp earth and whispering grass, and when your foot crunches on a twig, it sounds loud enough to be gunfire.

“don’t like it,” jj mutters after a while. he kicks a rock, watches it roll until it hits a root.

“no one asked,” rafe says, but it’s automatic. not mean.

kie walks with her blade drawn as topper fiddles with his axe. you just keep your head down, counting your steps between the trunks. when you finally stop, it’s not because the spot is good. it’s because it’s getting dark.

no one says it, but you all feel it. it’s that collective kind of settling that happens when you’ve run out of options and decide this’ll have to do. there’s no firewood worth lighting, not without giving yourselves away, but the boys try anyway. they scrape at bark and try to spark something with flint, building a makeshift ring of stones around what might be a small flame.

kie leans against a tree, her legs curled to her chest, jacket pulled over her knees. she keeps nodding off and snapping back awake, like she’s afraid of what she’ll miss if she sleeps too deep. jj eventually drops beside her, back to the same tree, and they sit shoulder to shoulder without saying a word.

topper circles the camp twice before choosing his own tree. he tosses his bag down like it’s a pillow and sits on top of it, facing out, legs crossed, fingers twitching like he still wants something to do with them.

he’s quieter than usual. you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s worried for diamonte. wherever she is.

you sit last. back to a birch, jacket draped across your chest like a blanket. your boots are still moist, your pants too. it doesn’t help that the night’s dropped colder than expected. your fingertips are numb at this point.

you glance over. rafe’s nearby. not right beside you, but close. his bag’s at his side, but he hasn’t laid down yet. he stands with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the dark like he’s expecting something to move. his shirt’s still damp, and it clings to him in the middle, wrinkled and uneven where he’d wrung it out. he looks like a statue again.

your gaze drifts down to his fingers that curl against his arm. his chest is rising slow. his hand twitches briefly toward his belt like he’s debating keeping a knife in hand.

you look away. your breath fogs faintly in the cold. the jacket around you isn’t enough. nothing is. your skin still feels sticky, even though you scrubbed it raw.

somewhere in the distance, a cannon goes off. just one. everyone flinches, even if only slightly. you don’t say it, but you know what they’re all thinking. nine left, and you’re still here. nine more people other than the ones in this circle and you have no idea how it’ll play out.

eventually you try to sleep, like really try, but the cold creeps into your bones, making every breath feel sharp. you shift against the rough bark of the tree at your back, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself, its material sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

you five have decided at two at a time to stay up. so somewhere nearby, jj and kie are keeping watch. they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, faces lit faintly by the dying firelight, speaking in voices too soft for you to catch. now and then you hear the scratch of jj's boot against the dirt or the low clink of metal in kie's hands as she fidgets with something.

your eyes fall closed, and for a few moments, you drift in the uneasy space between waking and sleep. but just when you feel yourself slipping under completely, something changes. it’s subtle, like a shift in the air, but your body feels it before your mind catches up.

the wind.

it brushes over your cheek like a blade, so cold it burns, and instinct snaps you awake with a jolt. you sit up, heart hammering, hands instinctively tightening around the edges of your jacket. for a few seconds, you think it must have been a dream, some leftover thread of anxiety pulling you from sleep. but then you hear it again. it’s a faint, whispering sound threading its way between the trees, too high-pitched to be natural.

you glance toward the others. kie has frozen, crouched low with her hands still tangled in the trap she was working on. jj straightens, muscles tense, his hand drifting to the knife tucked at his belt. across the clearing, rafe stirs where he's leaned against a tree, lifting his head sharply like he heard it too.

nobody speaks. nobody moves.

the forest around you shivers with every gust of wind, the slender birch trunks creaking and swaying in this slow, unsteady rhythm. they’re so hollow it catches the wind in strange ways, creating sounds that don’t quite belong in this world. you can hear wails and soft, deliberate whispers that seem to dart past your ears before you can catch them.

the longer you sit there, the more you feel like the forest isn’t just alive, it’s watching.

you scramble to your feet, your hands stiff from the cold. rafe is suddenly beside you, his fingers brushing your elbow to steady you. his eyes flick quickly over your face before shifting to the trees around you. he says nothing, but the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders tells you enough. he feels it too.

“guys, what the hell is that?” kie murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. her voice even sounds wrong in the hollow space, too human, too solid.

jj doesn’t answer. he’s already moving, silently packing up the few things he had pulled from his bag earlier. a few feet away, topper, who must have woken up at the sound, is sitting up, staring wide-eyed into the trees as if he can see something none of you can.

no one needs to say it. you need to get out of here. there’s something wrong about this forest.

the group starts gathering their things immediately, slinging backpacks over shoulders, stuffing whatever supplies you had out back into whatever pockets you can. the fire is left to smolder and die eventually too.

you stick close to rafe without even thinking about it, matching your steps to his as jj and kie fall into a loose formation ahead of you. topper brings up the rear, checking over his shoulder every few seconds like he expects something to lunge out of the trees and drag him away.

the birch forest feels endless, like you’ve lost your way in a maze or it stretches further than you remember it did earlier, like it changed. either way, it’s making you freak out.

and the deeper you move into the forest, the worse it gets. the wind picks up, slicing across exposed skin in quick, stinging bursts that leave you wincing and turning your head.

at one point you swear you see something in the corner of your eye, like a shadow darting between the trees, but when you turn, there’s nothing. only the birch trees.

beside you, rafe pulls his jacket tighter and leans down slightly, his mouth brushing your ear so he doesn’t have to speak loud enough for the forest to hear. “keep moving, a’right? n’ don’t stop.”

you don’t argue. you don't even look at him. you just keep your eyes ahead, focusing on the faint outlines of jj and kie.

every so often, the group rotates who’s leading. jj passes the front to kie, then topper takes over for a while, but it doesn't really matter. the forest looks the same in every direction, and every step feels heavier than the last.

minutes seem to bleed together until your legs are sore and your throat burns from breathing the cold.

nobody argues when jj suggests camping at the mouth of the cornucopia instead. you guys slip out of the tree line as fast as you can without breaking into a full sprint.

the cornucopia looms in front of you. it’s better than being out in the open or trapped between those trees again. probably should’ve just stayed here first.

everyone collapses down near the entrance without much ceremony, backs against the cold metal walls or slumped over their packs.

you're still catching your breath when topper curses under it, pulling back his jacket sleeve and looking at his forearm. “dude,” he mutters, voice half in disbelief, half in frustration. “i swear to god something scratched me back there.”

he turns his arm toward the firelight after jj and rafe managed to get a small fire going, careful to keep it low and hidden, and sure enough, there's a thin, angry-looking slice across his skin. the sleeve of his jacket is torn too, a clean rip like something sharp and invisible slashed right through the fabric.

kie is on her feet immediately, brushing dirt from her palms as she crosses over to him. “you need to clean that before it gets infected,” she says, already digging through the nearest backpacks, checking each one quickly for any sign of a medkit or even something they could use as a bandage.

watching them stirs something uneasy inside you. you remember that slicing feeling against your skin earlier. fuck. you shift where you sit, running your hands over your arms, your sides, your legs, looking for anything, any sting, any wetness that might mean blood. nothing. not until—

“hey,” rafe says quietly.

you glance up at him just as he steps closer, and his hand lifts before you can react, the tips of his fingers brushing carefully along your cheekbone. his thumb drags lightly across a spot just beneath your eye, and you flinch at the touch. something stings there.

your hand flies up instinctively, covering the spot as you jerk away slightly, heart pounding. you hadn’t even noticed. hadn’t even felt it until now. your fingers come away faintly wet when you touch the scratch, and you blink down at them, stunned. it really got you. the forest really left a mark on you.

“it's not deep,” rafe says as he glances back over his shoulder toward kie. “you find anything?” he calls to her.

kie shakes her head, still rifling through a few more bags. “nothing real. some antiseptic wipes, but that's about it.”

“give ‘em here,” rafe says, already reaching out a hand.

within a minute, he’s back in front of you, crouching low enough that you're eye-level with him. the wipe in his hand stings worse than anything when he presses it gently against the scratch, and you grit your teeth against the burn, refusing to pull away even though every instinct tells you to. rafe works quickly, efficient but careful, his fingers steady where they brace the side of your face.

“you’re good,” he says after a moment, crumpling the wipe and tossing it into the fire to burn away. “just a scratch.”

just a scratch. but somehow it feels like more.

you sit there quietly as the night goes on, the fire burning low between all of you, throwing long shadows against the inside of the cornucopia. no one talks much. the exhaustion is too heavy, and the fear from the forest still lingers. eventually, one by one, people start settling down where they sit, leaning back against the cold metal and pulling their jackets tighter.

rafe stays close, sitting just a few inches from you, his shoulder almost brushing yours. jj and kie continue their watch again, trading quiet words and keeping their eyes pinned to the trees. you try to sleep, but your body refuses to fully relax, your muscles still wired tight, your mind half-expecting to see something move in the darkness just beyond the firelight.

morning can’t come fast enough.

it’s quiet, which should be a good thing, but by now, silence feels more like a warning than a gift. you sit with your knees pulled to your chest, knuckles cold. there hasn’t been much movement since dawn.

you keep glancing around the clearing, your eyes tracking empty air. you know the cameras are out there somewhere, always are, but there are no booms in the sky. no signs of death.

by the time it’s day three you’ve only heard one cannon, maybe two if you count the one that rang out sometime late last night too.

you’d been awake last night, barely, head resting back against your pack, watching the sky twist open as a hovercraft descended near the water. you couldn’t see much, just the mechanical limbs dropping down and pulling a limp body up into the air before disappearing again. maybe it had been one of the tributes. maybe it’d been kie’s trap. either way, someone was gone.

you remember fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, wrapping it tight until it snapped, and trying not to think about it.

but you didn’t get much time to be still. you hear a scream the morning after.

you jolt upright, hand scrambling for the daggers you’d kept close to your hip. your head turns fast, eyes scanning for movement and you find it, just beyond the edge of the cornucopia. a mess of limbs and shouting. kie. she’s out there, fighting off two figures, maybe three, already half on the ground.

she must’ve gone out early, probably to check something or maybe even just pee, and got followed back.

jj’s already on his feet, spear in hand, eyes locked on the chaos just ahead. topper curses behind him, grabbing for his axe, but he’s moving fast, rage written all over his face.

“go!” jj barks.

the three figures ahead split up. one, a girl with a jagged ponytail and wild eyes, stays back with kie, pinning her to the ground and shouting something you can’t make out. the other two, the boys, are charging straight for jj and topper.

you barely have time to think before you and rafe are running too, his mace clenched tight in his fist. you reach them just in time to see kie struggling under a girl’s weight, the other tribute pressing a forearm against her throat.

jj lets out a hoarse yell and lunges first, spear angled low before snapping it upward into the stomach of the boy charging him. the point hits home, but the kid’s momentum sends them both sprawling. they hit the ground hard, wrestling for control, jj keeping the shaft of the spear between them, teeth gritted, muscles locked.

topper meets the second boy mid-sprint.

he swings his axe, catching the edge of the kid’s shoulder with a sickening thud. the boy stumbles, but not enough to stop. he grabs topper by the collar and drives a knee into his side. they break apart only to collide again, fists flying, wood meeting flesh, metal against bone.

you and rafe flank wide, slipping into the chaos.

you duck a blind swing from one of the boys and drive your dagger across the back of his thigh, deep and slicing. he jerks with a yell, and jj takes the opening, twisting his spear up and shoving it straight through the boy’s chest. he lets out a gargled cough before he collapses to the dirt.

“kie!” jj yells, dragging the spear free, almost like he needs to make sure she knows she’s going to be okay. he’s already moving toward topper. topper’s still fighting, but barely.

blood is running down his forehead, but he’s got his axe up, teeth bared as he swings again. this time, it hits clean. the blade bites deep into the side of the boy’s neck. he jerks once, then falls to his knees. topper pushes him off with a final grunt, panting hard.

you’re already turning your head, trying to find kie, the girl. there. she’s still on top of kie, but something’s wrong. she’s not hitting. she’s not stabbing. she’s just holding her.

then you see it. her leg, caught in something like taut metal wire, barely visible in the early morning light, looped tight around her calf. blood drips fast and heavy from the gash, pooling into the soil beneath her. it’s one of kie’s traps. that’s why they’re here?

you’re already moving.

the girl’s too distracted by the pain to realize you’re there. you lunge, dagger drawn, slicing across her back to knock her off balance. she shrieks and twists.

rafe’s there beside you in an instant, swinging his mace with brute force. it crashes into her side, ribs crack with a dull, sickening crunch. she tries to scream, but it chokes out into a wheeze.

you don’t hesitate. you grab the front of her jacket, force her down, and drive your blade into her chest. she jerks just once, then goes still. for a second, all you hear is breathing.

you turn to kie, who’s propped herself up on her elbows, eyes wide, staring at the body beside her.

jj steps forward, spear still slick in his grip. “you good?”

kie nods slowly, then glances down at the wire trap still tight around the girl’s leg. “caught her,” she mutters, voice scratchy.

you nod, swallowing hard. “trap held.”

“trap held,” jj echoes, looking down at the girl like he almost can’t believe it worked.

topper leans on his axe, the high from the fight already wearing off, sweat sliding down his temple. rafe’s still standing beside you, his breathing finally slowing. you don’t realize how close you’re leaning into him until the sound of another cannon rolls through the sky.

third one in less than a few minutes.

you stare at the girl’s bloody leg for another second before finally backing away. and for the first time since you woke, you realize you’re still shaking.

but rafe doesn’t move. he’s staring. you notice the shift in his posture before you notice what he’s looking at, eyes are narrowed slightly downward. you follow his gaze and—

your stomach sinks. blood, but not from the girl you just killed. it’s smeared across kie’s thigh, soaking the side of her pants. she didn’t even notice. or maybe she did and just didn’t want to say anything. but now that you’re looking, you can see how stiff she’s sitting, how carefully she’s trying not to put weight on that leg.

“shit,” you breathe out, already crouching beside her. “kie—”

she flinches when you reach for her, just barely. “it’s nothing.”

“no, it’s not.” you press your hand near the tear in the fabric, fingers already sticky. “jesus, kie, they got you bad. when—?”

kie glances toward the body beside her, then away again. her mouth is set. “before. when she and the guys first jumped me. one of them had a knife.”

“shit. topper, grab anything from their bags. i don’t care what it is, just— something.”

your hands hover uselessly near the blood that won’t stop spreading. it’s soaking through your fingers.

“we need to get her out of the open,” you say, sharper now. your eyes snap up to rafe and jj. “help me—inside. she needs cover.”

jj doesn’t hesitate. neither does rafe. the three of you lift her together. she tries to mumble that she’s fine again, but the sound is thin and breathless. you don’t even look at her.

topper follows, arms full with whatever gear he could grab from the fallen tributes’ bags like loose supplies, scraps of cloth, water, someone’s jacket. it’s not much, but it’ll have to be enough.

inside the cornucopia, you get kie onto one of the tables, and even then she grits her teeth and turns her head away to muffle a sound. her leg hangs slightly off the edge, blood’s dripping down the table now.

you try to breathe. you’ve never had to deal with this before.

your hands shake as you rifle through what topper brought. there’s gauze from someone’s first aid strip, a torn-up shirt, a flask of water, a hunting knife you toss aside quickly.

“what do i do?” you ask, looking at kie frantically. “just tell me, tell me what do i do, okay? i don’t know how to help you.”

kie’s jaw is tight. she looks at you, then down at her leg. her face is pale but her eyes are sharp.

“you’re doing fine,” she says gently, which somehow only makes the tears in your throat sting worse. “start with pressure. above the cut.”

you grab a strip of cloth and do as she says, wrapping it around her thigh and pulling tight. your fingers fumble the knot. blood seeps through almost instantly.

“fuck,” you whisper, pressing harder.

jj’s pacing now, running both hands through his hair, the spear clutched tightly in one of them. his mouth is twisted, his shoulders hunched. he looks like he might explode.

“they could’ve killed her,” he mutters, voice rising. “they could’ve fucking killed her—”

“jj,” rafe warns, stepping in front of him, hand pressed against his chest. topper joins him a second later, pushing lightly on jj’s shoulder. “calm down.”

jj jerks his arm away, breathing hard. but he doesn’t move toward you again. he just stands there, watching, helpless.

then, a yell, somewhere across the field. everyone freezes.

rafe and topper spin toward the open mouth of the cornucopia. rafe grabs his mace. you don’t even look up.

“go,” you say quickly, pressing the cloth harder against kie’s leg. “whatever it is, handle it. we’re fine in here.”

topper hesitates. “are you sure—”

“yes.” you glance up at him finally, your expression unreadable. “you don’t need all of us for one scream. go.”

jj growls something under his breath but doesn’t argue. he’s the first out the door, rafe and topper right behind him.

you’re alone again, just you and kie and the blood that won’t stop leaking through your fingers.

“you’re not gonna die,” you tell her, not sure who you’re trying to convince. you reach for more cloth.

kie tries to laugh, but it catches in her throat and becomes a hiss of pain. “yeah. well. thanks for the pep talk.”

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp

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neferaskingdom · 6 months ago

Text

♡ Where Do I Stand? | CL16

PART OF MY IS IT CASUAL NOW? SERIES

Summary: I fucked you in the bathroom when we went to dinner, your mother at the table, you wonder why I'm bitter?

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

Warning: This chapter contains non-explicit sexual content

As she stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric of the black dress Charles had convinced her to wear, her nerves only seemed to intensify. She adjusted the neckline for what must have been the tenth time, biting her lip as she tried to steady her breathing. The dress hugged her curves in all the right places, just as he’d promised, but right now, the last thing she felt was confident.

“Do I look alright?” she asked anxiously, glancing at Charles, who was leaning against the doorframe with a grin on his face.

“You look incredible,” he said, his gaze warm and unwavering as he took her in. “Stop stressing. They’re going to love you.”

She shot him a half-hearted smile, smoothing down the dress again. “You’re sure? I mean…they’re your family, Charles. I don’t want to say anything weird.”

His hands traced soothing circles on her back, but he couldn’t resist teasing her. “Are you seriously freaking out right now? Come on, where’s the confident girl who has me wrapped around her finger?”

She groaned, dropping her head to his chest. “This isn’t funny! I just don’t want to mess things up.”

He stepped closer, placing his hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes with a reassuring smile. “Hey. You’re overthinking this. You just have to be yourself.”

Easier said than done, she thought, especially with the butterflies that had been in her stomach all afternoon. “What if I say something wrong, though?” she mumbled, casting him an uncertain look.

“Then I’ll step in and rescue you,” he replied, winking at her playfully. “Come on, you’re going to be perfect. Now, can we go? Or are you going to keep looking in the mirror until we’re late?”

She shot him a weak glare before he took her hand, guiding her out the door with a playful tug.

They arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, which only heightened her nerves. The place was cozy yet elegant, filled with warm lighting and soft chatter. They were seated at a table near the back, but the moment they sat down, her fidgeting returned with full force. She drummed her fingers on the table, then tapped her foot, glancing toward the entrance every few seconds.

Charles watched her with a slight smile before reaching across the table to still her hands. “You’re going to wear a hole in the tablecloth,” he teased gently.

She tried to smile, but her nerves were getting the better of her. “I can’t help it! What if they don’t like me?”

His eyes softened. Without saying a word, he stood up, grabbing her hand and pulling her from her seat. “Come on,” he said, guiding her out of the dining area.

“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to keep up as he led her down a quiet hallway.

He didn’t answer, just pushed open the door to the bathroom and ushered her inside with a grin. She gave him a bewildered look, laughing despite her nerves. “What is it with you and pushing me into bathrooms?”

He chuckled, moving closer until he was barely an inch away. “It’s where I know you can’t run away,” he whispered, his lips curving into a smile before he leaned in and kissed her. “let me help you relax mon amour”

Charles's smirk deepened as he sank to his knees in front of her, his hands sliding slowly, tantalizingly, up her thighs. Her breath hitched, her pulse racing wildly as he lifted the hem of her dress higher, revealing bare skin beneath his fingertips. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, his eyes dark with intent, and the sight sent a shiver through her that had her clutching the countertop behind her for balance.

"Hold onto the counter,” he murmured, his voice a low, warm whisper that seemed to melt away the last of her composure.

She wrapped her fingers around the counter’s edge, her grip tense, knuckles white as his lips brushed along her inner thigh in slow, unhurried kisses. Every press of his mouth against her skin seemed to draw her further under his spell, leaving her gasping, the warmth of his breath making her tremble. He took his time, his hands firm on her legs, steadying her while his mouth moved with calculated precision, inching closer and closer, driving her anticipation to an almost unbearable edge.

When he finally reached her, she let out a soft gasp, her other hand flying to cover her mouth, desperate to keep any sound from escaping. He held her gaze, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small smile as he brushed his lips against her core, his tongue tracing a path that made her knees go weak. She bit down hard on her lip, eyes fluttering closed as he set a steady, teasing rhythm, every movement sending a spark through her body that left her barely able to keep herself steady.

Her breaths turned shallow, her chest rising and falling with every shaky exhale, as he worked her over with a maddening, focused intensity. His mouth moved with such deliberate slowness, each flick of his tongue and press of his lips driving her closer, unraveling her inch by inch until the only thing grounding her was the pressure of his hands and the coolness of the countertop against her fingers.

She couldn’t help the soft moans slipping past her hand, muffled but undeniable. Charles seemed to enjoy every second, his hands gripping her thighs as he pulled her closer, refusing to let up. Her entire body began to tense, her grip on the counter tightening as he continued, his every motion so unrelenting and perfect that she found herself struggling to hold on, her breathing turning to desperate gasps that barely made a sound.

"Charles…" she whispered, barely finding the strength to speak as he brought her to the edge, leaving her shaking, her legs unsteady as she surrendered completely to him. The world around her faded, her entire focus narrowing to the feel of him, the warmth of his mouth, the pressure of his hands as he held her through every wave that crashed over her.

When he finally pulled back, her legs were trembling, her cheeks flushed and eyes dazed. She clutched the counter, struggling to catch her breath as he rose to his feet, that same smug smile on his face as he wiped his mouth, clearly reveling in the state he’d left her in.

“Better?” he murmured, his tone smug yet soft, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and satisfaction.

She managed a weak nod, still catching her breath, her cheeks burning as she fought to steady herself. Charles’s grin only grew, and he reached up, brushing a thumb over her cheek in a tender gesture that sent another shiver through her.

“Good,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips, letting her taste the remnants of his touch. She leaned into him, still feeling as though her legs could give out any moment. With a gentle smile, he offered his arm, his warmth and confidence steadying her as he tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his eyes full of affection.

“Come on, then,” he murmured, still close enough that she felt his breath against her cheek. “Wouldn’t want to keep my mother waiting too long.”

Charles and her entered the dining hall, sharing a conspiratorial glance as they approached the table where his family waited. They’d both agreed to pretend they’d just arrived, hoping no one would question why they were a bit late. Charles’s hand rested on her lower back, a steadying presence as they walked, and she took a deep breath, trying to shake off her lingering nerves.

As they reached the table, Pascale, Charles’s mom, was the first to notice them. She broke into a warm smile and stood up, extending her arms. “Ah, there they are! Finally! It’s wonderful to meet you!”

She smiled nervously as Pascale pulled her into a hug, the warmth in the older woman’s embrace helping her relax just a little. Pascale pulled back, looking at her with a fond smile. “Honestly, Charles, I don’t know why you kept us all waiting to meet this lovely girl,” she said, playfully smacking his arm.

she laughed, feeling her tension ease immediately. “I’m honored! He’s been keeping me all to himself, apparently.”

Pascale shot Charles an amused look, patting his shoulder. “Oh, don’t I know it. Charles is not exactly the best at sharing.”

At this, Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Oh, absolutely. Growing up, Charles was always the most possessive of us all. Couldn’t share his toys, wouldn’t let anyone touch his things…”

Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head. “And it was always the same excuse: But I really, really like it.”

“Some things never change,” Pascale added, glancing between Charles and her with a knowing smile.

Charles rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “Alright, alright. You’re all very funny. But I like what I like. Can’t help that. Also I just didn’t want to overwhelm her right away!”

“Pfft, as if we’re overwhelming!” Arthur chimed in with a teasing grin from his spot across the table.

Lorenzo, Charles’s older brother, was next to extend a hand, his grin warm and friendly. “Hey there, I’m Lorenzo. I guess I’m the unfortunate one who didn’t get to meet you first. Arthur’s been gloating about it since the Grand Prix.”

“And it's a good thing she met me first too,” Arthur shot back, rolling his eyes with a playful smirk as he looked between her and Charles. “Or else she would’ve had a bad impression about this family after just dealing with Charles’ clinginess”

Charles groaned, shooting Arthur a mock glare. “I am not clingy. She just…tolerates me better than any of you do.”

Charlotte, Lorenzo’s fiancée, laughed softly as she introduced herself and gave her a quick hug. “Honestly, don’t let him fool you—Charles is the clingiest one here. We’re just glad he finally introduced you to us,” she said with a smile, making her feel instantly welcome.

As they all settled at the table, Charles pulled out her chair for her, leaning close with a grin. “There. Comfortable?”

She nodded, smiling, though her nerves still lingered. Arthur, catching her expression, gave her a reassuring look. “Trust me, this bunch might seem a bit much at first, but we don’t bite…much.”

Pascale laughed, giving Arthur a light smack on the shoulder. “Behave, Arthur. We want her to come back!”

As the evening went on, she felt genuinely welcomed. Pascale occasionally reached across the table to pat her hand or offer her more food, insisting she try this dish or that. Arthur kept up the jokes, earning laughs all around, while Lorenzo and Charlotte shared stories from their recent travels, making her feel like she’d known them all for ages.

Charlotte leaned over as they finished dessert, her eyes bright. “We should definitely hang out sometime, do a girls' day.”

Her face lit up. “I’d love that,” she replied, feeling truly touched by the gesture.

Later, as she and Charles got into the car, Charles’s smug grin was unmistakable. “See?” he said, nudging her lightly. “I told you they’d love you. Honestly, I knew it from the start.”

She smiled, though there was a flutter in her chest, a small, hopeful feeling that she hadn’t anticipated. This evening had felt like so much more than just a casual meeting. Maybe, just maybe, Charles felt that way too.

But then, he offhandedly added, “They’re just happy I finally introduced them to my friend.”

The word ‘friend’ landed with an unexpected weight, and she felt her heart sink, even as she tried to keep her expression light. She looked out the window, a small smile still on her face, but it felt a little more forced now, the sweetness of the evening tainted with a quiet ache.

Charles was oblivious, humming to himself as he drove, still chattering about how well everything had gone. But she remained silent, her thoughts drifting back to the evening, to Pascale’s warmth, Arthur’s jokes, Lorenzo’s kindness, and Charlotte’s friendly offer. And through it all, the question she couldn’t shake: where exactly did she stand in Charles’s life?

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