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hearts4pbaz · 20 days ago

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The Eras of a Dream

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Words: 5k

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Before the roar of the crowd, there were pivotal moments of self-discovery, defining relationships, and relentless dedication that paved the way into an extraordinary future for Paige Bueckers.

Notes: this is unlike anything ive ever written before so idk if it's any good or if i'll write anything like it again but hope you enjoy

Era 1: The Hopkins Spark

The Minnesota air, crisp even in summer, carried the rhythmic thud of a basketball long before Paige Bueckers truly understood its siren call. In Hopkins, a suburb that hummed with the quiet energy of family life, five-year-old Paige was a blur of motion. Raised by her single father, Bob, their small world was built on routine, laughter, and an unspoken understanding that they were a team. Bob, a man whose own athletic days were fond memories, juggled work and fatherhood with a steady, loving hand. He was the fixed point in Paige’s universe, the one who made a scraped knee feel like a minor inconvenience and a good day at kindergarten feel like a triumph.

It wasn't any single moment that marked Paige as different, but a collection of small observations. On the playground, while other children her age were still mastering the art of not tripping over their own feet, Paige moved with an uncanny grace. She could outrun, out-jump, and out-maneuver most, her small frame surprisingly agile. Bob noticed it first, a quiet pride swelling in his chest as he watched her scamper up climbing frames or effortlessly catch a wayward ball. He saw the flicker of something special, a raw, untamed athleticism.

The true awakening, however, began with a bright orange sphere. Perhaps it was a hand-me-down, or a birthday gift, but once a basketball found its way into Paige’s small hands, it rarely left. Their driveway, modest and unassuming, became her first court. Bob, often weary from a long day, would find a second wind watching her. Initially, it was pure, unstructured play. Paige would chase the ball, hurl it towards the rusty hoop he’d installed, her tongue poking out in concentration. There was no technique, just an intuitive connection. The ball, almost too big for her, seemed to listen to her.

"Like this, Paigey?" Bob would demonstrate a clumsy (by his own admission) dribble or a simple chest pass. He wasn't a coach, not then, but he was an encourager, a rebounder, a steady presence. He’d praise her efforts, the wild shots that sometimes, surprisingly, swished through the net, and the determined way she’d retrieve the ball after a miss, her brow furrowed.

Her knack for basketball became undeniable.

By six, she wasn't just throwing the ball; she was aiming it. She started to mimic players she might have glimpsed on TV at a neighbor's house or in snippets from games Bob watched. A little crossover dribble, a hesitant jump shot – her body seemed to instinctively understand the movements. The joy she found in these moments was palpable. It wasn’t a chore; it was an extension of her being.

Life in their single-parent household had its unique rhythms. Dinners were often simple, conversations flowing easily between father and daughter. Bob helped with homework, read bedtime stories, and always made sure Paige felt secure and loved. There were challenges, of course – the occasional pang of wishing for a mom at a school event, or Bob’s tired sighs after a particularly demanding week. But their bond was a fortress. And basketball was becoming a cornerstone of that bond. The driveway sessions weren't just about sport; they were about connection, shared laughter, and the quiet pride of a father watching his daughter discover something she loved.

As she neared eight, the playful interactions began to take on a more focused edge. She’d pester Bob to play "one more game" of H-O-R-S-E, her competitive spirit already fierce. She’d practice dribbling around imaginary defenders on the cracked pavement, her movements becoming smoother, more confident. Sometimes, other neighborhood kids would join, and Paige, though still small, would often surprise them with her skill and tenacity.

Her early dreams weren't yet of WNBA stardom or championship trophies. They were simpler, more immediate. She dreamed of the satisfying swish of the net, of making a shot Bob thought was impossible, of the feel of the worn leather in her hands. She dreamed of the sun setting over their Hopkins driveway, the orange glow matching the ball she cradled, her father's encouraging voice the soundtrack to her burgeoning passion. Basketball wasn't just a game; it was becoming a language she understood, a place where her natural talents could sing, nurtured by the unwavering support of the most important person in her world. The spark had been ignited.

Era 2: The Blueprint of a Dream

The transition from playful driveway games to the more structured, demanding world of competitive youth basketball was almost seamless for Paige Bueckers. By nine, the raw talent that had blossomed in Hopkins was being sculpted, refined. Her movements on the court, once instinctive, were now imbued with a burgeoning understanding of the game's geometry, its rhythm, its subtle deceits. She wasn't just a kid who could shoot; she was a player who could think.

In Hopkins, as Paige moved through late childhood, her name began to circulate beyond the local playgrounds. Bob, ever her steadfast supporter, navigated the burgeoning world of youth sports, seeking out opportunities that would challenge and nurture her growing abilities. This often meant joining travel teams, facing tougher competition from across Minnesota and eventually, the Midwest. The squeak of sneakers on polished gymnasium floors became a familiar soundtrack to their weekends.

It was in these more competitive arenas that Paige truly began to distinguish herself. While other players her age were still mastering fundamentals, Paige was executing no-look passes that threaded needles, her court vision almost preternatural. She developed a lethal crossover, a quick release on her jump shot, and a defensive tenacity that belied her still-slight frame. She wasn’t just scoring; she was making everyone around her better. One savvy travel team coach, a grizzled veteran named Coach Henderson who’d seen hundreds of hopefuls pass through his program, pulled Bob aside after a particularly dominant tournament performance. "That girl," he’d said, pointing a calloused finger towards Paige, who was already back on the court shooting free throws, "she’s got it, Bob. The kind of it you see once in a decade, if you’re lucky."

This external validation only fueled the fire within Paige. Around the age of ten, a new, specific dream began to take root, nurtured by grainy TV broadcasts and stories of legendary players: the University of Connecticut. UConn wasn't just a college basketball team; it was an institution, a dynasty. She’d watch their games with her father, mesmerized by their precision, their teamwork, their relentless pursuit of excellence. The idea of wearing that Huskies jersey, of playing for Geno Auriemma, became a powerful magnet, pulling her aspirations into sharp focus.

And beyond UConn, a grander ambition shimmered: the WNBA. It was the pinnacle, the ultimate stage. The thought of playing professionally, of making basketball her life, was no longer a vague childhood fantasy but a driving force. This ambition shaped her days.

Her training regimen intensified, though Bob was careful to ensure it didn't consume her entirely. Early mornings before school often meant ball-handling drills in the driveway, cones set up under the pale dawn light. After school, it was team practice, followed by more shooting, more drills, sometimes just her and her dad rebounding for each other until dusk. He taught her the importance of fundamentals, of repetition, of outworking everyone else. He wasn't just her father; he was her first coach, her chief motivator, and her unwavering believer.

Balancing this burgeoning athletic career with schoolwork and the typical activities of a pre-teen was a constant juggle. There were missed birthday parties for out-of-state tournaments, homework completed in the backseat of the car on long drives to games. The pressure to excel wasn't just internal anymore; coaches expected her to lead, opponents targeted her, and the whispers of her prodigious talent created a subtle weight. Yet, through it all, Bob ensured she had space to just be a kid. He made sure there were movie nights, trips for ice cream, and time for friendships that weren't centered around basketball. He understood the pressures, having been an athlete himself, and his calm, steady guidance was her anchor. He’d remind her, "Play hard, have fun, be a good teammate. Be you. Be great."

By twelve, Paige Bueckers was no longer just a promising local talent. She was a young athlete with a clear vision, a blueprint for her future meticulously drawn in her mind. The courts of Hopkins had nurtured her, her father’s unwavering support had fortified her, and the twin dreams of UConn and the WNBA were now the stars she navigated by. The journey was just beginning, but the trajectory was undeniably upward.

Era 3: The Crucible of Adolescence

The leap from late childhood to the precipice of teenage years was, for Paige Bueckers, like launching from a well-worn local court into a roaring arena. At twelve, her basketball trajectory was near-vertical. Hopkins remained home base, but her name was echoing far beyond Minnesota’s borders. Tournament MVPs, highlight reels that buzzed through youth basketball circuits, and the growing whispers of "future star" became commonplace. The dreams of UConn and the WNBA were no longer quiet internal hums; they were bold declarations, sometimes voiced by coaches, sometimes by Paige herself with a newfound, albeit still youthful, confidence. Local sports reporters occasionally sought out Bob for a quote about his prodigy daughter. The spotlight, once a distant flicker, was now undeniably brightening.

But beneath the polished veneer of the rising basketball phenom, a more complicated, internal drama was unfolding. Puberty arrived, unceremonious and awkward, bringing with it a cascade of changes that felt both alien and intensely personal. For any young girl, this is a period of upheaval, but for Paige, navigating it without an older female figure in the household added layers of bewilderment. There was no mother or older sister to confide in about the strange new landscape of her own body, no one to ask the embarrassing questions that burned in her mind.

Her dad, bless his heart, tried his best. He was a rock, as always, but this was uncharted territory for him too. There were clumsy conversations, initiated with a well-meaning but flustered, "So, uh, Paigey, things might be... changing a bit for you soon?" He bought books he thought might help, fumbled through explanations gleaned from pamphlets, and made awkward, solitary trips to the pharmacy for "girl things." Paige, though she appreciated his efforts, often felt a profound sense of isolation. She’d retreat to her room, feeling a mix of confusion, embarrassment, and a longing for a kind of understanding Bob, for all his love, couldn't quite provide. The locker room, once just a place for pre-game chats, now sometimes felt like a minefield of whispered conversations and shared experiences she wasn’t part of.

Adding to this internal maelstrom, new, unsettling questions began to surface regarding her own identity. As her peers started to navigate the tentative world of crushes and early adolescent romance, Paige found herself on the periphery, an observer rather than a participant. The typical boy-girl dynamics didn't resonate with her in the same way. A quiet, persistent voice in the back of her mind began to wonder why. This wasn't a clear understanding, just a nebulous sense of difference, a subtle disharmony with the narratives unfolding around her. It was another secret to hold, another layer of introspection in a mind already crowded with basketball strategy and adolescent angst. The word "sexuality" wasn't one she would have used then, but the nascent stirrings of questioning her orientation created a quiet undercurrent of anxiety.

The mounting pressure of her basketball success intersected sharply with these personal turbulences. Expectations were sky-high. Every game felt like an audition, every practice a test. Coaches, while supportive, also pushed hard, recognizing the once-in-a-generation talent they had. Peers sometimes viewed her with a mixture of awe and envy. And Paige, her own harshest critic, felt the weight of her own ambitions keenly. The court, often her sanctuary, could also feel like a pressure cooker. There were days when the joy of the game was overshadowed by the fear of not living up to the hype, of disappointing Bob, her coaches, or herself.

The balancing act was immense. Schoolwork demanded attention, intense training sessions ate up hours, and travel for tournaments consumed weekends. Her social life, already impacted by her dedication to basketball, became even more constrained. Friendships were often forged on the court, but the deeper, more vulnerable connections that adolescent girls often build were harder to come by when so much of her energy was focused outward, on performance, and inward, on navigating profound personal shifts.

Her dad remained her constant. He saw the shadows under her eyes, the moments of frustration, the flashes of vulnerability. He couldn't fix everything, couldn't magically make puberty easier or untangle the knots of her internal questioning, but he could listen. He could offer a hug, a reminder of how proud he was, not just of Paige the basketball player, but of Paige the person. He’d encourage breaks, try to inject normalcy with pizza nights or a silly movie, moments where she could just be a kid, not a phenom.

These pre-teen years in Hopkins were a crucible. Paige was being forged in the fires of intense competition, adolescent change, and nascent self-discovery. She was learning not just how to execute a perfect pick-and-roll, but how to navigate a world that was becoming increasingly complex, both on and off the court. The girl with the dazzling smile and effortless game was also a young soul grappling with the profound, often confusing, journey of growing up, all while the world began to watch.

Era 4: The Meeting

By the time Paige Bueckers stepped onto the polished hardwood of the Under-16 USA Basketball tryouts, she had already begun to understand that talent wasn’t enough. The gym at the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center in Colorado Springs buzzed with intensity – every girl here had been the best player in her city, maybe even her state. Now they were all vying for the same red, white, and blue jersey.

At 15, Paige had just started to feel the burden of potential, of expectations. She carried herself with a quiet fire, not the loudest or most physically imposing, but undeniably magnetic on the court — her court vision, her creativity, her sheer command of the game. Still, this was different. The stakes were higher. She needed to prove herself all over again.

That’s when she noticed the girl from Virginia.

Azzi Fudd, just 14, had the kind of shot that made coaches stop talking mid-sentence. Everything about her form was immaculate – smooth, effortless, almost surgical. Rumors had preceded her: daughter of Tim and Katie Fudd, a basketball family through and through. But Azzi didn’t walk around like a prodigy. She was focused, head down, eyes fixed on her own goals. Still, there was something quietly intimidating about her – precise, controlled, and deadly consistent.

Paige found herself watching Azzi more than she meant to. She noticed the way Azzi never reacted to pressure, how she laughed only when she meant it. And Azzi, for her part, had certainly noticed Paige – the intensity in her passes, the fire behind her competitive streak, how her personality seemed to stretch wide enough to fill a room but shrink down in quieter moments, like when no one was watching.

They both made the team. That wasn’t surprising.

What was surprising – at least to Paige – was being assigned the same room for the duration of the training camp. The U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center didn't offer much in the way of privacy, but the two girls found a rhythm. At first, it was basic courtesy: rotations for the bathroom, playlists on low volume, mutual respect. But high-stakes proximity has a way of collapsing distance. And the space between them began to vanish.

Late nights after grueling practices turned into quiet conversations about more than basketball – about families, injuries, what it meant to be seen only for what you could do, not who you were. Paige, always a little louder, found herself grounding in Azzi’s calm presence. Azzi, guarded and meticulous, felt safe letting down her walls with Paige’s warmth.

They started finishing each other’s thoughts on the court. Off the court, the walls between their beds became less symbolic and more real – Paige’s socks on Azzi’s side, Azzi’s phone charger always missing, the smell of eucalyptus from Azzi’s lotion becoming part of Paige’s memory of the room. There was no clean break between teammates and friends. And before long, there was no line at all between friends and something more.

It happened slowly and all at once. A hand held too long. A shoulder leaned on after a hard day. Laughter that dissolved into silence that neither of them wanted to break. The first kiss was quiet – nervous, charged, and unforgettable. They didn’t talk about it right away. But they didn’t need to. Something had shifted.

For Paige, who had spent months, maybe years, trying to name feelings she didn’t yet understand, this changed everything. It didn’t solve all the questions about who she was, but it gave her a new one: What did it mean to be in love – real, heart-thudding, can't-look-away love – with the girl sleeping four feet away?

They had games to win, drills to survive, reputations to uphold. But in that small Colorado room, under fluorescent lights and beside scuffed luggage, they found something unexpectedly fierce and tender.

Paige would never forget the feeling.

And neither would Azzi.

Era 5: Navigating New Realities

By the time Paige Bueckers turned sixteen, she and Azzi Fudd were no longer just teammates or summer-camp sweethearts – they were something deeper. Something steadier. Something tested. Even from opposite ends of the country, they were still very much “attached at the hip,” as Bob liked to half-joke, though now their bond lived mostly in texts, FaceTime calls, and carefully coordinated visits squeezed between brutal practice schedules and school obligations.

The long-distance wasn’t easy.

Paige was in Hopkins, juggling her rising stardom, schoolwork, and a growing awareness that the eyes of the entire women’s basketball world were firmly trained on her. Azzi was back in Virginia, going through the same thing – though with her own quiet intensity. Their phone calls were often the only calm in the chaos: stolen hours late at night, earbuds in under blankets, voices low. They talked about everything – bad games, awkward interviews, coach drama, algebra tests, the unshakable pressure to be perfect.

There were fights. Of course there were fights.

Missed calls. Misread texts. Misplaced jealousy. At times, the distance carved valleys between them. But the reunions – God, the reunions – those made it worth it. Whether in hotel rooms during Team USA events, or during carefully orchestrated weekend visits, when Paige would hop a flight to D.C. or Azzi would show up in the bleachers at one of Paige’s home games, the gravity of their connection always snapped them back together like magnets.

They talked – often, and seriously – about college.

The dream, once whispered at fifteen, took on new weight now that recruiters were knocking down doors. UConn loomed large in Paige’s heart, a goal she’d carried since before she could drive. Geno Auriemma called. He made it clear: she was the future of the program.

Azzi had her own courtship, with her own list of elite programs. Coaches wanted her, not just for her insane shot, but for the way she moved – disciplined, unshakeable. It wasn’t just her game that drew attention anymore. She and Paige had become a kind of phenomenon. Fan accounts popped up overnight. Grainy game clips went viral. Articles speculated about their next steps. Rumors swirled about their relationship, sometimes lovingly, sometimes cruelly. The internet, with all its power, saw them. And it didn’t always look away kindly.

They tried to shut it out. Mostly, they succeeded. But they were still teenagers.

Some nights, Paige would scroll too long, lingering on comment threads she knew better than to read. "Overrated." "Too emotional." And other more negative words that caused that slimy type of anger to fester deep in Paige’s soamach. Not because people were saying those things about her per se but because they had the gall to throw those names towards Azzi. Her Azzi.

The doubts, of course, found cracks, even in her titanium self-belief. Azzi had her own demons, her own critics who questioned her composure, her durability, her leadership. But they leaned on each other, as they always had. They reminded each other who they were when the world tried to write new definitions.

When Paige finally committed to UConn, the moment was a mix of joy and ache. It was everything she had worked toward – everything she had dreamed. Azzi was the first person she called.

"I'm proud of you," Azzi said. And she meant it. But the pause after hung heavy.

They had talked about it – about being a package deal, about chasing greatness side-by-side. But in the end, they each had to make their own choices. Azzi wasn’t sure yet. She needed more time. More clarity. Paige understood. She had to.

The distance between them, once just measured in miles, began to feel like a countdown clock.

And yet, through it all, the bond held.

Senior year brought more chaos. Media days. Honors. McDonald’s All-American announcements. Zoom interviews. Public personas had to be shaped, honed, protected. But in private, they were still Paige and Azzi. Goofy. Tender. Ridiculously competitive in ways that made their friends roll their eyes. They found each other in group chats, in shared playlists, in Polaroids taped to bedroom walls.

They were figuring out how to be young women in the spotlight – and in love.

It wasn’t always graceful. But it was real.

And when Paige finally zipped up her suitcase for Storrs, Connecticut, there were tears, of course. Not just from Bob at the airport, but from Azzi, who pressed a note into her hand before she left. Paige read it on the plane. It said:

“No matter where we go, I’ll find you. You know that, right?”

Paige did.

Era 6: Becoming

The moment Paige Bueckers stepped onto the Storrs campus, it felt like stepping into a dream – one shaped by a decade of driveway drills, highlight reels, and whispered ambitions. UConn wasn’t just a college. It was the pinnacle. It was Geno. It was legacy. It was everything she’d worked for.

But dreams, she quickly learned, could be heavy.

College life hit fast. There was barely time to settle into her dorm before the reality of Division I basketball set in – 6 a.m. lifts, double practices, film sessions that dissected every missed rotation, every lazy closeout. Coach Auriemma expected excellence – not potential, not flashes – consistency. Paige, always the competitor, rose to the challenge. But the pressure was unrelenting. She was no longer just the girl with handles from Minnesota. She was The Next One.

Classes were another gauntlet. Managing deadlines between national TV games and recovery sessions felt like a second sport. Her days were a blur of movement, her nights a quiet race against exhaustion.

And then there was Azzi.

They’d made it – together.

After all the uncertainty, the dream of playing side-by-side in college had somehow materialized. Azzi chose UConn, too. Maybe for Paige, maybe not solely – but whatever the reason, the result was the same: they were finally sharing the same court, the same jersey, the same grind.

But being together didn’t make things easier. In some ways, it made them harder.

There were new eyes on them now – more invasive, more entitled. Whispers about their chemistry, their “closeness,” spilled into online debates, message boards, even press questions. They never made a public statement. They didn’t need to. But the scrutiny added pressure to something already so precious.

They learned, quickly, to protect it.

Some nights, they’d crash onto one of their beds, not talking – just letting the silence between them do the healing. Other nights, they’d sneak out for late walks near campus, hoodies up, fingers brushing. They knew they couldn’t outrun the spotlight. But they could at least claim pieces of privacy, moments that belonged only to them.

On the court, they were electric.

Paige’s game matured – her vision sharper, her leadership undeniable. She became the heartbeat of the team, balancing flare with discipline, swagger with sacrifice. Every pass had intention. Every game was a building block toward something bigger.

Azzi, as always, was the cool counterbalance. Her shot as pristine as ever, her movements honed like a dancer’s. Together, they played with a rhythm that was almost telepathic – years of trust distilled into basketball instincts.

Still, even greatness wasn’t a shield.

There were injuries. Slumps. Articles that praised one while questioning the other. Days when neither felt good enough, despite what the stat sheet said. Paige, especially, wrestled with the growing disconnect between who she was and who people believed her to be. To the world, she was the golden girl, the flawless star. Inside, she was just trying to stay afloat.

Azzi reminded her who she was.

Not with big speeches, but in the little things. A hand on her knee during a tough film review. A dumb meme texted at 3 a.m. The quiet knowing that came from being loved completely, even on her worst days.

Together, they kept dreaming.

The WNBA loomed ahead like a distant shore – tantalizing, inevitable. Paige felt its pull, especially after big games, when scouts would linger and fans would chant her name. But she also knew: this chapter mattered. UConn was more than a stepping stone. It was shaping her – teaching her how to lead, how to lose, how to rebuild.

And beyond all that, she was growing into herself.

As a student. As a partner. As a woman figuring out how to live boldly in a world that kept trying to define her.

By the time Paige reached the tail end of her sophomore year, she was no longer just chasing greatness. She was becoming it – in her own way, on her own terms. And whether the road led to championships, draft nights, or something entirely unexpected, one thing remained true:

Azzi was always there, in the crowd or on the court, still steady. Still home.

They had made it through adolescence, distance, doubt, and the roar of rising fame.

Now, in the glow of early adulthood, they were building something real.

Something that could last.

Epilogue: Draft Night

The lights were brighter than they’d ever been. The kind of brightness that seemed to blur the edges of everything, making even the sharpest memories feel like dreams. Paige sat near the front of the room, dressed in a crisp black suit that made her look every inch the professional athlete she’d fought to become. Her name was everywhere – on mock drafts, on banners, on the lips of analysts filling airtime with praise and predictions.

Next to her sat Azzi, also in black to match – classic, understated, radiant. She looked calm. She always did.

But Paige knew better. She could see the slight tension in Azzi’s jaw, the way her hands were folded too tightly in her lap. They were both waiting. Both holding their breath.

A flashbulb popped. Cameras swept across their row. Somewhere on a nearby stage, the commissioner took her place behind the podium. The room hushed.

It was finally happening.

The journey that had started in Colorado Springs – two teenagers with duffel bags and nerves – had led to this moment. All the 6 a.m. workouts, the torn ligaments, the championship runs, the nights spent cramming for exams after practice, the long talks whispered under dorm blankets… it all pulsed beneath the surface now, a silent electricity in the air.

Azzi reached over without looking and found Paige’s hand. Their fingers locked like they always had, like they always would.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…”

The name rang out and the room erupted. Cheers, applause, camera shutters. Paige barely heard anything. Her heart was pounding too loudly.

She stood slowly. Smiling, stunned, trying to breathe.

She glanced at Azzi, who mouthed, “I love you.”

And those three words hit Paige harder than they ever had.

She walked onto the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey for the cameras. Her face beamed out on the big screen, and for the first time, she wasn’t chasing anything anymore. She was here. She had arrived.

Back in her seat, Azzi wiped away a tear.

But it wasn’t sadness. It was pride. Pure, fierce, aching pride.

Later that night, after the interviews and the handshake gauntlet, after Paige had posed with her draft cap and answered questions about leadership and expectations and the “legacy she hoped to build,” they found each other again in the quiet backstage hallways.

No lights. No cameras.

Just them.

"You did it," Azzi whispered.

"So did you," Paige said. "You're next."

They stood in the soft hum of the arena's back corridor, arms wrapped around each other, two futures unfolding side by side. And for a moment, time slowed. The noise faded. It was just like it had been in that room in Colorado Springs – two girls trying to figure it all out.

But now, they weren’t trying anymore.

They knew.

Whatever came next – different teams, new cities, more pressure – they would navigate it the same way they always had.

Together.

#paige x azzi #pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #paige bueckers fic

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wordsofwhimsy · 3 months ago

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𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘌𝘋 𝘈𝘍𝘍𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚 - 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘙𝘌𝘌

♥ Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x Reader | Sinister!Mark Grayson x Reader ♥ Warnings: Violence & Gore ♥ a/n: even though i put him in the pairings sinister mark doesn’t actually show up this chapter. if y’all haven’t noticed i’m pretty big on building lore so one scene can take a lot of time lolll. i think it adds to the depth of the story 🤌 → Part Two ←

It was a truly beautiful day; the sun’s rays unbroken by the clouds while a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves. Its serenity, however, was lost on M.Mark. A deep red liquid spattered across his face as the smell of sweat, blood, and fear permeated the alleyway he stood in. He could hear the sickening sound of bones cracking beneath his fists, but all that mattered was the rage—the fire burning deep in his chest. It was a fire that never truly went out, and right now it was fueled entirely by a raw jealousy.

“You really think you’re good enough for her, huh?” Mark’s voice was low, venomous, his words directed at no one in particular. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated with fury. He grabbed one of the men by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The guy's feet dangled, his hands flailing helplessly as Mark’s fingers dug into his windpipe.

The man’s eyes bulged in terror, but Mark barely registered it. He was thinking of you. You—smiling at that asshole, holding his hand, like you didn’t even notice the real love of your life existed at all. Like that Mark was the most important thing in the world.

“I protect people now, you know?” Mark spat, his voice tinged with bitterness, his grip tightening. “I save people. And for what? So some fucking idiot can waltz around thinking he’s good enough to have her?”

The guy gasped, clawing at Mark’s hand, but it was no use. Mark wasn’t even really seeing him anymore. His eyes were focused somewhere else, somewhere far away.

In his mind’s eye he saw you again—laughing with that bastard. His absolute idiot of a counterpart, who didn’t even see you like he did. You were a goddamn star in his world, and yet you gave that moron all your time, all of your love.

“It’s so fucked up,” Mark muttered. “She doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see me the way I see her.” He turned his head, eyes narrowing at the other man huddling against the wall, still alive, still shaking. “She should be with me, y’know? Not him. Damn sure not any of you. Me.”

He shook the man in his grip, his voice rising with every word. “I would do anything to make her happy. You hear me? Anything. But you—you’re just a distraction. You’re nothing. And you’re standing in the way.”

The guy’s breath came in strangled gasps, his hands no longer fighting against Mark’s iron grip. There was nothing he could do to escape. Mark’s voice became a growl.

“I mean,” Mark started again with a scoff, “What makes him so fucking special?”

The guy’s head lolled back, the panic already setting in. Mark could feel the pulse in the guy’s neck, feel him weakening, but he didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when his mind was screaming.

And then, in a desperate, broken voice, the second man spoke, his hands still raised in a futile gesture of surrender.

“Look... man... I don’t know who you’re talking about, but it sounds like she’s not yours. You gotta... you gotta let her go.” His voice cracked as he spoke, but there was something genuine in his tone—something only a human could convey. “Trust me, y-you can’t force someone to love you… You’re just gonna make it worse.”

A light seemed to spark in Mark’s eye, a strange stillness passing through him. His grip loosened slightly, the man’s feet scraping the pavement as he hung there, suspended, but not quite dead yet. Mark’s gaze flicked to the man on the ground, and for a second, he felt a pang of doubt—like maybe... maybe the guy had a point.

“Let her go?” Mark’s voice was quieter now, almost confused. He looked down at the guy, his anger still simmering beneath the surface but momentarily calmed. “What do you mean, let her go? I’d do anything for her. I deserve her. She deservesme. That ugly bastard shouldn’t get to have her.”

The man took a shaky breath, speaking faster now, his voice almost pleading. “I-I get it. I do. But no way this is gonna work man. You’re not gonna win her over by killing people. She sounds like a sweet girl. You’re just gonna end up—”

Mark’s eyes flashed with a new swelling rage and without warning he slammed the man into the wall, the sickening crack of the guy’s spine breaking echoing through the alley. The man's body went limp, falling into a grotesque, twisted heap at Mark’s feet.

Mark stood over him, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling not from exertion but pure emotion. For a moment, silence swallowed everything. The only sound left was the steady beat of his own heart.

The anger was still there. It hadn’t gone away. It was a beast, gnawing at the edges of his mind. But now there was something else too, something that felt... desperate. Something sharp, like a knife lodged deep in his gut.

Mark glanced down at the bodies around him. His fists were still clenched, his body tense with the aftershocks of the destruction. He should feel powerful—he should feel triumphant—but all he could hear were those words.

Let her go. Was there even possible? Could Mark really just let you go?

He looked back at the man he’d just killed, and then over to the other man who was now cowering in the fetal position in the corner. The sight made him grunt a small laugh. As if this weak loser knows anything. The fire inside him flared again. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d be letting anything go.

In an instant he was kneeled in front of the man, his head framed by Mark’s hands. “Y’know you really give terrible advice.” With that final remark he brought his hands together, breaking through the man’s skull and plunging through viscera of his brain matter as if it were made of Styrofoam. He didn’t need advice, and definitely not from some low-level career bank robber that just died like an ant beneath his grasp.

No, Mark’s wasn’t even close to done yet. He just had to figure out his next step.

—

You let out a quiet sigh, watching the last of the visitors file out of the exhibit. The small group had been attentive, but now that they were gone, you could finally breathe a little easier. Being an aquarium keeper had its perks—mostly working with the animals, which you loved—but giving talks to crowds had always been a bit… awkward.

You glanced down at your watch, noting the time. Another hour until your shift ended. You could already feel the exhaustion setting in—nothing too bad, just the kind of tired that came with a long day of making sure everything was running smoothly. The fish were fed, the tanks cleaned, and you had managed to get through your spiel without flubbing too many lines.

It was then that you noticed him.

Mark, the one who’d abruptly showed up at your house the night prior, was standing across the room just at the edge of the exhibit. He wasn't a part of the group, which was odd. But what was even stranger was how still he was, how silently he observed everything. His gaze was fixed on the tanks, on the creatures swimming lazily inside, but there was something… unsettling about the way he stood. It was like he was studying something, but not in the way someone would look at fish. His posture was tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes—his eyes seemed distant, like he was somewhere far beyond the walls of the aquarium.

You swallowed, a knot tightening in your stomach. Something about the way he was staring made you uneasy, but it wasn’t just that. There was a familiarity in the way he stood there, like he’d done this before. Like he'd watched from the shadows before and you just hadn’t noticed.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to approach him or let him be.

This Mark had always been… different. You didn’t know him well, but there were times when his presence felt like a storm cloud, looming just above your head. His moods were unpredictable, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was always simmering beneath the surface. And though you tried not to think about it too much, you'd never been able to forget the times he'd made comments that left you uneasy, or the way his eyes would sometimes linger on you just a little too long.

Today, though… he didn’t seem to notice you standing there, just a few feet away, watching him as he observed the sea life. His expression was almost unreadable—distant, cold—but there was an edge to it, a sharpness that made you hesitate even more.

Finally, curiosity won out. You took a few steps towards him, feeling your heart beat a little faster with each one.

“Mark?” you said softly, trying to catch his attention.

His head snapped up, and for a split second, you swore you saw a flash of something—anger, maybe?—in his eyes. But it was gone so quickly that you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rougher sounding than your Marks. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

You shook your head, feeling a sudden rush of nerves flood through you. “It’s okay, no interruption. Just finishing up for the day.”

You both stood there for a moment in silence, the only sound coming from the gentle hum of the aquarium filters and the occasional splash from the tanks.

You took a step closer, unsure if you should say anything more. There was something in the air—something you couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just the fact that he was here, now, standing in front of you, but it was the way he seemed to be studying you, his gaze never fully leaving your face. It wasn’t the look of someone admiring the work you did—it was more like someone trying to figure you out, to understand something about you that he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Mark,” you started again, clearing your throat, “are you… okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, just continued staring at you. His lips pressed together in a thin line, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable.

You felt your chest tighten. Something was wrong. You could feel it. He looked almost… unhinged, in a way you didn’t want to imagine.

“I’m fine,” he said, but the words were clipped, forced. His voice sounded flat, like he was trying to convince both you and himself at the same time.

You couldn’t help but notice the way his hands were clenched at his sides, the white-knuckled grip on his fists.

“I didn’t know you liked the aquarium,” you said, trying to break the tension. The words came out more out of instinct than any real desire to make conversation. But it worked—just a little. His gaze shifted back to the tanks.

“I don’t,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “I was just… passing through.”

Passing through an aquarium? You didn’t claim to be a detective, but that answer seemed a little suspicious.

“Right,” you said, trying to smile, though it felt strained. “Well, it’s nice to see you. If you want, I can show you around before my shift ends.”

You tried to sound casual, but your heart was pounding, and you could feel the unease creeping into your voice. Something wasn’t right, and you weren’t sure if it was because of him or because of the strange feeling that had settled in your chest.

He didn’t respond at first, just looked at you with that unreadable expression. The silence stretched between you both, uncomfortable, thick with unspoken words.

Then, he shifted. His eyes flicked to the side, to the tanks, and his lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smirk. He opened his mouth to speak but then quickly snapped it shut, the earpiece buzzing in his head, "This isn't a holiday. You've got half the content to save." His expression quickly soured, the irritation evident on his face.

“Maybe another time,” he grumbled. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be...”

And just like that, as quickly as he’d appeared, he turned and started to walk away, disappearing into the shadows of the aquarium.

You stood there for a long moment, still feeling the weight of his gaze on you, even though he was no longer there.

And for some reason, you loved the feeling it gave you. You hadn't felt seen like that by Mark in longer than you could remember, and you relished the high it gave you.

→ Part Four ←

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark graryson fanfic #mohawk mark x reader

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bloodbruise · 1 year ago

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@jegulus-microfic | april 26: aimless | 1,276 words | trans! regulus

james does regulus' tape binding aftercare <3

James lingers in the doorway, quietly observing Regulus in their softly lit bathroom.

He's perched on the ledge of the bathtub, seemingly lost in thought, his head bowed and fingers idle and aimless where they trace the rim of it. He's shirtless, clad in only boxers and socks. His bare thighs press against the cool porcelain, causing goosebumps to rise there. Soft, late evening light leaks from the window, casting gentle shadows against his frame.

Outside, the rhythmic passing of cars punctuates the stillness, their headlights casting golden beams that dance across the wet asphalt. The nearby stoplight's red glow mingles with them, creating a surreal mix of colors on the shimmering pavement.

There's a soft rustle of movement as James enters the room behind Regulus, moving to the sink. He sifts through the contents of their vanity, hands passing over their shared face wash and the cup holding their toothbrushes to retrieve the items needed for Regulus' tape aftercare. Deft hands gather oil, washcloths, cotton swabs, and salve before placing them on the bathtub ledge. He approaches Regulus with a tenderness reserved only for moments like these, for him.

"Ready, love?" James' voice breaks the silence with a mellow murmur. He settles his weight behind him.

Regulus turns his head, giving a small nod against his own shoulder. "Yeah," he says, voice crackling from disuse.

James leans in to press a kiss between Regulus' shoulder blades. He lingers there for a moment. This close, he can see the faint dusting of freckles that mark his back. They're spattered across the skin like spray from a wave on sand. Speckles in shades of russet, sepia, and chocolate dance across his pale skin, shifting as Regulus shivers lightly. As James' lips leave his back, the muscles beneath those pretty dots tremble.

James reaches for the oil, uncaps it, and warms it between his hands. He presses both his palms to Regulus, carefully smoothing the oil over the edges of the tape. His touch follows the span of the tape from Regulus' back, under his arms, to the front of his chest. His movements are slow and practiced, designed as much to reassure as to treat. The oil glistens slightly on Regulus' skin, catching the dim light as it begins to soften the adhesive.

As they wait for the tape to loosen, a comfortable silence settles over them, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city and their own quiet breathing. James doesn't stop his ministrations; his fingers continue to trace gentle paths along Regulus' shoulders, the back of his neck, following the delicate contours of his shoulder blades. These moments are so special to him; he wants Regulus to feel loved through his actions, to experience the same palpable surge of affection with each pass of his hands that James feels. There is so much trust that Reg offers him in these moments—it's intimate. James is the only person Regulus allows to see the most vulnerable parts of himself, and that knowledge alone makes James' heart swell with fondness and love. He has never loved someone as he does Regulus.

Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.

Sometimes, James thinks Regulus was crafted specifically for him; as if the cosmos themselves conspired to mold him to perfectly complement the contours of James' own body, his own soul. Looking back, it's almost silly to him now—he thought he knew what love was like before him. His heart was already overflowing with it for Sirius, his mum, his dad, his friends. He's always had big emotions, brimming with affection and fierce protectiveness for the people around him. He's always cared deeply and felt profoundly, but nothing could have prepared him for the depth of feeling that Regulus brought into his life.

James knows nothing, nobody else could ever make him feel like this.

He settles his hands on the edges of the tape on Regulus' left side. "Gonna take it off now, okay?"

"Yeah, okay James. Go ahead"

James pulls at the tape gently, easing it from the skin. He's careful not to pull too hard or move too fast, patient as he works. He grabs Regulus' bicep, thumb pressing into the underside, fingers curling over. "Lift your arm up, Reg," he instructs softly.

Regulus raises his arm, holding it aloft as James' hand moves back down to steady the skin being separated from the tape. He can't resist pausing to press a kiss to the underside of his bicep before continuing to peel off the tape there. When he encounters a tough spot, where the tape still clings to his skin, James reaches for more oil. He warms it between his fingers once again before lightly holding the piece back, rubbing it into the seam between Regulus' skin and the tape until it loosens enough for him to continue. He carefully removes the first piece, then works at a second, a third, before repeating the process on Regulus' right side.

There's still a faint trace of leftover adhesive where the edges of the tape once were. So, James takes a cotton swab, dips it in oil, and meticulously traces the outlines left by the pieces. He moves slowly, with deliberate delicacy, mindful of the soreness of his skin.

Once he's satisfied, James fetches the washcloth. He soaks it in warm, soapy water and carefully cleans the area, wiping away excess oil and any lingering traces of the day. Then he reaches for the salve—the last physical part of their routine, though James knows the comfort it brings goes beyond just the skin. Two of his fingers dip into the container, scooping up the soothing balm. James is so careful with him, his fingers so gentle as they spread the salve, taking extra care with the tender skin under his arms and over his ribs. He traces the rungs of them, then the dip of his chest, making sure no skin is left uncared for.

James then grabs what's technically his own shirt—a worn, soft thing that Regulus has claimed as his own, his favorite pajama top—from the ledge of the sink. He helps Regulus slip it over his head, taking advantage of every second he allows him to be so close, to take care of him.

"Feeling okay?" James asks once Regulus is settled.

He trails his hand at the hem of his shirt, slipping it underneath to rest gently on his stomach, careful not to brush the newly cared-for skin or his chest.

Regulus hums an affirmative, "mhmm." Eyes closing and head tipping back as he nods.

"I'm not just asking about your skin, love," James whispers. It's tough for Regulus sometimes, taking the tape off, sitting with his chest. It's a necessity though, for his well-being, despite the discomfort it brings. And James always does everything within his power to make it easier for him. He knows he can't fix everything, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least try to.

Regulus reaches back, his palm sliding from James' elbow to his hand beneath his shirt, their fingers intertwining at his stomach. Their faces are so close that Regulus' cheek drags against James' as he turns his head, planting a soft kiss on James' cheek. "I do, I feel okay. I promise," he murmurs, giving James a warm smile.

Leaning back into James' frame, Regulus lets his weight settle comfortably against him. "You make it easier," he breathes out, words floating into the space between them. Another kiss, "Thank you. I love you."

James holds him a moment, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, heart swelling just a little bit more. "I love you too."

#i wonder if the transphobes in my inbox realize that all that they accomplish is motivating me to write more trans reg sooo #jegulus #regulus black #james potter #jegulus fic #jegulus microfic #marauders #starchaser #sunseeker #marauders fanfic #james x regulus

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luvmahae · 6 months ago

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masterlist — previous— next!

neotopia, here we come!

the evening air is crisp, and the night sky is lined up with stars as you and your housemates make your way towards campus. you can hear the music growing louder with each step—laughter, music, the steady beat of anticipation.

neotopia is one of those annual events at ncu that everyone looks forward to. it's the one day in the middle of the fall semester when the campus comes alive with music, lights, and surprises.

for you, this event holds a special place in your heart because it’s where you met your best friends.

the streets are lined up with students, all heading in the same direction, buzzing with excitement about the surprise headliner: calvin harris.

“honestly… how did ncu manage to get him to play at neotopia?” chenle mutters, his voice laced with disbelief as he glances at the massive crowds heading towards campus.

ningning shrugs, a mischievous grin on her face as she walks with a little extra pep in her step. "the school probably offered him a shitton of money," she casually remarks, her gaze fixed forward.

“i mean it’s not every day you get to bring in someone like him.”

the vibe is lighthearted, carefree, and infectious as your group walks together with different-flavored seltzers and beer in hand. your shoes tap against the pavement, the subtle breeze hitting your arms as you take another sip from your beer can.

everyone in the group is buzzing with excitement, both the pregame drinks and the beer giving you the right amount of warmth. you can tell that renjun, karina, and ningning are already hyped, while chenle’s wide grin makes it clear he’s ready to have fun tonight.

you all toss your empty cans into a nearby trash can with a few playful cheers, making sure to dispose of them before heading toward the entrance.

as you walk, the sudden vibration from the back pocket of your jeans pulls you out of the lively chatter around you. you reach for your phone, unlocking it with quick fingers, and your heart skips a beat when you see a text from haechan.

haechan: i’ll see u later ;)

… seriously? with a frustrated exhale, you slip the phone back into your pocket, trying to push away the knot in your stomach.

when you reach the edge of campus, the sound of the music becomes a wave crashing around you. the many students at ncu are already gathered, many of them laughing and waving to friends across the field.

oh, how you missed this place.

“there they are!” renjun points toward the boys standing near the entrance, and you can’t help but smile as you spot them in the sea of people.

you wave excitedly, pushing through the crowd with him, the buzz of the festival growing louder as you approach them. mark spots you first and grins, offering you a fist bump as soon as you reach him.

“you made it!”

“of course we did,” chenle responds with a smug smirk, stepping forward. “neotopia wouldn’t be the same without us.”

the group laughs, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. the crowd, the music, the laughter—it all fades away as you settle into the rhythm of the night surrounded by friends.

still, your mind drifts back to the unanswered text from haechan.

i never texted him back.

you quickly grab your phone, fingers moving as you type out a simple, “wya???” before hitting send.

you glance at the screen, but no new messages have come in. you push the thought away and turn your focus back to the group. the fun is already starting, and you can’t let yourself get bogged down by him. not today! nope!

karina scrolls through her phone, she suddenly nudges you, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

"hey, check this out.”

you glance at it and see a post from julie, one of the pledges from yeri’s sorority, delta pi gamma.

neotopia hits different! 📸 @haechnlee

your gaze shifts down to haechan’s reply beneath the tweet. your breath catches in your throat as you read the exchange.

the whole thing stirs something in your chest, a combination of confusion and something sharper you can’t name.

karina watches you closely, the light from the phone casting shadows on her face. she must sense the shift in your mood because her voice softens, the teasing edge gone.

“you good?”

“yeah… just thinking.”

she doesn’t press any further, but you can tell she’s still paying attention. with a gentle nudge, she starts pulling you into the crowd, where the music is louder and the night feels alive. but as the lights flash and the energy swells around you, that knot in your stomach doesn’t seem to fade.

hours pass, and the energy only grows stronger. the music pulses, the lights flash, and everyone dances together, the beat running through your body like a second heartbeat. you throw yourself into the music, the rhythm helping you forget the constant ache that’s been growing inside you since you saw that post.

for a while, it works. you’re lost in the moment, surrounded by your friends and the guys, laughing and dancing.

but then you glance to your right, and you freeze.

haechan is there.

he’s laughing, talking to julie, completely absorbed in her company. she’s looking at him like she’s the only one in the world, and he’s doing the same. the way they’re interacting, the way he’s leaning toward her, makes your heart drop.

it’s a simple, innocent thing—a conversation, nothing more—but the way your stomach twists, the ache in your chest, is anything but simple.

you can’t seem to look away, even though you know you should. it’s hard to ignore how natural he looks with her, how comfortable he is. you feel… what? jealous? hurt? confused?

and right next to him, jaemin is surrounded by a group of girls, all of them fawning over him, their attention completely on him.

you feel foolish for just standing there. you should be focused on the festival, on the music, on the friends who are right there with you, but all you can think about is haechan, laughing with julie.

the night blurs into a dizzying haze of flashing lights and pounding bass. you try to dance, to laugh, to focus on the fun, but it’s like something is lodged in your chest, making every movement feel a little too heavy.

the ache doesn’t go away. it stays, hanging over you like a shadow.

“i’ll be right back.”

eventually, you can’t take it anymore.

you slip away from the crowd, your steps are mechanical as you move toward the edge of the field.

you need space. a moment alone, far enough from the chaos.

♪ if i told you, that this couldn't get better baby and your heartbeat, it lets me know you feel the same

the crowd and the noise fade as you step into the quiet, the isolation settling over you like a blanket.

but then you hear it.

“hey.”

you freeze. you turn, and there he is.

haechan.

standing a few feet away, that smirk of his already in place, as if he hasn’t just made you feel like a complete fool.

“there you are. i told you i’d see you later—”

you swallow hard, your throat tight. you want to ask him why he didn’t reply, why was he with julie, why does he keep doing this to you.

instead, you force yourself to take a deep breath and meet his gaze.

“goodnight, haechan.”

you don’t wait for his response. you turn on your heel and walk away, pushing through the crowd, the noise of the festival fading as you move further away.

you can hear that one specific song cutting through the air, the lyrics echoing in your mind like a cruel reminder.

♪ i'll be thinking about you

wc: 1.3k!

notes: it just had to be done besties... 😢 crying... anyways i know there is like a 1% calvin harris will perform at ur school but lets just imagine... pls listen to thinking about you while u read this!!

taglist: @4amirwin @wonbin-truther @hearts4hee @jungaji @sundamariis @urlovelily @n0hyuck @dudekiss3r @injunnie-lemon @luvvhaechan @douqhnxtss @tynlvr @jaehyunando @haesluvr @hcluvie @pinknjm @nanaxwi @catpjimin @slayhaechan @awktwurtle @myfavoritedelusion @stqrgr7 @t-102 @jianreadsaus @haechanhues @gomdoleemyson @hyuckmoon @haechology @mystverse @hyuckies18 @sunflowerbebe07 @jae-n0 @onlyforyoukook @yizhrt @gwookie @zzzmrk @kukkurookkoo @nightcat101 @tinyelfperson @haefelt @haechsworld @tenjyucat @worldwidecutiemaya @sunghoonsgfreal @snoopyjimin @ypoom151999 @meowtella @honeynanamin @haechanmybaechan @nctrawberries

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quosterswampdregs · 2 months ago

Note

I have a question is it possible that we could get some internal shots of that rhino characters nostrils

This is a fic a month in the making for a monthly drawing prompt thing that I'm a part of!! The fic is below!!

Rhinos, Rodents, and Rhinitis

Of course, the best ENT specialist in the city of Rore was located in Rodentia County. Bridger felt he was simply being set up for failure when his doctor recommended and referred him—a wooly rhino—to the place where the smallest folk roamed. There were dozens of ways this whole ordeal could take a turn for the worst, and the more he thought about it, the more worried he became.

The grounds trembled. Mice and moles leaving the nearby mall paused with widened eyes as Bridger carefully made his way along the central pavement reserved for larger folk. At the peak of the day, the pavement was more of a thoroughfare, and many of the residents used it for foot traffic. You even had the occasional food stands and vendors propped up like toy models. In short, this area served the smallest first and wasn’t utilized with folks like him in mind. And why would it—Gargantua County was his stomping grounds.

A shiver ran up Bridger’s spine. He was just over eleven feet in height, and most of the regulars on this side of town were 5-10 inches on average. Sure, the occasional fox or feline would break up crowds of chipmunks and hamsters, but they weren’t even half the height Bridger was.

“Snff—!” Bridger’s current predicament didn’t help him either. The only reason he was nearby was because of an ongoing case of the sniffles that required a more specialized doctor to take a look at. Dr. Eiche was apparently proficient in larger patients, too. One would think that she’d set up her clinic in a space more accommodating to that clientele, but beggars can’t be choosers, Bridger supposed. He had been struggling with an itchy nose for too long, and it had gotten to the point he couldn’t go twenty minutes without a sneezing fit. His gait was a hurried one, to put it shortly.

The road led him away from the main marketplace, luckily. It was by design, for such an area with a high population to be well-sheltered and hidden under hamster tubes and wheels in constant squeaky buzz. Instead, where he was headed lay beyond the little city park, where bonsai trees and miniature flowers marked out a pleasant verdant meadow.

The subtle, natural perfumes reached his large nostrils. The muscular rims lifted with a few delicate sniffles. At least, as delicate as a woolly rhino of his stature could muster.

But the sniffing only urged on a once-dormant tickle at the back of his nose. One that was persistent enough to make his eyes water a bit.

“Nduh…h-hhHHHh..?” He huffed through his widening nostrils, unaware of the tiny civilians abandoning their blankets on the hill in favor of rushing for cover. His walking slowed to a stop, his brows pinched, and his head tilted back.

“h-hhUHh..! hHuhDSSCHHhhw!!” If not for smothering his sneeze into his elbow, certainly a few unlucky mice would have tumbled into the central pond at the bottom of the valley. The area had gone quiet instead, with worried eyes all around peeking up his way.

“H-hHHdk!” Something tickled badly and persisted even after he sneezed. “H-HUHh..! hUDDschhhuh!!”

Just what was it? What was itching his nose so badly? Was it a festering cold? Surely it wasn’t allergies, despite his tearful eyes.

“Snddrkk—! Snrk! HhHddih-! HehH! Hehh…” It got worse when he sniffed. It never felt satisfied, only irritated. He couldn’t afford to stand about and dwell on it though: answers awaited him ahead.

As the city park ebbed out behind him, the urban community sprouted on all sides once more. This wasn’t the downtown district, but the smaller and quieter part of town where one would expect to find a doctor’s office. And here, Bridger did, a clinic that was across from a library, about six feet tall. There was no way to fit in there, even the smaller anthros like wolves and badgers would struggle. However, he watched carefully as a fox got his ear examined by a nurse, sitting on a comfy stool resting on a plot of land just beside the building.

The reception area offered one other large cushioned seat outside, too. Beside it, at eye level, a small outcropping with a desk was built into the wall, likely as a check-in station. A squirrel dressed in blue scrubs stepped outside of the building to his right and peered up with wide eyes. She hurried back inside, and the door to the front desk swung open only five minutes later.

“Hello, dear! Sorry for the wait,” she spoke, out of breath as she walked up to the desk and leaned out, “do you have an appointment with us?”

“I do—sndff! Udh…referral from Dr. Kitzah?”

“Yep! I see your name right here, Mr. Easton! I’ll go ahead and send a check-in portal to your phone, feel free to fill that out and the doctor will be out shortly!”

Bridger helped himself to a seat on the cushion. It fit him nicely, too, which settled his nerves—he wasn’t the biggest patient they’ve seen, and this cushion was proof of it. He looked down as his phone buzzed, and a survey came up for him to fill out. Right. Allergies, medications, consent forms…speaking of, there was a section for patients over 8 feet in height. From a brief scan, it seemed to be just warning him that the array of tools and methods used during any procedures may change depending on the size of the patient. That made sense, it was hard to imagine a large stethoscope getting any reading on a little mouse!

Not long after everything was signed, and his vitals were taken (which was a slow process when the nurse staff were moles and mice), a chipmunk wearing scrubs and a white coat stepped onto a balcony to his left. She wore a stethoscope—seemingly for aesthetics—and a belt of all sorts of little tools at her hip.

“Afternoon, Easton!” For once, this was a rodent that didn’t seem the least bit scared of him. If anything, her eyes glittered with enthusiasm and anticipation. The confidence was refreshing, and it calmed him down further. “I see you’ve got a referral from my good friend Dr. Kitzah? What seems to be the trouble?”

Bridger would’ve answered with a sentence if not for his eyes losing focus and his nostrils flaring. His breath got weak and shivery, and one of his ears flickered. “hhHh..! Sorry—hHuhH—uHHDSchhhff!!” He sneezed roughly into his elbow. He felt so exposed out here, the folks walking past on the main road casting their glances his way. “My nose won’t stop itching, even with allergy medicine…I’m just sneezing a tremendous amount.”

“Do your allergies clear your other symptoms?”

“Oh yeah, my throat doesn’t get sore like usual.”

“That’s good…well, the good news is—oh, could I step onto your palm? Thank you—the good news is that this sounds like some sort of foreign irritant. Is there any one side that feels more itchy than the other?” She gestured up to her own nose as if to emphasize. She wobbled a bit and caught her balance when Bridger lifted his paw up so that the two would be eye level.

“Mnnhh, snff..! I-I haven’t thought about it that much. I…I g-guess the…th’right is more itch…hhitchH!” His breath caught in his throat with a few hitches. She leaned forward after standing on the edge of his hand, pressing her paws up against his upper lip. There was enough height to peer into his right nostril, which, when flared, was like a small cavern. Her eyes glittered as she marveled it, and clicked on a small headlight to further examine the red, itchy nasal walls. It was slick with mess, but particularly more red the further back she looked.

His muzzle scrunched—large wrinkles formed under her small fingers. She climbed them like the rungs of a ladder, at least to where she could grab hold of the large horn on the top of his snout. Great timing too, she could feel the wind and air shuffling about as brought in great breaths. The hoods of his nostrils lifted further, and she felt herself slip a bit towards his eyes as his head tilted back.

“HDk—hdT! hiHsshiH—!! hIDDTSHhh’tt!! ihh! hDTSHh’tt!!” Two violent stifles, and the first had nearly flung the chipmunk doctor off. She hugged onto his horn for stability, lower half draping between his red nostrils like a cheap hood ornament.

“Woah—! Bless—bless you!” She gasped, kicking her legs to try and find footing before his palm came up to catch her.

“Snffkk! A-are you okay?? I got scared I sneezed you off,” he chuckled bashfully, cupping his paws under her so that she could stand on his palms again.

“I’m alright! I think I know what’s been causing you some trouble…” she insisted, beckoning his head closer. She looked into his left nostril to clarify, and with her small ears lifted, she reached into it. She held the rim of his nostril above her head, and marveled for a moment at how strong and flexible the muscle was. It took all of her strength just to make enough space for her to reach in. Her hand felt around, which made Bridger’s shoulders jump, and with a sharp prick, she reemerged. In her hand, a seed pod with a fuzzy white plumage and a few hooks on the underside.

“These are typically found soaring high near forests!” She lifted it so he could get a better look, “It’s a pod, they hook onto clothes or skin and open up, releasing these seeds.”

Taking a fistful of the white fuzz, she gave it a tug, and five or six seeds emerged, each adorned with wispy fibers to help carry them out of her hand and into the air.

“Nuh-! S-so there’s…hHhuh?” He pointed tearfully towards his right nostril, and she nodded.

“There’s one of these at the back of your nose, and the fuzzy stuff is what’s making you so sneezy. I can get it out for you!”

Bridger gave a small nod, but the hitching breath had taken over. His nostrils, once relaxed, now flared wide with desperation. She has grabbed one of his nostrils, but that made him stutter in worry.

“IhHuh- I’mbguddAAH-!!” He needed to sneeze, he didn’t have that much time to translate, “heeeh—huh…hdK—hDT!! G-gu’ddasnEHH—! hEEZE—hHEEH!!”

“Well, don’t be shy then, get it out while you can,” she patted between his nostrils, sounding largely unbothered. He lowered her from eye level, opting instead to hold his doctor to his chest as he gasped and tilted his head back.

“hEHHD’sshht!! huhhH—hHrsshtt!!” Those stifles were sounding less and less satisfying by the second. This one made a shiver run up his spine.

“Bless you. Good to know you sneeze in pairs, it seems!” The doctor claimed. She was lifted back up towards eye-level, and reached towards his left nostril. The seed there had been knocked free from all of his sneezing, and by reaching in shoulder-deep with her cheek pressed to his nostril rim, she pulled it out. That was the left side done, from what she could see! “The seeds seem pretty deep in your right nostril, but I should be the perfect size to loosen them by hand. Just brace yourself, alright?”

“B…brace myself?” He breathed in understanding, lifting both his ears. Was she going to take them out manually? By…getting up there? “Uh—alright—just be careful…”

Getting past his nostril was a bit of a squeeze. She stretched her arms forward and felt her hips get stuck against the rim, at least until she could get her footing. As she suspected, it was much bigger on the inside, and enough space to get a handhold and pull the other half of her body inside. It was just right, in Goldilocks' terms. It was not too roomy, not too tight, just enough space for her to wriggle about on all fours. It left a downside though—she’d have to back out of his nose backward if she wanted to get out. That, or maybe Bridger would need to tug her tail.

Meanwhile, on the outside, Bridger crossed his eyes worriedly, watching her immensely fluffy tail barely disappear from his line of sight. Her footfalls were gentle and careful, but her tail was more mindless, brushing gingerly across the inner rim of his nostril. Tears spilled over his eyes as his efforts to hold back were becoming more and more fruitless.

To any passerby, he simply looked like a woolly rhino with a horrendous allergy spell. At least, until you took the whipping chipmunk tail sticking out of one nostril into account.

“hhHuhh..! H-hhHuh..!” His breath felt thin, his eyes lost their focus. He tilted his head back slightly, and the slick ground beneath the doctor’s feet made her skid further forward. Her tail almost fully disappeared from view as she slipped deeper into his nasal cavity, and the half-frantic movements made his hitches grow.

“Easy, easy…!” She insisted, voice echoing out of his other nostril. She smoothed out the twitching tissue around her, trying her best to mitigate the harm.

“Y-you’re makiHh..! Maki’g iHH…! Wuh—hHUHH!!” She was making it worse, but he couldn’t vocalize it before he gasped. “hHUUDschh’XXT!!”

Gritting his teeth, he snapped forward, stifling what would have certainly been tremendous. Dr. Eiche slid backward towards the entrance of his nostril, up until her tail emerged along with one of her legs. The rest was firmly lodged in the rim of his nostril, and she took a moment to gather her bearings. Her leg kicked, her tail lashed, and she tried with little success to pull herself back inside.

“Bless you…! A uh—! A little help?”

“Mmh..? H-hhuh-?” He asked, still recovering himself. “SNDrrRKK!”

She was just about to clarify when a violent snort pulled her back inside fully. Letting out a surprised yelp, she slid again towards the back of his nose, this time finding a grip on the nasal walls on either side of her. There, in front, was the half-opened seed pod, its white fibers tickling and fluttering against his swollen and irritated nasal walls. At last, this little excursion would come to an end—! She reached up and carefully plucked it free with both hands, holding it to her chest so that none of the loosened seeds would go drifting anywhere. Got it! Now she just needed to…get out.

“Alright, coming out now..!” She announced to him, trying to slowly shuffle backward. It was next to impossible, the walls were too slick for the doctor to get any sort of confident foothold. The roof was just too low for her to fully stand up either. Her attempt to stand resulted in her falling chest-first, and she winced as the fluffy seed pod brushed up against the sensitive red patches of his nasal walls. As expected, she felt her environment tense, and could hear Bridger’s uneasy huffs of irritation all around her.

If a stifle could nearly send her out, she imagined a full sneeze would do the job too. Her fingers outstretched, the pinpoint of her nails brushing against the soft cushioning tissue around her. She lifted her tail to tickle at the roof of his nose, and let out a yelp as his nose twitched around her.

“H-hhduH-!” Bridger huffed, rubbing under his nostrils with a finger. Goodness, just what was she doing up there? The feathery feeling against the back of his nose was worsening by the second. She did say she was coming out now—was this a way of speeding up the process? “HHhuhh—good bec-cUh-hHHHh…because I n’deEh! huhh…!”

The thought that she was purposefully tickling him magnified the feeling. That every movement and motion was with the intention of making him sneeze. Something was tickling the roof of his nose back there—was that her tail perhaps?? And the prickles further back—her claws? His nostrils flared wide, and his eyes fluttered shut. If she was doing this intentionally, he shouldn’t fight back.

The doctor slid deeper as Bridger tilted his head back. Desperately holding onto the plushy membranes with her hind paws, she danced her fingers and the fibers of the seed pod across his inner nose, hoping to snag more of a reaction. The redness was especially tender to the touch, warm and slightly swollen from agitation, she grabbed a handful of it, and used her other hand with the seed to tickle its sides. That must have been his sweet spot, because it was making him hitch and huff like she had never heard before.

“Hikk—hHuh!! Hddsht?! hUH!” He puffed his large chest, despite his hands rushing to it to compress it back down. When he sneezed at last, he tipped his head forward, cupping his hands in front of his face and pinning his tiny ears. “hUHHDDSCHhhhuuh!!”

However, as he looked at his hands just after such a tremendous sneeze, he was surprised to see his doctor not cradled in his palms. She was still in his nose—was she stuck? He sincerely hoped not. He clamped down his unoccupied nostril with a finger, and began to chuff and snort obnoxiously. One particular snort caused the doctor to slip, and her tail and hind legs poked out of his nostril. Her squirming was more than enough to spur on another breathy set of hitches, which were much deeper and broader than before. They resulted in a ground-shaking sound enough to send tiny cars shrieking and wailing their alarms in a three-block radius.

“hAAHDDSCHHHHUHH!!” It was obnoxious-sounding, truly, but it got the job done. He was holding the doctor securely in his hands, batting tears from his lashes in the aftermath.

“Goodness, bless you, firstly,” she shakily stood up with her fur slicked into spiky tufts. “Are you alright?”

“M-me? I’m okay, are you alright?!” Clearly he still couldn’t comprehend the last five or ten minutes, which she didn’t blame him for. He couldn’t help it, after all!

“I’m just fine. We got those seed pods out, so you should be smooth sailing,” the doctor hummed, taking off her coat to wring it dry, but to no avail. “I think a prescription is in order to send you off with.”

“Mmh?” Bridger was halfway through rubbing his nose when an eye flickered over.

“Yeah! There’s a new type of medication on the market. The side effects might be a touch…strange, but I think it’ll do you some benefit to try out and keep me posted!”

#bridger the wooly rhino #furquo #snzblr #furry snz #furquo art #snzfic

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sushirrrry · 1 month ago

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INTERMISSION a harry styles x bill skarsgård x original character one-shot word count: 9k cw: female receiving pleasure, dirty talk, consensual threesome situation (no actual intercourse) summary: during a sweltering summer evening at the theater, catherine finds herself mysteriously drawn to two enigmatic men who arrive from opposite ends of her balcony row to give her an unforgettable evening. the intermission is over, and the performance has only just begun. (sorry for the wait - hope you enjoy <3)

There was no mistake that the air was unusually warm for early summer; it had been pressing down on the city with the weight of an unseasonable foggy humidity.

Catherine Whitmore tugged at her lace gloves as her carriage wheels rattled over the cobbled streets of the town, her cheeks flushed from both the heat and a peculiar anticipation for the evening. The updo of her hair had been a delightful choice; she could feel just a bit of the breeze over her neck, using her fan to lightly send waves of air across her.

This evening marked her first visit to the Royal Theatre—a rare indulgence as her most cherished friend had been cast in a performance there. It had not been lost on her that she was going on her lonesome; she wondered if she would know anyone sitting around her – she doubted, as such. Her seat was in the balcony, a seat that her friend had undoubtedly praised as she would be able to see everything across the stage.

The opportunity thrilled her as much as it had unsettled her. Catherine, at twenty-three, was hardly the sort of woman who drew undue attention, though her sharp features and discerning gaze lent her a quiet elegance. She dressed modestly in dove-gray silk, a hint of lavender ribbon at her waist the only concession to vanity. Her mother’s pearl combs adorned her hair, a gift she wore on special occasions like talismans of propriety.

The theatre loomed before her as the carriage drew to a halt, its facade gilded and gleaming like a treasure chest. Gas lamps threw their amber glow against the columns, and carriages lined the street, spilling London’s most fashionable and adorned onto the pavement. The hum of the crowd—laughter, the rustle of satin skirts, the sharp clatter of walking canes—created a vibrant symphony that mingled with the distant strains of the theater’s orchestra warming up.

Catherine stepped down carefully, clutching her reticule as she made her way toward the entrance. The feeling of uncertainty laid on her chest as she guided her way up the stairs and towards the marquee. The heat clung to her skin like an unwelcome second layer, and she fanned herself absently, her eyes darting between the throng of well-dressed patrons. She had always been an observer, content to hover on the fringes of society’s gatherings. Tonight, however, felt different. A strange energy hung in the air, tugging at her nerves like the prelude to a storm.

She loved that feeling, when the weather turned to a more abrupt darkening. Her eyes made their way to the large spires that cascaded over the city – her eyes narrowing on the large clock that hung in the darkness of the evening sky. She could have sworn that she saw a motion, something move along the hands. She shook her head, knowing that the heat had possibly turned her silly thoughts to a hysteria.

As she walked inside, she searched around for the possibility of a familiar face or two. Her eyes suddenly met those of an acquaintance she had. Adjusting her gloves and smoothing her gown, the familiar voice called out from across the bustling crowd.

“Miss Whitmore! What a delightful surprise!”

Her eyes had lifted, air blowing more directly on her neck as she kept the fan at a medium pace now that she had been indoors. The voice came from a man named William Talbot, a gentleman of her acquaintance, weaving through the throng to greet her. William was quite a decent man, slightly younger than her, with a perpetual smile and a habit of speaking far too much—the speaking part had made her laugh on multiple occasions, as he tended to blush when he did so. He tipped his hat with an eager flourish.

“Mr. Talbot,” Catherine said politely, nodding at his remarks and gesture, though inwardly she wished to avoid the usual cascade of chatter he brought.

William cleared his throat as he let his hands rest behind his back, giving her a soft smile and head bow.

“Are you attending this event alone this evening?” he asked, his bright eyes darting to the ticket that she had held in her opposite hand.

“I—um,” Catherine replied with hesitation. “I am, yes. You remember Julia, surely. She is in this performance, and she said that I absolutely had to be here on the opening night, so she was able to reserve me a seat.”

William nodded enthusiastically, showing that he had remembered her friend, “Yes, of course, I do remember her. I had heard great things about her ballet, and I’m quite intrigued myself.” He paused for a moment, as he noticed that she had been making her way towards the staircase. “You do not happen to be sitting on the second story, do you?”

Catherine tilted her head to look at the ticket that was in her hands before giving her brows a furrow. “Why, yes, it’s the only seat that was available in such short notice. It’s not a big deal surely.”

She watched the way that William blinked, tilting his head with a ponder. The smirk on his face led her to believe that there was much unknown, “Tell me—have you heard the tale about this place?”

“Which tale?” Catherine asked, trying to keep her tone mildly disinterested as they stepped aside to avoid a gaggle of patrons that had started to make their way into the building, making their way to their seats in a timely manner.

“The ghost story, of course!” William leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice despite the lively noise around them. “They say that this theatre is haunted, but only on opening nights of new productions. Supposedly, many years ago, an actress died upstairs—from heartbreak, or betrayal, depending on who’s telling the tale. She’s said to linger, watching the performances in search of her lover, who never came to see her perform. They say if you feel a sudden chill, you’ve caught her notice.”

Catherine gave him a dry smile, letting her heartbeat try to recover from the information she had gathered. “Well, that’s quite a romantic story to tell before a tragedy, no doubt. But I don’t believe in such things. I suppose I do believe in true love over such a silly tale.”

“As do I!” William exclaimed, though his expression betrayed his delight in the story. “Still, I wouldn’t want to feel that chill. And you, Miss Whitmore, should take care not to catch her attention—you look the part of a heroine, and she might take you for a rival.”

She let out a soft laugh despite herself, shaking her head. “Your imagination does you credit, Mr. Talbot, but I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.”

With that, she excused herself and made her way toward the staircase. Yet, as she ascended, she could not entirely shake the memory of his words. A chill, he had said. She told herself it was nonsense—another of London’s countless theatrical legends meant to amuse—but the unease clung to her as she reached her seat.

Inside the theater, the warmth persisted, though it was tempered by the lofty ceilings and the faint breeze stirred by the swish of hand fans. Catherine paused in the gilded foyer, her eyes drinking in the splendor of her surroundings. The chandeliers above shimmered like constellations, casting a golden haze over the crimson carpets and mahogany railings. The crowd seemed almost otherworldly in its opulence, their laughter and conversation lilting like a melody that threatened to sweep her away.

Her ticket in hand, she climbed the winding staircase to the second tier, her footsteps soft against the plush carpet. The theater’s grandeur enveloped her as she emerged into the gallery, the expanse of the stage below framed by velvet curtains of the deepest red. Her seat was near the center of the row, and she maneuvered carefully past the other patrons, murmuring apologies as she brushed against skirts and jackets.

At last, she settled into her seat, smoothing her gown as she allowed herself a moment to simply breathe. The heat of the day seemed to have followed her, lingering in the crowded space like an uninvited guest. She drew her fan from her reticule and unfurled it, the painted silk fluttering softly against her face.

And then it came—the cold.

It was subtle at first, like the whisper of a draft, but it grew with an intensity that made her spine stiffen. The warmth that had so overwhelmed her seemed to recede, replaced by a chill that gnawed at her through layers of fabric. She glanced around, her brow furrowed, but the other patrons appeared unaffected. If anything, they were fanning themselves more vigorously, flushed with the oppressive summer heat.

Catherine rubbed her gloved hands together, willing the cold away. She convinced herself it was nothing, a mere trick of her imagination brought on by nerves. Yet the sensation persisted, settling deep into her bones.

As the house lights dimmed, her unease grew. A strange stillness fell over the room, one that prickled at her skin despite the murmurs of anticipation rising from the crowd. She tried to focus on the stage, where the curtains rippled in preparation for the night’s performance, but her thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in a gale.

It was then that she noticed where the chill had come from.

Catherine noticed the first man enter her row from the left, his movements so fluid they barely disturbed the air around him. He was tall, his black coat tailored sharply to his frame, and his dark hair gleamed like polished onyx. Catherine’s gaze flickered to him briefly before she looked away, unsettled by the quiet intensity of his presence. He took the seat directly beside her, and she felt the coldness intensify, as though he carried winter under his petticoat.

Catherine kept her head up, eyes forward. The seats were quite small, which made his presence was all too well knowing.

A second man appeared from the opposite end of her row, on the right side this time; his approach no less graceful but somehow more intriguing as she turned her head. He was almost, if not more, striking than the first, but there was something in his bearing—something measured and deliberate—that drew her attention despite herself. His eyes, pale as smoke, caught hers for the briefest of moments as he seated himself to her right. A faint smile touched his lips, one that seemed to mock her discomfort.

The space between them—between her—felt suffocating, though neither of the men had spoken a word. Catherine’s heart beat faster, her fan now still in her hand as she struggled to make sense of the sensations coursing through her. The cold, the stillness, the strange pull of the two men—it was as though the theater itself had conspired to unnerve her as they stayed the only three on the balcony thus far.

The heat of the summer was a distant memory as Catherine rubbed her fingers together to warm them.

“Good evening, miss,” The man on her left murmured at last, his voice low and rich, each syllable curling like smoke in the air between them.

She turned to him, startled by his sudden address, something she wasn’t sure she should interact at all. While Catherine had been taught her manners, she felt that there had been a feeling of unease that she just couldn’t place. Maybe it was the story that she had heard from Henry earlier; it had been playing with her mind.

The man’s smile was faint, his pale skin catching the faint glow of the stage lights as he kept an eye on her. A steady one, at that.

“Indeed,” The man on her right said, leaning slightly toward her—her head turned towards him then as he raised a brow at her attention. His voice was deeper, tinged with an almost imperceptible amusement. “A most enchanting evening, I’d say.”

Catherine felt the chill deepen, her body rigid as though she had been caught between two forces she could not name. The theater seemed to fade around her, the murmurs of the crowd and the swell of the orchestra a distant hum. She had been acutely aware of their presence, of their gazes lingering on her as though she were not merely an audience member.

However, as she stared towards the stage, feeling the sensational pull of fear in her chest, she hadn’t known then at that she was the main event.

The first notes of the overture began a trembling of violins and a distant drumbeat that Catherine couldn’t decipher between being her own heartbeat or on the stage; her attention had been pulled in multiple positions as she tried to keep herself in a calm. Her senses were stretched taut between the two men beside her, her awareness fraying at the edges with every passing moment. Her chest rose as she tried to take in a deep breath, but it came out with a shaking presence.

"You seem cold, miss," said the man on her left, his voice a murmur so low it was barely a vibration against her ear. The feeling practically touching her skin; it had felt as close as he could be to her. He shifted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, and yet she felt the brush of something—air, or perhaps the graze of a coat—against her arm.

"And yet," the other added, his tone almost teasing with a loud whisper, "you burn."

Catherine’s breath caught. She looked down, noticing that her hands tremble; a perspiration on her hands under her gloves as she tried to understand the complexity of the feelings. It made no sense—none of this did—but her instincts screamed that logic had no place here on the balcony, watching the tragedy unfold on the stage before them.

“Forgive us,” the first man said, inclining his head so subtly it was more a suggestion than an action. Catherine turned her head towards the left, noticing that the man’s eyes were gleaming with a hunger that she hadn’t understood. “We are... unfamiliar with the customs of restraint.”

"You'll find," said the second, catching Catherine’s glare then, as well, smiling in a way that made her stomach twist in a curious mix of dread and something dangerously close to thrill, "that we just want to help, you see.”

The lights shifted, the curtain rising with a rustle and a flare of golden illumination; a wonderous round of applause below them. Catherine had searched around as the applause had been below her; her fear levitating up as she searched around the balcony to find that she had been alone. The people that she had passed, the patrons she had moved through had disappeared. Almost like the hadn’t been there at all.

The actors took the stage, but Catherine barely saw them. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out their opening lines.

Her gloved fingers clenched around her fan, the lace trembling under her grasp. The mix of heat and cool had sent a shiver down her spine.

“What—what do you want?” she asked, her voice so faint it was hardly more than a breath. She dared not look at them, fearing what she might see in their faces when she finally spoke.

The man to her left laughed softly, the sound like velvet slipping through fingers.

"Only to know you," he said, a charm in his tone that created a thick warmth around her.

"And perhaps," added the man on her right, his voice curling with mischief, "to be known by you, in return."

Their words wrapped around her like silken cords, delicate yet unyielding. She could feel herself being drawn further in, a marionette at the mercy of invisible strings.

A scene change onstage jolted her, and she finally managed to tear her gaze away, focusing desperately on the actors. But it was useless. The performance blurred and swam before her eyes. The only reality was here, in the balcony, suspended between two beings who should not exist. Who she had feared she felt merciless to.

A chill breath ghosted over the nape of her neck, and she shivered violently. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or intrigue that drew her in, but the latter made her stay seated.

"You may choose," whispered the man to her left, the words so close they brushed the shell of her ear.

"Or..." said the other, with a grin she could feel without seeing it, "perhaps you need not choose at all."

Catherine shut her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to steel herself. When she opened them again, she realized with a jolt—

There was no reflection of the two men in the ornate glass of the balcony’s mirror across from them.

And in that instant, the truth settled over her like a dark, sumptuous cloak: she was not merely being courted.

She was being hunted.

The revelation did not ignite panic in Catherine the way she had always imagined fear would strike. It was subtler, more insidious—a cold bloom unfurling slowly inside her chest, locking her ribs into a fragile cage. Even as the knowledge settled — that the men flanking her were not simply strange, but something far older and darker — she found herself paralyzed by a brittle, crystalline calm.

The mirror across the balcony, that grand old relic framed in tarnished gold, reflected the velvet seats, the polished balustrades, the dim glimmer of the theater’s faded splendor—but not them. Not the two figures seated so intimately close to her. It had felt like a dream, possibly a nightmare – but her hysteria worried her further.

Had she been driven to insanity?

Still, they remained as real as her brain had created them. Silent. Impossibly still, like statues in an abandoned temple, still but steady. Yet she could feel them—oh, she could feel them—like the deep press of a weight against the skin, a hum just beneath the flesh.

Bill, on her right, exuded a different kind of cold. It was the solemn cold of a winter forest, of deep snow muffling every sound but your own heartbeat. His presence was carved, deliberate, as if every line of him had been sculpted from shadow and night air. His dark hair gleamed in the muted light; his coat draped sharply across his frame like a shroud. His profile, when she dared glance, was a perfect study in quiet menace—elegant, forbidding.

Harry, on her left, was the opposite and yet equally unnerving. Where Harry was winter, Bill was the biting chill that precedes a summer storm—thrumming, electric, wild. His hair was lighter, catching glints of copper and gold, and there was a restlessness in the way he shifted ever so slightly, a coiled energy vibrating under his skin. His mouth, curled in a faint, knowing smile, spoke of mischief, of dangers willingly courted.

The first act of the performance played on in front of them; none of them bothered to pay any minds. It was as if it was just the background. Catherine heard the swell of the violins, the echo of tragic lines uttered by powdered actors far below, but it all seemed so far away, as if she were watching through thick, rippling glass. Her world had shrunken to this—the narrow confines of the balcony, the relentless proximity of the two men, and the frozen hammer of her heart against her ribs.

She rose, almost without thinking, the primal urge to flee carrying her to her feet.

But Harry moved.

He stood in a single liquid motion that kept her from being able to move past him in the contained row seating, so fast and fluid it barely seemed human. He blocked her path, towering yet composed, his own gloved hand extending to catch her wrist with a gentleness that belied the iron strength beneath it.

"Leaving us already?" His voice was a velvet thing, smooth and low, carrying a weight that pressed against her skin like mist.

The chill of his touch seeped through her glove, numbing her fingers, rooting her in place. Catherine’s lips parted, but her voice faltered, nothing escaping but a soft gasp.

Bill stood as well, slower, almost lazily, as if savoring the inevitability of the moment. His pale gaze roamed her face with an unsettling ease, as though he were admiring a painting he already owned.

"Stay," he murmured, stepping closer, enough that she could smell him—cedarwood, cold rain, something wild and ancient. "The night is young yet."

Catherine’s breath trembled from her lungs. Trapped between them, the world outside the balcony felt impossibly far away, a reality she could no longer reach.

"I—I don't even know your names," she managed at last, her voice so small it was nearly swallowed by the thrum of the crowd.

Harry’s lips quirked in something that was not quite a smile.

"You may call me Harry," he said, his tone a careful, measured thing, as if the act of sharing his name was a ritual in itself.

"And I am Bill," said the other, his voice curling around her like smoke. There was laughter threaded through his words, but a dark, velvet laughter that promised more than just that.

Harry still held her wrist, his thumb tracing the delicate bones beneath her glove with a slow, deliberate pressure. She felt branded by it, even as her skin froze.

"And you," Bill said, leaning in until she could feel his breath—a whisper of winter air against her cheek—"are Catherine."

It was the moment that she had figure that she hadn’t been alive any longer – there hadn’t been a way that this was a reality. How had they known of her? They spoke her name as if it was something sacred, something fated between the three of them that gave her almost admission to their game. She had been hunted, taken into capture as she let herself fall into their grasps.

"You were always meant to find us, Miss Whitmore," Harry murmured. His dark eyes, fathomless and ancient, seemed to see straight through her—to the parts of herself she kept hidden even from her own reflection.

Bill chuckled softly, playing along with Harry. "Or perhaps... we were meant to find you."

"Please," Catherine whispered, though she wasn't sure whether it was a plea for release or for something else entirely.

Harry’s hand loosened its grip, but not before he lifted her fingers to his lips. He kissed the air just above her knuckles—no flesh touched as the lace of her gloves had kept them apart, yet Catherine felt the icy imprint of it burn into her very bones.

Bill brushed his fingertips along her neck as she had been turned Harry then, a ghost of a touch, setting her nerves alight with a sensation that was not wholly fear.

"You’re with us now,” Harry said, his voice rich with certainty, as if pronouncing a verdict older than the stones beneath their feet.

"You’re safe," Bill added, his grin sharp, wicked, and impossibly beautiful. Catherine noticed that Harry’s eyes moved behind her; his gaze settling on the man behind her with a hint of a knowingness. They were working together, she had known that.

The whisper of a breath on her neck, her head turned towards the side. Her eyes shutting in a flutter; a strange, bated breath had been released as she felt the first touch of skin on her – Bill’s lips were soft against her neck, almost like a silk so thin.

Catherine’s legs nearly gave out at the feeling, a heavier breath hung on her lips as she fluttered her eyes to see Harry had been staring at her reaction. She was the story now—the main act—and the two men on either side of her were writing the script with every lingering glance, every chilling brush of their hands.

And somewhere deep inside her, a small, terrified voice whispered a truth she could not deny:

She hadn’t wanted to escape.

Harry’s hand moved to her chin, tilting her head to lean back as she felt the exposure of her stature. She lowered her shoulders as she pushed her head upwards, letting the site of her neck exposed to them. The scent of her sweetness had practically made their eyes roll back as Bill kissed her shoulder, on the right, moving towards her – pushing behind her.

Harry’s lips pressed on her left, the feeling of his hair had pressed against her chin as he moved upwards, both of their lips along her shoulders as she let the sharpness of a moan elicit through her lips as she found herself uncaring of the noise. She hadn’t believed that this was real; this was a heavenly dream that had caught her in a web of complete bliss.

“We will take the utmost care of you, Miss Witmore,” Bill whispered softly, his hand pressed against her waist as he pulled himself behind her, allowing his tall stature to envelop her. Harry, nodded in an agreement.

Their lips moved in slow, alternating patterns, as if they were marking her, binding her to them. She could feel her body yielding, the fight draining out of her limbs, replaced with a drowsy, golden haze that made her feel almost like she hadn’t had control of herself any longer. The world dimmed further with each brush of their mouths.

"You are ours now," Harry whispered against her skin. “Don’t be scared.”

"Sleep well, darling" Bill murmured, lips grazing her once more.

Catherine succumbed, slipping into darkness as if sliding beneath a silken surface to a world unknown to her – unknown to most. The floating, fleeting feeling had been a dream – she was certain of it.

She woke to the sound of bells – they were loud, chanting. But she hadn’t been able to open her eyes; she felt the sound through the bones – the chill. Their deep, sonorous toll vibrated through her bones, pulling her slowly, unwillingly, back into a consciousness that allowed her eyes to pry open. Her body felt heavy and languid, draped over a cold stone floor that she hadn’t been familiar with. The darkness had overtaken her; the night had finally flourished to its highest hours.

She was no longer in the theater; she had come to that conclusion. She was somewhere high above the world—in a bell tower, by the look of it—surrounded by the massive silhouettes of ancient bells and the skeletal framework of wood and iron and staircases that fell hundreds of meters down.

Her gown was gone, the only fabric coating her was the silk of slip that had been situated under the large gown that had been so heavy on her body previously, her gloves also missing, her hair tumbled free around her shoulders out of the updo she had spent so much time lifting off her shoulders.

The sound of her breath was the only sound now through her ears. She hadn’t fully come to her senses, but she could understand that she wasn’t alone. She couldn’t have been alone.

Harry and Bill were there, standing before her like twin specters conjured from a fever dream, their faces cast half in shadow, half in amber light from the full moon that possessed the sky through the tower. The long lines of their coats had been shed, revealing the stark beauty of their forms—tailored shirts clinging to broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to bare their forearms, veins and muscle etched beneath pale skin.

Catherine rose onto trembling elbows, disoriented by the feeling – unsure if they had taken advantage of her without her knowledge, and knowing that her body had been on high alert of fear now rather than the previous intrigue.

"How—?" she began, but the words evaporated from her tongue when Harry knelt beside her, cradling her face with a touch so gentle it made her heart ache. He had been gentle; they both had been.

"You came with us," he said softly, nodding to convince her. "You wanted to."

Bill dropped to his knees on her other side, his hand sliding along her thigh in a slow, deliberate stroke that left goosebumps in its wake.

"And you still want to," he said, voice low and hungry almost as if trying to hold himself back. “Don’t you?”

Harry’s eyes had glared at him then; Bill’s fingers had lowered themselves to her knee rather than her thigh as if to concede to the other man.

Catherine opened her mouth to protest, to demand answers of how she had gotten herself up here, but all that came out was a soft, desperate sound as Harry's mouth captured hers in a kiss—cool and commanding, a claiming feeling that brushed her questions into a fleeting wonder. Her shoulders had lowered, melting into his touch as the sweetness of his taste had completely demolished her will to know more.

Bill was not to be outdone, almost as if he had been annoyed by the motion of the other man claiming her first without prior consent of his own. His mouth found her neck, his hands framing her hips as he drew her closer to him. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along her throat, her pulse hammering wildly beneath his tongue as she felt completely overwhelmed by their firmness, and capabilities of taking her at once.

Harry’s hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to allow Bill greater access. Their movements were coordinated, seamless, as if they had done this countless times before. They had known how work together; to work in tandem to pleasure and to please.

The heat between them built with terrifying speed, banishing the lingering cold from her skin to the heat that they had confirmed earlier. Harry’s fingers traced the line of her collarbone, then drifted lower, slipping towards the delicate neckline of her silk slip with reverent slowness.

Bill’s hands roamed more boldly, dragging up the hem of her skirts to reveal the long, trembling lines of her leg that he pulled over his hip.

They took their time, worshiping every inch of her with mouths and hands, leaving no part of her untouched, unclaimed. But, somehow, she knew this – she practically knew what move to make next, almost like this had been rehearsed. Certainly, the sin hadn’t even crossed her as she thought of the unknowingness of being with two men at once. She had barely been with one.

Catherine gasped against Harry’s lips when Bill’s mouth found the inside of her thigh, his breath searing her sensitive skin. Her fingers threaded through Harry’s hair, tugging, desperate for more, even as her other hand sought Bill blindly, clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer to her skin.

“You will be a good girl for him, won’t you? He’s quite hungry for you,” Harry whispered against her lips when he felt her shift at the feeling of Bill’s lips against her.

Catherine’s eyes moved from Harry to the lips and to the hands that formed around her thighs as the silk of her slip fell above her thigh. Bill pushed her thigh upwards; a gasp escaped her at the man’s forwardness, showing an incapacity of being able to stay steady.

“Slow,” She heard Harry demand, however, not pointed at her, then. His voice had a vibrato that held her firm as she watched Bill’s demeanor changed, a flint of anger like a quick amber match.

“We mustn’t keep her waiting,” Bill challenged, his hands gripping around her thigh in a way that made her cry out in a bout of pain.

“We will scare her.” Harry’s eyes glared at him then; it was a challenge of domination, she thought as she panted with anticipation. It had been quite something to watch as she settled on her elbows then, allowing her hair to hang over her shoulders as she felt a grogginess that held her steady.

“We have all night,” Harry told him with an assurance, a tinge to his voice, “You will keep her waiting. She can handle it.”

Catherine shook her head then, vigilantly. “N-No, I can’t—” She cooed, practically dripping with unknown anticipation that was bottled up, “I-It’s too much.”

The two men stopped for a moment, but she couldn’t tell from the way that they stared at how far their play had gone on; how deep they would push, how intrusive the lingering thoughts would be. They spoke in a silence of stares.

Catherine lay between them, her body humming, her mind adrift somewhere between waking and dreaming almost like she had been kept in this space to heighten her pleasure. Her dress was half-slipped from her shoulders, the silk pooling around her waist as it had fallen and been pushed around, but she hardly noticed. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of their hands, their mouths, the way they filled the vast emptiness inside her that she hadn’t noticed prior to them.

Harry's hand slid along her arm, soothing, grounding. His eyes, pale and shining like twin moons, found hers and held them, steady and warm with a flicker that she hadn’t seen yet.

"But you’re already doing so well, darling girl," he murmured, his voice low and mesmerizing.

On her other side, Bill hovered closer to her now, the light catching the sharp planes of his face that were hollowed in shadows. He looked almost fevered with restraint, his hand trembling slightly where it rested at her hip.

Catherine's gaze drifted up to his mouth—and that was when she saw it.

The glint of something sharp. Something indecently, satanically unnatural.

Two pointed teeth, slender and gleaming in the half-light, pressing lightly against his bottom lip as if he could barely hold them back from his aghast need for her.

Her breath caught in her throat; a gasp locked behind her teeth as she pushed herself away at the fright that made her pupils dilate in a haziness.

Harry felt the change in her instantly. His fingers stroked calming circles at the inside of her wrist as he grabbed them at an inhumane quickness that had her mind racing with incomplete thoughts.

"Don't be afraid," he told her softly – so softly, as if his own fears had been overcome – that she had seen something that she wasn’t meant to, "You're safe with us. Always."

Bill looked away, a feeling of shame inherent now, his hair falling into his eyes. His entire body tensed, as though expecting her to recoil and the moment to be taken from them both; the tension in her body was holding her back from untethering the rope that held her together.

But Harry's hand tilted Catherine’s chin, gently coaxing her to look at him again.

"It’s who we are," Harry whispered directly into her soul, almost like he had opened her up like the shell of an oyster to reveal the pearl that had been created beneath, "It’s what allows us to love you the way we do—forever."

Catherine’s heart raced so violently she could feel it against her ribs, against her throat. But when she looked into Bill’s eyes—wide and burning with a need that was not hunger but longing—something inside her softened.

She reached out, hesitantly, brushing her fingers against Bill’s cheek. Frozen.

His skin was cool, almost startlingly so, but it was the way he leaned into her touch, the way his breath hitched, that anchored her.

Harry kissed the back of her hand, a soft, worshipful gesture. His voice was a murmur at her ear:

"Trust him. Trust yourself."

Catherine's hand slid lower, tracing the sharp line of Bill's jaw, marveling at how beautiful he was – they both were indistinctly holding a beauty that was unlike anyone she had seen, with a power so tender that she couldn’t move. She wasn’t certain how something so terrifying could also be tender. Bill shivered under her touch, his fangs glinting as he struggled to hold back.

"I won't hurt you," Bill rasped, almost brokenly as he approached her then. He moved upwards, moving towards the other man as well as their distance was significantly lessened. She felt the ease in her muscles, the caress of his words held her tightly.

"I know," she said, surprising herself with a solid nod that would convince herself. Bill’s eyes met Harry’s again, a devilish aid of warmth with unspoken words as they had finally let her fall into their clutches.

She tilted her face up, offering him her mouth, her throat—offering him all of her, then.

Harry's hand at her back encouraged her forward, supporting her, steadying her when her knees nearly buckled from the intensity of it all. Bill sat between her legs, her legs pressing against his hips as he pulled himself closer to receive the affection that Harry had first taken.

Bill cupped her face in both hands, reverent, and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was not violent, not greedy—it was a vow to keep her safety and trust bottled in the tower they inhabited. He kissed her with aching gentleness, the points of his fangs never breaking her skin, only brushing her in delicate warning that elicit a push of her hips against him.

Harry stayed close, his hand soothing along the small of her back, his whispers interrupting her unsettled thoughts.

"You're doing perfectly. Let him show you how he feels."

The air between them was thick with the scent of old stone, rain, and something darker, richer—something that belonged only to them.

Bill’s mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, trailing kisses like falling petals from the reddest roses. Catherine closed her eyes, leaning into him, letting herself be guided by the warmth of Harry’s voice, the steady touch of his hands as he sat behind her now, letting her fall forward into Bill’s touch.

The fear melted into something else—something fierce and wild and right.

And when Bill finally lifted his head, his eyes shimmering with something ancient and grateful, Catherine knew there was no going back.

The bell tower sighed around them—old stone exhaling after centuries of silence, as though it too were bearing witness. Moonlight spilled in through the narrow-arched windows, catching the dust in the air like falling stars. Below them, the city pulsed faintly, its lanterns glowing amber in the distance. But up here, in this forgotten bell tower, time had unraveled. Catherine no longer knew what hour it was—or if it even mattered.

She sat in the center of it all, her body draped in folds of pale silk, her bare shoulders kissed by the cool night air. The quiet was no longer unsettling. It was sacred. Heavy with anticipation. The kind of silence found in the pages of old stories, the ones with blood-red covers and gilt edges, where forbidden things happened beneath candlelight.

Harry knelt behind her, fingertips tracing slow, thoughtful lines down her forearm. His touch was a promise—reassuring, unhurried. His skin was warm, impossibly so, like a hearth that never cooled. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he watched her, and his gaze carried the weight of endless patience. The kind that didn’t ask for surrender—it invited it.

“Tell me what you feel,” he whispered, his voice brushing against her ear like velvet.

Catherine closed her eyes and took a breath. The air was tinged with the scent of cold stone, old wood, and something sweeter—something floral and dark, like crushed violets and wine.

“I feel…” Her voice was soft, almost like she had her thoughts ripped from her, “Like I’m standing on the edge of something. Like the world below doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

Harry smiled gently and pressed a kiss to her knuckles as he pulled her hands behind her, Bill pulling her waist towards him. “That’s because it doesn’t.”

Bill sat quietly in front of her, his presence like shadow and snowfall. Where Harry was firelight and mischief, Bill was winter and moonstone—remote at first glance, but hiding depth, waiting to thaw. He watched her from under heavy lashes, eyes rimmed in silver beneath their darkness, something ancient flickering behind them.

When she turned her gaze on him, she caught them again—those teeth. Slender and pale as pearl, just peeking past his lower lip. Not grotesque. Not monstrous.

Beautiful. Ivory.

They were a reminder. Not of danger, but of devotion. Of power held carefully in check, like a blade wrapped in cotton.

Catherine reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed them over his mouth. He stilled beneath her touch, eyes closing. The faintest intake of breath escaped him—an almost inaudible sound, yet it felt louder than the bells suspended above them. His lips parted beneath her fingertips, fangs catching the moonlight like crystal.

Harry’s hand steadied hers, anchoring her as she traced the edge of that forbidden beauty. "You’re not afraid," he said, like an observation rather than a question.

“No,” she said truthfully. “Fear is learned. I-I am not afraid.”

Bill leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers. The gesture was soft, so full of restraint it nearly broke her. Catherine’s chest ached, not from pain—but from the overwhelming fullness of it all.

“I still don’t understand everything,” she said, shaking her head and feeling doubtful in waking up and this memory fading away as it had never happened.

“You don’t have to,” Harry said. “Not yet. Just let yourself be here. Be with us.”

She exhaled shakily, and for the first time, she allowed herself to fully feel it—the pulse of something not quite mortal between them. The way their voices curled around her like ribbons. The cold elegance of Bill’s hand against hers. The sun-warm brush of Harry’s thumb across her cheekbone. The electricity that thrummed in the air, thicker than breath.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” she said.

“You’re not,” Bill murmured, brushing his lips to her temple.

“But we can show you how to dream while awake,” Harry added, his lips against her shoulder, so gentle it was more sensation than kiss.

She closed her eyes again, giving them her answer in silence.

And when Bill’s lips followed, pressing to her other shoulder with aching reverence, the room seemed to sigh with her. Her spine arched ever so slightly between them, her breath caught in that space between anticipation and surrender.

She didn’t know what they were turning her into—not yet. But in that moment, she didn’t care.

In that moment, her knees weakened, and she felt herself come to her sleepiness again; she felt herself start to fall deeper into the confines of the hallowed room around her. Catherine started to feel herself lower to the ground with the help of Harry’s hands letting her down softly before she felt Bill’s hands lower to her hips.

It had happened with ease; the lift of her hips, Bill lowering himself to lay along her, his lips pressing into her thighs once again as if the familiarity hadn’t been gone too quickly.

Catherine stared at the crossing eaves that layered in the ceiling of the tower, her body forming to the creaking, wooden floor as she gasped at the feeling of his hot breath in her most precious spaces. She threw her head back at the feeling of touch – opening herself as if a tulip with a hint of warmth hitting her delicate petals.

“Oh.” She gasped outwards; knowing that the way that his mouth attached to her was a disgrace to itself in the heavenly boundaries. But her sins felt diminishing as she pushed her hips towards him, letting his hands curl around her thighs as if to ground himself then.

“Letting him spread you open,” Harry narrated, “Devouring you. Feel him, Catherine.”

He leant down, letting his own warmth on the opposite side of her, brush her cheek as she fell deeper into oblivion.

The warmth, deprival of everything she had ever known, his raging need for her upon them as Catherine spread her thighs just a bit wider to allow him as much access as feasibly available. His tongue flicked at her, sending a shockwave that could have been sent directly from the pearly gates of paradise.

Without a warning, she gasped sharply at the feeling of his teeth nipping at her – just enough to aid in the relationship between pain and pleasure that had been unspoken; she knew now that it had been unspoken as there hadn’t been a word to describe it.

“You taste like a story untold,” Bill murmured against her, letting his lips settling on her thigh to give her a moment to catch her breath, “Rich. Beautiful. Wonderous.” Between each word, a softer kiss was laid against the velvet skin of her open thigh.

“Do you feel him deep inside of you? Through your veins, through your blood, through each inch of you?” Harry’s maniacal voice spoke certainly into the air, allowing Catherine’s hips to pulse as if to nod with agreement to each of his words.

Her head pressed against the wood, wanting to push her body away at the height of the feeling. It had been so unknown to feel such a strength of pleasure that could only flourish.

Under her breath, she let words come out of her mouth that had been the only ones that she could muster: “Forgive me, Father. In the name of you, I resist temptation; I resist –“

“Praying?” Harry asked with a humor lacing his words. The moonlight danced in his amused expression. “For protection? Or penance?”

Catherine ached at the feeling of Bill between her thighs; aching at the way that each second that passed was another that built this feeling that had been so uncomfortably unfamiliar that she was uncertain that it could be natural. Every moment that passed was another that had pulled her deeper into the underworld of the damned, she knew it.

“God could never make you feel this way,” Harry pushed her, wanting her to fight against it for the greater outcome, “God could never make you feel this ruined, this worshiped, this utterly alive, Catherine.”

Every moment that built her up was rewarded with another wave of heat that she felt from top to bottom. In an effort to push away the feeling, she sat up; the way that she watched Bill rise from between her legs added to the feeling of the tightening in her as she saw the life in his eyes that had been dancing out of complete arousal.

Harry’s hands traced down her spine, “Give it to him.”

Bill panted as she stared at him, “Come help her, would you?”

Moving from behind her, Catherine watched Harry move down to between her legs; he thrust her thigh upwards to open her before Catherine caught the black of his pupils. Harry let his strong, willing fingers to trace down her clit, pushing softly inside of her with two; letting his finger trace in circles before she let out a whimper of succumbing to them.

Bill let his tongue dance along her, letting his tongue work in tandem with Harry’s fingers in a way that had sent Catherine’s mind into space; a lifted oblivious that only let her eyes see beyond space and into the galaxies beyond it.

“Descend from yourself, Catherine,” Harry coaxed her, his words soft and subtle as he edged her forward; he knew she was working in her head to not succumb to the feeling, wanting to pennant for the sins she was certain of.

Bill coaxed her then, “Let us have this part of you.”

In an instance, her eyes had flicked to watch the men work her; the only memory that caught her before the extraordinary feeling of release was the way that Harry’s ivory teeth, sharp and settled against his lips as the smirk on his face had matched the ember red of his newly changed eyes; they hadn’t frightened her but sent her further into ecstasy as she laid her head against the wood with a rippling effect of sensation that was completely, univocally unnatural.

“Good girl.” They stated, watching as she drowned in the rush of the flood that overcame her. “Our good girl.”

It overtook her like a tide pulled from the moon — slow at first, then sudden, sweeping, inevitable. A tremor started deep in her core and bloomed outward, a crescendo of light and heat that filled her lungs with air she forgot she’d been holding. The world unraveled at the edges — time stretched, breath caught, and for a moment, she was nothing and everything all at once. It was like breaking and becoming all in the same breath — a shuddering hush, a silent hymn, and then the soft collapse of surrender.

Catherine then awoke with the taste of midnight on her lips.

Her eyes fluttered open to the pale ceiling of her bedroom, the familiar cracks in the plaster and the sway of the sheer curtains in the morning breeze. The window was open, allowing the sounds of the village to disperse into her realms. A bird chirped just outside. Someone rolled a cart along the cobblestones below. The ordinary world had returned, as though nothing strange had happened at all.

Except everything inside her felt different. There it was – that emptiness she now noticed.

She sat up slowly, the sheets cool against her skin. Her body hummed—not sore, not aching, but tender, as if touched by something not entirely of this world. Everything about her felt renewed, almost like she hadn’t understood how to make sense of it all. She glanced around her room for any changes – anything at all that would validate this odd feeling of sudden unease.

Her fan was on the nightstand. Her shoes neatly by the door. Her opera gloves, folded on the chair as if she had come home from the theater like any other night.

But she hadn’t – she was certain of this. She just was uncertain of how she arrived back safely at a slumber, how she arrived in her own bedroom at home without a lick of a memory.

She pressed a hand to her chest. Still beating too fast, she thought to herself.

Catherine rose from beneath the covers that had coated her moments before, padding barefoot across the room. She didn’t even notice the cold until she passed the mirror—and saw her breath fog against the glass. She stopped with unease. Turned slowly toward it.

She had sensed that the mirror shifted then, almost unseen by the naked eye. No—not the mirror. Her reflection. Something about her was different and she was unable to put a finger on it.

For the briefest moment, her eyes stared back a shade too bright. Not her usual hazel, but something darker, deeper. Like shadowed amber, flickering with light that didn’t belong in this world. Her pupils dilated, narrowed, then returned back to their normalcy.

The illusion—or whatever it was—vanished just as quickly. But it was enough; it was enough for her to recognize this sense of hysteria that had been filling her. Catherine stood frozen, the nightgown suddenly too light, the room too quiet. Her breath was still visible, curling like frost in the room that had to be warm from the summer air.

And then, she had caught sight of it. From beneath her pillow, she heard something faint almost like it had been metronome. A delicate ticking. She turned and lifted the corner of the pillow slowly to reveal the item

There, gleaming against the white linen, lay a small, antique pocket watch. Its face was cracked down the center. And the second hand was ticking—backward. She blinked a few moments to try to understand.

Inscribed on the inside of the open case, in impossibly fine script:

Time bends easiest for those who belong to the night.

Catherine’s hand shook: her jaw becoming slack as she stared at the item before looking at the open window when she heard the boom of the bell tower. It had struck on the hour; her eyes glancing towards the tower as she approached the window. Her fingers tightened around the sill, and she exhaled slowly.

Then she heard it. Not with her ears, but somewhere inside her like a way of communication that hadn’t been taught but felt.

A voice. Two voices, like harmony pressed against her spine as she heard them as clear as the daylight shining in through her open window.

“You are not dreaming, Catherine.”

She gasped and stepped back, nearly dropping the watch. The sensation of their voices—Bill’s smooth, deliberate cadence and Harry’s velvet-dark lilt—wrapped around her, like the memory of hands at her waist and breath at her throat. She had been taught not to be scared but frightened by the power that had been pressed on her.

A warmth stirred beneath her skin, like embers glowing after a night-long fire.

She pressed the pocket watch to her chest, the ticking now loud in her ears, insistent. The scent of night-blooming jasmine rose from nowhere, thick and unmistakable.

On the windowpane, she had felt the sketch on the sill. Delicate, precise lettering—curved like a signature on an old love letter:

Tonight. When the bells chime. Come home.

She stared, breathless. She could almost feel the cold stone of the tower beneath her hands again. Taste the metallic sweetness of Bill’s kiss, hear the low murmur of Harry coaching her in the dark.

She blinked, and the message vanished as if her thoughts played the game of the magic. But she knew better now.

Some dreams were only doors. And Catherine had been invited to step back through. _______________________________________

vampire bill skarsgaard and harry can take me any night of the week tbh

hope you enjoyed this little thing <3

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girl-of-many-fandoms · 18 days ago

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Marked By Shadows

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: Y/n unknowingly walks into danger, a masked stranger steps in to save her changing her world in a single act of violence and protection.

MASTERLIST

Warnings: stalking/surveillance, violence, threat of SA (it does not occur)

🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️

He’d been watching her for weeks.

Not out of obsession—at least, that’s what he told himself—but caution. She lived near the flat he’s temporarily stuck in between assignments. A quiet area, nothing special. That’s why she stood out.

She didn’t belong to this world—the one soaked in blood and secrets. She had soft routines. Mornings filled with coffee runs and tote bags, music spilling from her headphones. Evenings walking home with a half-eaten pastry and her phone pressed to her ear, laughter in her voice like a song he didn’t deserve to hear.

He kept his distance. Always. Because he didn’t do connections. Not anymore. Not since Manchester. Not since Roba. Not since—

Well, never mind that.

But tonight, something shifted.

From the rooftop opposite the bookstore she worked at, Ghost watched her step into the cool night air, phone in hand, a smile tugging at her lips. Oblivious. She was talking about something mundane—cherries at the market?—and utterly unaware of the three shadows peeling away from the alley across the street.

His eyes narrowed behind the balaclava.

They weren’t locals. Their movements were off. Hunted, but stupid. One of them had a switchblade tucked at his back waistband. Ghost’s mouth twisted.

Wrong fucking night, lads.

She turned the corner toward the quieter end of the block, still chatting, oblivious to the way the trio quickened their pace behind her, low and quiet. A predator’s walk.

Ghost was already moving.

Down the fire escape. Boots silent. A whisper in the dark. By the time his feet hit the pavement, the men were closing in. Too close.

She was laughing.

That goddamn laugh.

And then she paused, something—maybe instinct—prickling at her neck. Her steps faltered. Phone lowered. Head turning slightly. But before she could fully stop—

“Oi, sweetheart.”

One of them reached to grab her coat.

Ghost struck.

The first man didn’t see him coming. One hand slammed into the back of his neck, the other wrenching the knife free with surgical ease. The second man spun, too slow, and caught a boot to the ribs that sent him crashing into a trash bin with a groan. The third froze, wide-eyed, reaching for something under his coat.

Simon didn’t give him the chance.

A single, vicious punch—knuckles cracking—and the man hit the wall, slumped. Out cold.

She stood a few feet away, stunned. Breath frozen. Phone dangling from her fingers. His eyes flicked to her, just long enough to see the dawning horror.

Shit.

Not at the men. At him.

He was still in the shadows. Mask on. A dark figure—no context, no name. Just violence.

Her voice was small. “W-What…?”

“They were following you,” he said, voice low, calm, graveled like smoke and gravel. “You alright?”

She blinked. He watched her take him in—tactical gear, skull mask, the sharp cut of brutal efficiency in every movement. She didn’t run.

She should have.

Instead, she stepped closer. Carefully. Her voice steadier than he expected. “You followed me too.”

He didn’t answer, not right away “Yeah.”

Something passed between them in the silence.

The sirens were still far off, but approaching. He couldn’t be seen. Not with what he’d just done. Not with who he was.

He turned to leave.

But her voice stopped him again. “Wait. Who are you?”

He paused.

Everything in him screamed to disappear. To ghost out like he always did. But… he turned back, just enough for the glow of a nearby streetlight to catch the lower half of his face.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “Just… be more careful. Don’t walk alone.”

And with that, he vanished into the dark, leaving her standing under the streetlight—still staring into the place where he’d been.

⸻

But that night, she left her curtains open.

And he found himself back on the rooftop. Watching.

Still distant.

But no longer a stranger.

And no longer just observing.

#simon riley x oc #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #call of duty #cod modern warfare

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cheeseatlantic · 4 months ago

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part twosie woosie if ur new part one is like on my profile meow

MARKED FOR DEATH

(PART TWO: THE MARK) GHOST’S POV

Pain burned through his side, hot and pulsing, but Ghost had felt worse. Much worse.

He lay still, back against the pavement, chest heaving. Blood trickled from the gash on his temple, blurring the edges of his vision, but he didn’t need to see clearly to know what was happening.

You had won.

You stood over him, gun trained steady, eyes sharp and dark in the dim streetlights. He could see it—feel it—the weight of the moment, the breath between life and death.

And yet, you hesitated.

A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Gonna say somethin’ dramatic first? Or just shoot me and get it over with?”

Your finger twitched on the trigger. “I should.”

“You should.” His voice was rough, a whisper of smoke. “So why aren’t you?”

Silence.

Ghost watched you closely, noting every flicker of hesitation, every shift in your stance. You didn’t know, did you? Couldn’t figure out why you hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.

Interesting.

Slowly, he lifted a hand, wiping two fingers through the blood on his temple. He saw your eyes track the movement, a flicker of confusion breaking through your focus.

Good.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, he pressed his fingers to his forehead—dragging an X in his own blood.

You went still.

Dead silent.

Ghost could feel the tension crackling between you, thick enough to choke on.

Then, finally—

“What the fuck was that?”

He grinned, lazy and sharp. “Figured it’d help, love. You looked like you needed a little encouragement.”

The way your expression twisted—somewhere between exasperation and disbelief—sent something amused curling in his chest.

“You’re insane,” you muttered.

Ghost hummed. “Only for you.”

He could see the shift in your expression, the flicker of irritation, the way your grip tightened on your weapon. He pushed, just to see how far he could take it.

“Idiot.”

You exhaled sharply, crouching before he could react. And then—

Your fingers brushed through the X he’d drawn, smearing warm blood against his skin.

His breath hitched.

It was fast—so fast even he almost didn’t notice—but you did.

Your touch was firm when you pressed your bloodied palm against his chest, right over his heart.

And fuck—that was new.

Ghost went still. Completely.

“You’re lucky I don’t like playing with broken toys,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm.

Something flickered in his chest. Sharp. Unfamiliar.

He had to go. Now.

Before you could register the shift, before you could trap him in another moment like this—Ghost moved.

A sharp twist of his body, a flick of momentum, a feint—he slipped from beneath you, rolling out of reach, vanishing into the darkness before you could react.

He climbed, fast, pushing through the pain, boots finding purchase on rusted metal as he hoisted himself onto a rooftop.

Then, just because he could, he chuckled. Low, smug, teasing.

“Better luck next time, yeah?”

And then he disappeared.

But this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

and a very special shoutout to @lluvia-jc for being the 150th follower and making this little drabble thingy happen! im so grateful for all 150 of you, all the friends ive made on this platform, all the love and support! truly from the bottom of my heart thank you.

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eris-snow · 1 year ago

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𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐈𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭

Tags: bakugou x gn!reader, todoroki shennigans, fluff, sweet, funny, humour, swearing

Todoroki conducts a highly scientific experiment and has come to prove that his highly scientific hypothesis is indeed correct.

Bakugou's going soft. Prove me wrong.

I mean, if you look at it with blinders, it's hard to see where he's coming from, but Todoroki can assure you that this is not just a theory anymore.

Can science explain how Bakugou's features simply melt when you kiss him? Can math explain how unexplainable his actions are towards you without the expression called love?

Shoto doesn't think the universe can explain a soft Bakugou. And that's why he's here to explain it for you-

"Todoroki, was it necessary to draw the blinds-."

"Yes."

Bakugou loves you to bits. Whether it's buying your favourite food back or loving little gestures, whether it's prioritising your safety even when on the battlefield...Bakugou's rough edges are slowly but sure smoothening out.

Not for everyone, of course, as Shoto has deduced. He still gets on the blond's bad sides and for some reason, he refuses to be called bestie, but hey, at least there's no punch to the face anymore.

Bakugou makes sure to walk on the outer side of the pavement. He makes sure to kiss you good night and whenever it's raining, he holds the umbrella for you so you can walk hands-free.

When you're sick, he goes all cabin fever and cooks for you. He checks your temperature and if you're feeling up to it, he'll explain the homework to you and show you your next few assignments.

He calls you Sunshine, which is so soft and nice compared to his other nicknames such as:

"ICYHOT, DID YOU MIX MY SHIRT WITH YOURS? MY SHIRT IS PINK NOW YOU HALF-BRAINED, TWO-QUIRKED PEPPERMINT BITCH-"

(Oh shit-)

There are stars in his eyes whenever he looks at you, and Shoto bets his father's black card that your boyfriend is already saving up for a ring, one as special and unique as you because you do way too much for the lovesick idiot.

You apologise for him.

You put up with him. (Mad respect.)

Everyone acts like being with Bakugou is such a dream, but being his partner is not easy.

Flaws that take time to be corrected are the separation marks for most couples, and the fact that you stayed by his side to build him up from his fucked-up asshole self takes more mental strength than any superficial fan could imagine.

Is Bakugou going soft? Absolutely.

"That brings me to the end of my presentation." Shoto bows, facing his class.

There are way too many crinkles on Aizawa's forehead. "The presentation was supposed to be on the latest news in the Hero community." His teacher says flatly. "Not another collection to your conspiracy theory folder."

Shoto is about to respond, before Bakugou speaks up first.

"YOU THINK I'M GOING SOFT—?"

#mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #katsuki bakugō #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x y/n #fluff #bakugo x you #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou fluff #funny #humour #what am i writing

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jenosbliss · 1 year ago

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🌷 ⌇ nct dream ! and small acts of love

pairing. gn!reader x nctdream | genre. fluff | wc. 1.4k | warning. none

MARK. leaving small notes

Everyday you find post-it’s all around the place with small notes like ‘I love you’ ‘You are amazing!’ ‘My pretty y/n’ ‘Smile :)’ ‘<3’ ‘Eat your meals on time’ ‘You did great today’ ‘I miss you’ ‘dude, you’re the best’

It’s not a mystery as to who left them inside your book, on the mirror, inside your closet, on the back of your phone, in your bag and all around the house because only one person can do this and that’s Mark Lee.

There are times when he leaves before you wake up and comes back after you have already fallen asleep. There are days when both of you could only talk through texts and days when you can’t talk at all due to busy schedules. At such times it pains him to see you still waiting for him, wanting to talk to him, understanding him, caring for him.

Hence, he decided to leave these small notes around the house and on your things which will give you a feeling of him always being with you. With these small one-liner sentences he tries to express all his love for you but these small notes can’t do justice to his love for you that’s why there is always a note reading “I’ll be back soon!” when you return back home.

RENJUN. giving unexpected gifts

Whenever he goes out there’s always something that reminds him of you, maybe a small rock which looked different from others lying covered in sand at the sea or a wildflower growing on the side of pavement, he brings it for you.

Renjun’s gifts range from expensive perfume to roadside flowers but one thing they have in common is that they’re always unexpected. You have always asked him not to give you so many gifts but he just can’t help himself from doing that. How can he stop himself from not buying the bouquet of your favourite flowers or your favourite ice cream when he happens to cross by those shops?

Some days he surprises you with the paintings or sketches he made for you and his chest fills with happiness and pride as he watches you cherish them. He just loves you so much that for him giving these unexpected gifts has become a portrayal of his love towards you.

With this he feels that he can make you feel special, cherished and loved. He thinks words can never express how much he loves you. That's why giving you gifts is his small act of love for you.

JENO. giving a massage

Jeno is someone who believes that ‘I love you’ isn’t the only expression for confessing his undying love for you and there are a number of ways he can show you how much he loves which includes writing songs about you to making breakfast for you on some days.

But the thing he always does is massaging your back and feet after a long, stressful, exhausting week or day at work. He skilfully massages your soft skin while you ramble about all the extra work your boss is putting you through this week or how stressed you are about the new project.

He listens to everything you say carefully while working his hands on your back magically which makes you relaxed and forget about the tiring days as you fall asleep peacefully.

Jeno never misses to put his thoughts on your struggles at work and comforting you by telling that you always have him, that he’s your constant of love and happiness. These little massage sessions end with you falling asleep and him peppering kisses on your face and pulling you close before falling asleep himself.

HAECHAN. initiating skinship

Everyone knows that Haechan loves skinship and gets clingy to the person he adores dearly. And you’re no exception to that. Not only is his love language physical touch but it is also one of his ways of showing love to you.

At this point in your relationship you are immune to him suddenly popping out of nowhere, holding your face in between his palms, peppering your face with sweet kisses and then getting busy with his own work.

If you’re out on a day, he won’t let go of your hand. If you are sleeping he has to have his leg thrown over you and face buried in your neck. If you’re cooking he’ll be having his arms wrapped around your waist, leaving butterfly kisses on your neck and just listening to you talk about your day or talking about his day.

This is his small act of love for you which might be very random or common to anyone else but for him it’s a way of telling that he’s always there for you, keeping you close to him makes him feel warm and he tries to make you feel safe with him. His kisses and touches are always soft and a subtle way of him saying that he’ll always protect you.

JAEMIN. cooking your favourite meals

Jaemin loves you and is never shy away in telling you that either verbally or physically, if he can, he will confess how much he loves you every minute of the day but that seems quite impossible right?

Therefore he sought another way to tell you that and that is by cooking for you, your favourite dishes every once in a while. There are numerous days when you wake up to the sweet smell of pancakes being prepared by him.

Or coming back home to the dinner table full of delicacies prepared by him. On holidays he doesn’t even let you wander around the kitchen forget about helping him, saying it’s your rest day. He prepares all your favourite dishes and the look of content on your face is his biggest compliment ever.

If Jaemin can he’ll cook for you everyday just to be able to see you smile and be relaxed, it’s his way of saying that no matter what happens you will always be greeted by his love and affection when you come back to him, he’ll always be here waiting for you and that he loves you.

CHENLE. braiding your hair

If he’s captivated with anything apart from watching Stephen Curry play it’ll be your hair. Boy just can’t get enough of them, if you’re near him he has to have his fingers run through your dark locks every moment.

One of his favourite activities with you, when you both are together and doing absolutely nothing is braiding your hair. He seats himself on the couch or corner of the bed with you down on the floor trapped between his legs while he softly braids your hair in various hairstyles he has saved all over the week.

Chenle spends hours sitting there leisurely braiding your hair while chatting with you about everything and nothing. Sometimes you sit there reading a book to him or maybe playing games or petting daegal.

Often in between you whine about him taking so much time and he pulls at a few strands lightly to tease you, his giggles filling the room. After putting on a cute hair clip or a bow —mind you he buys you a lot of hair accessories— he finishes and clicks a ton of pictures of his creation, not forgetting to compliment you on how beautiful you look every time.

JISUNG. creating playlists

The first time Jisung sent you a playlist he was shaking due to nervousness. What if you don’t like the playlist ? What if these songs aren’t of your liking? What if you think he’s a creep? And many more questions like these clouded his mind until you texted back about how much liked his taste in music.

From then on it’s almost like a routine for him to make playlists especially for you, share songs which remind him of you, or songs which he loves. His members call him cheesy for doing this but paying no attention to them he sometimes spends hours on creating playlists for you.

If you feel overwhelmed by work or studies he sends a playlist for you to calm down, if he’s away from you he’ll send a playlist full of love songs which makes you feel as if he is next to you. Boy is so helplessly in love with you that he often confesses his feelings through playlists sometimes with songs and sometimes with the titles of them.

He has never been good with words and whenever he says ‘I love you’ he gets so shy that his face burns like a tomato and then he often finds himself regretting that. But sending you playlists like this seems much more comfortable and meaningful to him.

masterlist.

a/n. hii, thank you for interacting with my work <3! this is my first fanfic on Tumblr and I hope you liked it. I’ll really appreciate comments, messages or even requests! Tysm for reading 🩵 looking forward to making friends here

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youryurigoddess · 3 months ago

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Books and crumbs

Probably most speculative post in this little series, but nonetheless marked as spoiler. As always when talking about S3 locations and related content, appropriate level of discretion is advisable — due to the obvious sensitivity of this material, please tag it accordingly and share only with the fans consenting to know potential spoilers.

By now most of you probably have seen this post published on the Till’s social media on Friday. Super cute gesture and a lovely way to let the fans know that even the staff is shipping Aziraphale and Crowley (told you they have Muriel vibes!).

Technically the bookshop wasn’t the only off-set location, since we already know of some others, including the parallel film shoot happening on the same day, but still! Do you think that this display could be a Clue? Are we going to see a sword-fighting angel again? Let’s see if the books here (neither is currently listed on their website and wasn’t there at the time of the filming) might feed us some information crumbs.

The first thing I can notice about this display is an open copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress (already noticed on Aziraphale’s desk in the Good Omens: Lockdown special) open on yet another illustration by Harold Copping, this time titled ominously “In the Valley of the Shadow of Death” with a quote: “So he cried in my bearing, o Lord, I beseech Thee, deliver my soul”.

This fragment of the actual book could be potentially relevant to the plot:

“At the day of doom we shall not be doomed to death or life, according to the hectoring spirits of the world, but according to the wisdom and law of the Highest. Therefore, thought I, what God says is best, is best, though all the men in the world are against it”‬.

The book behind The Pilgrim’s Progress can’t be identified at the moment, but reminds me of the illustration of the War in Heaven for Milton’s Paradise Lost by Gustave Doré:

What can be easily identified here is a leather-bound copy of Angel Pavement, a 1930 novel by J. B. Priestley depicting the struggles of shopkeepers and traders of an imaginary London street in the wake of the Great Depression, additionally stirred up by a mysterious and charming newcomer.

Priestley’s social panorama of London depicts many perspectives, but focuses on the employees of the firm Twigg & Dersingham, suppliers of veneers and inlays to the cabinet-making trade, under No. 8, Angel Pavement (a small cul-de-sac in the heart of London’s commercial district). Interestingly, both BBC adaptations of the novel — a 1957 and a 1967 TV series — are considered completely lost.

The red spine is the only one I recognised from my visits to the bookshop in question — a leather bound copy of Dombey and Son by Charles Dickens. The 1848 novel tells a story of a wealthy shipping firm owner coming to terms with the death of the son he dreamt of continuing his business with and eventually embracing his daughter’s love when it seemed lost as well after years and years of neglect.

His boy had faded into dust, his proud wife had sunk into a polluted creature, his flatterer and friend had been transformed into the worst of villains, his riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered him looked on him as a stranger; she alone had turned the same mild gentle look upon him always. Yes, to the latest and the last. She had never changed to him – nor had he ever changed to her – and she was lost.

The daughter eventually returns to reunite with her father after starting a family of her own, and years later the changed and aged merchant dotes on his granddaughter as if to make up for what he’s done to her mother by abandoning her due to patriarchal values.

Father figures and their sons or, in particular, daughters seem already pretty significant in the S2 context, as described in e.g., On Love and Sacrifices and Dysfunctional Family Dynamics, but they hit particularly close to the potential S3 themes in relation to both Aziraphale’s changing position in Heaven (and in Metatron’s eyes) and Jesus and his role in the Second Coming and the Last Judgement.

The big open book at the bottom is a first edition of Heroes of Folk Tale and Legend by Vladimir Hulpach (1970). Illustration by Miroslav Troup represents the monster Grendel, known from the Old English epic poem Beowulf in which he was slayed by the titular hero.

Grendel’s sudden appearance at the royal banqueting hall described on this spread is similar to the demonic attack on Aziraphale’s bookshop at the end of S2, but can also be seen as a foreshadowing of yet another danger to come and/or the beast from Revelations, the Antichrist.

He even looks similar to the engraving Anathema had hanged on her murder board, don’t you think?

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens finale #good omens 3 #good omens s3 #good omens s3 spoilers #good omens s3 speculation #seriously don’t read it if you want to avoid spoilers #i’m dead serious about this #teal we meet again #angel pavement #the book of revelation #aziraphale’s desk #anathema’s murder board #yuri is doing her thing #channeling detective aziraphale #hyperfixating on used and antiquarian books

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fafnir19 · 23 days ago

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Engineering a Dark Legacy

The military assessment center loomed before Lewis like a monolith, its stark concrete façade reflecting the early morning sun. He stood, clutching his folder, heart racing as he scanned the entrance. Soldiers in crisp uniforms marched by, their sharp boots echoing against the pavement—*thud, thud, thud*—a sound that filled him with a mix of awe and trepidation. “Why did I even apply?” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. He felt out of place, a nervous science PhD student among a sea of tall, confident soldiers. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. Today marked the beginning of the assessment center for a coveted position as an aviation engineer, a role that could catapult him into the elite R+D department of the military—if he passed the grueling selection process. The military had never appealed to him and aviation engineering wasn’t exactly his forte. But the military’s elite center promised cutting-edge research and had a reputation for groundbreaking innovations - and he needed a job after graduation.

As Lewis stepped through the imposing gates of the military center, a rush of excitement and anxiety filled his chest. He was greeted by a stern-looking Sergeant, who handed him a bundle consisting of a pair of olive bomber pants and combat boots. “You’re Lewis? Get in line—gear up.” Gear up? Lewis blinked, his stomach twisting into knots. “Uh, is this really necessary? I thought I’d just be in my regular clothes,” he stammered, glancing down at his checkered shirt and slacks. “Military protocol, kid. These will help you get into the mindset.” The Sergeant crossed his arms, his gaze fierce. With a reluctant sigh, Lewis slipped into the oversized pants, the fabric sleek against his skin. He laced up the combat boots, the weight of them grounding him in a way that was terrifying intimidating.

The next three days blurred into a relentless cycle of logic puzzles, engineering simulations, rapid-fire questioning, and psychological evaluations. Three days of relentless pressure, each moment a gauntlet of intellectual challenges designed to break down even the most brilliant minds. Stress gnawed, exhaustion settled deep, yet a strange thrill persisted. The final meeting arrived. He found himself in a sterile conference room, facing General Radu across a polished table. "Lewis," Radu began, his voice a low rumble, "your performance was…impressive." Hope flickered in Lewis's chest. "However," Radu continued, shattering that hope, "we’ve decided to move forward with a candidate with more specialized aviation experience." Disappointment stung. Lewis had dared to hope. "That said," Radu continued, a glint in his eye, "we have another position. One we haven't advertised." Lewis's heart skipped a beat. Radu rose and gestured toward the door. "Come with me." They descended into the bowels of the military complex, passing through layers of security that made Lewis's head spin. The air grew colder, the silence deeper. A sense of anticipation thrummed through him. Finally, they reached a heavy steel door. Radu punched in a code, and it hissed open, revealing a brightly lit laboratory. Computers hummed, strange devices blinked, and scientists in lab coats huddled over complex equipment. "Welcome to our…special projects division," Radu said, a hint of pride in his voice. Lewis's eyes darted around the room, taking it all in.

This was it. The cutting edge. The kind of research he had only dreamed of. Radu led him deeper into the lab, explaining the various projects underway. "Here, Lewis, we push the boundaries of what's possible. Hypersonic propulsion, advanced materials, directed energy..." He let the list trail, allowing the sheer scope to impress the young scientist. This was beyond anything Lewis had imagined. Then his gaze snagged on something odd. A black silk cloak hung on a mannequin, its red lining a stark contrast.

"What's that?" he blurted, unable to contain his curiosity. Radu smirked, a glint in his eye. "Ah, that. We found it on one of our excursions, deep in a cave in Romania. That, Lewis, will be your project." "My project?" Lewis echoed, bewildered. "What is it for?" Radu's smirk widened. "Try it on, and you'll see. Believe me, you'll be impressed." Lewis approached the cloak, his fingers tracing the smooth, cool silk. With a deep breath, he donned it. A jolt of energy coursed through him, his muscles rippling and expanding. His shirt strained, then vanished entirely. The olive bomber pants he'd been given now fit perfectly, molded to newly sculpted thighs. He felt an unfamiliar force coursing through his veins, he felt…powerful. "Wow!" he gasped, flexing his arms, marveling at the transformation.

Radu chuckled. "Now you have not only the knowledge about combat jets but also the body to fly one." Lewis laughed, still caught up in the spectacle. "Maybe the body, but not the mind. I'd be too afraid to risk my life in a jet fighter!" The general's expression hardened. "You are a warrior now, and a soldier follows his superior's commands." Shock slammed into Lewis. "That's a misunderstanding. I'm not a soldier, I'm a scientist! I guess it…" He trailed off, a strong pain gripping his mouth. He felt something…sewing his lips together. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. Panic flared. He reached up, fingers tracing the rough, red yarn that now sealed his mouth. He could only mumble inarticulately.

Radu's voice was sharp, unforgiving. "The cloak doesn't accept contradicting your general. This is the punishment." Lewis's eyes widened in horror. "If you wonder how you should eat with sewed lips…" Radu continued, his tone laced with dark amusement. "This cloak was used by Dracula to form an army of loyal warriors. You aren't exactly human anymore, and you will feast on the life energy of your enemies." Then, a new sensation flooded Lewis's senses. He could see it now: a faint aura of light surrounding each person, a shimmering field of energy he hadn't noticed before.

Radu sensed his dawning realization. "Just suck the life energy off a human, and your transformation is complete!" Lewis shook his head frantically, a silent scream trapped in his throat. Radu's smirk returned, colder than before. "Or resist your hunger for more than three days, and you'll be restored." Hope flickered within Lewis. Three days without food – he could do that. He had to. Radu removed the cloak, the stolen power receding slightly. He replaced it with a simple black bomber jacket. "Welcome to the team, Lewis!"

General Radu steered Lewis down a sterile corridor. The path ended at a stark, reinforced door marked 'Restricted Access – Level 5.' Radu punched in a code, the lock clicked open with a heavy thud, and they entered a section that felt colder, more isolated than any Lewis had seen. "This is where we keep our… more challenging guests," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. The metallic tang of fear hung heavy as they entered the high-security wing. The cells lining the corridor were made of thick, reinforced glass, each housing a figure of varying degrees of menace. They passed a hulking brute covered in tattoos, a woman with eyes that darted around like trapped birds, and finally stopped before a cell where a man in an orange jumpsuit sat cross-legged on the floor, laughing. The glass walls did little to contain his arrogance. Terrorist, the label screamed in Lewis's mind. The man, Ahmet, looked up, a sneer twisting his lips.

"Look who's here," Ahmet sneered, his eyes glinting with disdain. "The clowns in uniforms. Come to grovel some more? Tell me again how you'll break me?" He spat on the floor, a gesture of pure contempt. Radu's smirk didn't falter. "Ahmet, meet your new roommate." He gestured to Lewis, clad in the black bomber jacket against his bare skin, the sewn lips a grotesque parody of a smile. The laughter died in Ahmet's throat. His bravado crumbled, replaced by a primal fear. He scrambled back, pressing himself against the far wall of the cell. "What is that thing?" he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "Enjoy your company, Ahmet. I trust you'll make him feel at home." Radu's voice dripped with amusement as he unlocked the cell and shoved Lewis inside. Ahmet's eyes, wide with genuine fear, darted between Lewis and Radu. Then, Radu turned and strode away, the heavy door clanging shut behind him, leaving Lewis and Ahmet alone in the oppressive silence.

Hours crawled by. Lewis stood motionless, his gaze fixed on Ahmet, who huddled in the corner, his eyes darting around the cell, fear etched on his face. The hunger began to gnaw at Lewis, a deep, primal craving that grew with each passing moment. He could see it now, the faint aura of life force that shimmered around Ahmet, beckoning him. He fought it, clenching his fists, trying to hold onto the last vestiges of his former self. *Three days,* he thought. *Just three days and it will be over.* He remembered his lab, his research, the life he had before. But the memory felt distant, fading like a dream. The hunger was a relentless tide, pulling him under. "Stay away from me," Ahmet whimpered, his voice trembling. "Please, what do you want?" Lewis remained silent, his sewn lips preventing him from speaking. But his eyes, burning with a newfound intensity, told a story of their own. He could resist no longer. With a guttural growl, he lunged at Ahmet. "No! Get away!" Ahmet screamed, scrambling to his feet. He threw a desperate punch, but Lewis brushed it aside, his strength far surpassing anything he had possessed before. He grabbed Ahmet by the throat, his fingers digging into flesh. "What are you doing?!" Ahmet choked, his eyes bulging. "Let me go!" Lewis stared into Ahmet's eyes, a dark vortex of hunger and desperation. And then, he began to draw the life force from him. Ahmet's screams turned into gurgling gasps as his body withered, his skin turning grey and papery. Lewis drank deeply, savoring the rush of energy, the satisfying calm that washed over him. Radu watched from the observation window, his face a mask of horrified fascination. He had expected a transformation, but the sheer brutality of it was shocking.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Lewis released Ahmet. The terrorist’s body crumpled to the floor, a shriveled husk devoid of life. Radu entered the cell, his face a mask of grim satisfaction. He surveyed the scene, his gaze lingering on the lifeless remains of Ahmet.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Impressive," Radu said, his voice low. "We suspected that the more intelligent subjects would become the most horrific … uhm, I mean …efficient. It seems we were correct." Lewis stood panting, his body buzzing with newfound power. He felt a strange sense of calm, a dark satisfaction that settled deep within him. He looked at Radu, and a surge of loyalty coursed through him. His general. His commander. "Your transformation is now irreversible," Radu announced, his eyes gleaming. "Welcome, my warrior!"

The following months passed in a blur of training and combat missions. Lewis excelled as a pilot, his enhanced senses and reflexes making him a formidable force in the air. But his victories came at a terrible cost. He left a trail of desiccated corpses in his wake, each one a testament to his insatiable hunger. He never took prisoners. Why bother, when they were so much more useful as sustenance?

One morning, Lewis awoke to a strange sensation. He ran a hand over his mouth, feeling the smooth skin where the stitches had once been. They were gone, dissolved as if by magic. He opened his mouth, testing his voice. It was deeper, more resonant than he remembered. He could speak now, but he had nothing to say. He knew, with chilling certainty, that his transformation was complete. The last vestiges of his former self had been erased, replaced by a cold, ruthless efficiency. He was no longer Lewis, the nerdy PhD student. He was a weapon, a predator, utterly loyal to his master. He kneeled before Radu, his eyes cold and empty. "General," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "What are my orders?"

Radu surveyed his creation, a handsome, daring killer with ancient powers. Then a satisfied smile spread across his face that revealed the depths of his ambition. "Excellent," he said. "You are exactly what we needed." He had created a monster, a perfect soldier with no conscience. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Lewis would obey his every command.

#male tf #male transformation #personality change #mind corruption #vampire tf #vampire #military #soldier tf

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nglgfics · 2 months ago

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The roadie - part 1

(Warning: Mention of an abusive relationship)

(18+)

Masterlist

You got there too early.

Not so early it looked desperate—just early enough that the air still held a touch of warmth, and the queue was just a vague idea, a scuff on the pavement in front of the venue.

You told yourself it was for the music.

A good spot. A clean view. Something to do.

But really, you just didn’t want to be anywhere else.

The venue itself was nothing special.

Brick walls with the paint peeling off in corners. Posters stapled over posters until the staples themselves seemed to be holding the whole place together.

You sat on the low wall near the front of the building and folded your arms against your chest, pretending not to notice the slow shuffle of crew slipping in and out of the side door.

There was a buzz in your chest you hadn’t expected. Restlessness. The edge of something you couldn’t name.

You hadn’t felt it in a while.

Not since everything ended. Not since the last few months of your previous relationship had scraped the shine off everything you used to love.

By the end, he’d made you feel like you were always the one in the way. And it was strange how long that feeling stayed, even after he was gone.

You didn’t realise you were watching someone until he looked back.

Lean. Dark shaggy hair. Hoodie half-zipped, cigarette tucked behind his ear. One of the crew, by the look of it.

He’d been dragging a case toward the door, moving like he had all the time in the world. Like he did this in his sleep.

And then—he looked up.

Eyes sharp. Blue. Steady.

And he didn’t look away.

Not right away.

Your breath caught—just a little.

You looked down like it hadn’t happened. Like it didn’t land right in your chest.

A while later, Lisa appeared from god-knows-where with flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, and a half-sure grin.

“There you are,” she said, like she’d been looking for you. “You’re not gonna believe who I just met.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. Local with a band, four pints in, thinks you’re his twin flame?”

“Mark,” she said brightly. “One of the crew. And he’s fit.”

You rolled your eyes.

“He said he knows the one you were staring at.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were. He said your guy’s been pretending not to look since load-in.”

You stared at her. “You spoke to him?”

“No,” she said, drawing out the word. “Mark did.”

And right on cue, Mark himself appeared—tallish, lean, dark hair and tired eyes that looked like they’d seen every gig and every afterparty since 1989.

He gave Lisa a grin, then turned to you.

You blinked. “What look?”

Mark smirked. “Noel said you’ve got that ‘don’t talk to me’ face. Which apparently made him want to.”

You felt your stomach dip, then flip.

Lisa laughed. “I told you.”

And before you could think of a clever reply, the side door creaked open again.

And he was there.

Up close, he looked a little older than you’d guessed. Early twenties, maybe mid. Shaggy fringe half in his eyes, hoodie sleeves shoved up past his elbows. Pale blue stare, unreadable.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked at you.

Like he’d been thinking about what to say, and hadn’t landed on anything yet.

Mark elbowed him. “Didn’t take much to drag him out.”

Noel flicked him a look. “Cheers for the subtle intro.”

His voice was dry. Quiet.

That soft, clipped Northern tone that somehow made everything sound like it came with a warning label.

You raised an eyebrow, turned toward Noel. “So. I’ve got a don’t talk to me face?”

Noel didn’t flinch. “You’ve got that look like you’d make a bloke regret trying.”

You tilted your head. “But you tried anyway?”

He shrugged, taking a slow drag off his cigarette. “Didn’t say I was clever.”

Lisa laughed too loud. Mark choked on a swig of something flat.

You didn’t laugh.

But you smiled.

Small. Real.

He caught it.

Noel’s gaze held yours for a second too long, like he was trying to decide whether he’d already said too much.

Then he looked down at the ground. Scratched his neck.

You studied him. “You always come out swinging, or is that just for special occasions?”

He shrugged. “Only when someone sends Mark to do the talking.”

Mark scoffed. “Don’t make me lie for you next time.”

Noel didn’t reply. Just lit his cigarette and looked back at you—calmer now.

And quieter.

The four of you stood there in the cool shade, not really talking. Lisa started chatting again. Mark joined in.

But Noel stayed near you.

And when he caught your eye one last time before heading inside, he didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away.

By the time the house lights dropped, the room was packed and heavy with heat.

You were close to the stage—close enough to feel the bass through your chest, close enough to smell sweat and lager and a little bit of something green wafting from the crowd two bodies over.

Lisa had peeled off before the band even came on. Some promise of a drink from Mark and the low-lit pull of a back corner. You let her go. You didn’t need company right now.

You were here for the noise.

And maybe—though you weren’t going to say it out loud—for him.

The band walked onstage like they weren’t trying to impress anyone. No grand entrance. Just a quick nod, a burst of tuning, a thud of the bass drum—and then they were in it.

The sound hit fast and full. Familiar but still a little unsteady, like it could go off the rails if someone wasn’t keeping it in line.

You closed your eyes for the first few bars, let it pour over you.

And then you saw him.

Leaning just off stage, near the monitors. Headset around his neck, sleeves pushed up again, arms folded like he was half-listening, half-bored—but his eyes weren’t on the band. They were on you.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t smile.

But you felt it.

That steady blue gaze, lit briefly by the stage flash, landing like a palm pressed to the centre of your chest.

It wasn’t performative. He wasn’t trying to be caught. He was just… looking.

And when you didn’t look away something shifted.

The crowd bounced into the chorus around you, arms flying, bodies knocking into each other like waves. You moved with them without thinking, loose-limbed and a little unmoored.

The music was good. Better than you expected. But your focus was split. Every time your eyes drifted left, he was still there.

Sometimes he was adjusting a cable. Sometimes talking into the mic clipped to his collar.

But he always found you again. And held your gaze.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

You weren’t used to being seen without being assessed.

And he wasn’t doing that.

He was just… taking you in. Like he didn’t need anything from you, but didn’t want to miss whatever it was you were giving away without meaning to.

Near the end of the set, the lights turned low and golden. The band slowed into a deeper groove, something heavy and sludgy that made the floor hum through the soles of your boots.

You let your head tilt back. Closed your eyes again.

Not trying to be anything. Just letting go.

And when you opened them—

He was still watching.

And for a moment, you wondered if he was doing the exact same thing.

Letting go of whatever it was he normally held onto.

You held his gaze a second too long.

This time, he looked away first.

When the last chord rang out and the crowd erupted, you didn’t move right away.

Your hands were still clenched slightly. Your heart louder than the drums had been.

You turned slowly, hoping to catch one last glimpse of him before the house lights came up.

But he was already gone.

The air outside was cooler than you expected, sharp against your skin where your shirt clung with sweat. The crowd spilled out around you in uneven clusters—some lighting cigarettes, others still singing as they passed, like the set hadn’t fully ended.

You stood just outside the venue, back to the wall, arms crossed, the hum of it all still running under your skin.

Noel hadn’t reappeared yet.

Not that you were waiting.

Not exactly.

Lisa spotted you first, half-drunk and glowing with the kind of post-gig high she was built for.

“There she is,” she called, already steering Mark toward you.

He had a pint in his hand from god knows where, and was still mid-joke as they reached you.

“You just disappear when the lights come up now?” Lisa asked, nudging your elbow.

“Just stepped outside,” you said.

Mark leaned back against the wall beside her. “Good show, yeah?”

You nodded. “Better than expected.”

Lisa gave you a look. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with who was watching you the entire time, would it?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because just then—he walked out.

Hood up now, but not over his head. Smoke already curling from the cigarette he lit without breaking stride.

His eyes found you before he joined the group.

He didn’t smile. But he looked… settled. Like something clicked back into place just from seeing you again.

He stepped in next to Mark, who gave him a quick nudge. “Took your time.”

“Had to wrangle a bassist with a God complex,” Noel muttered, voice flat.

Lisa laughed. “Sounds like you.”

Noel side-eyed her. “I’ve got a different kind of complex.”

Then, to you—calmly: “Didn’t lose you then.”

You shrugged. “I’m hard to shake.”

A beat. You caught the edge of a smile in the smoke.

The four of you stood there a while, mid-conversation, mid-linger. Mark talking, Lisa laughing, the pub across the street still open but looking less inviting by the second.

You didn’t say much.

Neither did Noel.

But you caught him watching you when the others weren’t looking.

Not intensely. Not obviously.

Just… aware of you.

Like the silence between you was saying more than the words around you.

And when Lisa said something to Mark that made him laugh too loud, Noel leaned slightly toward you. Just close enough that you felt the shift in pressure.

“You alright?” he asked, quiet.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He looked straight ahead, blew out a stream of smoke.

“Yeah. Better now.”

And then—he reached out.

You didn’t even notice at first.

It was that subtle.

Just the backs of his fingers brushing yours.

Once.

Then again.

A slow trace along the side of your hand, deliberate but light.

You felt it all the way through your chest.

You didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

He didn’t look at you.

Just left his hand near yours.

Not touching now. But close.

Like the space between was the point.

Lisa started to say something to you, but Noel stepped back before she could.

“Alright,” he said to Mark. “We should head.”

Mark nodded. “Tourbus waits for no man.”

Lisa glanced at you. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

She gave you a little look—somewhere between approval and suspicion—then linked her arm through Mark’s again as the two of them started off.

Noel lingered.

“Poole?” he said.

You met his eyes. “Yeah.”

He gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

Then—just before he turned—he stepped in one half-step closer.

And with the same unhurried hand that had brushed yours minutes earlier, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

Soft. Casual.

But not careless.

His knuckles grazed your cheek.

And you swore—for a second—he looked like he was about to say something else.

But he didn’t.

He just gave you one last look.

Then turned, and walked away.

—-

You almost didn’t come.

Lisa was supposed to be with you—cheap hotel, plastic cups of wine, the familiar buffer of her laughter. But she’d called that morning—half breathless, half guilty—saying she’d picked up a shift she couldn’t turn down.

“Manchester,” she promised. “I’m there. Swear on my nan.”

You told her it was fine. You meant it, mostly.

But the closer the train took you to Poole, the more that excuse stopped feeling like a reason.

Because the truth was—

you’d been thinking about him.

Not constantly. Not dramatically. But often.

He slipped in when you were least expecting it—during songs, on long walks, in that quiet moment just before sleep. The way he’d looked at you. That almost-smile. The way he said things like he didn’t mean them, but always did.

You hadn’t said anything. Not to Lisa. Not even to yourself, not properly.

But you knew it.

And you hadn’t wanted it to end outside a venue, without at least seeing him once more.

You wandered down the side of the building on instinct, not expecting anything.

But you saw him before he saw you.

Leaning against the wall, hoodie open, cigarette between his fingers. He looked like he wasn’t waiting for anyone.

Until he saw you.

He straightened, flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it out with the heel of his boot. Walked toward you without hesitation.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said.

Then—after a beat, softer, like he wasn’t planning to say it—

“Thought about it though.”

The words landed somewhere low in your chest.

Not romantic. Not flirtatious. Just real. And far more than you expected.

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t ask you to.

He came to a stop a few feet from you. Just far enough for the space between you to crackle.

You could smell the smoke on his clothes. Faint engine oil. The kind of scent that clung to people who lived in vans and venues.

“Lisa not with you?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Got called into work.”

He nodded. “That checks out.”

You smiled—small. “She says she’s making it to Manchester.”

He tipped his chin. “That’ll be a mess.”

A pause.

Not awkward. Just… cautious. Like both of you were still trying to figure out how real this was.

“Didn’t expect you to come alone,” he said after a moment. Not teasing. Just observant.

You shrugged. “Neither did I.”

“Brave,” he said.

You gave a soft scoff. “Stupid, more like.”

His mouth twitched. But he didn’t say anything more.

And that was fine. You liked the quiet with him.

You both stood like that for a while. The noise from inside thudded dully through the walls. A door slammed somewhere down the alley.

But it didn’t touch the silence between you.

He glanced over once, like he was about to speak again, and then—

“Noely.”

The voice cut through the air like someone flipping a switch.

You turned just as she appeared.

Blonde. Confident. Effortless. That kind of beauty that moved like it knew where it was going.

She didn’t look at you.

She walked right up to him, hand brushing his sleeve like she’d done it before.

“Didn’t think I’d find you still playing places like this,” she said, already smiling.

Noel blinked. “Jess?”

“Passing through. Saw the Inspirals name up. Figured I’d stop by.”

She didn’t explain more than that. She didn’t need to.

And he didn’t step back.

You did.

Not dramatically—just a quiet shift in weight, a retreat so small no one else would’ve noticed.

But inside, something folded in on itself.

Jess hadn’t looked at you. She didn’t have to. She moved like someone who was used to being welcome, used to being wanted. She touched him without asking, smiled like she already knew where the evening might end, and Noel didn’t stop her.

He didn’t encourage it either.

But he didn’t stop her.

And that was enough.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.

It was the old reflex kicking in. The one you’d trained yourself not to name.

Because this—this moment—felt too familiar.

You’d been in something like this before. A relationship that lived in those blurred edges. Where every woman was “just a friend,” every moment was easily explained, and your discomfort was framed as insecurity.

He’d told you you were too sensitive. Too reactive.

He’d made you apologise for being hurt.

So you learned to pull back before it showed.

To smile and excuse yourself before you were made to feel small for needing clarity.

You weren’t angry now. Not with Noel. Not even with her.

But your body still remembered what it felt like to be wrong about someone. To believe in something soft, only to realise it was hollow.

And that memory—that instinct—was louder than anything he could’ve said.

You looked at Noel.

He’d turned slightly, like he was just now remembering you were there. His brow creased, like maybe something had registered—that shift in you. The withdrawal. The cold.

“She’s just—” he started.

You shook your head quickly. “It’s fine.”

He stepped forward. “It’s not—”

“I said it’s fine.” You smiled. You hated how automatic it felt.

That smile had saved you before. Smoothed over a thousand sharp edges. It was the one you wore when you didn’t want anyone to see that you were hurting.

Because if you didn’t show it, they couldn’t use it.

“You don’t owe me anything,” you said, and it came out steadier than you expected.

Noel’s mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to answer. Maybe explain. Maybe apologise.

But you didn’t wait.

You glanced toward the door. “I should go in.”

You gave him the same smile again—soft, unbothered, practiced.

And then you turned and walked away.

Not because you didn’t want to stay, but because you weren’t ready to find out if he would’ve let you.

You stayed at the back of the venue.

Close to the wall.

Hands in your pockets.

Trying not to feel stupid.

The band played loud, tight, messy in a way that worked.

You watched them.

And sometimes, you watched him.

He looked for you.

You could feel it.

His eyes swept the crowd more than once—searching. Quick. Focused.

But you didn’t let him find you.

Not fully.

You just stood there and told yourself you hadn’t misread anything.

Even if some part of you already knew you had.

Part 2

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