#and now he gets to go about life with his new family and his new wife (who probably doesn’t even know this and he’s just lying to her)

[dokyumms]

eyes on you

pairing: ot13 x fem!14thmember!reader

genre: angst, fluff

word count: 1.4k

cw: brief violence (album is thrown at reader), carats are mean to reader 😔, cursing, nightmares, protective svt ?, carat calls svt “oppa” and it’s the cringiest line i’ve ever written.

a/n: been getting some requests for 14th member reader so here yall go! couldn't find a good pic for this theme so just enjoy the winter photo lolol, have no idea if relationship between svt and reader is platonic or not so it's up to interpretation... i don't know if i like this or not....

fan signs were usually fun.

key word: usually. you really did enjoy interacting with fans, playing with toy guns and whatever props you were given, but there was just one thing that would always happen.

it was normally something small, just a weird look or an obvious difference in the mood of a fan when they'd get to you, but no matter what it was, it was always noticeable.

you were used to it by now, the hate that came with being the only female member of the group. thankfully, it'd died down since debut, and over time, you learned how to ignore the comments. the members were your family, and you were theirs, why should people online dictate how you live your life?

however, there was always something different about when it happened in person. maybe it was the way you could see the joy in their face drain at the sight of you or how someone would look at you as if you had hurt them. you didn't know, but just that coming from one person would keep you awake for nights, no matter how many fans you met after.

but maybe today would be different, or at least that's what you told yourself as you sat down between vernon and minghao earlier that morning. these two were some of the calmest members of the group, so surely someone wouldn't dare to piss them off by insulting you, right?

well, just about half an hour in, a girl shoved an album before you. you had your hands out in front of you, just fidgeting around while you waited for minghao to finish up with her before she nearly knocked out your fingers.

you were taken aback a little, but you gave her the benefit of the doubt and didn't react to it, just greeting her as usual. looking down at the album, you read the name written on a sticky note. "your name is gaeun? how pretty," you commented, uncapping your marker to sign the album when she stopped you.

"don't." she warned sternly, grabbing ahold of your wrist. you tried to retract it, looking around for help, but to your dismay, the venue seemed to be understaffed. there were only two managers to help out, and they both happened to be at the very ends of the table, slowly making their way down the row as if they have all the time in the world.

you looked back at her. “i’m sorry?” you said, trying to figure out what was going on, but she didn’t budge. “okay, okay, i’m not going to sign it.” you backed off, holding your other hand up in surrender.

“good. i don’t need your nasty hands on it either. give it back!” she snapped, snatching back the album as if she hadn’t been the one to place it in front of you. the noise garnered the attention of minghao, who looked at her before turning his head toward you.

he raised an eyebrow, confused, but you shook your head. nothing was wrong, just some weirdly aggressive hater. what was new?

then the girl, or gaeun now that you knew her name, all of the sudden lit up at the sudden glance from minghao. “ohh oppa~ there’s nothing to worry about! you look so handsome today~” she cooed.

you could see him try to keep a neutral facial expression as you held back laughter yourself. he nodded awkwardly before turning his attention back to the person in front of him. honestly, you were unsure of what to do now. the other fans you had come across before may not have liked you, but they at least let you sign their albums.

thankfully, there shouldn't be much time before the fans have to switch members, so you just kept yourself occupied by eavesdropping on the conversation vernon and the girl in front of him were having. clearly, yours didn't want anything to do with you.

"come on, entertain me, bitch."

your head snapped back at her, noticing the two members beside you do the same as you gave her a puzzled look. she didn't seem to notice them, though, fully focused on you.

"what are you just staring at me for? you can't do your one job? no wonder so many people hate-"

"don't. don't you dare say another word to her."

you turned toward the voice, quite shocked to find the owner of it to be vernon out of all people. he and minghao both glared at the girl, filling the room with silent tension.

by now, the timer had went off, meaning it was time to switch members, but the girl wouldn't move, causing a line of people to form to the side of her. the managers made their way toward her to stop the delay, and now most of the members' attention was on you and her.

"god, you're pathetic," she scoffed, ignoring vernon's warning and the amount of stares directed at her. she made a quick glance at the managers, and as some sort of 'last laugh' before she got kicked out of the venue, she chucked the album- straight at your face.

by some miracle, yet slow reflexes, you managed to avoid getting poked in the eye, taking a hit to the temple instead. it's quiet for a couple of seconds, then all chaos commences. fans were yelling, probably at the girl as the managers practically dragged her away, and the members started to stand up and crowd around you.

before she was fully dragged out, the girl mouthed something at you, but you really couldn’t make sense of it right now.

this hadn't happened recently, the last incident being when someone shoved an album at joshua a couple years ago. and since then, pledis had put out strict warning about it, so it was even more shocking that someone had done it again.

you turned away from the audience, attempting to conceal yourself as you shut your eyes at the pain that began to spread from your head. voices overlapped over one another until you felt someone pull you into a warm embrace, hands falling onto your ears.

finally, all the noise seemed to die down. you opened your eyes, curious as to who was holding you.

joshua smiled as you met his eyes; his hands fell to your shoulders.

“hey, it’s okay, they’re moving everyone out of the venue. we’re not going to finish the fan sign.” he explained assuringly, but the comment sort of made you embarrassed. maybe if you took care of the situation better, everyone wouldn’t have had to leave.

you were frustrated, upset, scared, all of the above. you hated that someone disliked you so much to the point that this would even happen. why did so many people have a problem with you, and only you?

but there was one thing bothering you the most, something that kept your heart racing. deciding that you didn't need everyone worrying about you again, you kept your mouth shut as the managers came back and announced that you all were done for the day.

but that night, you dreamt of it.

you were at the fan sign, living through all the moments again. the girl is dragged away as she mouths to you,

"next time, i won't miss."

you couldn't move, frozen in fear as she began to laugh hysterically.

"y/n? y/n, wake up."

seungcheol shook you awake, stepping back when you yelped. "it's okay, you were having a nightmare." he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking your hair. "what was it about?"

trying to move on from the conversation, you said that it was just about what had happened earlier, but he stopped you.

"you were saying something, though. you kept repeating 'no', y/n, did something else happen?"

oh, you had no idea that happened, and now you were stuck. taking your hesitance as an answer, he took your hand into his.

"y/n, you can tell me. i don't want you to be scared anymore, okay?"

you sighed, giving in and telling him about the threat the girl made. his eyebrows furrowed as you explained it. truly, there was nothing the two of you could do about it, and it made him frustrated.

"it's fine, though. it was a shallow threat anyway, i don't know why i was so scared."

"no, it's not fine," seungcheol argued, pulling you into a tight hug.

"i promise you, i won't let anything happen to you. never again."

[3liza]

this is going to surprise the segment of this website that doesnt keep up with medical research but latest research shows that narcolepsy is likely an auto-immune condition triggered by infection, any kind of infection. we already have ample documentation of narcolepsy following covid-19 infection. if you already have narcolepsy and get covid-19, the narcolepsy is likely to get worse.

as for cancer,

Since the pandemic began, some oncologists have noted a rise in cancer cases, including rare cancers among younger adults. Early data from national sources and some large cancer institutions also suggests that there has been an increase in aggressive, late-stage cancers. "We started noticing some very unusual patterns," said Kashyap Patel, CEO of the Carolina Blood and Cancer Care Associates. According to The Hill, Patel and his colleagues have seen a 20% to 30% increase in new patients, multiple patients with several different cancers, couples and siblings developing cancers within months of each other, and patients relapsing after years of remission. According to Patel, he believes that inflammation associated with COVID-19 may be contributing to this new rise in cancer cases. "Inflammation triggers many genetic changes in a genome that can create a propensity of developing cancer in certain individuals," Patel said. "I'm analyzing close to 300 patients' data on the inflammatory biomarkers in the body with Long COVID antibodies … and if they had an unusual cancer."

this isnt widely understood by laymen because cancer is complicated and a very broad category of disease. but the oversimplified way to explain cancer risk is that cancer more often occurs in areas of tissue that have been damaged in any way. if you get sunburned a lot, those cells have a higher chance of becoming cancerous. if you get infected with viruses and bacteria a lot, those cells have a higher chance of becoming cancerous. and so many viruses can cause or contribute cancer, including probably the most well-known to the general public, HPV. even physical contusions and bruises, especially in the same places over a long period of time, increase cancer risk to those areas.

what everyone needs to understand about covid is that it affects everything. if you catch a regular influenza virus after catching covid, the damage that covid did to your body will make the resulting flu worse for you even if the covid virus is no longer active in your body. in the same way that it is harder to tolerate a bad day at work when you have a hangover, tolerating the normal, existing stressors, viruses, bacteria, and injuries of daily life has become more difficult and costly. catching a cold will make you sicker. preexisting conditions like narcolepsy and cancer will get worse. if you are a child, your developmental processes are being interrupted by the infection, with unknown later consequences.

every single thing is now complicated by a new handicap, or debuff, or whatever you want to call it, everywhere, all the time. this is what people dont understand. all your coworkers and distant family or if youre unlucky, friends and relatives, who have suddenly been getting sick or dying in slightly higher numbers than seem normal, even if it's something like "their lung cancer suddenly got worse" or "they died from appendicitis in a weird way 35 year olds arent supposed to" or "their dementia got a lot worse very quickly in a way we didn't expect" or "they cant work enough hours to buy the food they need anymore because theyre just feeling really shitty all the time" or "we thought i was regular food poisoning but it just doesnt seem to be getting better and its been six months now" or "they have a genetic condition which sometimes causes heart problems and suddenly all those heart problems showed up in the past four years", we're not saying that's literally an active covid infection, it's the consequences of covid's long term damage making regular stuff worse.

i dont really understand why the idea of "cause and effect" is so difficult for the average person to grasp but i dont understand a lot of things

"everyone suddenly seems really stupid and aggressive" its brain damage from covid

"im sick all the time now and everyone at work is sick all the time" its immune system damage from covid

"im sick again, but i tested and its not covid haha" its still probably covid, rapid covid tests have been estimated at 30% positive accuracy by researchers who are factoring in strain mutation and user error

"no one can drive anymore, what happened" its brain damage from covid

"why am i suddenly mentally ill" its brain damage from covid

"i started feeling weak, breathless, confused, distracted, irritable and in pain but it was a while after i got covid so its not long covid" long covid sets in a random number of months after your covid infection and also asymptomatic covid can cause it

"ive still never gotten covid, isnt that great" unless you are an undiscovered genetic freak (possible) or youve been living in a clean room, you have had a covid infection. it may have been asymptomatic

"im sick but its from blood clots, heart disease, asthma, nerve damage, narcolepsy, etc" covid attacks the entire body and can cause all of these things as downstream effects

"ive already had covid so i probably have pretty good immunity by now" covid does not work like this. the more times you are infected, the more permanently injured you will become, and the more vulnerable to further covid infections and infections of all other viruses and bacteria

"ive been vaccinated so im safe" covid does not work like this. vaccination lowers your likelihood of developing severe infection, it does not protect you from contracting the virus

"well what am i supposed to do" wear a mask

[slutoru1207]

Is it alright if you make an invincible story where Mark and the reader started out as childhood friends. He dated Amber, then Eve then next is the reader. Then after that have been together for a long while now, Mark would have some crazy baby fever. Please?🥺🙏

Ooh, I love this idea!💞🥹 It’s got the perfect mix of nostalgia, romance, and a hint of humor with Mark’s baby fever. Here’s how it could go:

You and Mark had known each other for as long as you could remember. Childhood friends, then more, though neither of you really understood the difference when you were younger.

You’d both been through a lot—he with his journey to becoming Invincible, and you, just by his side through all of it. You’d been there when he dated Amber, then again when he had that short-lived relationship with Eve. But now? Now it was you and him. You’d been together for years, and every day with Mark was something new, yet always familiar, like the way he made you laugh with his clumsy yet endearing superhero stunts or the way he’d always hold your hand in public like it was a quiet declaration of his love.

Mark was the guy in your life, and somehow, it still felt like nothing had changed, even after all the twists and turns. The love between you had grown stronger, deeper, more solid with time. It was perfect, or at least it felt that way until one thing started taking over his thoughts.

It had started out subtle. A conversation here and there, as you’d talk about your future—about what it would look like a few years down the road. You'd been dreaming together, as you always did, about the house you might have someday, the trips you’d take, the quiet moments you’d share.

But lately, Mark’s eyes seemed to linger a little longer when he saw baby ads on TV. Or when he’d get super excited when a new friend or family member would have a baby.

At first, you thought it was a passing thing.

But then... it wasn’t.

One evening, as you two sat on the couch together, flipping through channels, Mark’s gaze was fixed on a commercial for a baby product. You didn’t think much of it until you noticed how still he was. His lips parted as if he were about to say something.

“Mark?” you called, tilting your head.

He blinked and snapped out of it, looking at you with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, I was... thinking."

You raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "About what?"

Mark shifted in his seat, then hesitated. His voice lowered, and his eyes were slightly sheepish. “About... babies.”

You couldn't help but laugh lightly. "Babies? As in, your babies?"

He looked over at you, eyes wide with a mix of excitement and hesitation. "Yeah... I don't know, it’s just... I mean, you know, we’ve been together for a while now, and I’ve been thinking..."

"Thinking about what?" you asked, leaning toward him, curiosity piqued.

Mark’s face softened. "About how nice it would be to have a little one around. Someone to love and take care of. Maybe someone who looks like us." He added quickly, "Not right now, of course! I mean, I’m just thinking about it. But I don’t know, I can’t help but get excited whenever I see something about babies."

Your heart warmed at the idea of Mark getting all soft over the thought of having a little family someday. But you still couldn’t stop teasing. "So, you’re having baby fever, huh?"

Mark rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his cheeks a little red. “Maybe... just a little. But it’s not just that! It’s the whole family thing, you know? A future with you... with us... It just sounds so perfect.”

You chuckled, sitting next to him. “Well, I’m glad you’re excited. But we’ve still got a lot to figure out before that happens, don’t we?”

Mark nodded, but his gaze was soft, dreamy. "Yeah... but one day, I just want to hold our baby in my arms, y’know? Teach them stuff. Be there for them."

You smiled, your heart melting at how genuine and tender his voice was. You wrapped your arms around him, snuggling into his side. "It’s a nice dream, Mark. And when the time’s right, we’ll make it happen. But for now, we can just enjoy the thought of it, right?"

"Yeah," he agreed softly, his arm wrapping around you tightly. "Right. But don’t be surprised if I start getting a little more obsessed with baby stuff around here."

It didn’t take long for Mark’s baby fever to escalate. Soon, he was the one who kept bringing up the idea of starting a family. Every time you’d talk about your future together, he'd slip in something about how awesome it would be to have kids, how he could already picture it. His enthusiasm was adorable, even if it was a little overwhelming at times.

One day, you came home to find him watching a parenting video on YouTube, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in every word. You stared at him, hands on your hips. “Mark... you really have it bad, huh?”

He looked up at you, a grin stretching across his face. “I mean, it’s all very important stuff. I gotta be prepared, right?”

You laughed. “You’re adorable. But I’m not going to let you get a baby before we even finish organizing the living room.”

Mark pouted dramatically, but you could see the spark of excitement in his eyes, even if he tried to hide it behind a little humor. “Hey, I’m just saying. Maybe we should go ahead and practice.”

You arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh yeah? How would you practice?”

Before you could react, Mark scooped you up into his arms, his grip strong but warm. “I’ll take care of everything. Starting with you.”

You laughed, enjoying the warmth of his embrace. "You're impossible."

But, for once, it felt right. You could already picture it: the two of you, growing a family, starting the next chapter of your lives together. And you couldn’t wait.

[ama0310]

A Pawn Once More

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.

A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.

Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."

"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."

The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.

But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.

You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.

You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.

Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.

Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.

The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.

Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.

You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.

-----

��Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain. 

The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.

When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring. 

The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.

The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.

“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.

Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”

“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.

As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.

"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”

Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.

He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.

He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.

The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”

Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.

And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.

Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.

-----

Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.

You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.

At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.

You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.

The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.

And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.

And now, it was all coming to an end.

Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.

The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.

He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.

“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.

He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”

“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.

“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”

Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”

“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”

Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”

Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”

He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.

"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.

"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"

Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”

He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”

“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”

Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”

“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.

“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."

But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.

Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.

And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.

"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.

"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.

He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.

It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.

"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.

But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.

"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.

"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.

Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."

"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."

You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.

"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.

And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.

What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock. 

Haymitch has a wife.

And she was about to die.

[crow-crystal]

DP x DC PROMPT

Waylon didn't plan this. He didn't plan to meet a kid in the sewers, and he certainly didn't plan on adopting the little tyke. Then again, the toddler kinda adopted him first. Danny was obviously a meta or something. No normal kid looked like a strange mix of fae and animal. Though the kid was happily calling himself a crocodile anytime someone asked what he was nowadays. It wasn't too long after Waylon adopted (Danny refused to leave and started calling him dad, so he gave up and accepted his fate) that another kid appeared. She was a spitfire, that was for sure, a little red-headed werewolf named Jazz. She was only a bit older than Danny, too.

Tucker is a meta (You decide the powers) and visits the family in the sewers with new random tech he makes. He was reborn in a nice (eh) part of gotham. His family chose to reincarnate with him, so they knew everything. They're just happy to enjoy trying things and jobs they didn't get to last life.

Sam is rich, again, much to her loathing. She's the daughter of a couple owning a company that is mostly focused on making things clean the earth (only reason she isn't seething), and also, she's a meta with control over plants. Her parents are infact ghosts that the group had befriended that happened to be planning on reincarnating anyway. They don't remember everything. Not everyone was allowed that, (ghost king Danny had privileges to ensure he didn't ignore infinite realms issues. Stupid Observants.) So Sam gets along swell with her new parents, and Tucker does as well.

Danny and Jazz end up being the reason Waylon gets an apartment. Its in crime ally, but hey, it's better than the sewers. (They still go down to the sewers. It's still their territory, their haunt. Plus, Uncle Grundy is there!) It makes it easier for Tucker to visit. (Tuck and his parents' visit for Thanksgiving and Christmas, Waylon has adult friends now, yay!).

Yada Yada, after a year or two passes, Danny gets summoned, and the Justice League is too late to stop it. Baby Danny is in ghost king regalia, confused, but before the Justice League can do anything, Jazz has already ripped open a portal (thanks wulf and cujo) and the heroes are facing a VERY angry werewolf pup and a PISSED Waylon Jones who's too busy picking his tired and disoriented ghost kid up and letting Jazz climb up his back while growling at the heroes to do anything else. Batman, in a rare sense of smartness, let's them leave without a word.

Batman may or may not be arguing with Jason about interrogating them, but eventually doesn't as a way to appease Jason and bc he knows the tired dad look waylon has.

[shaiyasstuff]

side effects may include: marriage, blushing, and one shirtless husband. | zayne

synopsis : You never planned on getting married straight out of college—especially not to a broody, absurdly attractive cardiac surgeon with the emotional range of a paperweight. But one wine-infused chocolate, a half-unbuttoned shirt, and an accidental kiss later, you’re rethinking everything.

content : arranged marriage!au, pure fluff, comedy, writer on crack

writer’s note : yay! the arranged marriage au’s have come full circle.

The letter in your hand crumples with the weight of betrayal as you wave it in front of your mother’s face like a white flag soaked in passive-aggression. “What is this?”

She barely glances up from her tea. “Your marriage agreement,” she says, taking a sip as if she hadn’t just casually handed your freedom over like a lunchbox.

“Why didn’t I know about this?!” you exclaim, arms flailing like you’re directing traffic in a thunderstorm.

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed,” she replies smoothly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Which, apparently, to her, it is.

“Mom, I literally just graduated,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face.

She raises a perfectly plucked brow. “I married your father before I even finished.”

You let out another groan, louder this time, before collapsing face-first onto the designer couch like a Victorian heroine with a Wi-Fi addiction.

It probably doesn’t help that your family owns one of the biggest tech companies in the country.

Wealthy, yes.

Emotionally prepared for an arranged marriage? Absolutely not.

“I don’t even know the guy!” you practically shout, sounding one emotional notch away from launching yourself into a soap opera.

“I do,” your mother says, flipping open her book like this conversation is just background noise. “He’s a very charming young man.”

You grab the nearest pillow and dramatically smother yourself with it. “I’m not doing it,” you declare, voice muffled and full of angst.

“It’s already been decided.”

You fling the pillow aside like it personally betrayed you. “No!”

Somewhere in the distance, a rich person’s violinist probably sighed in sympathy.

“You can’t make me do this!” you cry, pointing an accusatory finger at her like you’re about to cast a spell of teenage rebellion.

“You will move into the new house in a week. Pack your things,” she replies, turning the page of her book without even looking at you, as if she’s ordering takeout instead of destroying your life.

You gape at her. “I’m not going to prison, Mom. I’m just trying to live my mediocre post-grad life in peace!”

She sips her tea. “And now you’ll do it as a married woman. Congratulations.”

You consider packing alright—packing your bags and running to a country where arranged marriages are considered ancient history.

Except, here you were—one week, three tantrums, and a very dramatic attempt to fake your own death later—standing in front of your husband.

Tall. Towering. Probably sculpted by ancient gods who had nothing better to do.

In your new marital home.

You blink up at him, still hoping this was an elaborate prank and Ashton Kutcher was going to leap out from behind a curtain with a camera crew.

No such luck.

Your new husband just stood there, looking like he stepped out of a magazine and into your worst-case scenario.

“I’m Zayne,” he says calmly, like you’re meeting at a networking event and not at the start of your forced domestic partnership.

You stare. Tall, brooding, buttoned-up like he’s allergic to joy.

Of course his name is Zayne—the kind of name that comes with a tragic backstory and an impressive skincare routine.

A shudder runs through you.

You’re married to that?

Somewhere in the background, the universe probably gave you a thumbs-up and whispered, “Good luck, sweetheart.”

You gulp, trying to summon the dignity your pajama-clad soul clearly lacks. “I’m Y/N.”

He nods. Nods. No handshake, no smile, no “Nice to meet you, fellow victim of our parents’ power trip.”

And then—he just turns and walks away.

Walks. Away.

You’re left standing there, blinking like a Wi-Fi signal trying to reconnect.

Married. To a man who treats introductions like optional software updates.

—•

“This is what Mom called charming?” you grumble, side-eyeing the empty hallway like it personally offended you.

You replay the interaction in your head—“I’m Zayne”—and resist the urge to punch a pillow just to feel something.

Naturally, you do what any responsible adult in a forced marriage would do.

You begin a full-scale reconnaissance mission.

Operation? Figure Out Who the Heck I Married.

You start with the basics—tracking his schedule, observing his comings and goings like an underpaid spy in a bad rom-com.

The man has the consistency of a German train schedule, the emotional availability of a stone wall, and the mystery level of a locked diary in a teenager’s room.

You have no idea what he does for work. He leaves in crisp suits and comes home even more pressed. He talks to no one. He reads thick books with no covers. You’ve yet to catch him watching a single cat video.

So, naturally, you conclude he must be a rich heir. Or a prince. Or some exiled monarch trying to lay low until his kingdom is restored.

It helps that he’s unfairly attractive—black hair that falls just right, piercing eyes that could probably see through walls, and a jawline that could cut glass.

Yep. Definitely a prince.

A very emotionally constipated, tragically handsome prince.

“I know you’re there,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered—of course he does, because apparently your espionage skills rank somewhere between amateur squirrel and nosy neighbor.

He doesn’t even look up from his book at first. Just turns a page calmly, as if catching his new wife spying on him is an everyday occurrence.

Then, slowly, he tilts his head and meets your eyes.

Oh no.

That look is lethal—cool, unreadable, and annoyingly attractive. He sets the book down with a soft thud and takes off his glasses like he’s about to lecture you, interrogate you, or casually ruin your life with a single sentence.

“Come in,” he says, and somehow it sounds less like an invitation and more like a challenge.

You briefly consider fleeing the country.

But your legs move anyway.

You let out an awkward laugh, the kind that sounds more like a hiccup caught mid-lie. “I was just… trying to see what you do.”

Zayne arches a brow, amused. “And lurking behind walls was the most effective method?”

You shrug, stepping inside, the door clicking softly shut behind you. “I considered asking. But you don’t exactly give off ‘share your feelings over coffee’ vibes.”

He leans back slightly in his chair, arms folding as he studies you—like you’re a puzzle he didn’t ask for but now can’t resist solving. “And what have you learned from your mission?”

“That you read a lot of intimidating books and might secretly be a prince,” you mutter, eyeing the hardcover he’d set down. “Or an assassin with excellent taste in eyewear.”

That earns you the ghost of a smile. Barely there—but it softens something in his expression.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” he says, and somehow, that doesn’t help.

You step closer, cautiously. “So… what do you do?”

Zayne tilts his head slightly. “Why? Interested now?”

“Trying to decide if I should be impressed… or mildly concerned for my safety.”

He chuckles under his breath—quiet and low, like he’s not used to laughing, but might want to try. “Maybe both.”

And for a moment, just a flicker, the air between you shifts. Less awkward, more curious. Like two strangers on the edge of something not quite comfortable, but not cold either.

“Well,” you say, fiddling with a stray thread on your sleeve, “I figured if I’m going to be married to a mystery man, I should at least get to know the mystery.”

Zayne watches you for a beat longer, then gestures to the seat across from him.

“Then stay,” he says. “Ask your questions properly this time.”

And you do.

You sit down across from him, suddenly hyper-aware of how your knees almost brush beneath the table.

His gaze is steady—too steady—and you gulp like you’ve just asked for his hand in courtship instead of mild information.

“So… what do you do?” you ask, trying to sound casual. It comes out more like a nervous frog asking a favor.

Zayne doesn’t answer right away. He leans back slightly, arms still folded, one brow lifting like he’s debating how much to reveal—or maybe just how much fun he’ll have watching you squirm.

“I’m a cardiac surgeon,” he finally says, voice low and even.

You blink.

“I—what?”

“I operate on hearts,” he says, like he’s talking about changing a lightbulb.

You stare at him. This whole time you thought he was brooding over world domination or writing dark poetry about rain. Heart surgeon was not on your bingo card.

“Wait, seriously? Like… actual hearts? With… scalpels?”

He tilts his head, clearly amused. “Is there another kind?”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wow. I was prepared for ‘billionaire with a tragic past,’ not Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I assure you, there’s still a tragic past,” he deadpans, and for a second you’re not sure if he’s joking.

He doesn’t elaborate—but something in his eyes flickers. Quiet. Guarded.

You lean back, blinking slowly. “Okay… that’s kind of hot.”

That gets him. His lips twitch, just a little. “Are you flirting with your husband?”

You pretend to examine the ceiling. “I’m just saying, it makes the whole mysterious-silent-guy thing slightly more tolerable.”

He lets out a soft laugh—barely audible, but it’s real.

And suddenly, sitting across from him doesn’t feel so heavy.

He stands up suddenly, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape against the floor. You jolt slightly, halfway through processing his laugh, and blink up at him.

His expression has shifted—still calm, but there’s something else now. A hint of gravity in the way he looks at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, catching you off guard. “For the suddenness of all this.”

You sit up straighter, unsure what to say. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged the whole arranged-marriage-against-your-will situation out loud.

Before you can respond, he steps closer, extending a hand—not forceful, just open. “Let me show you why.”

Your heart skips. “Why what?”

“Why our parents thought this could work,” he says, and for the first time, there’s no teasing in his tone—just sincerity. Gentle, but certain.

You stare at his hand. His fingers are long, precise. A surgeon’s hands. Hands that fix hearts.

And here he was, offering them to you.

So, slowly, hesitantly, you place your hand in his.

And just like that, something shifts again. Less awkward. A little warmer. A little more real.

He guides you out to his car—a sleek, polished thing that looks like it probably knows more about taxes than you do. He opens the passenger door for you, which is either chivalrous or unsettling, you’re not sure yet.

You slide in, still trying to wrap your head around this whole situation, when he leans in unexpectedly close—and reaches across you.

Your breath catches.

Then—click—he fastens your seatbelt.

You blink at him, flustered. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. It was clinical. Efficient. Like buckling you in was a task on his daily checklist.

Still, your brain short-circuits a little.

“Thanks,” you mumble, confused by how something so unromantic could still make your stomach flutter.

He simply shuts the door and rounds the front of the car, settling into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a hundred times.

You glance over. “So… where are we going?”

He shifts the gear with practiced ease, eyes on the road. “To see my parents.”

You freeze. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“As in—meeting the in-laws now?”

Zayne glances at you, completely calm. “You’re my wife. It’s only natural.”

You groan quietly into your palms. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

At your dramatic groan, Zayne gives the faintest hint of a smile—so subtle you almost miss it. Just the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like your misery is a quiet source of amusement to him.

You narrow your eyes. “Was that a smile?”

“I don’t recall,” he says, cool as ever.

You huff and turn your gaze out the window, resigned to what you assume will be an awkward, overly formal afternoon in a mansion filled with judgmental in-laws and porcelain teacups.

But twenty minutes later, when the car slows to a stop, your sarcasm dies in your throat.

Because this isn’t a mansion.

It’s a cemetery.

Your eyes flick to him, your voice suddenly small. “Zayne…?”

He cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, his expression unreadable again.

“You said you wanted to know why,” he says, gently. “So I’m showing you.”

And just like that, your earlier words—your groaning, your dramatics, your little internal jokes—feel like they belong to someone else entirely.

Zayne steps out of the car without another word, and you follow, suddenly quiet, your footsteps softer on the gravel. The wind tugs at your sleeves as he leads you up a small hill, the world around you hushed, respectful.

The trees part at the crest, revealing an open clearing.

Two gravestones stand side by side, worn but well-kept, the grass around them neatly trimmed. Fresh flowers rest at their bases—white lilies, carefully arranged.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Zayne slows as he approaches, his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn’t say anything right away, just looks at them for a long moment. When he does speak, his voice is low, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“These are my parents.”

Your chest tightens.

You glance at him—his posture still straight, still composed, but there’s something softer now. Something heavy that doesn’t show in his face, but in the silence he carries around it.

“They passed away when I was in my first year of med school,” he says, eyes fixed on the stones. “I visit them every week. I always bring lilies—my mother liked them.”

You stand there beside him, uncertain at first, then quietly fold your arms, the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders.

“I didn’t know,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, and for once, there’s no edge in his voice. Just truth.

And suddenly, you understand what he meant earlier. Why he said he wanted to show you. Why he apologized.

Because this marriage wasn’t just sudden—it was the first thing in a long time he hadn’t had to face alone.

“My parents made an agreement with yours,” Zayne says, his voice steady as he turns to face you.

There’s no accusation in his tone, no bitterness. Just quiet honesty.

“So in a way,” he continues, meeting your eyes, “we’re both stuck in this predicament. Not just you.”

The word predicament almost makes you laugh—because that’s exactly what it is. A polite, miserable mess you’ve both been handed like a family heirloom no one wanted.

But the way he says it… it’s not cold. It’s not detached.

It’s shared.

For the first time, you see the man behind the silence. Not just the polished stranger with perfect posture and unreadable expressions—but someone who lost his family, who carried grief with clinical grace, who walked into this marriage just as unprepared as you.

You lower your gaze, toeing the earth gently beneath your shoe. “Guess that makes us reluctant allies.”

“Something like that,” he murmurs.

Then, after a pause, he adds, “But I don’t intend to stay strangers with you forever. Not if we’re in this together.”

You feel something small and strange crack open in your chest.

Hope. Maybe. Or just the beginning of something real.

After the quiet moments of prayer—hands clasped, heads bowed, the wind weaving through the stillness—you and Zayne make your way back down the hill in silence. It’s not uncomfortable this time. Just… thoughtful. Like something unspoken has shifted between you.

The ride home is calm, the late afternoon sun casting soft light through the windshield. You glance over at him, watching the way his fingers rest lightly on the steering wheel, the way his profile is bathed in gold.

You hesitate, then ask, voice gentle, “How do you feel about this marriage?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The road stretches ahead, lined with trees and fading light, and you think maybe he won’t answer at all.

But then, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips—small, but unmistakable.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road. “Now that I’ve met you.”

You blink.

It’s not grand or poetic. It’s not a love confession or sweeping gesture. But something about the way he says it—so simple, so sure—makes your heart trip a little in your chest.

You turn back to the window, trying to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

And for the first time, the silence between you feels like something full, not empty.

—•

When you reach home, Zayne unlocks the door with quiet efficiency and steps inside like he’s been doing it for years—even though technically, it’s your first week as reluctant roommates.

He shrugs off his coat and heads straight for the kitchen.

You trail behind him, curious. “What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” he says, already reaching for the kettle.

You arch a brow. “Seriously… did you go to husband-training-school or something?”

He glances at you over his shoulder, eyes just a touch amused. “Is that a thing?”

“It should be,” you say, hopping up onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “You open doors, buckle seatbelts, visit your parents’ graves with fresh flowers, and now you make tea? Either you’re weirdly good at this or you’ve been raised by a very intense etiquette instructor.”

Zayne smirks—an actual smirk this time, not the half-ghost of one. “My mother believed in manners. My father believed in precision.”

You nod sagely. “Ah, so you were raised by royalty.”

He sets two mugs on the counter, then adds, “And I believe in not poisoning my wife with bad tea on day seven of our arranged marriage.”

You lift your hands. “Low bar, but I appreciate it.”

He chuckles quietly as he pours the water, and you watch him, a strange sort of warmth settling in your chest.

Turns out, “reluctant husband” looks a lot like “softly competent tea-making mystery man” when no one’s looking.

You watch him as he carefully stirs the tea, trying to look casual, though there’s an edge to your curiosity. “So, have you got a girlfriend? Before all this…?”

The question hangs in the air, a little awkward, but you can’t help yourself. You’re still trying to figure out who he is outside of this whole marriage thing. You need to know what kind of life he led before it all changed.

Zayne doesn’t answer immediately, his movements slowing for just a moment as if he’s considering the question carefully. His eyes flick to you, then back to the steaming mugs.

“No,” he says after a beat, the word simple but loaded. “I didn’t. Too busy, I suppose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Too busy for dating? I find that hard to believe.”

He lets out a quiet breath, placing the spoon down with the kind of deliberation that makes you think there’s more behind it. “It’s not that I didn’t have time. I was just… focused on other things.”

“Like saving lives?” you tease, leaning on the counter.

He glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment before he gives a small nod. “Exactly. I never made time for anything else.”

You hum thoughtfully, but there’s something in his voice that makes you stop. Focused on other things. You wonder if that was his way of avoiding other things. Or maybe he just never let anyone close enough.

You catch his gaze again, and this time, there’s a flicker—an unspoken something in the way he holds it. You can’t quite place it, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, just slightly.

“Well, now you’ve got me,” you say, trying to keep the tone light. “I guess that makes two of us.”

Zayne’s lips curl into the faintest smile. “Indeed.”

That night, you change into something nice—half-expecting a stiff, high-end restaurant with white tablecloths, six forks, and judgmental lighting.

But when Zayne pulls the car up to a quiet little corner bistro tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, you blink in surprise.

It’s not fancy. No valet, no sparkling chandeliers, no menus written in French.

It’s… cozy.

Warm lights glow from inside, casting golden puddles on the sidewalk. Through the windows, you spot mismatched chairs, little potted plants on the tables, and the soft flicker of candlelight.

Someone’s playing gentle jazz on a guitar in the corner, and the air smells like garlic and fresh bread.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you murmur as he opens the car door for you.

He raises a brow. “Disappointed?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. Actually… I like it.”

He doesn’t smile, not really—but there’s a flicker in his eyes, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for.

Inside, you’re seated at a small table by the window. The waiter greets Zayne like he’s been here before, which surprises you even more. You hadn’t pegged him as the “quiet Italian bistro” type. More like “emotionally distant, espresso-fueled loner.”

But here he is. Ordering your meal with quiet confidence, asking if you want sparkling or still water like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And somehow, it feels normal.

As you sip your wine and let the warmth of the room settle around you, you realize this whole evening—isn’t part of some obligation or checklist.

He brought you here because he wanted to.

And that realization sits quietly between you, more intimate than candlelight.

“What did you study?” Zayne asks, his tone casual but deliberate.

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your water glass—not because the question itself is startling, but because he asked it. He, who rarely volunteers anything beyond necessity, is choosing to ask you something personal. Choosing to know you.

And that… that makes your chest feel oddly warm.

“Uhm,” you say, blinking out of your surprise. “I majored in Economics.”

He nods, his gaze steady. “I assume it’s to help your parents, then?”

You smile faintly, setting your glass down. “Yeah. I mean, I was never really pushed into it, but it felt like the logical thing to do. Legacy and all that.”

He hums, clearly understanding. “Pressure has a way of wearing itself like a choice.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “That was poetic.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true.”

And you find yourself smiling—not the awkward, forced kind you used to wear around him, but a quiet, genuine one.

“Did you always want to be a surgeon?” you ask in return.

He considers for a moment, then says, “No. I wanted to be an architect when I was younger.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I liked building things,” he says, eyes flicking to you with a faint glimmer of amusement. “But life had other plans.”

And just like that, you realize you’re not dining with a stranger anymore.

You’re slowly, carefully, getting to know your husband.

You narrow your eyes at him, lips twitching as you lean back in your chair. “You wouldn’t have made a good architect,” you say, your tone teasing.

Zayne glances up from his plate, one brow arching in mock offense. “Oh? And why’s that?”

You shrug, swirling your water like it’s a wine glass. “Too serious. You’d probably design buildings with no windows. Just perfectly symmetrical, intimidating concrete blocks where joy goes to die.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I happen to like symmetry.”

“Exactly,” you grin. “You’d build dystopian fortresses and call them modern masterpieces.”

He leans forward slightly, voice lower, a touch playful. “And what would you build? Something inefficient with fairy lights and personality?”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “Yes. And they’d be beloved.”

Zayne smiles, really smiles this time—and for a second, you forget the marriage was arranged. Because god damn, he looks good when he smiles.

—•

Zayne drives you home after dinner, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between you. The city lights blur softly past the windows, and you catch yourself smiling—again.

Not because of the food.

Not because of the warm, candlelit atmosphere.

But because he smiled at you.

Not a smirk, not a polite twitch of the lips—an actual, honest-to-goodness smile.

And it was for you.

You lean your head against the window, trying to play it cool, but your heart’s doing backflips like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.

Who knew one smile from a broody cardiac surgeon could make you feel like you were in a coming-of-age movie?

When he pulls up to the house and parks, he doesn’t rush out or unbuckle your seatbelt like earlier. He just sits for a moment, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, glancing at you through the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” you say softly, turning to him. “For dinner. And… for today.”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “You’re welcome.”

You linger a second longer than necessary, then reach for the door handle.

But before you can step out, he adds quietly, “I’m glad you came.”

Your breath catches, but you manage a soft smile.

“Me too.”

And as you walk up to the front door together, side by side, you realize something strange and terrifying and kind of wonderful:

You might actually be starting to like your husband.

—•

You’re halfway through your bedtime routine—hair tied up, comfy shirt on, emotionally bracing yourself for your nightly existential crisis—when you hear his voice from the living room.

“Y/N. Come sit with me.”

You freeze in the hallway like a startled cat.

Your brain short-circuits.

Come sit with me.

On the couch.

In the living room.

You peek around the corner, and there he is—Zayne, in his neatly rolled-up sleeves, glasses off, looking painfully relaxed and devastatingly unfair with one arm resting along the back of the couch like this is some indie romance movie and not your actual, real-life arranged marriage.

You fight the very real urge to scream.

Because—hello?? Attractive, emotionally reserved doctor asking you to sit beside him in dim lighting?

No. Absolutely not. Husband or not, this is a threat to your mental health and emotional stability.

Still, your feet move traitorously toward him.

You sit at the very edge of the couch, posture stiff, like you’re preparing to be interviewed, not casually sitting with your husband.

He glances at you, amused. “You look tense.”

“I am tense,” you mutter, clutching a throw pillow like it’s a life raft. “This feels like a trap.”

Zayne chuckles under his breath, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “You’re overthinking.”

“You’re underthinking. Have you seen yourself right now?”

He doesn’t answer—just reaches for the remote and switches on a movie.

And you sit there, slowly melting into the couch, wildly aware of how close he is, and wondering how on earth you’re supposed to survive a husband who smiles at you one moment and invites you to sit with him the next like it’s nothing.

It is very much something.

You shoot up from the couch like you’ve just remembered you left the stove on. “I’m gonna go… look for snacks,” you say, your voice a touch too high-pitched to be innocent.

Zayne turns his head slightly, probably about to say something—maybe to offer help or point out where the cookies are—but you don’t wait. You flee the room with the grace and urgency of someone definitely not running from their feelings.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you disappear down the hallway, you swear you see it.

A smirk.

That little—

Nope. You’re not thinking about that. You are not spiraling over one stupid, stupid smirk.

You fling open the pantry door with more drama than necessary and scan the shelves like a raccoon on a mission. And then… there it is.

A not-so-suspicious box of chocolate. Sitting there. Unlabeled. Untouched. Almost like it was waiting for you.

Naturally, the logical thing to do is take it.

You snatch it like a gremlin, muttering to yourself, “If this is his secret stash, he shouldn’t have left it where I could find it.”

Because if you’re going to emotionally unravel over a handsome surgeon who asks you to sit with him, you might as well do it with sugar.

You shuffle back into the living room, trying not to look suspicious even though you’re literally holding the loot in both hands.

Zayne glances at the box, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

Without a word, you plop down next to him again—this time slightly closer, because apparently you’re a danger to yourself—and open the lid. You pick one out, hesitate, then hold it out to him.

He looks at it, then at you.

And takes it.

Just like that—without hesitation, without question—like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to offer him something sweet and for him to accept it.

He pops it in his mouth, casual, like he didn’t just cause your heart to skip a full beat.

You stare at him. “You didn’t even ask what it was.”

He shrugs. “I trust your judgment.”

Great. Now you’re emotionally compromised and flustered.

You quickly shove a chocolate into your own mouth before you say something like “Why are you so attractive when you chew?”

This marriage is going to ruin you.

As the chocolate melts on your tongue, rich and smooth, you frown slightly. There’s something… extra about the flavor. A little too warm. A little too bold.

You squint at the box, lifting it closer to inspect the label. The fancy script mocks you as your eyes land on the fine print.

“Hey, these are infused with—”

You stop mid-sentence, turning to Zayne.

He’s flushed.

Not dramatically—but enough. His ears are a little pink, the tips of his cheeks tinged with color, and he suddenly seems very interested in the pattern on the coffee table.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, holding up the box like a smoking gun. “They’re infused with wine.”

He clears his throat. “Just a little.”

“Zayne.”

“I forgot,” he mutters, and now he won’t meet your eyes.

You blink at him, then at the chocolate, then back at him.

And then you burst into laughter.

“Are you—are you buzzed from one piece of wine chocolate?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real heat. “I’m not buzzed.”

“You’re flushed.”

“I run warm.”

You clutch your stomach, giggling. “Oh, this is so going in the mental scrapbook.”

He shakes his head, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

And suddenly, the couch doesn’t feel so intimidating. The air between you is warm—not from the chocolate or the wine, but from the quiet, ridiculous comfort of two strangers slowly, awkwardly becoming something more.

But fate, in all its twisted sense of humor, decided to laugh directly in your face.

Because as it turns out, Zayne does not do well with alcohol.

At all.

One wine-infused chocolate later, and he’s leaning back into the couch, flushed like he’s been running laps, and visibly warmer—literally and metaphorically.

You glance over just in time to see him tug at the top button of his shirt.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Your brain short-circuits.

You grip the edge of the sofa like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Do not scream. Do not make a sound. You are strong. You are composed. You are—

He exhales, fingers working at the last button near his collarbone, exposing smooth skin and that maddeningly perfect line of his throat.

“I feel… warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You don’t respond. Because you can’t.

You’re too busy having an internal meltdown.

This is not a movie. This is real life.

Real life where your emotionally-reserved, wine-chocolate-flushed husband is currently undoing his shirt on your shared couch like he doesn’t know what it’s doing to your sanity.

You bite your tongue and stare straight ahead.

This marriage is a trap.

This couch is cursed.

And Zayne, evidently, is dangerous in more ways than one.

You try—truly try—to focus on the TV.

You fixate on the screen like it holds the meaning of life, repeating in your head. Not looking. Not thinking. Muscles aren’t real. Buttons are lies. Stay strong.

But then—

You feel it.

A hand around your wrist. Warm. Firm.

You barely have time to register it before you’re turned toward him—face-to-face with all of him.

Half-unbuttoned shirt. Lean muscles. Broad chest. Collarbone on full display like it paid rent to be there. His eyes, slightly glazed but locked onto yours with an intensity that could melt furniture.

Your breath hitches. “Z-Zayne!”

Your voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched. Like a cartoon character caught in a romantic ambush.

His hand doesn’t let go.

Neither does his gaze.

“You’re really red,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, as if you’re the one being strange in this situation.

“I’m red?!” you squeak, trying very hard not to look down. Or up. Or anywhere.

He leans just the tiniest bit closer, and his voice drops, slow and low. “Are you feeling warm too?”

You make a noise. Not a word. Just a sound. Because your brain has left the building and taken all coherent thought with it.

This couch is no longer a piece of furniture.

It’s a battlefield.

His grip on your wrist softens, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb brushes lightly—absently—against your skin as he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your entire existence.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he slurs softly, “You’re really… pretty… you know that?”

Your soul momentarily evacuates your body.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

“You are,” he says, a little slower, a little sleepier, his words curling lazily like they’re wrapped in velvet. “Your face is nice. Your eyes do this… sparkle thing. Like the stars. But not, cliché stars. Like… classy stars.”

You open your mouth to reply, but absolutely nothing intelligent comes out.

Because here is your emotionally closed-off husband—tipsy from a single chocolate, shirt halfway undone, staring at you like you hung the moon and casually comparing your eyes to classy stars.

This has officially become too much.

You grab the throw pillow beside you and bury your face in it with a muffled, “Zayne, you’re drunk.”

He hums, leaning back slightly, satisfied like he’s just confessed something profound.

“I’m married to a pretty girl,” he mumbles, like it’s the best realization he’s had all day.

And you? You are one slurred compliment away from combusting.

You reach out without thinking, hand aiming straight for his cheek—half to ground yourself, half because you want to see if he’s real and not just a hallucination brought on by wine chocolate and emotional confusion.

But before your fingers make contact, he catches your wrist again.

Gently. Firmly.

And then—he tugs.

You let out a surprised gasp as you stumble forward, barely catching yourself with your free hand against his chest. He’s solid. Warm. Way too warm.

Your heart skips, then trips, then sprints like it’s running late for something.

You barely have time to react before he looks up at you—eyes soft, dazed, and entirely sincere—and asks:

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s not breathy or desperate. Not bold or teasing.

He says it like a gentleman asking for a dance. Like he’s asking your permission to step into something delicate. Something real.

Your breath catches. The world stills. The TV hums in the background, forgotten.

You’re close enough to see the way his lashes rest against flushed skin, close enough to feel his breath brush against your lips.

And now, you have a choice to make.

Because despite the chaos, the circumstance, the wine-infused madness of it all—Zayne just asked you so politely to kiss you.

And god help you…

You kind of want him to.

You open your mouth to reply—maybe to say yes, maybe to question your sanity—but the words never make it out.

Because his lips are already on yours.

Gentle. Soft. Careful, like he’s still half-expecting you to pull away. Like he knows he’s toeing a fragile line and doesn’t want to break it.

Your eyes flutter shut as instinct takes over, and the world tilts slightly.

You can barely taste the chocolate on his lips, a hint of sweetness tangled with something warmer, something that makes your heart thrum unevenly in your chest.

Your mind goes fuzzy. Not from the kiss itself, but from the feeling that comes with it—the quiet kind. The kind that settles in your chest like a secret you hadn’t realized you were keeping.

He doesn’t rush it.

His hand stays on your wrist, thumb brushing softly along your skin, as if even now he’s asking—Is this okay? Are you sure?

And you are.

Somewhere between wine-infused chocolates, teasing banter, and the way he said Can I kiss you? like it meant everything—you became sure.

And so you kiss him back.

Somehow—somehow—you’re still suspended there, caught in that precarious space between balance and disaster, one hand on his chest, the other still held by his.

And then his hands slide to your waist.

Slow. Sure. Steady.

He holds you like he’s anchoring you—like if he let go, you might float away.

And that’s when the kiss deepens.

No more polite hesitation, no more softness at the edges. It’s still gentle, yes—but there’s more now. More pressure. More heat. More intention.

Your fingers curl against his shirt, and it takes every last ounce of self-control not to start undoing the buttons he didn’t already conquer earlier. Because God, you can feel the strength in him—lean muscle under your palm, warmth radiating like it was meant for you, and he’s kissing you like he’s waited a long time to do it.

You gasp softly against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like a secret.

Your mind is a whirlwind. Logic? Gone. Restraint? Dangling by a thread.

You are this close to losing all common sense and just undressing him right here on the couch like your sanity isn’t hanging on by a single, wine-infused thread.

But then he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

And he whispers, barely audible, “You taste sweet.”

You’re going to combust.

This man is going to ruin you.

The world blurs at the edges, warm and hazy like honeyed sunlight through half-closed curtains. His breath still ghosts against your lips, his hands still resting on your waist like they belong there, like you belong there.

You feel weightless. Drunk, not on wine or chocolate, but on him—the warmth of his skin, the way he kissed you like it was something sacred, the way he looked at you like you were something more than a stranger handed to him by fate.

Everything is soft. Glowing. Surreal.

Too perfect.

And then—

Blink.

The warmth fades. The light shifts.

You’re no longer on the couch.

You’re standing, stiff, in a room full of flowers and polished silence, your fingers cold at your sides.

Zayne stands across from you, buttoned-up, composed, unreadable. No wine in his system. No flushed cheeks. No trace of that kiss.

Just a man you’ve never met.

And the moment of your arranged introduction.

Your breath catches, and for a second, you don’t know what’s real.

But you do know one thing.

Whatever just happened—dream, vision, or cruel trick of the mind—it’s already begun.

[glitterjay]

SYNOPSIS: jake's mind and imagination make him think of a new approach to have sex. after all, experimenting is fun.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: had this idea while i was... yk... and then i couldn't stop thinking about it so here you go! extra point to whoever remembers this old blog 🤧

WARNINGS: use of a vibrator, insertion, unprotected sex, getting caught masturbating (fem), top!jake, pet names, mention of period, minors dni

you were having the time of your life. jake had gone out with his friends, and you took this as an opportunity to play with yourself and give your pussy a little treat.

you were ovulating, which was a sign of your period nearing, and this made your hormones go absolutely crazy. luckly enough, you had a vibrator that jake had gifted you a while back when he went to a family vacation.

he said it was to help you feel less lonely, but you were not allowed to feel better than how he makes you feel with his cock.

you werent sure at what time jake would be back, and you didnt care if you were being honest. the pleasure from that tiny toy was enough to have you seeing stars and arching your back. your eyes were rolled all the way to the back of your head, so you weren't aware of jake standing by the door with his mouth wide open.

the little light on his head dinged when he saw you were using the vibrator he had gifted you, and he made his presence known by clearing his throat.

"shit, jake! you scared the crap out of me."

"looked like you were having a good time, but i didn't like how i wasn't the one making you moan like that."

"well, move it then."

jake lost no time and got rid of the sweat he had changed into when he walked into the house, and jumped in bed with you.

"i have an idea," he said. this made you excited, as jake always had crazy ideas and experiments when it came to being in bed.

"sit on top of me, but dont move, mkay?"

you nodded and followed his instructions, making yourself comfortable on top of his crotch. he introduced his dick in you, but neither of you moved per his request.

"that a girl," he praised. jake grabbed the vibrator you had left behind next to him, and turend it on to the highest setting.

"what are you doing?" you asked. "you'll see," he replied.

he placed the vibrato on the base of his cock, and groaned when he felt the sensation run across his entire shaft. you, on the other hand, clenched around him because you were also able to hear the vibrations.

"see, princess? now we have a way to feel good when neither of us feels like doing too much.

© glitterjay | tumblr

[oceantornadoo]

the ex-wife chronicles pt.5 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

masterlist | next

follow and turn on notifications: @tornadoowarning

tw: gruff john who is a lil dub con, unedited

When John wakes up, there’s no hat on his desk. Nor on his bed table or his actual head, which has happened once or twice. Whiskey swirls in his stomach, the feeling that something is missing.

His clock blinks red, 0800 staring back at him. The latest he’s slept in in a while, the years too long to keep track of. There’s a check in with Laswell later, some necessary stretching after last night, but there’s no therapy plans for Saturday. You gave them the weekend of.

And of course, all thoughts lead to you.

The scent of your conditioner in his nose, a new scent he’s never smelled. The weight of your body in his laps, different from years past but comforting all the same. What hasn’t changed, though, are the whines you make when you come. The desperate fucked out look of your blown pupils, brought to the edge by just his thigh, clothes still on. Soft lips and softer whimpers, putty in his hands. He wonders if you’ve found anyone else in these ten years that feels like him (he certainly hasn’t). His last hookup, ages ago, and all the ones before it were plagued with memories of you. He thinks about the bullshit you spewed about fucking on your period, warning that you’d created a soul tie when he sunk his cock into your wet, bloody heat. It all stirs up a barrage of memories, floating like Polaroids through his mind.

Getting drunk at a Sergeant’s wedding, the both of you scrambling to keep the other silent as drunk laughter escaped your mouths.

Introducing him to your family, your tiny nieces running around his feet, making him think of future miniatures with your eyes and his hair.

The night he cried in your arms after his first death of an innocent, his Captain’s words of ‘collateral’ echoing from every corner.

The fights. About your purpose in the military, two perspectives on how far the two of you should take the rule of law. Getting on each other’s nerves and only solving arguments with sex, disagreements simmering below the surface even as you laid in each other’s arms.

No matter how you made him feel, whatever emotion heated the surface of his skin, no one else has made him feel that level of exposed since.

And that’s something he wants back.

You.

The pair of you are older now, wiser. Content with your respective fields, no longer competing in roles you hated. Right person, wrong time. He’s tired of meaningless hookup and jaw-aching loneliness and shouldering the burden of life alone. You being here must be a cosmic intervention, Laswell repairing a wound he didn’t know he had. Your body is clearly willing to go along, so now it’s a matter of convincing your mind. 

Someone knocks sharply on his door, and he grins to himself.

-

When John opens the door, shirtless, you have to contain yourself. He’s bigger and broader in every way, those faint chest hairs you once knew grown to a bear-like pelt. Various scars and scratches decorate his torso, a mark of his dedication to his duties. He braces the doorframe with his arms at the top of the door, a subtle flex of his biceps which may or may not be purposeful. His beard looks a little overgrown, rugged, and best of all, he’s not wearing a hat.

Probably due to the fact that his hat is in your hands.

“Mornin’, Doc.” He grumbles, half-smiling under the weight of sleep in his eyes. You steel yourself to remain professional, to not remember how his beard feels against your cheek. “I have your hat.” You spit out stupidly. Pushing it towards him, you present it like a bag of trash and not his treasured accessory. “Keep it. Looks good on you.” That sends you sputtering, shaking your head and pressing the hat towards him until it hits his chest. “Last night didn’t happen. We were drunk. Take the hat, John.” You plead. Instead of answering, he leans forward until your fingers, wrapped around the khaki fabric of the hat, brush his skin. They twitch as you restrain yourself from exploring. 

“‘M not hungover, so couldn’t have been drunk. An’ I remember everything, pet.” He murmurs, words rolling off his tongue sweetly. You try to back away, but one of his hands shoots out to to clutch at your wrists, pulling you across the barrier of his door. “John, that can’t happen again. It’s not professional.” You reason, unsuccessfully. He squeezes your wrists together until the hat drops, freeing your hands to be pressed against his pecs. Against reason, your fingers sink into his chest hair. John bends until his mouth is at your jaw, close to your ear. “Reckon we were together ‘fore this. Chicken versus egg, huh, sweetheart?” He presses a kiss to your jaw to emphasize his point. It sends a shiver down your spine, sending you further into his hold as your feet stumble. He hums in approval, a low baritone warm as honey. 

“We’re not together now, John. And I don’t remember agreeing to this.” He kisses your throat as you speak, and despite your verbal protests, your body won’t let you move away. When John peels back, his eyes are dark and his lips look ravished (by you). “You were agreeable last night.” His beard pulls as he smiles condescendingly. It reminds you of the attitude you used to hate, that self-righteousness that would start every other argument. That memory gives you the strength to pull away, stepping back into the safety of the hallway. “I’ll see you Monday, Captain. Refer to the schedule for when and where to meet.” You say, speaking slowly so your words don’t waver. His brows furrow as his eyes flash in confusion. 

“Where are you going until then?” He asks, nearly a demand. You shrug nonchalantly, the picture of indifference. “Need to update Laswell, then meeting a friend in London.” False, you barely have friends since you move around so much. “It’ll be nice to visit the city. I haven’t been in a while.” You turn on your heel, walking down the hallway as his eyes burn into your retreating figure. You need space, away from this man who sucks up all the air in a room. And London is the perfect place to hide for a weekend. But first, your weekly check in with Laswell.

“Laswell.”

“Fuck you.” You spit out. She doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing. “So I don’t have to ask how the first week is going? I’m currently watching my wife sun tan, Doc, spit it out.” She says wryly. You roll your eyes and shut the door to your room, prepared to barrage her with angry words. “You knew our history. You helped me change my name back, Laswell! Why the hell am I here?” You ask. Laswell sighs, and in the background, a door shuts and the faint sounds of waves crashing fades. “You’re the best at what you do, Doc.” Even you won’t be goaded by your pride, but you allow yourself a small smile at her words.

“And?” You ask. Another sigh. “And the 141 is the best at what they do. An invaluable unit that isn’t afraid to do what needs to be done. My bosses and their bosses need them back to working capacity, even without Soap.” You collapse onto your bed, staring at the ceiling as you contemplate your words. “I can try my hardest, but I don’t think it will work out how you want it to. With Soap out, I don’t know what way Ghost is leaning.” You’ve seen how they look at each other. It’s the kind of love you used to want for yourself, before reality smacked you in the face. “That leaves John and Gaz. They can still be helped.” She replies smoothly. The mention of your ex-husband makes you all angry again.

“You still haven’t answered my question about John, Laswell. I know you have other doctors, even if I’m your favorite.” You say, a little gleefully. She doesn’t deny it. “I think my wife has infected me.” Laswell mutters. You can’t have heard her right. “What do you mean?” You ask, almost a whisper. “I know the constant moving has been tough, Doc.” She silences you with one sentence. How can you deny it? “And with what happened, I knew John would need someone to rely on. He already shoulders a lot.” She adds, summing up things that might’ve taken months of therapy for someone else to sniff out. 

“So what, you looked at your own marriage and thought you could bring us back together?” You question. Laswell has never been the type to compromise a mission with her personal life. “Laswell?” You ask when she doesn’t respond. “I might’ve mentioned a redacted version to the missus, and she did love you two together…” Laswell says eventually. You stutter in disbelief.

“You tried to matchmake us?!” You almost shriek, catching yourself at the last second. She sighs on the other end. “Call it two birds, one stone, Doc. I’ve got to go.” The line goes dead before you can respond.

Insanity.

-

After an hour long drive in a borrowed base vehicle, you find yourself in London. Specifically, outside your old flat that you shared with John. It’s run down now, grayed and beaten, and you try not to think about that in metaphoric terms. Instead, your feet start moving in the direction of your old favorite coffee shop. A few minutes later, you sigh in relief at the not-so familiar sight. A red roof, faded to maroon, hangs over a sign proclaiming Daisy’s Coffee. The door chimes happily when you enter, taking in the comforting aroma of pastries and caffeine. You order your usual and settle into a window seat, digging out a new book you packed. It’s easy to get lost in the inked words.

After a while, you feel eyes on you. They’ve been staring for a while, but you hype yourself up for confrontation before turning your head. “Excuse me, I- oh. Hi, Johnny.” Johnny grins back at you, sharp blue eyes lighting with contentment. “Doc! How was the rest of yer night?” He sits down into the cushy sofa next to you without invitation, leaning his cane against the coffee table. “It was fine. I think we got back an hour after you.” You almost ask how he got here, but the answer appears a second later. “‘Ere’s your tea, Johnny.” Ghost’s gloved hand impedes your vision, hand a takeout cup to Johnny before coming into view. He’s even more imposing off base, even in his uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. A black medical mask takes the place of his usual balaclava, allowing you to see his hair for the first time. Blonde. 

“Hi, Lieutenant.” He nods in acknowledgement, sitting down next to Johnny. The velvet blue couch creaks under his weight, before piping down as he settles in. “Big reader, Doc?” Johnny nods to the book in your hands. Your hands curl around it protectively, expecting to be made the butt of a joke. It’s always something about being the only nerd in the military, or keeping your head in the clouds. “Yes.” You almost whisper defensively. Johnny doesn’t smirk at you like you expected, simply smiling. “Cannae read too much now, books give me a right headache.” He replies. Oh. You relax instantly, shifting your position so you’re facing him all the way. “Have you tried audiobooks? I can recommend some good ones.” You’re already whipping out a note from your bag and scribbling down your favorite stories. When you offer it to him, his hand trembles slightly. It reminds you of the hobbies in his file, how he likes to draw. Your heart pangs with the thought of him not being able to continue, marking down a mental note to sign him up for an introductory art therapy class.

They let you get back to your reading, content to converse or simply people watch as you get absorbed in the story. Later on, Johnny excuses himself to the bathroom. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Ghost ask if he needs him. Johnny snips a decided no, and walks off to the bathroom frustratedly, leaning on his cane. “Are you noticing mood swings?” You ask Ghost when he turns back to you, eyes glaring at the ground. “Thought you were off the clock, Doc.” He shoots back, ignoring your question. Different tactic, then. “I know that it can be a lot to handle when you’re suddenly put in a caretaker role. If you want to talk, Lieutenant, I’m here.” It’s barely audible, but you can hear Ghost sigh. “I’ll think about it.” He says eventually. You count that as a win. Well, until-

“No hat today?”

Ugh.

You shake your head in prim, tight movements. Last night, all you did was nod at Ghost and practically run to your room. You were hoping he wouldn’t bring it up, but the universe likes to inflict the most amount of pain possible on you in one day. “It wasn’t my style.” You respond. He hums neutrally. “You tried it on before?” Master interrogator, this one. “That’s none of your business.” You bark out before you can contain yourself. 

Fuck, he’s won.

“My captain, my business.” Ghost grumbles. You sigh, defeated. “Yes, okay? Years ago.” You catch his eyes looking at your left hand and almost flinch. There’s no way he knows. Kate made sure to bury it, but with the reputation Ghost has, one can never be too sure. “More than jus’ a hat.” He nods to your hand. Your heart thumps wildly, almost bursting out of your chest. This is where he calls you a slut, a chest candy chaser, only getting married to use Price’s name to your advantage. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His eyebrows, fair and blunt, rise slightly when you don’t disagree. It’s just you two, staring at each other, when Johnny appears out of nowhere, a bag of scones in his hand. The tantalizing smell of blueberry and lemon wafts out, and your stomach grumbles with the knowledge you skipped breakfast in an attempt to escape John.

“‘Ere ya go, hen. Ma stomach’s not as big these days.” Johnny thrusts the bag into your lap, catching onto the stark tension in the air. “Somethin’ ah said?” You and Ghost shake your heads at the same time and the tension breaks. Johnny’s good at that, you’ve realized - putting people at ease. Another question for how the team will survive without him.

“I appreciate the scones, Johnny. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to eat five and get lost in my book.” You shuffle your sitting position so you’re not in Ghost’s direct sightline. Shaking off your nerves, you settle back in and ignore his all-seeing gaze.

-

Hours later, after they bid you goodbye, your old favorite pub calls your name. When you arrive, you order your usual and sink into a squeaky barstool, indulging in the pile of fries before you. Gravy pools into fried goodness, and all it does is remind you of cheese curds and calloused fingers in your mouth. 

“Excuse me, little lady.” Head swiveling slowly to your right, you find the origin of a slimy voice in the man sitting next to you. His hair used to be blonde, but it’s been tarnished into a grimy sort of copper. The cleanshaveness of his jaw offends you for some reason, so dissimilar to the gruff beard you’ve become rapidly used to. And of course, there’s the term: little lady. Disgust slithers down your spine.

“Excuse me?” You respond, narrowing your eyes. Unfortunately, he grins like you’ve said a joke. “A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be all alone at this time of night.” He teases. “It’s 7pm.” You object. He shrugs, running a hand through his oily hair. “No boyfriend to pay for your dinner?” He questions. You snort, disbelieving. “I can pay for my own dinner, thank you.” He leans forward and you instinctively straighten your spine in anticipation of a fight. Military instincts never leave, even if you haven’t properly fought in years.

“Then why don’t I pay you for something else?” His eyes gleam at the insinuation. You sputter in disbelief. No way you’re getting propositioned by such a foul creature. His eyes sweep up and down, leaving you feeling dirty and used. “And how ab-”

“Hi, baby.”

A hefty hand clamps down on the juncture between your shoulder and jaw, a thumb pressing into the side of your neck. His smell hits you a second later, pine and musk and cigars, wrapping around you like a soft blanket. Instinctively, you lean back until your head hits solid torso, his hand tightening around you. 

“We got a problem?”

When you look up, John’s glaring at the stranger with murder in his eyes. His hand moves farther down to nearly wrap around your throat, and somehow the familiarity of it sends your lashes fluttering in contentment. Raw and gooey warmth drips down your body, spine relaxing at his touch.

“I was just-”

“Harassing my wife?” A shudder runs through you at his words. Out of the corner of your eye, the stranger slinks back into himself, understanding the gravity of his situation. You can tell the moment he clocks John’s fatigues, the disciplinary tone in his voice. “She was eating alone and I just thought…” He trails off, wisely protecting himself from saying something worse. “A man can’t be late to dinner once and a while?” He retorts. A giggle escapes your throat before you can stop it. John squeezes you and it’s like a drug. “I’ll- I’m-” The man slips off his stool, exiting the pub before John can force him into an apology. 

Your ex-husband takes his place and all of the air is sucked out of the room as he stares at you.

“You found me.” You point out dumbly. He takes a fry and chews it slowly, swallowing before answering. “Simon told me.” He reveals. The chair squeaks as he turns to face you instead of the bar. A forceful hand turns you as well until your thigh slots between his like a puzzle piece. “I had it handled, you know.” You grumble, forcing yourself to sound grumpy. All John does is eat a few more fries while he stares, unbelieving. “You were a few seconds away from slappin’ him, sweetheart. Didn’t want ya to get thrown out ‘fore you could finish your meal.” You grin at his words. “So considerate of my eating habits, John. You sure you didn’t have an ulterior motive?” He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “It’s not ulterior. You an’ I both know my motives.” He states like they’re set in stone.

“Don’t think I do, John.” Except, you do. John’s never been a casual man, and that certainly hasn’t changed with age. If anything, he’s more possessive than he was years ago. It’s become swiftly clear to you that last night wasn’t just one and done. “You’ll figure it out”, he replies. You immediately drop his gaze, staring at the food in front of you instead of the man next to you.

“You called me your wife.” You protest. The two thighs surrounding your own squeeze, hard. “Your point?” Words catch in your throat. Protests of the very real divorce papers filed somewhere, the facts that you have no idea who the other person is anymore. They turn to cotton in your mouth, cutting off any chance of escape.

“Go’on an’ eat your food, pet. Got somethin’ for you when we get back home.”

Home.

You eat.

-

one more chap left! this whole story does take place in two weeks bc i fear that's how long it would take me to give in to john LMAO and this is x reader sooo

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Lights, Camera, Colombia

💫  Chapter One 💫 

Summary: Ten years after he quit the DEA Javi gets approached by a production company, asking if he would like to be involved in the production of a documentary about Pablo Escobar and the drug war. When he agrees, he meets you, one of the producers of the documentary and the woman who he will spend the next months working with on the documentary and travel back to Colombia, the woman who will get to know about the side of him that he never wants anyone to see, the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

Chapter Summary: Javi and you finally meet when you pick him up at the airport in Colombia and you get to know each other. And oh boy you just know the next couple of weeks are gonna be trouble....

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem. reader

Wordcount: 7.4k

Rating: T (for some flirting)

Warnings: angst, fluff, a look into Javi’s head, Javi's anxiety, food mentions, flirting so much flirting

A/N: I am so excited to finally get the first full chapter out! I tried to do as much research as possible but we all know this is fictional so just roll with it lol

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Full Masterlist // Javier Peña Masterlist // Lights, Camera, Colombia Masterlist

Flying was not something Javier particularly enjoyed. 

It wasn’t even the flying part about it, but all the rest. And most of it, the waiting. He hated to sit around and just do…. Nothing. Hell, he even brought a book with him that he attempted to read on the layover in Houston. Instead he went to the bar to have a beer.

He had been okay in the planing of this trip to Colombia. He had checked in with you, made a couple of suggestions, even though what you had planned out was already close to perfect. 

The two of you had talked quite a lot through email and through phone to get to know each other a little before spending so much time one on one. 

He knew a little about your family and that you had been working with TC production for a little over five years now. The last documentary you had worked on had won a couple of awards and after finding out about that Javier had asked you to send a copy of it to him so he could watch it. 

And you did. 

It was a documentary about how the drug war affected the whole of the United States.

And Javi had loved the way it was put together. He could only hope that this one would be just as good. 

He knew that you already had been in Colombia for the last couple of days to prepare. It was quite the schedule you worked out, but you always left enough time to relax for a day or two before moving on to the next location to shoot. 

Only last week you had gotten the confirmation that you’d be able to shoot in what was left of La Cathedral, which apparently had been bought by a benedictine order to be turned into an actual cathedral with time. And you’d also be going to Hacienda Napoles. Something he found himself excited about, since he didn’t have the chance to go there back then. 

Yet overall what he felt about going back to Colombia was anxiety. 

In the week leading up to his flight even his nightmares returned. He had to schedule an extra appointment with Margery and she taught him some breathing exercises to calm himself down. Sure, he could have taken anxiety meds, but there were better times to start looking into that then when he was about to leave the country for six weeks. 

And so he took those breathing exercises and a big glass of whiskey instead of anxiety meds. A combination that would hopefully get him over the next couple of weeks. 

His CIA contact had informed him that he indeed was still on some kill lists in Colombia. But he was told not to be too concerned, the cartels had other issues to figure out at the moment. That, and he was traveling under a wrong name. 

Also set up by his CIA contact. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been a mess back then (well… he is still kind of a mess) things with Heather, the CIA contact, could have worked out. She was pretty, super intelligent and had a killer smile. They had met shortly after he came back from Colombia and had to get to one last DEA hearing where she was sitting in. 

It was a short but intense fling they had. And thankfully they parted ways as friends which was why he could reach out to her for a favour like this. 

She also took care of the gun permit for the journey for both him and you. 

„Flight 405 to Bogota, Colombia is now ready for boarding. Please proceed to your gate“

He took a deep breath before he emptied his glass of beer. Closing his eyes he counted down from ten as he took some deep breaths, before he grabbed his backpack and walked out of the airport bar and towards his gate. 

He gave the flight attendant a small smile, her cheeks flushing as she handed him back his boarding pass before he proceeded down towards the plane, pleasantly surprised that he would fly first class. 

Not that he had much from it. 

He was asleep before the plane was even up in the air. 

Maybe the next time you were considering a new project it should be somewhere more up north. Like…. Canada or…. The north pole. 

You had been in Colombia for four days and even though people around you were telling you that this weather was completely normal and actually quite cold for the season, you were sweating like crazy from the moment you got out of bed. The humidity was not something you were used to or fond of. 

You were more of a rainy day under a blanket type of girl.

Though you could admit that there were worse ways to spend a sunset than on a hotel balcony facing the ocean with a glass of white wine while only wearing your underwear. 

You had spend the day meeting up with the film crew who would already be busy tomorrow with scenery footage and interviewing some of the locals while you would go to the airport to pick up Javier. He had told you he could rent a car but you had waved him off, telling him that you had to get used to driving in this city anyway. 

If you were honest with yourself, you were excited to meet him. 

You had talked quite a lot in the last weeks and you got to know him a little. He had opened up a little about how Colombia had changed him and that while part of him was looking forward to see how the country changed, there was also the lingering anxiety about what had went down there all those years ago. 

You were pretty sure that only a fraction of the things that happened while they were working in Colombia had been made available to the rest of the world and you hoped that you would learn a little more. Sure, there would be things he could not talk about but the journalist in you wanted to at least try to get something new out of him. 

And, of course, you knew that he was an attractive man. 

Even if he aged very poorly, which you don’t think he did, you did see the ID of his DEA badge and ID that he sent to you via mail, he would still be just your type. 

Something you hoped would not disturb your work. 

Then again, a little flirting never hurt nobody, right?

But you were going to far ahead. You hadn’t even met in person yet and here you were already flirting with him in your mind. 

You sighed, watching the sun disappear into the ocean. 

In four days you would take him to the old search bloc building and after that to one of the drug labs that he had taken down that was now a restaurant. 

You had high hopes for the next weeks and you were excited to start working. 

His plane had touched down almost 45 minutes ago and you were growing a little anxious. You hoped that there were no issues with him traveling under a cover name or with his gun. 

You were pleasantly surprised that the permits had been dealt with so quickly. 

Just as surprised as when you learned that he was still on four kill lists from new cartels that had formed in the wake of Escobars death and the downfall of the Cali cartel. 

You hadn’t told Javier yet that depending on how good this documentary did, you might get the chance to do one on the Cali cartel too. 

But that was not something you were concerning yourself about now. 

There would be a time for that in the future. 

Now, you were excited and a little anxious  as you waited for Javier to walk out of baggage claim. 

And you didn’t have to wait for that much longer, the doors opening and there he was in the flesh. 

Carrying a big brown suitcase in his left hand, his eyes hidden behind some dark sunglasses as he walked out. Since he didn’t know what you looked like, it gave you some time to take him in. He was the definition of tall, dark and handsome and if you thought yesterday that he could become a problem, you were now downright fucked. 

There was the hint of grey in his otherwise dark brown temples, his moustache trimmed to perfection. Dark, full brown hair that looked perfectly messy, as if he walked right out of a photoshoot. His pants were tight, his baby blue dress shirt, the first couple buttons open and revelling his chest, tucked into his jeans, a leather jacket covering his broad shoulders. 

If he was only half as a flirt now as he was back when he was working here, things were going to be interesting in the next couple weeks. He came to a stop, taking his glasses of and let his gaze wander through the crowd, most likely trying to find you. 

You took a deep breath, suddenly not the humidity being at fault for making you sweaty. 

„Javier?“ You asked as you walked towards him, his head turning as he heard you, a small smile sneaking to his lips as he said your name. 

„Yeah, that’s me,“ you couldn’t help but grin, stopping when you were in front of him, holding your hand out for him to shake. 

He took it, his hand enveloping yours completely as he shook it and you gulped. 

„It’s so nice to finally meet you in person,“ you said.

Going through security was surprisingly easy considering he was traveling under a false name. They checked the documents, asked what he was doing here and how long he would be staying and if he had a ticket for his return flight. 

The long part was waiting for his suitcase. It gave him time to get to the restroom to pee and then throw some cold water into his face after he looked at himself in the mirror. 

He really was back in Colombia. 

Giving himself twenty seconds to freak out about it, he threw another hand of cold water into his face before he used a shitty paper towel to dry himself up. Walking out to the baggage carousel the suitcases were finally getting thrown out, yet it took another ten minutes for his to make an appearance. 

With his backpack over his shoulder and his suitcase in his hand he finally made his way out onto Colombian ground. The airport looked a little different from how it did the last time he was here. 

Apparently Starbucks had also finally made its way to Colombia. Something he found quite weird with how good the local coffee was. 

He was still wondering about that, when he took his sunglasses off to let his gaze wander over the people who were waiting. He never saw a picture of you so he had no idea what you looked like. 

Yet for some reason pretty came to his mind when he thought of you. Even though he only knew your voice. 

He heard his name being called from his left side and he turned his head just in time to see a woman approach him. 

You. 

He said your name and you smiled and fuck if he thought you were pretty, actually seeing you with his own eyes and seeing how pretty you were? Well, fuck. 

He took your hand, shaking it once, seeing your smile light up your whole face. 

„It’s so nice to finally meet you in person!“ You said and he nodded. 

„Likewise,“ he said, cringing internally. Likewise? Really Javier?

„Was your flight okay? I had the worst turbulences on my way here. Almost kissed the ground when I made it out of the plane,“ you joked and he smiled. 

„I slept all the way through. I think the realisation that this was really happening caught up with me there,“ he said, nervously rubbing his hand over his neck. 

„I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling. Only reading about everything that happened and knowing that you were there for almost everything? Unbelievable,“ you said in awe and he was sure he was blushing. 

„Yeah. The last time I’ve been to this airport I had just been fired,“ he snorted and you huffed a laugh, starring at him. 

„Are you ready to get to the hotel?“ You asked him and he found himself nodding. 

„Follow me,“ you said and turned around and Javier found himself falling into step next to you as you led him out of the airport. 

„The car rental gave me a super tiny car but I am supposed to get a new one tomorrow. So…. I hope you fit into the seat,“ you joked and he found himself grinning. 

„I am sure I’ll make it,“ he said, winking at you as you looked up at him. 

He caught himself looking over his shoulder, seizing up every person around him, looking for a potential threat. He felt his hands getting sweaty and he reached for his sunglasses, putting them back on his nose while he took a calming breath. 

For the first time in a long time he felt the need for a cigarette.

The humidity outside was like running against a wall as they made it out of the airport building. You slowed your steps, noticing Javier was looking around, his sunglasses back on his nose. 

„It looks different,“ he said after a moment, looking back at you. 

„Yeah?“ You asked and he nodded.

„Also feels fucking different,“ he chuckled a little uneasy, trying to work through his anxiety. It had been a long time since he felt like this. You gave him a small smile, fighting down the urge to take his hand or touch him, feeling like you wanted to comfort him. 

„We’re almost there. I hope you like the hotel. It just opened this year,“ you said as you stepped inside the car park, leaving Javier to feel like he could finally take a breather, a lot less people now around him. 

„I’m sure it will be fine. As long as I get a bed and a beer I am happy,“ he said, adding „I think I underestimated how being back here would have me on edge.“

You stopped walking and looked at him.

„If at any point it gets to much, please tell me. I know you said you’d be fine, but being back here must be a lot for you. I’d never judge you if you ask for a break or even stopping this whole thing. I don’t want this documentary and being back here to be a reason that you end up hurt in any way, okay?“ You asked. 

He took a deep breath after he listened to you, exhaling with a sigh. 

„I’ll be fine,“ he said and you narrowed your eyes and he found himself smiling. 

„I’ll tell you if anything gets too much, I promise,“ he added and your eyes softened, before you nodded and turned away from him to continue to lead him to the rental car. 

And if Javier found himself checking out how great your ass looked in the jeans shorts you were wearing? Well he had to get the thoughts in his head to focus on something else than being back in Colombia now, right?

The drive towards the hotel was quiet. 

Javier was busy looking around and noticing all the changes in the city and you were busy, well, driving. 

It’s not like you can’t drive. But with living in New York City you don’t get to do it much and definitely not with being yelled at in a language you understand but never felt really confident to speak. 

Javier on the other hand was surprised how much he recognised as you drove. Then again he did spend many years driving these streets. There was something different though. There were a lot more people out on the street. No buildings were damaged from gun holes or explosions. 

It seemed…. Happier. Brighter. 

„The hotel is actually on the ground where the old embassy building was,“ he heard you say and was reminded that he wasn’t alone. He had completely zoned out. 

He looked at you, seeing how you were gripping the steering wheel tightly, muscle tensed. There was sweat running down your temples even though the A/C of the car was running on full speed. 

He got the impression that driving was not your most favourite and he made a mental note to ask and offer to drive himself later on. 

„They relocated the embassy?“ He asked and you nodded, changing the lane, blinker set to drive to the right. 

„They didn’t need a big building like that anymore and they wanted higher security, so they moved to a new build building around twenty minutes from here,“ you explained, releasing a sigh of relief as you finally saw the hotel right at the end of the street. 

Javi on the other hand was impressed by the big building in front of him that had no resemblance to the office building he had spend countless hours chasing after cartels and making numerous, oftentimes questionable decisions. 

The whole area around where he used to spend his everyday life for years was completely transformed, nothing reminding him of the familiarity he felt walking these streets everyday. The café he used to get his coffee from was gone, replaced by a flower shop. The little empanada shop he used to get 80% of his dinners from gone, the whole building transformed into what looked like apartments. 

There were big trees lining up the street. 

If Javier didn’t know that he had been driving this street daily for two years he would never think this was the same place. 

You drove around the hotel and down the street until the car stopped in front of the entrance. You turned of the engine and let your head fall back against the headrest, closing your eyes as you released a long breath. 

„Not the biggest fan of driving?“ Javier asked softly. You shook your head. 

„Not the biggest fan of driving,“ you said, before you looked at him with an exhausted smile. 

„I’m sure you want to freshen up and relax. I made a reservation at the hotel restaurant for later today so we can talk through some of the things I have planned for this week. But we only start the day after tomorrow, so… there’s no rush, okay?“ You said and he nodded at you. 

„Great,“ you nodded back before you took a deep breath and got out of the car. Javier did the same, walking towards the trunk to retrieve his suitcase and backpack. Before that though, he took his leather jacket off, the heat outside being really unbearable. 

Was this the climate change bullshit he had read about? He didn’t remember it being that fucking hot in this country apart from the time he was forced to spend time with Stechner in the jungle. 

You on the other hand schooled your face into what hoped look like expressionless once he was out of his jacket. It definitely wasn’t the jacket that made him broader, it was just… him. 

You turned towards the hotel and the valet who thankfully would park the car for you before Javier could catch you starring. You were still mezermermised by the foyer of the hotel, a chandelier that was bigger as the car that you had just driven hanging over the desk, hundreds of lightbulbs artfully arranged. 

You smiled at the woman behind the desk, having talked to her for a while the day before to get some recommendations for restaurants and bars in the closer area. You more felt that saw Javier as he followed you, a shiver running up your spine, the hairs on your neck standing up. 

It was like you could feel his eyes on you and you fought the urge to turn around to confirm it for yourself. 

In broken Spanish you asked for the keys to yours and Javier’s room and she gave them to you with a kind smile. Turning around you indeed caught Javier starring at you, sunglasses back in his chest pocket, eyes snapping up from what you were sure was your ass as he looked at you. 

„You got the room next to mine. Both are facing towards the ocean more or less,“ you said, handing him the key to his room and he nodded. 

The elevator ride up to your floor was a quiet one, both of you in your thoughts, the ding of the elevator arriving making you jump. You glanced up at him, finding him already looking at him before he stepped out and walked down the floor, you following him. 

„I made the reservation for 7pm, is that okay?“ You asked. 

„Perfect. I hope they got some good tamales. Otherwise we have to check if the place Steve and I used to get ours is still there in the next days,“ he said and you smiled a little, nodding. 

„I would love that,“ you said, stopping front of your room. 

„I’ll see you later?“ You asked, Javier nodded. 

„If you need anything, just call or knock. I’ll be researching for another project, so I’ll be awake,“ you said, opening your hotel door and looking at him. 

He just nodded again, giving you a small smile as he walked past your room and towards his own. You took a step inside, letting your head rest against the door as you heard a click when his door closed. 

Yeah. 

You were in trouble now. 

Even though he had slept through the flight, the moment he got out of the shower in his hotel room he fell asleep again. And surprisingly he hadn’t dreamed of anything. It was just a blissful two hour long nap he woke up from once he got cold, having fallen asleep with just a towel around his hips. 

With a groan he turned on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

If he felt anxiety about being here when he first got here this morning, his feelings now where…. Different. He just didn’t know how exactly yet. 

Then again he didn’t know how he felt most days. Now only the added confusion about being back in a place that plagued his nightmares came on top of it. 

And then there was you. 

When he talked to you on the phone leading up to this stay in Colombia he felt himself more and more looking forward to talking to you. The phone calls to you being the highlight of his day. He found himself thinking about what you were doing through certain times in the day and he questioned if he could be attracted to someone he had never met before. 

But then today you had met and fuck if Javier thought he was in trouble on the phone with you, right now, knowing you were just on the other side of the wall of his hotel room was a whole different story. 

You were beautiful. 

In every single way possible and he had only spend an hour with you. Part of him was scared to find out what would happened once you spend every single day with each other, but there was also a part of him, a part he forgot existed, that was excited. 

Excited to get to experience this new version of Colombia with you. 

Excited to get to know you.

He took a look at the clock on his bedside table, realising it was later than he thought. And maybe he spent a little more time getting ready, before he made his way towards your room to pick you up for dinner. 

You on the other hand did everything but research the project you had planned. Almost immediately after you took your shower you had called your friend in the states who knew about the documentary and about how much you already had started to like Javier during your phone calls. 

But now?

Holy crap this would either be a very long and exhausting six weeks or this would be the best six weeks of your life. And you needed to let all these thoughts out before you were going out with Javier to dinner. 

No. Not going out. 

This was just a work dinner. 

A meeting. 

Going out sounded too much like a date, which it definitely wasn’t. 

Which is why you did not wear the little black dress that had somehow made its way into your suitcase. You chose the light green summer dress that made your ass look great instead. 

And if you spent more time on your make up and hair?

Well you were going out to a four star restaurant. That’s why you did it.

And you really didn’t do it for the look in Javier’s eyes as you opened the door, ready to join him for dinner. 

You sat outside in the lush parklike garden of the hotel, enjoying the last hues of the sun warming your skin. All the way from your hotel room, throughout the lobby and into the restaurant you could feel Javier’s warmth next to you. 

You didn’t know his hand had been hovering behind you all the way, 

Now you were sitting across from each other, both trying desperately not to ogle each other while waiting for the drinks you had ordered and reading through the menu. 

You had ordered a glass of white wine and Javier a glass of whiskey. 

„The menu sounds good,“ he said finally and you looked up at him, his eyes still reading the menu. 

„Yeah? I don’t think I ever had any of this except the salad,“ you said, pursing your lips. 

„Really?“ He asked and you nodded. 

„Even though I travel a lot for work I keep eating what I know like a true American tourist,“ you cringed and he chuckled. 

„I could order for you? I know my way around the local cuisine. Or at least I did,“ he offered and you set the menu down with a smile. 

„I would love that,“ you said, leaning back in your chair. He gave you a small smile before he continued to read through the menu. 

„Any allergies?“ he asked. 

„None that I know of,“ you said and he nodded. 

You used the time the waiter took to get your drinks to look around the beautiful property, your eyes seemingly always landing back on Javier as he still read through the menu. 

He had changed into a simple white polo shirt and some black jeans. You knew he must have showered, his aftershave filling the whole elevator cabin, making you positively dizzy. He smelled like he looked, sexy and a little dangerous. 

„You sure?“ He asked once the waiter brought your drinks and you just nodded, listening to him as he ordered for the both of you. 

Waiting until the waiter had everything written down and taken the menu’s back with him you reached for your glass of wine, bringing it up to smell it, closing your eyes. 

You may not know your way around food, but wine? Yeah. You knew enough. 

„Can’t believe what this place turned into,“ Javier said after a while and you looked at him as he looked around. 

„In my research I learned that the old building had so much asbestos in the basement, that the renovation would have cost more than just to tore it down. That’s probably why the hotel chain got the property pretty cheap. And the location is really great. I walked toward the presidential palace earlier this week, it was so close,“ you smiled, finally taking the first sip of your wine. 

„I had a lot of meetings in there,“ he sighed and you tilted your head in interest. 

„What if I said we’re going in there next week?“ You pursed your lips and he raised both eyebrows.

„Really?“ He asked and you nodded. 

„I haven’t told you yet but I do have some meet ups arranged throughout our time with people you have worked together. And from what I gathered from talking to them before hand you were all friendly with each other,“ you explained and he narrowed his eyes. 

„I didn’t make any friends here,“ he said slowly. 

„Now I know that that isn’t true. Steve Murphy and you seemed like friends,“ you said and he rolled his eyes, picking up his drink.

„He’s a fucking pain in my ass, that’s what he is,“ he snorted before he drank from his glass. 

You chuckled. 

„I bet the two of you were nothing but trouble working together. From what I gathered from our phone calls….“ 

„Honestly, and don’t tell him that. He was the best partner I could wish for out here. We went through a lot of shit out here. But he always had my back, even when I fucked up. And I really fucked up,“ he sighed.

„What did you do?“ You whispered and he looked at you, setting his glass down. 

„I’m afraid, that’s classified,“ he winked and you laughed. 

„Of course it is. I hope I can get some insider scoop out of your on our little journey through the drug history of this country,“ you said and he hummed, lips twitching into a grin. 

„Guess you have to find a way to get your inside scoop out of me,“ he winked. 

„Oh I have my ways, Agent Peña, don’t you worry,“ you winked back before you both laughed. 

„We’re gonna start with you showing me your favourite places, or what’s left of them,“ you explained after you had the best empanadas you ever tasted as a first course. Javier, or Javi as he told you repeatedly to call him, told you a little about the work he was doing now, working as a consultant for the DEA in San Antonio.

He also told you he kind of hated his job, but had been doing it all his life and didn’t really know what else he could be doing instead. 

„I’ve been working on movies all my life really,“ you said with a shrug after he asked how you got into your job. 

„Really?“ He asked with a grin, you nodded. 

„First movie I made was to blackmail my sister after I found her kissing Jimmy Miller in our garden when our mom was getting groceries,“ you said proudly and Javier laughed with a shake of his head. 

„Remind me to never get on your bad side,“ he chuckled.

„It was her fault really, she broke my favourite toy,“ you chuckled too. 

„God, sometimes I’m really glad I don’t have any terrorising little siblings,“ he sighs, still smiling. 

„None?“ You asked, and he shook his head. 

„I was a miracle baby more or less. Mama tried for a while to get pregnant and once the doctors said it was better to stop, boom, I happened. But she was already in her mid thirties which back then was… ancient to become a mother so both her and papa decided I was enough,“ he explained. 

„Well, you haven’t missed anything without siblings. They’re kind of annoying, honestly,“ you say. 

„You and your sister not on the best terms?“ He asked and you sighed. 

„I wouldn’t say we’re on bad terms but… she’s the poster child. She went to college, married her high school love and had a baby. And because of all of that she sometimes does this thing where she tries to  tell me how my life should be going. Because that’s what’s expected, right? You get married, you have the child, or children, and you life happily ever after while your husband brings home the money so you can have your picture perfect life, right?“

„If that makes someone happy, sure,“ Javi shrugged. 

„Exactly. If that makes someone happy, they should do it. But I am not like that. I love my job. And if I end up falling in love and having kids, that man would have to deal with that. Cause I can’t see myself quitting my job go become a housewife,“ 

„I think I could become a stay at home man,“ Javi mused and you were so stunned after your little rant you could do nothing but laugh, enjoying the way the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled at you. 

„What? Don’t I seem like the type to stay at home, take care of the house, maybe the kids? All of that of course only after I trick someone into marrying me,“ he joked and you smiled softly. 

„I think you’d make a great stay at home husband for a very lucky lady some day. Or man. Whatever you’re into,“ you added quickly and he laughed. 

„Woman. Just women,“ he clarified quickly and you raised one eyebrow. 

„Really?“ You asked and his eyes narrowed. 

„What’s that tone supposed to mean?“ He wanted to know and you just hummed. 

„Nothing… Just…. Surprising. I would have bet you’re into men too,“ you shrugged, and he pursed his lips, bringing one of his hands up, his fingers rubbing over his perfectly groomed moustache. 

„Are you?“ He asked.

„Into men? Oh yeah,“ you winked and he huffed a laugh before he shook his head. 

„Into women,“ he clarified. 

„I think so. Like, I’ve never been with one, but if I end up meeting a woman and fall in love with her? Who am I to run away from that?“ You asked and he hummed. 

The waiter came and took your empty dishes, informing you that the main course would be served in a couple of minutes. 

„Do you…. Do you have someone at home waiting for you?“ Javier asked and you couldn’t help but smile. 

„I do,“ you said seriously and you might have imagined it, but Javier’s face fell for a moment. 

„His name is King George and he’s currently staying with my best friend,“ you said, his face changing into confusion. 

„He’s my cat,“ you clarified and Javier released a breath he was holding in a chuckle. 

„So no. No one waiting for me at home Javi,“ you smiled, „What about you?“

„No,“ he shook his head, „I think I have some issues letting people in,“ he confessed, eyes widening as the words tumbled out of his mouth. 

„But that’s not something I should talk about with anyone else than my therapist or my fictional future wife with,“ he added and you smiled softly. 

„It’s okay. I have the same problem. When you’ve been on your own for so long, it’s hard to do this step of letting someone in. Not just in your head and heart. But in all your routines, your house, your life, your  family. It’s….. The person has to be worth it,“ you said and he nodded. 

„Yeah, It’s…. It’s sometimes easier being alone than opening up to someone only to get hurt in the long run, a sentence no one at home would believe I just said,“ he chuckled to himself, picking up his drink. 

„Well I get what you mean. I rather be happy alone, than miserable in a relationship. Though I have to admit there are some things I miss about it,“ you hummed, resting your arm on the table.

„Like what?“ Javi asks, interested.

You hummed. 

„I miss cooking for someone. Which sounds dumb, but cooking for yourself feels like a chore. If I get to do it for someone else? Well that’s something else entirely,“ you said and Javier smiled a little. 

„Yeah. I hate eating fucking microwave dinners on the couch by myself,“ he said and you chuckled. 

„Exactly. Like…. I am good most times, I am happy with how my life is. I just ask myself sometimes if there’s more? Like am I going to stay alone until the day I die or is someone out there who can handle my crazy ass?“ You asked and he hummed. 

„You don’t seem so crazy to me,“ he said with a small grin and you raised one of your eyebrows, challenging. 

„You’ve meet me what? Six hours ago? Give it time,“ you nodded with confidence. 

„I’ve known you for a couple of weeks and from what I know? I think you’re an intelligent woman that loves her job and is good at it. You’re funny and between us, you’re fucking sexy as hell,“ he said like it was the most obvious think while your eyes widened, warmth spreading over your cheeks. 

You were trying to come up with a response to his words when the waiter approached, serving the main courses. Javier winked at you and you suddenly felt so hot, you were sure he could see it. 

You took a deep breath, reaching for your glass of water to take some sips. 

„This looks good,“ you finally said, picking up your fork. 

„Yeah,“ Javi said, eyes still on you with a look you couldn’t quite place. 

„Shall we eat?“ You asked and he nodded before he picked up his fork too. 

You continued to talk all throughout your dinner, though you made an effort to talk more about the trip and less about your personal lives. You were not sure why, but you felt way to comfortable with Javi and opening up to him about your life. 

Not that this was bad, you just didn’t want to dump everything on him. This was a job and once this was finished you would most likely never see him again. You would move on to other projects while he moved on doing god knows what. 

Sighing you picked up you new drink, looking up into the by now dark night sky, Javier having left to look for the restroom some time ago. 

Why were you freaking out right now?

This was a dinner. Technically a dinner with a client. 

A very attractive client who kept looking at you with his big brown eyes that seemed to hold so much longing and hurt in them that you felt like you wanted to hug him and never let go of him. 

There was so much more to Javier Peña that you thought in the beginning. From interviewing people in preparation for the documentary the people seem to respect him for the work he had done and was still doing, but were judging him harshly for everything else he did. Be it how he got the work done or how he spent his private life. 

More than once you had heard the word manwhore when talking about him and frankly?

If you would look like him, you would be one too. 

„Penny for your thoughts,“ you jumped when you heard his voice behind you, a plate of what looked like cake in his hand that he set down in front of you. 

„What’s that?“ You chose to ignore his questions as he sat down across from you. 

„This is Postre de natas. It’s a kind of milk pudding and it’s maybe my most favourite dessert on this planet,“ he said and you nodded.

„Where is yours then?“ You picked up your spoon.

„It was the last one, you should have it," he said with a warm smile and you found yourself smiling back. 

„That’s… That’s very sweet Javi," you said softly before you brought the spoon to your lips, eyes widened when the sweetness exploded in your mouth. 

„Oh this is fucking delicious,“ you hummed happily, loving the was Javi’s eyes lit up as he smiled at you. You ate almost half of it, before you sat your spoon down and pushed the plate towards him. 

„You take the rest, or I will have a sugar shock that won’t let me sleep,“ you joked and he laughed quietly before he started to eat, a long moan escaping his lips as he tasted the first spoon. 

He closed his eyes in complete bliss while you schooled your whole demeanour to not react to how watching Javier eat his dessert felt like watching porn. 

He licked his lips, humming to himself, sighing at every taste. 

„I feel like I should give you two some privacy,“ you finally found the words to tease him and his eyes dropped open, looking at you before you saw his cheeks flush a little. 

„I would say I’m sorry, but I’m really not. This might be the closest I got to having sex in a long time,“ he said, chuckling and your eyes widened, before you laughed. 

„Guess I gotta find myself a desert that’s that good, huh?“ You joked and he licked his lips, having finished the dessert. 

„Or someone to have sex with,“ he shrugged and you rolled your eyes. 

"Like it’s that easy,“ you said and he pursed his lips, eyes playful.

„The guy at the bar has been eyefucking you all night,“ he said and you were about to turn your head to look when he stopped you. 

„Don’t look. He’s not worth your time,“ he said and you titled your head. 

„And how do you know that?“ You asked and he smirked. 

„Saw his dick in the bathroom, he was next to me. Trust me, he is not worth it,“ he said seriously and your lips parted in shock before you giggled. 

„Oh my god,“ you shook your head and he grinned. 

„This is the weirdest business dinner I’ve ever had in my life,“ you still laughed, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. 

„Well this has been the best dinner I’ve had since I can remember, so thank you for that,“ he said and your smile at him softened. 

The waiter approached, asking if you wanted to order anything else but you shook your head, much like Javi before you asked him to bill the dinner to your room. 

Both Javi and you emptied your drinks before you both decided it was time to head back to your rooms. 

You walked through the restaurant back towards the elevators, walking close by each other. You couldn’t help sucking your lip in to hide your laughter when you past the man Javi had talked about sitting at the bar, nodding at you with a grin. 

Even if he was attractive, all you could think about was what Javier had said about him and you had a hard time not bursting out in giggles all the way to the elevators. When you risked a glance at Javier he was grinning too and you both chuckled as the elevator door opened. He waited for you to step in, following you, standing beside you as you pressed the button to the floor. 

You didn’t know if it was seeing the guy, being so close to Javi or the three drinks you had but you found yourself asking „So if he’s not worth my time, how do you compare to him?“ 

You saw him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, before his tongue dared out to lick over his bottom lip. 

He was about to answer when the elevator doors opened, having reached your floor. This time he put his hand on your lower back as he led you out of the elevator, slowly walking up the hallway towards your room. 

You were already fiddling with your key when he stopped in front of your hotel room door. 

„I’e be definitely worth your time,“ he finally said and you looked up at him. 

„Yeah?“ You asked, voice just above a whisper. He nodded. 

„And not just because my dick is bigger than his,“ he said, before he slowly leaned down to kiss your forehead. Your eyes widened, processing his words as he reached for your room key, unlocking the door for you. 

„I’ll see you at breakfast?“ He asked and you dumbly nodded, before you slowly walked into your room. 

„Sweet dreams," he winked as he pulled your door closed and only then did you realise that you had held your breath. 

„I am in so much fucking trouble,“ you mumbled to yourself with disbelieving laugh, looking forward to what the next few weeks would bring. 

next chapter

Taglist (please send me an ask if you want to be added to the LCC Taglist, I only have a taglist for this series, not for all of my works)

@pasc4lfuzz// @kirsteng42 // @imdreaminghere // @greenwitchfromthewoods // @theorganasolo // @inept-the-magnificent // @maried01 // @nationallampoonlemmings // @sunnytuliptime// @desuidesu // @galway-girlatwork // @missladym1981 // @bergamote-catsandbooks

[dearestval]

𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 — ayato

notes: no specific gender, reader is implied to be part of inazuma nobility, mainly ayato's pot you get so much inner monologue here he really does think a lot, I don't really know how to end fics so if you have a complaint I don't want to hear it lol, also did I go back to edit and revise this? no don’t tell my students

happy birthday to my love, my dearest, ayato

Ayato likes to say that he’s above gossiping. That he doesn’t concern himself with any rumors swirling amongst the Inazuman nobility. After all, most of it is hearsay anyways— why indulge in it? He holds a bit of pride in himself knowing he would never fall victim to baseless rumors and doesn’t get swept away like the other nobles around him.

Of course, those closest to him don’t miss the way he seems to shift in his seat whenever he hears someone in his vicinity gossiping. He’s subtle about it too– but to the trained eye it's obvious how he slightly leans back in his chair to catch the latest chatter from the ladies sitting at the table behind him. Or how he’ll quietly thumb at the pages of a ledger to not attract attention to the two businessmen nearby as they discuss the recent hearsay. All to keep appearances up.

Which makes it all the more amusing for those around Ayato to witness him parading from person to person, asking what they know about this latest rumor that came to his attention.

Because this time, the rumors are about you. Specifically, that you are getting engaged to some noble. Ayato doesn’t have any more information about this– who this noble is, the circumstances of the engagement, or even if the engagement is true to begin with. All he knows is that your name is tied to it.

This is ridiculous, Ayato thinks to himself as he finally gives up the interrogations, retreating to his study to overthink things. As your friend, your best friend, he would have known if you were in a relationship, right? Of course, now that he thinks about it, the two of you have never seriously broached the topic of love or anything of that matter. So maybe there was cause for you to be privy on such a detail of your life. Or perhaps this was an arranged marriage type of engagement and was suddenly sprung upon you. There were still some families in Inazuma that still employed these practices, though he would have never guessed your family would be one of them. Still, as much as Ayato would love to deny it, it’s not entirely impossible for you to be engaged. And that’s clearly a problem– though Ayato isn’t exactly sure why.

Ayato slumps further into his chair, a sight unbecoming of someone of his status, but even he is human and can’t help it. The more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself confused by these swirling emotions inside him. Why would it even matter to him if you were engaged? You would probably still find the time to bother him any time you had a single thought like you always did. He doubts that you would cease to bother him to try out a new food vendor that you spotted while taking a stroll through Inazuma City. You would be the same person and do the same things. He was your best friend, and you were his. Nothing would change at all.

There's a pause in his mind for a moment as that thought lingered. The thought of nothing changing between the two of you causes him to feel unpleasant. Again, he’s not sure why. That should be a good thing. To always remain friends for the rest of your lives. Just friends. And nothing more.

Finally, his head catches up to his heart.

Ayato is hopelessly in love with you.

He manages to scramble up out of his slump as this revelation comes to light, his heart beating slightly faster now. 

It seems almost absurd to him that he’s only realizing now the extent his feelings go for you but in his defense, feelings can be hard to navigate. So he allows himself some leeway. He knows that he’s liked you for a long time now– but he can’t be sure when it shifted from platonic to romantic. He begins combing through his memories, searching for the one particular moment that would showcase when he started seeing you in a different light. But as he does so, he finds his cheeks getting warmer with each passing thought of you.

Ayato buries his face into his hands, a chuckle of disbelief slipping from his lips. Perhaps the answer is simpler than that. If he had to guess, you probably found your way into his heart from the very beginning.

The pieces in front of him start to make sense. How else could he have explained the way his brain would short-circuit for a moment whenever you walked into a room. He would nearly fumble his words when seeing you from the corner of his eye, no matter how important the person he was talking to was. Before his epiphany, Ayato would chalk that up to you being distracting. In reality, all you had done was enter his vision and he would find his thoughts scrambled.

The more Ayato thinks about his newfound feelings for you, the clearer things become for him. There’s a lot to love about you. On the surface, you’re the type of person that anyone could easily fall for. But there’s more to you for him. He’s known you since you were both children, and you’ve consistently stood by his side. When he took over as the head of his clan and it seemed like everything was stacked against his favor, you offered him unconditional support. In the eyes of Inazuma, he’s revered as either the Yashiro Commissioner or Head of the Kamisato Clan. Yet around you, he’s just Ayato. He can let his shoulders slump a bit, foregoing the perfect posture he was taught to have at all times.

To Ayato, it just made sense that the two of you would end up together. There’s no one that gets him more than you do and vice versa. Which is why hearing about your supposed engagement feels like a slap in the face to him. 

He honestly might start spiraling— but three brief knocks on his door snaps him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he calls out, grateful at the mere thought of a distraction from his turmoil.

But when you pop your head through the door, he can’t tell whether it’s a blessing or a curse. Ayato stands from his seat, welcoming you in as his eyes take in every detail of you. Now that Ayato’s become aware of how he feels for you, it feels like all of his senses are in overdrive.

“Hey, hope I’m not bothering you!” You skip into his study, and he has to hope to the Archons he doesn’t keel over from how cute he thinks you are. Fortunately, he manages to keep his cool and smiles back at you, acting as if there wasn’t a maelstrom going on in his head.

“Would it make a difference if I said you were?”

You could never be a bother to Ayato. Even if he had a mountain of paperwork to go through, he’d set his time aside just for you– which now that he thinks about it is another obvious sign that he’s liked you.

“I suppose it wouldn’t,” you hum as you find your way towards him.

Ayato wastes no time asking the question that’s been plaguing him today.

“So… should I be congratulating you right about now?” he asks, his gaze falling to your hands. With the way they were positioned, he can’t tell if there’s a ring on your finger or not.

“Hm? For what– OH,” you laugh, and as it reaches Ayato’s ears he smiles at how lovely it sounds to him. It’s one he’s heard millions of times but now he can’t help but think that even the birds would envy how melodic your laugh is.

“No no no,” you say, shaking your head, “those rumors are definitely not true. I mean, my family is looking to make some kind of partnership with another clan, but they’re doing so without the need of a marriage.”

A wave of relief washes over Ayato. It wasn’t true. Admittedly, he probably should have already assumed that from the start. But today he finds that any sort of rationality has escaped him. 

“Don’t tell me you actually fell for them,” you tease, your lips curling into a knowing smile.

Ayato scoffs at you, though deep down he knows he’s not fooling anyone, least of all you.

“Of course not, who do you take me for–”

“Oh my Archons,” your laughter fills the air once more, “you totally thought they were true, don’t lie!”

Because yes, who would have thought that Ayato, the very man who likes to say he’s above gossiping, would fall victim to baseless rumors.

But what would happen if the rumors were true? Would Ayato be able to put on a fake smile for you and keep his feelings at bay? He looks at you, now distracted by the view of camellias outside his study, and his gaze softens.

He calls out your name softly, and there’s a small part of him that wishes you don’t hear him.

You turn towards him, tilting your head ever so slightly as you look up at him. It makes his heart beat all the more faster. You’re not deliberately trying to look endearing in front of him, you just are. And it drives him crazy.

“What? Finally going to admit that you fell for the rumors?”

“Fine, fine,” Ayato relents, “Perhaps I was curious about the veracity of those rumors.”

Ayato really should keep his mouth shut like he always does. But his mouth moves faster than his brain can process it.

“And I’m incredibly glad they’re not.” His words are soft spoken, killing the previously lighthearted atmosphere that you brought in As the silence settles in the room, it’s clear the ambience has shifted.

He brings his hand up to softly caress your cheek, and it feels so right to him.

“God, you don’t really understand the effect you have on me, do you?” his voice is barely above a whisper. He takes in every expression you make– the surprise, the confusion, all of it.

“Did you know,” he continues, “that everytime I’m engaged in an important conversation, I pray to Celestia that you don’t enter my line of sight because the moment you do all of my thoughts go to you.”

He finds himself unable to stop, and truthfully, he doesn’t want to.

“You occupy my mind constantly– I don’t think there’s a day that goes by where I’m not thinking about you,” he pauses, another small realization dawning on him, “perhaps the many times I’ve been called out for being lost in deep thought were moments where you monopolized the entirety of my attention.”

It took him too long to realize he loved you– he’s not going to waste any more time on telling you.

“So please tell me,” Ayato sighs, resting his forehead on yours, “tell me I’m not the only one who’s harbored feelings in this friendship.”

You’re stunned into silence.

Ayato doesn’t know what to make of it. He knows you like the back of his hand but right now he doesn’t even know how to read your expression. You’re shocked for sure– he knows that much.

It would be best for him to wait for some response from you, to let you process this new revelation.

But once again he throws all thought and rationality out the window.

“What about one percent?” he asks, a little bit too desperate for his liking.

“Because,” he continues, a light chuckle spilling from his lips, “even if your heart is only one percent in my favor, then I will hold onto that for all that I have.”

That was a lie. Even if you didn’t have any inkling of fondness for him back, he would be okay with that. He would wait forever for you, even if that day never comes. When he looks at you, he can see your gaze shift, the confusion slowly dissipating from your expression. Now before him he can see the soft look you have in your eyes, the same one that you always held for him.

“It’s definitely more than one percent…” you softly murmur.

Suddenly, Ayato understands all of the cheesy metaphors people use when they talk about love. His heart is doing backflips, he can hear every single bird singing in his ears, and there are far too many butterflies in his stomach. There’s a soft conviction in your words, it makes him wonder if you’ve also had these feelings for as long as him but he’s been too oblivious to notice.

Though that question can be answered at a later time.

For now, and hopefully forever, he has you.

[nebulaafterdark]

Exile (Part 6)

Summary: Y/N Undersee thought the games were over after becoming a victor. Unfortunately, life outside the arena has become just as dangerous. Prequel to Moves & Countermoves

Trigger warning: forced prostitution, explicit sexual content, alcohol abuse and other mentions of trauma. 18+ ONLY

SotR SPOILERS

Part 5

“Y/N’s become too Capitol for the districts, she’s losing her pull there.” Anyone with eyes can see that’s been Snow’s plan all along. Sever her ties with the people.

“How do we fix that?” Haymitch wonders.

“We don’t,” Plutarch decides. “We let her play her hand and wait.”

“How long?” How many recordings? How many tributes? How many of her tears will waiting cost?

Plutarch lifts a shoulder. “Your guess is as good as mine. But when the time comes, she’s our in with the Capitol.”

This news does subsequently nothing to make Haymitch feel better. If anything he feels worse. Downing the rest of Plutarch’s prized liquor bottle before returning to the tribute center. They won’t be provided passage home until the games are over.

The penthouse is quiet now, without Maximus and Denali. Y/N can’t cry anymore about it, not now. She’s had one too many glasses of champagne. Making quick work of the buttons on Haymitch’s shirt, as the door of their suite closes behind them.

Alcohol is nice, drugs are better, but nothing brings the temporary tidal wave of euphoria like Haymitch. His mouth pressed to hers, reducing her brain to mush.

Haymitch rests his hand over hers. “You ok?”

“Not really,” Y/N admits. “Need something to take the edge off.”

“I can get you-”

“You,” she breathes, “I just want you.”

Haymitch tightens his hold on her. I want you too. More than I want to want anything.

Her dress joins his shirt and then his pants, until they’re laid bare. Not district, nor Capitol. Perhaps because they are meant to be neither; they belong to each other.

Nothing exists outside of the gentle rocking of his hips. Nothing to do but breathe him in.

Y/N’s fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer.

————————————————————————

They aren’t made to stay past the announcement of Cashmere’s victory. The tribute’s caskets are loaded onto the train and they’re off to twelve.

“Do they have family?” Haymitch asks.

“No.”

“Not even extended? No aunts or uncles?”

“I don’t know, Haymitch.” Y/N sighs. “They’d been going it alone all their lives, if they had someone, I’m sure they would’ve been there.”

Haymitch nods.

“I can ask Cherry and Tucker if they have room.” Tyson’s parents have a little cemetery outback, couldn’t bear to be parted from their son. A few others from the seam take up residence in the spaces beside him now.

Again he nods, before tipping his empty glass upside down and rising to his feet. “I’ll be in the bar car if you need me.”

Y/N lowers her gaze, waiting until the door slides closed behind him to stand. She is headed elsewhere, to the car where two coffins rest, side by side. Collapsing to her knees in the small space between them and resting a hand over each.

Her gut tells her that under her right palm lies Denali, the spitfire of a girl who showed up the careers. And beneath her right is the little boy who clung to her in the elevator. Maximus. But Y/N has not the want nor will to push back the lids and prove her theory.

She remains there, holding vigil until her legs ache. Shifting position enough to lie down and cry herself to sleep.

Once he’s nice and wasted Haymitch stumbles down to the train car farthest from their sleeping quarters. The sight of Y/N’s feet poking out from between the caskets is an unwelcome reminder that this is standard practice for her.

He crouches down, giving her leg a little shake.

“Haymitch?” Y/N lets out a sleepy sigh.

“Come to bed, angel.”

“I don’t wanna leave them.”

“I know,” Haymitch breathes.

“You can go, it’s ok.” She won’t be alone.

“I’ll stay,” though the notion is still foreign to him.

————————————————————————

Y/N’s first stop after departing the train station is the Carrell’s front door. Her district partner, Tyson, had taken care to list off each of his siblings favorite snacks, then his Ma and Pa. Y/N takes equal care to make sure she never comes to them empty handed.

His parents, Cherry and Tucker, embrace her with open arms. Growing together through their collective loss.

Today is different. His siblings are sent to their rooms and Y/N finds herself strapped to the dining room chair.

“What are you doing?” She laughs. Surely this is a joke of some sort.

“What are you doing?” Tyson’s father bites out.

“I brought you cinnamon rolls.” Y/N stammers, “you don’t like them anymore?”

“Don’t do that.” Cherry snaps.

“Do what?” Y/N is starting to panic now, struggling at the rope binding her hands behind her back.

“Act like you’re the same. Nothin’ about you is the same.” The woman says. “You stopped goin’ to the hob, stopped comin’ to see us. Married a man who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire, started chummin’ it up with those freaks in the Capitol.”

Tucker shakes his head.

“Uh, uh, not my girl.” Cherry presses on, “I started askin’ around, tryin’ to make sense of what I was seein’. Turns out, somethin’ like this happened before. With the McCoy’s girl.”

“What are you-”

“They took that baby for the games, but she didn’t make it that far. Those animals did somethin’ to her, replaced her with somebody who had a bug in her ear. Didn’t fool her parents none.”

“Like a body double?” Y/N asks.

“The Callow boy died a while before she did and didn’t smell half as foul when he got home.” Tucker recounts.

“I don’t understand.”

“She was long gone before anybody knew and that was over a decade ago.” Cherry murmurs, “imagine how good they coulda got at passin’ people off for somebody else in fourteen years.”

“You think I’m someone else?” Y/N frowns, “a body double from the Capitol?”

“Maybe not a double, maybe they did somethin’ to you.”

“Nothing like you think.” Y/N assures them.

“I love you like my own, so I’m only gonna ask you once.” Tucker drawls, “did they put something in your head?”

“No,” Y/N shakes her head. “If you have questions about what happened to the girl in the Capitol during the Quarter Quell, Haymitch might know.”

“I don’t trust Haymitch any further than I can throw him,” Tucker runs a hand over his grief stricken face. “And right now I’m not even sure I can trust you.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Then tell us what happened. And it better make a hell of a lot more sense than what you’ve been saying, little girl.”

Y/N pauses, collecting herself. “Snow was going to sell me to the highest bidder. Haymitch made him a deal.”

“Why would President Snow give a damn if you married him or not?” It doesn’t make any sense.

Y/N tells her. “A victor has never married a victor before, the curiosity was there. Snow just took advantage of it, he recorded us together and sold that instead. Threatened my family, if I didn’t perform, I’m willing to bet that includes you too… So I performed.”

The room is silent.

“It’s up to you, believe me or don’t. I came here to make sure you were ok and to ask if I could bury my kids in your backyard.” No secret Capitol agenda.

“Tell us something only you would know.” Tyson’s father demands, wanting to believe her but needing to be sure.

“The first flower I left for Tyson was a dandelion. When it died, I replaced it with a daisy, and a bluebell after that.”

This is Y/N, as best they’ll ever be able to tell.

“Should I keep going?”

Cherry cuts the rope around Y/N’s wrists. “Why do you want to bury them here?”

“They didn’t have a family before, I thought it might be nice for them to have one now.” Y/N massages the blood back into her hands.

Tyson’s mother joins his father, in front of the younger woman. “Sorry about all that.”

“It’s fine.” Y/N sighs, “no one has ever gone to the trouble of tying me up for an intervention before. You guys must really love me.”

“You do what you gotta, from now on Ma and Pa are with you.” You’re the closest thing we’ve got to our boy.

Y/N thanks them, allowing them to hold her for as long as it suits them. The same way she always has.

Eventually she finds her way back home, back to Haymitch and the house in Victor’s Village. He’s the only one who understands her now.

“What’d they say about the kids?�� Haymitch wonders.

“They said yes.”

“You were gone a while.”

“They tied me to a chair for interrogation.” Y/N tells him.

What in the hell? “You wanna talk about it?”

“Yeah, actually. They thought I was a Capitol body double or that I had a bug in my head.”

Oh.

Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @ancientbeing10 @1-800-styles @l3xi3luv @lam-ila @druby2011-blog @liballer @readinginthe-am @rae-11 @champomiel @mariechristine00 @solacestyles @inky-sun @dadbodfanatic-x @sandorcleganeslutt @indigoashh @mustainelove @darkened-writer @ch3rrybutterfly @boredomquest @theladyofmanyfandomsofficial @kisskittenn @kwllakka @feeblemindedfool @oopsieikilledan @that-one-fangirl69 @just-levyy @thisisthepartwhereishutup @alixxhere @quackitys-amor @pepelachanel @lurkingsparrow @faithalsip09 @cwallace02sblog @animaloversammy @peachiesnsilk @libbyaller @juiceboxfullofslime @libra-2409

[malk1ns]

march 23 @ panthers, 4-3 S/O loss

the way they absolutely collapse in the third period needs to be studied. yucky.

“Oh, wow,” Sid says from behind Zhenya as they step into the condo. “Look at that chandelier.”

Zhenya scowls, stomping through the entryway toward the bedrooms. “This way,” he says, easing the master bedroom door open and dropping his bag on the ground, surveying the room.

It looks fine. The air is a little stale with disuse, but opening the windows will clear that out in minutes. 

“Is this where we’re sleeping?” Sid says, squeezing past Zhenya into the room. “Holy shit, this is fuckin’ nice, bud. And look at that view! I can’t believe you’ve never invited me here.”

Zhenya sighs, watching as Sid acquaints himself with Zhenya’s life in Miami. Sid’s nosy as hell, and he doesn’t even bother asking before he starts opening drawers and poking through the closet. 

He’s not entirely sure why he’s never asked Sid to come. At first it’s because they weren’t serious, and Zhenya bought this condo with serious things in mind: a wife, a family, a place for his parents to stay and rest their bones in the Miami sun. Ill-advised hookups that neither of them were quite able to quit didn’t belong in the hazy, idyllic picture he painted for himself.

The wife never materialized, though. There was Oksana, and Anna, and a parade of girls he took out and charmed into his bed, but between all of them (and, to Zhenya’s shame, sometimes concurrently with them) there was Sid, wound into Zhenya’s life and his lifeblood just as thoroughly as the city of Pittsburgh itself was.

Zhenya resisted it as long as he could. He hurt them both in the process, although Sid was no innocent. Fear and denial do a lot of damage. Luckily, they worked their way out of it. It took time and effort and a lot of screaming fights, but they figured it out.

Their parents know. Their teammates know. At this point, Zhenya wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the reporters know too.

And yet, he still hadn’t ever invited Sid down here.

It’s not like Zhenya spends all that much time here. It’s like Sid’s lake house in Halifax—it’s a nice retreat, a place that’s just his to go to for a break from the pressure cooker that is life in the NHL. He’ll come during bye week, or for a few weeks to bookend the offseason, but the bulk of his summers are spent in Russia or travelling to meet Sid somewhere in Europe. There’s nothing special in this condo, nothing secret or hidden that he doesn’t want Sid to see.

The condo represents something, though, a dream Zhenya once had that he set aside. He has new dreams now, and a life that he never could have imagined but wouldn’t trade for anything, but watching Sid pulling out his toiletries, carving a space for himself here, gives Zhenya a sense of vertigo.

He clears his throat. “Think maybe we grill,” he says. If he can act normally, he’ll feel that way soon too. “I get delivery, like, fresh fish is in fridge, some nice wine. Okay?”

Sid pauses in zipping his Dopp kit back up. “You gonna cook for me?” he says, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “Finally I’ll get to experience the famous grilled fish for myself, eh?”

Zhenya doesn’t cook much, but when he does he takes pride in it. Sid’s gotten several thousand pictures of freshly-caught fish and a rainbow of vegetable sides over the years.

“Best for you,” Zhenya says, swallowing as he pictures Sid eating off the fancy cutlery he picked out when he was 24. “You tell Legend, like, most tasty fish you’re ever have.”

Sid trails after him into the kitchen, pausing to comment on pieces of Zhenya’s decor. He’s figured out that Zhenya’s not in the mood to be even gently teased about his taste, and when Zhenya puts him to work chopping up veggies Sid leans up to kiss his cheek, an uncharacteristically gentle gesture from a guy that usually expresses his affection through wrestling, bad chirps, and terrible come-ons.

Zhenya swallows around the lump in his throat and wraps the seasoned tuna, freshly-caught that morning, in tinfoil for the grill.

They eat out on the balcony. Sid’s quiet, sipping at his wine and gazing out at the water. Zhenya points out the ferry chugging slowly between the island and the mainland, but otherwise he lets the silence settle comfortably over them.

The more time Sid spends here, the more right it seems. Sid belongs on this balcony, lit up by the setting sun. He belongs in this condo. He belongs everywhere Zhenya is.

“Hey,” Sid finally says, just as Zhenya’s tossing back the last mouthful of wine. “Thanks for bringing me. I know it…this place, I get why. I understand what you meant it for.” He sighs and reaches over, taking Zhenya’s hand and curling their fingers together. “I saw the third bedroom.”

Zhenya bites his lip. The third bedroom was always meant to be a child’s room, painted in cheerful colors and the walls lined with shelves for toys and books. The shelves are empty, and there’s no furniture in there. Zhenya never could bring himself to furnish it for another purpose, even as that particular dream slipped further away.

“You know,” Sid says, and his voice sounds watery even though his gaze out over the ocean is steady, “we could still…if you want. We can look into that. Get some stuff for that room, you know.”

Zhenya stops breathing.

Sid’s never indicated much of an interest in having a kid. He loves children, is the first to snatch new babies away when they’re brought to team events and tote them around for as long as he’s allowed, but whenever Zhenya’s tried to bring up having one of his own, he’s deflected. Eventually, it reached a point that Zhenya decided that Sid was worth letting that possibility go.

“You want?” he manages.

“I never did, before,” Sid says, turning to look at Zhenya. The sun in his hair lights up his grays, gilding him like he’s wearing a halo. “Well, I never really thought about it enough to want it, and I figured if it was something I really wanted I’d know. But, you know, I’ve been thinking about…I’m not going to play forever, and you’re done after next season. And so many of the girls are expecting this year, it just…I thought about seeing you as a dad, and suddenly it felt like something I might want after all.” He shrugs. “I don’t even know where we’d start. It might not be possible if we’re not out. But…yeah, I think maybe.”

Zhenya doesn’t cry. Not then at least. But after Sid’s drifted to sleep in bed next to him, snoring open-mouthed and come they were too lazy to clean off drying tacky on his stomach, Zhenya allows himself a few private tears into his pillow.

You never really let go of your dreams, after all.

[mneiai]

okay sorry another ikepri rant

(Spoilers for only Season 1 routes)

So I've done a bunch of routes now and there's some stuff that, throughout all of them, really drives me up a wall.

I'm sure other people have addressed these a bunch and probably in better ways, but I need to get them off my chest. Prefacing this by saying I haven't done the Sariel route, yet, and maybe his magically smooths out all the issues, idk.

Below the cut is my rants about Belle being a secret, Clause 99 existing, and Leon vs Chevalier.

The Belle thing:

Okay, but in WHAT WORLD would a tiny landlocked country EVER want people ANYWHERE to know that their king is dead and they have no idea who the next one will be for a month?

So WHY is the MC being a "secret Belle" such an issue? They should have a system in place already to hide Belles! Every single Belle should have been secret until she'd chosen the next king!

Hell, they should just have random commoner women come into the palace and hang with the princes all the time so no one knows which one will ACTUALLY be the Belle.

I get that this was the way they chose to have the MC interacting with the princes because they couldn't be bothered giving them more original storylines and stuff, but they could have made it make some sense. I don't even have a problem with the ridiculous fantasy aspects of Belles even being a thing, it's that they seem to have made no real allowances for them in the culture and practices of the palace!

Clause 99:

So this ONE GUY fucks up and they have to make a (horribly written holy shit it's like they wanted it to be broken) whole ass new clause in what is presumably a pretty ancient contract that makes no sense whatsoever. Because this wasn't even the first time a Belle chose someone that ended up being a shit king! Yet the clause is brand new?

Firstly, the only reason the last king's relationship with his Belle was a problem was because OTHER PEOPLE made it so, especially considering he can have multiple wives and that children born out of wedlock are still considered equal royals. Like the dude could rape a maid and still make the son a prince! What does it matter if his first wife is a commoner? It's not like he gets to choose his heir!

Secondly, what if Belle ended up being a great asset to the kingdom? An awesome aide, or gifted at diplomacy, or who knows what else? You're just going to kick her to the curb still?

Nevermind what happens if she ends up with a prince who doesn't become king and how awkward that makes anything family related.

And, of course, all of these things are sort of shown in game as it's REALLY FUCKING EASY for the king to break that clause to the point it clearly only exists as a bullshit drama device.

It's not even actually solving the issue--a king could just spend his whole life lovesick and never have sex with anyone after being forcibly separated or something. The real Clause 99 should have been something like 'The King must first marry and have a child with a noblewoman before he can have an official relationship with Belle" or you know something that would force the King to have a kid like Chevalier because he'd want to marry his Belle so badly.

(Also, how the hell is Sariel always acting surprised that the MC didn't read the whole contract? He gave her next to no time in a high stress environment to sign it! It would have literally taken her the entire night to read it!)

(And, listen, I get that Jin has some huge fucking hangups about it, but all him koolaid man'ing his way into other people's relationships makes me do is dislike him more, especially since really, if anything, HE should be more in favor of ways to compromise on the king and Belle relationship, not lording over a commoner woman for daring to love a king! Also, what a total dickbag for not making sure all of his brothers knew about it beforehand!)

Leon vs Chevalier:

I have a TON of issues with these two being setup as rivals.

Chevalier is made impossibly perfect in his and related routes to the point where only someone like Gilbert is actually his match. Even though Leon is more personable, more charismatic, almost equally good at fighting, surprisingly clever, and also NOT HATED BY MOST OF THE COUNTRY AND EVERY CITIZEN OF THEIR LARGEST NEIGHBOR, somehow he's always just this background character in seemingly any route that makes Chevalier the king.

Leon actually has the significantly better backstory (like holy shit most tragic backstory award no matter what anyone else comes out with, the guy didn't even have a NAME) and personality for becoming a king and it's not like Chev would abandon the kingdom just because of it. Making Leon king means he would actually consider what Chevalier said and suggested and make compromises when necessary, something Chevalier is largely incapable of doing outside of his route, where he's softened.

And, finally, the biggest one...WHY THE FUCK ARE THEIR PHILOSOPHIES TREATED AS EQUAL? It's always like 'oh, yeah, Leon's is good, but Chevalier's is equally reasonable' and shit. Leon's philosophy is literally 'I want everyone to have good lives' and Chevalier's, outside of his own route, is literally 'I want to turn our peaceful kingdom into a militarized imperialistic force that will violently sweep across and oppress the whole continent.' HOW ARE THESE EQUAL? I know Cybird writers jack off to monarchies and shit, but c'mon.

(Also what the FUCK is up with Clavis thinking Leon would let a bunch of refugees be slaughtered just because it might make things diplomatically difficult?? the guy literally gives spies who betray him second chances lmao)

[allthingsfangirl101]

Handy Ranch Man – Tyler Owens

Tyler Owens, the "professional" Tornado Wrangler, and I grew up together. We have been best friends since we were 5 years old. Our moms met at a grocery store and planned a playdate. We've been joined at the hip ever since. 

Until he decided to spend his life chasing tornadoes all around Oklahoma. 

He didn't talk to me about it before he started. I didn't know what he was doing until after he'd already posted three videos chasing different storms. While he was risking his life every day, I was training horses at my parents' farm.

I haven't talked to him since he came home after his first "storm-chasing season". He stopped by my parents' farm to talk about it, but I couldn't. I couldn't sit back and listen to his crazy close-to-death experiences. After hearing how their truck flipped, I snapped.

~ ~ ~

"Stop!" I yelled, cutting him off. 

"What?" He asked. My heart sank when I saw that he was genuinely confused. 

"I don't want to hear about this," I said. I stood up, grabbed his empty glass, and put it in the kitchen sink. I forced the butterflies to calm down as he followed me. He gently grabbed my elbow and turned me around.

"What are you talking about, Y/N?"

"You just told me at least 4 stories about how you 'escaped death', Ty. Your words. You expect me to be okay with that?"

Tyler's face dropped when I pulled my arm out of his hold. "I thought you'd at least be excited about it," he scoffed as I started to walk out of the kitchen. 

"Excited?" I challenged as I slowly turned back toward him. "What on earth would I be excited about, Tyler?! Excited for you to get hurt so bad, I lose you? Excited to watch a video where you get sucked up and thrown across the county by a damn twister? Excited for someone to tell me the news tha you were never coming home to me?!"

Silence fell between us as he realized the truth behind my questions. I watched, tears in my eyes, as he opened and closed his mouth.

"I'm not putting myself through that, Tyler," I whispered. "If you decide to go off and do this, you do it without my support. I'm sorry."

~ ~ ~

It's been two years since that fight. Two years of me trying and failing to ignore any videos the Tornado Wranglers posted on their channel. Two years of me tightening my hands into fists whenever someone mentioned Tyler and his group – which happened all the time. 

Eclipse and I trotted back to my family's ranch, heading toward the barn. I have been training Eclipse for several years now and he was finally ready for his and his owner's show next week. I jumped off of him and put him back in his stall. I hung up his saddle and started walking back to the house. I froze when I saw him waiting a few steps from the house.

"Hey, Trainer," he teased as I slowly walked toward him. "Been a long time."

"Taking time off from trying to get killed by a natural disaster?" I asked, not stopping by him. I didn't stop until my hand was on the doorknob and Tyler spoke up.

"I'm always safe, Y/N," he said. "For you."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" I asked without turning toward him. I didn't move as I heard him walk up the porch and stop behind me. 

"I think about you every time we're about to chase a tornado, darling."

"Was that meant to make me feel flattered?" I scoffed, looking over my shoulder at him. His eyes made my resolve weaken. Just a little bit.

"No," he said, dropping his voice. "It was the start of an apology. Every time we were getting ready to chase a storm, your words two years ago popped into my head. And I had a moment of doubt, a moment of fear."

"But," I stuttered as I slowly turned around, "you're not afraid of anything."

"That's not true," he whispered, taking a step toward me. "I'm afraid of disappointing you. I'm afraid of causing you pain. I'm afraid of leaving you all alone, gorgeous." 

"And yet," I said, my voice breaking, "you run into the storm anyway."

* * * * *

After I left Tyler dumbfounded on the front porch, he eventually left. I didn't see or hear from him for several days. Until I was headed outside to await the arrival of a new horse, Archer. I was hired to break and train him. Apparently, he can be kind of violent.

When I walked outside, I was expecting to see a horse trailer. Not my ex-best friend fixing my dad's fence. I shook off the weird feeling I felt as I forced myself to forget about Tyler Owens and focus on my daily chores.

I was walking past Tyler with my arms full of feed when I heard him gasp in pain. I turned around and saw him with his foot lifted and a large piece of wood on the ground. I dropped the feed and jogged over to him.

"Are you okay?" I panicked, scanning him.

"Yeah," he laughed. "Guess I didn't drill that hole deep enough."

When he looked up at me, there was something different in his eyes. "Thanks for running to save me, darling."

"You didn't need. . . I wasn't trying. . ." I cleared my throat and looked away.

"You mind giving me a hand, gorgeous?" He asked.

I didn't say anything as I helped him. I couldn't help but look him over as he worked. I struggled to ignore how he looked in his tank top as he nailed the piece of wood into place.

Once he was done, I let go of the log and wiped my hands. "Thanks for the help, Trainer. You didn't get a sliver or anything in your perfect hands, did you, darling?" 

"I'm fine," I said, not looking at him. My heart jumped into my throat when he tore off his gloves and grabbed my hands. I watched him as he studied my hands closely. 

I sucked in a breath when Tyler looked up and smiled at me. "Still just as perfect," he teased. We stared at each other for too long, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from his. It took his eyes glancing down at my lips to make me finally pull my hands out of his. He started to object, but I ignored him.

"Listen, gorgeous. . ."

"Why do you do that?" I asked, cutting him off a little too harshly.

"Do what?" Tyler asked, his playful facade fading.

I finally turned back to him as I clarified, "Call me things like 'gorgeous' and 'darling'."

"You don't like my pet names for you?" He asked, trying to sound like it didn't bother him, but I could tell that it did. "I've always called you pet names like that."

"No," I elongated. "When we were little, you called me variations of my name. Never. . . Romantic pet names."

We both stared at each other when I said that. To be honest, I've spent too much time analyzing why he calls me those pet names. He started back in high school after he found out some cheerleaders were picking on me. Tyler didn't let it go too far. After he stood up to them for me, he changed. He walked me to class, picked me up after, stayed by me all through lunch, and started calling me cute pet names. 

"Do they bother you?" He finally asked, bringing me back to the present.

"No," I stuttered. "I just noticed that something. . . Changed." Just then, a horse trailer pulled in. "Perfect timing," I mumbled as I walked away. 

I glanced back over at Tyler as I waited for Archer's owner to lead him out of the trailer. He was still watching me as he slowly cleaned up his supplies. I wasn't sure what he did as I started trying to train Archer.

Archer has rejected three of the best trainers this side of the Rocky Mountains. He hasn't felt settled since they bought him. I didn't know much about where they got him. Rumor was they saved him from a stud farm that wasn't taking good care of him. 

I don't usually struggle taming horses - that's why so many people brought their horses to me. But Archer. . . He was different.

"Come on," I gasped, tightening my grip on his reins. I took a step back when he started to buck. "Calm down, Archer. Take it easy. I'm just. . ."

I gasped in pain when he backed up on his rear legs and kicked me in the shoulder with his front.

"Y/N!" I heard Tyler yell. I clenched my shoulder in pain and rolled so I was lying on my other side. I opened my eyes, just in time to watch Tyler jump over the fence and sprint toward me.

He knelt next to me and gently helped me sit up. "Are you alright?" He asked. "I saw him kick you. What do you need? I can get your dad. I can take you to the hospital. Just tell me what you need."

"It's not that bad," I cringed.

"Liar," Tyler chuckled. I held my shoulder as Tyler wrapped his arms around my waist and helped me stand up. With his arms still wrapped around me, he led me to his truck.

"Just take me inside," I objected. "My dad can. . ."

"I'm taking you to the hospital, Y/N," he cut me off. It was then that I saw how worried and freaked out he looked.

I don't think I've ever seen him look like this.

That's why I let him put me in his truck. We didn't talk as he drove. Every once in a while, he'd look over his shoulder at me.

"I'm fine," I whispered.

"It looks bad," he mumbled.

"I've been kicked by a horse before," I shrugged, instantly gasping in pain when I did. My gasp made Tyler's head snap toward me. 

"When?" He demanded.

"When I was little," I stuttered. "I broke my arm and collarbone."

"And you still train horses?!"

"You run into storms. . ." I said but didn't finish.

"Well," he scoffed, "I'd stop if. . ."

He didn't finish. He's never talked about stopping chasing twisters before.

"What?" I gently asked. "What would make you stop chasing?"

"If someone I loved got hurt." He said, slowly looking at me. My heart jumped into my throat when his eyes glanced down at my shoulder. We drove the rest of the way in silence. 

As soon as we walked into the hospital, nurses ran toward me and ushered me away from Tyler. I looked over my shoulder and saw him nervously run his fingers through his hair.

About an hour later, I was patched up and was able to go home. I walked into the waiting room to see Tyler sitting down, focused on his hands, which never seemed to stop moving. He looked up, instantly jumping when his eyes landed on me.

"Y/N," he gasped, running to me. He gently grabbed my arms, rubbing them as he scanned me. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," I tried to reassure him. 

"What can I do?" He asked, his eyes soft.

"You can take me home," I said softly. 

"I can do that," he said, visibly relaxing. Tyler grabbed my uninjured arm, instantly intertwining our fingers.

Without another word, Tyler led us to his truck. As he drove me home, my adrenaline finally wore off and I ended up falling asleep. I woke up a few minutes later to Tyler gently tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

"Hi," he whispered when my eyes fluttered open. "We're home."

He helped me out of the car but didn't stop there. He led me into my house and all the way up to my room. I smiled as he helped me into my bed and pulled the blanket up to my waist.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" He asked.

"I'm okay," I smiled. I laughed when he fixed the pillow behind me. 

"I can get you some pain medication. Or some food. Or another blanket," he listed off.

"I'm fine, Ty."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?" He asked, studying me as he gently sat on the edge of my bed.

"You could stop chasing those damn tornados," I mumbled. His eyes sank.

"Y/N. . ."

"You could stop risking the life of the man I. . ."

"The man you. . ." 

"My best friend," I corrected. "The life of my best friend."

I dropped my sentence when he scooted toward me.

"Just the life of your best friend?" He asked, his voice light as he started to lean in. 

"Who else. . ."

His face was inches from mine. "Could it be that you want me to stop risking the life of the man you love?" He asked, his breath hitting my face.

"I'm not. . ." I stuttered.

"It would be okay," he smiled, "because I'd hate to hurt the woman I love."

"The woman you love?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

"The woman I love," he nodded. I gasped when he delicately pressed his lips to mine. I wrapped my good arm around his neck, pulling him closer as I kissed him back. We both smiled into the kiss as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

I didn't think about the repercussions of making this jump with him. All I could think about was how right this felt. I let out a small moan as he slowly laid us down, him hovering over me. We broke the kiss, both of us breathing heavily.

"Tyler," I whispered, "I know you love chasing storms but. . . I can't lose the man I love."

"You won't," he said, getting serious. "I promise, Y/N. You will not lose me."

"Can't you just stay here and continue helping my dad on the farm?" I offered teasingly. 

"As much as I would love that," he chuckled as he gently got off me. He didn't continue until he pulled me into his arms and leaned us against my headboard. "I mean it, darling. I would love to stay here, work for your dad, and start a life with you. But. . ."

"But I can't ask you to walk away from your dream," I finished for him. "I understand, Ty."

"Thank you," he said, letting out a sigh of relief.

"That doesn't mean that I'm suddenly okay with you chasing storms and putting yourself in danger."

"I know," he chuckled. "I meant it earlier, baby. I am careful. My team and I are really good at what we do. We have all these emergency systems and back-up plans. We are as careful as we can possibly be."

I slowly sat up and looked at him. "You promise?" I asked, my voice soft. Tyler gently grabbed my chin and pressed his lips to mine. He broke the kiss with a smile instantly on his face.

"I promise, gorgeous," he whispered, still holding my face. "I will always come home to you."

Masterlist

[salty-autistic-writer]

Hold a little longer and believe I'm here to stay

Summary: Buck knows he's in love with Tommy but has a feeling that Tommy is keeping something from him. The inevitable confrontation reveals scars and shows they will have to fight for their happiness together. (WIP, Tw: Suicidal thoughts, implied/referenced suicide)

Buck wakes up to déjà vu and lingering frustration.

The other side of the bed is empty. Only the crumpled sheets and pillows confirm he didn’t sleep alone. Buck rolls on his back and blinks up at the ceiling, inhaling the scent of coffee and scrambled eggs. He can hear the sound of drawers being opened and closed. Dishes rattle.

Tommy is making breakfast again. 

He always makes breakfast when they meet and stumble to the bedroom. When they have passionate sex, where neither of them is talking, apart from gasped-out names or moaned curses. When Buck falls asleep warm and satisfied, only to wake up like this. Wondering what this is all about. Feeling a little lost in his own feelings.

Sure. They did talk about … them. Or they tried at least.

Buck apologised. He had words prepared. They hurt. But he said them anyway. Because the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Tommy even more. 

“I’m sorry for what I said and how I said it. I didn’t want to hurt you. That night … it was amazing. I really missed you. And I would love to see you again. Like. Regularly. But, uh, if you don’t want that, I would understand that,” he added quickly. “Really. You can tell me to get lost. It’s okay. I would get it.” Please don’t. Please don’t leave me again.

Tommy studied him for a moment. “Okay,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee (Buck got it right this time.)

“Okay?” Buck repeated, baffled. “Just … okay?”

“Yeah. I don’t want you to get lost, Evan. How would I find you again?” Tommy asked, his eyes sparkling. “We can’t be sure Ravi will always be there to reunite us.”

Buck chuckled breathlessly, feeling immensely relieved.

They smiled at each other.

And then they had amazing sex again. Not able to keep their hands and mouths off each other. Not able to let go.

It happened. It happened again. Turns into a hungry routine. “Are you free?” becomes code.

The sex is great. The breakfasts too. Feels like being taken care of. Buck sighs, chewing on his lip and fidgeting with a loose thread of the blanket while bacon sizzles in the kitchen.

What they have right now feels good.

Buck doesn’t want to mess it up again. But … He can’t fight the feeling that something is missing.

Words. It’s unsaid words that haunt him. Tommy’s. Because Buck talks plenty. He always does. Tommy … Does the listening. And the reacting. Buck’s throat tightens when he tries to remember if he learned anything new about Tommy lately.

No. And if Buck happens to ask something, Tommy finds a way to avoid the question or throw it back at Buck. 

The more Buck thinks about it, the more it startles him. If they aren’t really talking, what are they? Are they friends with benefits? Buck likes sex. Loves it. But … He wants more. Because it’s Tommy. He wants more Tommy.

Tommy is different.

There are so many things Buck wants to say when he looks at Tommy, but he rarely knows how to put all his feelings into coherent words.

Buck knows he’s in love. This is unlike anything he felt for any other person in his life. A desperate kind of craving that bites into his heart and makes his stomach ache when Tommy is not there. That makes him feel lightheaded when he gets to see and touch Tommy. He knows he wants Tommy in every way possible. It’s a constant longing that sets him ablaze.

But the lack of talking … It starts to nag at him. Feels like a little shard of glass that slowly twists its way into his flesh. He involuntarily begins to wonder. Does Tommy not trust him enough to be open about what he thinks and feels? Does he not feel safe enough to share? The thought burns.

Sure, Buck does know a lot about Tommy’s past, family, and hobbies already. But it’s been mostly casually thrown in information. Added to something Buck said.

He knows he has to confront Tommy about his worries. But … he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to disturb the nice routine they have right now. Talks like this. They have the potential to turn into fights. Buck’s stomach twists at the mere thought.

You know you want more, though, a voice reminds him. You know you don’t only want sex and breakfast. You want to be with this man. Really be with him. You want all of him. You want to wake up to the sight of him still sleeping by your side. You want to hear all about what makes him happy and what makes him scared. You want to share his dreams and nightmares. Don’t you?

Yes. Even if Tommy might not believe that yet, it’s true. Buck knows it.

And he thinks it’s finally time to make his point clear.

Tommy looks deliciously soft in the kitchen, his hair tousled and his cheeks stubbled. He’s sipping coffee out of one of Buck’s mugs - he sees it’s one that Maddie gifted him, with a smiling dog on it - and he thinks he should gift Tommy a mug too, maybe one with a helicopter and some funny quote on it, like that one he saw in a shop a few weeks ago: Helicopter pilots get it up faster.

Buck chuckles to himself.

Tommy’s eyes are distant. It looks like he’s deep in thought, but when he sees Buck entering the room, they light up. A smile spreads on Tommy’s face. it’s the kind of smile that makes Buck feel goey inside.

“Hey, did you sleep well?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah.” Buck smiles and stretches. “You know I would feel even better if we cuddled in the morning.”

Tommy smiles, looking a little surprised. “Yeah? Hm. I think I can do that. Next time.”

“Or maybe you can just … stay,” Buck suggests, walking up to Tommy until he can kiss him. Tommy’s lips taste like his too-sweet coffee. He hums happily when Buck puts his hands on his hips, and Buck’s chest glows. See? This is how much I love you. “I’m not moving in, Evan,” Tommy says when they part, one corner of his mouth ticking up.

“I’m not asking you to,” Buck says quickly. “I … I want to talk, though.”

Tommy’s expression shifts from amused to guarded. “Talk?” He repeats, clearly trying to sound casual.

“Yeah.” Buck already feels like he’s walking on eggshells. That’s probably not a good thing. He sighs and scratches the back of his head. “Okay. This is even more difficult than I thought. Can we … Can we maybe sit down?”

Tommy frowns. He places his mug on the kitchen counter. It’s not empty yet. “I don’t know, Evan,” he says. “If you want to have a serious talk, you need to wait longer. I just had my first coffee. The caffeine hasn’t started to hit yet.”

He starts to turn away, eyeing the breakfast instead of looking at Buck.

Wow. This is going so well. Not.

Buck can’t help it. He feels a spark of anger. “Tommy. Why do I have the feeling that you’re keeping something from me?”

Tommy looks at him, brows furrowing. “What? I’m not. Why would I? That’s ridiculous …”

So very believable.

Buck crosses his arms over his chest. “Why do you never talk about yourself then? You’re avoiding every question. Do you really think I don’t notice that? If we are talking, between several rounds of mindblowing sex, we are talking about me and my life!”

“Well. You are interesting to me,” Tommy says, raising a brow, trying to get out of this uncomfortable situation with a joke. Of course he does.

Buck shakes his head. “No. This is different. You’re hiding from me. Why?”

He can pinpoint the moment Tommy decides to pull his walls back up and end the conversation. His eyes turn cold, and his lips press into a thin line. “I should leave,” he says quietly.

Another deja vu. This one burns like a slap in the face.

"Oh, really?" Buck asks, irritated. "What is it this time? A shift? A doctor's appointment? Or did you just remember you are meeting some nameless person in some nameless bar? Come on, Tommy. There's no reason to leave. There never was a reason to leave. You’re scared of something. What is it? I deserve to know!”

Tommy's face remains closed off. He's already taking a step towards the door. Trying to bolt again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Evan.”

"You do know you can't run away every time we are about to have a serious conversation, right?" Buck asks, his voice getting louder. Suddenly, he’s not willing to give up. Not this time. "That’s not how a relationship is supposed to work. You ask me to try again, but you can’t even be honest with me? Do you really trust me so little? What is it that you can't tell me?”

"You don't want to know this about me, Evan," Tommy says after a moment of hesitation, his walls cracking for a volatile moment, pain flickering in his eyes before he tries his best to look indifferent again.

Buck feels hurt. "What are you talking about? I'm in love with you, Tommy, I want to know everything about you."

Oh. This was not how and when he wanted to say it.

Tommy freezes. He stares at Buck, incredulously. "You're ... in love with me?" He echoes, blinking.

Buck smiles weakly. "Well. Yeah. I thought that's kind of obvious, to be honest. Can we talk now? Please?" he pleads, reaching for Tommy. Wanting to pull him back. Away from every door in this house.

Tommy hesitates. He clenches and unclenches his hands a few times, eyes flickering everywhere. He looks like he can’t decide what to do. To run. Or to stay.

Buck feels increasingly helpless. The stretching silence stings. Burns. Nothing he says seems to be enough for Tommy to believe him. Do his words mean nothing to Tommy? What else is he supposed to do?

“I just want to understand,” he says, his throat tightening with a bitter combination of sadness and anger. “But I start to feel like you don’t trust me at all, like there is still an invisible wall between us. I don’t know what I can do to make you believe that I -”

“I was thinking about killing myself,” Tommy blurts.

Buck startles. “What?”

“I was thinking about killing myself,” Tommy repeats, blankly. “At the bar. I was thinking about it before … before Ravi approached me. I called in sick that day because … I wasn’t sure if I could show up at work and operate a helicopter with those … those thoughts I had. And no one at the station can know about this. Because … what if they decide I’m not stable enough to fly? What if … I don’t know if I would be able to deal with that. Not on top of … everything else.” 

Tommy stops, breathing heavily, his eyes wide and fearful, his body tense like a bowstring. Still ready to run.

Buck exhales shakily, staring at Tommy. This … was not what he expected. “Tommy. Fuck.”

Tommy looks away, his jaw working. “Yeah.” 

“Are you … are you thinking about it now?” Buck asks, stunned. Shocked. Scared.

“No,” Tommy says softly. He sighs, and his body relaxes a bit. He finally walks away from the door, sinking on a chair instead, suddenly looking like every ounce of energy had left him. 

“Ever since we started to see each other again, the thoughts aren't so loud anymore,” he says quietly.

Buck swallows. “Good.” Let me talk to you forever then.

Tommy shakes his head. “It’s kind of ironic, really. I … I think it’s depression. There’s some family history. Uh. My mother was depressed. My uncle too. I barely remember him. I was still a child when he … when he died. He was funny. I liked him. I remember he was laughing a lot. Always smiling, playing pranks, cracking jokes. One day, he went for a walk. And never returned. He was found two days later. He jumped from a bridge and drowned in a river.”

“Jesus,” Buck supports himself against the kitchen counter, his legs suddenly feeling weak.

Now that he has started to talk, Tommy doesn’t seem to be able to stop, his eyes blank.

“I remember. My mother, sitting somewhere and just staring into the void, a cigarette forgotten in her hand, ash dropping down on the table. She didn’t notice. She never noticed a thing. I looked at her and I said to myself that I wouldn’t end up like her. Then I looked at my Dad, with his sour breath and his red eyes, and I thought I wouldn’t be like him either. Now look at me. Here I am. I was so desperate that night that I went to a bar alone to drink and forget. But also to remember.”

“Remember?” Buck asks, his mouth dry. “Remember how alive you make me feel,” Tommy says with a sad smile.

Jesus. Buck shivers. Images haunt his mind. He has to ask. “Tommy … If Ravi hadn’t seen you that night and brought you over. What - what would have happened? Would you have hurt yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy admits, running a shaky hand over his face.

Somehow, that makes this even scarier.

Tommy taps a finger to his head. “You know, sometimes everything is just … grey in there. It’s filled with grey fog and I can’t think. I can’t feel. Everything seems empty. Pointless. Once that grey fog hits, I’m getting bone tired and there’s no way to get rid of that kind of exhaustion. I’m lying on the couch and I can’t find the energy to move. Every breath is agony. I think about my life, and it feels like nothing I do matters. That I don’t matter. That everyone will always leave me. Because I’m damaged beyond repair.

And at the same time, I’m hating myself for still trying to be here with you and allow myself to be happy at least for a while, because … You don’t deserve this. You’re so kind. And loving. I'm being selfish for doing this. For ... for using you to feel something. You deserve someone good. Someone who will make you happy.”

“Tommy,” Buck says quietly, feeling tears filling his eyes. “I’m always happy when we are together. Did you … did you think like this the whole time?”

“I tried not to let you see too much of it,” Tommy admits. "I'm sorry."

“You mean you were playing a role. Wearing a mask. Because you thought if you open up and show me, I would leave you?” Buck asks, stunned. I would never do that. 

Tommy swallows heavily. He blinks wetness out of his eyes. Starts to get up. “I’m sorry, Evan. I’m sorry I can’t be what you need. I should go now.”

No. 

“Don’t,” Buck breathes. Begs. “Don’t leave. Not today. Stay.”

Tommy looks at him. Smiles sadly. “See? That’s exactly why I hesitated to tell you. Now, every time you look at me, you will remember. You will remember what I told you. You will wonder what self-destructive thoughts my mind is cooking up right now. And you will look at me like I’m broken.”

“I don’t think you’re broken,” Buck says quietly.

Tommy scoffs. “Come on.”

“No, really. I’m worried. I’m scared. I’m sad. But I … I don’t think you’re broken. You lived a life before we met. I did too. I’m glad you trusted me with this,” Buck says. “And I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. I can’t say I know what you feel. But I have my own experiences with trauma and thinking that I’m never enough, no matter what I do. It hurts. It hurts even more if you think you have to deal with it alone. But … You don’t have to. I’m right here.”

“Evan.” Tommy looks away. Closes his eyes. “Don’t do this. I’m not your responsibility.”

“But you are,” Buck insists. “I believe that loving someone means to love them wholly, fully. Do you really think I would only love your smile, your laughter, your happy thoughts, and your breakfasts? No. This is what I was looking for, Tommy. I want to love all of you. I mean it. Because you’re the person I want to spend my life with.”

Please. You have to believe me.

“Evan,” Tommy breathes, wringing his hands. “Are you sure that’s what you want? Because I can’t promise you that it will get better. I can’t. I’ve been trying to fight this when we were together. But look what happened! Look what I did to us.”

“We are here now,” Buck says softly. “We are here. Talking. Sharing. And you see. You see me now. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. And I will stay. We will figure this out. Because this is something worth fighting for. I know it.”

Tommy smiles weakly. “I don’t know how much fight is left in me, Evan. I really don’t know.”

He looks so scared.

Buck wants to sob. He wants to rage. He wants to punch the walls open and find whoever hurt Tommy in the past. He does none of these things. Instead, he opens his arms and says, “Come here.”

Tommy hesitates. His wide eyes are swimming in unshed tears.

And Buck has never seen Tommy like this. It’s scary. It makes him want to cry too. But it also makes him want to shield Tommy from the world and the dark thoughts in his mind. So many things make sense now. In a horrible way.

Silence lingers. The moment stretches. But finally, Tommy gets up and closes the distance between them, stepping into the embrace and leaning his forehead against Buck’s shoulder.

Buck wraps his arms around Tommy, pulling him as close as possible.

He can feel Tommy start to tremble in his arms. Can feel the tension in his body. It feels like he’s fighting. Fighting himself. Fighting the demons in his head. Fighting the urge to break down.

“Let go,” Buck says, kissing Tommy’s head. “You can let go. I got you, Tommy. I got you.” 

Tommy makes a choked noise in the back of his throat.

His body shudders, then relaxes. And he starts to cry. Starts to sob. They shake him. Going through him like waves.

Buck holds Tommy, his own tears running down his face. They will figure this out, he thinks. Hopes. Somehow. They will figure this all out.

And they will be okay.

[sillyzeta]

die your daughter.

yandere! batfamily x neglected!reader

sipnosis: Your own desires were alien to your family, to the point where you are determined to commit an atrocious act but suddenly everything is 7 years ago when you were only 12 years old. Something has changed and you're not sure what it is.

She danced, danced and danced until she was exhausted until she finally managed to have his full attention, in her eyes he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, she didn't want money, she didn't want fame, she just wanted to spend at least one night with him, talking perhaps, everything she desired in her broken mind.

And in her mind, she wanted to at least tell him that secret she kept for a year, the secret she was so afraid to tell him because she thought he would let her go and never want to know about it. So at least she wanted to get a good life for you, a life where you eat without worrying about her eating, a life where you could sleep warm, yes... That was all she wanted.

But the tragedy happened and at least she wanted her last words to be you, her beloved daughter.

So she finally spoke to him, whispered in his ear afraid the world would hear her, in a voice that was quiet and soon faded until finally it did, she vanished into his arms. He sighed, a lump in his throat prevented him from saying a few last words to his beloved and with all the regret in his body, he got up, heading to the changing rooms in the back, in search of his little treasure.

Everyone had left due to the commotion except him, he had to find you and he did, you were hidden in the clothes of the one who was now your deceased and beloved mother, Your body was shaking even with all the layers of clothing you had on you, it seemed like it wasn't enough.

Then he held you in his arms, his expression one of pain and exhaustion as he buried his face in your hair and whispered.

‘im sorry... please forgive me...!’ he says.

You were too young to understand so you just accepted the warm embrace of the man, a man you had never seen again in your life.

After that you had been adopted, it turns out that you were his daughter all this time but it seems that he forgot it and suddenly you were left in the shadows along with the memories of your mother.

You really didn't understand how he, your father, couldn't love you? Was that even possible? And to add to your loneliness, your siblings soon ignored you, so focused on their own lives that for a moment in your life, you wanted to be selfish.

After a few years, another child came, he who was truly your almost flesh and blood brother, You thought you could at least get along with him but you found out the hard way that you could never bond with him. The wound on your back still hurts, as a reminder of your entire family's ignorance, you hated that.

More and more scars stuck to your body, one more painful than the other, and the only way to avoid feeling it was to sleep in a strange dream, so strange that when you woke up, you forgot about it.

That was your salvation.

But they say good things don't last forever, and so it was. The dreams were even crueler, you woke up with even deeper wounds, and you felt like it was no longer helping you at all. The desperation was so great that you simply decided on a last attempt of faith to get closer to your siblings, you failed miserably.

The years passed and you became so dependent on your family that you hated it, you hated it so much that you wished you were dead, and yes, it was the best.

You did it and now you're back to relive the same nightmares.

NEW SERIES LOL i feel so evil (⁠+⁠_⁠+⁠).....

fated to pretend It will only have 4 chapters, I don't have many ideas except for a few things... But nothing more than that.

And this, well, I don't have a plan for when it ends.