#but at the same time steers clear because of the trauma

[blainesebastian]

moments

word count: 10,720 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for some smut, suggestive sexual language and expletives) summary: There are moments you know you shouldn’t compare your ex to Nick, there’s no place where the two converge. Or maybe, you suppose, that’s exactly the point. notes: idk man this movie has become my whole personality, i got nothing else to say. (other than the gifs are from this awesome gifpack!) notes 2: reader has an abusive ex. while there are no explicit scenes of abuse, there are discussions of past abuse and trauma edit: i now have a masterlist!

You met Nick at a party like this. 

You had just broken up with your boyfriend and instead of wallowing, your friends dragged you to the nearest party they could find. You’re not easily someone who believes in fate or the universe having a plan, but you think that something happened that night to bring Nick into your life. 

You can still feel the thrum of the music in your veins, bumping into him as he was carrying drinks to someone, right on the makeshift dance floor in someone’s house. You remember opening your mouth to apologize–

“You should really come with a warning label if you’re going to swing your arms like that.” He says, British accent thick, eyes sharp. 

He’s beautiful, you think. He’s also an asshole. 

Your hands fall to your hips, eyebrows drawing together as you take a look at him. Really take a look. You moved here because your parents had work, ironically with Nick’s father. You’ve heard of the infamous Nick but haven’t met him in person. 

Lucky you, that seems to be tonight. 

Your eyes draw in the line of his jaw, the way his eyes flit over to yours, assessing you as you take in him. Your gaze runs from the light blonde, highlighted curls in his hair, to the strong shoulders, to the tapered waist. 

And then you spit out, “So should you, if you’re going to open your mouth.” 

He’s taken back, you can tell, a flicker of amusement in his eyes now at having the banter to play with. The corners of his mouth twitch in an almost smile, “Then I guess we better steer clear of one another,” He replies, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.  You can smell laundry detergent, expensive cologne, “Two warning labels usually infer a pending explosion.” 

Keeping your distance didn’t exactly work, though. Your friends are in the same circles, and two curving lines have no choice but to eventually converge. It seems like everywhere you turn around, Nick is there. Other parties, weekends at lush spots, fighting rings, underground driving events, the list goes on and on. 

You seem stuck in this man’s orbit, this layer of so-called ‘danger’ slipping warmly into your veins and heating you up from the inside out. With every interaction, there’s still the barbed exchanges, the rolling of eyes, the quirk of lips. But you’re not sure how much of that is show—you both know how to have a good time with your set of friends, sometimes even with eachother. You’re not sure you’d call Nick a friend but…you suppose it’s better than what you were when you first met. 

As you move through the crowd of people gathered in the large, mansion-esque living room of the latest party you’re at, you do your best to find Jenna. She’s not the friend you came with, but you wanted to catch up, maybe even dance? You’re not exactly in the mood to be here tonight, so maybe that’ll open you up a bit more to having a good time. 

Turning down a hallway, you pause as you almost run into someone. A guy taller than you, eyes glassy, giving you a onceover before a grin, “Lost?” 

You sigh audibly, shaking your head, “Nope,” Voice full-American, which seems to bring a twinkle of amusement to the guy’s face, “Just headed that way.” You point towards the kitchen. 

“I can show you around,” He offers, trying to sling an arm around your shoulders, “Sounds like you might need a tour guide.” 

And boy, are you getting tired of that boring line. You get it, you’re not from London, but just because you’re American does not mean you need someone to show you around. You’ve been here for half of a year, you’re not about to call yourself a native, but you’re definitely settling in. 

“No,” You push his arm away. 

“Stop being so ungrateful,” He scoffs, taking two heavy steps forward. The movement is awkward, like his body is catching up with his brain. You’re not anticipating it, so you find yourself stumbling back, knocking into a table as he grabs your arm. 

“Get off me,” You snap, trying to yank yourself free, but this guy won’t let up. 

He’s wearing a ring on his one finger and it’s twisted in the wrong direction so that the stone actually slides against your arm when you try to create some space. It’s a quick cut, nothing you’d write home about but t’s the fact that he won’t back up, he won’t let go–

“Hey!” 

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice, Nick, coming down the set of stairs near where you’re standing. He rounds the corner, reaching in one fluid movement to yank the guy off. Tall guy stumbles back, tripping over the carpet, Nick’s body suddenly standing in front of yours. 

“Are you deaf?” Nick snaps, cocking his head as if he’s really trying to understand. His body lines up at an angle, as if he’s ready for a fight and that’s the last thing you want. Your hand gently moves to the back of his shirt, a soft tug, his muscles flexing beneath your touch. 

He glances over his shoulder at you before turning his attention back to Tall guy, movements relaxing—he bends to your request. No fighting. 

Until Tall guy opens his mouth.

“Didn’t know she was going to be such a bitch about—” 

There’s barely a moment in which the sentence is finished before Nick’s fist is flying through the air. It lands on this guy’s nose and he crumbles like a house of cards. A small gasp leaves your lips, your eyes wide as blood spurts from between the guy’s fingers and Nick rolls his shoulders, turning to check you over. 

“Look at me,” He says, hand touching your arm. Your eyes snap to his and he scowls at the cut there, red and angry thanks to that guy’s ring. “C’mon, let's clean you up.” 

Nick’s hand slips down to gently clasp your own, tugging you towards the kitchen. It’s not very busy, or maybe people are clearing out at the look on Nick’s face, either way you’re glad it’s not as stifling as some of the other rooms. He scoots you backwards until your legs find a stool and you prop yourself up on it, Nick moving to grab a washcloth from one of the drawers. You watch him carefully, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. 

“You didn’t need to hit him.” 

He pauses and then turns to look at you with his eyebrows raised. A scoff tumbles forth, “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’.” 

Now it’s your turn to look surprised, “For what? Punching someone?” 

His eyebrows draw together, amusement flickering in his eyes like a heated fire, “You have the strangest way of showing people your gratitude.” He moves towards you like a force. He’s not that much taller than you, but Nick’s the kind of person to take up space. The kind of person you step aside for. Handsome and unpredictable, just like the first day you met him. 

Blame it on the action from tonight, the leftover adrenaline shaking your body, prior experience with hands on you in ways that have not been kind, something—but when Nick reaches out and takes your arm—you flinch. 

He notices instantly, letting go and taking one step back to give you space. His eyes dance over you for a moment and you know he’s taking in the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders drawn in, the slight shaking to your hands. 

“Sorry,” He apologizes, voice a shade gentler than it was before. 

You swallow over an unspoken emotion in your throat before straightening your shoulders, eyes narrowing as you take a look at him. “I’m just saying I could have handled it.” 

He doesn’t argue with you this time, must sense you need to own that somehow, and just nods, “Can I see your arm?” 

You’re holding your arm to your chest like an injured bird does its wing, even though you’ve had worse. You’ve been through worse. Scars that you can’t see but are still there. You run your tongue over your teeth before relaxing your spine, slowly extending your arm towards him. 

Nick takes that as permission to walk back towards you and at the angle of the stool, you’re almost eye level, his body slightly between your knees as he turns your arm over in his hands. He takes the washcloth that he’s dampened and drags it across your skin. 

You close your eyes, biting down on the inside of your cheek, hating to admit what you’re about to say as your pulse slows,  “I didn’t…actually…have that handled.” You hate to think of what could have happened if Tall guy hadn’t backed off, if you couldn’t have stopped him, if no one would have thought twice to check if you were okay.

Nick doesn’t say anything though, just continues to clean the cut, his eyes trained on your skin. His thumb brushes the inside of your arm, a silent comfort, encouraging you to speak again, 

“My ex was a real jerk, put his hands on me.” You do not elaborate, but it seems like you don’t need to. Nick’s movements still a moment, his jaw working. “Not something you get used to or over quickly.” 

“Your ex is lucky he’s still in America.” He mumbles after a few breaths, his thumb still tracing back and forth over the inside of your elbow, his eyes finally meeting yours. You’re not sure why you’re surprised at what you see there. A gentleness, an anger, a protective warmth that you…maybe knew Nick was capable of but hadn’t seen firsthand. 

A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth, your hand settling on his, “Not your problem.” 

“Shouldn't be yours either.” He says, squeezing your fingers. 

There’s this moment where you can’t tear your eyes from his, that heat that’s associated with Nick winding itself around you like ivy, digging between your ribs. It’s like something magnetic, you can’t quite look away, and yet you remind yourself of what was shared between the two of you when you first met. Two warning signs, indeed, could mean some sort of explosion. 

And yet, this person right here? The one standing in front of you? You think that might be worth the risk. Someone that’s maybe just as kind and thoughtful as they are opinionated, and impulsive. Velvet over broken glass. This version is not the Nick you thought you knew…and you’re not sure what to do with that. 

“Uhm,” You clear your throat, breaking the moment, “Have you seen Jenna? I was gonna see if she wanted to dance but now I kinda want to head home. Just want to say bye.” 

He shakes his head, helping you off the stool by slipping his hand into your own. “No, but I can drive you.” 

You soothe your hand over your jeans, “You don’t have to go out of your way.” 

Nick smiles a little, the expression open, “Don’t worry about it—this party is quickly losing its appeal anyways.” 

You don’t fight him on it twice. 

—

In spite of so called ‘warning labels’—there are sometimes shared looks, quiet smiles, and a warmth that blooms as you get to know one another. Maybe that’s friction. Maybe it’s something else. 

“Swear no one hears me when I say I don’t like onions,” You crinkle your nose in the booth of a diner, pressed to the one corner, Nick across from you as Jenna and Lion share the other seats. The table is completely covered with food to share, Jenna laughing as Lion tries to steal her fries. 

There are raw onions on the burger you ordered, despite asking for it without. Before you can lift the bun to take them off, Nick reaches across the table and swaps your plates. He says nothing, doesn’t even lift his eyes to look at you—but his burger is now in front of you. Onion free. 

A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth and you can’t help the small thrill of butterflies in your chest as you add ketchup to your fries. 

—

Your parents don’t know about your ex. 

You just…never wanted to tell them what happened. Especially since it didn’t matter, you were moving to London, leaving him behind and all the problems that came with it. Maybe if they knew your mom would talk to you about what healthy relationships look like, maybe they would suggest therapy. Maybe you’d even go. Sometimes it’s hard to admit that the person who went through what happened was actually you. As if you’re a spector in your own life. 

Every so often, you deny you have emotional scars. The physical ones have long faded to healed skin. Except, scars run deep, and sometimes you’re not even aware they’re still there until they flutter to the surface. They rear their ugly heads in the most unexpected of times. 

Or maybe it shouldn’t be surprising at all. 

A glass shatters. 

Your entire body goes rigid even though Jenna is laughing and leaning into Lion over it. The sounds start to warp around you and you’re staring at the glass at the floor, as if the shards will leap into the air and perform some sort of circus act. You’re over Nick’s house with your friends, having drinks and hanging out by the pool, you’re all getting a refill and someone overreaches for a glass in a cabinet. 

“Butter fingers,” Lion teases his girlfriend, grabbing her hand to spin her close and kiss her shoulder. 

“Was an ugly glass anyways,” Giles replies, crinkling his nose. 

Your hand lingers on your chest a moment, your heart hammering under the pressure of your fingers. You try to tell yourself that it’s an accident, that you’re not in danger, that you’re not what happened to you. You talk through all that helpful language you googled that’s supposed to help center yourself when you feel like you’re on the edge of a panic attack. You remind yourself that you’ve been doing well, you’ve been coping, that past memories belong in a box in the back of your mind and that a sound isn’t strong enough to unleash them. 

But nothing helps. 

Your vision narrows and then goes glassy, fuzzy black fades in from the edges, it feels like there’s a hand around your throat, squeezing. You excuse yourself quietly for the bathroom and your friends don’t notice, which is fine, you’re not sure you’d be able to stop even if they did. 

You make a b-line for the bathroom, turning a corner too fast and bumping into—

“Whoa,” Nick’s hands come down on your shoulders. When he gets a good look at your face, his eyes widen slightly. “Hey—” His voice is soft, dipping his chin to try and catch your gaze, “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I—” You choke out, air constricted in your throat, “I can’t—”

Nick seems to understand, gently backing you up towards the bathroom. The door doesn’t shut completely, angling towards closed, which you’re grateful for—the room doesn’t feel any smaller than it already does. Tears gather in your eyes, frustration and concern building up in your chest like a bonfire. You don’t claw at your skin, but you’ve been there, where it feels like the only way that you can possibly feel better is to peel it off your neck. Like there’s a literal barrier between you and breathing. 

You don’t even realize you’ve sat down on the closed toilet seat until Nick’s kneeling in front of you. His voice sounds like it’s underwater and he takes your hand to rest it on his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart under your fingertips, the steady intake of air as he speaks again.

He keeps repeating the same phrase as tears spill down your cheeks, “Copy me.” 

“Wh-what?” You stutter out, his words suddenly coming in sharp, clear. 

His other hand, the one not holding your hand on his chest, cups your cheek, brushing tears away with his thumb. He curls your hair around your ear, fingers resting against your neck. 

“Breathe with me,” Nick’s voice is patient, squeezing your fingers, his thumb working back and forth along your knuckles, giving you something to concentrate on. “In—” He draws breath into his lungs, then, “Out—” He whispers, letting it go. 

You copy, barely, chest aching. It comes out as a gasp. 

“Good,” He nods, “Again.” He waits. “Again.” He soothes, “Again.” 

Until it becomes easier, until it doesn’t feel like your entire chest is caving in. The hyperventilating slows, your eyes slide shut, your pulse calms in your throat. You don’t open your eyes until the dull roar disappears in your ears, Nick’s thumb still moving calming circles against your knuckles, your neck. 

Your gaze eventually meets his brown ones, concerned as they trace your face. His hand moves again, the one on your neck, cupping your cheek and removing another tear track. 

“There you are,” He says softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I got you.” 

You swallow over what feels like glass in your throat, your fingers still holding onto his t-shirt against his chest like a lifeline. You don’t often get panic attacks like that, but when they come? They drive through you with the force of a freight train. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

You blink, trying to figure out if you do, in fact, need something. A glass of water might be nice, but you don’t want him to move, the weight of him against your legs grounding in a way you can’t explain. 

You decide on shaking your head, your hand eventually falling from his chest to rest in your lap. His hand follows yours, brushing his thumb along your knee. 

“They always come on fast like that?” 

You shake your head, “Sometimes I think they’re completely gone, they just—pop up out of nowhere.” You sniffle, curling your hair around your ear. You have no idea why your cheeks flush in embarrassment, but they do, to let someone see where you’re struggling the most. Where you feel the most vulnerable. 

But when your eyes meet Nick’s, there’s no judgement there. Just a soft gaze, open, waiting. 

“A glass fell in the kitchen, broke and—my ex used to throw things when he got pissed off. The sound, it just—” You’re not sure you have to explain, hoping it’s enough.

Nick’s face is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—a dangerous sort of calm that you wouldn’t wish on anyone. He traces his thumb around your knee. 

“Sounds like a real tool.” 

The comment is so out of pocket that a laugh bubbles up in your chest and you nod, “He was. Sometimes I feel like relationships are just always meant to end messy, one way or another.” Or maybe you’ve convinced yourself, somehow, that you don’t deserve something good. You put yourself out there with your ex, and look at what happened. 

Nick shakes his head, holding your gaze when he says, “Not all of them.” 

There’s a small thrill that works its way into your chest, something weighted in the way he says it. You chew on your lower lip, Nick’s eyes slipping to your mouth, and you’re suddenly reminded of time you’ve spent together. While you have the same friends, you’re not sure if you’d consider that to define your relationship. And yet here he is, on his knees in front of you, making sure you’re alright. 

“Thought it was best we steer clear of one another,” You repeat his suggestion from the first time you met but your voice is teasing. “Pending explosions and all.” 

Nick stands and your head tips back to look at him. He seems to give it careful thought, his pursing lips making a soft laugh leave your lips. “Think I can handle a little danger—can’t you?” 

You find yourself nodding and take his hand when it’s offered, tugging you up off the toilet to head back out to your friends. 

—

Nick spends the night checking in with you—it’s not so much words he uses, but its eyes dancing over your form, it’s a tentative hand on your lower back, it’s making you laugh—long and hard, it’s picking you up over his shoulder and jumping into the pool with you, it’s your lips brushing when you float to the surface when he’s grinning. 

It’s like he’s suddenly everywhere, not just here at his place, but over the next few weeks that you end up spending time with one another. A hand brush here and there, a shared grin, hushed laughter and an ease and comfortability that was not there before. 

A so-called ‘warning label’ begins to fizzle down to its base form—what it actually is.

Attraction. And that’s not something that feels so hazardous anymore. 

—

You love dancing. You’re not altogether good at it, but that doesn’t matter. After enough to drink, the alcohol buzzing like warm bees in your system, with your friends around you, the lure of letting off steam and feeling comfortable in your veins just overwhelms you. 

The club that you end up at is a typical haunt on a Saturday night, your smile bright as you wrap your arms around your best friend from behind. Jenna laughs nearby, turning to smack a kiss to Lion’s cheek. Nick brings back a tray of shots for everyone and you take yours eagerly, tipping it back. 

When you set the glass down, Nick has his eyes on you, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. He's dressed in a black t-shirt, and you can’t help but sneak a peek at his biceps, how well he fills out the fabric. His long sleeve shirt is gone somewhere, maybe where everyone was once sitting before. He looks comfortable, like you could curl up against him, like his arms could lift you up—

“Enjoying the view?” He asks over the music, leaning closer. 

You shiver, refusing to show how much a simple question has an impact on you. Because yes, you were. 

You shrug, “It’s not bad. I’m still deciding.” 

He steps closer, into your space, his hand sliding down your arm and when he speaks this time; his lips brush your ear. “Anything I can do to influence that decision?” 

This time you can’t hide your body’s reaction, you know that Nick feels it, his fingers brushing over goosebumps that appear on your forearm. You hate the smug look on his face as he pulls away, so you decide the only distraction that’ll work at this point is tugging him onto the dance floor. You turn your arm in his hand, sliding up until your palms meet. 

“You can dance with me.” 

Nick smiles, following you onto the floor,  your friends following. It’s a small circle of moving bodies, and despite the nerves that are skittering along your nerves like spiders, you let yourself slip into the music. It’s some sort of bouncy electronic bop that you know well and you find yourself singing along to the chorus as you dance along to it. You can’t help but laugh as Nick grabs your hand and spins you, angling his body closer to yours. There’s a swaying motion, his hands ending up on your hips. 

He squeezes; a question in his eyes, if it’s alright to put his hands on you like this. Because it’s slightly more intimate than small, insignificant touches you’ve shared before. You’re overwhelmed by the gesture, that despite how close you’ve gotten, he still wants to make sure it’s okay. That permission means everything to you. 

You respond with a grin, your arms wrapping around his neck, keeping him close. And you’re inseparable for the rest of the night. 

—

Nick has a driver pick you all up so no one has to worry about driving. There’s a few minutes outside the club, waiting on the pavement. When you wrap your arms around yourself, a slight breeze causing a chill down your spine, he slides off the long-sleeve shirt he came in and drapes it over your shoulders. The warmth of his body lingers and you draw the fabric over your hands, breathing in the scent of his cologne. 

When an SUV arrives, you end up sharing a row with him. The sway of driving rocks you gently, your eyes slipping closed as your head rests back against the seat, and when you wake up at your place, you’re tucked under Nick’s arm along his side. 

—

Nick hands you a book in passing, something that he had tucked away in his car as you’re about to get into Jenna’s to leave the underground driving circle. It’s so unexpected and somehow odd in a place like this that you kinda blink. Your fingers brush as the book transfers from one palm to another. 

“Thought you might like this,” He says. 

It’s well-read, obviously by him. And it’s something so simple, saying ‘I thought of you’, ‘I think about you’, ‘you’d like this’—something your ex never did. 

He never thought about you. Not like that. Not gently. Not with concern and affection. Not in a way that mattered, that made you feel good. 

You look down at the title, a small smile tugging the corners of your lips—The Things They Carried. Somehow it’s fitting. 

“You think about me?” You ask, voice teasing, holding the book to your chest. 

Nick grins, “Hard not to.” 

And before he can back away, you wrap your fingers in his shirt and pull him close, tipping your head up to kiss him. 

It’s everything you ever thought it might be. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he cups both sides of your face, angling the movement down, tongue teasing the seam of your lips. His body presses against yours but it fits perfectly, lines up with your own, as if something was missing beforehand that you were unaware of. 

“Thank you,” You whisper after a moment, against his mouth. “For the book.” 

Nick licks his lips, his thumb brushing over your lower one. “Definitely have more recommendations if this is the general reaction.” 

And well, you’ve always been a reader. 

—

“Oh come on,” You chew on your lower lip, “Pancakes all the way.” 

Nick scoffs something far too attractive, crinkling his nose as he heats up the waffle iron. “Knew there had to be something wrong with you, after all this time, just didn’t know it was gonna be this.” 

You toss a blueberry at him and he, annoyingly, catches it, popping it into his mouth with a grin. He points a spatula at you. 

“How have you lived a life thinking pancakes are superior to waffles? This an American thing?” 

“This is an ‘I’m right’ thing.” You toss back, looking at all the different combinations of sweets that can go on or in these pancakes (or waffles). “The ridges in waffles make it difficult to spread butter evenly.” 

Nick licks his lips, his finger tracing the handle of the spatula as he turns pancakes over in the pan. He adds batter to the waffle iron. “Not if you try hard enough.” 

You shake your head, amusement skittering along your spine as you can’t help but look down at his hands. He’s wearing two rings today, something comfortable and simple. But the only thing it does is highlight the shape of them, gorgeous, like they were made to play an instrument. 

“I think you’re just trying to infer that you’re good with your hands.” 

“What was that about my hands?” He raises his eyebrows, voice impossibly warm like dripping honey. 

He sets two finished pancakes on a plate and flips the flame off under the pan. He leans against the counter as he looks at you, something molten slipping from your stomach to between your legs as you hold his gaze. 

“You heard what I said.” 

Nick wanders over, encroaching on your space in the best way. He tilts his head down a little, brushing his lips over yours as he lifts you onto the counter in one even swoop. 

You can’t help but grin, your hands settling on his shoulders as he slips between your legs. 

“Sounds like you’re going to need a hands-on demonstration.” 

“I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.” But your laugh comes out as a whimper as Nick’s fingers press against the center of you, an easy target given how you’ve splayed your legs to accommodate his body, the fabric of your leggings leaving nothing to imagination. 

“Oh,” Nick whispers against your lips, amusement dancing across his handsome features as he begins to move his thumb, “Maybe you don’t need a demonstration at all.” 

And this asshole actually dares to move his hand, as if he’s giving up the suggestion. You clamp your knees together as best you can, his body in the way, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as his hand becomes trapped between your thighs. 

“Don’t you dare.” You mumble against his mouth.

“Is that a threat?” He nips at your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth at the same time his hand encourages your thighs to open to give him room. He pushes into the waistband of your leggings, a smirk decorating his mouth as you scooch closer to the edge of the counter. A shiver skitters down your spine at the feel of the cold metal of his rings brushing against heated skin. 

You hate giving him the satisfaction of any noises leaving your mouth but at a certain point, it becomes undeniable. And he knows that. You swear that having him like this is something you’re never going to get used to, despite that things are still new between you two. His thumb drags over your clit, one finger slipping into you, your back bowing a little when he adds another. 

“That’s it,” He leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss on your neck, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as he picks up the pace. It doesn’t take much, he’s so precise with his fingers, leaning into every tell your body has, reading you like an open book every time you make a sound. 

When his tongue travels over your pulse point and his thumb pays close attention to your clit, tight even circles, you don’t stand a chance. Pleasure snaps like a band, your body clamping down on his fingers. You lean up to drape yourself over him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, tucking your face in his neck. 

The arm that’s free slides along your back, brushing up and under your shirt, running his fingers along your spine and you press a kiss to his shoulder, threading your fingers through his hair. You tug on his curls, just a little, just to arch his head back a bit. 

He smiles up at you, eyes dark, lower lip wet from biting it, a visible strain in his sweatpants. You open your mouth to reply, to offer reciprocation, but then smoke in your periphery catches your attention. 

“Shit,” He mumbles, pulling away from you to turn the waffle iron off. You wince a little but a small laugh bubbles up in your chest, leftover butterflies in your stomach, cheeks warm, body feeling far too empty. 

“Can’t believe the waffles burned.” You comment lightly, running a hand through your hair. 

Nick glances at you, a small smile on his face, mischief lighting up his brown eyes. He tugs you forward, but this time, he’s got the fabric of your leggings between his fingers, yanking them off. 

“S’alright,” He replies, spreading your legs again, intending to sink his head between them, “Think I’m more of a pancakes guy anyways.” 

—

Nick is nothing like your ex, there is no place where the two converge. Period. 

—

You hate that Nick fights in the ring. Sometimes there’s gloves, other times there’s bare fists. You hate the blood and the bruises and the fact that fucking Lion bets on him like he’s a winning horse. Most of the time you can’t even watch. Like tonight. You wait in the car, everyone headed back to Nick’s afterwards to debrief, to let off steam. 

You can tell he’s pissed the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. 

There’s lines pulling his face, his shoulders tight and the muscle in his jaw feathering. There’s a bruise starting along his jawline, cuts on his cheek. You squeeze your eyes shut and your fingers dig into the plush leather. 

You don’t ask how it went because you already know. 

When you make it into his kitchen, leaning against the counter, you watch as he paces a moment, stewing, his hands shaking as he looks over at Lion. 

“It wasn’t called at the right fucking time.” 

“It was,” Lion says evenly, “The refs—”

“The fucking refs are fucked,” He snaps, his voice echoing in the space. You swear you can hear the glass in the cabinets tremble, “He threw a punch after the bell rung. What’s the point of doing any of this if it’s not going to be fair?” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be doing it at all,” You mumble, arms crossed over your chest. It’s quiet, but you can tell the moment that he hears you. His entire body goes still before he turns and rolls his shoulders, like he’s still in the ring. Like he’s itching for a fight. 

“That’s cheap coming from you, isn’t it? You won’t even step through the doors to support me.” 

Your mouth falls open at the same time Jenna hisses Nick, your response only serving to amp him up even further. 

“I’m not going to go in there and you know it.” You know why, is what you actually want to say, but you don’t give him that satisfaction. You’re calling him out on his bullshit well enough. 

Besides, you’re not the one he’s really mad at, he’s just taking his frustrations out on you. But before you can tell him how fucked up that is, Lion pipes up with a —

“You’re gonna have to fight him again, a re-match.” 

Nick explodes, the kind that he warned you about the first night you met, his arm snapping out and striking items on the kitchen counter. It’s not glass, but the reaction you have is the same. A plastic fruit bowl spins and hits the cabinets, oranges rolling out of it, a set of papers flutter to the floor like birds, and something cracks loudly against a chair, someone’s iPhone maybe. 

It doesn’t matter what it is because you go rigid, eyes wide as you stare at the items on the floor. He runs both of his hands through his hair, his gaze finding your face when you let out a short breath out of your mouth, attempting to unhook your shoulders from your ears. Nick looks at the floor and then back to you, muttering shit under his breath. 

He takes a step towards you, “Y/N,” and you mimic one back, keeping space between you. A defense mechanism but it doesn’t stop that look from sliding onto his face, regret replacing anger, concern replacing frustration. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Nick says, voice pinched, “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

You shake your head, putting your hand up so he stops talking. You need space, you need to go outside and take a breath. You slip out of the kitchen towards the pool and Nick must try to follow you because you hear Jenna stop him in his tracks— just leave her alone for a little while, man.  

He’ll come find you though. He always does.

—

You debate leaving but end up sitting by the pool instead. Your legs are drawn up against your chest, fingers dragging through the water, chin resting on one of your knees. You hear and feel him more than see him come out onto the pool deck. 

“Can I join you?” He asks, hovering. 

You know that if you told him no he’d respect that, he’d listen.. But you can’t, even though a small part of you wishes you could. You nod softly, not looking at him, waiting for him to slide down beside you. He’s facing you, one leg in the pool, one curled up underneath him. He smells like clean soap, fresh clothes—he must have showered and changed to give you some time. You ache to run your fingers through his damp curls, to touch him somehow. But you don’t. 

It’s quiet for a while, just the sound of your shared breathing and your fingers gliding through the water. 

Nick clears his throat, “I have a temper, I’ve always had it.” Since his mom, are the unspoken words. “Despite how hard I try to bury it…it seems to always find its way to the surface.” His voice is soft, gentle, as if he’s afraid he might spook you, that you might run. “It’s why I’m good at racing or fighting.”  

You know this, you know he has an anger inside of him that sprouts like weeds, recognizes it in him like you did your ex…even though they are not the same, will never be the same. Nick has talked to you about his mom countless times, you’ve met her and Maddie and know that they’re working on their relationship. They’re in a good place, despite the emotions that Nick still feels sometimes. Maybe they’ll always be there. 

He tentatively reaches for your hand, and when you allow him to touch you, he tugs your laced fingers to rest in his lap. He traces circles around your knuckles, “Look at me.” 

You breathe out through your nose, turning your gaze away from the pool and meeting his eyes. You’re struck by him, always have been, you think. Ever since you ran into him at that party. There must be a soft pout to your lips because he brushes his other thumb along the corner of your mouth.

“It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. But I know I don’t want to see that look on your face ever again.” He shakes his head, ripping his gaze from yours, as if he’s embarrassed. You know what he’s talking about. Fear. What must have been on your face—it’s not something that can be helped, no matter how much you’ve been working on it.

“Not because of me.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat over that, over the fact that Nick, at the core of his being, wants to protect you. Despite his rough demeanor, despite the fact that he sometimes leads too much with his fists or can have a nasty set of words for someone, he’s good deep down. Something your ex never was. 

You squeeze his hand back, reaching out to touch his cheek. You angle his face up, running your thumb over his cheekbone, 

You don’t say that it’s okay, because it’s not, but you do want him to know, “I trust you.” You say after a moment. It is not something you give easily, something that’s definitely earned. And Nick has. He holds your gaze after that, a soft nod, turning his chin into your palm. His nose and lips brush the love line on your hand and he presses a kiss there. 

“C’mere.” He whispers, encouraging you closer, to sit on his lap. You fold into him easily, as if you’ve always fit there. 

–

There’s a long sigh out of your mouth as you move from your spot on the couch to get the front door when there’s a series of knocks. You kinda hope it’ll go away, but your parents aren’t home to check. There’s a twinge in your nose and a headache building behind your eyes, the worst head cold you’ve had for a while. Exhausted, slightly nauseous, throat sore, and kinda ready to throw hands at whoever is making you answer the front door when you could be passed out on a bunch of pillows and blankets. 

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing your throat, “Sheesh.” 

Without looking at the small video monitor for security set up next to the door, you yank it open, getting ready to give whoever is selling something a piece of your mind. But then you stop, blinking, because it’s—

“What are you doing here?” Your voice croaks, Nick wincing at the sound. 

He’s in a pair of sweats, a white t-shirt, and oversized jacket, a pair of sunglasses pushed up into his curls as he takes a look at you. Your cheeks are flushed thanks to being sick, but you feel like your fever has kicked up a notch under the careful inspection. You have no idea what you look like, but you can guess it’s a mess. 

“Jenna said you weren’t feeling well,” He steps forward and when he does you notice he’s got a paper bag in his hand. “Though I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me that yourself.” 

You rub the back of your neck—you really just…didn’t want to be a burden. “I didn’t want you to get sick.” Is what you say instead, which isn’t exactly a lie. 

“Well,” Nick hums, brushing his fingers through your hair, “Lucky for you, I have an impeccable immune system.” 

You crinkle your nose, fit to argue with him, but the moment you open your mouth, you turn and sneeze. A small smirk sounds from Nick when you groan. “Bless you.” 

You straighten your shoulders, rubbing some of your fingers against your temple as you turn to look at Nick. You want to tell him that it’s not necessary, that he doesn’t need to do anything extra for you, regardless that he’s here already. But at the same time, you also know he’s stubborn—he’s not going anywhere. And what’s the harm of allowing someone to take care of you? 

Your ex never would have showed up like this. The moment you’d let him know you were sick, he’d make a joke to keep a distance. Maybe that’s why, subconsciously, you never even thought to let your current boyfriend know you were struggling. 

“You better have a miracle cure in that bag,” You tease, the lightness in your voice covered by congestion. “I’d settle for tissues.” 

Nick reaches into the bag and pulls out a whole box. A whole box of tissues that have lotion in them. He gives you a small, knowing smile. 

“Did I mention you’re my favorite person?” You ask, snagging the box. You open it up, taking some tissues out. 

Nick breezes past you with a kiss to your temple, “I know—but reminders are always appreciated.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

Not only does this man make you soup, and make sure you have cold-relief meds, but in that paper bag of wonders he has one of those heatable stuffed animals, the ones that you can put in the microwave and smell like lavender (if you could breathe through your nose). You settle into the couch, the half-eaten soup on the coffee table as a movie plays in the background. You’ve kind of lost the plot, your eyes falling closed as you’re surrounded by some pillows and blankets, the warmed-up stuffed fox pressed to your abdomen. Nick’s seated in the corner of the couch, arm stretched out along the back—you’ve been trying to keep your distance but…god, he really looks comfortable.

He smiles a little in soft amusement, as if he can read your mind, his eyes sliding over to yours. His lips quirk, tilting his head a bit in his direction, 

“C’mon.” 

You shake your head, “I really don’t—” 

“Get over here,” He interrupts, leaning over to wrap his arm around your waist and tug until you're pressed against his side. You don’t fight it, a shiver wracking down your spine as you settle against him. “Cold?” 

You nod, fitting against his side, underneath his arm, tucking your face into his shoulder. You wish you could breathe him in, that comforting scent of his expensive cologne mixed with something that’s just purely him. He helps you adjust the blanket, his hand settling on your thigh with a gentle squeeze. His other hand threads his fingers through your hair in a way that’s meant to put you to sleep. 

“You’re gonna get sick.” You mumble, eyes fluttering closed. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “Don’t worry about me.” 

But you do. And he does. 

But it’s nice being able to take care of him too. 

—

Sometimes you sleep over. It’s one of those things that happen naturally—hanging out with friends, messing around in the pool, playing darts near the garage, coming back from a party, curled up watching a movie. Tonight is no different, except you’re a little drunk. You sit down on the edge of the bed, the room spinning slightly, Nick passing you a t-shirt of his to tug on. You love how it lays on you, the fabric unbelievably soft. 

He lingers in front of you, a smirk on his lips, tipping your chin up and leaning down just enough to brush a kiss over your temple, “You need help?” 

You let out a long, dramatic sigh that flutters your lips. It turns into a slight pout, “I need a kiss.”

Nick hums, his eyes appraising you, “Yeah? Where at?” 

And you hate how that makes you squirm. You squeeze your legs together, an action not missed by him, before pointing to your cheek. He licks his lips, crouching to press one right where you’ve requested. His fingers curl under your shirt, lifting it off in one fluid motion. He crouches before you, hands on your knees, waiting. 

You smile a little, skin warm, pointing to your shoulder blade. He follows through and you can’t stop yourself from running your fingers through his hair, his hands moving to splay along your waist, squeezing. That heat between your legs dips, tugs, hums. 

“Where else?” 

“I’ve definitely got some ideas but could you tell the room to stop spinning for a second?” 

Nick smiles, fingers moving to the button on your jeans. “Can I take these off?” 

Always with the permission. Always with making sure you’re okay. It’s something that’s so deeply important to you, something you’ve never told him. And yet he knows. 

“Need you to help me out,” He undoes the button and you stand on wobbly legs, hand holding onto his shoulder for support. He slides them off and tosses towards a chair in the corner. You sit back down, running your hands over your face, which probably smears your makeup ridiculously. 

You touch to the right of your belly button, “Here please.” 

Nick smiles, shaking his head a little. “Only because you were so polite.” 

You bite down on your tongue when he does it, when he kisses you there, swallowing the cheeky response that you know he’d do it anyways. 

He slips lower, kissing the side of your knee without you asking. Just because he wants to. He then leans back on his heels, giving you a onceover before taking the shirt he handed you, helping to slide it over your arms. Pressing a few kisses to your cheeks, mostly just to make you laugh, he pulls away. 

There’s definitely an audible whine you’ll deny making later. 

“I’m getting a washcloth for your face,” He laughs softly too, taking your hand to squeeze, “Get your makeup off.” 

You shake your head—wow, how’d you get so lucky? 

“Think it’s the other way around.” He assures you as he heads to his bathroom and you blink—apparently you said that outloud. 

As you wash the makeup off your face, Nick changes out of his clothes, a simple t-shirt and briefs. He tugs down the comforter and helps you under the covers, tugging them back up to your chin. It’s one of those moments that feels so intimate that your chest hurts a little. You lie on your side, not facing him, and he hooks his chin over your shoulder. 

“You okay?” He whispers, arm sliding around your waist. Your fingers lace together in an easy motion. 

“Perfect.” You reply, already dozing. By the time he turns the light out, you’re fast asleep. 

—

It’s one of those parties in which you can’t keep your hands off eachother. 

Nick’s obviously a tactile person, he talks but he says more with his actions, with his touch. A possessive hand on your waist, a protective arm around your back, a brush of a kiss to your temple, a cheeky nip of your lower lip. You can read him like a secret language, a message whispered in the dark. And you love that you can so easily reply in kind. A hand sneaking up and under his jacket to rest on his toned back, slipping your fingers into his back pocket to grab his ass, hooking your ankle around his under a table, a kiss to his cheek when you’re excited, his hair when he falls asleep on your chest. 

Tonight is no different. 

You separate for one instance so you can head to the bathroom and when you come out, you bump into someone who is waiting. 

“Shit sorry,” You apologize with a smile before raising your eyebrows. The guy you practically checked shoulders with is holding a book. A book at a party. And like, no judgement, obviously, but…it’s really the last thing you expected. 

“No worries,” He’s tall and kinda lanky, but soft looking, attractive in his own way. He smiles down at you, a sheepish hand rubbing the back of his neck as he catches you looking at his book. “Summer classes,” He admits, “Organic chem.” 

“Gross,” You offer with a soft laugh and he grins. 

“Yeah, not exactly party material. I’m trying to relax but uh, not the best at it.” 

“Well I’d put down the chemistry book, for starters.” You smile and you can tell he’s about to open his mouth and ask for something, maybe to offer to get you a drink, maybe something else. You’ll never know because you see Nick just past where this guy is standing. 

His gaze is set on you, never looking away once, but you can tell he must have noticed this guy towering over you because an arm slides around your waist, hand squeezing your hip. A clear message to anyone who might be confused. 

“Was wondering where you went.” And you raise your eyebrows at that, as if he doesn’t know you went to the bathroom. 

“Well you found me.” When Nick turns to look at you, there’s a heat to his eyes that almost takes your breath away. You can’t help but gaze back, like the darkness that you find is capable of pulling you under, under. 

Tall guy lets out an awkward laugh, snapping his textbook closed. “Well just gonna—” He motions to the bathroom but Nick takes a step towards it with you in tow, pressing you towards the doorframe and then steps in front, effectively blocking your body with his own. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna need to find another bathroom,” He tells him, leaning his palms against the doorframe. A soft laugh bubbles up in your chest as you lean against the sink, running a hand along the side of your face. 

Textbook guy blinks, makes an uh noise with his lips—and when he just stands there looking confused, Nick snaps out, “Fuck off.” 

And slams the door in his face. 

Your hand covers your mouth as Nick turns, taking measured steps towards you as you lean back against the sink. Feels sturdy enough—it’s one of those built-in counter ones, plenty of space for toiletries. 

“Textbook guy was nice, you know?” You inform him, a smirk mapping your lips as Nick leans in, encroaching on your space. He encourages you to lean back a little as he cages your body with his own, arms on either side of you. 

He whispers into your ear, “I don’t care.” 

When he pulls back a bit, your noses brush and you lift your hand to play with a curl on his forehead. Amusement sits on your tongue, heat between your legs, “Didn’t know you could get jealous.” 

Nick’s gaze lands on your lips. You expect him to deny it, but instead he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, dragging it out, nipping at your lower lip with his teeth. Then he kisses you completely, slotting his own body along your own, tongue sliding into your mouth. The moment you moan is when he sinks his hands into your hair, keeping you close. Your own glide down his sides, digging into the fabric of his jeans, tugging—

A sharp noise, a groan from the back of his throat, sets little electric zips along your skin. 

You can feel the hardness of him against your hip and breathing patterns change, just a little uneven, pulling back so that your lips fall to his neck. Your hand wanders, one destination, undoing his jeans so that you can slip inside. 

“So,” You whisper, tilting your head back, getting a good look at him. Your fingers wrap around him, beginning to palm his cock. His pupils are blown as he licks his lips—you can feel the twitch of his hips, driving him a bit forward. Your thumb works at the bead of moisture at his tip, back and forth, down along him. 

You smile, “Yes to being jealous?”

His hand slips around the back of your neck, squeezing a little, gathering a bit of your hair in the process. It’s barely a tug, barely any pain, and yet heat shocks down your spine, settling in your core. 

“Of anyone who makes you laugh like that.” 

And for some reason that reaches into the center of your chest and squeezes. You can’t find the words to reply. So you don’t. 

Luckily both of you are both attune at speaking without saying anything at all. 

Your other hand rests on the side of his face, your thumb brushing over his lips before kissing him again. 

It doesn’t take long after that. Nick helps gets his jeans down, peeling your skirt up, practically ripping your underwear to get them out of his fucking way. He presses you back against the sink, it’s not the most comfortable—the edge is biting into your muscles, but at this point it just adds to the pleasure that’s already building in your lower belly. He lifts your leg a little, holding you, sliding forward until his cock brushes against your entrance. 

“Nick,” You moan and that one word has him pushing inside. 

Your head tips forward, forehead ending up on his shoulder, rolling your hips until he’s completely inside of you. It’s not as drawn out as you want, but you know it’s only a matter of time until someone comes knocking on this bathroom. You hike your leg up a little more, encouraging him deeper as he moves, as much as you can at this angle. It’s too fast, a little too hard, and the movements are a little too desperate. 

But fuck if that stops you from cumming hard. 

The moment Nick’s mouth finds your neck and sucks while his one hand not holding you slips between, fingers circling your clit, you lose it. 

Your body clenches around him and you bury your face in his shoulder, clinging to him as ripples of pleasure slam into you. Your fingers dig into his back and there’s two more thrusts forward until Nick loses himself as well, a soft tremble following as both of you breathe one another in, wait for pulses to slow, for breathing to settle. 

He pulls back slightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, curling your hair around your ear. A soft smile tugs the corner of your mouth and you slowly turn a bit to face yourself in the mirror. 

Jesus. You’re really not fooling anyone—you look utterly wrecked. Your hair is mussed, face flushed, and you attempt to fix a bit of yourself as Nick cleans himself up and grabs a washcloth on the shower cabinet near the mirror. He dampens it in the sink before crouching, cleaning up your inner thighs. You let out a slow breath as he drags the fabric along your cunt, gentle and yet tortuous. 

Nick licks his lips, looking at you in the mirror, settling his chin on your shoulder. You find his gaze in the reflection, his one hand coming up and resting on the side of your neck. His thumb brushes a blooming hickey near your pulse point. His eyes never leave yours, 

“In case there’s any further confusion for anyone.” 

When you run into the textbook guy again later that night, Nick’s arm draped lazily over your shoulders as he talks to Lion, your boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind this time around when you ask him with a teasing lilt how organic chem is going. 

He zeros in on your neck right away, and Nick fucking smirks. 

—

Maybe the warning labels, the explosion, the danger you both once spoke of isn't exactly what you assumed. It's not that you'd end up being bad for one another, or somehow get in the other's way. It's not the underground fighting ring or the racing or past trauma with your ex. It's something deeper, emotionally grounded, something that's capable of taking you out right at your knees. You knew love had teeth, you just didn't realize you could be devoured by it. 

The way you care about Nick bites into you and doesn't let go. 

You're quiet as you clean up the tiny cuts on Nick's knuckles, using a bit too much antiseptic but not relishing in the way he winces. You can't meet his gaze, even though you know he's trying to capture yours. Seated side by side on the edge of his bed, you let out a long breath before setting the bloody cotton ball aside and grabbing another. 

Stupid re-match that Lion set up. Nick won, but that's not really the point. 

You waited outside in the car, eventually getting out to pace, leaning back against the driver's door until they all came out. A split lip, a blackening mark underneath his eye on his cheekbone, bruised ribs and cut-up knuckles. 

You hate this. You hate it so fucking much. You're practically buzzing with this anger but know better than to speak. Nick seems to know better too, because he's utterly still beside you. Curling your hair around your ear, you set another used cotton ball aside—you can’t use bandages on these small cuts. They’re not that bad, he doesn’t need any, and yet…leaving them open like this makes your chest ache. You can’t patch them up, but…maybe an ice pack wouldn’t hurt. For his ribs at least. 

When you move to stand, Nick’s fingers gently wrap around your wrist, a silent plea not to move. You close your eyes, can feel yourself trembling—

It’s not so much the blood. It’s seeing him hurt. It fucking guts you. Even though he’s okay, you know he’s okay. It doesn’t make it any easier. 

“I really wish you’d stop doing this,” You eventually say, your words sounding too loud in the silence. Too choked. That anger from before unfortunately fizzles out into the real emotion it was hiding: concern. “All—all it takes is one wrong hit and—” You sniffle, cutting yourself off. 

Nick lets out a long sigh through his nose before a gentle nod follows. He inches himself closer to you on the bed, until your knees bump together, his hand wrapping along the back of your neck. Despite wanting to pull away, wanting to create distance, he encourages you to lean into him. You relent as if it’s not the easiest thing you’ve ever done, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. 

He tips his chin down, his face burying itself in your hair, and he keeps you close until you stop shaking. 

–

That’s the last fight Nick’s in, he tells Lion not to involve him in any others. 

–

Admittedly, cars have never really been your thing. You admire them, you appreciate the work that some people put into them, or how much someone is willing to pay to enhance them, but they’ve never been something to spend your own money on. You upkeep the Jeep that your parents bought you on your eighteenth birthday, and that’s always been enough. 

Nick though? He loves his cars. Has a full garage of them. A collector, an enthusiast, and you love that about him. One of the many things. Love that you can learn something new about something he’s clearly passionate about. 

He’s got a love-hate relationship with your Jeep though. 

“She’s ol’reliable.” 

Nick just crinkles his nose. 

“Don’t look down on Donna like that.”

“Please do not call your jeep that.” 

You giggle, “Donna is timeless.” 

“Donna sounds like an old bitty who’s been working too long at the corner diner. She smells like grease and has menus sticking to her hands.” 

Now you laugh something bold and bright and it twitches the corners of Nick’s mouth. “Hater.” 

He pulls you into a kiss, pressing your back against the door of your Jeep. He certainly trusts it enough for that. 

Though, this is what you get for calling your Jeep ‘dependable’ and ‘reliable’, speaking too soon when she conks out on the side of the road. You attempt to restart her a few times but finally groan and give up, slipping out of the driver’s seat. You’ve put a lot of money into her but…Nick’s freaky car-sense about her is right—not ol’reliable in the least. 

Pursing your lips, you press on Nick’s name, listening to the line trill. He picks up on the third ring, “What’s wrong?” 

You purse your lips, “I can’t just call you because I miss you?” 

Nick hums, “Donna died, didn’t she.” It is not a question. 

You scoff out a sound, “You gotta make it sound so final like that?” 

He sighs but you can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks, fabric rustling in your ear as well. You picture him in bed, maybe reading, getting up to get his shoes. “Where are you?” 

You drop a pin and it doesn’t take him too long to get to your location. You hear the rumble of an engine before you see him, a sleek red car pulling up beside poor Donna. A tow truck is not far behind and you smile sweetly at your boyfriend as the door pops up and Nick steps out. 

“Hate to break it to you but I think it’s time for Donna to visit the car lot in the sky.” 

Your lips form a pout and Nick smirks out a soft laugh, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. He presses a brief kiss to your lips, turning to watch as the tow truck parks behind Donna and begins to wheel her into place. 

He stretches his arm over your shoulders, drawing you close to brush another kiss to your temple, “C’mon,” He motions towards his car, “I’m sure she’ll be well taken care of.”

“You’re probably hoping they’ll take her to a scrap lot and squish her with one of those car crushers.” 

“I would never.” 

He places his hands on your shoulders, encouraging you forward until you get inside the passenger door. He closes it behind you, slipping into the driver’s seat. A dramatic sigh leaves your lips as you lean back into the seat, the smell of expensive leather and his cologne comforting, despite leaving Donna behind. You rest your head back against the headrest, a small smile on your face as your eyes drink in his profile. 

“Where can we go?” You’re not in the mood to go home. 

Nick turns his head to look at you, a gentle smile, his one hand on the wheel while the other rests on your knee. “Anywhere.” 

You can’t help but smile back—you love the sound of that. 

[rebelspykatie]

Steve’s never had anyone show any genuine interest in the things he likes. Robin rolls her eyes when he brings up sports or silly movies that don’t have a bigger plot or character work. Even though she played soccer, she doesn’t care about it in the same way that Steve cares about basketball or football. 

The kids make fun of everything from his taste in music to his choice in snacks for movie nights. Mike calls him a little housewife for baking one time and he never shows up with cookies again. They’re never intentionally mean spirited, or at least he doesn’t think so. He knows he can give as good as he gets when it comes to catty, sarcastic comments, but he tries to steer clear of personal attacks on someone’s identity these days. He learned that lesson with Jonathan. 

But even before the party came along, it was like that. His parents never stuck around long enough to find out what he was up to, never attending a game or meet, and certainly in the dark about what he might be up to outside of school. Tommy only ever cared about himself and Carol, only following Steve around for clout, popularity by association. If he asked him right now, he’d bet a lot of money that Tommy doesn’t even remember his favorite food or the movie he used to watch when he was sick. There was a point where he thought he could share things with him. Until he realized mid ramble about sports cars that Tommy wasn’t even listening to him. He was staring at Carol and nodding along with a vacant expression. 

So he stopped sharing. Stopped caring if people knew anything about him because they never asked. People always made assumptions about him anyway. The girls he slept with only wanted one thing. The kids were happy to let him chauffeur them around with no questions asked. Robin was the only one he let in, the only one that cared about digging deeper. But, and she never said in so many words, he could tell that she thought his interests were mundane, and clearly not something that sparked any enthusiasm from her. She couldn’t even keep up with the girls he slept with, giving him the same bored stare as Tommy. 

Even now, after a few years, Steve’s reminded that they never would have become friends if not for trauma and the secret inner workings of the Russian’s within Hawkins. He’s lucky to have her, but he doesn’t think she ever would’ve chosen this, chosen him. And that’s fine. He’s used to not being chosen. His parents didn’t choose him when they started leaving him alone at age 12. Tommy and Carol chose each other and the reign of a new king when Steve fell from his throne. Nancy chose Jonathan. 

He doesn’t think he has a lot to offer. 

Well, at least until Eddie comes along. He’s taken by surprise when Eddie asks after the song that’s playing in his car. He’d assumed Eddie only liked metal music, and yeah he pokes fun at the genre of music Steve seems to stick to, begging him to give metal a shot, but he doesn’t say a word about how lame it is. When they’re having a movie night, Eddie notices that Steve gravitates towards coke and brings him one without Steve asking.

After Eddie sees his bedroom, Steve gets a pack of hot wheels for Christmas. Eddie jokes that he should give one to each of the kids as their new ride, since they seem to be ungrateful little twerps. Steve places them right under his posters on his dresser and Eddie grins at them every time he comes over. They lay in bed and pretend to drive them on the ceiling like they’re kids again. It shakes something loose in Steve’s chest. 

Eddie hates sports, but he invites Steve over on Mondays, when Wayne is perched in his chair for football. He quietly works on his campaigns while Steve and Wayne watch the games. Eddie somehow worms his way into Steve’s heart, digging deeper and deeper with each new thing, like he wants to know more. Steve’s history is a minefield, but Eddie expertly navigates through it, leaving who they were behind, building something new together. Steve’s already halfway in love with him before he even realizes that Eddie is something that he likes. 

He expects to freak out a bit more, but who is going to stop him? Who is going to care if he wants to be with this boy? He’s spent so long ignoring parts of himself for others that he wants to cherish this fragile thing, to cradle it in his hands, make sure no one can ruin it for him. When he kisses Eddie, it feels like coming home, like he’s finally found that place he’s been searching for his whole life. It’s a kind of devotion that Steve’s not used to, born of love and not obsession or jealousy or anger. 

He’s not sure he deserves it, but he’ll do everything in his power to keep it.

[avifaunaa]

these strange noises [ voices ] followed me here [ s.s.+n.s.] [ pt. 2 ]

Authors Note: 🤪

fun facts:

i have zero medical knowledge and the likelihood of this being extremely inaccurate is high!

i did a lot of research into medical practices and inner workings of being a medical professional to try and throw this together

i also watch grey's anatomy, that makes me an expert

any named people of importance in the hospital are made up for obvious reasons lmao

Shauna nat are married here. No i will not be taking questions.

Masterlist

PART ONE

Pairing: Dark!SoftNatalie x fem!reader x Dark!MeanShauna

Summary: It has been ten years since the rescue. Ten years since the trauma of a plane crash. Ten years. You’ve changed your name, moved as far away as you possibly could, and finished your degree and now find yourself in the last year fellowship of pediatric surgery. You’re fine. Until you’re not.

Content Warnings: Thick plot, sorry, Mentions of illness+injuries regarding children as R has become a pediatric surgeon + 1 detailed scene of surgery in which r is conversing with another doctor, r responds to an actual name because she changed it but not by S/N, Mean!Shauna, Soft!Natalie, angst, stalking, harassment, blackmail, EXTREMELY FUCKING DARK non-con, threats, degradation, praise, strap-on use [ r!r ], face slapping, spitting, cutting, hair-pulling, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, and some aftercare because jesus fucking christ.

Word Count: ~8.1k

Your forehead thumped against the steering wheel of your car as you closed your eyes. You were exhausted and you’d just had a day off — but it was time for your rounds and unfortunately, that meant the next few days of sleep would likely be done in the on-call room.

The cool San Diego breeze blew through your hair as you slammed the door shut and dropped the keys into your bag before dragging your way toward the looming building that was your second home — essentially.

Your phone chimed in your pocket and you pulled it out, hoping it wasn’t Clary asking you if you were there yet. She wanted to touch base on the research you were both working on as partners, but you didn’t want to admit to her that no, you hadn’t so much as touched it all weekend.

You almost failed out in your first year of fellowship — it was so much more difficult to have completed in one single year than all the years you had to complete for residency.

[ You also had five patients today, two of them with grave outlooks ]

If anything had taught you about looking death in the eye, it was crashing in the Canadian Wilderness and surviving for almost two years no matter the circumstances.

You could look these children in the eye and promise them you would absolutely do whatever it took to make them feel better. And pretend magic had everything to do with it.

It was their parents — their angry, grieving, begging parents — that you struggled with more. It was the same look when you watched the recordings your parents kept of the news and interviews about your plane going missing, the loss of hope after each one months after months.

With kids it was easy. They trusted you to do whatever you thought was best and felt like you were their imaginary savior of sorts — you would do whatever it took to take care of them.

But the adults had lost the magic, the endless hope, the seemingly open glee at hearing any slight good news.

It wasn’t Clary but rather, it was Jordan. She had become your closest friend — and your attending — during your fellowship. Forming close relationships with your mentors wasn’t inherently frowned upon as long as there could still be a clear line between professionalism and what usually existed on the other side of said line.

You were swift to get to the locker rooms to change into your scrubs and pristine white coat, saying hello to your other fellows and exchanging brief conversation.

None of them would ever wish to talk to you again if they knew who you were — what your real name was and what your experiences forced you to endure.

It matters little now. The only name you responded to and that was on any official documents to be found was the one you perfectly articulated for yourself when you burned away your past along with your dreams to work in Vancouver.

“Forceps,” Jordan demanded from your left, as the two of you stood over a patient lying on his side, a large incision opening from his ribs to his back. It was a mess and you hated that a fifteen year old had to experience it.

“You’re quiet today,” the older doctor commented once the tool was set in her hand and she went to work using it. Cancer, so built up that parts of his right lung had to go.

You kept still the drainage tube that allowed fluids to properly drain.

“I’m really tired,” you stated behind your mask, eyes moving toward the monitoring screen so you wouldn’t have to meet her eyes when she would glance at you. “It’s been a long month.”

And the anniversary for the crash is tomorrow.

But you couldn’t say that. Doing so would acknowledge a life that you had worked so endlessly to murder, bury, and run from so many years ago.

Your life was peacefully undisturbed and no signs of vengeance from your past was threatening to upturn what you’ve so carefully designed — you could only hope it stayed that way.

“Hmm,” Jordan murmured in the Jordan Way. You came to know it closely, intimately, when you started your fellowship under her scrutiny. She could smell lies like they were freshly baked bread and it made her extremely hard to go around.

Clary and you had lost rounds for a week when you had swapped patients simply because you didn’t like the other doctors you were paired with. Never again. You had both learned to play nice — “which you should have done as attendings,” she had snarled before stalking off.

But now she has fallen into her focused silence, working meticulously and removing the damaged section of lung on the patient. Nurses came and went with more sponging. You adjusted his position as needed if movement became an issue, and kept an eye on the muscle tearing done during the incision.

She snipped something and removed it carefully. It landed with a splat behind her on a medical container to be a properly disposed of.

“Clots?”

You did not move the tubing.

“No.”

“Good,” she said simply, and went back to work. You knew that while the focus was getting this surgery done, she was sniffing you out like a hound on a hare.

“He came out of the surgery well,” you told the thirty-eight year old woman four hours later, who trembled outside of her son’s recovery room where he lay sleeping now. “He’ll need to be monitored for any signs of clots or leaking from his lungs, but so far his outlook has become positive and he’s well on his way to being able to go back to soccer.”

Agnes trembled more and she collapsed into you, arms wrapping around you. You embraced her readily, having accepted this part of the job the most: the ability to take the overflow of emotions parents and family had nowhere else to put. In your residency, you had been desired by mentors for your bedside manner but it was always going to go to pediatrics.

“Thank you,” she murmured in your ear as her tear-soaked cheek pressed against yours in the hug. You rubbed her back, offering the comfort and shielding her from the part of you that ached and begged for sleep and food.

“It’s my pleasure. I will be back to check on him, but if you need anything feel free to ask the nurses okay?” You pulled back from the hug, squeezing her arms warmly and smiling as well.

Agnes nodded, thanking you tearfully once again as she stumbled to go see her son. You slid the door closed to allow her some quiet privacy to decompress — she was going to drop from that adrenaline soon.

You made your way to the nurses station where charts were already laid out for you. Your next patient was not going to wait for you to recover yourself, and you didn’t have a lunch for another four and a half hours.

It was the television, however, that stopped you in your tracks. The local news station was showing footage that was all too familiar and immediately induced a flight like sensation into your system.

You dig your fingers into the boxy clipboard as you stared at the overhead footage plastered to the screen of the remains of the crash from a year after. Your blood turned to ice in your veins and you froze like a deer in headlights.

The team had picked the plane apart to use what you could and many documentaries and news segments had commented on it when they went to seek out the wreckage and your camps after the rescue. You had family questioning you for months before you exited, stage left, and you had refused to discuss it.

“Tomorrow will mark ten years after the incredible rescue from Canadian forests of the university team, The Yellowjackets, one and a half years after they had been reported missing during their flight,” the reporter started, and the footage following flickered to the remains of the empty camp recorded post-rescue.

“Searches were initially held in the first five months where the flight path was said to have taken, but the crash was later found one hundred and fifty feet away from that official path. Investigators were unable to identify the exact cause of the crash.”

The reporter next to her leaned to glance at her. “Every time I hear the story, it never ceases to both amaze and sadden me,” he told his partner, shaking his head.

You wanted to claw his face off. It was all fake — he didn’t care, not really.

The woman nodded solemnly in agreement. Someone brushed your shoulder and something was said, but you did not pay attention as she continued, “Survivors have gone completely off-grid since their return home except, notably, for lawyer and currently running for State Senator Taissa Turner, who has not answered questions in regards to the crash.”

Photographs of all of you — the ones who made it — lined the screen. They weren’t recent and you were relieved that your deep burial had worked. All these photos were ones taken for the university website for the team a few months before the play season began.

Your eyes flickered to Shauna and Natalie’s photos, briefly, and you held your breath until they were gone. Even this long and you still acted off of your base instinct when any signs of them, be it a memory or a mention in media, cropped up.

“Doctor Landry.” You jerked back from the counter and your arm loosened on the clipboard holding your chart. The object fell with to the floor with a clatter and you startled further, rearing back and pressing your lower back into the counter.

“Woah, sorry.” It was a resident who often worked with Jordan and thus with you. His name often escaped you, but right now it wasn’t even a thought in your head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Must have been really into the chart, huh?”

You swallowed hard, fingers pressing carefully into the smooth countertops to ground yourself and tuned your ears to the sound of the hospital noises. For many, the hospital is chaotic, overwhelming, a cause of stress.

For you it brought comfort. The endless impact of sensations were a constant reminder of who and where you were now and you were able to keep yourself from truly having to dig too internally.

You breathed out and watched the resident bend down a little too eagerly to grab the chart for you and hold it out with a nervous smile. “Doctor Jordan sent me to be your resident for the rest of your rounds,” he said, sounding pleased.

You blinked at him and hated and loved Jordan in equal measures at this moment. You knew she was working on your teaching skills for when you completed your fellowship and had a license in full. You would eventually have your own fellows to train and residents to attend, but . . .

“Okay,” you started, “Larry.”

He frowned. “It’s Brewer.”

You slipped your tennis shoes back on once you changed back into your normal clothes — glad to feel something heavier against your skin other than scrubs but less constraining than your coat.

Clary — bright, energetic, a mass of light — blocked your exit from the locker room, hand gripping her bag as she grinned at you, ignoring your tired face. “Drinks?”

You glanced at your phone screen and squinted at the large 10:00 that flashed back at you. You’d just gotten off of the second of your monthly 24 hour shifts; you’d be on mostly day shifts and Jordan’s on-call schedule for surgeries the rest of the month.

A drink with Clary and then sleeping in wouldn’t hurt. You won’t be back until Wednesday.

“Okay,” you agree like you had a choice with her blocking your path. Her grin became softer and she nudged you as you exit together and discuss your shifts on your way out.

You went to a bar close to the beach that had outdoor seating. The night life was active despite being a weekday and you knew it was partially to do with spring break soon coming up.

You both ordered your usuals and you ran the heel of your palm across your face as you took in the scenery, trying to get the entire day out of your head.

“How’d your lung surgery go?” she asked when drinks were delivered. Your fingers wrapped around the chilled glass of your beverage and you took a sip.

"Exceptionally well, of course, when it comes to working with Jordan," you told her, raising your glass in a half-salute. "She's a master of her craft."

Clary arched a perfectly sculpted brow [ you would know, she's dragged you to her appointments more than once ] and released the loudest scoffs her small form could manage. "Bullshit. Yeah, she's amazing. But c'mon . . . you're being looked at to become a permanent surgeon here! Jordan sings you praises!"

"I assisted her on the lung surgery, Clary," you laughed, "That was all I was asked to do this time."

"But I'm trying to point out facts here, Darling." Clary did not continue without first taking another sip of her drink, with you following suit. The salty beach breeze drifted into the outdoor patio as the bustle increased from beach-goers seeking late night drinks and food. "There's rumors."

"Not rumors," you moaned, craning your head back and tight-lipping a smile from your face in amusement.

"I'm serious!" You felt the table shake as she leaned over to slap you on the arm.

"Watch the drink, psycho!" You reared back, careful not to spill and keeping your body parts off of the table in case she used friendly fire again.

"There's rumors, Landry," Clary repeated, dimpled cheeks flushed from the alcohol and giggles you two had shared. "That Sanchez is going to go to the Board after you complete your fellowship and that's why Jordan's been throwing all of her energy into you more than her other fellows."

You did not let that spark of hope in your chest ignite into a large bonfire. You were good at what you did and you knew it, but focusing on simply surviving this final year would be what earned that offer of any position from the hospital. Not dreaming of it.

You twirled your drink and hid your features as you tipped it to take a longer sip than the last.

"The kids like you," Clary continued as she flagged down the server for your table, her drink empty, "the nurses and attendings like you, Jordan's residents like you, hell -- the ER likes it when you come and take a load from them. Are you really stunned to silence?"

"No, Claire," you sighed, wanting her to shut up about it. You knew you were liked, you knew you had eyes on you, and while you knew what you were getting into when you stayed in your field after the Wilderness, you always had to remind yourself you did not have to keep looking over your shoulder from these particular eyes.

"Claire," the fellow chortled, flinging herself back dramatically in her high-seated chair. "Not the full name."

"Can we discuss something else before I end up having to use your last name, too?"

The way she puffed her cheeks out at you indicated that she wasn't completely finished hounding you, but she also seemed to understand you had drawn a line in the sand and was not going to cross it.

She waved her manicured hand at you, sparkly black nails glinting under the bright lighting of the tiki's and overhang fan-lights. "Ugh, fine. Keep your secrets."

You smiled at her. "I will."

Your discussion veered off into safer waters and you had gotten relaxed under the atmosphere. Chattering patrons and boisterous laughter replaced the bustle of hospital noise that soothed you constantly.

You and Clary turned your heads when a server that was not the one who had been supplying you both with drinks all night appeared with a tray, only one glass of your choice of drink aligned in the middle.

"Hi," he greeted politely, but rushed, as he sat the glass down in front of you, covering the two empty ones behind it. "A nice woman at the bar bought you this drink."

You stared at it as he swiped the two empty glasses and went for Clary's as well, leaving her third half-empty one for her to finish as the woman stared at you in shock, brow raised mischievously.

"Thank you," she said for you, eyes still on your stupefied form as the server vanished into the crowd. She smirked brightly, chin laying on her curled fist as she wiggled her brows at you. "Well, well, do we have a mystery admirer we should keep an eye out for?"

You did not touch the drink and shifted your gaze over Clary's shoulder toward the bar. It was packed with people waiting for drinks. All seats were taken but people crowded the areas between and behind it, too.

Nobody in particular stood out nor did you feel as though you were being watched. You wondered if you had grown extremely comfortable in this life to the point of no longer studying your surroundings well enough.

"See anyone?" Clary mused behind her glass, turning her upper body to help you look. "Jesus Christ, even though we know our mystery friend is a woman there's still to many to try to pull as our suspect." She swiveled back to you, looking more deflated than you.

You shrugged as you swept the area one more time, hoping you'd maybe find anything that would stick out. You picked up the glass and dropped the matter -- if your gift giver was too shy to reveal herself, then you'd just let her appreciate you enjoying her gift from afar.

"It's fine," you assure Clary, offering a tilted grin to soften the blow, "I'm too busy impressing the Board for mystery ladies, anyway."

Clary downed the rest of her drink.

Your sitter messaged you to let you know that she had left the key in the usual spot after walking Nibbles for the last time for the night. You dumped a generous tip into her Rover account and requested another drop by for your few work days that would be the busiest and snagged the key from your elderly neighbor's plant as you returned to your apartment.

You were buzzy and feeling more relaxed after going out for drinks with Clary. You did not do it extremely often -- but it was good for you to not stay locked away in your place every second you weren't at the hospital. You got stir crazy easy and after the crash, you did not like existing in a state of "just here" that signaled your brain that you were on survival mode.

Never again.

Your teacup yorkie, Nibbles, spun in circles in his ritualistic way by the front door as you entered and removed your shoes. He did this until he was dizzy and wobbled after you toward the couch.

"Was Penelope here today, my little mister man?" you crooned at him as he climbed up the couch and spun more circles in your lap. "I see. Did you see many things on your walks?"

He gave you kisses and sniffs.

Nibbles was your one indulgence in the destruction of your old self and rebirth of the new. You found him in a box as you were throwing your broken down boxes into the recycling after moving into your place. He was a tiny, scraggly, infested thing that reminded you of yourself ten years ago.

You took him in immediately and he's been your constant in the ever-changing busy world you'd fashioned for yourself. Ten years old and he was still ready for whatever you threw at him.

After saying proper hellos and dropping a frozen Kong at his feet to keep him busy while you got ready for bed, you headed to the bathroom and rubbed at your temples.

Your phone, muffled, buzzed insistently in the bag you tossed on the bed as you were undoing your jeans.

You ignored it and figured it was Clary spamming you with TikToks after doom-scrolling in the cab.

But the buzzing did not end. Clary sent you ten videos in two messages, usually, not one by one.

Your curiosity got the better of you and had you rotating yourself to the bed and shifting through your bag until your phone was in hand.

Unknown (12:54): You cut your hair. Unknown (12:54): you're so pretty to this day, baby Unknown (12:54): We're glad to see you still like the same drinks Unknown (12:55): You aren't dating that girl you're with are you? Unknown (12:55): we're really proud of you're accomplishments Unknown (12:55): It took us ten years, sweetheart. Ready to see what we can do with ten minutes? Unknown (12:57): We cannot wait to catch up with you. Hope your dog doesn't bite

A cold wave of soberness splashed over you as you read out each text message word by word then went back and reread them again.

You dropped the phone like it had burned a hole into your hand, curling your fingers to your chest as you stare at the object in horror. Your eyes darted around, paranoia starting to renter your system like a welcome friend that was old but well-known.

You shot across the bedroom and ripped the curtains over the windows, covering the view and made quick work of the ones in the living room as well. Nibbles had finished his Kong and followed you around, ears perked and fuzzy face mussed from cheese.

You backed away from the windows and swallowed dryly, trembling and paced circles around your entire apartment for a better part of an entire hour without any sign of disturbance.

You barely touched your phone but there were no other text messages coming in. You blocked the number and screenshotted the messages just in case before turning your phone off for the night and heading off to the bathroom to shower.

You dress quickly and don’t spend as much time on your skincare routine as you usually do. Your head was spinning with unfiltered energy and fears about those messages.

Nibbles is waiting in his spot on your bed with an expectant look as you pulled the covers out and slipped under. He immediately dove under to curl into your side and nestle into your warmth like a heat-seeking mini missile.

You flipped on the television and thumbed at the buttons without actually changing the channel that was already on from when you last had watched. Your mind was racing like a three-time winning race-horse.

There was no possible way it could be anyone on the team. While the reporters had been pretty correct in everyone going off grid, you had done more than that. You had wiped your name off the map.

So much had happened after the rescue anyways -- Natalie and Shauna had never really had the chance to regain control over their hold once going home and struggling to go back to normal had become all of your shared fight.

You hoped it was just some kids playing a prank on random phone numbers that they entered into their phones.

But even the likelihood of that was lower than your belief that your past was not going to come back to haunt you quicker than you'd left it behind.

The next day you kept busy with mundane tasks that ensured your thoughts were distracted. You went out somewhat early to grocery shop -- when you opened your refrigerator you had winced at the lack of food. It was time to brave that task again.

You armed Nibbles with some treats and the television to make sure he had company and went on your way, list made.

As the day dragged forth you could not help but feel a pit start to grow in your stomach. It was a feeling you had known well but had not felt to this degree for a very long time.

You tried to ignore it as best you could, but it did not seem to go away the closer to home you got.

You stood dead in front of your door, unable to shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The bags you had gathered together in hand were slipping from how clammy your hands grew under the stress of the feeling.

Quietly you set your goods down and fished for your keys. Entered them into the lock . . .

. . . only to find that the door was not locked in the first place.

You took a step back bile beginning to claw its' way up from your stomach and into your mouth, threatening to spew all over the ground. You have never felt like an animal walking into a trap to this degree; not since the Wilderness.

You had to leave, you needed to get out of here, get somewhere where other people were and wait it out. Call the police --

The door opened.

And Shauna Fucking Shipman stood in your doorway like she lived there, your little dog pleased and panting happily in her arms.

"Hello, sweetheart," she chirped, lips curling upward into that trademark smirk that read trouble and danger in your eyes. "Didn't you get our texts?"

Our?

"W-What?" San Diego could get warm sometimes -- but the hallway was boiling lava to your skin right now. Revets of sweat trickled down your forehead and you stood stark still in front of her. "Shauna?"

"Hi, Landry," she purred, reaching out one of her arms and gesturing for you to come into your own apartment. "We have a lot of catching up to do."

You went to move forward past her and give her the widest of berths you could afford. She did not follow you closely but went to grab the bags that you had, in your shock, left in the hallway before following you.

You saw a figure on your sofa sprawled out like a cat that had claimed the nicest piece of furniture in the house. High-ankle combat boots, tight fitting black jeans, messy bleach blonde hair and an angular sleek face.

"Natalie," you blurt. She turns her head to you. She looked just like she did ten years ago in the Wilderness, but the bags under her eyes from the stress of trying to keep a bunch of people alive . . . that was gone. There was fresh life there.

Her eyes softened around the edges and she turned her body so she could face you. She had a gold band around her ring finger -- the only thing that truly stood out as very un-Nat like to you.

You tried not to stare at the band too long before moving your gaze back to her face. Her red lips were smiling, so unlike the sharp sneers Shauna doned and always so warm.

"Hey, baby," she husked. "You cut your hair."

You had few options now that they were somehow in your home; your safe space now made a den of danger.

So you offered to make them dinner with the haul you retrieved from the store. You did not know Shauna and Natalie as they were back when you were college students, and you wanted to never be the girl who had to do what she did to stay alive.

A dinner may keep you in a safe zone and give you time to think. They accepted -- but Shauna wanted to help. She plopped your traitorous dog onto Nat's lap and followed you into your small, open kitchen to unpack your groceries.

She had not changed much, either. She was still incredibly fit as though she never left the soccer life. Her hair was in wavy rings held back by a ponytail and some of her distinct freckles had faded into a softer dusting, but the predatory glitter was still very Shauna.

She also had a band around her ring finger; gold with a glittery diamond showing off.

"Pretty," you commented casually, nodding to the ring as you pulled out your cutting board and lay aside some lettuce, cucumber, onion, and tomatoes for a salad.

Shauna had a chicken breast that you had planned on saving for girl's night with Clary in her hands. She glanced at the ring, and she seemed to soften with fondness briefly. "Thank you. Nat chose well, don't you think?"

"Nat?" you could not hide your surprise if you tried, eyebrows disappearing into your hairline as you rolled the tomato between your hand and the cutting board, almost squeezing it flat. "Wow -- shit. Unexpected, but -- uhh -- congratulations." Shauna's nose wrinkled in a show of amusement. "Thank you. We married a couple of years after . . ." she trailed off, but her tone did not sound as though she hated discussing the past in the way you did.

"Oh." You chewed your lip. "Well, good for you guys."

Silence overtook the both of you as you started your respective roles in creating dinner. You couldn't help but be compared to those lions that take on gazelle and simply co-exist with them for days at a time before eating them or letting them go, in rarer cases.

You thumbed the hilt of the knife comfortingly and glanced slowly at Shauna. "How did you find me?"

Shauna was applying some sort of homemade rub that had a strong smell of spice onto the chicken. She let you sit in anticipation while she did this and while she washed her hands.

Finally, "Misty."

Fucking Misty Quigley. If you ever got your hands on her, you'll make her into a human experiment the likes which even the most cruel of humanity would gawk at.

"I was sure I made it clear I did not want to be found," you said flatly.

Shauna pressed some buttons on your oven. "We gave you long enough," she said like that answered every single question ever.

"This is why I burned bridges," you snapped, slicing the tomato thinner than intended, unlike the previous slices. "I created a life for myself here, Shauna. That girl from before the rescue died in the Wilderness."

Shauna was quiet as she waited for the oven to heat up; it was the type of quiet that was tense and displeased with a buildup that had no release system.

"I want," you continued when she said nothing else, "a quiet life. No Wilderness, no reminders of the crash, no existing parts of who I had to become in order to still know I was alive. I hated that girl so I created a woman I could stand being."

A hand brushed the back of your neck before grasping it. It was a natural reflex -- ten years old and still you melted into it like nothing had changed. The dull edges of her ring pressed into your skin like a hot brand.

"Natalie and I picked up our entire lives and moved down here," she confesses, ice coating the words she spoke, "after we gave you your fucking space and let you do whatever you needed to do. Did you really think you were truly ever out of our sights? That we let you go?"

Pinpricks of heat prodded at your eyes as she locked you in place, a hazy assault of unwelcome memories starting to rip apart scars that you had spent years treating and disguising.

"Why?"

Shauna pressed a lingering kiss behind your ear. "Because you have always been ours. Do you want to keep your career -- make sure the hard work put into this life-saving job of yours doesn't go away?"

You swallowed under her fingers. She felt it and laughed breathily. "I bet so. Be good for us. Your career isn't in our sights -- we just want the rest of you."

She released you just like that, backing away as the oven screamed out to alert it was heated up.

"Finish the salad and set the table," Shauna orders like she did not just blackmail you, "Then go sit with Nat."

Nat did not make you talk much until you were both called to the table to eat. Three portions of the meal were set out and as clanking of silverware dominated the silence next to the heavy panting of Nibbles begging at your feet, you could feel Nat and Shauna watching your movements.

"We've read some of your research," Nat commented as she drank from the glass of wine. The bottle Shauna had found was half opened in your fridge, cheap but she poured three glasses anyway. "You have a lot of passion for pediatrics."

You picked at your chicken. It was extremely tender and images of Shauna swinging the butcher's knife and delivering the fate through your meals every day for a year came back like a slap to the face.

Shauna was staring, fork struck into her slice of chicken as she waited for a response from you. "Yeah," you murmured. "Working with the kids is why I stayed in pediatrics. But that's why a lot of people in that branch stay."

"Isn't it sad?" Shauna asked, surprising you, "For the ones that don't make it?"

"Absolutely," you affirm. "But it is the ones that we lose that make me want to make sure that we save the ones we can while working endlessly to search for ways to try prevent losses like those."

Something ruminating crossed over the brunette's features and Nat nudged your foot with her own under the table. "That's great, sweetheart. You're doing so much good."

You hoped so, but you did not express it out loud. You did not want to give into them like this -- stalking you, barging into your home, sitting at the fucking table to share a meal with you like you were just old friends.

"So you moved to San Diego?" you asked awkwardly, avoiding wording that indicates you would encourage any actions they took being for you.

"A month ago," Nat confirmed. "We got a house in La Jolla that's about a fifteen minute walk to the beach. I think you'd love it."

"Mm, well good for you guys." You lifted your wine glass awkwardly and then took a sip.

Dinner was continued with conversation mostly brought up by Nat and Shauna -- both of them knowing full well you were likely receding in on yourself like you used to.

"Well," you started when the kitchen was cleaned and wine was finished, "it was nice catching up . . . but . . ."

Shauna smiled a little in such an unsettling way that you had to resist the urge to take a step back. She had her fingers lazily hooked into the pockets of her pants, regarding you like a fine piece of artwork.

"Nat."

Hands slithered under your shirt from behind, long fingers tapping along your stomach while Shauna circled the both of you with little hurry.

“Stop,” you instantly said as your hands flew up to snatch her hands away from your skin. You’ve had a compromised enjoyment of touch after the crash — this was no exception. This was the reason for it.

“No,” Shauna said simply in a drawl, familiarity coating it like a thick and angry thing.

You kept a tight, iron grip on Nat’s smooth, but calloused hands until Shauna stalked toward and lashed out.

It was so quick and the sting on your skin was there before your brain caught up to what had just occurred. Shauna had hit you, open-palmed, across the cheek with a force that promised worse.

She wasn’t done. She snatched your throat in cold fingers, pressing down just so on the points of pressure that would cut off your air way as she forces your face to lean up to gaze at her, smiling at whatever she found on your face.

“Be a good slut,” she started, nails digging grooves into your skin as she applied more pressure, “and do as we say. Nod if you understand, you fucking useless whore.”

You broke into tears but the nod followed behind quickly, your neck hardly moving under her piercing hold. She kept you there for a bit longer anyways, seeming to enjoy the way she made you cry.

“Shauna,” Nat cooed behind you as she managed to untangle her hands from yours, having noted the weakened grip. Her palms returned to rubbing up and down your chest and stomach almost soothingly. “Couldn’t you be nicer? It’s been a while.”

“Exactly,” Shauna said coldly, even as her fingers released some of the tension. A throbbing began to flow underneath the heat of her fingers where she had made her claim.

She had ensured you would feel her fingers even when she released your neck, later.

“Remember your place, baby,” Shauna told you, jaw clenching. “You’re extremely smart so you and I both know it’s not been lost on you.”

Nat’s teeth began scraping softly down the backside of your collarbone, creating a shiver through your spine as her hands worked under your bra. “She can be so mean, can’t she?” Nat whispered conspiratorially, nipping at the edge of the bone before moving along your shoulder.

Shauna wasn’t looking at you now, but just a little to the side. Where Nat’s head rested as she sucked bruises into your skin. The sight of them like this — the disgusting, reviving part of you — jolted at it.

Your thighs twitched in effort to conceal your need to cross them. You were so fucking wet.

Shauna notices the movement despite looking zeroed in on her wife’s devoted attentions, her gaze flickering to how your legs trembled with effort. You were only being held up by Nat’s hold and Shauna’s barely-there position on your throat.

“You act as though you built a fortress around this . . .” She rolled her eyes, “new personified version of yourself. But I can see the weaknesses in the walls, baby. You’re still the same beast under the new name and new life. Just like us.”

It was a truth that you had denied so long — and Shauna speaking it aloud had you ripping your body away with such brute force that even Nat couldn’t stop it in time. You stumbled clumsily backward toward your bedroom, air conditioning hitting your raw cheeks and drying the tears.

“Get out,” you demand, voice shaking and near begging. “Please leave me alone. It’s too much.”

But they didn’t leave — they followed you deeper into your space, cornering you into the bedroom as Shauna bundled her fist into the front of your shirt and roughly pushed you toward the bed under the back of your knees gave way.

She climbed on top of you as Nat padded around, looking through your items and opening drawers. So many violations overwhelming you in one instance. You shoved at Shauna’s arms but her face twisted and she grasped them, pinning them above you as she used her knees to pry open your thighs as wide as your body would allow.

You cried out. “Stop! Stop it!”

“Shut up.” She spat, purposefully watching as droplets of saliva spread across your face. Her eyes glinted ferally, like this was some form of marking that seeped into your skin and your blood.

“Nat what the fuck are you looking for? Get the fuck over here,” Shauna snapped, frustrated at her wife’s shifting around through your belongings.

Natalie did not answer at first — which you thought was extremely bold of her when Shauna was in a mood like this — but then she popped out of your closet with your six inch dildo.

Your eyes widened and so did Shauna’s. Her grip then became shackles to your wrists. “Oh, my little slut,” she murmured, eyes drifting back to you as Nat came over.

The blonde looked too proud of herself for your liking. “Is it a strapless?” Shauna demanded, but not to you. You weren’t a who to them right now.

“Looks to be,” Nat said, inspecting it closely. She smiled sweetly at you. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure she’s gentle.”

Shauna scoffed as Nat went to work undressing her wife so that you would have no chance of escaping. If Shauna had to lift a limb from you, Nat somehow found a way to use one of hers to keep you in place. It was a slow process and you were crawling out of your skin. No amount of effort worked in your favor.

“Your turn, precious,” Nat murmured as she watched from above your head as Shauna inserts one of the ends of the dildo into her self. Your mind blanks out as you beg for them to let you go.

Somehow you’re naked. How did you get naked?

Your clothes were ripped away, it seemed.

Natalie ran fingers through your hair, talking to you in what she hoped to have been a soothing tone. It grated against your ear drums as Shauna’s hands ran along your body as she lifted herself over you. Her eyes darkened, locked with yours.

Then she thrusted hard into you — she did not go gently, nor did she check how wet you were. Thankfully your body had betrayed you as it always had with them — and though you were unprepared for the size of the dildo [ it had been a gift from Clary as a gag, unused and collecting dust ], it slid in.

It was painful and you sobbed out as Shauna’s shackled embrace loosened enough for your hands to fly up and dig into her bare back. She did not allow adjustment — this was not going to be a sweet fucking.

“You’re a fucking slut, you know?” the brunette whispered, her voice shakier than you’ve ever heard her. She was starting at a punishing pace — and you feared what that meant for when she was close to her orgasm. “You claim to not want us, you fucking hate us, but here you are wet as can be and taking me like a goddamn whore.”

You choked on words that never came to fruition, sobs replacing them instead as pain and something close to pleasure intertwined as she fucked you, hips angling in a way that told you she was seeking both her pleasure and something else in the process.

Nat was watching, but her clothes stayed on as she did. “You’re doing so well, baby,” she told you gently, keeping your head in her lap as you took what Shauna gave, “You’re so pretty like this. Oh, your eyes. They’re turning fuzzy.”

“That’s what happens,” Shauna breathed out, a hand spearing out to press flat into the mattress next to your head. She paused her brutality, deep inside you, and adjusted.

Her chest was heaving and she looked nothing short of animalistic as she looked you in the eye. You tried to focus on her face, but so many sensations were overworking you. She was taking you apart piece by piece and throwing your crafted shield away.

“I’m going to wreck you,” she promised, and followed it up with a brutal thrust that landed perfectly into your g-spot as though —

She did remember your body. Too well. You sobbed as your nails ran deeply down her skin. Her other hand freed you, feeling confident that you no longer had the power to make an attempt to escape.

She lifted her body enough, body to reveal the space between your stomachs. With the diamond glinting along her hand, she twisted the ring further up her finger.

“Shauna,” Nat warned, tinged with concern. Your eyes lazily drifted to her face, and you saw her shaking her head.

Shauna ignored her wife and pressed the sharp edges of the diamond into your skin and began to cut. It wasn’t a slow process and you yelled out, now trying to escape her hold.

“H-hurts,” you sobbed as the dildo pressed deeper into you and had you seeing stars. Her thrusting was in tune with the way she cut deep marks into your skin, creating some design.

Warm blood trickled down your stomach as she pulled the reddened ring away. It was a a beautiful diamond — even soaked in your blood and she lifted her finger to her mouth to clean it as she used her other hand to reach down to your clit.

Holding herself up by the cock inside of you and the rolling of your hips, she pressed so deep and hard on your clit that your body didn’t have a chance to process before locking up.

Nat held you through the most intense orgasm of your life, and her hand came down to gently rest across your mouth and muffle the throat tearing screams that it encouraged.

Shauna’s orgasm was not far behind, her chest falling on top of you and her thrusts increasing tenfold. She did not allow you to recover for a second — and before she managed to reach her own peak, she sent you hurtling into three more.

Your brain emptied as your body tried to accept the mirrored pain and pleasure that became your life. Nothing else made sense in your world at the moment, but Nat was pressing soft kisses against wet skin, Shauna was gasping and running her cheek across yours as she shook through waves of her own high, and your entire being was becoming reborn.

The three of you remained like this for a while, aftershocks waving through you as your walls clenched the dildo in deeper. Shauna forced out a breath each time it happened, but otherwise made no comment.

You felt disgusting in the aftermath. Emotions that you never really faced were beginning to surface in Shauna and Natalie’s ultimate destruction of your coverup, and you had no way to defend yourself from them.

“It’s okay,” Nat whispered for the nth time that night, trying to encourage a belief in the statement. She had shifted her position so she was lying on her side behind your head. You could hear her heartbeat — calm and rhythmic.

It was a strange comfort in the upheaval of your carefully planted existence.

Shauna lifted her chin from your shoulder and moved her hand. She didn’t pause, even when you flinched at her movement, but she was surprisingly very gentle as her fingers wiped at the fresh tears.

“You did so well,” her low voice rasped, and she sounded honest. Pleased. Proud. “You took it all so beautifully.”

You didn’t know what to say. She didn’t seem to mind. She moved her body down, shifting the dildo inside of you and sending a shiver through your body.

“Hurts,” you whispered when she sent you a questioning brow raise.

Shauna nodded, “Okay, sweetheart. Let me pull out and check the cut. Can you do that for me, pretty girl? Be a little brave?”

Did you have any other option?

Natalie ran her fingers across your sweat soaked arms. “I’ve got you,” she promises, “We both do.”

Taking that as your consent where it wasn’t, Shauna slowly began pulling out. You instinctively locked up, your knees curling in, but Shauna stopped them and kept slowly moving until it was completely out. It was soaked heavily with your juices.

She pulled the other end out of herself and tossed it to the floor.

“Nibbles will get it,” you whispered disapprovingly. “Not on the floor.”

Shauna rolled her eyes, hard, but detangled herself from your body and grabbed the dildo and took it off into the bathroom — where she stayed for a longer time than expected.

When she returned she had a damp, warm rag in hand and her hair was in a messy bun, flannel the only thing she wore. She kneeled down over you again and slowly began wiping you down, working her way up. She got to the cut in your skin and was slow in her care of it.

“Do you have any thing we can put on this?” she murmured to you.

“Cabinet,” you whispered.

As Shauna once more left to go in search for the cream, you lifted your head to peer down at the engraving she had carved into your skin with her ring:

S.S.+N.S.

[f1samcro]

He's Got A Thing For Doctor's

Masterlist

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

You pulled your face mask down, sitting on a bench, and ducking your head between your knees. There’d been a car accident. Two parent’s pronounced dead at the scene, and a little boy. Around Abel’s age. He was your case, as you were the head of trauma, and you’d spent five hours operating on him. As you were closing, he flatlined, and you couldn’t bring him back. “Time of death, 22:15 PM.”

It was incredibly rare that you found children in your E.R. in the state that little boy was. His name was Elliott. Elliott Hastings. A whole family was taken because someone was too cheap to get an Uber after drinking. Someone stopped in front of you, one look at the shoes and you sighed, “If you’re gonna start shit, don’t. I’m not in the mood, Tara.”

“What’s your problem? I just wanted to ask about J-”

“I don’t care! I’m not telling you anything about Jax! Jesus, Tara! I just lost a kid on my table, I don’t have the time for your bullshit! So ask me something professional or get lost!”

You look up, she pauses, blinking, before uttering, “I’m sorry,” and scurrying away.

You went through the motions, before clocking out and getting in your car. You take a deep breath, resting your head on the steering wheel. And then you straighten, turn the car on, and drive off. 

Jax’s key was for emergencies. But still, you used it to unlock the door and slip inside the Teller household. You smiled weakly as Jax’s head swiveled towards the door from his spot on the couch. “Rough night?”

You nod wordlessly, clearing your throat, “Yeah.”

“Wanna talk ‘bout it, darlin’?”

“No.”

“Beer’s in the fridge, you know where the towels are.”

And he went quiet, looking back at the TV. It was common for you to end up at Jax’s after a rough day at work. It was wholly better than sitting alone at home and wallowing. At least you could wallow with someone. You open the fridge to locate a bottle, “Margaret’s backed off.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not thanking you. You threatened one of my supervisors.”

You pull the cap of the beer off. “She backed off, didn’t she?”

You sigh, walking into the living room and sipping the beer, “You told her that, ‘if she keeps havin’ issues with your old lady, she is gonna get herself in trouble. I’m not even your old lady! ”

Jax took one look at you, “You know the rules, shower and get the hospital off you, ‘fore you sit on any of my shit.”

“Just ignore everything I said then,” a scowl makes its way onto your face, but you nod, and put the beer on the coffee table. You disappear down the hall, “I’m stealin’ your clothes!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Except you didn’t come back for the beer. Jax gave it half an hour before he sighed, and finished it himself. He went to check on Thomas and Abel before going to bed himself. But he paused. You were curled up in Abel’s bed, holding onto the little boy like he was gonna disappear. “Sweetheart?”

You hum, “Hmm?”

“You can’t sleep in Abel’s bed. C’mon,” he steps into the bedroom, gently reaching out to pry you off his son. You squeeze the little boy tighter, but then let go and let Jax pull you up. 

He pulls you to his bedroom, and lets you get under the covers before smoothing back your hair and waiting for you to talk. “Car accident,” you mumble half heartedly, “Kid flatlined on my table. Same age as Abel.”

Jax doesn’t say anything, but gets up and disappears into the hall. He returns seconds later, with a asleep Abel in his arms. You watch as the blonde tucks his son into the bed next to you. Your arms wrap around Abel quickly, “Better?”

You nod as Jax climbs into the bed himself, “Thank you.”

He grins at you, “What would Margaret say if she saw us now?”

You snort, burying your face in Abel’s hair. “Write me up. Oh, Tara came to talk to me today.”

“I figured.”

You look up, “Why?”

“She saw us gettin’ dinner with Abel the other night. Don’t think she’s buying the friend's excuse anymore.”

Abel murmurs in his sleep, shuffling closer to you, “Y’know you’ll have to find another doctor to stitch you up, now. Can’t treat you. Conflict of interest ‘n all.”

Jax turns to look at you, “Don’t think it’ll be that hard, darlin’, I had other people stitch me up while you were in school.” He leans down and kisses your forehead, “And like you said earlier, I told Margaret that you’re my old lady-”

“Could’ve gotten me in more trouble.”

“It didn’t. So take it and go to sleep,” he has a smirk on his face, tucking hair behind your ear. “I think you’ve been my old lady for a long time, we jus’ haven’t said anythin’.”

You open your mouth to protest, only for him to narrow his eyes, “I said sleep, so good night.”

A huff escapes your lips, but you close your eyes, snuggling closer to Abel. “Your mom’s gonna be happy.”

“Darlin’, Gem’s thought we’ve been together for months and refuse to admit it.”

“Seriously?”

“She thinks I’ve got a thing for doctors.”

You chuckle lightly, “I believe it.”

[traumasurvivors]

Making a safe space if you don’t have one can be so beneficial.

Changing the Appearance

It might mean making an extra effort to turn your bedroom (or apartment, or car) into a safe space. This can especially apply if your bedroom or car look the same as they did when the trauma happened. (Even if it wasn’t where the trauma happened. It could just be a reminder of that time in your life.) Redecorating those spaces to look and feel different may help them feel more safe, often because it will feel like it reflects your style or just feels more like it belongs to you.

Redecorating might mean moving things around, replacing things, removing things or adding new things. Your bed might feel much better with a change of sheets. It might help to add decorative items that cheer you up, or make you smile or laugh, or just make a distinctive change in the appearance of a place. Maybe you cut out some favourite things from magazines to make a collage. Sometimes moving furniture can make a room feel like a completely new place, like changing the position of a dresser or turning your bed 90 degrees. Sometimes small, simple changes can be huge, such as a wrap around the steering wheel of your car. Feeling safe can mean a lot of different things to different people. Think about what you need to feel safe.

Having Comfort Items

It might mean making sure you have comfort items nearby and in their best condition (for instance, if you have a favourite hoodie, make sure it’s clean and ready to wear).

I like to have a self-care box I can easily access. This may include instructions for grounding (I can forget when I’m overwhelmed), comfort items, letters and cards from loved ones and other items. Here are some ideas on how to make one.

Practical Changes

Make the space feel physically safe by making practical changes. Making sure you have working locks might help. Things like keeping pathways clear so you feel you can escape if needed.

I feel safer with bright lights and I may be 30, but I use a nightlight! It offers me comfort at night.

I also do things like arrange my furniture so that its back is to a wall so I can see any entrances to feel prepared. Sitting with my back to an entrance point feels vulnerable so I go out of my way to avoid that.

Different things work for different people and it might take some time to figure out what works for you. You deserve a safe space.

[listofwhyyouloveher]

HAI >_<

could you do one with the gang where reader had parents with a scary, but kind reputation? like they were known to be kind but can be very brutal/cold-hearted when approached wrong?

THANK U I LOVE UR WRITITNG

- 🦭 (idk if this empji is taken)

Summary: The gang w a reader with reputable parents

Warnings: nonne

Authors note: welcome to the clerb 🦭 <3

PONYBOY CURTIS tries to steer clear of you at first because he's under the impression that your parents are tough and radical. He met you without knowing who you are and later discovered that the sweet thing he talked to was actually the daughter of Tulsa's own "mob" family (of course, that is just a rumor). He loved your family now. He's sometimes shocked when he reminds himself that your parents are the toughest in Tulsa, and now they're making spaghetti for his dinner.

JOHNNY CADE hates intimidating people. The only reason he's friends with Dally is because he was introduced to him through the gang. Otherwise, they might have never interacted. He doesn't want anything to do with your family. He has enough parental problems to not want to involve himself. Except for the fact you're the cutest person he's seen in a long time, and he secretly heads over heels. He tries to get along with your parents, but the trauma from his own makes it hard. Your parents, however, are very patient with him.

SODAPOP CURTIS has no problems with your family, and he's not eager to start one. He recognizes their intimidating personalities and just tries his vest not to get in trouble around them. He's hesitant to date you at first because he's afraid of your dad, but you convince them to talk, and now they get along like father and son. Your mother thinks of him the same way, too.

STEVE RANDLE is generally out of the loop when it comes to social hierarchies in Tulsa. He doesn't know about your families affluence, but he thinks you're a sweet girl, so he's made multiple crude attempts at picking you up. It wasn't until Soda smacked him upside the head and explained your family to him that he actually pursued you correctly, out of both respect and fear.

TWO BIT generally doesn't care about the social status of others. He finds that as long as he doesn't bother them and they don't bother him, it's a win-win for both! It wasn't until you started appearing near a place that he went to a lot that he started to swerve away from the norm. He's extremely nervous meeting your parents. He doesn't want it to fail miserably and be banned from seeing you. His nerves help him, and your mother thinks it's cute that he's all jittery and your father finds it respectable. Your family loved him!

DARRY CURTIS is not super intimidated by your parents. He figures they have no need to meddle with him, so he doesn't find them alarming. However, as soon as you start daring, he whips himself into shape. He's very meticulous in planning his lifestyle around a way that your parents wouldn't mind you eventually marrying into. It's hard, especially at first, because of their class, but he gets there with your support. Your parents think he's a great man and a solid future for you, even if you won't be the wealthiest.

DALLAS WINSTON doesn't give two shits about your parents' influence. In his head, he's got twice the amount of influence, and he even acts a little cocky in front of them. Nonetheless, your parents believed in your ability to choose who you wanted to date, and you slowly introduced Dallas to their more intimidating side. He stopped acting cocky around them after that.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore, canonical character death, sexual themes/situations, masturbation

A/N: The series will heavily follow the timeline and events of the show but there will be additional non-canonical events/injuries/etc.

Moodboard by @dannyo000 💙

You sat quietly in the passenger seat of Daryl’s truck after the caravan had stopped for a problem with the RV. There had been introductions after you had gathered your bearings during the last stop, and your trauma-addled brain was working overtime to retain the information. 

Along with the RV’s issues, the group was currently saying goodbye to one of their own. It seemed too intimate an affair for you to include yourself, an outsider. The man had been bitten. It was your understanding they were all headed for the CDC in Atlanta, desperate for a cure before the sickness could take him. 

But the fever had won, as it always did.  

You watched as the frail man was carefully moved to the base of a tree, but then averted your gaze as they bid him farewell. They were all affected, heads down as they returned—one by one—to their vehicles. They intended to leave him, per his own wishes. You weren’t sure if that was a choice you could make were you the one in his predicament. It was both admirable and ludicrous. 

Daryl returned to the truck, remaining quiet as he climbed behind the wheel. He hadn’t spoken a word to you, which left you with a tight feeling inside your chest that you couldn’t—wouldn’t—name. You wondered if you were only there because of the possibility that his baby was growing inside of you. It hadn’t been mentioned. 

I told ya she’s good.

He hadn’t given the group any information. They knew your name per your own admission, which alone was enough to twist the archer’s face into a scowl. You were a dirty little secret. You had placed your remaining fragments of hope in Daryl after losing everything and he was treating you like he’d left a few loose bills on a dresser after fucking you in a sleazy motel. 

You scrutinized him from the corner of your eye; the way he was tapping the tip of each finger against the steering wheel as he drove. His other arm was resting on the door, the window down, while he rubbed his thumb across his bottom lip. The broken skin on the sides of the digit suggested that it was indeed a habit he turned to in times of stress. He was consciously trying not to indulge. 

You cleared your throat, keeping your eyes on the back of the vehicle in front of you. “I’m sorry about your friend.” You dared a glance at the same time he gave you a once over. 

“Weren’t no friend’a mine.”

Lie. You could clearly see he was affected. It was borderline offensive that he’d even try to deny it. “Right. Well, I’m sorry anyway.” The uncomfortable silence stretched on, leaving you with vivid images of your encounters with the redneck. Even after you had told him you might be pregnant, there hadn’t been this thick tension in the air between the two of you. “Thank you.” He looked at you again, barely moving his hand away from his mouth. “For saving me.”

He hummed, this time parting his lips to nip at the irritated skin of his thumb. You wanted so badly to reach over and guide his hand away, but you knew that was a bad idea. 

“Ya take one’a them tests?”

Ah, there it was. Your back slid down the seat while you nervously twisted the hem of your flannel around your index finger. “Uh, no. I lost them when I ran from the camp.” He shot you a look so quickly you thought he might have given himself whiplash. 

“Y’fuckin’ serious?”

You nodded, expecting an outburst, but you still flinched when his fist came down on the doorframe, keeping it clenched when he brought it back to his mouth. “It was an accident. I wasn’t exactly thinking of them when I was wrestling a geek for my bag. Lost most of my clothes and my canteen, too.”

He let out a condescending humph from behind his hand. “Ya sure it’s even mine?”

Now it was your turn to pin him down with a look of your own. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Means exactly what I said.”

You felt the sting of tears behind your eyes, along with the urge to throttle him right where he sat, regardless of the fact that he was driving. “Well, there was that other hunter I’d meet at dawn and then the one that would wait patiently until you got your rocks off first.”

“Ya think your funny?”

“I’m not trying to be funny, asshole. If there’s a baby, unfortunately, it’s yours.” His piercing gaze met your narrowed eyes, only holding for a moment before he had to look back at the road. “Can you pull over?”

“Gonna puke again?”

“No.” You snapped, angling your body toward the door. “I want to get out.”

“Why?”

“Because being trapped in such a small space with you is going to make me puke. Now, pull over.” 

To his credit, he did slow down. “Nah.” He pressed the gas and easily caught up with the car in front of him. 

“Don’t worry, Daryl. I won’t tell anyone your secret.” You hissed the word with such venom that you swore you could taste the remnants of it on the tip of your tongue. 

“Settle down. Ain’t lettin’ ya out so ya can get your fool self killed.” 

You threw yourself back against the seat with more force than necessary, crossing your arms. You wondered if you suddenly began to pray that god or whoever was listening might possibly just see fit to bestow upon you the monthly occurrence that most women deem as a curse. 

This was the reason the time between you in those woods was so limited. No feelings involved. Little to no social information exchanged. You liked the Daryl that made it priority to worship your body and fuck you senseless, his only words being filthy encouragement that would catapult you to and over the edge. Even when he accompanied you to the pharmacy, his presence wasn’t a negative contribution to the journey. You had actually felt oddly—comfortable. 

But the Daryl that you were currently trapped inside a beat up old pickup truck with had spoken all of seven sentences and you wanted to shoot him in the groin. You couldn’t imagine having a child with that man. Didn’t want to imagine it. If only your baser instincts hadn’t been so prominent over common sense when you saw him in the woods that third time. 

You could vomit now when you thought back on that specific meeting. You quite literally propositioned him while stalking toward him and simultaneously ripping off your shirt. He had looked so confused at first but caught up quickly. He was deep inside you while you straddled his lap less than five minutes later. Why hadn’t you at least had the brain power to tempt him just enough and send him to get condoms first? Nope. You jumped straight on his dick like a horny teenager. 

“For the love of fucks sake.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, ashamed at how recalling the carnal moments spent with the man across the bench seat from you had heat pooling at the apex of your thighs. You shifted, crossing your legs and pressing one down on the other, the tough inseam of your jeans rubbing just right over your clit to send a jolt of pleasure all the way down to your toes. You only barely stifled a moan. 

A quick glance found Daryl still watching the road, lighting up a cigarette. Yet another thing you didn’t know about him. You shifted your hips while casting quick, discrete glances. He was seemingly oblivious. Biting your bottom lip, you turned your face toward the window and continued the careful side to side of your hips, very slowly but very steadily working toward what would undoubtedly be a quick and not totally satisfying orgasm. Still, it was better than the alternatives of either sliding your hand into your panties or asking the man beside you to slide his hand into your panties. 

You noticed your breaths quickening and inhaled deeply through your nose to try and calm both that and your heartrate. The hot coil burning in your lower belly was tightening, pulses of pleasure bleeding out to culminate at the swollen bud that your jeans were stimulating. You were so close, almost there—

Daryl cleared his throat, flicking his smoke out the window and unintentionally bringing a sudden halt to any progress you had made toward release. You openly glared at him. 

“What?” He huffed, sneering at your obvious resentment. 

“You’re an asshole.”

It was near dusk when the caravan finally pulled up to the CDC. There had been stops to siphon fuel, take bathroom breaks, and go over plans and strategies. You had remained inside the cab of the truck, not trusted enough to be privy on their plans. You couldn’t really fault them. Even if they had included you, nothing they had said could have prepared you for the devastation outside the government building. 

“We’re really going out there?” You asked, feeling nauseated at the thought of seeing the bodies up close. 

“Yep.” Daryl replied casually, already outside the truck. He was holding his crossbow as well as a shotgun and was looking at you expectantly. “C’mon. Get the lead out, woman.” 

Puffing out your cheeks in a forced exhale, you opened the truck door. The stench of death and rot was even worse when you stepped out onto the pavement. Flies and maggots were in abundance, feasting on the fallen littering the ground. You gagged behind your hand, ushered forward by a surprisingly gentle hand from the redneck. 

“Can’t stop here.”

When you caught up with the group, the one called Shane was directing everyone like a traffic cop, trying to keep fear and panic to a minimum. “All right, everybody. Keep moving. Go on. Stay quiet. Let's go. Okay, keep moving. Stay together.”

Rick joined in, urging everyone forward while Jacqui and Shane tried to keep the group quiet. You were at the rear of the main cluster of people with Daryl following closely behind you. You could hear the commotion before you saw Shane pounding on the shutters that were keeping the entrance blocked. 

“Walkers!” Daryl called out, firing a shot that made you flinch. 

“Walkers?” You blurted before realizing exactly what he meant. “Oh fuck!” You had no weapon, absolutely no method of defending yourself. Before you could protest, Daryl had reached back with one arm and pushed you behind himself. You didn’t have time to think too hard on it before he was yelling. 

“Ya led us into a graveyard!” 

Your hands had fisted into the back of his shirt, subsequently allowing him to guide you where he needed you without sacrificing his focus. 

“He made a call!” Shane sounded from somewhere behind you. 

Daryl growled harshly, the sound vibrating your hands against his back. “It was the wrong damn call!” He shouted. The commotion continued, blame and orders being thrown about in shouts and pleas you ignored in favor of burying your face between Daryl’s shoulder blades. You had survived; lost your entire family and stayed alive only to die with a handful of strangers and a man you almost wished you had made more of an effort to get to know. Amidst the crying children, the screaming women, you could clearly hear and focus on Rick’s desperate declaration:

“You’re killing us! You’re killing us! You’re killing us!”

“Daryl.” You sobbed before you could stop yourself. 

Then, something unexpected but no less of a miracle. 

The shutters began to open, dousing you all in a most blessed light. 

[ladykailitha]

I am always on the hunt for my next story as I like to have four or five stories going on at the same (being able to have multiple stories going so that I always have something to post really helps with the anxiety like you wouldn't believe.)

And I think I have found my next one. With everyone doing Olympic stories I thought that I too, would throw my hat in the ring.

Back when I first started writing for Stranger Things (like September of '22 way back) I had this story I was posting on AO3 anonymously. The fear of writing for a fandom I hadn't seen the source material of left me terrified (I still worry about from time to time) had my anxiety going a billion miles an hour.

It was about Steve deciding to coach Eddie on getting on the swim team his final senior year so that teachers would be more lenient on his grades. And in return Eddie would help with Steve's trauma of having Barb die in his pool.

I ended up abandoning the work because the characters all wrong and I just started to hate it. It only had something like 34 kudos and 121 views after six chapters. It was not good.

So I am cannibalizing the plot for my next story.

Bit of an age gap. Eddie 18 and Steve is 24 when they meet but they don't get together until after the Olympics making them 20 and 26 respectively.

Steve was going to be Michael Phelps in world where he doesn't exist (shhhh) He had come in fifth his first Olympics as a fourteen year old. His next Olympics had him winning several medals, so many that the phrases "world record" and "foremost swimmer of his time" were tossed around.

But all that changed when he had an accident in his first match in his third Olympics where the bounding board slipped out from under him as he went to dive into the water, hitting his head and nearly drowning.

Leaving him with migraines and a fear of large bodies of water. So now he teaches swimming to little kids in kiddie pools and for the older ones, he uses an endless pool. But he steers clear of the main pool and if he has to use it, he has his assistant coach Robin get in the water for him. It isn't ideal but it works.

Enter Eddie Munson. Eddie who used to swim in middle school but after his mom died and his dad went to jail, he got sent to live with his uncle, Wayne. But because Wayne was working long hours at the plant Eddie was forced to give it up in high school.

Hopper caught him dealing weed and pulled to have Eddie do community service at the rec center, mopping floors, gather towels for the laundry, refilling soap dispensers.

Eddie didn't mind because it meant that he had free access to the pool any time he wanted.

One day, Steve comes in early because he's getting a new group of nuggets for his swim class when he sees Eddie doing a near flawless butterfly stroke.

They talk and Steve finds out that Eddie just didn't have the same opportunities Steve did otherwise he probably would have been in Steve's last Olympics. The next Olympics are two years away and Steve wants to train Eddie for them.

Eddie turns him down at first until on the last day of his community service and he realizes he'll lose access to the pool. So he decides to let Steve coach him because he figures he'll at least get two free years of pool time and then after he doesn't make it, Steve and him can go their separate ways.

Only not only does Eddie get into the Olympics he starts get gold in his events.

Someone plants weed on his to discredit him when they find out he used to deal with hopes of getting him disqualified but it backfires and the culprit is exposed as the one that sabotaged Steve four years ago.

Then after Eddie wins his fifth gold in his last event, Steve and Eddie kiss about it.

[lovelypurplenerd]

Klaine Valentine's challenge 2025

"I need you now"

Chapter one, February 1st

Kurt and Blaine have been roommates for the past three months, since Kurt transfert back in November. Blaine was one of the few people at Dalton who weren't assigned a roommate when school had started again. His last roommate wasn't really his friend. He didn't like the fact the Blaine was gay and would often call him names, sometimes he would even threaten him for small things like looking in his direction if he was in a bad mood. Blaine would sometimes report him to the headteacher, but for most of the time he would just ignore him.

One night at the end of the school year, when all the exams had just finished, his roommate came home drunk. Blaine tried to steer clear from him, he even stayed in his friends room for the night.

When he returned to his room the next morning he found out that his roommate had trashed the entire room. All of Blaine's belongings were on the floor, picture frames shattered, clothes ripped.

His roommate was expelled after that and Blaine was left picking up all the pieces, barely putting himself back together.

Blaine had become fast friends with Kurt, he was even one of his best friends already. Still Blaine sometimes continued to suffer from the trauma his last roommate left him with. In the weekends he would party a lot and come home drunk, but never being mean to Kurt.

He had found himself looking in Kurt's direction a lot lately. Blaine's thoughts were clouded by flashes of Kurt, his soft brown hair, his fingers urging to be run through the silk, his lips that always formed a smile whenever he saw Blaine enter the room, his light blue eyes and his fair and flawless skin. Kurt was one of a kind and Blaine lover him for it. He didn't care what anyone thought of him, he was his own person and truly himself. Blaine admired that about him, especially because he couldn't be himself when he was younger.

Blaine hadn't acted on his feelings for Kurt, he also knew that Kurt needed friends more, after what happenend at his old school before he came here, and he was willing to be just friends if that meant Kurt could finely be happy and free.

Kurt found himself sitting on his bed watching a movie in his shared dormroom when Blaine stumbled in through the door. He wasn't as drunk as normal.

Kurt hadn't stopped thinking about Blaine since the first time he met him, it was love at first sight. Now that he shared a room with the boy he couldn't stop himself from staring at him whenever he could. Kurt's favorite moment was when Blaine got out of the shower, shirtless, his dark hair in it's naturally curly form and the smell of him so strong it invaded everything.

He didn't know if Blaine felt the same way about him, he hadn't shown any signs yet, but Kurt had a plan to found out.

Blaine looked straight at Kurt when he entered their room, his perfect blue eyes locked onto his dark eyes. Kurt looked perfect, he could have been a statue made by michelangelo, he looked like a masterpiece. Blaine was head over heels and he didn't know how to hide it anymore.

'Hey Loverboy, did you have fun tonight?' Kurt's voice brought him back out of his thoughts. "What did he just call me?" Blaine thought by himself.

Kurt put his laptop aside and sat more straight, his eyes still on Blaine. Blaine walked towards his own bed, which was right across from Kurt, and sat down.

'I had a lot of fun, most of our friends were there too, next time you should come with us.' He unbuttond the shirt he was wearing, his abs and tanned skin showing. When he looked back at Kurt he saw a blush spread over his face, eyes big. Blaine knew he had a good body and liked showing it. He loved the way Kurt looked at him whenever he got out of the shower, even though Kurt tried to hide it, Blaine always knew he was staring at him.

'Maybe next time I will go with you, maybe you can show me how to have fun Loverboy.' Kurt was trying, but he had a hard time trying to be flirty. He had never been good at flirting and he couldn't even make a sexy face if his life depended on it, but for Blaine he wanted to try.

Blaine took his shirt off and put it in the laundry bin next to his wardrobe. He took out his phone and put on some music. Walking to Kurt the stretched out his hand for Kurt to take.

'We don't have to go out for me to show you how to have fun.' Kurt took his hand and let Blaine pull him to his feet. They danced together for a moment, laughing and having the time of their lives.

Blaine, all out of breath, sat back on the edge of he bed. He pulled Kurt forward , letting him stand in front of him.

'Come on and sit on my hot-seat of love.' Blaine winked at the taller boy, pulling him on his lap. Kurt's legs were on either side of his, straddling him. Their faces were barely an inch apart.

'Say the word, your wish is my comand,' Kurt answered, breath tickling Blaine's lips.

Blaine put Kurt's hand on his chest, he had to feel his touch now more than ever.

'Kurt are you okay with this?,' Blaine asked the boy straddling his lap.

Kurt looked up at Blaine's eyes, insecurity showing.

'We can stop if you want,' Blaine whispered, now also feeling a little insecure about the way he handled things.

'I- I want to, but maybe we can go a little bit slower?' Kurt climbed of the dark haired boy, seeing the disappointment in his eyes.

'Ofcourse, let me know when you are ready and I will be here waiting for you.' Blaine touched Kurt's hand one more time, giving him a heartfelt smile.

'Thank you, maybe we can go on a date first?' Kurt couldn't look him in his eyes when he asked the question.

'I thought you would never ask,' Blaine answered with a big smile.

[thoughtspresso]

Aqua plans to die.

And his death will be necessary to take Kamiki down.

While the full details of Aqua’s revenge plan isn’t entirely clear to all of us yet, his intention to place himself in danger as he tries to take Kamiki down is a very clear, and very crucial part of the plot that he anticipates.

Before we can dive into how Aqua is going to achieve his revenge, we need to back up a little bit and understand who he is as a person, how he makes decisions, and what he personally wants.

What is Aqua’s Goal?

From a top-level view, Aqua has a singular emotional goal:

Aqua wishes to take responsibility for the deaths of his mothers.

Aqua/Gorou absolutely believes that after two lives of the same thing, that he was the common denominator. He was the fault his mothers both died, because he was useless and helpless. Had he never been conceived, and more crucially, if his mothers did not have to lie about his existence, they would have both stayed alive. If Gorou’s mom didn’t have to conceal the pregnancy from her parents, or did not have one at all, she would have lived a long life. He believes that perhaps his second chance at life was to save Ai, but he was paralyzed and helpless during her murder. He blames himself for Ai’s death too.

This is a driving force in Aqua’s character, and informs all of his decision making, even to the detriment of his own plans most times. It leads us to his supplementary goal:

Aqua wants to keep the people he loves safe.

Whether it was shielding Ruby from entertainment or making sure she’s in a safe agency with good group members, or Akane not going too far in enacting his revenge plot for him, or Kana from steering clear of a career-ending love scandal, Aqua’s key traumas has led him to feel compelled to take action and do whatever it takes to save people if he had the power to do so.

Here is a breakdown of Aqua’s plans, and some key questions we have to ask about each one.

1. Why make a movie called The 15-Year Lie? And what is “Ai’s true wish”?

I have reason to believe that Ai’s DVD for Aqua would have either been a message about wishing to be loved truly and be hated with full honesty for the person she really was, that she wanted her actual self to be revealed to people. In line with that, I think Aqua’s DVD included Gotanda’s original documentary for the B-Komachi dome event. Which is why Gotanda tried to defend Aqua's decision to reveal her secret in chapter 112, and why in chapter 108 Gotanda says about the script that “this is finally my time to fulfill that promise.”

2. What does he mean by “using Arima Kana”?

There were theories circulating that the person who texted Frill Shiranui could have been Aqua, trying to get her to encourage Ruby to play the role of Ai in the film. However, that couldn’t be any farther from the truth. As we know, Aqua was saying that Gotanda should “grow up” and understand that the most important thing for a movie is to succeed commercially first before we talk about artistic value. 

If Aqua had full control over the situation, he would have just straight up casted Akane. After all, that was what he initially proposed, and even contacted her for it despite saying he’ll never have anything to do with her again. What he needed, more than anything, was for the film to succeed commercially. And with the headlining actress no longer (a) the most famous celebrity of their generation, or (b) the heralded genius of their generation, Aqua has no other options.

Except: Arima Kana.

I think the aspect of him using her or manipulating her is mainly to encourage her publicity activities. He’ll be encouraging her to do well in her work to garner more star power for the movie to really be a success, and for her to help his sister be the perfect lead for the show. He’s also going to bank on the idea that Kana will do things for him because she has a crush on him, which he only realized in Chapter 102 after Mem-cho points it out, that he can pursuade Kana to get out of the way of his revenge plot if necessary to keep her safe or place her in the spotlight to attract people’s attention for the movie.

While unlikely, he might even encourage her to stay on a little longer until Ruby gets to the Dome performance.

Or, and maybe this is my shipping delulu talking, but it can also be that he’ll try to just be around her frequently to garner media attention about their relationship. In this way, keeping her close without actually dating her could serve a dual purpose: get people talking about them and the movie, but also make sure that Kana stays safe and nobody makes a rumor of pairing her up with anybody else.

Lastly, also not super likely but another option could be to convince her to headline the show, and play Ai in Ruby’s stead.

3. Why does Kaburagi say that the film is bordering on illegal?

This is a truly crucial piece to unveiling Aqua’s plot. We know Kaburagi likes producing shows that include good-looking young people, and that seems to be his main strategy for raking in young audiences and cashing out.

So why would he have hesitated, even for a second, on a plan to cast the top talent of this young generation, on the biggest news Japan has been talking about, handed to him by a first-hand source--the son of Ai himself?

On all accounts, this would have been the perfect formula for a smash success. So why would Kaburagi say things like, “do you have enough evidence”, when everybody already knew about the University student stalker that murdered her? What was so controversial?

Unless, when they said Aqua will play the culprit, they didn’t mean the Ryosuke.

They meant he was playing Hikaru Kamiki.

Here’s what we know about the film, and what I think Aqua is trying to do:

1. Portray Kamiki in the worst possible way and destroy his reputation.

The 15-Year Lie will be a biopic about Ai’s life from when she was starting out as an idol.  Ai will be portrayed as a poor girl abandoned by her parents, searching for the true meaning of love. We know that this framing will be part of Ai’s characterization because of the scenes where Ruby struggled the most:

In the search for love, they will show her falling for a young man and talented actor at Theatre Lalalai--that being Hikaru Kamiki. Once he gets Ai pregnant, he abandons her, and she runs off to the countryside to hide from the press. When Ai asked him to come visit her, Kamiki, in wanting to protect his career, attempted to send out a stalker. A few years later, seeing his kids wotagei on social media, he manages to find them again and kill Ai.

It is a complete and utter character assasination of Hikaru Kamiki, and while revealing Ai as a flawed person, draws for the sympathy of the viewers to love Ai for who she truly is. Which is exactly why Gotanda keeps insisting for Ruby to play the role, even when Aqua and Kaburagi have sensible recommendations for Akane and Frill.

At that moment, when Ai dies, Aqua will reveal his face, and openly declare that it was his father who orchestrated it all. Then he might even portray his father murdering Ryosuke himself, instead of the suicide that was reported in the media.

2. Aqua will use himself to bait his father out, and force Kamiki’s hand to kill Aqua.

The main reason why Aqua finds it necessary for the film to be a commercial success is because he needs the general public to be one hundred percent in agreement that Hikaru Kamiki is an evil man that deserves to be jailed. (Whether or not he reveals his name in the film, which he could but doesn’t need to.) This public lynching is his first control.

But here’s the thing: Kamiki didn’t directly murder Himekawa Airi and Hoshino Ai himself. At this point in time, Aqua is not aware of Katayose Yura’s murder either. And there is no evidence that connects Uehara Seijirou and Ryosuke’s suicides as murders by Kamiki’s hands.

And on top of all that, when these things happened, Kamiki was fully a minor.

Akane’s fears and interpretation was that Aqua would murder his own father because it’s the only form of revenge he could enact himself. 

But she’s wrong, there’s one more thing Aqua could do: make Kamiki commit murder again. If he kills Aqua, there will now be a murder that the public agrees without a doubt was done by Kamiki himself.

He can go to jail once and for all, or he can also get stabbed by an angry fan--Aqua doesn’t care. All he cares about is that it’s a sure win, and it’s over forever. He launches his sister’s career into the spotlight, he keeps everybody safe, and he atones for the death of his mothers with his own life.

In summary: Aqua plans to get killed by his father, so that an actual murder has occurred for which he could be jailed or publicly ostracized or even killed.

And here’s why I think Aqua will fail:

Aqua’s assumptions about his father are incorrect.

He believes that Kamiki’s reason for killing Ai was because her pregnancy would ruin his reputation and career as a rising actor. That’s why Aqua tries to hit him there. And he believes defaming him might provoke him to get killed.

But I don’t think Kamiki cared about his reputation at all anymore. He left his career as an actor behind after Kindaichi kicked him out of Lalalai, and went on to graduate from Faculty of Science. He never went back in front of the spotlight, instead opening a talent agency around the exact time he believed his kids might be joining the industry.

I have reason to believe that Kamiki thinks murdering Airi and Ai was to protect his children or some other great act of justice against his rapist(s). And that even killing Katayose Yura was done because he didn’t want a liar like her to take the spotlight that was supposedly for his daughter Ruby.

I don’t think Kamiki will harm Aqua.

But I do think he will come forward and expose himself and his twisted justification, and he might even openly give interviews to the media.

Instead, I do believe Kamiki might pay attention to Kana’s honest acting--something he’s never seen before in a person, and try to get close to her somehow. And if Kamiki’s name is not revealed, and if the theories are true that Frill works for Kamiki’s agency, he might recruit Kana to join him.

All this is to say, get Kana out of this manga. Somebody, please save her.

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

The Forgotten Nest (Part 7) - Rooster

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw / Mitchell!OC (Cora)

Word Count: 5.2k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only

Warnings: Past Unplanned Teenage Pregnancy; Angst; Absent Parental Figures; The 'He Didn't Know About the Pregnancy' Trope; Repeating Trauma Cycles; Crying; Named Mitchell Daughter OC (Cora) and Named Mitchell-Bradshaw Son (Nickie)

Summary: In the few days before the mission, Nickie has important conversations with his mom, his grandfather, and maybe even his estranged father.

A.N. There are references to a previous unplanned teenage pregnancy (between two eighteen-year-olds) in this fic. There won't be any flashback scenes to the pregnancy, but the references are still there, so if that makes you uncomfortable, please do not read.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 8 Epilogue

Master List

It was the day after Ice’s funeral and somehow the Mitchells had to go back to normal. Maverick reported for duty early, Cora went back to work as usual, and Nickie stayed late at school to make up some of the work that he missed. But it wasn’t back to normal. Not really.

Walking out of school, Nickie looked up to see his mom’s car roll around the corner of the school. A bit nervously, Nickie made his way over. They hadn’t talked last night about much of anything. Everyone sort of went in their separate directions and stewed in their own thoughts. And Nickie knew that his mom and his grandfather saw the wings that he pinned to his jacket.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cora greeted him with a small smile. “How was school?”

“Long,” Nickie replied quietly, sinking into his seat. “How was work?”

“Same old, same old,” Cora stated as she put the car in drive.

They stared heading home, though Cora got tenser and tenser with every mile. Gripping the steering wheel tighter than normal, Cora stared at the stop light in front of them, before quickly putting her turn signal on and making a right. Nickie looked over at his mom with clear confusion, since this wasn’t the direction home. But Cora continued driving.

“Where are we going?” Nickie asked his mom, who shot him a small smile in return.

“You’ll see.”

Nickie leaned back in his seat, still confused, but trusting his mom. Cora eventually pulled down a winding road that ended in a parking lot. They could see the naval ships in the harbor and the planes overhead reminded Nickie that base wasn’t very far.

Wordlessly, Cora turned off the car and stepped out, causing Nickie to do the same. Cora walked down the path, made her way down to a bench, and sat down on the worn wood. She patted the spot next to her and Nickie sat down without much of a fuss, though he felt a rock settle in his stomach when he caught his mom’s expression.

“Mom, I can explain . . .” Nickie started off softly.

“Do you remember all the times that I would bring you out here when you were little to watch the ships?” Cora asked, staring over at the ships docked in port. “You would just sit out here for hours, endlessly entertained.”

“Mom?” Nickie asked, looking over at her with some concern.

“Or all of the times that your grandfather brought you to the museum in town? He had to run after you once because you wanted to touch the plane and you just slipped under the ropes,” Cora mused, smiling at the memories. “You know, I think if your grandfather’s face wasn’t in some of those photos in the museum, the security guard would have been a lot meaner to him.”

“Mom?” Nickie repeated, softer this time.

Sobering, Cora took a breath before turning to her son. Nickie could see a thin layer of tears in her eyes, but didn’t comment on it. Mostly because he could feel some building behind his own eyes. Cora smiled painfully and cupped her son’s cheek, rubbing her thumb along his skin.

“What I’m trying to say, Nickie, is that part of me always knew that you could someday end up in the Navy,” Cora began, dropping her hand down to grab Nickie’s hand and give it a squeeze. “I mean, all of your father figures were aviators. You grew up in a Navy town. Your grandfather always brought you to the airshows and told you all about his stories.”

She dropped her head for a moment, trying to compose herself. Biting the inside of her cheek, Cora turned back to Nickie with a small smile.

“I know that you probably think that I’m going to tell you that you can’t go. But I’m not.”

“Really?” Nickie asked, sounding shocked. “But, Mom, you wouldn’t even let me on a trampoline growing up.”

“And I stick by that,” Cora stated firmly. “Do you know how many kids come in with broken bones—never mind. That’s not why I brought you here.” Composing herself, Cora let out a breath and turned back to her son. “Answer a few questions for me, Nickie. Do you want to go into the Navy?”

“Yes,” Nickie replied quietly, without much confidence in his mom’s presence.

“More than you want any other career path?”

“Yes,” Nickie returned with more confidence than before.

“And will going into the Navy make you happy?”

“I think so.”

“And do you have a backup plan in case you can’t become a naval aviator for whatever reason?”

“Well, I know that I want to do something mechanical. I mean, Gramps had me working on cars and bikes for my entire life . . . it’s what I know. It’s what I feel comfortable with and what I want to do,” Nickie explained, causing Cora to nod slowly. Nickie scooched a little closer to his mom, still surprised at her words. “You’re really okay with me going into the Navy?”

“In all honesty, I’m not thrilled, Nickie,” Cora stated, causing Nickie’s expression to fall a bit. “If I had it my way, you would go into business or something where the most dangerous part of your day was getting to and from work.”

Cora’s gaze softened again when Nickie turned away from her, a bit shy. Grabbing Nickie’s chin gently and tilting it up so that Nickie locked eyes with her again, Cora smiled.

“But it’s not my life, Nickie. It’s yours. And I can’t—I don’t want to be that parent who stands in the way of their child’s dreams because they’re too scared of what could happen or they’re too afraid to let go. I don’t want to be that kind of mom.”

Turning to face her son fully, Cora grabbed his hands and gave them a squeeze.

“All I have ever wanted for you, Nickie, was for you to be happy. For you to not have to worry about the things that I had to worry about when I was your age. I wanted you to be able to live your life without my past or your grandfather’s past or . . . anyone else’s past holding you back.”

“Like how it happened for Bradley?” Nickie asked, causing Cora to pause for a moment.

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly. “Like that.”

Cora slowly turned to look at the back of the bench. Nickie followed his mom’s gaze and paused when he noticed the plaque in the middle of the wood. It was small and not very noticeable, but there was a plaque that read a simple message:

In memory of LTJG Nicholas “Goose” Bradshaw

“That’s the thing about becoming a parent. You look back at your childhood and you try to make choices to give your kids an easier life than the one you had. But sometimes you overcorrect. And sometimes you didn’t see the problem in the first place until it smacks you in the face all over again.”

“Mom, planes have come a long way since 1986,” Nickie pointed out, causing Cora to turn back to him. “Safety wise.”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart. I wasn’t talking about that.” Looking down at her lap for a moment, Cora took a breath. “Your father. Bradley. He always felt like he had to prove himself to the memory of his dad. And he made a lot of decisions trying to impress someone who was gone and who would have loved him regardless of any of those choices.”

Cora stared into her son’s eyes as she squeezed his hands.

“And I want to make sure that if you go into the Navy, you’re doing it for yourself. Not for Maverick. Not for Ice. Not for me . . . and definitely not to prove anything to Rooster.” Cora held her son’s gaze for a moment before adding, “I want you to do it for yourself, Nickie. Do you understand me?”

“I do, Mom.”

“Good.”

With a watery gaze, Cora pulled her son in for a hug that he quickly returned. Latching onto his mom like he was a little kid again, Nickie let a few tears dribble down from his eyes and onto her scrubs. Cora rocked her son back and forth, holding a hand to the back of his head like she did when he was a baby and she was trying to soothe him in the middle of the night.

“I thought that you’d be mad,” Nickie whispered out shakily, causing Cora to shake her head. “Or disappointed in me.”

“Nickie, I could never be disappointed in you,” Cora stated, squeezing him tighter. “You’re my baby. And you’re smart, you’re kind. You’re the kid who always got praise from all of his teachers for standing up for other kids and inviting everyone to play.” Letting out a choked sound herself, Cora tugged him closer. “I’m so proud of you, Nickie. And I’ll always be proud of you. And if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t be honest with me about this, I’m sorry, Nickie. I’m so sorry.”

“I know that you just wanted me to be safe, Mom,” Nickie croaked out emotionally.

“You’re a Mitchell. We’re not the safest bunch,” Cora blurted out, causing Nickie to laugh with her. Pulling back from the hug, Cora wiped Nickie’s tears away with her hand. “I love you, Nickie. Okay? And nothing will ever change that.”

“I know, Mom. I love you too.”

~~~~~

“I told you that you were worrying over nothing,” Amelia told Nickie as they sat out in the backyard of the Benjamin house.

“I know,” Nickie replied, shooting Amelia a small smile. “I should probably listen to you more often.”

“At least you realize it.” They sat side by side, watching the waves crash before Amelia slowly turned back to Nickie with a more serious expression. “Do you know when they ship out?”

“Any day now, I would assume,” Nickie stated, shrugging his shoulders. “We’ll probably only know the night before.”

“Have you talked to Mav yet about the Navy?”

“No, but I will. Before he leaves,” Nickie answered, nodding to himself.

“Are you going to try to talk to . . .” Amelia trailed off, causing Nickie to look at the ground.

“I don’t know,” Nickie replied honestly. “I feel like I should, but . . . he’s still the bastard who abandoned us. Should I really give him a chance?”

“I don’t know,” Amelia stated, shrugging her shoulders. Turning to look out over the waves, Amelia gripped the edge of the bench. “I know that I stopped giving my dad chances a long time ago.” She slowly looked over at Nickie, who was still staring at the ground. “But knowing you, you’re going to beat yourself up if something happens on this mission and you never talked to him.”

“And what if nothing happens and I gave him a chance that he didn’t deserve?”

“Then you can tell him to fuck off when he gets back,” Amelia replied bluntly. Turning back to Nickie, Amelia shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “Isn’t the whole Mitchell mantra about not thinking? Why are you overthinking this? Do you want to talk to him or not?”

“I want answers,” Nickie stated quietly, causing Amelia to nod.

“And where are you going to get them?”

“Him,” Nickie added lamely. Letting out a groan, Nickie rubbed his face tiredly. “Goddammit.”

~~~~~

After the orders were given that they would be shipping out the following morning, the Daggers seemed to scatter to the wind. Those with families spent their last night on FaceTime or in town with them. Some just wanted their solitude and peace to center themselves.

And Rooster didn’t have a plan. He was just going to wander, quite honestly. Until life moved in a direction for him.

“Rooster,” Hondo called, causing Rooster to slow and turn to face the warrant officer.

Holding out a piece of paper, Hondo stared Rooster down and motioned for him to take the paper. Rooster tentatively reached out and took it to find a location and time written down.

“It’s top-secret correspondence,” Hondo stated, causing Rooster to turn back to him.

“From who?”

“An unnamed source,” Hondo replied stiffly. “Just . . . don’t fuck it up.”

And without another word, Hondo turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Rooster standing there with just a piece of paper in his hand. Staring down at it again, Rooster slowly folded it up and tucked it into the pocket of his flight suit before heading for the locker room. He had a guess as to who would try to get a message to him through Hondo.

And he desperately wanted to speak with her.

~~~~~

Pulling into the lot just down the beach from the Hard Deck, Rooster turned off his car and stepped out into the warm Miramar air. Dressed in his civilian clothes, Rooster looked around for Cora, but the figure who got out of their car and turned to him was too tall to be Cora.

It was Nickie, Rooster realized, after the teenager stepped forward.

The father and son stood several feet apart, neither seemingly wanting to make the first move. Bradley was still in shock that Nickie wanted to even look at him and Nickie was still summoning all of his courage to ask the questions that had been hammering around in his head for his entire life.

“You came,” was what Nickie started off with.

“I did,” Rooster replied quietly, shutting the door to his car. Looking up and down the landscape, Rooster turned back to Nickie. “Does your mom know that you’re here?”

“No,” Nickie stated honestly. He tilted his chin up a bit, almost challenging Rooster. “Are you going to tell on me?”

“No,” Rooster replied, shaking his head.

Nickie stared up at Rooster for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists as he shifted his weight around on his feet. Letting out a breath, Nickie turned back to his father with a hardened expression that made Rooster more than a little nervous.

“Why did you never come back? Why did you never read any of her letters?” Nickie demanded with his voice thick with emotion. “Why the hell did you turn your back on my mom and never look back? What the hell did she do to you?”

“Nothing,” Rooster stated after a few moments of silence.

“Then why did you do it?” Nickie hissed, glaring over at Rooster.

“Because I was . . . am an idiot,” Rooster replied quietly, knowing that excuses weren’t going to do him any good here. Looking down at the ground for a moment, Rooster tried to find the right words. “And I . . . I was worried that she would slam the door in my face if I showed up again.”

“So, you just did it to her then?” Nickie scoffed, his jaw ticking with thinly veiled annoyance. Shaking his head as the anger simmered in his stomach, Nickie took a step closer to Rooster. “Do you have any idea of what you put her through? Do you think it was easy for her to raise me as a single mom? Do you think that she wanted that?”

“No,” Rooster returned, shaking his head calmly. Clearing his throat, Rooster rubbed the back of his neck. “My mom . . . your grandmother . . . she was a single mom for most of my life. I know it’s not easy. I know it’s not the life that most people choose to have.”

“That makes it worse,” Nickie scoffed, shooting Rooster a sharper glare.

“Do you know about her? About . . . your grandmother?” Rooster asked quietly after a few moments, causing Nickie to pause with the change in conversation.  

“Of course, I do. The only person that my mom ever hid from me was you,” Nickie all but snapped, causing Rooster to wince. Letting out a breath from his nose, Nickie looked at the ground as some of the anger left his body. Kicking a rock, Nickie kept his gaze down and his voice level. “I grew up on her recipes. On . . . my grandmother’s recipes.”

“Even the birthday surprise cake?” Bradley questioned emotionally.

“Every year,” Nickie returned, some more anger leaving his system. “Until I was like thirteen.”

“She used to make those cakes for your mom and for me. For our birthdays,” Bradley replied, sounding like he was talking more to himself than Nickie for a moment. Bradley stared down at the ground, taking a breath to calm himself down. “You know, I was about your age when . . . when she died.”

“My mom told me,” Nickie responded softly, swallowing a lump in his throat.

Ice had only been gone for a few days and sometimes Nickie had to remind himself that he was never going to get a text from Ice asking for him to come over. Not anymore. Turning back to his dad, Nickie set his jaw and let out a quiet sniffle.

“Fuck cancer,” Nickie stated, causing Rooster to pick his head up.

“Fuck cancer,” Rooster returned, nodding firmly. He looked out over at the waves over Nickie’s shoulder for a moment, leaning back against the Bronco for support. “You know, if she was still here, she would have been the grandmother to never leave you alone. The kind to make sure that you left her house five pounds heavier than you came. She’d go to all your sports games and events. Hell, she probably would have driven your mom just a little crazy, sticking around so much.”

And for a moment, though he couldn’t believe it, Nickie was sympathizing with Rooster. He actually felt bad for the guy. Because for the three seconds that he put himself into Bradley’s shoes—losing his mom at sixteen—Nickie barely survived it without bursting into uncontrolled sobs.

He loved his mom. He’d do anything for his mom. He was a mama’s boy. And he couldn’t picture his life without his mom.

Coming out of the emotional fog, Rooster turned and opened the door to the Bronco, causing Nickie to pick his head up. Rifling around in the glove compartment, Rooster pulled out a simple gold chain. It was a necklace that his mom used to wear all the time that he kept close to him to remember her. And the simple ‘B’ that hung from the chain was still there all these years later.

“This was hers,” Rooster explained, holding it out to Nickie.

A bit cautious, Nickie walked over and slowly took the necklace from Rooster’s outstretched hand. Studying the chain, Nickie glanced down at the ‘B’ pendant before looking back up at Rooster, who seemed to be waiting expectantly for him to speak.

“Is the ‘B’ for Bradley?”

“It’s for Bradshaw,” Rooster replied softly, smiling a bit painfully. “My dad . . . your grandfather . . . he gave it to her when they first started dating.” Rooster shoved his hands into his pockets, just watching Nickie study the necklace for a moment. “Less than two years later, I was born.”

“My mom showed me the pictures of their wedding,” Nickie returned, rubbing the metal with his thumb. “I guess that young, unplanned pregnancies just run in my family.”

“Both sides,” Rooster agreed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Try to break that streak. Please.”

“Gramps already gave me the shovel talk about it about fifteen times over,” Nickie replied with a dash of amusement in his tone. “And my mom too.”

Running his thumb over the thin gold chain again, Nickie picked up his head and held out the necklace for Bradley to take back. But Bradley shook his head and held up a hand to stop him.

“Keep it.”

Nickie looked a bit taken aback for a moment before he glanced down at the chain in his hand. Slowly wrapping it around his wrist to keep it safe, Nickie turned back to Bradley.

“You know, we’re never going to have a relationship unless you make it up to my mom,” Nickie stated firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“I know. I understand that,” Rooster replied, nodding along to show that he understood. “I would have been the same way.” Rooster looked away for a moment before turning back to Nickie. “You know, I suggested it to your mom but . . . my mom left me some money. And I know that you’re going to college soon and everything—”

“—I don’t need it,” Nickie interjected, knowing where Bradley was going with it.

“College is expensive and I’m sure that you’re smart but—”

“—I don’t need it,” Nickie repeated, a bit more firmly.

“Are you not going to college?” Rooster asked, trying not to frown but failing anyways.

“No, I’m going to college,” Nickie sassed back, straightening up under Rooster’s frown. “I just don’t want to go to a . . . traditional college."

"Traditional . . ." Rooster trailed off, confused for a moment, before it finally clicked in his mind. Staring at Nickie incredulously, Rooster tried to put his words together despite his shock. “You . . . you want to be a . . . a naval aviator?”

“If they’ll take me,” Nickie replied, nodding firmly.

“Does your mom know?” Bradley asked, causing Nickie to grow a bit defensive.

“Yes.”

“Does Mav know?”

“. . . Yes,” Nickie lied straight through his teeth, causing Rooster to sigh and rub his face.

Well, Nickie got Cora’s inability to lie, that was for sure. He even shrugged his shoulders the same way that Cora did when she tried to lie.

Shifting his weight on his feet, Nickie turned back to Rooster with a slightly skittish appearance. That fear that he had carried around for months, ever since he decided that he really did want to go on and be a naval aviator, crept up again. And even though he talked it out with his mom, he hadn’t yet managed to find the courage to talk to his grandfather about it.

“Did he . . . did he really pull your papers?”

“Yeah, he did,” Bradley sighed, turning back to his son.

Nickie nodded and looked away, his shifting stature giving away how nervous he was feeling. Rooster took in Nickie’s anxiety and swallowed his pride and about sixteen years’ worth of resentment against Maverick before he cleared his throat. Nickie turned back to him, clearly apprehensive, but curious to hear what he had to say nonetheless.

“Mav told me that he regretted it. Of course, that doesn’t change what’s happened . . .” Rooster trailed off, letting a breath out from his nose. Nickie looked up at Rooster, waiting for him to finish his thought. “But it changes what’ll happen down the line.”

Nickie nodded slowly, looking down at the ground again. Staring at his grandmother’s necklace, Nickie turned back to Rooster. He straightened up, trying to look bigger, but he was really just a bean pole at his age, like Bradley was.

“When you get back . . . we can talk. After you apologize to my mom. And my grandfather too.”

Rooster nodded to show that he agreed with Nickie’s terms before Nickie slowly backed up and slipped into his car. Rooster watched Nickie drive off into the night before slowly slipping into his own car. Staring at the steering wheel for a moment, Rooster slowly lowered his head into his hands and let a few tears loose.

~~~~~

Nickie walked around back, having rolled into the driveway sneakily to avoid his mom or grandfather seeing him. Climbing up the side of the house, Nickie reached his window that he left cracked open. Pushing it up more, Nickie started to shimmy into his bedroom when he spotted his grandfather sitting on his bed with an unimpressed expression on his face.

“Hey, Gramps,” Nickie laughed off, trying to appear casual, though him stumbling in through his window definitely didn’t help that. “Just dropped something and thought that it was easier to go out the window than . . .” Nickie trailed off for a moment when he caught his grandfather’s expression. “Is there any excuse that I could use that you would believe?”

“Where did you go?” Maverick asked, getting to the point.

“Uh . . .”

“What’s on your wrist?” Maverick asked, pointing at Nickie’s left wrist.

“Nothing, just a—”

“—Is that Carole’s?” Maverick interjected, easily recognizing the piece of jewelry. Slowly turning to look up at Nickie, Maverick slowly stood up from his bed. “You went to see Bradley?”

“Yeah . . . I did,” Nickie agreed, nodding slowly, staring down at the necklace. “He gave it to me.”

“And . . . how did the rest of your talk go?” Maverick questioned, concerned.

“Well, I didn’t tell him to ‘fuck off’,” Nickie reported, causing Maverick to sigh. “We talked. Mostly about Carole, actually.”

“Bradley was a mama’s boy,” Maverick recounted, nodding sadly. “Not unlike you.”

Nickie nodded as well, staring down at the chain on his wrist for a moment. Slowly unclipping it, he unwrapped the necklace carefully. Nickie reached for the gum tin that he got from Ice and slowly opened it, setting the necklace inside with Goose’s dog tags and Ice’s wings. But the action only reminded him of the conversation he was trying to avoid with his grandfather.

“Your mom told me,” Maverick stated, causing Nickie to turn to him quickly. “Well, she didn’t fully tell me. I just asked her why she looked like she had been crying for a while and put the pieces together from there.”

“She doesn’t want me to go into the Navy,” Nickie replied softly.

“No, she doesn’t. But she doesn’t want to stand in the way of your dreams more,” Maverick returned without a second thought.

Nickie nodded and set the gum tin on his nightstand again. Maverick studied Nickie’s expression for a moment before looking over at the pictures that Nickie had hung up. The one of Goose and Carole caught his eye before he turned back to his grandson, the boy that he practically raised as his own son, as he had done with Nickie’s own father before him.

“And neither do I, Nickie.”

Nickie whipped around to face his grandfather, still a bit apprehensive, though there was that hope budding behind his brown eyes. Maverick managed a smile and nodded to show that he wasn’t lying, which caused Nickie to turn around completely.

“You’re not just saying that because you want me to feel better, right?”

“No, I’m not,” Maverick stated, a bit more firmly. “Though, I do want to be honest with you, Nickie.”

Maverick motioned for Nickie to sit down on the edge of his bed and the two Mitchells sat together for perhaps the final time. Maverick turned to Nickie with a serious expression.

“The whole process . . . it’s not sunshine and daises. And I’m sure that you have your eye on the Academy, and I don’t fault you for that. But I want you to prepare for the reality that politics plays a bigger role in the process than anyone wants to talk about. They kept me out of the Academy because of my dad. And, honestly, I’m worried that they’ll keep you out because of me.”

“I know,” Nickie replied quietly. “Ice warned me.”

“Of course, he did,” Maverick sighed, rubbing his chin.

“I looked into other options. If I can’t get into the Academy, I’ll just try NROTC or OCS. I could even stay in San Diego if I really wanted to do that,” Nickie stated, causing Maverick to nod. “And I mean, even if I can’t become an aviator, I’ll just do my time, get my college degree paid for, and figure it out from there. Maybe I’d become a civilian pilot like you tried to push me to do.”

“Well, you’re a Mitchell. Being in the sky . . . that’s your birth right one way or another,” Maverick stated, smiling a bit painfully. “But I am really glad that you thought through this a bit more. I didn’t want you to get stuck like . . . like Bradley.”

“Why did you pull his papers anyways?” Nickie asked softly, causing Maverick to pause. “I mean, you encouraged me to fly my whole life. Maybe not for the Navy, but you had me up in planes with you since as far back as I could remember. Why would you try and stop Bradley from doing that?”

“My decisions with Bradley . . . your dad . . . I made those decisions because I thought that I was doing the right thing. I thought that I was protecting the son of my best friends. But all I did was end up pushing him away and making him think that I didn’t believe in him at all.”

Maverick looked down at the ground for a moment, before turning back to Nickie.

“And, you know, part of me mixed up Bradley and Goose in my head. And I let what happened to Goose hold Bradley back. I didn’t want him to end up like Goose because I wouldn’t have survived that. But that wasn’t fair to Bradley.” Maverick rubbed his cheek slowly. “You know, they look so damn similar that I just acted on instinct alone.”

“Goose had strong genes,” Nickie remarked, causing Maverick to laugh.

“Yes, he does. He’d be very proud of himself for it too.” Letting out another chuckle and rubbing his chin, Maverick turned back to Nickie. “You know, if he was still here, he would have been bragging to me and anyone who would listen about which side of your family you looked more like. His side, of course. God, he would have held it over my head forever.”

Nickie nodded along and looked at the photo that he hung up on the wall. One of Goose and Carole from before they were even married. They couldn’t have been much older than he was now Nickie realized with a small smidge of dread.

“I wish I got to meet them,” Nickie spoke softly, causing Maverick to slowly tear up.

“Yeah, I wish that you did too, Nickie. Every single day,” Maverick breathed out, forcing a watery smile.

“When do you ship out?” Nickie asked, trying to change the subject to avoid his own tears.

“Tomorrow morning,” Maverick stated, causing Nickie to whip around to face him.

“Tomorrow?” Nickie breathed out, his stomach immediately knotting.

“Affirmative,” Maverick stated, trying to force a smile again. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”

“I know,” Nickie stated softly, not looking entirely convinced.

Slowly, Maverick pulled Nickie in for a tight hug. Nickie returned the hug and tucked his chin against his grandfather’s shoulder. Maverick patted his curled fist against Nickie’s back, forcing himself to not give away the fact that he felt in his gut that this would be the last night that he saw his grandson. Taking a breath, Maverick released Nickie.

“Come on. Let’s join your mom downstairs.”

A.N. Final “main” part will be out either Wednesday or Thursday. And then the epilogue maybe sometime next week.

If you like AUs, don’t forget to vote on the poll that I made last week!

Tags: @xoxabs88xox @eternallyvenus @mygyn @kmc1989 @thegoddessc @midnightmagpiemama @badasspizzalover @praline357 @oatmealisweird @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby

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(If I forgot you in the tags, don’t be afraid to ask again because I’m definitely scatterbrained when it comes to that but please have a reference to your age somewhere on your blog (bio, pinned post) or just message me!)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 8 Epilogue

[namfinessed]

eliminate! - p.jm.

genre: major angst, suggestive content, dystopian!au (warnings include violence, death and mentions of blood) (8.8k wc)

summary: in a world where people killed those they loved, to survive, to be alive, you and jimin can't seem to be parted and the impending doom of your relationship stretches the two of you out before you are forced to make the choice, to love or to die?

masterlist

(i highly recommend listening to heartbeat by childish gambino while reading this, enjoy <3)

-

october 20th, 2022.

rain traveled down your back, slowly, mockingly but fell with full force on top of your head and clouded your vision. red lights flashed, green lights flashed, white lights flashed but somehow, he was still there, in the midst of it all, clear as day in the dead of the night.

it couldn’t be him, not after all this while, not after you’d given it all up.

but the hand that held your gun quivered, your blinking became slower as your eyes tried to focus on him, drink him in, forget him, remember him, anything it can do, see him.

it shouldn’t have come to this.

a road shouldn’t be separating you two, a gun in your hand should’ve never been held, the rain should've never dared to hide him from you but it was all happening, and all you could do was look.

you felt his sorrow from across the street, his shaking hands that held his own gun, and you knew you had to do this for the relief of the other, whoever survived.

your phone blinked and buzzed rapidly with the word ‘eliminate!’ on your screen and you knew the decision that you had to make.

so, as cars and bikes zoomed and honked and blared in your ears, your hand lifted to point the gun at him, you knew he would do the same, the principle was survival of the fittest after all.

but as you pulled the trigger and the bullet rang through the air and bolted in his direction, you realized he never lifted his hand.

you fell to your knees as the rain continued its assault on your body. your eyes forgave you by closing themselves so you would never have to see his body on the ground.

your screen became green.

‘successful!’

it shouldn’t have come to this.

-

the government and all other higher organizations had their eyes on the few numbers of marriages that took place and even fewer marriages that lasted, divorce rates were at an all-time high, and that resulted in the chaos of the world as it was.

because it was a chain reaction.

marriages lead to unhappy individuals, sometimes with children, sometimes with large families, this led to divorces, which led to unhappy and traumatized children, years of therapy that didn’t quite fix anything, unhappy and traumatized children didn’t serve to be responsible citizens who fulfilled the duties that the government needed.

and soon, they had to step in.

they introduced a system based on nature’s most ancient method, the method of survival by elimination. the system had everyone’s data down to the chromosomes that built them and used this system to establish romantic compatibility between individuals. this would allow society, as a whole, to have lasting, emotionally fulfilling relationships.

but they had other motives as well.

the government didn’t care about individuals, they cared about what an individual could offer and they also cared about overpopulation, they couldn’t control society if it was overfilling, so the system was built to kill two birds with one stone.

the system did connect people but the second the relationship seemed to be steering in the wrong direction in any manner, the individuals in the relationship would receive a flashing red alert of ‘eliminate’ on their phones; sometimes they got it at the same time, sometimes they got it seconds apart, and in the time that they receive the notification, they have to kill the other person in the relationship or get killed.

whoever kills, gets ‘aid’ from the government, which was basically tons of money to cover for the trauma that comes from killing someone you loved.

if the persons failed to carry out the elimination for whatever reason, they got three warnings before government-assigned hitmen would kill both of the individuals, if the individuals didn't kill to survive, they didn’t deserve survival.

this, according to the government, was survival of the fittest, eliminating those who weren’t emotionally capable of being in a lasting relationship, and who didn’t provide the government with anything, deserved to be eliminated.

this was naturally met with resistance but as days by and the system reached everyone, people found that they enjoyed eliminating those who made them unhappy, especially because there were no consequences and because romance came with a certain rage, people were finally allowed to quell that rage.

so, the system was implemented and the world paced forward.

but you fell in love with jimin, and he fell in love with you, and the moment you did, your phone flashed red.

-

december 19nd, 2022.

it was the first warning and he hadn’t died that day, at least that’s what you heard.

it’s been months since your bullet hit him and you still couldn't forget the ringing it left in your head. the same roads that you had coursed through on his bike, so in love, so sure about each other, were the same roads where you left him to die.

it wasn't your fault, you had prepared to die, jimin was a better marksman than you were, so you had expected a bullet to pierce through you as well but it never came, even if you wished that it did.

so, now, here you were, body barely covered in a nightgown that your partner, keith, apparently liked, hands slowly stirring the coffee in your cup and looking out the window, rain clouded your vision and that was enough to take you back.

“good morning, babe!” a swift kiss on the side of your neck had your body recoiling but you forced a smile on your face as you kissed keith’s cheek.

he was dressed up for work in his black trousers and white shirt, he was moderately attractive, a finance guy who liked spending his money as if it meant nothing, you had no idea how you were compatible, but you were living together now and you didn’t see a way out.

“work’s going to be crazy today, so many meetings and we have to close that deal today,” he drawled on, running his hands through his hair as he got behind the kitchen counter to make himself breakfast.

i hope you don’t come back home, i hope your meeting lasts for a week, i hope i never have to see you again.

“i can make dinner for when you come back” leaves your lips instead and his head snaps up with a smile you’ve grown to hate, “you’re the best, babe, i love that on you by the way.” he gestures to your gown and gives you a flying kiss and it takes everything in you to not physically cringe.

i hate this on me, by the way.

it’s not like you care.

“i’ll buy more of them.” you hum, an answer that would satisfy him, and with a sigh, you turn away from him to look out the window again, the sky was still gloomy, the raindrops still coated your windows and you still wanted your partner to die.

then, you notice at the foot of your apartment building, a bike that pulls up, a bike that you know, a bike that you spent many nights on, your heart races as the rider steps off it.

at the same minute, your phone buzzes in your hand and you freeze.

not now.

not now.

not now.

“we don’t have to make this painful,” you hear from behind you before the steel of your own gun presses against the back of your head, your phone slips to the ground and you catch sight of the red that coats the screen.

‘eliminate!’

seconds apart.

of course, he got it before you had.

from your periphery, you see exactly what keith had been all along, what all you tolerated because you didn’t think you deserved love after putting a bullet in the only man you ever loved, you see keith’s narrowed eyes filled with ambition and malice, his fingers that itched to pull the trigger and his face that donned an evil smile.

he was enjoying this, enjoying the absolute control he had on your very existence.

you just wished he hadn’t underestimated you.

you pulled your ankle back to connect with his crotch, and whipped around to elbow his face and neck, making him weak enough to drop the gun, you pushed the gun away with your leg and dragged him to the kitchen counter, all while he begged and whimpered for mercy, then started shouting in the anger he felt, he had lost control after all.

you grabbed his collar and jammed his head into the sharp corner of the kitchen counter, leaving traces of his blood on it, and got up to retrieve a knife.

you had to do it, you had to kill him, or they will kill you you had to do it you had to kill him or they will kill you you had to do i-

the door to your apartment flew open and the grip you had on your knife tightened as you whipped around to see who it was, even if you knew who it could be.

jimin stood there, helmet in hands, eyes flicking on your body, unmoving, so silent that it made your head spin. as your lips parted to call out to him, to see if he would respond, to see if he was even real, a hand gripped your ankle, keith’s loud groan of ‘bitch’ echoed around you. the knife you had in your hands quickly found its place in his chest; the green light from your phone illuminated a side of your face.

‘successful!’

through the blood dripping down your eyelashes, you looked up, once again to see him, to see if he had moved, to see if he had left, to see if he had come to kill you.

you fell off keith’s body, pushing it away with your feet and the cold ground made you hiss, your head didn’t stop spinning, and your hands didn’t stop shaking, it almost made you laugh that the people in this room right now were both people you killed or tried to kill.

“why are you back?”

we shouldn’t be around each other, you shouldn’t be alive, i shouldn’t be alive-

“i chose to forgive you for putting a bullet in me,” he smirked and your head lolled to the side, a smile growing involuntarily, he was real, he was here, and he was breathing, “i never asked for your forgiveness, jimin.”

i missed you, i missed your voice, i missed your bike, i missed you i missed you i missed you i missed you, i missed us.

“i’m nice like that,” he hummed as he sat beside you, you looked up helplessly, someone’s blood smeared on your face, his blood that stained your hands, you thought you would never see him again.

he was nice like that; he was always nicer than you had ever been.

jimin’s ring-covered fingers pushed the hair that stuck onto the blood on your face back, you could feel your sobs compressed in your chest.

“unless you are here to kill me, get out, jimin.” you didn’t think you could say it but you couldn’t kill him a second time, you couldn't look at him without wanting to lay in his arms and let him kill you.

“i’m gonna say no to that.”

“you must really like dying” you could almost hear the sirens of the government hitmen, they would bust in here, place a bullet in each of your heads, jimin and you would just be eliminated numbers in the system then.

“we’ve only gotten one warning,” his voice and demeanor remained calm and steady, the calm you needed, the steady you craved, everything about jimin, you craved and craved and craved.

but one warning was enough, one bullet was enough, the blood on your hands was enough.

you pushed yourself off the floor, almost gravitating and falling into jimin’s arms, maybe crying for an hour, or two, and then kissing him all over but instead, your hands reached out for the knife that was dripping already.

you stood, with shaky knees, in front of a jimin that didn’t flinch and with the strongest voice you could muster, “get out.”

jimin didn’t make an attempt to move, “i let you kill me once, why do you think this will work?” to anyone else, it would sound like he was provoking you, but jimin was pleading with you, ‘i let you kill me once, i’ll let you kill me twice, thrice, ten times, i would rather die in your hands than be away from you.’

you couldn’t think, you couldn’t breathe, he was right, he was always right.

but you were, again, desperate to make sure his blood didn’t end up on you.

so, you twisted the knife and pointed it to yourself.

that did the trick.

jimin jumped up from where he was, you could hear his breathing, loud, hurried, so worried, you saw his hands instinctively jerk towards you and pausing in the air, unsure of what you would do.

“please leave,” you whispered, eyes gathering tears for the first time this morning and jimin retracted his hand, “you’re being crazy, put it down, p-please.” his calm was breaking, his face boosted a sheen and his eyebrows scrunched in worry.

“the second you turn back and leave, this will be put away.” you shook the knife in your hand, glancing towards the door through which jimin would have to leave.

jimin’s eyes widened in anger, his hands shook at the fury that consumed him, he couldn’t believe that you were willing to do this just to keep him away.

“i came back for you!” he yelled, you couldn’t help but flinch at his eyes that were no longer calm, no longer steady, “after everything, after you put a fucking bullet in me, after you live with some guy, i looked for you everywhere and this is what you want to do? drive me away? make yourself look insane?” his voice bellowed in the apartment, suffocating you, driving you to tears, but you knew it was necessary, it was easier if he hated you.

“get out,” you whispered again, your resolve weakening as the knife nudged into your skin, and at the sight of your blood running down your arm, jimin threw his head back with a frustrated groan, he couldn't touch you without potentially triggering another warning, he couldn’t shake you back to sanity so, just as quiet as he entered, jimin left your apartment, but not without a look that said, ‘this isn’t over, not here, not now.’

you were left with too much air and too much blood around you.

at some point in the evening, the cleaners from the government came in, but none of them looked at you, none of them said a word or offered you a napkin, nothing.

they pushed keith’s body into a bag, cleared up the blood, dropped an envelope full of money on the counter, and left.

but the smell of death perforated around you, as you, once again, looked out the window, a gloomy sky, a gloomy world, and your cigarette was the only light that remained later in the night.

you stared at the reflection of your face which looked sunken in, tired, irritated, so close to dead but unfortunately, not dead, and as you kept scowling at yourself, jimin’s face joined the reflection.

then, both of your cigarettes remained to be the only light in your apartment that night.

-

august 22nd, 2023.

that night, he smoked with you, taught you how to patch up your cuts, burnt some scented candles, and left after staring at your lips for ten minutes.

it didn’t matter that you were already well-trained to patch up your wounds, it didn’t matter that the candles he left only cleared the air for a few minutes before the smell of death came back, he was there, you were there, and that was enough for nothing else to matter.

though you still shiver at the memory of his eyes on you.

you haven’t seen him since then, you had told him to stay away before any kind of patch wouldn’t save what you do to yourself, but you still burnt the candles he got for you, every day.

you killed five people after jimin last year, you didn’t know if it was dumb luck that you survived every single time or your worst nightmare come true, all of your lovers were now just numbers in the eliminated category, you were waiting to join them too.

but, when your phone flashed red, you couldn't think of anything but surviving, even if you wanted to die, even if you had nothing to live for, that one notification blinded you from everything you believed in and pushed you to protect yourself.

it was the deepest, darkest secret that you held and buried in yourself.

maybe that was the intention all along, everyone wants to die until they are put face-to-face with death.

“i really didn’t expect us to match but i’m so glad that this is happening,” your date, an older man, with thinning hair and too broad of a smile, beamed at you. you felt particularly irritated that he was talking to your boobs but you held on, you matched for a reason, you had to see this through until you could kill him.

“i am glad too.” you smiled with ruby lips, crossing your legs and leaning away from him, you raised your glass to him and he almost jumped out of his seat to cling it, you held back your laugh at his state.

men were too simple.

“let’s get to know each other! we could start with, what scares you?” he thought he was being deep and thoughtful with that question, but he was so wrong.

men, scare me, i haven't decided if you're one of those men.

“i have to say, rats, can’t stand them, they’re disgusting.” you fake shuddered, causing your date to explode into laughter, “oh, you poor thing, they scare you?” he asked as if it was the most ridiculous thing ever.

i am scared that everyone i love, secretly hates me. i don't have many people that i love, that scares me too.

“so, how many people have you killed?” you didn’t mean to ask it out loud but you needed to know how much training would have to go into defeating him, if that day ever came. he looked up with surprised eyes before the surprise melts into poorly executed sensuality, a certain sick kind of glint shined in his face as he leaned forward as if he’s found his prize, his prey, “i have killed 3, princess, what about you?”

it took everything in you to not vomit in his face.

but your eyes roll back instead, this was going to be a long night.

“how about you try to guess?” you whispered back, just as sensual, maybe not as sick but playing the part he wanted you to.

a hidden freak in elegant clothes.

men didn’t have a lot of types; this was usually the most popular.

he, you keep thinking ‘he’, because, for the love of god, you can’t seem to remember his name, blinks slowly, trying to be sexy, only to look mildly constipated.

a swing of the restaurant doors forces your eyes towards the entrance and your throat closes up as you try not to fall off your seat when you see who it is.

you had told him to stay away, to never come back, you told him that you should’ve never given him the lighter that night but he had laughed it off, he had lit his cigarette and gazed out the window without a word.

now, he was here, all flesh and bones, too real, too much, not in your innocent or sometimes, not-so-innocent dreams, he was standing with another woman who held onto his hands, hands that had taught you to clean your wounds, hands that had touched every inch of you.

your hands gripped the tablecloth with a strength you didn’t know you possessed; your eyes threatened to flash red as your heartbeat accelerated.

gone was the bald man in front of you, gone were the people around you, gone was the chaos of the restaurant, gone was the rest of the world as his eyes reached you.

and he had the audacity to bow to you, flash a smirk, throw a smile at your date, and take his seat at the bar as if it was his throne. of course, his seat faced you, his eyes stayed on you as his hands played and twirled with her hair.

“see something you like?” your date growled from the other side of the table.

you had forgotten about him.

“sorry, i got distracted” you mumbled, you wondered if he would figure out just how insincere your words were. he laughed bitterly, fingers tapping incessantly at his wine glass.

his demeanor had changed, his shoulders were tense and tight, and you could feel his leg knocking onto the table, you had pissed him off.

you wish you cared.

“i’ve met your type, you think that looking and acting like a slut will help you get away with everything, don’t you?” his eyes gleamed wickedly as he smiled at you, you felt a chill run down your spine even if you weren't threatened.

all your life, you’ve met all kinds of men, it didn’t help you get used to how cruel and animalistic some of them could be.

your phone pinged and flashed red.

‘eliminate!’

your heart contracted rapidly as your hands tried to search for the gun on your thigh holster, your fingers fumbled to pull it out and you could feel it all slip away.

you couldn’t let him get the notification too, he would kill you, he would kill you in front of jimin, he would kill you and you would never see jimin again, never feel him again, never breathe him in agai-

but then, his head dropped on the table.

your hands fell away from your holster as your entire body stiffened and fell back on your chair.

you hated that you didn’t feel anything as his blood pooled around his head, as people screamed and rushed out of the restaurant, as waiters fumbled with their phones to call the police, you hated that your gaze immediately went to jimin.

his hand was raised, a gun pointed in your direction.

your suspicions were right.

‘successful!’

your screen turned green.

people ran with their children in front of you, people stared in horror at the man whose blood overflowed from the table, people saw you staring at the bar instead of the dying man in front of you.

public eliminations were rare, and most notifications were delivered in the safety of private homes but desperate times, such as especially bad events on a date, would lead to this.

jimin’s date got up, seemed to scream at him, seemed to seek his attention but he peeked and bent around her body to keep looking at you, she turned around with fury in her eyes, only to huff loudly and run out of the restaurant too.

then, it was the two of you again.

how could you feel a touch, months after it’s been on you?

how could you feel him, miles apart?

you hated yourself for how warm you felt now that it was just you and him.

you pushed yourself out of your chair, charging towards jimin with a rage you only felt around him, the rage of wanting him but not having him, the rage of never forgetting him, the rage of not being able to detach yourself from him, the rage of seeing him with another, he watched with a tilted head as you approached him.

“come outside,” you demanded, already turning around to get out but he spun towards the bar, “why? we have all the privacy we want, right here” he tapped the seat next to him with his lips pulled to one side.

you were impatient, out of time, out of your depth, out of control, which urged you to grab jimin by the collar and drag him to the rain-soaked pavements outside.

there was no way you were going to have a conversation when a man lay dead, a couple of steps away from you, a man that he killed, a man that you were supposed to kill.

“what were you thinking, jimin?” you screeched once you couldn’t see blood dripping down the table you left behind. even as the rain soaked you, you felt burning hot anger bubbling in you.

“why do you care? were you in love with him or something?” jimin sneered, adjusting his shirt and looking away to the side, his voice was irritated but his face wasn’t, jimin had ever been good at hiding his vulnerability. there was this nervousness, this tapping of his foot, that gave him away.

“it shouldn’t matter to you, jimin!” you yelled loudly, though your face fell away in unguarded softness. it shouldn’t have been his bullet today, it should’ve been yours, it’s funny to you that it always ends up having to be yours.

“why?” jimin turned back to look at you with a frown so deep, you wondered if he was feeling the strain of the conversation already, if he was feeling the strain of being so close and far.

do you want me in your arms? i want you in mine.

“what do you mean, why?” you threw your hands in the air as a deep exhale left your body, a last attempt to calm yourself, “why shouldn’t it matter to me? as far as i know, i’m the only one it should matter to,” he roared back, chest puffing as he stepped closer to you.

come closer, don’t you dare step back, take me away from this rain, this place, these people, this world, take me to a place where i can hold you and you can hold me.

“you know exactly why” you steeled your gaze to get your point across, though you wondered if he could hear your heart break from where he stood.

jimin watched you with careful eyes, sorrow hid under his eyelashes, sorrow that he tried to blink away, sorrow that barely concealed the anger he felt.

but not at you.

never at you.

he reached for your hand, causing you to flinch and shift a couple of steps away, he felt like a wound that never quite healed, cut itself open again, “what are you so afraid of?”

your heartbeat quickened, “jimin, stay back, we don’t know about the warn-“

“that ship sailed when you yanked my collar, love” his lips pulled to one side as he showed his phone screen that was bright red, and your heart drowned all over again, your phone buzzed in your hand, you knew what it meant.

your second warning.

“why don’t we just take advantage of this?” he whispered so softly, that the rest of the world tapped out, it was just him and his face and his voice and his hands that pushed your hair back.

life filled your lungs in a rush, life so vibrant and bright, life so blindingly fine.

soft soft hands, soft hands that touch me, soft hands that have touched me before, soft hands which i love, i love the man with soft hands.

“we could go back to our place, watch some movies, just talk, you can tell me how terrible your dates have been,” he paused to chuckle a little and it filled you with lightness, you believed you could float, “we could let the warning stretch, we could let it all just ring, i don’t care, as long as you’re there, i don’t care about anything.”

he still calls it ‘our’ place, i have a place in this world.

your phone buzzed and flashed red repeatedly as he held your cheeks and leaned in, just to let his breath fan over your face, just to let his lips brush over yours.

“but don’t push me away, i need you.” you could tell he was holding back tears and you couldn’t tell that you were crying already until his hands wiped across your cheeks, your hands fell on his shirt, unsurely grazing the fabric.

did you want him closer? was that possible?

‘eliminate!’

‘eliminate!’

‘eliminate!’

your phone threw the red onto his face, flashing so rapidly that you wanted to break it, but when you caught his eyes, his ever so tender, ever so loving, ever so giving eyes, you got reminded of the bullet you put in him. now, the red light looked like his blood.

i love the man with soft hands. his soft hands touch me and i touch him, he tells me sweet things when our lives are on a rope, how can i not fall?

i hurt the man with soft hands, i don’t deserve the man with soft hands.

your hands were desperately hanging onto his shirt now but you could feel your stomach in your throat, your heart in your legs, your head in the stormy clouds and you pushed him away.

you stumbled back, hiccupping and gripping your phone.

‘eliminate!’

“please, just listen to me-“ but you couldn’t, all you could hear was the traffic, the people, your phone, and the world, it all returned back to you and you couldn’t hide in his face any longer.

“just stop, jimin!” you let out your cry, heart squeezing itself dry onto the pavement.

i can’t hurt you, i can’t die, but i will die if i don’t hurt you, would you kill me? save me this pain? take me away.

jimin’s rage returned.

“we need to stop this, don’t show your face around me again” you turned and walked away before your heart fell on his feet and you couldn’t pick it up again.

step.

step.

step.

pull me back, don’t let me go.

“how do you walk away every single time?” his voice was low, barely audible but it fell on you like bricks raining from the sky.

your steps stopped, everything in you paused at the tension in his voice.

“how do you live without me? why is it so easy for you to be without me?” he got louder, angrier, more desperate, more of everything, you knew his eyes were burning into your skin and leaving scars that would never fade.

i’m not living, i’m breathing, i’m existing, it's not the same.

“jimin,” you breathed out, your entire body stood confused at the jolts of torments that passed through it, you tried not to fall on your knees at his assumption.

did he think this was easy for you?

did he think that he didn’t haunt every single living thought in your head?

did he think you could ever forget the grief that shot through you when you saw him on the ground, that you could ever forget him?

“do you not remember anything?” he whispered again, a sad smile stretched on his face.

i remember too much.

i remember drifting through these roads on your bike, i remember laughing into your hair and the warmth of your neck on cold nights, i remember the leather of your jacket and the coldness of you necklace, i remember the cat you loved even if you are allergic, i remember the story of your first kiss, i remember the lingering love you hold for her, i remember the greater love you held for me.

i remember the day i died when my phone flashed red for the first time.

i remember everything.

“no, and you should forget it too” you shook off his scent that crawled on your back to choke you.

“i don’t believe you,” jimin narrowed his eyes at you, he could see the memories playing like a videotape behind your eyes.

“i don’t either,” he pulled back at the sad chuckle that left your tear-dried lips and he could only watch as you got into your bike and drove away into the night, once again, leaving him to himself.

your tears came anew as the gush of wind froze them on your face, you no longer had his neck to bury yourself into, and you no longer had his jacket to grip onto, it was just you, the night and everything else burning in and out of existence.

you could tell it all to him, you could tell him that you haven't been alive since the second you held that gun in your hands, you could tell him that you imagined him on every face you kissed but it was easier to not tell it all.

it was easier to pretend that you didn’t know what you felt, it was easier to tell him you didn’t know when you knew it all, and it was easier to go back to your room and stare at the ceiling till morning came.

-

december 31st, 2023.

six hours were left to new years.

you just killed another person, and this time, you didn’t bother remembering anything about them, their name, their hobbies, their interests, their face just before they died, it only gave you nightmares.

the paper of your cigarette was soaked red as your hands dripped on them, your bedroom was being sterilized and you were once again, wholly surrounded by the smell of blood and death and nothing else.

you would need to get new sheets, a new bed, a new carpet, and new candles.

what a way to start a new year.

your head fell back on the sofa as a dull ache coursed through you, the ache was ever-present now, your only consistent companion, it stayed with you as life threw you from a puddle, to a pond, to a lake, to a river and then, at the deep edge of the sea.

your feet dragged as you closed the door behind the cleaners, you wondered if they were welcoming the new year with someone they loved or if they were too, much like you, rotting around the smell of death.

three hours were left to new years.

you wondered what jimin was doing, and then you laughed into the silence around you, when did you ever stop thinking about what jimin was doing?

but you were two strikes down, another one would only end with you both six feet underground and you couldn’t do that to jimin.

one hour was left to new years.

you were somehow standing in front of ‘your’ apartment, it was really jimin’s but it stuck with you that he had called it ‘our.’

in life, there are logical choices, mapped out, ready for action, the results would be great for you but as humans, we very rarely follow through with logical choices because even if we have a monologue prepared, an argument, a plan of action, we see the face of some people, we see the nights we spent with them, we see the words we never told anyone else, we see our expired love creeping on their backs and it all crumbles.

those choices are always shadowed by, not your heart, as many would like to believe, it’s always you, as a whole, just you. because sometimes, we don’t want the peace that comes with logic, we want the freefall that comes with doing whatever the heck you want and regretting it all afterward.

and you wonder if you will ever make the smart choice when it comes to jimin.

the door swings open, your chest falls in relief at his face and an expectant smile from him, silence riddled around you both, welcomes you into your home.

you felt strangely out of your body, as if you were watching the night unravel and could do nothing but watch, as if you had no and all control, as if you could run and stay at the same time.

on your true bed, you splayed out your arms and legs, you didn’t exhale too loudly, jimin didn’t breathe too much, you pushed your face into the pillows that you and jimin used to lay on, you breathed in the scent, jimin stood back and watched, everything was just silent and perfect and your phones were nowhere near you.

i didn’t think we would be here again, i thought i lost you forever, i thought i would die with your love for me and my love for you, buried deep inside of me and someday, it would all be dug up and i won’t be there to witness any of it.

on your true table, you sat, legs folded on the chair, piping hot food flowing steam onto your face and you ate, jimin sat opposite to you and ate, the television roared with news of parties, fires, danger, sorrow, economy. a word didn’t leave your lips.

who really cares about the government anyway, right?

on your true sofa, your fingers threaded jimin’s hair as you pulled at his scalp, gently, maybe not so gently and he falls apart in your touch, he falls back and grabs you, again and again, you two rise and fall, like riptides that would devastate the shore, like rocks that hit to make fire, like hail that hits your feet and makes them numb, your bodies don’t care anymore, not about some warning, not about some stupid government, your bodies only craved for what the other offered.

why does morning have to come? why do nights like these not show mercy on me and stretch forever? why is this place not where i come back to anymore? how do i leave, with the memories of your feathers wrapped around my back?

at some point, the clock struck midnight and jimin’s twinkling eyes whispered to you, his hands rubbing circles on your waist, “happy new year, my love.”

all of the world’s happiness would have fit in the centimetre space between you two then, you didn’t want to think of how you would die after this, you didn’t want to think of how temporary it all was, you didn’t want to think of how tomorrow might never come.

but you woke up the next day, jimin’s arms on your stomach, a new year shining outside your window and you stumbled out of the bed for your phone, to see if it really was the end because you couldn’t get a better ending than this.

you didn’t get a warning.

you wouldn’t die today.

you sighed out in relief.

-

february 14th, 2024.

you got lucky that day, too lucky, you had stretched your luck till afternoon dawned. that morning, you got on jimin’s bike and let yourself float in the backseat as wind pricked your face, you had been hoping that the final warning will come, that you could die happy but even as your head rested on jimin’s shoulder and the beach waves crashed in front of you, even as he nestled his face into your head and breathed you in, your phones hadn’t made a single noise.

the next morning, you were back to wanting to survive, jimin tried to keep you in his bed, he had whispered promises to you, he had kissed your cheeks and his hands had gripped onto your arms.

but you had run away, it wasn’t your home and you couldn’t play around with your luck anymore, maybe it was a glitch, maybe it was an anomaly, no one knew how the warnings came, and you weren’t exactly excited to know why you were granted those few hours with jimin.

and you found someone.

someone not like keith, someone not too sick or old, his name was wooseok and he treated you gently, treated you lovingly, he held your hand as you walked, he kissed you on the forehead, he promised to let you down gently if the notification ever came, as per your request.

but his hands weren’t soft and you weren’t in love with him.

you punched the sandbag in front of you, harder than your instructor had told you to, harder than you wanted to, the night fell around you with each punch, no one came around this time and the solitude comforted you.

soon, you had to meet wooseok for dinner, a valentine’s dinner, a night filled with affection and attention, you were looking forward to it, at least you were trying to look forward to it.

the elevator pinged behind you, slowing your punches, you turned around to glare at whoever came in, this was the only alone time you had, you couldn’t have some idiot mess it up.

but then your face relaxed as wooseok walked in, your arms immediately stretched in front of you to wrap around his neck and he chuckled into your neck, “couldn’t wait till dinner, forgive me.” he brushed your cheeks before kissing you on the forehead and you tried to hide the way your body tensed.

“i’m glad, i’ll be done in a bit,” you said with a half-genuine smile and he nodded.

i can be happy without jimin, i can live and not be afraid to love, i can learn to love wooseok’s rough hands and i can live live live

the elevator pinged again; you didn’t bother looking at who it was until you heard the soft thump of a bag falling to the floor. “just two minutes,” he whispered before burying his face in your neck again and this time, your body gave up fighting, you relaxed into him and let out a sigh. hidden by wooseok’s body, you peeked to the side to see who it was.

it was instantaneous, the reaction, the rush of blood to your head and heart, the restlessness that started building in you.

you felt your chest tear, your legs break under you, your hands falling off but nothing happened to you, even if you wished your mental pain could become physical, you still breathed fine, stood fine, lived fine, still clung to wooseok’s neck fine.

just one look at jimin had you crumbling even as someone held you up.

i cannot be happy without jimin.

“i’ll be waiting downstairs,” wooseok whispered, with no knowledge of your intruder, he kissed your cheek and you tried to hide the paleness of your face as you nodded, he leaves with a lingering look at you, so filled with love.

and your throat closes up again as the elevator takes him away.

jimin looks at you, waiting for you to speak, apologize, explain, anything, any words you give, he would take and he tries to hold his ground while his mind assaults him with playbacks to you and someone else wrapped around you.

your content face, instead of fear, your smile, instead of a scowl, your affection, instead of wariness, everything jimin wanted with you, you found in someone else.

he would’ve done anything for all of that, would your new boy do it? would he make you his as jimin had?

once he understands that you were going to ignore this, he walks towards you slowly, taking all the time in the world, you heard his steps but you kept putting your stuff away, determined to leave as soon as you could.

the world spun at your feet when he halts behind you, you felt the warmth of his body and his soft soft soft soft hands holding your hips as he gazed from behind you, into the mirror, you stood frozen.

how easy would it be to just melt into you? how easy would it be to go back home with you, to you, spend my hours breathing with you?

no.

you had someone now.

“jimin, step back,” you glanced anxiously towards where you left your phone and jimin is reckless, out of patience and at the end of the line here, “how does he treat you, love?” he whispers against your ear, in a mocking tone that you hated.

but heat crawls and wraps around you fast, you find yourself wanting to lean back on him, let him carry you away and let everything else fall away, let your life fall away.

not better than you, no one gets me like you do.

“he’s incredible, treats me very well” you turn your nose up in the air, speaking anything and everything to make him believe that you were alright without him, but as always, jimin sees right through you, he hums before leaning his chin on your shoulder and sucking in a breath, that has your knees bucking.

“does he, now?” you nodded, but the rest of your body was so still, you didn’t know if you were still breathing or not.

then, he wrapped his arms around your abdomen, pulled you flush against him, “this is how he held you, isn’t it?” you didn’t answer, “and how much time did he ask for? two minutes?” he laughed again, a sick kind of laugh that you had never heard from jimin before.

“what does he have that i don’t, love? what is it?” he mumbles into your neck, lips flush against your skin and you can’t hold the shiver that passes through you, there’s a daze that dances around you, a weight that holds your eyes down as his hands play with your skin, but you know what you two don’t have.

time. i have time, time that isn’t running out right in front of my eyes, time that doesn’t keep me up at night.

nothing, he has nothing compared to jimin.

“i will let you go only because i know you will kill him one day, and i know where you’ll be once you wash his blood away,” he steps back, leaving you with an ocean of air and a whirlpool room, it takes you a minute to come back to the world.

“actually, he will kill me,” you say finally, jimin turns around from picking his bag up, “i told him, if the warning comes, to kill me.” that decision made you feel lightweight, you would finally be rid of the system, this world, everything once things with wooseok fizzle.

you hadn’t conjured jimin’s reaction, you hadn’t put too much thought into it but a body-shaking laughter wasn’t what you expected at all.

he was bent with hands on his knees, laugh after laugh tumbling out of his mouth as he gasped for breath and you stood there, feeling unsure, humiliated and embarrassed.

and so so naked.

“what’s so funny, jimin?” he held a hand up, steadied himself with a wide grin on his face as he wiped a happy tear from the corner of his eyes, “what’s funny, love, is that you really think you will let him kill you, that is just hilarious.”

you grow red at his words as a wave of shame threatens to shake you off balance, “you know nothing about me, i’ve done enough, i’ve killed enough-“

“and you will do it again.” he says, a hint of a smirk still on his face.

i would.

i wouldn’t.

would i?

you are taken back to all the faces that you had forgotten after they died, keith, the old man, the woman, the memories that died with them, somewhere in you, you had always waited to kill some of them, even if you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t, everyone except jimin, didn’t exist in your head anymore.

“you have n-no idea what you are talking about,” you couldn’t believe that somehow jimin had figured this part of you out, you felt nauseous that he knew the worst parts of you.

“i am the only one who knows, because you loved me most, you loved me like you loved nothing else, you still do and that didn’t stop you from putting a bullet in me, did it?” he clicked on the elevator door as you hurried to catch up to him, stomping after him to prove him wrong, to tell him he had it all wrong but you have no words that are truthful to defend yourself.

i loved you like the soil loves water, like children love lollipops, like waves love the shore, i love you with all of me.

but i killed you and i cried.

i killed you.

you shoved yourself into the elevator with him, chest heaving, mind light and heavy, arms so tired but shaking with restrained anger and he looks at you with, was it pity?

“then, why chase after me if i am so vile?” you scream in his direction, a layer of you was peeled and left to bleed now, you had no idea how to stop it.

your phone buzzed and flashed red.

jimin’s phone buzzed and flashed red.

you look at each other, raw fear flashing just for a second before relaxing, isn’t this what you wanted, anyway?

your third and final warning.

“because i love you too much to care about myself and i’m the only one who can handle it, i’m the only one who would die for you.” he says with conviction, as if it was something he had rehearsed, something he had to repeat to himself. he turns his phone away and tucks it into his pocket.

you wanted to say, i love you too, and i know you’re the only one but the elevator doors open and you’re shoved into the darkness of the parking space, where wooseok stood, hands waving and a bright smile.

“save him and come back to me,” jimin whispers as he leans to give you the shortest, sweetest, most painful kiss on your temple before he’s sending you on your way and stepping back.

wooseok traps you in his arms and spins you around, pure joy radiating off him and you can only gulp and try to smile, “ready for our dinner?” he squeezes your arms with a breathtaking smile, and it takes everything in you to not vomit at his feet.

you nod, he grins and whips around to open the car door for you.

you look back to see jimin, in the elevator, just when the doors start to close, he mouths ‘till next time’ and a slow smirk grows on his face as he disappears behind the metal and you are sure you’ve left your heart in there.

“let’s go,” you sit in the car and watch out the window as it rains again, soft music plays from the radio and your body is rigid, tight, too painful to move and wooseok notices it, he reaches over, brushes your thighs with his rough so rough hands and soothes you with his words.

your phone buzzes in your lap and your heart jumps to your throat.

wooseok’s eyes turn down in sadness and you want to reach over, hold his cheeks and tell him, i love you, even if you don’t mean it but you don’t move a muscle. misunderstanding your silence, he slows the car and his phone flashes red as well, he sighs, eyes so sad, eyes lined with tears and you don’t feel anything.

it hurts that you feel as empty as a shell.

“i’ll keep my promise, i’ll give you a painless end” he mumbles softly, kissing the back of your hands and your feet start to tingle at the guilt that numbs you.

you act as if you are going to cup his face, he leans in with soft eyes and rough hands, you give a sharp tug to the steering wheel and the vehicle fastens towards a nearby tree.

you, so desperately wanted jimin to be wrong but as wooseok’s lifeless face stared back at you, you knew he was right.

you got out of the car, littered with a couple cuts and a lanky step, and walk towards the only place that belongs to you, the only place that you knew would welcome you back with snide smirks and silence and love, so much love, home.

your home.

-

‘eliminate!’

.

.

.

‘successful!’

[toyhou-se-drama]

Saw Impulsefont was mentioned here and I did some snooping and that is the same user that has been creating drama on toyhouse and terrorizing the community for years and swapping accounts every time they are exposed to guilt trip and play the victim

If my memory serves me right and looking through some character transfer logs they have changed their name even more than this but here’s a little peak at him every time they run away and change their name

TomatoBricked, Raymankart, Yojomutt I might be wrong, PRAWNDACHI, T00DLEYAKI, Greaseball or something, Surfbored or surfboard idk, AkechiVEVO, D-CITY-2-900, oldaccount378243874, Orescratch, Toybonnie, DOCSCRATCH, Jelqing, PENNYARCADE, BRUTALIGHT, kittysnack, WHIGMYWTYSGSHTANSQ, Dubwotto, SMILINGCRITTERS, KINGREDDIT

I’d steer clear of this user because they’re nothing but trouble and will drag you into it and then deactivate and leave you with some sort of trauma

They’ve been mentioned a lot on these drama blogs in the past and as a frequent lurker I’m not surprised to see them here again, be careful and choose your friends wisely

After doing even MORE snooping because it’s getting juicy I found out they got called out on YouTube for irresponsibility with money they got from multiple GoFundMes, scamming someone because they deactivated their discord to run away from drama again, and just horrible reputations in other communities

https://youtu.be/OEKOG25wDuY?si=za23On6lP3GJxJGe

The part about Impulsefont starts at about 29:30 minutes in and theyre known as TomatoBricked there

🦫

[atinylittlepain]

Atlantic City

college!steve harrington x f!oc

part of the girl boy universe

wordcount | 3.2K

content info | 18+ smut, WASPy parental trauma, misogynistic father boooooo, little angst, New Jersey, mostly fluff though

a/n | special thanks to orange anon who isn't anon anymore - apologies this one took a while :')

.........................................................

He can’t sleep. He’s in the plaid room again, close and quiet and suddenly he’s small, young, swallowed up by the thin pall of the past. And if he’s being honest, he’s not sure if this was such a good idea, but Andy’s not even here for him to tell her that. Down the hall in the guestroom because his mother hadn’t even given them the chance to protest that no, both adults, no, same room is fine. She had already dropped Andy’s bag in the guest room and his bag in the plaid room and given him a pointed look about the whole thing that meant silence, he knows it well. 

And he’s considering it, he is, padding down the hallway and slipping in under the covers with her, breathing her in and breathing the detergent his mother has used since he was little out. But something is stopping him, keeping him tangled and curled up in the plaid room, that smalling, that suddenly twelve again thing. 

They had flipped a coin before spring break. Which set of parents would be met first, and nobody was winning, really, in this situation. Andy took it in stride when it became clear they’d be paying a visit to Chip and Diane Harrington, shrugging, dramatic warbling of that John Mellencamp song, a little ditty about Chip and Diane, two American kids causing parental trauma in the Heartland. He had laughed at the time. He’s not really laughing now. 

Dinner had been as tense and tight as a closed fist. At first, his parents had behaved like Andy wasn’t even there, directing all their questions, all their scrutiny onto him, the usual rundown of yes, decent grades, and yes, how great, the post-grad job he has lined up, yes, mom, yes, dad. And when their attention turned to Andy, never one to back down, ever, the conversation had curdled from a question about her thesis to her asking Diane about her multiple admissions to the state hospital for “exhaustion,” air quotes necessary to connote the dose of skepticism Andy parceled around the word while Chip glared at her and Diane grew skittish, smiling nervous and talking in that high, airy voice of hers. 

Steve had managed to steer far enough away from that with a tact that can only be found in the children of parents like Chip and Diane, always on the defense in that way. But when they had gone up to bed, his father had stopped him, hand curled, clawed, on his shoulder and I’m not sure about this one, champ. Not sure about this one, right, and got a mouth, doesn’t she? Something else was said about a firm hand and a tight leash while his stomach started to swirl and sicken. He didn’t say anything, just nodded, the smallest okay, dad, goodnight, dad, and he hates himself for that, tossing and turning in his twin bed because he hates that he didn’t, what? Defend her? Snap and snarl back against the closing hand, closing jaw of his dad? Not that Andy needs anyone to defend her, not that it matters what Chip thinks, not really, but still, but still. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been lying there when his door cracks open, the muffled sound of footsteps, a hand curling on his hip, skating up to his ribs and he doesn’t even look over his shoulder, just inches to the very edge of his bed to make as much room as he can for her to slip in behind him, her palm coming to rest splayed over the center of his chest, her lips pressed to the nape of his neck as she settles around him.

“I’m sorry, I think I was a dick to your mom.”

“It’s okay, she’s so heavily medicated I don’t think she’ll remember it in the morning.” She hums, her legs tangling up close with his, perfectly curled into and around each other and barely fitting on this stupid twin bed, but it’s the greatest relief to have her here with him, like the walls aren’t closing in, like his ribs aren’t pinching and pulling taut, her palm over his heart reminding him to pump blood like this, breathe like this. And when she presses a kiss to the shell of his ear, for whatever reason, that’s the thing that finally breaks the thick heat swelling and stuck behind his eyes, water starting to pool and spill, turning his vision into stained glass. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He tries to speak, but a strange sound breaks in his throat instead, a little like a sob, but softer, her hands holding him through the shake. 

“I always forget how much I hate being here.” And that is but isn’t all of it. Yes, he forgets how  much he hates being here, but he also forgets how small he feels being here, how young. He forgets the fights, and the silence that was somehow worse. He forgets the seemingly constant alternation in those last few years of sleeping in Eddie’s or Robin’s bed simply because he didn’t like being small and alone in this big house. And it’s a good thing, he thinks, that he can forget about these things in the new life he has. But it’s difficult to remember that the plaid room and the silence isn’t his life any more when he’s back in it like he is now.

“Am I making it better or worse being here right now?”

“Better, please stay.” She holds him a little tighter, little closer, her other hand brushing his hair back from his face and of course, baby, of course I’ll stay, and he can’t even feel all that foolish for crying in front of her because she’s not like that about these things, and it plainly feels too good to be held by her for him to think about much else than her hands and the warmth of her body against his. 

“Do you want to leave?”

“Right now?”

“Well, I was thinking in the morning. Don’t want those two thinking I kidnapped you and like, ritually sacrificed you to Courtney Love or something. But I’m also not opposed to leaving now if you really want to.” He turns over just enough that he can look at her, the soft curve of her smile, nothing but care, no judgment, no recoil when she sees his bleary eyes, the pull of his frown. She cups his face in her hand, thumb stroking at stray salt beneath his eye, and he knows that she would do it, if he said he wanted to leave right now, she would do it, pack both of their bags and toss them in the car and get them the hell out of here before his parents even woke up. How lovely, how devastating, to be loved like this, to be loved by her.

“My mom said she wanted to take you shopping tomorrow.”

“Steve, to be frank, I don’t really give a fuck about what your mom wants right now.” 

“Where would we go, back to your place?”

“We could, but Robin and her girlfriend are watching Sylvia until the end of the week so really, we could go wherever we want to. Anywhere else you want to go?”

“Anywhere?”

“Yeah, I’m paying for gas, dream big, we’ve got a whole week to kill.” And by some strange unfurling in his mind, the first place he thinks of is Cape May, New Jersey, an errant memory of a family vacation, a good memory, young memory, warm and rare memory. Small town and candy-coated storefronts and the beach, of course, the beach. He remembers spending most of that week blowing his allowance on ice pops and roaming the pier alone, sticky hands and sugar-sour stomach, threading through throngs of too tall and too tan legs. He remembers pure, unfettered joy. And if Andy has any qualms about New Jersey she does a good job of hiding it, smiling and alright, baby, we ride at dawn. They don’t really sleep, just curl up close and plot out their grand escape until the light is starting to turn pale and thin, and the plaid room becomes something other than a cage.

She takes care of it in the morning, takes no prisoners and leaves no room for questions, breezes into the kitchen on a long sigh and Robin called, something’s wrong with Sylvia, and he does his best not to laugh as he oh no, should we go back? and Andy’s gosh, I feel terrible, but yeah, we probably should, a veritable production right under the rims of Chip and Diane’s coffee mugs. They get their bags into the trunk of his car in record time while Andy coddles and coos oooh, I’m really sorry, Chip, Diane, but it was lovely to meet you, Chip, Diane, oooh in June? Hmm, I think we’ll both be a little too busy, but thank you, Chip, Diane, let’s not and say we didn’t. That last part, muttered under a quick breath as she ducks down into the passenger seat. He makes a mental note to thank Robin for calling his parents’ house, after he called her and asked her to do exactly that earlier in the morning. 

They don’t look at each other until they’re back on the highway heading east, grins splitting into laughter, Andy leaning over the console to press a smacking kiss to his cheek.

“To Jersey, baby.” 

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Well, I try. Let’s switch off when we reach Cincinnati, alright?” 

And, well, the truth is they didn’t think this through, at least not as well as they thought they had. They stop more times than they should, don’t even make it to Cincinnati before breakfast beckons. A crueler for him, coffee with cream, and a maple bar for her, her coffee black, perfect shards of sugar sifting and snowing over the dash of his car, a little sick and a little giddy kick in their stomachs. A handful of stops in Ohio too, gas stations and rest stops and an admitted music shop because they’ve run out of fresh cassettes by the time they pass through Akron. And Pennsylvania, forget it. A delirious afternoon haze, a strange conversation about the Amish, the lingering smell of pickles from the burgers they shared for a late lunch. But after their third or fourth driver seat switch, Andy starting to nod off on the passenger’s side, he realizes a bit idly that he hasn’t really stopped smiling since they left Indiana. 

For the record, they never make it to Cape May. The sun has already set, leaving a vivid wash of orange bruising into blue by the time they’re driving through Atlantic City, and they both seem to have the same thought at the same time. Yeah, like the Springsteen song. So they scrap Cape May and car crawl down to the beach, and it’s cold, March, wind bitten and bitter, and dark, and they cling to each other, hands tucked in close against ribs and chin tucked toward chin as they flirt closer to the water. And because it’s cold, and because it’s dark, they’re the only ones out here on this gray-blue stretch of beach, the slow thrum of the water breathing in and out. Andy grins at him and he feels young in a new way, and when she wordlessly starts shrugging out of her shoes and popping the button of her jeans, of course, he follows suit. 

It’s cold, bracingly so, all the air shuttering up still in his lungs, up to his shins, then his thighs, then his hips, Andy holding his hand and it doesn’t count if you don’t get your hair wet before she’s dipping under the dark ink of water, resurfacing with a burst and break of laughter, her hair slicked back and the pooling water on her skin shimmering and shining in the distant light of the city. He does it too, with a yelp, a yawp, coming back up for air to the sound of her laugh and then they’re sprinting out just as fast as they dared and daunted in, teeth chattering as they pull their clothes on over damp skin. 

“We’re probably gonna catch some kind of flesh-eating disease from that water.” Shivering words that are almost drowned out by the wheezing roar of the heat turned all the way up in his car, he has to laugh, a little bleary eyed while she winds and weaves through the city streets, eyes peeled for a hotel.

“At least we’ll go out together.”

“Knew you were gonna say something like that. So romantic, we can put ointment on each other’s matching rashes.”

“Well when you put it that way.” Matching grins, turned giddy and bold, and they smell like the sea, and that’s less lovely than it sounds. They smell like brine, like snapping cold, his nose burning a little with it, eyes red-rimmed and weary, but still smiling, her hand in his over the console. 

They end up getting a room at a motel with so many lights burned out in its vacant rooms sign that all that’s left is the red neon glow of CAN. It’ll do. A shower for both of them, because when she starts pressing kisses to the soft hook of his jaw, she laughs, you’re salty, Jesus Christ. And she wasn’t wrong, boyish and a little brash when he licks a stripe up the side of her neck, smacking his lips in a barely contained grin while she squawks and squirms. So, a shower, skin tacky and warm, and he feels like something perfect, something preening, is unfurling in his chest as he watches her lay out on the coarse sheets of the bed, bare, the soft spread of her hips, shadows bending and breaking in warm lamplight. She smiles at him, her chin tucked down and shoulder hiked, chipped purple nail polish trailing a line of want from her navel up and up between her breasts, along her clavicle. It becomes more clear to him every time he sees her like this that yes, he’s a goner. 

“Hi.”

“Hi, baby, you feeling good?”

“Yeah, you?” She hums, mmhmm, rolling her lips back to hide the stretch of her smile, palms splaying along his ribs when he settles between her thighs, breathing in the close heat of each other. And there are words he would like to say, though they fail him, this feeling too big and buoyant to wrap language around. Good love, giddy love, turning to fizz and foam, and he thanks her, thank you for today, with his mouth pressed into her sternum, nose grazing up along line and ligament, the catch of breath in her throat, her smile. 

They move with a patience that’s new to them both. In the early days, the beginning, when they were both still skirting around the edges of this being something serious, there was also a tinge of something a little frantic, a little fear and frenzy laced into their fingertips because, no, never sure if that time, or that time, or that time, would be the last. But neither of them are worried about that any more, whispered promises and easy comforts, staying, and certain in it. For the long haul, for it all. So now, now, they can take their time. 

And this is different too, at least for him. He had gotten used to, and good at, the performance of things like this, the putting on of things like this, move like this, moan like this, bodies fitted with bodies for particular outcomes. Andy had seen right through that early on, turning the tables, quick spin and her hands on his chest and an easy grin, and he was no longer thinking about the aesthetics of it, of what should follow what, wrapped up in the sense and sate, and now he blushes when she tells him he makes the prettiest sounds for her, pretty, pretty, pretty, my pretty boy. 

Her palms soothe presence into his spine, here, like this, be here, like this, and there’s a beat every time his hips settle against hers, a hiccup, a breath, how nice it feels to be with her, to be feeling this with her, both of them sighing, little keening cries that flicker into breathless laughter because how absurd, how obscene for them to have something as good as this. And he knows that they are the same in this way, two people convinced that no, never anything good like this, not for them, and now getting away with something good like this, good for them, and only them, and only theirs. 

The soft inside of her knee pressed against his hip makes easy movement out of turning them in the sheets, languid limbs and him on his back and her draped over him, the curve of her spine and the taut line of her neck when her head tips back, pooling light like flecks of gold and he puts his hand there, there, curled close at the front of her throat, not taking anything, but in fact asking, and accepting. Her hips roll, liquid and lovely, dark hair curled damp between her thighs, and it’s something better than art, he thinks. She sighs his name when his hand slips heavy down to cup the weight of her breast, just because he can, pleasure because he can. Like that, like that, they unravel for each other in the close stillness of the night, and stitch back together in the hazy aftermath, her cheek pressed over the battering ache of his heart, all hers.

“Can I ask you something about your parents?” Her chin propped on her forearm, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, his palm stopping its circuit in the dip of her spine.

“How did they meet?”

“High school, I’m pretty sure.”

“I didn’t think that actually happened.”

“I don’t think it does any more, it probably shouldn’t have between those two.”

“Hmm, made a good kid, at least. Though I think that has more to do with you than it does with them.” And then, an afterthought, agonizingly sweet, her knuckles brushing along his cheek, you made it out, you know, and he does, presses a kiss to the pads of her fingers, making that knowing real. 

“What about yours?” Roll of her eyes and sigh, the same, but different.

“Two big Boston families, one marriage of sensibility. Add in a little catholic guilt and you end up with five kids and no hope of divorce any time soon.” She says it with half of a smile, a weak laugh that sounds like something else, something tired and trying. He doesn’t push though, doesn’t ask any more. She’ll tell him when she’s ready, he knows. Instead he nods and says a few simple words that sound a lot like what she told him. Getting out, both of them, making something new for themselves, together. 

“You think they’ll like me?”

“I don’t know, I don’t care. I’m not even gonna ask if you think yours liked me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His words crackle and curl with his smile, relief in those words, in believing them. She smiles and something warm splits open in his chest, her palm pressed there like she knows.

“No, baby, it doesn’t.” 

[maraudersmary]

LILY EVANS BIRTHDAY MY BEST GIRL <3

here’s some of my favourite headcanons in honour of my favourite aquarius !!

short, like 5’3, extremely long, flowing, auburn hair, lots of freckles, plus-size, was insecure of her looks and body until she met the girls and they helped her realise her beauty

70s flower power girl at heart: flared or bell bottom jeans, flowy tops with sleeves that widen and low necklines, a LOT of necklaces, not afraid to mismatch gold and silver (both enhance her eyes and hair), mary-janes her go to shoe

forced all the girls to listen to ABBA, fully converted Mary and Alice, and although marlene pretends, she knows she loves the too. she’s still working on dorcas and emmeline…

dated mary from 3rd to 5th year. they both realised they were bi at the same time and their young hearts thought that meant they were meant to be. still remained best friends after the mutual breakup

after severus started bullying Mary, she dropped him instantly (idc that that’s not canon)

best at charms in the year (as well as a few other subjects that sirius didn’t take) but was lauded for her charm work

thought james only said he liked her as a joke, but after he toned his confessions down and started being genuinely kind to her when no one else was around she began to see that might not be the truth

was conflicted in her feelings for james at first, trying desperately to find reasons to not like him, until eventually marlene sat her down and gave her tough love about how she deserves to be happy

has bipolar disorder (diagnosed at 14) but is very on top of her medication and is not ashamed

however she is worried about how being in a relationship with james will impact her and whether he will accept that part of her, especially in times when she is not doing well

but of course he did, it’s james potter, and whether manic or depressive he was unfailingly there

she trained as a healer (doctor in muggle au), before specialising in psychiatric medicine and therapy

remus is her best friend, and they spend as much time as possible together. he is her safe haven. he just understands her like no one else, and she him. he also has the best weed

i’m a lily evans stoner truther

bakes when stressed, her specialty is anything apple based

her favourite shows were ever after high and my little pony (modern au) when she was younger and still watches them when she needs comfort

bonded with sirius over sibling trauma, she thought he was an arrogant prat at first but quickly formed an unbreakable bond with him. he was her brother.

loved her parents and knew they loved her, but she felt stifled in that house and hated the way they pandered to petunia. going to hogwarts probably saved her life

she has a massive crush on sophie thatcher and the girls found it hilarious because of how much she looks like marlene

knew everyone’s secrets (probably before they knew them themselves) and despite being a massive gossip, she never shared anything about anyone that was not public knowledge

when angry everyone knew to steer clear, except remus, he would calm her down just by walking into a room, and would then take her for a walk to vent to him before smoking a joint together

after the war ended and they all SURVIVED, she and james adopted two more children and raised them with the children of remus and sirius, and mary and emmeline, with marlene and dorcas being the super cool fun aunts

i love her i love her i love her

[snarryauctoberfest]

Snarry AUctoberfest: Day 8

Title: Flutter

Creator: ???

Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape

Prompt: 2024-76 Apartment Life Harry's been warned to steer clear of the 24th floor. Curiosity got the better of him and Harry checks it out. Its deserted except for apartment 2444. Harry notices signs of life—a faint light under the door, soft sounds of movement.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 30.2k

Warnings/Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Maggie Stiefvater/ Shudder Inspired, Alternative Universe Muggles, But there is a curse, Birds, Growing up with a single parent, Time Skips, canon age gap, Poetry, Angst, Hopeful, Ravens, Birds mentioned, lots of birds, Apartment Life, First Time, Grumpy Character Meets Sunshine, Slice of Life, different kind of magic, mentions of abuse, Grief, flight or fight, To be a lover you have to be a fighter, Keanue Reeves Said, Some characters are aged differently than in canon, Because I wanted to include them, just go with it, Battling shame, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, pent up anger

Summary: He said uselessly, "Sev, don't go."

"I'm s-sorry-" Harry cupped Severus' face and gazed into his eyes. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, sad, raven, mine.

"These stay the same," Severus said. "Remember that when you look at me. Remember, it's me.”

Flutter does my heart, When you ask me to stay. I want to live in the moment But the past keeps me a prey.

💚❤️ Read on AO3 💚❤️

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