#even if the words are hollow and the feelings are long gone

[kinzhae]

Just Want To Talk

Angst, Neglected Reader X Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna, No Comfort.

Part 2

Gojo Satoru

It had become a routine. Satoru would come home late, half-heartedly ask about your day, then disappear into his room or his phone as if you weren’t even there. You told yourself it was his work—the missions, the endless responsibilities of being the strongest. But deep down, you knew it was more than that.

Tonight, you were determined to confront him. When he walked through the door, his blindfold pushed up to his forehead, exhaustion written across his face, you stood in the middle of the living room, waiting.

“Satoru, we need to talk,” you said, your voice steady despite the knot in your chest.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Can we not do this right now? It’s been a long day.”

“No,” you replied firmly. “This can’t wait. I’m tired of pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not. You’ve been distant, cold, and I don’t even know where I stand with you anymore.”

He froze for a moment, his usual playful demeanor slipping. But instead of softening, his expression hardened. “Y/N, why do you always do this? Why do you have to make everything about you?”

His words stung, but you refused to back down. “I’m not making it about me. I’m asking you to show me that I matter to you!”

Gojo laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Matter? Do you have any idea what I deal with every day? The world doesn’t revolve around your feelings, Y/N. I have actual problems to deal with.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “So I’m just another burden to you?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice sharp. “Maybe you are.”

The air left your lungs as his words settled over you like a crushing weight. Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let him see you break. “If that’s how you feel, then maybe I shouldn’t be here.”

Without waiting for a response, you grabbed your coat and walked out, slamming the door behind you.

Geto Suguru

The man you fell in love with was gone. At least, that’s how it felt as you watched Suguru pace the room, his sharp eyes fixed on a map of his next mission. His once-kind demeanor had been replaced by cold determination, and you felt like a ghost in your own relationship.

“Suguru,” you said softly, stepping closer.

“Not now,” he muttered without looking up.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you pressed on. “It’s always ‘not now.’ When will it ever be the right time to talk about us?”

He froze, his jaw tightening. “What do you want me to say, Y/N? That everything’s fine? That I’m still the same person you fell in love with? Because I’m not.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “I know you’re not. But that doesn’t mean you have to shut me out. I’m trying to help you, Suguru. Why won’t you let me?”

He turned to you, his expression cold. “Because you can’t help me. You wouldn’t understand what I’m going through. You’re too weak to understand.”

The words struck like a physical blow, leaving you breathless. “Weak?” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “I’ve stood by your side through everything. I’ve supported you, defended you, and you call me weak?”

He didn’t respond, his silence louder than any words. Without another word, you turned and walked out, your heart breaking with each step.

Nanami Kento

Being with Nanami meant understanding his disciplined nature, his need for routine, and his intense focus on his work. But lately, it felt like his focus never shifted from his responsibilities to you. Dinners were silent affairs, conversations stilted and brief. You tried to chalk it up to his busy schedule, but the hollow feeling in your chest grew with each passing day.

Tonight, as he sat at the kitchen table, papers spread out before him, you decided to try again. You approached cautiously, placing a cup of tea by his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, not even glancing up.

You hesitated before speaking. “Kento, can we talk?”

“Is it important?” he asked, flipping through a file.

Your heart sank, but you pressed on. “It is to me.”

Finally, he looked up, his expression unreadable. “What is it, Y/N? I’m in the middle of something.”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling. “I feel like you’ve been distant. Like I don’t matter to you anymore.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Y/N, I don’t have time for this right now. I have a lot on my plate.”

“You always have a lot on your plate,” you said, your voice breaking. “But where do I fit in? Do I even fit in anymore?”

His expression hardened, and his words came out sharper than you expected. “You want the truth? I don’t have the energy to deal with your insecurities on top of everything else. I’m doing the best I can, and if that’s not enough for you, maybe you should reevaluate what you want from me.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. Tears welled in your eyes as you stared at him, unable to process the coldness in his voice. “I never asked for you to be perfect, Kento. I just wanted to feel like I mattered to you.”

“You’re overthinking it,” he said, returning to his work. “Go get some rest.”

You stood there for a moment, hoping he’d say something more, but he didn’t. The silence was deafening as you turned and left the room, your heart shattering with every step.

Choso

Choso had always been a quiet person. But lately, his silence had become suffocating. You knew something was wrong, but every time you tried to reach out, he pulled away further. The moments you once shared, quiet and simple, now felt like distant memories. He wasn’t the person you knew anymore, and you weren’t sure if you still knew how to reach him.

Tonight, you couldn’t take it anymore. You stood by the door of his room, gathering every ounce of courage to face him. After a long moment of hesitation, you knocked softly.

“Choso?” you called gently.

“Not now, Y/N,” came his muffled response from inside.

But you pushed through, opening the door to find him sitting at the window, staring out into the night. His back was tense, his shoulders stiff as he avoided looking at you.

“I need to talk to you,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the crack in it.

He didn’t respond at first, his silence speaking volumes. Finally, he turned to you, his expression closed off. “What do you want to talk about, Y/N? Is it about me not being around? Or the fact that I don’t have time for you anymore?”

You flinched, his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Choso… that’s not fair. I don’t expect you to be perfect, but I miss you. I miss us. I just want to know why you’ve been pushing me away.”

His gaze hardened, and he finally met your eyes. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said bitterly. “I’m not the same person I was before. I’m not someone who can just go back to the way things were, Y/N. I’m broken, and I’m doing this for your own good. I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

The tears you had been holding back finally fell, your heart aching as you stepped toward him. “I don’t care if you’re broken, Choso. I’m not asking you to be perfect. I just want to be there for you, like you’ve always been there for me. You can’t shut me out like this.”

He stood abruptly, the tension in his body palpable. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m scared of what I’ll become, Y/N. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

“You’re not alone in this, Choso,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You never have to go through it by yourself. I’m here. Always.”

Ryomen Sukuna

The halls of Sukuna’s palace were cold, unwelcoming, and as lifeless as you had come to feel over the weeks. It had been days, maybe weeks since Sukuna last spoke to you without contempt or dismissiveness. You told yourself to be patient, that the King of Curses wasn’t the type to express affection in conventional ways. Yet each ignored glance, each sarcastic quip, and each night spent alone chipped away at your resolve.

Tonight was no different. You sat alone in the chamber you shared—or were supposed to share—with Sukuna. Your fingers curled around the soft fabric of your cloak, pulling it tighter against the chill in the air. You hated how empty the space felt without him. But more than that, you hated yourself for missing someone who treated you like you were invisible.

You had to talk to him. Something had to change, or you were going to break.

Summoning every ounce of courage you had left, you left the chamber and walked down the grand hallway to the throne room, where you knew he would be. The heavy doors were slightly ajar, and his voice carried out to you—a commanding, cold tone as he addressed his subordinates. When you entered, he didn’t even look up.

“Sukuna,” you called out, your voice trembling. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to get the attention of the room.

He glanced at you briefly before turning back to the group of curses kneeling before him. “Leave us,” he commanded. His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. Without hesitation, the subordinates filed out, casting curious glances your way as they passed.

Once the doors closed, an oppressive silence filled the room. Sukuna leaned back on his throne, one arm resting lazily on the armrest, his crimson eyes fixed on you with an air of impatience. “What do you want?” he asked, his tone sharp and dismissive.

You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to steady your breathing. “I need to talk to you. Please.”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Talk, then. But make it quick—I don’t have time for your whining.”

His words struck you like a slap, but you pushed through the pain, refusing to let him see you falter. “I feel like I don’t matter to you anymore,” you said, your voice trembling but steady. “You’ve been so distant, so cold. I just… I want to understand what I did wrong. Why you’re treating me like this.”

He scoffed, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Is that what this is about? Your feelings? I don’t have time to coddle you, Y/N. You’re lucky I even let you stay here.”

Your heart sank, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. “Sukuna, I’ve stayed by your side through everything. I’ve endured your temper, your cruelty, because I believed there was something worth holding on to. But now… now I’m not so sure.”

His smirk disappeared, replaced by a cold, hard stare. “You think you’re special? That you’re different from anyone else who has ever stood before me? You’re not. You’re nothing more than a distraction—a fleeting amusement.”

The air was knocked out of you as if he had physically struck you. You stared at him, disbelief and heartbreak etched across your face. “How can you say that to me?” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes. “After everything we’ve been through?”

“Because it’s the truth,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You’re weak. Pathetic. If you can’t handle that, then leave. I won’t stop you.”

The room spun around you as his words settled in your mind. Weak. Pathetic. Nothing. The man you had given everything to saw you as nothing more than an inconvenience. You didn’t say another word. You couldn’t. Turning on your heel, you fled the throne room, his laughter ringing in your ears like a cruel melody.

[clumsybriar]

Simon “Ghost” Riley X GN! Reader — I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN! Reader — I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Notes: if you see any error please feel free to let me know! I made another Gender Neutral for Christmas! (If you see any mistakes with gender for the reader please let me know, I want to make sure I fix it so everyone can enjoy!)

Word count: 1340

Warnings: None!

————————————————————————————

Christmas season was upon you. The wait was no longer needed and the holiday season was in full throttle for many people. But for you it felt like the holidays just weren’t here yet, not without Simon.

It had been months since you last saw Simon. The countdown had been brutal — each day dragging on like a century, filled with empty space and a gnawing ache in your chest. The last words he’d said to you were promises, hollow at the time. But now, somehow, a beacon of hope. Especially for you.

“I’ll be back for Christmas, I swear on it.”

You hadn’t expected it to be easy. Life with Simon Riley had always been an unpredictable blend of intensity and distance, but there was something about it this time that just felt…different.

It could have stemmed from many different things, truly. Like there was something about the way he’d held you the night before he left, the unspoken words in his eyes as he kissed you goodbye at the airport.

Maybe it was just the fact that the holidays made everything feel more…amplified.

Like the empty chair at your dinner table, or the lonely flicker of Christmas lights on the tree.

But today just felt different. Like something magical was truly going to happen like some sort of Christmas miracle. Which is kinda cheesy to think about. But you couldn’t help it, you just felt a flicker of hope. Who would blame you for holding onto that flicker of hope.

People always said miracles happen on Christmas and you hoped just this once, it would happen. Even if it was on Christmas Eve.

You found yourself standing in front of your front door, staring at the snow falling softly outside. The world felt quiet, calm, and still. In your opinion it was too still. You glanced at the clock for the fifth time in the last hour and you could just tell the hands in the clock seemed to mock you, ticking by at a pace that made the seconds feel like years.

Your attention was quickly drawn away though, when suddenly a car door slammed. It was then followed by the unmistakable sound of boots crunching through the snow. Something you had heard often when Simon was coming home in the winter. Though he wasn’t grumbling or complaining like he usually did.

You knew he hated winter, the cold wasn’t his favorite. He hated how it set deep into his bones, sometimes making him feel like he couldn’t warm up. He dealt with it though because deep down you knew he liked to have a white Christmas.

The crunching of snow got closer. Your heart skipped a beat. You couldn’t help it but to step closer toward the door, breath catching in your throat. Your hand reached forward for the doorknob and when you opened it, there he was…

Simon.

His face was partially obscured by the shadow of his balaclava, but you’d recognize that broad frame and those piercing brown eyes anywhere. His tactical gear was gone, replaced by a simple black hoodie and faded jeans. His duffel bag hung over one shoulder, snowflakes settling on his mask and on his shoulders decorating him for the vast winter wonderland.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. He just stood there, looking at you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to believe you were real. If you were being honest you felt the same and maybe wondered if you had too much eggnog in your system.

You were the first to move, closing the distance between you in an instant. Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. His scent, that familiar mix of sweat, leather, and something uniquely him, filled your senses.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Simon’s arms tightened around you, his usual stoicism giving way to something raw. “Had to make sure I did,” he replied, his voice low and gravelly. “Couldn’t miss this… couldn’t miss you. Plus I’m pretty sure I promised you I’d be home.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hand coming to rest against his jaw. His eyes flickered down to your lips before returning to your gaze, something soft and vulnerable lingering there — a look you’d rarely seen from him.

“Been waiting for you,” you said, your thumb brushing over the area where his scar was located on his cheek, the mark you’d kissed so many times in the past. Now it was still covered in that balaclava he loved so much. “I thought I’d go crazy without you.”

He let out a breath, his hand coming up to cup your face gently. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “Don’t apologize, Simon. Just… just be here. Be with me.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The world outside might have been freezing, but here, in this moment, it felt like time had stopped entirely — just the two of you, finally reunited after what felt like an eternity apart.

“You got the tree up,” Simon said, glancing over your shoulder at the twinkling lights and the ornaments hanging from the branches.

You smiled sheepishly. “I tried. Thought I’d have someone to help me decorate it, but…” you trailed off, your voice thick with unspoken words.

Simon’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Yeah, I get it.” He gently lifted his balaclava above his nose as you could see his red lips which were surely chapped due to the weather and his mask.

He leaned forward, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips. It was the kind of kiss that made everything else in the world fade away, leaving nothing but the feeling of him — your Simon — finally home. His lips were warm against yours, his touch grounding you in ways words could never explain.

When he pulled back, he took your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

You laughed softly, pulling him inside. “Merry Christmas, big guy. You almost missed it,” you teased, “but I guess you made it just in the nick of time.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He raised an eyebrow, a rare glimmer of mischief flashing in his eyes. “That’s all that matters.”

You smiled and closed the door behind him, then turned back to him, finally feeling like the holiday season had begun. Christmas had never meant much to you before — not without him. But now, with Simon standing here, his presence filling the room with something warmer than the heat from the fireplace, everything felt right.

You let go of his hand only for a moment to grab something from the kitchen. “I made dinner,” you said, glancing back over your shoulder. “You hungry? If I know you the answer is yes.”

Simon chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Maybe…yes.” He gave you a teasing look, one that made your heart flutter. “I am starving.”

“Figured as much, they don’t feed you enough do they?” you shot back with a grin. “They’re starving you, all my hard work of feeding you well has gone down the drain.”

Simon’s expression softened, and for a long moment, you both stood there, the weight of everything that had happened — the long deployments, the fears, the missed moments — evaporating in the warmth of the room. He was home with you.

“Yeah, look at me,” he teased, his voice full of something you couldn’t quite place, but it was good. “Skin and bone, not fluffy and cuddly.”

And as the night carried on, you and Simon settled together on the couch, the tree lights casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside seemed so far away, and for the first time in a long time, there was peace.

This Christmas, you had everything you needed. Simon, home where he belonged.

[imsuperhungry]

4 𝙖𝙢 (entry 006)

"ˢˡᵉᵉᵖ ᵒⁿ, ᵈᵉᵃʳ ˡⁱᵗᵗˡᵉ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈ"

WARNINGS: Mild Yandere Themes, Cussing, Depression, Possessive Chris, Possessive Ashley, I write too damn much

WORD COUNT: 4071 (yikes)

(12:51 ᴀᴍ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʙɪɴ)

Chris eventually found you, crumpled on the floor like a broken marionette abandoned mid-act. The jagged edges of the wooden planks had pressed into your skin long enough to dull their sting, their chill merging with the hollow cold inside you. Time had melted into a shapeless abyss, each second dragging like lead, each minute indistinguishable from the last.

The cabin around you felt insubstantial, like a dream you couldn't wake from, but the coarse, splintered floor beneath you was devastatingly real. It grounded you in your despair, its unyielding embrace the only constant in the void swallowing you whole. You couldn't move, didn't dare try. The thought of standing felt foreign, the weight of your own existence too much to bear.

You weren't sure if it was the world that had turned unreachable or if it was you who had retreated too far within. Either way, the thought of getting up felt like a betrayal—to yourself, to the crushing grief that pinned you there.

When his words failed to pull you from your catatonic state, Chris exhaled a low, defeated sigh and knelt down. His arms slipped beneath you with a gentleness that didn't match the storm brewing inside him. Without hesitation, he lifted you, your lifeless form folding into his chest as if you were made of glass.

It wasn't the strain of carrying you that weighed on him—your frailty only made you feel lighter. It was the reason behind it that gnawed at his sanity. You were shattered, drained to the marrow, over Josh. The thought coiled around his heart like barbed wire, tightening with every step he took.

Chris didn't resent you, not for a second. But the depth of your grief stirred something bitter and jagged in him, a quiet fury he couldn't direct anywhere. Why Josh? Why always him? The weight he bore wasn't just your body—it was the knowledge that no matter how tightly he held you, he could never be the one to piece you back together.

Would you grieve like this if it were Chris? Would the tears spill so violently, carving rivers down your face as your chest caved beneath the weight of loss? Would your heart twist, not with knives but with jagged glass, the pain sharper and deeper than you'd ever felt before? He wondered, almost bitterly, if your sorrow would be even darker, even more consuming.

You and Josh shared something unbreakable, a bond that loomed over everyone else, even him—a truth Chris could barely stomach. It infuriated him, how obvious it was, how every fiber of your being had been stitched to Josh's. But somewhere, buried beneath his jealousy and anguish, a faint, reckless hope whispered: Maybe you cared for him more than you realized. Maybe, just maybe, he was the one you would have chosen.

The thought of your tears was a torment Chris couldn't bear—a ghostly weight that clung to him in his darkest moments. Yet, if those tears were his, shed in the shadow of his absence, it might be the one time he could endure it. There was something almost grotesque in the thought, selfish and cruel, but he couldn't shake it.

Josh was gone now, leaving a void Chris longed to fill, even if it was only out of necessity. Surely, he reasoned, he was all you had left (ignoring the countless others who cared for you). Would you turn to him the way you had Josh? Would you entrust him with the pieces of yourself too shattered to hold? The prospect made his heart seize, caught between a flicker of hope and a smothering wave of shame. Could he bear to replace a ghost? Could he even come close?

As Chris descended the stairs, your limp body cradled in his arms, his grip gradually tightened, as if the weight of his thoughts bore down through his hands. At first, you dismissed it, thinking he was simply trying to steady himself, ensuring you wouldn't slip. But the pressure soon became unbearable, an unspoken intensity radiating from his fingertips.

It wasn't caution—it was something darker, something rooted in his spiraling mind. The bruises that would surely bloom on your skin weren't just from his hands but from the invisible storm raging inside him. You felt it with every strained step, every shallow breath he took, and yet you didn't dare ask. Some questions carried answers too heavy to hold.

"Chris?" Your voice wavered, quiet and uncertain, yet it pierced through the fog of his thoughts. He blinked, disoriented, following your gaze as you tilted your head toward his hands. That's when he saw it—his fingers pressed into your skin, white-knuckled and unrelenting. It was as if his desperation had manifested in his grip, clawing its way out of his mind and onto you.

His breath caught, shame flickering across his face like a flame sputtering against the wind. He quickly loosened his grasp, the faintest tremor in his hands betraying him. "S-sorry," he stammered, his voice hoarse and uneven. He couldn't look at you, his guilt so heavy it made the air around him suffocating. But in that moment, even as his hands softened their hold, the lingering pressure was impossible to ignore—on your skin and in the air between you.

As Chris's feet hit the final step, the air shifted around you—a heavy, suffocating tension that hung between you like a storm cloud. It wasn't just the weight of your own emotions now; there was something else, something thick and unspoken in the space between your breaths. Without warning, you sprang from his grasp, your body moving with a jolt of energy that felt foreign after being so limp. It was as though every bit of strength you'd lost had returned in that instant, powered by the unsettling force emanating from him. You hit the floor with a quiet thud, landing solidly as though the world itself had shifted beneath you.

Ashley sat motionless on the couch, her body rigid as her eyes remained fixed on you. But it wasn't just you she was watching. Her gaze was drawn to Chris, or more specifically, to his hands—the ones that had just cradled you, holding you with an intensity that hadn't gone unnoticed. Her eyes flickered with something you couldn't quite place, a strange mixture of unease and something more primal. It was as if she was studying every subtle movement, every shift in his posture, as though trying to decode the unspoken tension that had settled between the three of you. The room felt charged now, thick with an energy that none of you dared to name.

Her brow furrowed slightly, the edges of her lips pressing into a thin line as her gaze flickered back and forth between you and Chris. The unease that crept up her spine was unrelenting, curling around her like a cold, invisible chain. There was no rational explanation for it, no clear reason for why her stomach churned with discomfort. But she couldn't ignore the sense that something was... off. Maybe it was the way Chris's fingers had clenched around you, the way the tension in his grip hadn't eased even after you'd been released. Or maybe it was the look in his eyes—vacant, almost hollow, as if a part of him had slipped away and never quite returned.

Whatever the reason, it gnawed at her, pulling at something deep within. Ashley couldn't shake the certainty that this wasn't just a moment of concern. It felt darker than that, a shift in the air she couldn't explain, but knew in her bones. 

"Uhm," Ashley started, her voice wavering slightly. "Did you see Sam up there?"

She directed the question at you, her tone laced with a hint of desperation, as if she were desperate to break free from the tight, suffocating air in the room. It was as though she needed a distraction—something, anything, to push aside the swirling unease that had settled in her chest.

Her eyes met yours, wide and searching, with an almost pleading softness, like a puppy gazing up at its owner, waiting for something—anything—to ground her. The innocence in her gaze was stark against the raw, jagged emotions crackling between you and Chris. She needed reassurance, or at least the appearance of normalcy. Something to hold onto in this storm of confusion.

But there was something else, buried deeper. Behind the glossy sheen of her gaze, something flickered—something tightly wound and carefully hidden in the recesses of her mind.

"No, I searched all the rooms, and I didn't catch a glimpse of her," you reply, your voice quiet but steady, a faint tremor betraying the tightness in your chest. The words feel heavier than they should, like a weight sinking deeper with each syllable. "Just the tub she was in and the water left behind."

You pause, taking in the dim, oppressive silence that fills the room. Then, with an almost desperate note, you add, "Have you guys searched the downstairs area?" Your words are sharp, tinged with a thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, there's a sign, a clue—something that would lead to her, bring her back, and silence the gnawing dread gnashing at the edges of your mind.

"We haven't yet," Ashley says, her voice tight, the words slipping through her teeth like they're struggling to leave her mouth. She chews on her lip, eyes darting to the floor as if avoiding the weight of the truth that's creeping closer with every second.

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. Your heart thrums erratically in your chest, but for a fleeting moment, you let yourself breathe, a shaky inhale. The thought flashes—maybe this is all a misunderstanding. Maybe Sam's hiding somewhere, pulling some twisted prank on you all. Maybe, in some absurd twist of fate, she's just fine. You almost cling to that hope, letting it warm you for just a second, even though deep down, you know it's slipping through your fingers like sand.

You try to remain hopeful, clinging to that fragile sliver of optimism, as if Sam had just slipped away to some hidden corner of the house. Maybe she'd found the basement, tucked herself away, waiting for everyone to fall into a frenzy. Maybe—just maybe—this was all some ridiculous prank that Chris had orchestrated to test your nerves, to see just how far he could push you before you cracked.

But even as the thought crosses your mind, you can feel the weight of something far darker pressing against the edges of your thoughts. The house, the silence—it's all wrong. And that tiny, flickering hope starts to fade, leaving a cold, gnawing emptiness behind it.

"Okay, why don't we go looking for her, hm?" you say, your voice tight, the words barely more than a breath. The smile you force onto your face feels foreign, like a mask you can't quite hold in place. It's wide, stiff—unnatural, and you know it, but you wear it anyway. You begin to walk, your footsteps sharp and hollow as they echo through the cavernous hallways of the cabin.

The air feels thick, each step feeling heavier than the last, as if the house itself is pressing down on you. The silence is oppressive, suffocating in a way that leaves your chest tight, your skin prickling with the weight of unspoken things. But you push it aside, clinging to the faint hope that this is just another false alarm, that Sam is safe and this will all be over soon.

Chris and Ashley follow behind you, their footsteps a soft echo to your own, like two lost puppies trailing their leader. Neither of them speaks, their silence adding to the oppressive weight in the air. You can feel their eyes on you, but neither makes a move to break the thick, unspoken tension that coils around the three of you.

Each room you enter feels colder than the last, as if the walls themselves are closing in. The rooms are eerily empty, the remnants of normality somehow hollow and strange. Furniture that once offered comfort now stands in rigid silence, untouched and distant, as though even the house itself knows something is wrong.

You search each corner, each closet, your heart pounding in your ears as you force yourself to ignore the growing pit in your stomach. Every room seems to be the same—empty, lifeless, and suffocating. You try to breathe, but the air feels too thin, too tight, as if it's pressing against your lungs. The house is vast, sprawling, but in this moment, it feels like a prison, a labyrinth of corridors leading nowhere but deeper into the dark.

And still, no sign of Sam.

You opened the umpteenth door that night, your fingers trembling as you gripped the handle. Each turn, each hallway you explored felt like a futile attempt to escape the suffocating dread coiling in your chest. With every door, you clung to the hope that you would find some trace of Sam—some sign that she was safe, that all of this could be explained away as some cruel joke.

But no. Instead, the door creaked open to reveal yet another hallway, stretching into shadowy oblivion. The darkness beyond the threshold felt like it was swallowing the light, drawing you in with a silent promise of more emptiness. The walls closed in around you, their cold, unyielding presence reminding you just how alone you really were.

With a resigned sigh, you stepped through first, your footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Ashley and Chris followed close behind, their footsteps tentative but steady, grounding you in this surreal nightmare. The three of you, once a tight-knit group, now moved like ghosts through the labyrinth of the cabin. The air felt heavier with each step, thick with an unspoken dread.

But then, just as they crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind them with a deafening bang. The sound echoed through the hallway, a jarring snap that made your heart lurch. The suddenness of it stole the breath from your lungs. You spun around, eyes wide, only to find the door locked tight, its cold, unrelenting surface mocking you.

"Oh my god!" Ashley screamed, her voice high and frantic, shattering the thick silence that had descended. Her breaths came in sharp, panicked gasps, and the fear in her eyes was palpable as she crumpled into herself, hands trembling as tears spilled freely down her face. She was full-on sobbing now, the weight of the unknown and the eerie sense of being trapped consuming her. Her cries echoed off the walls, but there was no comforting sound of the outside world to answer. Just the suffocating, pressing silence that seemed to be alive.

Chris, however, moved swiftly, his instincts kicking in. He stepped in front of you, his broad frame blocking you from the door with a quiet but unyielding force. His arm shot out in front of you as if to shield you from the danger that could be lurking on the other side, his body taut, muscles coiled with tension. His eyes flicked between you and the locked door, his face drawn tight with a grim determination that masked the fear lurking just beneath the surface.

"There's a fucking ghost down here, I knew it!" Ashley screamed, her voice cracking with a mix of hysteria and disbelief. Her hands were clasped tight against her chest, as though holding herself together against the terrifying unknown. She was shaking, her entire body trembling as her eyes darted around, desperate to find any sign of the supernatural presence she was so sure had trapped them in this nightmare.

For a split second, you considered her words. You weren't the type to believe in ghosts, but then... how the hell had that door slammed shut on its own? How had it locked from the inside, trapping the three of you in this strange, suffocating space with no way out? Your mind raced through a million possibilities, and yet, no explanation seemed to make sense.

"Ashley—" Chris tried again, his voice strained but firm, the edge of frustration creeping in. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder, unsure whether to comfort or restrain her. Her screaming wasn't just shattering the air—it was splintering the fragile grip he had on his own nerves. Each frantic cry from her felt like an echo deep inside his chest, rattling him more than he wanted to admit.

"No!" Ashley shrieked, her voice cracking under the weight of her panic. "If there isn’t a ghost, then how did that door close?! We’re gonna die!" The words tumbled out of her in a wail, tears streaming down her face, unrelenting and raw. Her breath hitched between sobs, the sheer force of her terror spilling into every corner of the room, choking the air.

You couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pity for her. She looked utterly broken, unraveling before your eyes. But pity wouldn’t help find Sam. And as much as you understood her fear, the crying wasn’t getting you anywhere. If she kept spiraling, you’d be stuck in this nightmare all night.

"Ashley," you began, stepping closer to her, your voice as gentle as you could muster in the suffocating tension of the moment. Her sobs hiccupped as she looked up at you, her tear-streaked face contorted in fear.

"It’s okay," you said softly, your arms reaching out to steady her trembling frame. "We’ve seen some weird shit tonight, okay? I get it. Our brains are probably beyond fried at this point." Your hands rested lightly on her shoulders, the gesture meant to comfort, to ground her in something other than her spiraling thoughts.

She sniffled, her watery eyes locking onto yours as if searching for some reassurance that this wasn’t all as hopeless as it seemed. You could feel her trembling under your touch, the weight of her terror threatening to swallow her whole.

"Just take a few deep breaths with me, okay?" you urged, your voice steady but gentle as you guided her, mimicking slow, deliberate inhalations. Your hands remained firm on her shoulders, grounding her as her chest heaved in uneven gasps.

To be honest, you weren’t sure where this side of you had come from. Not even thirty minutes ago, you’d been the one crumpled on the floor, sobbing like the world had ended, barely able to keep yourself together. And now, somehow, you were the one holding someone else up, coaxing them away from the edge.

Ashley’s breathing began to slow, hitching less with every exhale. Her wide, panicked eyes softened just a bit, the raw fear dimming as she mirrored your pace. You weren’t sure if it was really helping her or if she was just following you out of desperation, but either way, you felt a flicker of relief. It was enough to keep going.

"That’s it," you murmured, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "In and out, nice and easy. We’ve got this, Ashley. We’re okay."

She leaned into your touch, her trembling frame melting into yours as if your embrace was the only thing tethering her to reality. When you began rubbing soothing circles on her back, the gesture felt feeble to you—just another attempt to get everyone back on track, to focus on finding Sam and escape this endless nightmarish maze. But to Ashley, it was something else entirely.

To her, this moment was heaven, a brief reprieve from the terror that clawed at her every breath. In your arms, the world faded; the ghostly shadows and slamming doors were nothing but whispers in the background. If someone were to storm in right now and bash her skull in, she thought, absurdly, she wouldn’t mind. She could die like this—wrapped in your warmth, feeling safe for the first time all night. Her lifeless body would wear a wide grin, her frozen face a picture of twisted bliss for anyone to find.

You finally let go of Ashley, her reluctant whimper masked by the shuffle of your movements. Much to her dismay—and, judging by the subtle relaxation in his posture, Chris’s satisfaction—you stepped back, putting space between you. The moment your arms fell away from her, a shadow of disappointment flickered across Ashley’s tear-streaked face, though she quickly looked down, biting her lip to hide it.

Your gaze shifted to Chris, who stood stiffly nearby, silent but simmering. His clenched fists and rigid jaw betrayed the storm brewing beneath his quiet exterior. The dim light caught the sharpness in his eyes, a mixture of frustration and something more, something raw. You couldn’t quite name it, but it left a strange weight in the air, heavy and oppressive.

After a few moments of strained silence, where everyone seemed to gather what little composure they had left, the three of you pressed forward. The hallway stretched on, twisting and branching off into familiar paths. Each step echoed against the old wooden floor, the sound hollow and haunting, as if the house itself was swallowing your efforts.

You pushed through rooms with furniture cloaked in shadows, corners that seemed to stretch too deep, and corridors that played tricks on your eyes. Your voice grew hoarse from calling out Sam's name, the once-clear syllables now rasping, raw and broken. With each unanswered call, the hope you clung to thinned, fraying at the edges until it was nothing more than a fragile thread.

Ashley stayed close to your side, her fingers brushing yours now and then as though silently pleading for reassurance. Chris walked slightly ahead, his flashlight cutting sharp beams through the suffocating dark. The farther you went, the more the silence seemed to mock your desperation, a reminder of how little control you truly had.

A series of creaking doors led you into a pitch-black room, its oppressive silence broken only by the faint shuffle of your steps. The air felt heavier here, stagnant and stifling, as if the room itself resented your intrusion. The only illumination came from the flashlights clutched in your and Chris’s trembling hands, their beams cutting jagged slices through the darkness.

Sweeping your light across the space, your heart skipped when the beam landed on a lone chair facing the wall. It sat still, almost intentionally placed, and in it, a figure slumped unnaturally, their body limp as if abandoned by life itself. Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening instinctively on the flashlight as Ashley let out a shaky gasp behind you.

As you moved closer, your footsteps hesitant and deliberate, the details came into view. A leather jacket hung loosely on the figure, its edges catching the light. Your stomach twisted into a knot of recognition. It was the same jacket Sam had been wearing earlier.

“No... no, no, no,” the words fell from your lips in a fragile whisper, your mind racing to deny the possibility. But the figure remained motionless, a dreadful silence hanging in the room like a suffocating shroud.

With trembling hands and a heart pounding against your ribcage, you took a hesitant step forward, your flashlight flickering slightly as though the universe itself was toying with you. Without thinking, you reached out and spun the chair around, bracing yourself for whatever nightmare was waiting to greet you.

What stared back was far worse than anything you could have anticipated.

The figure wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t even alive. It was a dummy, its lifeless eyes painted to mimic your own. Its complexion matched yours with unsettling accuracy, as if someone had studied every inch of you with obsessive precision. The clothes draped over it were unmistakable—they had all belonged to you at some point.

Your chest constricted as you recognized each piece: the worn sweater you’d lost months ago, the scarf you hadn’t seen since last winter, the sneakers you’d thrown out after they became too battered to wear.

"What the hell is this?" Chris muttered behind you, his voice low and taut with unease.

Ashley’s expression hardened as her brows furrowed, her confusion mirroring your own. She didn’t let out the cry you half-expected; instead, her silence spoke volumes. She was trying to piece together the same puzzle you were, her wide eyes darting between the dummy and the clothes it wore.

"Is this supposed to be... you?" she asked finally, her voice low and unsteady.

Your breath hitched as the sound of heavy footsteps reached your ears, faint yet deliberate, cutting through the tense silence. Your eyes darted upward, the beam of your flashlight catching movement in the shadows.

There, standing at the edge of the room, was a masked figure. The dark contours of the mask made it impossible to discern any features, but the glint of the machete in their hand left no room for misinterpretation.

(A/N): Just to let you guys know, requests are open, feel free to send any in!

[iamleesi]

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓 ☠︎

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝'𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝟑𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟. 18+.

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤! 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 "𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄" 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!

-> [ 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 ] [ 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟏 ] [ 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟯 ]

𝐺𝐻𝑂𝑆�� 𝐺𝐼𝑅𝐿: 𝐻𝑢𝑠𝘩, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝘩𝑢𝑠𝘩, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑑𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𓃠 ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ 𓃠

It had been a few days since she first crawled through the tunnel and found him. The other Bucky. He looked perfect, like he always had - messy hair, soft stubble, the kind of smile that made her stomach turn in the best way. And the world he existed in? Flawless. At least, the small parts of it she’d seen so far. Every corner felt like it had been plucked from her happiest dreams and set up just for her.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t completely drown out the nagging voice in the back of her head, the one that whispered that this couldn’t be real. Because she’d seen him dead. His lifeless body, pale and cold. She’d stood there, trembling, as his casket was lowered into the ground.

So how? How could he be here now, smiling at her like nothing had happened?

Every time she tried to bring it up, he’d hush her doubts with a touch of his hand or a soft word. “Don’t think about that.” He’d say. “It doesn’t matter how. What matters is that I’m here for you. I need you.”

She heard that last part a lot. Almost every time she crossed back into this world, every time she returned to his arms, he’d remind her that he needed her. It felt like a lifeline, something that tethered her to this impossible version of him.

Every night, after the comfort of his embrace lulled her to sleep, she’d wake up in the real world again. Alone. The emptiness of her bed in the morning was a shot through the heart, and the loss would hit her all over again. Because that world without him was unbearable. It was cold, and cruel, and hollow.

But here, in his world, she could hear his heartbeat. Feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Smell the faint scent of his cologne on the sweater she never thought she’d touch again.

So she was torn. Every time she crossed back into reality, she hated it more and more. She hated how it reminded her that he wasn’t there anymore, that he’d been ripped away from her. But there was another part of her, the part that clung to her memories of their life together, that whispered that this wasn’t right.

She tried not to listen to that part.

Because, honestly? She wanted to stay. With him. The buttons for eyes didn’t matter anymore. That was her Bucky - her stubborn but soft-hearted Bucky. And in this world, there was no Hydra, no missions, no lives at risk for other people’s fights. Their friends lived carefree in cozy little cottages scattered around the area - as Bucky said. No battles, no sacrifices, just simple dinners and lazy afternoons. Even his metal arm was gone.

Now she knelt in the dirt, her knees on a foam pad Bucky had brought her earlier, muttering something about how “his girl deserves comfort.” He’d even tied her red apron for her, the bow sitting perfectly in the small of her back. It was a silly little thing, but she’d smiled like an idiot as he adjusted the strings, his fingers lingering for just a moment too long.

Her thoughts spiraled as she dug her hands into the soil, planting some cute flowers in a neat little row outside the house. As much as she wanted to believe this was real, a flicker of doubt still simmered under her ribs, she couldn’t help it.

“Hey, doll.” A familiar voice called out, breaking her trance. She startled slightly but smiled instinctively as she looked up to see him.

Bucky stood a few feet away, holding two glasses of lemonade in one hand and brushing dirt off the apron he wore with the other. It was a cheerful shade of green, smudged with grass, and tied a little too tightly around his waist. It looked exactly like the ones they’d worn together in the real world, back when they’d baked cookies during Christmas. Back when she still had him. “You’re overthinking things again, aren’t you?” He teased, a knowing grin tugging at his lips.

She chuckled softly, brushing her hands on her matching apron. “Maybe.” She admitted as he extended a hand to help her up. His grip was firm, grounding, and when she stood, he pressed one of the cold glasses into her free hand.

“Do you know how much I love seeing you out here, planting all these flowers?” He said, gesturing to the budding garden around them. “It’s like you’re giving some life into this place. And to me.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned her attention back to the flowers. “I’m trying.”

“You are, and I love the view. Double win for me and the place.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she sprayed a little too much water on the marigolds. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, finally looking over at her, and the warmth in his expression made her chest ache in the best way. “Impossible or not, I’m all yours.”

Her smile faltered for just a moment, and she swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lump forming in her throat. He had no idea how much those words meant to her - how much she’d longed to hear them again. She blinked quickly, pushing the emotion down before it could spill over.

“Everything okay?” He asked, tilting his head as he set the shears down.

She took a sip of the lemonade, its tartness cooling her throat, and smiled faintly. “I just… I do it a lot lately - thinking, I mean. This all feels so surreal. That I’ve been given a second chance. Why me? Why not someone else?”

“Why not you?” He countered gently, his tone warm and reassuring.

“But it’s just… why does it have to be like this?” She hesitated, her voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s beautiful, but it feels like I cheated. Like I’m running away from something I’m supposed to face.”

He reached out, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. “You didn’t cheat anything. You found me. This world - it only works if the person searching for it needs it more than anything. It shaped itself for you, based on what you’ve been missing, what your heart’s been crying out for.”

“What’s the price?” She asked, her voice low but steady, though the words felt like shards in her throat.

At that, he licked his lower lip, his gaze flickering with something unreadable - hesitation, maybe. As if he was weighing whether or not to tell her, whether or not she was ready to hear it. Or he was ready to say it.

“Bucky?” She pressed, her heartbeat quickening.

“It’s…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was nervous. “It’s nothing compared to how we’d live. Come inside with me, doll. I’ll show you.”

Her stomach twisted at the vague response, and even as she nodded and followed him, a cold, nagging voice in the back of her mind reminded her that nothing good came without a price. She knew it.

She trailed behind him into the house, her hands trembling slightly as they entered the cozy living room. He motioned for her to sit, and she did so reluctantly, sinking into the couch. Her nerves refused to settle.

Bucky crouched in front of her, sitting on the coffee table with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands firm on her thighs. The warmth of his touch anchored her, and yet she couldn’t shake the unease coiling in her chest.

“I want you to consider it, at least.” He began, his tone measured, his gaze fixed on hers. “I know it sounds… bad, maybe even awful. And it could scare you off. But the choice is yours.” His thumbs moved in slow circles on her thighs, as if soothing her for what he was about to say.

Her brows furrowed, and she leaned forward slightly. “What choice?”

He sighed, pulling a small box from his apron pocket. It was plain, unassuming, but the weight of it felt suffocating even before he opened it.

“You can go back to the real world, where I’m gone. Where I’ll never come back. Where you’ll grieve, and move on, and live without me.” His voice softened as he spoke, his eyes - well, his buttons - searching hers for any sign of what she was thinking. “Or…”

He flipped open the box with a quiet snap. Inside, on a bed of soft fabric, were two small, black buttons and a delicate needle threaded with dark, glimmering string.

Her stomach dropped. “No.”

“Think about it.” His response came immediately, his voice steady and calm as if he’d anticipated her reaction. He pushed the box aside and leaned forward, taking her hands in his. She flinched slightly, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened - not enough to hurt, but enough to keep her there.

“Bucky.” She whispered, her voice barely audible. Her eyes flicked from his hands to the buttons and back, her mind racing. “You can’t be serious. That’s insane. I’m insane for even being here, for…”

“For wanting this?” He interrupted gently. “For wanting me?” His hands softened around hers, his touch turning tender again. “I know it’s a lot. And I know it’s not what you expected. But this is the only way, doll. The only way we can be together - really, truly together again. Like we planned. It doesn’t even hurt, it will just sting a little bit.”

“This is fucked up.” She said. “The Bucky I know, the real you, would never ask me to do this.”

“I told you I’m not him. Just another version who loves you just the same.” His lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. “The real me is gone, sweetheart. This me, the one sitting here with you, the one who’s waited for you, who needs you… I’m the Bucky you’ve been praying for, the one you begged to have back. The only one you can have. Don’t you see? You don’t have to lose me again.”

She wanted to scream, to run, to crawl back through that door and never look back. But she also wanted him - to have him, hold him, hear his voice every day for the rest of her life. Just at the thought of living her life without him was enough to consider what he was saying.

Her gaze dropped to the buttons. “I don’t know if I can.” She whispered.

“You don’t have to decide now.” He said, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “But you will have to make the decision soon enough. This world may be perfect, but it has rules.”

After that, the day went on as usual, as if the conversation about buttons and impossible choices had never even happened. Bucky didn’t bring it up again, and she didn’t dare to.

Everything about the way he held her hand, kissed her temple, and leaned close to her when he told stories about their relationship, that of course she already knew, was so perfectly him. It felt so easy, so natural, but she couldn’t entirely silence the gnawing feeling in the back of her mind, the one that whispered about the things she was trying so hard not to think about.

The buttons. No matter how she looked at it, that was her main concern at the moment.

Would it really be so bad, she wondered, to do what he was asking? Was it really so much to give? If sewing buttons into her eyes meant she could stay in this world - with him - wasn’t it worth it? He had told her she didn’t have to decide right away, and yet she could feel the weight of the decision silently pressing her.

By the time evening rolled around, her head felt heavy with the back-and-forth debate she had been waging with herself all day. She was standing on the porch, slipping off Bucky’s boots with a scowl when the thoughts came rushing back again. The man, other Bucky or not, had a bad habit of walking through the house with muddy shoes, something that had annoyed her to no end in the real world, too.

“Perfect world, my ass.” She said quietly, kneeling to brush dirt off the porch. “After all this time, I thought you understood the phrase ‘no dirt in the house’, Barnes!” She said loud enough for him to hear.

“Sorry, baby!” His voice called from the kitchen.

“Idiot.”

She set his shoes neatly next to hers, brushing the caked remaining dirt off her hands when something in her peripheral vision caught her attention. A shadow, slight and quick, darting across the edge of the garden.

She turned her head, squinting into the fading light. It was a cat. A black cat, sitting just beyond the garden’s edge. The fur was very obviously unkempt, one ear ragged and torn like it had been in a fight. It sat there, still, its tail curling and uncurling behind it as its blue eyes were fixed on her.

It was the same black cat from the real world, she realized, the one that always seemed to prowl around her property at all hours of the day. She used to catch small glimpses of it lounging on her fence or slinking through the garden. Back then, she’d joked to herself that it probably had a thing for Alpine. And of course, it would be here. If this world was a near-perfect replica of the one she left behind, why wouldn’t it include the same stray animals?

But now that she thought about it, that was strange too. Where were the animals? She hadn’t seen so much as a bird or squirrel flitting through the trees. And Alpine - her beloved Alpine - was nowhere to be found. That absence hit her like a brick. She hadn’t even questioned Alpine’s absence. She cursed herself for it now. Bucky had consumed her thoughts so completely that she hadn’t had room for anything - or anyone - else.

“Hello there.” She said softly, stepping toward the cat. “You hungry?”

“No.”

She froze, her hand pausing mid-reach.

The voice was low and clear, but it wasn’t Bucky’s.

Straightening her back, she quickly glanced around, expecting to see someone else standing nearby. But the porch was empty, save for her and the cat. “Hello?”

“Down here.” The voice said again.

Her eyes darted back to the cat. It sat perfectly still, tail curling and uncurling lazily as it stared at her.

Her pulse quickened. “Did you… Did you just talk?”

“Yes.” The cat said, sounding almost bored. Its voice was smoother than she expected, tinged with a dry, unimpressed humor. “And no, I’m not hungry. But she is.”

Her chest tightened as she whipped around, scanning the empty garden for signs of another person - or something. “She who?”

The cat didn’t move, its eyes never leaving her. “You know who. You’re a smart human, don’t fall for this trap.” It said, the slow flick of its tail suddenly feeling less lazy and more menacing. “So leave, before she loses her patience and takes what she wants. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. This had to be some kind of sick joke. Or maybe she was losing her mind. Slowly, she turned back to the cat. “What are you talking about?” She sounded demanding, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound firm.

The cat only tilted its head, the corner of its torn ear twitching. “Tell Alpine I see the way she looks at me.”

Her jaw practically hit the floor as she watched the cat vanish into the shadows of the night, leaving her standing there dumbfounded. She stared at the empty space where it had been, her mind spinning. How the hell had her life taken this turn? A talking cat? Cryptic warnings? What was next? The Slender Man?

With a heavy huff, she turned on her heel and marched back inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. She padded into the kitchen in her pink, fluffy slippers, trying to shake off the surreal encounter. “The weirdest thing just happened, Buck.” She blurted as soon as she stepped into the room.

But then her eyes met his - well, his buttons. She froze mid-step, swallowing hard and clearing her throat. “Never mind.”

Bucky, standing by the counter with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “You okay?” He asked, his voice tinged with a soft laugh.

“Yeah, I think so.” She replied, walking over to him. The moment she reached him, she let her forehead rest against his shoulder with a deep sigh. Was it contentment? Was it exhaustion? She wasn’t sure anymore.

Bucky didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. The familiar warmth of his embrace, the way his hands rested protectively on her shoulders, sent a wave of much needed comfort through her.

“Why isn’t Alpine here?” She asked softly, her voice muffled against his chest. “She’s still alive in the other world. I can bring her here tomorrow morning.”

The change in his body language was immediate. His arms stiffened ever so slightly, and she felt the pause in his breath before he answered. “No.”

She frowned, pulling back just enough to look up at him, confusion etched across her face. His tone had been quiet but firm, and it threw her completely off guard. “What do you mean, ‘no?’” She asked, her eyebrows drawing together. “It’s Alpine. Our Alpine. What’s wrong with bringing her here?”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a thin smile - one that didn’t quite reach the stitched buttons where his eyes should’ve been. “I don’t like cats.” He said simply. Sternly. As if the thought of cats disgusted him.

Her frown deepened, the words making no sense to her. “What?” She said, blinking at him. “Since when? You love cats. You’re the one who brought Alpine home in the first place!“

His hand came up to cup her cheek, the gentle gesture disarming her even as his words made her stomach twist. “Not this time, doll.” He said softly. “We don’t need anything else. It’s just us here. Cats have a tendency to ruin everything.”

The words rang in her head for a moment, refusing to fade even as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and deliberate. It was the kind of kiss meant to disarm her, like he always did when he made her mad, to silence whatever questions were beginning to form on the edge of her tongue. She wanted to ask, to argue, but before she could even gather her thoughts, he was already gone. He was walking out of the kitchen muttering something about taking a quick shower.

She stayed rooted in place, staring at the empty doorway, her fingers curling instinctively around the edge of the counter. Something about the conversation, about him, felt off; she couldn’t deny that. But again, technically that wasn’t the old Bucky so maybe this version just hated cats?

She had no idea of how many red flags she was ignoring just for the sake of finding that happiness again. With him.

She shook her head sharply, trying to clear the haze. Overthinking again. She did that a lot here. It wasn’t as if the real world made any more sense (Wanda had a habit of doing weird things with her magic, lately), so why couldn’t she just… let go? Why couldn’t she accept that maybe, just maybe, this was her second chance?

Her eyes drifted to the pile of clothes near the doorway: that was gonna be her distraction from the mess in her head. Gardening with him earlier had been calming, grounding, but their clothes had the evidence of their afternoon - smudges of dirt, streaks of green from the grass. His apron was folded on top of the pile, wrinkled and stained.

With a deep breath, she made her way toward the basement door after gathering the clothes into her arms. It creaked as she pushed it open, revealing a small staircase that disappeared into the dark space below. She hesitated for a moment, her grip tightening on the clothes. Something about the basement always managed to make her uneasy, though she couldn’t explain why. Maybe she watched too many horror movies? Probably.

Even she had to admit the basement felt… off? Not creepy at all, though: no bad smells, no weird drips of water hitting the ground with a rhythm. It was just different. Cleaner, brighter, almost ominous how perfect it seemed. Oh, and that picture hanging on the wall of the staircase ? Yeah, it wasn’t the same either.

Back in the real world, that kid was crying, ice cream dripping down his hand like the worst day of his life. Here, though? The boy was smiling wide and the cone perfectly intact. It wasn’t like the rules of this place made any sense anyway. A “perfect reality,” right? So, of course, even random wall art was upgraded to match the vibe. Cool.

She forced herself to focus, dumping the gardening clothes into the washing machine and starting it up without wasting a second.

Good. Done. Get out of here before the imaginary basement monster shows up, she thought. It was a dumb fear - childish, even - but oh well. Basements always gave her the creeps. She turned toward the stairs, ready to bolt, when something caught her eye.

A splash of yellow sticking out of an old wooden chest shoved into the corner.

She froze - bad vibes coming from it. For a second, she considered ignoring it, pretending she didn’t see it at all. But curiosity always got the better of her, again. She moved closer, almost expecting a jump scare of some sort, her hand hesitating before finally grabbing the fabric and pulling it free.

It was just a raincoat.

Tiny, bright yellow, and smeared with dried mud. Her stomach twisted as she held it up, the sleeves limp in her hands. This wasn’t Bucky’s. It couldn’t be. He was built like a tank, and this thing looked like it belonged to a kid - a little kid.

Her mind raced. She hadn’t seen any children since she arrived. Not one. Just her and Bucky. And that cat, if that counted.

But there it was. The muddy raincoat of some kid who didn’t seem to exist in this perfect world. Or maybe it didn’t exist anymore? Or maybe it did at some point.

She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the fabric. “Shit.” She muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the hum of the washing machine.

“Doll? Where are you?” His voice floated down from the upper floor, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Her heart skipped, panic bubbling up as she quickly shoved the raincoat back into the chest, slamming the lid down with more force than she meant to. She bolted up the stairs, her breath slightly unsteady, and nearly bumped into him as he appeared in the hallway.

“What were you doing down there?” He asked, his brow furrowed, eyes - well, still those fucking buttons - narrowing ever so slightly.

“The laundry?” She blurted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It was true, but it came out sounding like a question.

“Ah.” His expression softened, the tension vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He smiled, bright and sweet, like he always did when she was close. “Thank you, doll. You didn’t have to, though. You know that, right? You don’t have to lift a finger around here if you don’t want to. I could’ve done it.”

“I know.” She gave a small shrug, her arms folding protectively across her chest. “I just thought… I don’t know. I don’t mind doing the laundry here.”

Her voice faltered slightly at the end, and an unwelcome thought crept into her head. You couldn’t even look at the laundry back home. Too many of his shirts still smelled like him. Too many memories. But she shook it off, forcing herself to focus on him, on the present - or whatever that world was.

Bucky tilted his head, studying her for a moment like he was waiting for her to say more, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked, a soft chuckle escaping him, though his gaze lingered. “Every time I leave you alone, I find you all panicked. And yes, I notice.”

“No, yeah, I know. I’m fine.” She nodded quickly. “I promise. Just… zoned out for a second, I guess.”

“Alright.” He leaned in and kissed her temple, his lips warm against her skin. “You’ve been through a lot. I just don’t want you worrying about anything while you’re here. This place is for you to be happy. To rest.”

She offered him a weak smile, and he seemed satisfied enough to let it drop.

But the coat was still on her mind.

. . .

After a few hours after that, they were sprawled on the couch together, her legs stretched over his lap, her body nestled into his side. It was late - later than she normally stayed in this world. Usually, she made sure to fall asleep next to him just in time to wake up in the real one at a normal hour and feed Alpine, but tonight… tonight she let herself linger. The air felt different.

He made it too easy. The way his hand traced absentminded patterns on her arm, the low hum of his laugh when something on-screen amused him, the warmth radiating from him - it was like he’d been plucked straight from her dreams. And maybe he had been. Like it once had.

“You sure you don’t want to head to bed, doll?” He asked, his voice quiet but gentle, breaking through her haze.

“Not yet.” She murmured, her head resting against his shoulder. “I don’t want to move at the moment.”

“Alright.” He said with a smile, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re lucky I don’t mind having you here forever.”

She curled closer to him, as if the simple act could keep her from thinking too much. But, of course, it didn’t. Her gaze flicked to his hand resting on her knee, his fingers so gentle, so familiar. And then her thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the basement. Back to the raincoat. Maybe she was being a bit exaggerated. Paranoid, even. But she was never good at keeping her mouth shut.

She bit her lip, her heart picking up speed. She didn’t want to ruin the moment, but the question was clawing at her insides. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Bucky?” She said softly, hesitantly.

“Hmm?” His eyes stayed on the screen, his hand stilling on her arm.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

At that, he turned to look at her, his brow furrowing slightly, though his smile stayed intact. “What’s on your mind?”

“In the basement…” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat to steady it. “I found a coat. A little yellow raincoat. Who does it belong to?”

The change in him was instant. His grip on her arm tightened - not enough to hurt at first, but enough to make her notice. His body stiffened against her, and though his smile didn’t immediately fade, something behind it did.

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, his left hand began tapping his fingers against her leg, rhythmic and deliberate, his gaze drifting away from her and back to the television.

“Buck?” She prompted again, her voice quieter now.

Still, he said nothing. The tapping continued, a slow, unspoken signal that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Do you love me?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Do you love me?” He repeated, finally turning his head to meet her gaze. The smile was gone now, replaced by something completely different, something that made her stomach churn. “Because I’ve been wondering, doll. You keep questioning me. Questioning this.” His right hand gave her arm another squeeze, harder this time. “So tell me. Do you love me?”

“Of course I do.” She said quickly, her voice trembling. “You know I do.”

“Then why can’t you just trust me?” His tone was soft but charged, each word laced with a quiet intensity. “Why do you keep asking questions? Doubting me? Doubting us?”

“I’m not doubting you, Bucky.” Maybe she was. A little.

His grip on her arm loosened slightly, but it wasn’t the kind of relief she was hoping for. Instead, Bucky leaned back against the couch, his head tilting to one side as his hand fell to his own leg. His fingers began tapping against it.

“Mmh, mh, mh.” He murmured, shaking his head, like he was holding back laughter - or something else entirely.

She instinctively shifted a little further away from him, her back pressing into the armrest of the couch. The distance was small, but it didn’t go unnoticed. His sharp black button gaze flicked toward her, and the tapping stopped.

“Years.” He said suddenly, his voice flat but somehow seething underneath. “I’ve been waiting for years, doll. Patiently. Quietly. And you can’t even sew your eyes for the man you claim to love? It’s a tiny little thing.”

Her breath hitched, her heart skipping at the accusation, the venom in his words. “A tiny little thing? Do you have an idea of what you’re saying?”

“What kind of love is that?” He continued, ignoring her, his voice rising slightly, cutting through her attempt to interject. “You sit here, you say the words, but you don’t mean them, do you? I wonder if it was the same back in your world, too. You told him you loved him, but you never showed it.”

“This isn’t fair.”

“Fair?” He barked a humorless laugh, leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees. “Do you think this was fair for me? Sitting here for years, waiting for you, for this? Giving you everything you ever wanted, and you can’t even give me this one thing?”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her jaw tightening as she fought the wave of emotions rising in her chest. “I asked you one question.” She said firmly, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “A stupid little question, and now you’re standing here, making me out to be the problem? Because I want to know what’s going on?”

He tilted his head at her, his fingers still tapping against his leg, the sound grating on her nerves. “It’s not about the question, doll.” He said, his tone low, almost mocking. “It’s about the pattern. Always asking. Always doubting. You’re not happy unless you’re tearing everything apart to see what’s underneath. And that bothers me to no end. I hate curious little things, you remind me of a cat.”

“I told you I’m not doubting anything.” She said, stepping further back from him, her voice sharper now. “I just wanted to understand. And you’re acting like I’ve done something wrong for that. Do you even hear yourself right now? All worked up for a simple question - I just wanted an answer.”

“Well, what’s the saying?” His grin got wider. “Curiosity killed the cat. You should learn how to mind your business.”

She crossed her arms, her posture stiff but rooted, unwilling to back down. “So that’s it? You’re just going to dodge my question with some half-assed riddle? Maybe I wasn’t in the wrong for asking.”

His grin faltered then, just slightly, and his head tipped forward. He stared at her, the light catching the shiny, smooth black of his buttons. “You want to know about the coat so badly?” He said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Fine. Let’s talk about it.”

She stayed silent, her heart pounding in her chest, but her face remained steady - which surprised her.

“It was hers.” He said, his voice suddenly calm, measured. “Coraline’s. Sweet little thing. Full of hope, just like you.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion breaking through the tension. “Who’s Coraline?”

He leaned back now, letting out a long sigh. “She was the last one to walk through that door.” He said. “Her parents gave up looking for her after barely two months, then moved. I’m thankful they did, because just a couple of years later and you arrived.”

“The missing kid.” Her stomach twisted, but her expression remained firm. “You took her.”

“Of course I did. I usually only take children, they’re… better. Easier to control, easier to fool.” He let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing in the room. “Did you really think this world existed exclusively for you? It has different shapes, and you surely were not the first to stumble across it. Hopefully not the last.”

She shook her head slowly, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “You’re not Bucky. Any version of him.” She said, her voice low and cold. Deep down, she had always felt it. It was too good to be true. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Took you long enough to understand.”

She swallowed hard, her voice steady even as her heart pounded in her chest. “Then what sort of thing are you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just watched her with a strange calmness, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh - and that was starting to piss her off. “I’m what you’ve always needed.” He said softly, his voice almost tender.

Her stomach churned, but she didn’t back away, didn’t falter. “That’s just bullshit, not an answer. I needed Bucky.”

“And I gave it to you, didn’t I?” He countered, his tone sharp now. “You walked through that door willingly, all of them did. The kids, I mean.” He paused before continuing. “Did you think it opened for just anyone? It opened because you were starving for what I could give you. And I gave it freely, to you and the kids. I gave you him, and I can still give it to you for as long as you want. But you’re too stubborn for your own good, aren’t you?”

“I can be when you just said that a kid disappeared because of you. More than one.” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze - or at least the empty, black gleam of the buttons where his eyes should have been. “What do you take in return? You create this illusion and for what?”

“Many reasons.” He tilted his head, studying her like she was an insect pinned to a board. “And I want nothing you weren’t already willing to give.” He said, his voice light, almost flippant. “You wanted to die, I wanted your soul.”

“Let’s not exaggerate.” She said sharply, though her voice wavered just enough to betray the panic simmering beneath her anger.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine!” She bit out, her tone sharp, defensive. “But it doesn’t mean I wanted to be trapped by some… thing wearing my Bucky’s face, for fuck’s sake!”

“And yet.” He said evenly, his voice infuriatingly calm. “You’re still sitting here.”

She pushed herself up from the couch in one swift motion, her movements stiff with anger and fear. “I’m leaving.”

He let out a soft snort, leaning back against the couch like he had all the time in the world. “You can’t.” He said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He gestured lazily around the room. “Once you walked through that little door, you became mine. Think of this…” He added, his hand sweeping in a slow arc. “as a spiderweb. You’re my insect, and I’m your predator.”

Her stomach churned at the analogy, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing her unease. “So sit, run, scream, do whatever you think will make you feel better.” He continued, his tone so calm it was maddening. “But it won’t matter. You can’t get out of here, doll. Not unless I let you. And I won’t.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms to keep herself grounded. “You’re sick.”

“No.” He said, his lips curling into a smile that no longer belonged to anything human. It was too wide, too sharp, and too full of malice. “No, I’m starving.” He tilted his head, his gaze crawling over her like she was a feast laid out just for him - and not in the sense she usually liked. “And I’m going to sew those buttons onto your pretty little eyes, tie your soul to me, and I’m going to do it wearing this face. Poetic, don’t you think?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I usually take my true form when I feast - it’s what scares the little ones most. But you? I like you better like this. It’s going to be so good.”

Her throat tightened, and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “Then why didn’t you just do it already? If this is your plan, why wait? Why let me stay here for days?”

“Because…” He said with an exaggerated sigh, like he was explaining something painfully simple. “when you’ve spent years waiting for your next meal, you get… lonely. Bored, even. It’s called savoring. You were just so delightful to watch - so ready to believe, so desperate to be loved. I wanted to stretch it out.” His grin widened, revealing teeth that didn’t look human anymore. “But now? Now, I’m tired of waiting.”

The weight of his words hit her like a physical blow, and her legs moved before her mind caught up. She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her own feet, before turning and rushing out of the room.

Out of the house.

She didn’t stop moving, running as fast as her legs could carry her. Her breath came out in panicked gasps, her mind a storm of denial and realization. There was no way. It was too good to be true. It had always been too good to be true, and deep down, she’d known it. But he - or whatever that thing was - had been patient, deliberate, a master manipulator. Or maybe she was just too weak, too blinded by grief, to see the truth. Both could coexist.

The woods seemed to swallow her whole as she ran in there feeling like Snow White running from the Evil Queen. She pushed forward, deeper into the darkness, her lungs burning with every step. She wasn’t even sure if he was following her.

Eventually, her legs gave out, and she collapsed against a tree, trying to catch her breath. Her chest heaved, and her ears strained for any sound of pursuit.

And then she heard it.

A soft rustle, barely audible, coming from the bushes nearby.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She was ready to move and run again, thinking it was the Other Bucky, but it wasn’t. Not this time, at least.

“Relax, lady. You’re all in one piece, I’m glad to see it.” A familiar voice said, smooth and calm.

Her eyes darted to the source, and there it was: the fucking cryptic cat, sitting primly a few feet away as if this were all a casual stroll.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She panted, clutching her chest.

“What?” The cat tilted its head, unimpressed. “I’m a friend, in case you didn’t notice.”

“What the fuck is going on?” She demanded, her voice shaky but full of anger.

The cat blinked lazily. “If you don’t get out of here soon, she’s going to eat you. That’s what’s going on.”

“She?” The word slipped out before she could stop it. “The Other Bucky is a she?”

“That’s not even your dead human in the first place.” The cat answered. “She’s not what she seems, obviously. She’s a Beldam - a witch who eats souls, usually the sad and lonely kind. That’s her thing. She gets people - or kids, mostly - to come through the little door and then…” It mimed biting into something with a disturbingly human-like smirk.

Her stomach churned. “Why?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “How did she even know about Bucky? About everything? She knew things no one else did.”

“She’s a supernatural being, lady. She’s got eyes everywhere.” The cat said, gesturing to the woods around them with a flick of its tail. “And ears. She always manages to get everything right. She spies you, that’s part of the package when you move in the Pink Palace.”

She tensed, glancing around, half-expecting to see him - or it - emerging from the shadows.

The cat sighed, exasperated. “Not now. I’d feel it if she were here. She hates cats. Can’t stand us. And believe me, the feeling’s mutual.”

Her brow furrowed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, no. Never said that. You’re kind of screwed.” The cat’s tone turned more serious, its blue eyes boring into hers. “But hey, you’re lucky you lasted this long. You were an easy target - grieving, lost, and desperate.” It stretched, its claws digging the ground. “She must have seen you as a feast that could last centuries.”

“She - he - whatever that is, said something about taking my soul. And my eyes. I don’t know which one is worse.” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to ask. “But why centuries? What does sewing buttons on my eyes even do?”

The cat tilted its head. “Ties your soul to hers, you just said that. Permanently. It’ll kill you, but she gets to keep you - well, your energy, your grief. It’s what sustains her. She’s probably been starving for years, so she needs you more than ever. She’s desperate to have something. Someone.”

“He mentioned a thing or two about a certain Coraline. I saw her yellow raincoat in his basement.” She said, her voice quiet but laced with unease. “Is that really what happened to her?”

“Ah, yes, Coraline. The Beldam made her believe she escaped, but…” The cat’s ears flicked, and his voice sounded like a mix of something between disdain and melancholy. “I tried to help her as best I could. I liked that kid.” He sighed. “But I’m just a cat, and she’s the closest thing to a demon I’ve ever seen.“

“Just a cat?” She asked, incredulous. “You talk. Why do you talk?”

The cat’s blue eyes narrowed, and he started grooming himself, licking a paw with a deliberate disinterest.

“Okay, no answer. Fine. Then how come you’re in this place if he hates cats?”

He paused mid-lick, one sharp claw resting just near his mouth, then returned to his task. “A magician doesn’t reveal their tricks.” He said smoothly.

“Right.” She muttered, rolling her eyes. “So helpful. Then how do I leave? I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with an animal.” She whispered the last part. “What’s next? I’ll meet the Mad Hatter?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” The cat stopped grooming and looked up at her. “And to answer your question, the only way out is the way you came in. You have to crawl back through the little door-” He froze mid-sentence, his fur suddenly standing on end, every muscle in his body going rigid. His pupils narrowing to slits. “Someone’s watching us.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “Is it the Other Bucky?” She whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m too young to die.”

“No, it’s… definitely not the Beldam.” The cat seemed to get chill again.

“Oh, for God’s sake, you stupid c-” A woman’s voice, thankfully a familiar one, rang out, sharp and frustrated, cutting through the oppressive silence of the woods like a beacon. “Finally. I found you. Can you hear me?”

Her breath hitched, and she spun around, her eyes scanning the empty woods. “Wanda?!” She called out, her voice a mix of disbelief and desperation, as if Jesus himself had just descended.

“Who else?!” Wanda snapped, her voice laced with exasperation. “If I could, I’d slap you repeatedly for being this reckless, but unfortunately, I have to save your ass first!”

She stared at the void around her, still unable to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. “You’re yelling at me from… where? Are you in my head? What is this?”

“Does it matter?” Wanda said impatiently. “Listen. You need to get back into the house. Now.”

“Get back into the house?” She repeated incredulously, her arms crossing as though Wanda could somehow see her defiance. “Oh yeah, sure. Let me just waltz back into the murder mansion with open arms. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Yes.” Wanda said flatly, with zero hesitation. “And since I think that, you better listen to me before you really get yourself killed. That thing - whatever it is wearing Bucky’s face - knows I’m trying to pull you out. It’s going to try to stop you. Probably in the most violent, unhinged, eye-sewing way possible. Or she’s gonna manipulate you, do not give in!”

“That’s not remotely comforting!” She said, running a hand through her hair in frustration.

“Let me finish!” Wanda said, her tone sharp. “You’re going to have to hold out long enough for me to open the door. The real door. She’s locked it tight, and I have been trying to break through for days. I’m close now, but I can’t hold her back for long so I need you to crawl in there as soon as it opens. Got it?“

The cat, who had been slinking around her feet with an air of casual disinterest, suddenly let out a small snort. Or the closest thing there was to a snort since that was still a cat. “Great plan. Perfect plan. Send the human back into the monster’s den. Nothing could go wrong.”

“Who’s that?” Wanda’s voice snapped.

“The talking cat.”

“The what? You’ve been ignoring me for months and now you found a new friend?”

“Focus!” She shouted, her voice bordering on hysteria as her pulse hammered in her ears. “Okay, okay. I go back to the house. Then what? Do I just knock on the door and say, ‘Hey, I’m ready for you to eat my soul now?’”

“You’re going to stall.” Wanda said firmly, ignoring her sarcasm. “Keep it distracted. I’ll do the hard part.”

“Distract the literal demon? Sure, I’ll just tell him a joke or two.” She said, throwing up her hands.

The cat leaped onto a nearby rock and flicked its tail, looking entirely unbothered. “Might as well. She’s got no sense of humor; could confuse her long enough for Wanda to pull her little magic trick.”

“Stop talking.” She snapped at the cat.

“Are you beefing with an anim- you know what? Not the time.” Wanda’s voice broke through again, her tone softening slightly. “I know this is insane, okay? I get that you’re scared. But trust me. You can do this. Just hold on a little longer, and I’ll pull you out. I promise.”

“Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting all of you.” She said. “You included.” She looked at the cat.

“Deal.” Wanda said, her voice tinged with relief. “I have to go now, do as I said.”

The cat yawned, stretching lazily. “I give you ten minutes before you freak out and bolt. And I’m being generous.”

“No wonder you’re a stray.” She hissed, shooting the feline a glare as she turned back to walk back to the house.

“Ouch.” The animal theatrically said.

She scoffed, heading back towards the house, perhaps slower than she normally would. After only a few steps, she turned around. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m not suicidal.”

She bit back a string of insults. Picking a fight with a cat wasn’t exactly her biggest priority. With a tight shake of her head, she turned on her heel and kept walking.

That was gonna be a long night.

[pinkcadillaccas]

Anyone else feeling the relentless march of time on this Saturday night

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。yours, always yours

synopsis. satoru has always been yours—and he needs you to know you’ll also always be his

— word count. 2.4k (read the breakup fic first for better understanding, but can be read as a stand-alone)

— contents. fem! reader, college! au, rich boy! gojo, post-getting back together angst that gets a little heated <3, minors do not interact, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, satoru cumming too quick <3, creampie, tbh the smut is short and a lil rushed my b, it ends in fluff tho !! trust !! there is fluff !!

— notes. tbh this will probably get flagged rly fast but oh well u win some u lose some. anywayyyyy here is the make up sex bc yall nasties deserve it <3 jk love u guys

satoru falls first. and he falls hard. everyone knows it, it’s never been a secret.

“you want me to wash your hair?” you ask gently, kissing his shoulder as the water falls over his head. he hums, nodding absentmindedly as he stares blankly at the tiles of your shower wall.

“sure,” he mumbles, “don’t tug.”

“i never tug,” you roll your eyes, snorting. he huffs a small chuckle, but it’s not the usual laugh satoru gives you. it’s mechanic, almost—just there to fill the space. “baby?” you ask softly.

“yeah?” he asks, “oh, should i bend a little? sorry, i—”

“what’re you thinking about?” your hands cup his cheeks, gentle and warm from the hot water as it soaks his skin.

he shakes his head, trying to smile as he clears throat. “just how nice it is to be pampered. maybe i’ll let you break my heart every once in a while so i get my back scrubbed and hair washed like this.”

“satoru,” you insist. you know—and he knows it too. “tell me?”

“why’d you do it?” he mumbles, “why’d you listen to him?”

“toru, you know why,” you sigh, “you know i didn’t think there were any other options.”

“you could’ve talked to me,” he furrows his brows, “just because my stupid old man threatens you with my stupid inheritance doesn’t mean we have to break up.”

“i was afraid you’d choose me.” it comes out as a whisper, like a confession you can’t bear to admit.

“i would have chosen you,” he agrees, “why’s that bad? how’s that wrong—”

“you’re not thinking about the bigger picture,” you shake your head, “that company is yours. you’ve spent your whole life—”

“so what? was i supposed to give up the rest of my life for it too?” he asks tiredly—satoru’s defeated. he’s never been defeated, it’s the most magnetizing thing about him.

even before you date him. he asks and asks and asks no matter how many times you say no. because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes, and he’ll never stop as long as there’s a chance.

“i’m sorry,” you sniffle, lips wobbling, “i could have….i should have said something. i didn’t want you to make a choice young and then….and then regret it.”

“you think i’d regret you?” he’s wounded—absolutely wounded at the words.

satoru has always been careful, diligent and so, so meticulous to love you right, to love you how you need to be loved. hadn’t that proven enough? that he was in it for the long run—for forever? he’d been so sure you’d be his future, that the break up feels like waking up from a peaceful dream to a house fire—devastating, with smoke in his nose and lungs that he can’t breathe right, and everything gone within a moment before he can even register it.

he stares at the ashes in despair. nothing prepared him for the hollowness of not being yours—because satoru has never cared to make you his. all he’s ever wanted was to be yours.

you’re quick to remove him from everything, deleting pictures from your socials, untagging him from posts, removing him from your private stories and close friends list. he doesn’t understand how you could change your mind so quickly—and then he realizes you probably don’t. because he knows you—better than anyone ever has, satoru knows you.

so he’s comes to you, drenched from the rain, from standing outside your door even as the water pelts against his skin because he’s determined. he’s going to get an answer out of you, going to make you explain why you pulled him in so close, let him reside in your heart and fall asleep to the comforting rhythm of its beating—and then push him out like he’s nothing. what made you push him out?

and finally, when he does, when you let him be yours again and admit it’s never what you wanted, that it’s because it’s what his father wanted—well, satoru can’t keep his composure. don’t you know? hadn’t he always told you? hadn’t he poured his heart out and let you know every moment he’s always been stuck dangling from his father’s fingers? stuck somewhere between the sky and ground, too high to feel the floor under his feet but never high enough to feel the wind in his face.

you’ve always known, always listened—and fuck, you held him some nights too, let your fingers dip into his hair and soothe his sorrows of always being stuck.

satoru’s always been stuck, always had every choice made for him and every instruction carefully laid out on the table. and then you decided to make his choice for him too, walking away and choosing his future for him like he’s never had a say.

he’s always been stuck, but never with you—but now, he wonders if that’s changed.

“no,” you squeeze his cheeks, “no i don’t think you’d regret me….but satoru losing what you have is a big thing,” you mumble, “people work their whole lives not having a fraction of what you do. that’s a lot to let you lose.”

“i’ve never seen my dad kiss my mom,” he stares at you, hard and unwavering, his eyes stare into yours, “he’s never held her hand or made her laugh. and you know what she told me? that she would sell her share of everything to have what we do. why do you always look at me for what i have first?” he asks angrily, the water pouring over his shoulders as they shake, “why can’t you just look at me first for once?”

“i do look at you,” you insist, “toru, all i ever see is you—”

“then stop caring what he says,” he says louder, his voice echoing through the small bathroom of your small apartment.

everything about your home is small—smaller than satoru’s especially. but he loves it, thinks he’d rather be here than anywhere else.

because it’s yours. and as long as you’re here, the world fits into this tiny apartment, the galaxy too.

“okay,” you say shakily. and then you nod, looking him in the eye, “you’ll handle it?”

he nods, kissing between your brows, “yeah, i’ll handle it. who else is gonna take over that company anyway?”

“but what if he finds someone else? and then he—”

“he won’t. my grandpa will shred him.”

“but he’s old, and he stepped down, so what really can he do if your dad decides—”

“god, baby,” he groans, pushing your body against the wall gently, “i love your voice, but you talk so much. i’m wanna listen to something else.”

his lips find your neck, sucking gently at the skin, hand trailing to your tits before his thumb circles your nipple. it’s slow, deliberate, teasing as it rolls over the bud.

you whimper, clutching onto him as a breathy, “t-toru,” leaves your lips.

“yeah,” he nods, “that’s what i wanna listen to instead.” his lips are in a grin against your neck, kissing and biting until he reaches your collarbone. “anyone dm you after you took me out of your socials?” he asks bitterly.

“j-just one,” you admit through a stutter, “b-but i didn’t even open it! i wasn’t really—oh, toru,” you gasp as his finger finds your clit, spreading your legs as he lets out a soft growl at your words.

“what? just cause my face isn’t on your instagram suddenly you’re not mine?” he asks, thumb rubbing harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves—you close your eyes, moaning as your arms wrap tightly around his neck. “you’re always mine,” he murmurs against your ear, low and careful so you hear him well, “yeah? got that?”

“got it,” you nod furiously.

“got what?”

“‘m al-always—oh, fuck,” you mewl as one finger prods at your entrance, gathering your slick before slowly sliding through your walls.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he says firmly, “finish your sentences.”

“always yours, toru! always yours—please, please j-just…”

“just what?” he raises a brow.

“more,” you sob—it’s a broken plea as your hips thrust against his finger.

he’s quick to slide in a second, thrusting his digits mercilessly into your soaked cunt, his palm gliding over your clit as the slick sound of his fingers fucking you is almost drowned by the water in the back.

your water bill will be high this month. you decide it’s a sacrifice satoru deserves.

“you think someone could ever learn this body better than me? make you cum like i can? you think anyone will ever love you enough to learn you like i do?”

“n-no,” you pant, his fingers hitting that spot inside of you so perfectly, you feel that dull ache build up quickly. it’s good—everything with satoru is good. his other hand finds your chest to pinch a nipple, twisting and squeezing until your nails leave indents on his shoulders as you moan loudly. “no one—no one but you.”

“exactly,” he growls, “how could you leave me? how could you leave us?”

“‘m sorry,” you sniffle, whimpering when the tips of his fingers slam against that spongey spot of your walls, fluttering around him and squeezing him in. you’re close—so close that you almost don’t know what he’s saying anymore, too focused on the way your impending orgasm is approaching. fast. “i’m sorry, i’ll never—ever leave again.”

“say you love me,” he demands.

it sounds like he’s pleading, though, if you listen closely. there’s a small crack in his voice, a slight shakiness that makes you force your eyes open and stare at him and whisper, “i love you, satoru. i love you.”

and then he rips his fingers out—right before you’re about to cum. you gasp, pleading nonsense as you cling to him and buck your hips and search for something, anything to take you over the edge.

and then you hear a sniffle. is he crying? is that wet droplet on your shoulder a tear or the water? you’re too busy calming down from your orgasm dying before it ever came to focus.

satoru’s hard against your thigh, throbbing and painful to sink into you. he strokes himself a few times, whimpers as his thumb gathers the pre cum from the sensitive tip, smearing it along his length as he shakily lets out a quiet moan.

“f-fuck, i gotta feel you. please, can i? please—”

“yes,” you pull him closer, grinding your heat over his hard-on, “yes please, toru. more, need more.”

he’s sliding along your folds, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance and smearing a mix of your arousal with his. and then slowly, ever so gently, he’s pushing into your after that, pushing past your walls and bullying into your soaked cunt, curving into you perfectly.

it’s only been a week—you feel like you haven’t felt him in years. but it’s familiar. you remember every part of him, including every vein that drags along your walls and makes your head spin. he remembers every part of you, including where that spot is that he needs to angle his hips to find.

he slams into you, hard and rough and fast—doesn’t even let you adjust your position to hold onto him tighter before he’s thrusting his hips and fucking into you desperately. you can feel him, every inch of his skin against you, every part of him that’s touching you. and you can feel the way his cock nudges past your folds, the friction burning pleasure through ever nerve.

satoru knows how to fuck you, just like he knows how to love you, he knows your body—every dip and ever curve, every place to touch and every part that has you gushing around him. it’s just the way he is, too good at giving you what you want, what you need.

when he moans, it’s breathy and he’s panting as he lets out those soft whimpers that make your head spin. “feel that? feel me?” he asks, grunting as you squeeze around his length.

“yeah,” you breathe, “‘m so full.”

“i need you. please, please,” he murmurs, “can’t lose you, baby. never you,” he chants, the quiver in his voice tearing you apart.

“i’m right here,” you gasp, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing his hand. he squeezes back, just to let you know he’s there too, “right here, baby. you got me.”

and then he cums, just as soon as you whisper that—he spills right into you with a broken cry, his hips rolling, needy and desperate and so, so lost on the pleasure. he’s too busy working himself through his high, trembling over your body to care he’s cum too quick—and you don’t have it in you to tease him. you can feel the hot ropes of cum filling you, painting your walls white, fucking deep into you as the blunt head of his cock slams into you without a second of hesitation.

but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter that brutal pace as his hips slam into you, perfectly kissing your sweet spot every time. and before long, you break—your head pushes back against the wall behind you, mouth parted as you wail his name and cum—hard. you’re quivering and spasming around his swollen cock, enough that he whimpers at the way you’re so tight.

it’s good, it’s always good. satoru makes you feel good. he’s the best you’ve ever had—the best you’ll ever find.

and then you hear it again, the sniffle into your neck as he clutches you tightly. you know for sure that wet droplet is a tear this time, and your fingers tangle into his hair as you stroke the wet strands.

“i love you, toru,” you murmur, “my sweet boy. i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry.”

“don’t do that again,” he huffs in between tears, “that was so mean. so mean.”

“i said i won’t,” you chuckle, fighting back your own tears, “how long are you gonna hold this against me?”

“how long do you plan on being mine?”

“well,” you pull him from your neck, cupping his cheeks as you wipe away tears and peck his lips softly, “i think….forever.”

“well, get ready, then,” he glares softly, “i’m gonna hold this against you forever too.”

“okay,” you nod, “that’s fair.”

“and i love you too,” he adds, “but block whoever dm’d you. it better not be that zenin boy.”

“block those girls who’s pictures you liked,” you shoot back, glaring at him with a pout of your own.

“don’t yell at me,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch as your thumb strokes his cheek, “i’ve had a rough week. you have to be nice.”

dabitee anon. are u seeing this. did u see the satoru who cums too fast. did u see it. report back if u saw this. i repeat, dabitee anon report back if you see this

[belqva]

— NO OTHER HEART ꪆৎ ˚⋅ [lando norris]

pairing: lando norris x reader

synopsis: you comfort lando after the events of the brazilian grand prix

word count: 0.8k

a/n: you know what they say the devil works hard but tumblr writers work harder! english is not my first language!! there isn’t much to say really the fic speaks for itself, I’m absolutely heartbroken for Lando 💔 as always my recs are open!

You step quietly from the bathroom, padding softly across the cool floor as you return to the hotel room you’re sharing with Lando. The evening Sao Paulo air hums faintly through the window, thick with the memory of a long, disappointing race. One night here before flying back to England, and it’s clear he’s wrestling with every second of it. The race weekend just… didn’t come together. Barely scraping into Q2, battling through a tough race, and ending P6 while Max took the win. His championship dreams seem to be slipping through his fingers like sand, fading at lightspeed.

You open the door gently, taking in the quiet expanse of the hotel room and finding Lando on the edge of the bed, his back to you, head buried in his hands. Tension radiates from him, heavy and unmoving, and it tugs at your heart.

Without saying anything, you step closer, placing a careful hand on his shoulder, light as a whisper. “Lan…” Your voice is soft, a thread in the quiet.

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze with an expression so blank, it’s like he’s hollowed out. No anger, no frustration—just this bleak emptiness that stirs something deep inside you. You sit beside him, keeping your arm wrapped around him, grounding him, holding him steady.

“Lando, I—” you begin, but he cuts you off, his tone edged with exhaustion.

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” He lets out a frustrated breath, and you feel his shoulder tense under your hand.

You turn to face him, gently coaxing his chin up to look at you. “Lando, I know you don’t want to talk. But ignoring it won’t make it go away.” Your words are quiet but firm, steady, because he needs that right now.

His gaze flickers, a brief flash of anger, though you know it’s not really aimed at you. “There’s nothing to fix, Y/N. It’s gone. All of it, because of my driving,” he snaps, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. His anger wavers, softening just at the edges, but it stings all the same.

You take a steadying breath, resisting the urge to match his frustration. Instead, you lean closer, voice gentle yet unwavering. “You don’t get it, Lando.”

He huffs, his tone almost mocking, almost defensive. “What don’t I get, huh? If you’re so smart, then explain it to me.”

The weight of his disappointment is heavy between you both, and for a second, you hesitate. But then you see it—behind the frustration, the anger, the shame. He looks like a kicked puppy, lost and vulnerable, and it breaks your heart.

“Lando, it’s not your fault,” you say, your voice firm but full of warmth. You feel him still, his eyes flickering as he processes your words. “It’s not. The team made mistakes, the setup wasn’t right. Yes, maybe you slipped up, but you gave it everything you had.”

He’s silent for a moment, staring down, lost in his thoughts. Finally, he mumbles, barely audible, “But it wasn’t enough.”

You take his face gently in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “Listen to me, Lando. I will love you no matter what. Championship or no championship, none of that changes how I see you. I love you if you’re rich, if you’re poor, if you’re old, if you’re tired. None of this changes what you are to me.”

Your voice wavers, a rawness creeping in as your own emotions surface. “This hurts me as much as it hurts you. Seeing you like this, feeling this pain—I wish I could take it away. But this is motorsport, Lando. This is Formula 1. It’s brutal, and it’s unforgiving, and I know you know that.”

His lips part, his eyes glossing with unshed tears as he finally allows himself to feel everything he’s been holding back. The first tear slips free, tracing a line down his cheek, and you open your arms. He doesn’t hesitate—he just collapses against you, burying his face in your shoulder, gripping you like you’re the last solid thing in a world that’s crumbling around him.

You stroke his hair, the familiar scent of him filling your senses as you hold him, feeling his silent sobs shake against you. “I will love you, Lando Norris, no matter what,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I need you to know that. You’re my anchor just as much as I’m yours.”

You both stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, letting the silence speak louder than words. You bury your face in his messy curls, and together, you grieve the almost-end of a season that held so much promise. But despite everything—the heartbreak, the frustration, the unfulfilled dreams—the love between you is fierce and unwavering, a light that refuses to go out.

And in this moment, with the world shut out, you’re two pieces of the same soul, holding each other up, finding strength in the love you share. Because even when everything else falls away, even when the races are lost and the dreams go unrealized, you’re here. And that’s all that matters.

© COPYRIGHT BELQVA 2024

SHARING THIS, ANY OF MY OTHER WORKS OR A TRANSLATION OF THEM WITHOUT CONSENT ON THIS OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN !!!

THIS IS JUST A WORK OF FANFICTION !!!

tags:

[florencemtrash]

Bedsides and Breakfasts

Summary: After Azriel comes home battered and bruised, he refuses to eat the meal you've made him... Why?

Warnings: Angst, character injury, fluff

Author's note: For context, Y/n is Helion's bastard daughter. In an earlier draft of my other (very long) fic, The Shadowsinger and The Inkbird, this was going to be a scene that takes place after Azriel gets hurt during the Battle on the Lake where Y/n figures out Azriel is her mate. I wanted to finish it up and get it out there because I don't want to say goodbye to that story just yet and I wanted to get back into writing so.... here ya go!

The Townhouse sang quietly as it worked. Its melodies lay in the shifting curtains that shook off dust into the wind. Its lyrics in the whistling teakettle. You liked these sounds as you moved about the kitchen, preparing your tea and a crust of bread slathered with butter and jam. 

When the Townhouse was empty, you didn’t need to fear your power — there was no one around for you to touch and steal memories from. Mor had tried to drag you out to Rita’s that evening — “Rhys says you’ve learned to keep your Clairvoyance at bay! Come dancing with us!” — but you couldn’t muster the courage or the energy.

Besides, you were awaiting a certain Shadowsinger’s arrival. 

“Won’t you come back and make me your home? You who’ve stolen my heart as simple as a whisper, calm as a storm,” You hummed to yourself. You swore the Townhouse sighed in contentment. “Do you like my silly little songs then?” You mused. 

The lights shone a little brighter, crackling the air with a flicker of energy. 

You were singing about Azriel — of course you were — and blushing all the while. He’d been the first to truly speak to you — the first to notice you — and the embrace you’d shared in Rhysand’s office had left you breathless for days. You could still feel the ghost of his breath against your neck as you’d buried your face in the hollow of his throat. The cracked leather beneath your fingers and the short hairs at the base of his skull you’d caressed as lovingly as any flower. It was the first time you’d ever been touched like that. Like you were something worth holding onto. 

When he was gone, the Townhouse felt too empty. You felt too empty. Even now, the edges of your patience frayed like a worn shirt without him. 

You spent the evening’s hours combing through every book you’d managed to lug over from the Library. It was quick, but taxing work as every touch against the weathered binding allowed you to absorb its knowledge without you ever having to lay an eye on the page. 

When the candle flickered dangerously close to your books and the dull throbbing behind your eyes had gone on for too long, you blew out the light and could do no more than curl up on the sofa before falling fast asleep. 

The whispers of shadows woke you. You couldn’t understand the words hidden within their overlapping voices, but their panic and relief were heavy in the air. You could almost taste their meaning on your tongue.

“Y/n,” Azriel moaned. He leaned heavily against the open door, forcing it open against the drag of the carpet. His sword clattered to the ground before his knees. “Y/n,” he called out again, more urgently this time. He prayed to the gods you were home. He’d flown through the night, tattered wings struggling to keep him aloft, to make sure he’d see you again… just in case.

Blood and iron burned your nose and your sleep-swollen eyelids split open. “Az—” Your knee slammed against the coffee table in your struggle to escape the blankets. “AZ!” 

Azriel was always greedy for the sight of you, and that familiar tug in his chest tightened as you rounded the corner and sprinted towards him. You tripped where the hardwood ended and the carpet began, throwing his arm around your shoulder. 

He smiled softly at you. Three months ago, you’d been too afraid to touch anyone. Now here you were half-supporting his weight as he staggered to his feet. He stole a few precious seconds to lean his head into the crook of your neck and breathe in your scent. For a moment, he believed it would be enough to heal him.

“How bad is it?” 

“Three arrows in the right wing, two in the left. Fae bane.” 

“Anywhere else?” You both stumbled down the hallway back from where you’d come. 

“I may have been stabbed a few times.” He offered the piece of information casually, like he was complaining about the price of eggs.

“What’s a few?” Your eyes were wide as the moon. Searching, searching, searching for wounds.

“Ten?” 

Your growl tore through the quiet of the night. 

Your hands were slippery with blood, and Azriel almost slid out of your fingertips as you deposited him against the table. You flung your arms out over the hardwood tabletop sending bottles of ink, pens, and sheafs of papers clattering to the floor before rolling Azriel onto the top and forcing him to lay down.

Under the chandelier, Azriel looked ghastly. The warmth was drained from his skin and the hollows of his eyes and the fullness of his lips were tinged purple from cold. His eyes drifted apart from one another.

“I need you to stay awake.” 

“I will.” His words were slippery as soap on porcelain, syllables sliding into one another as he promised you he would be alright and that he had suffered worse before.  

“Stay awake!” You commanded him and his eyes sharpened ever so slightly on your figure as you tore through the cabinets in the corner. 

Where is it? Where is it? Glass bottles clinked and tottered on rounded bottoms. There! 

You snatched one of the pale green bottles lining the back wall and bit off the cork top with a grimace, spitting it out onto the floor. You could taste the medicine inside coat your teeth with an acrid film. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” You slapped Azriel’s cheeks to keep him awake. “Drink this.” 

Azriel’s lips parted immediately and he accepted every bitter drop you forced down his throat. It wasn’t a cure, but it would help stabilize him long enough for help to arrive. In the time it took for you to call out to Rhys and light the candle that would wake Madja and call her to the Townhouse, Azriel’s cheeks had flushed with some more color. 

The sight did little to ease your worries as you worked on unbuckling the straps of his armor. Piece by piece they fell away with a wet thud on the ground. 

He grabbed your wrist before you could run in search of something to cut off the clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Elain had left gardening shears on the back porch. Perhaps the kitchen had scissors?

“Stay.” He begged. “Please stay.”

“Rhys and Madja will be here soon. I just need to get something to help you.” 

“Then stay.” His grip turned desperate, short nails digging into your forearm. “Stay and help me. Don’t leave me.” 

Azriel might have smiled if he wasn’t in so much pain. His hand slid up the curve of your arm to hold your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. 

“I wanted to see you just in case.” His chest rattled with the effort, “Gods, I missed you.” 

He’d been gone weeks on the Continent, scrounging after every whisper of Koschei’s name as far as the eastern mountains. He’d scavenged and raged. Killed and tortured. And he’d missed you all the while. It was what had possessed him to fly all the way to Velaris, when he would have been better off breaking into the Day Court and throwing himself at the mercy of Helion — your father. 

You felt the tears prick at your eyes, angry and hot. “If you say another fucking word like you’re about to die, I will kill you myself.” You were not prone to violence, and Azriel felt some pride that he could elicit such an emotion from you. 

Luckily for you both, Azriel didn’t get a chance to say anything else, and you didn’t get a chance to murder him before Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Madja were bursting through the front door and following the blood-red trail to the dining room. 

Azriel squeezed your hand once more. “Stay with me.”

“Where else would I go, Az?” You whispered, pressing a quick kiss to the palm of his hand before the others crowded close. 

You stayed at the head of the table, one hand always holding onto Azriel’s. He swallowed his pain, the faintest groans slipping from his lips as arrows were pulled out inch by bloody inch. It was no easy thing to endure, not even for Azriel. Wicked barbs lined the arrow shaft and caught onto the delicate membrane of his wings no matter how Madja twisted, pushed, and pulled. 

One particularly harsh wrench had Azriel crying out, his nails digging into your arm and drawing blood. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, feeling your skin break beneath his nails. His skin was tinged green now. A sickly sheen covered his face and fell over his eyes. 

“It’s ok. It’s ok. Just look at me.” You grasped the sides of his face. “Look at me.” 

Once again, Azriel was ready to listen to your commands. His eyes never left yours, not once, until the last of the faebane-tipped arrows dropped onto the table with a menacing ring of metal on wood.

Feyre closed his wounds as best she could, but the flesh inside would take longer to heal. For now all they could do was carefully wipe the blood from his body and carry him up to his bedroom. 

You lingered by Azriel’s side long after he fell asleep, fingers twitching with nerves as you counted every slow and steady breath of his. 

“Y/n.” Feyre gently touched your arm. “He’ll be alright.”

You nodded, still watching Azriel sleep. Then, to your mortification, you burst into tears. Your clothes were drying stiff with sweat and blood — none of it yours — and the red handprints Azriel had left along your arms were turning to copper rust. 

She shushed you, softly tugging at your arms. 

“He-He asked me to stay,” you said between gulps of air. 

“He’d want you to be clean and well-rested, Y/n. Don’t let him wake up feeling guilty.” 

If it weren’t for Feyre, you would have remained glued to the floor of Azriel’s room until you became one of the faces trapped in the wooden floors. You let her lead you across the hall to your own room where she filled the tub with warm water and soap. 

“Shit,” you mumbled. Your fingers shook so much you couldn’t undo the buttons of your dress. Shadows, loose and long as stalks of grass, wound around your back, plucking the buttons undone without a word. 

“He’ll be alright.” Feyre repeated this phrase many times as you scrubbed off the night’s events and turned the water copper brown. The magic of the Townhouse whisked away the grime almost as quickly as it appeared until you sat in a sudsy bath, milky and clean.

“What happened to him, Fey?”

“From what Rhys and I can tell, Koschei had over a dozen archers lying in wait for when he returned to Prythian. We’ve already warned Helion.” 

You nodded. Your head felt heavy on your neck, like a doll with a snapped neck. 

“He nearly died.” Once the words were out in the open, fragile and pure, you broke down again, knees drawn up to your chest in the tub. 

“But he didn’t.” Feyre smoothed back your dripping hair. “It will take more than arrows and faebane for Death to steal him from us, Y/n.” 

Gods you hoped that was true, or else your heart might give out every time Azriel walked out the door. 

You returned to his side the moment you were clothed, hair still dripping onto his gray bed sheets as you leaned forward from your chair and held his hand. He slept on his stomach, wings flared out and peppered with white gauze like a patchwork quilt. Beneath the drape of his blankets you knew more gauze covered his chest and stomach, dotted with blood like blooming roses. 

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but you awoke to a deep ache in your back and a faint choir of voices in the air. 

Shadows. 

They kissed your cheeks, cool and soft, urging your eyelids open. Azriel was already awake and sitting up in bed with a grimace. One hand clutched his side and a leg hung over the edge of the bed, like he intended to stand. When he saw you, his hazel eyes widened. First in alarm. Then in guilt. 

“Az?” Your voice felt crusted with smoke and sleep and you did what you could to straighten the crook in your neck and your spine from the odd position you’d fallen asleep in. ““You’re not supposed to be sitting up.” Your bones cracked obnoxiously as you moved for the first time in hours, and the guilt in his gaze deepened. 

You pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the gauze scratch your skin, but he did not budge. 

“Az, you need to lay down. What were you even doing up?” 

Azriel’s eyes flickered off to the side. “I was… I was trying to move you to the bed.” 

You swallowed your yawn and blinked in disbelief. “Azriel, you’ve just been shot and stabbed. You need to lay back down.” 

He grabbed your wrists, tugging you forward until you almost collapsed against his chest. “There’s space on the bed. I want you to be comfortable.” 

“The chair is fine, and you are hurt. Now, please—” He did not move. No matter how you reasoned with him. No matter how you tried to shove him back beneath the covers.

“I will lay back down under one condition.” 

You frowned. He was much more stubborn when he was injured. “What condition?” 

“Sleep on the bed. There’s plenty of room.” 

“Az—” 

“Please.” His hands slipped into yours, fingers pressing against the pulse of your wrists. “Y/n, I will be comforted with you beside me.” He held up his finger before you could sleep. “And not in that gods-awful chair. You’ll wake up crooked.”

“I’m not a stalk in a storm,” you grumbled, because it only seemed appropriate that you should fight him on this. Otherwise, you’d have to admit that the thought of melting into his bed set off fireworks in your stomach, exciting and terrifying at the same time. You’d also have to admit the scent of mountain air embedded in every inch of his room brought you comfort. You could lay your head on his pillows and sleep for an eternity. 

I shouldn’t be here. But you let him tug you closer to him. You slid your legs over his waist, calves catching on the waistband of his pants and dragging in a way that had your heart leaping into your stomach until you were safely on the other side of him. 

Azriel’s bed was massive — over 12 feet across to better accommodate the span of his wings. You moved as far away from him as you could without eliciting offense and stared at the window. 

Your muscles clenched as he shifted closer to you, wings rustling against the silk sheets and whispering as he got comfortable. Every time he so much as shifted, your back prickled, as though you had eyes there that shifted to soak up every inch of him. 

He’s hurt and I’m taking up space and—

He reached out his arm and his fingertips brushed against the curve of your back. You stiffened like you’d been struck by lightning. If Azriel were awake, he would have apologized and wrenched back his hand as if burned. But he was fast asleep and the touch was a natural movement he made in his dreams where he was imagining that you were closer to him. So close that he could breathe down your neck and feel you melt beneath his touch. 

You didn’t sleep, as much as the lull of his breathing threatened to sink you into sweet and comforting dreams. The sky was but a lighter shade of black when you were slipping out of bed with barely a whisper. Miraculously, Azriel did not awaken, and his shadows ghosted over the floors drowsily.

You were no stranger to dawn as you padded down to the kitchens. You hummed to yourself, cracking eggs over a well-greased skillet with onions, tomatoes, and peppers tossed in. They bobbed up and down in a sea of yellow like ducks on water. Potatoes browned to your right, their skins crackling and spitting grease as bacon popped and sizzled beside them. 

You ate as you went, plating the final meal for Azriel, who—if you knew anything about him—would be waking shortly after the first rays of sunlight split his shadows in two. 

You slipped back into his room as quietly as you’d left, and then nearly leapt out of your skin to find a dark mass of shadow covering the bed. 

“You’re awake,” you said blankly. 

Azriel propped himself up onto his elbows, back rippling as he forced his stiff and swollen wounds to stretch until he could sit up in bed. 

“Where did you go?” There was but a faint slur to his words. “You weren’t here when I woke up.” 

“I was making breakfast.” You dragged over the ottoman from the foot of his bed as a makeshift table. “Did you brush your teeth already?” Not that it mattered. A sour mouth wouldn’t keep him from a meal if he was hungry. 

The flash of fear in his eyes was so subtle, so brief, that you missed it. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Well that doesn’t really matter. Madja said you should eat first thing. Oh!” You plucked a purple glass bottle from his bedside table. “And she said to drink this with a meal.” You pushed it into his hands, reluctant as they were to take the stoppered bottle from you. 

“I can’t imagine eating right now.” He said, shaking his head. His cheeks puffed out and he swallowed hard. “The smell… it’s… I can’t stomach it.” 

You frowned at that. He liked your cooking. It was only due to circumstance that you hadn’t been able to cook for him in months. 

“Can you please try?” you begged. “Just a bite.”

His skin turned pallid and the dark marks beneath his eyes stood out. He picked up a fork with a trembling hand, stuck it into a potato, then dropped it as if it burned. Suddenly, he regretted asking you to stay the night. Guilt ate away at his stomach, twisting it like spaghetti on a fork. 

You sighed in dejection. “I’ll bring it back downstairs.” You said. You began collecting the silverware from where you’d left them by his side. 

“I’m sorry.” He murmured, catching your wrist in his hand. 

You smiled softly. “Try and get some rest.” 

“Will you be back?” His words caught you by the door. 

“You won’t even realize I was gone.” 

He doubted that very much. Still, he settled back in bed, rolling onto his stomach to keep its rumbling at bay. He was quite hungry. 

You closed the door behind you, carrying the untouched plate of eggs and potatoes. Cassian stopped his whistling as he made his way down the hall, a teasing smile playing at his lips until he caught sight of your dejected expression. 

“What’s got our resident Librarian frowning? Did someone misplace a book in the House?” 

You didn’t rise to Cassian’s jests. You cast a sullen glance back at Azriel’s door like it was personally responsible for everything, and shrugged. “He hasn’t eaten since he’s been back and I’m starting to get worried. I read up on Illyrian anatomy weeks ago and he should be fine enough to eat by now.” 

Cassian leaned down, taking a careful sniff of the plate before grabbing hold of a butter and rosemary roasted potato and plucking it in his mouth. It was cold and the butter had hardened into a greasy slick, but it was still good. He told you as much as he walked with you back to the kitchens, stealing slivers of potato as he went.

“It’s nice to know my cooking’s not at fault.” 

Cassian jerked back in surprise and sudden understanding. “You made him that?”

“Yes. I know the House has its own will, but I like to cook. And it still feels strange having food just appear out of nowhere.”  

Cassian fought with all his might to keep the cheeky grin from his face. 

Poor Azriel, forced to go hungry because he was still too much of a sheepish fool to tell you about the mating bond let alone accept it. 

He clicked his tongue. He loved his brother to the grave and back, but Azriel had a horrible habit of getting trapped in his own mind. Cassian had hoped you would help with that, given you suffered similarly. 

“I wouldn’t take it too personally. Azriel’s a picky eater. Always has been.”

That was a complete and utter lie. Growing up in the Illyrian war camps meant you either starved or ate whatever gray-brown mush you could get your hands on. Rhysand and Azriel had been quicker to move on from the rugged Illyrian lifestyle, and Rhysand especially had used his High Lord privileges to cultivate a refined and expensive taste, but if they were hungry and limited they didn’t give two shits what went in their mouths. 

“I didn’t realize you could afford to be picky in a war camp,” You grumbled. You dropped the plate’s contents onto a skillet, patiently waiting for the House to light a toasty fire. There was no need to let good food go to waste.   

You thought over it, some minor irritation settling in that the Shadowinger had rejected the food you’d worked to make. It really didn’t make sense that Azriel would be so particular about food. Or anything for that matter. He’d always struck you as the practical, bare-bones sort, and you knew him well enough now to know that was true. His very job required it of him. But then again you couldn’t remember the last time he’d accepted any food that you’d offer-

You froze. Oh. Oh.

The first night he’d visited your apartment in the Day Court, he’d refused your tea and cakes before leaving abruptly. You’d agonized over that night for months, trying to figure out what you might have done to scare him off. But he’d been so kind and shy afterwards and then the whole matter of Koschei had arose and you’d never given it much thought because he just seemed so familiar and... Oh. OH-

“BASTARD!” You spat out in shock. The skillet dropped to the stove with a sharp cry that had Cassian blinking. He’d never seen you like this. So…agitated.

Had you always been this dull? A year ago you might have been able to blame it on your naïveté, but you weren’t so socially misinformed now and yet this was a bit much. And… oh you couldn’t wrap your head around your own stupidity to even begin to think about a mating bond with…

A mating bond with Azriel. You… you were his mate. He was yours. And you were his. And suddenly the pieces of it were falling into place so quickly you thought you might be crushed beneath the weight. 

Mate.

Even the thought of the word crashed around your mind incessantly, like an anxious dog trying to settle down to sleep. Yet it all made such perfect sense. The way Azriel always found you when you were in danger or grieving. The awful days when Azriel had been away and you’d felt like a piece of your body had been severed. The way that the world felt right when he was beside you. Maybe it was the bond, maybe it was just something born out of love, or maybe they were one and the same. It was impossible to tell but it didn’t change anything.

Mate.

Cassian glanced sideways at you and said cautiously, “We’re both bastards, Y/n. I don’t think that’s much of an insult coming from your mouth.”

Your eyes snapped to his, suddenly remembering that he was in the kitchen with you. You brandished a fork in your hand like a weapon, pointing the pronged end up at him like he was a piece of meat to be skewered. You were shorter than him, but the sharpness in your eyes made him pause.

“You.” Such a simple word, yet it sounded so threatening. “You knew didn’t you?”

Was he sweating? The room felt warm.

“I don’t know what-“ You snatched his wrist and with your magic, you stole the information from him that you needed. It was as easy as plucking a flower from a field. 

Fuck. Cassian groaned at the same time you did. You knew now. Not that you really needed confirmation from Cassian. Still. It was rather embarrassing to learn you were the last of… well everyone to know, even if it was your fault for not noticing the signs. In your defense you had been preoccupied with other matters…

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” You muttered, heating up the remaining food with a great deal of force before setting down a fresh tray, plate, utensils, and mug of tea on the countertop.

You keep muttering to yourself, your joy disguised by your embarrassment and no small amount of shock. Cassian watched nervously as you prepped the plate. 

You’d no sooner growled, “Move,” before Cassian leapt to the side and you set off out the door and down the hallway back to Azriel’s room.

She knows. One shadow whispered in his ear. Azriel felt his heart skyrocket and his stomach plunge to the cradle of his hip bones. 

She seems… upset.

Upset was a mild word. You were alight with every emotion possible — fury, fear, anxiety, excitement, love — and Azriel struggled to tease them apart. It was like he’d been hit in the chest by a tangle of snakes, each a writhing, living, ever-changing thing. One moment you seemed nervous, the next angry. 

“You.” Your knuckles were pale as they gripped the tray. Sunlight molded to your form like a crown, and it became all the more apparent that you were Helion’s daughter — his bastard daughter, but daughter nevertheless. 

He scrambled into a seated position just in time for you to drop the tray in his lap with a clatter that sent fork and knife skittering over the dish.

You looked down at the tray, then up at his eyes, wide and molten as amber. “You didn’t tell me.” You didn’t need to elaborate any further. 

“I didn’t think—”

“You’re right. You didn’t.” You blinked, suddenly shy. “Did I not make it clear enough that I liked you? That I loved—love you? Or perhaps you don’t… perhaps you don’t want me.” That was a possibility you hadn’t thought of in your excitement to see him again. 

Oh gods, you hadn’t thought of that possibility had you? You’d just aggressively thrown food at him, expecting that he would—

Azriel gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him again. Your cheeks were warm and painted with color. 

“I always worried I was reading into actions that meant nothing to you. But, never think for a moment that I don’t want you.” He smiled then, a shy, secret smile reserved for you. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.” 

Now your cheeks were burning, but Azriel did not mind feeling this kind of heat on his hands. He let go of your chin, twirling a fork with his fingers like it was a knife. It was one of his few nervous ticks whose knowledge was reserved for the people he trusted. For the people he loved. 

“Being with me will put you in more danger than you know.” 

“But I expect it will bring me more happiness than I could have ever imagined.” You raised a hand up to his face, twisting away a stubborn curl of hair that fell over his forehead. “And you forget who my father is,” you reminded him. “Maybe it is I who will put you in danger.” 

“Maybe,” Azriel whispered. His breath fanned over your cheeks, soft and sweet. 

You picked up the fork, lifting it up in between you. 

“Eat.” You commanded him. 

Azriel smiled, plucking it from your fingers and stabbing a potato. He sighed. “I never could deny you anything, and I would never want to,” he said, before chewing carefully. Cautiously. 

You blinked in surprise, instinctively taking a step away when you felt something new and warm begin to burn in your chest, like someone had taken a drop of the molten hazel in Azriel’s eyes and dropped it into your heart. 

“Oh.” You breathed. 

“Yes,” Azriel murmured, “An unusual feeling, I know.” He placed the tray beside him and he’d no sooner opened his arms before you’d buried your face in the crook of his neck. You wanted more of that warmth in your chest. You wanted to slip into Azriel's skin as close as possible to his beating heart. To feel the mating bond wrap around you both like a curtain to block out the rest of the world. 

Azriel groaned in pain, but would not let you leave his embrace. No pain had ever been worth so much. 

You forced him to finish eating, even though all he wanted was the taste of you on his lips. “Later,” you promised him. When he was healed and whole there would be more breathless kisses and urgent touches, but for now he had to content himself with eating his meal and drinking his draught. But he would not be denied the press of your skin against his as you slipped beneath the covers and curled up beside him. This time, you fell asleep quickly and your dreams came over you like water. 

[mojogojocasahouse]

unexpected visitor

jiyan x f!reader

Jiyan sneaks home to your bed in desperate need of a soft touch and sleep

c: NSFW 18+ only, smut, oral f-receiving, creampie, tacet marks are sensitive I don't make the rules, not beta'd

He slips in like a whisper, an unexpected secret cradled by the black of night. At first, you mistake him for the rustling of a rabbit outside the window and a burst of wind swirling beneath the clear moon, but then there was the clanking of metal buckles and the rustling of heavy robes falling to the floor. There was only one source of those sounds.

Jiyan.

Two weeks had passed since he’d left, and according to him, he was supposed to have been gone for much longer. Now, the mattress is dipping as he falls into bed behind you, a strong, warm arm circling your middle and pulling you flush against a broad, muscled chest, lips pressing to the curve of your neck.

“You’re home early,” you whisper, reaching back and threading your fingers through long, teal hair.

“Only for tonight,” he sighs, nuzzling his nose to the hollow behind your ear, “No one knows I’m away. I’ll have to leave before first light.”

“And what will you tell them?” you ask with a mischievous lilt.

“That I needed to sleep.”

Those words have you turning, his piercing gold eyes meeting yours and pleading for what only you can give him. He’s always said he can only sleep here, in the sanctuary of your bed. He doesn’t even have a home of his own anymore, it’s a tent on the front lines or this small cottage in the village. He has little in the way of belongings, but he leaves hints of himself around that you find and smile fondly at. Though nothing compares to the sight of him basking in white light, gazing at you as if you hung those very stars in the sky.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you soothe, brushing his bangs from his eyes. You already know the answer, but still, you ask every time in case he changes his mind.

“No.” It’s a polite but curt response, “You need not hear of the troubles of war.”

“But you’re troubles–”

“Are mine to bear.”

That will be the end of that discussion, as it always is. With a sigh, you cup the back of his head and pull him in, his lips so gentle and cautious as you welcome him home even if it is only for a moment. It’s your tongue that asks for entrance first, sliding along his bottom lip slowly, and he opens with a sigh. Large hands pull you in closer, your leg winding around his waist and you can feel his erection pressing against your thinly clothed slit. He’s opted to sleep with nothing on, as usual, and you curse the thin shorts you’d decided to wear. The grip he has on your side is hard enough to bruise, and you hope he has every intention of making sure you feel him tomorrow when you wake up in the bed alone almost as if he’d never come. Like this was all a fever dream. You’re still not sure if it is.

The tips of your fingers gently trace the Tacet Mark on his upper spine, his breath hitching as he flips you to your back. He kisses you like a man starved, nipping and licking into your mouth with greed and gluttony, his hips pulsing into your damp center as he slowly begins to lose that steadfast composure he holds so dear. You want him to lose it, too. He deserves to take for once, and you’ll let him bleed you dry.

As your teeth bite down onto his lower lip, he groans, taking one last parting peck before sliding down your body. The shirt you’re wearing is torn down the middle, and he latches onto one of your stiffened buds, his hands moving to cradle your other breast as if he hasn’t touched anything soft in weeks. His touch is so reverent and desperate that you’re whimpering as his tongue swirls and lips purse, your hands tangled in his locks as he descends lower, pecking a trail down your stomach until he’s pulling your shorts and panties off in one quick tug. 

Mingling moans echo off the walls as he locks onto your clit, your back arching off the bed as he suckles hard, worrying it between his lips before lapping at your soaked slit. You know you’re soaked, your inner thighs wet with what has already leaked free, and he takes it upon himself to not miss a single drop. As he’s tasting the sweetness sticking to your legs, you spread them further, inviting him back to bury his tongue in your cunt. And he does, happily, pulling you so tightly down onto his face you’re not sure he can breathe.

Muffled grunts and hums of bliss rumble deep in his throat, the vibration enough to have you keening in his hold. His talented mouth alternates between teasing your swollen bundle of nerves and enjoying the nectars of his labor, his face smeared and glistening every time he comes up for air. You want more, but you don’t dare stop him. If this is what he needs, this is what he can have, all you can do is scrape your nails soothingly against his scalp and try to quiet the roiling storm building in your belly. 

He’s waiting for you to come, you know that, but still, you try and stop the balloon threatening to burst. The sooner this is the over the sooner he’s gone again. And while you feign bravery and understanding of his long, frequent absences, deep down it breaks you every day to walk around town and see the couples together doing mundane tasks. They’re shopping, enjoying a meal, laughing and walking, and you’re…alone. You sacrifice the one you love so they can have this life, and while you’ve come to peace with this, no part of you has convinced you that you have to like it.

When he adds a finger, then two, you’re pulling his mouth back to your core by his hair, his smile stretched across your skin as the tip of his tongue prods so skillfully.

“That’s it,” he praises, “That’s what I want. Let me have it, baby.”

All he ever has to do is ask. Your orgasm washes over you gently like the waves on the shore, nowhere near as explosive as you’d been expecting, but you assume that was his intention. He knew you well enough to have discovered which of his ministrations caused which reaction and now he was almost tactile. It’s a little unfair.

No time is wasted, you’ve barely registered the end of your descent into the clouds and you can feel the soft head of his cock pushing into your cunt, your slippery walls giving no resistance as he bottoms out. He gives you a moment to adjust, taking advantage of your parted, panting lips to drag you into a messy kiss you can taste yourself on. You’ve missed the way he feels stuffed inside of you, bullying its way into a space too tight to accommodate his length and girth, but the burn subsides quickly and you let him know with a quick roll of your hips to urge him on.

The course hairs at his base are already soaked with your arousal as he begins to snap his hips into yours, the sound of skin slapping and breathy moans like a forbidden song drifting off into the night. His forehead is pressed to yours, the only air you can breathe is each other’s, and he entwines his fingers with yours and pins your hands to either side of your head, opening you up to his new, brutal pace. He can’t help himself, he’s long gone, drowning in the way your pussy clamps down around him every time he lets a whine slip out. You’d think he’d have learned by now and let his blissed sounds free, but he hasn’t. Maybe he never will.

“Jiyan,” you mewl, gripping him so tightly your knuckles turn white, “harder.”

It’s like something snaps, with a groan, he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, his hands claiming your waist as his hips begin to piston so hard his hold is the only thing keeping you in place. Your tits bouncing wildly hold his gaze as you cry out loud enough for anyone in the surrounding area to hear.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, regret in his voice because he can’t do it himself, “Come on my cock.”

Your two middle fingers dive to rub frantic circles on your clit, but you’re unable to focus as you dip your touch down to feel where he’s mercilessly thrusting into your hole. You can feel how stretched you are, how swollen, you’re moments away from release.

“Come with me,” you beg, your nails scraping down the firm dips and swells of his stomach, “Come with me, please.”

He looks wrecked as he lets himself lose control. His head falls back, his hair splaying across his shoulders, long enough to have the ends dancing over your skin. The way he glistens with sweat makes him look damn near ethereal, with green markings accentuating his clenched jaw as he tries to draw out what he knows is coming to an end. 

The molten pleasure boiling in your belly finally spills over, running through your veins until every muscle is tensed in anticipation and then released with a shrieking cry, his feral snarl joining you as he spurts hot, thick ropes of cum into your cunt. 

It’s a moment of stillness as you both catch your breath, his grip loosening as he fucks his seed deeper, enjoying how easily his softening cock slips through your channel. You’re so sensitive it almost hurts, but you’re not ready to lose the weight and stretch of him inside of you just yet.

“You need to sleep, my love,” you coo as he pulls out, immediately walking off to get a warm cloth to clean you with.

“Mm,” he hums, wiping what’s leaking from your fucked out hole, “In a moment.”

When he curls up behind you, there’s no stopping how you turn and bury yourself in his chest. It’ll be harder this way when he has to leave, but you haven’t heard the steady beating of his heart in too long. He chuckles as he wraps you up tightly, tucking your head beneath his chin, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your bruised hip. 

It’ll be just a few hours, and as much as you want to stay awake and relish in this rare time, you can’t. Sleep finds you easily swaddled in his arms, the faint arid, earthy smell of him the most comforting scent. When you wake, you’re alone, not that you expected anything different. However, one thing that wasn’t there the night before catches your eye–a single Pecok flower in a vase.

A promise to return home.

[amiableness]

Peonies ; part three

Pairing: Theo Nott x Fem!Reader

Summary: Theo and reader get even closer, and Mattheo is not a fan.

Word Count: 5280

Warnings: Unrequited love & Mattheo and Reader get into it. Let me know if there’s more!

A/N 💌 God, this took me forever to write. I struggled with writers block so badly on this, so if it’s not my best work, I apologize. As always, thank you to @moonpascal for reading, helping me with ideas, and just providing support and comfort. I love you!

SERIES MASTERLIST <3

“Y’good?” Theo looks up from the fire, his gaze shifting to Blaise, who’s now standing beside the couch. The flames had been the only company he’d had for hours. It was late—he couldn’t say exactly how late—just that the common room had emptied long ago, and he’d been sitting there long after everyone else had gone to bed.

“Yeah,” Theo sighs, his eyes drifting back to the flickering flames. “I’m good.” His words are hollow, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself. Blaise watches him for a moment, studying the tension in his posture, before quietly sitting down in the empty space beside him. Neither of them speaks, both of them watching as the flames dance.

Blaise leans back, glancing at Theo before breaking the silence. “You don’t look it,” he says, his voice calm but direct.

“Just thinking.” Theo just shrugs, his shoulders barely lifting, the gesture heavy with indifference. Blaise watches him for a moment, waiting, giving him the space to say something more—but the silence stretches.

“About her?”

Theo’s reaction is answer enough. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair with a tired frustration. For a brief moment, he pauses, elbows resting on his knees, his head cradled in his hands.

He drops his hands slowly, lifting his head to glance over at Blaise, his eyes tired, “When am I not?”

Blaise smiles slightly at his words. He’s known for years that Theo liked you—it was impossible to miss. From the moment Mattheo introduced you, Blaise vividly remembers the way Theo looked at you, as if his breath had been knocked from his lungs.

He was completely undone in a single glance.

And if that hadn’t been enough of a giveaway, the little things Theo did for you over the years certainly were—grabbing your favorite sweets from Hogsmeade when you couldn’t make the trip, offering help before you even had to ask, his gaze always seeking you out no matter how crowded the room. It was undeniable, even if Theo never spoke it aloud.

“Listen, mate,” Blaise begins, casting a quick glance at Theo, gauging his expression before continuing. “Do you think this is a good idea?”

“What?”

“Helping her get over Mattheo while you’re in love with her yourself.” Blaise's words hang in the air, and Theo's jaw tightens instinctively, a storm of emotions flickering across his face.

He wants to deny that he’s in love with you, but deep down, he knows it’s pointless. The truth is unquestionable; he’s been drawn to you for years, but these last few months have sent him falling even deeper.

How was he ever supposed to get over you when every moment only pulled him deeper? The way your fingers slipped so easily into his, like they belonged there, the soft curve of your lips as his thumb traced gentle circles over your skin. How sleeping over in your dorm had somehow become routine—he was sure Pansy was staying with Blaise on purpose to give him space with you. And those long walks around the castle, meant to distract you from Mattheo and Veronica, had turned into something else entirely—talks that lasted for hours, about everything and nothing, but always feeling like more.

It’s why he hasn’t left this couch in hours, struggling with the weight of his feelings. The realization hits him hard: he’s completely fallen for you, and he’s trapped. Because in your eyes, he’s just a friend, and that thought feels like a punch to the gut.

“She asked me to, and I can’t say no to her,” Theo replies, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and resignation. “I’ve never been able to.”

“You’re going to get yourself hurt if you’re not careful.” Blaise warns, his tone serious.

“We’ve long passed that point.” Theo sighs.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

“Where in Hogsmeade do you get the flowers?” You glance over at Theo, sitting next to you on the common room couch, your question pulling him from his thoughts. Whatever everyone else was talking about had long since lost your interest, and if Theo were honest, he’d admit he wasn’t listening either. How could he be, with you so close? The heat of your body nearly pressed into his side, making it impossible for him to think straight.

“What?” He replies, but the pause lingers just a little too long. He's stalling, clearly hesitant to admit the truth—that the flowers aren't from Hogsmeade.

“The peonies.” You murmur, shifting until you're turned toward him, tucking yourself into his side. His arm rests casually on the back of the couch, and the sudden closeness feels intimate.

“What shop do you get them from?” You ask, your voice so soft it nearly melts him.

His mind goes blank the moment he sees you nestled against his side, looking up at him through your lashes. The way your gaze lingers on him, so close, steals any coherent thought he might have had.

“Why?” He asks, feigning casualness.

“I wanted to get some for myself,” you shrug, “I’ve never seen peonies so beautiful before.”

“No,” Theo responds so quickly that it catches you off guard, an amused eyebrow arching as you glance at him in surprise. The truth is, he hates the idea of you picking your own flowers—he wants to be the one to give them to you. “I’ll just take you with me next time I go, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod in agreement, a soft smile tugging at your lips, clearly content with his answer. As you turn back to the conversation, that smile still lingers, and Theo can’t help but admire you for a moment, a quiet satisfaction settling in knowing he was the reason for it. But when he glances back up, his gaze meets Mattheo’s.

Mattheo’s brow furrows as he shifts his gaze between you and Theo, a flicker of suspicion darkening his eyes. Without thinking, Theo drops his arm, casually wrapping it around your shoulders in a possessive gesture—one he knows he shouldn’t make. Your body instinctively leans into him, sending a warmth coursing through Theo; it feels so natural to have you this close. Mattheo’s expression tightens just slightly, his gaze lingering a heartbeat too long before he finally looks away.

You barely have time to enjoy being cuddled into Theo’s side, before Pansy turns to you. Both of you exchange annoyed glances at something particularly ridiculous Draco just said, rolling your eyes in unison. But then her expression shifts from irritation to excited disbelief as she catches sight of you nestled against Theo, his fingers absentmindedly tracing gentle patterns on your skin.

Pansy can’t help but raise her eyebrows, a grin spreading across her face as she processes the scene before her. Before you can send her a warning look, she’s on her feet, leaving Blaise protesting. “It’s time for bed,” She declares, pointedly looking at you. “And you’re coming with me.”

You sigh, knowing all too well that Pansy would make a scene if you didn’t follow her lead. Reluctantly, you lean forward, easing yourself out of Theo’s grasp, but before fully pulling away, you pause. Gently, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering for just a moment longer than usual. “Goodnight,” you murmur quietly, the words almost lost in the space between you before you finally stand.

Pansy, giddy and practically buzzing with excitement, grabs your hand and tugs you toward your dorm, both of you tossing casual goodnights over your shoulders to the boys. Blaise grumbles loudly about not getting a proper goodnight from his girlfriend, while Theo remains silent, a soft pink flush creeping across his cheeks as he watches you walk away, still feeling the warmth of your kiss lingering on his skin.

You catch the sound of the boys teasing Theo the moment they assume you're out of earshot, their playful jabs and laughter unmistakable as they seize the opportunity to rib him. Even from a distance, you can imagine Theo's flushed face as he tries—and likely fails—to brush off their teasing.

“Is there something going on between the two of you?” Pansy blurts out the second you step into your dorm, her excitement practically radiating off her as she nearly slams the door shut behind her.

“No, why would you even think that?” You ask, genuinely surprised, but Pansy just stares at you incredulously, like you’ve completely missed the obvious.

“You’re kidding, right?” She says, crossing her arms. “The sleepovers? The hand holding? The fact that you two are practically inseparable?”

“He’s helping me get over Mattheo.” You insist, feeling the need to defend yourself, though even as the words leave your mouth, they sound weaker than you’d like.

After a couple of months of coming to terms with the reality of Mattheo and Veronica, you’ve found that the idea of them together doesn’t sting nearly as much as it once did. Sure, you still dislike seeing them together, but the ache has softened into something more manageable. If anything, what bothers you most now is your lingering dislike for Veronica herself; there’s just something about her that grates on your nerves.

“Babes,” Pansy says, her tone full of disbelief, like you’re the only one who can’t see what’s right in front of you.

“You know I’d tell you if there was something going on.” You say, but even as the words leave your mouth, there's a flicker of doubt in your chest, as if the truth isn’t quite as simple as you want it to be.

“I guess so,” Pansy replies, still eyeing you with clear skepticism, her gaze sharp as if she's waiting for you to admit what you’re not even sure of yet. “Just so you know, I think he’d give you everything if you let him.”

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

Your conversation with Pansy hasn’t left your mind in days, and quite honestly, it’s driving you a little mad.

I think he’d give you everything if you let him.

You can’t quite tell if Pansy is subtly suggesting that Theo has feelings for you or if she simply likes the idea of the two of you together. Either way, her words have been playing on a loop in your mind, so much so that you’ve started to feel nervous around him.

Every time he looks at you or takes your hand, your thoughts scatter, leaving you utterly flustered. You’re trying your best to hide just how distracted you are around him, but Theo’s definitely noticed. This morning, when he leaned in to whisper something, your mind went completely blank, every thought consumed by him.

Him, him, him.

The warmth of his voice, the way his hand rested on the small of your back as he spoke—it was all you could focus on. The way his attention never wavered, how it was solely on you, made your heart race like it was the only thing that mattered in the room.

And when you failed to respond, he paused, concern flashing in his eyes as his brows furrowed. “You okay?” His voice was soft, genuine, and somehow that only made things worse. You had nodded quickly, plastering on what you hoped was a convincing smile, but inside, your mind was a chaotic mess.

Had he always looked at you that way? Like he was genuinely checking in, always quietly noticing when something was off? It made you wonder if you’d been blind to it all this time or if this was something new, something you’d only just started paying attention to.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you barely register when Mattheo bumps into you in the hallway. You cast a quick glance his way, ready to keep walking, but he reaches out, gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you back.

“Wait, hold on,” Mattheo says, his grip on your wrist warm yet insistent, his voice edged with irritation and disbelief. “Were you really just going to walk past me?”

“I’m not doing this right now.” You huff, pulling your wrist free from his grasp, trying to mask the frustration that’s been simmering for weeks.

“Doing what?” His voice hardens, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Talking to you.” You snap.

“Why the hell not?”

You feel a surge of irritation, meeting his gaze with a fiery glare. “Because you’ve ignored me for the past few months, Mattheo. Why should I care to talk to you now?”

“That’s not fair,” he mutters, his jaw tightening as frustration creeps into his tone. “It’s not that I’ve been ignoring you.”

“The last time we properly talked,” you snap, “you asked for your jersey back—the one you gave me.” The memory of it still stings, and you can’t help but throw it back at him. “So yeah, Mattheo, it’s more than fair.”

He frowns, clearly caught off guard by your words, his eyes flickering with something between guilt and disbelief. “Listen, I know we haven’t hung out much—”

“Are you being serious?” You scoff, folding your arms as if that could somehow shield you from the frustration bubbling inside. “You’ve practically disappeared, Mattheo. You’ve been too busy with your girlfriend to even notice anyone else.” You want to roll your eyes at the way he looks genuinely confused, like he's completely unaware of how he's hurt you.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You don’t get to be annoyed with me for not talking to you,” you bite out, your voice sharp with frustration. “Not when you’ve been doing the exact same thing for months.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I know I’ve spent a lot of time with her, but it’s the same for you and Theo.” His voice shifts, annoyance replacing the guilt. “You’re always with him. Holding hands, spending the night together-what the fuck is that by the way?”

You take a step back, the heat of his words catching you off guard. “We’re just friends, Mattheo. We’re allowed to hang out.” You keep your voice steady, even as your heart races at the accusation in his gaze.

“Friends? Is that really what you’re calling it?” He crosses his arms, the tension in his posture unmistakable. “Because it looks like more to me. You’re always with him.”

You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “And whose fault is that? You pushed me away, Mattheo. What did you expect me to do—just wait around?”

“I just don’t get why you’re always with him. You and Theo—" He cuts himself off, the words hanging between you.

You raise an eyebrow, challenging him to finish, but he stays silent, “Theo and I what?”

He takes a moment, his gaze hardening slightly, as if weighing his words carefully. “You know what? Forget it,” he says, shrugging dismissively. “I really don’t care what you two are up to.”

You scoff, crossing your arms tightly and shooting him a piercing glare. “Oh, come off it, Mattheo. You clearly care. And honestly, what does it matter to you if I spend time with Theo? You’ve been wrapped up in Veronica this whole time.” Your voice drips with sarcasm, each word punctuating the frustration bubbling inside you.

He falters, his frustration twisting into something more vulnerable for a split second before he shakes his head. Hearing her name seems to snap something in him. His jaw clenches, and he takes a slow, measured breath before looking back at you, his expression hardening.

Mattheo meets your eyes, his expression unreadable for a moment before he rolls his shoulders, dismissing the tension. “Honestly? I’ve got enough on my plate with Veronica. I don’t need to waste my time worrying about you and Theo.”

The words sting more than you expect, and for a moment, the air between you thickens with unspoken feelings and unresolved tension. “Right,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Because you’re so busy.”

He turns away, shaking his head slightly, as if trying to shake off the conversation. “Whatever, just... do what you want.”

You watch as he steps back, the distance between you suddenly feeling too large, and you can’t help but wonder how badly damaged your friendship is—or what’s left of it. You’re so angry that you want to cry, and you’re grateful that the halls are empty as Mattheo walks away, leaving you to stand alone in the deserted corridor.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

You had promised Pansy you’d be ready in just a few minutes, but half an hour had slipped by while she was in the bathroom and you remained sat on your bed, lost in thought. Your gaze drifted to the pictures of you and Mattheo that adorned the wall, memories captured in each frame. The urge to rip them down clawed at you, but the thought of erasing those moments felt unbearable. Each smile, each laugh shared now felt tainted, leaving you uncertain of what to do with them.

The argument with Mattheo this morning replayed in your mind like a stubborn song on repeat, and the idea of facing him at the party made your stomach twist with anxiety. In all the years of your friendship, you’d rarely fought—occasional bickering was one thing, but this felt different, more profound. The sharpness of his words lingered, and a nagging fear took root: what if this was it? What if this marked the beginning of the end for a friendship you considered so strong?

“You said you’d be ready.” Pansy sighs, casting a disapproving look at the sweatpants you’re wearing. You hadn’t even heard her leave the bathroom.

You glance way from the pictures and send her a half shrug, “I don’t think I’m going to go.”

“Oh, you absolutely are,” Pansy’s heels click against the floor as she heads to her trunk. “If you stay here you won’t stop thinking about earlier.”

You don’t bother responding—you know she’s right. Pansy continues rummaging through her trunk, the sound of fabric rustling filling the room. After a moment, she straightens up, triumphantly holding a sleek dress in hand, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

She shoves the black, silky dress into your hands before pointing at the bathroom, “Go. I’ll find heels for you to wear.”

There’s no point in arguing. Instead, you make your way to the bathroom a slip into the dress, feeling the smooth fabric wrap around you. For a moment, you admire the way it hugs you in the mirror, the cut flattering your body type well. Stepping out, you give a little spin for Pansy, her approving smirk already forming before you even say a word.

“Merlin, that dress was made for you.” Pansy grins as she steps forward, handing you a pair of heels. You take them, slipping them on effortlessly, the added height giving you an extra boost of confidence. Before you can even react, she’s already fussing with your hair, smoothing out stray strands and perfecting every detail. With a quick swipe of lip gloss after making you pout, she steps back, giving you an approving nod.

You can officially call yourself ready.

Pansy laces her fingers through yours as you walk down to the common room. As soon as you step out of your dorm, the noise rushes in, chaotic and overwhelming. You hesitate for a moment, knowing Mattheo is probably at the center of it all. The last thing you want is to run into him after earlier, especially with Veronica around.

You’re relieved when you reach the bottom of the stairs that Pansy has already spotted Blaise, which means the rest of the boys are near. And you’re proven right the moment Pansy pulls you through the crowd. Your eyes land on the boys—everyone except Mattheo—gathered together in their usual spot, laughing and talking like they own the room.

Before you even realize it, your eyes instinctively search for Theo, and it doesn't take long to spot him. He’s leaning casually against the wall with a drink in his hand.

Your breath hitches as your gaze lands on the dark shirt rolled up to his elbows, highlighting his toned arms. The veins tracing down to his hands catch your eye, drawing you in deeper. And those hands—Gods, those hands. An unexpected longing surges within you, a sudden urge to lean into his side, to feel him wrap his arm around your waist, resting his hand on the small of your back, just as he often did.

Ever since his match a couple of weeks ago, it’s as if something has switched within you. No matter how hard you try, your eyes are irresistibly drawn to Theo Nott. It doesn’t help that he’s so attentive, always making sure to check in with you and holding your hand whenever you needed it. In the past couple of months, he has become the one person you feel safest with, the one you can share your thoughts and worries with without hesitation.

Your stomach drops the moment you notice he isn’t alone. A bitter taste creeps into your mouth as you take in the girl standing in front of him—she’s stunning, effortlessly leaning into his space, clearly flirting. A few months ago, you wouldn’t have cared, wouldn’t have given her a second thought, but now it’s all you can focus on. The way she laughs, the way she seems to command his attention—it stings in a way you’re not prepared for.

Without a second thought, you drop Pansy’s hand and head straight toward them. The closer you get, the more her light, flirtatious giggle grates on your nerves, each sound making your stomach twist with irritation. Every step tightens the knot of annoyance building inside you, your focus narrowing in on them, unable to shake the discomfort settling in your chest.

When you draw close to Theo, you reach out and lightly touch his forearm, your fingers trailing down his skin before intertwining with his. It’s a blend of flirtation and possessiveness, and you watch with satisfaction as the girl’s gaze follows your touch.

Theo glances at you, instantly recognizing your touch, but his breath catches in his throat as his eyes travel down your body. Taking in the way the tight black dress hugs your curves, he feels as if his breath has been caught in his throat. The way you’re staring at the girl—your expression unmistakably conveying ‘back off’—stirs something deep within him. He fights the urge to pull you close, his hand finding the back of your neck as he kisses you fiercely, wanting to make it clear that him flirting with another girl is not a possibility.

But he can’t do that.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt—” though you’re not at all. “But I’ve been looking all over for you.” Your gaze flickers up to meet Theo’s, and you catch him watching you with an amused, quirked brow, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Oh,” she says, straightening up, her expression shifting from surprise to something more calculating. “So the rumors are true? You two are together?”

“If you’ve heard we’re together, then why even bother flirting with him?” You challenge, your voice steady and laced with confidence.

Her lips part in disbelief, and her eyes flicker between you and Theo, who stands beside you, bringing his cup to his lips to stifle the amused smile threatening to break free. The corners of his mouth twitch, betraying his enjoyment, while you stand firm, radiating confidence in the face of her surprise.

She scoffs and turns to leave, causing your confidence to begin slipping away.

Now that it’s just you and Theo, the reality of what you’ve done is sinking in. There’s no way your little display of jealousy didn’t just fuel the rumors that the two of you are together. But not only that, you didn’t deny it when she asked. You keep your eyes on the girl walking away and sigh when you realize she’s gone straight to her friends, no doubt to tell them about how you acted.

“You’re going to have the whole school thinking we’re together.” His voice is soft but teasing, a hint of amusement lacing his words as he holds you close.

He releases your hand, sliding his arm around your waist as he pulls you into him. The move is bolder than usual, more daring than the subtle touches you’re used to from him, and you can't help but blame it on the drink he's holding. His grip is firm, warm, and it sends a rush of heat through you that lingers far longer than it should.

“I’m sorry,” you wince, biting your lip as you glance up at Theo. “I probably just ruined your chances of finding a hookup for tonight.”

In all honesty, you feel more relieved than sorry.

His brow arches slightly, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Who said I was looking for a hookup?”

You scoff lightly, shifting in his hold, though his arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist. “You do remember we’ve been friends for years, right?” Your voice is teasing as you smile up at him.

Theo shrugs like he’s hardly bothered, his expression softening just a bit. “I haven’t hooked up with anyone in months,” he admits quietly, his voice sincere. The closeness between you feels more intimate than ever, the warmth of his body against yours making your heart race.

Suddenly your mind is jumping to the fact that the both of you have been hanging out for months. But there’s no way you’re going to point that out, so instead you smile at him softly before pulling away.

“I’m gonna get a drink. Do you want to come with me?” You extend your hand, and without hesitation, Theo clasps it in his, his grip warm and comforting.

It didn’t take long for you to feel tipsy; with the number of drinks you’ve had, it’s hardly a shock. Theo wasn’t drinking as much as you were, and he certainly wasn’t going to admit it was because he wanted to keep an eye on you.

Typically, he observed from a distance, leaning against the wall with a drink in hand, as you danced and laughed with Pansy and occasionally Enzo. But he realized he liked being the one that was next to you the whole night, and he’d enjoy the parties way more if this is how they all are.

You let out a sigh, and Theo’s brows knit together in curiosity as he looks down at you. You glance into your cup with a hint of disdain, contemplating whether to refill it. But just as you make a move to get more, Theo gently reaches out, stopping you in your tracks.

Earlier you had convinced him to dance with you, and it took plenty of ‘please’s’ on your end to persuade him. Really, the first time you said it had been enough, but he just liked how pretty it sounded falling from your lips. And once he grew tired of dancing, Enzo stepped in while Theo kept an eye on you as he chatted with Draco and Blaise. If he was tired, he couldn’t imagine how you were feeling.

You offer him a grateful smile as you settle back against the wall. Unfortunately, all the couches and chairs are taken, so you find yourself keeping watch, hoping a spot will open up while you take a breather from dancing with Pansy.

“That didn’t take you long.” You comment as someone leans against the wall next to you, but you’re surprised when you see Mattheo in Theo’s place. The sight of him immediately sobers you, and you find yourself standing up straighter, instinctively avoiding his gaze.

“I lied to you earlier,” He exhales slowly, and the tone of his voice reveals that he’s been drinking. He’s not drunk, but you can tell that the alcohol has certainly taken effect, adding a warm haze to his words. “I do care. I care a whole fucking lot actually.”

“No, I’m not doing this with you.” You cross your arms, glancing over at him and Mattheo shifts so he’s fully facing you with one shoulder against the wall.

“Do you know how hard it is to see you with Theo?” He asks, and you scoff, deliberately turning your gaze away from him. “You’ve got no idea how much it hurts.”

“I cannot believe you just said that to me.” Your head snaps to the side, disbelief flooding your voice as you look at Mattheo. “You have a girlfriend.”

“I know,” he replies, frustration creeping into his tone. “But it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

“How you feel about me?” Your voice rises, the sarcasm unmistakable.

“I’ve liked you. For years.”

You let out a laugh, disbelief and shock coursing through you. “That’s not funny.”

His expression softens, and he steps closer, desperation flickering in his eyes. “I’m not joking. It’s the truth.”

“Really? You think this is how you show someone you care?” You shake your head, trying to grasp the absurdity of the moment. “You’re with someone else, Mattheo. You can’t just decide to have feelings for me while you’re with her.”

“But I didn’t just decide that while I was with her,” he insists, his voice low and earnest. “I’ve always had them. I tried to push it down, to ignore it, but I can’t anymore. Seeing you with Theo…” His voice trails off, frustration giving way to vulnerability.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” You sigh, trying to swallow down all your emotions. This is the last place you want to be having this conversation. In fact, you don’t even want to be having it at all.

“I want you to say you have feelings for me too.” Mattheo says and you stare at him in surprise.

Theo stood frozen a short distance away, gripping the fresh drink he had just gotten for you. He knew he shouldn’t be listening in, but when Mattheo confessed his feelings for you, he felt compelled to stay put, unable to move. A knot of dread twisted in his stomach as he braces himself for your response. He knew better than anyone about your feelings for Mattheo, and the possibility that they hadn’t completely faded hadn’t escaped him.

It’s over before he even gets a chance. Your feelings for Mattheo have always been there, and maybe it was delusional of him to think that you getting jealous over him and flirting all night meant he had a chance. But he really believed that your feelings might have changed.

“I can’t say that.” You nearly whisper, and Mattheo looks like you’ve just slapped him.

“Because you have feelings for him?”

His question hangs there, thick with emotion, and you can see the way his eyes search yours for an answer.

Theo doesn’t get to hear your answer because, as you move to get past Mattheo, you catch sight of him, and your face crumples with the weight of emotion, the glimmer of unshed tears evident in your eyes. A wave of concern washes over him, and before he can fully process it, you push past Mattheo, urgency guiding you forward. When you reach Theo, you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face against his shoulder, and he instinctively pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Can we leave? I don’t want to be here anymore.” Theo agrees without any hesitation. He glances up at Mattheo, who scoffs in clear irritation, their eyes locking for a brief, tense moment. Theo gently grasps your hand before guiding you through the crowd and to your dorm.

please please please consider reblogging or leaving a comment! it keeps me motivated to write, and reblogs help to spread my work 🤍

[aquaticmercy]

Bloodlust

Part 1 of Dark Necessities

Summary : You are a starving daywalker who needs to feed on human blood. Bucky offers himself to you. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x half-vampire!reader (she/her in mind)

Warnings/tags : Blood. Cursing. Sexual tension. Pleasure from a vampire bite (?). 

Word count : 2.6k

Note : Reader is a daywalker like Blade, though it is not specified how she became one. They are in an established relationship. Happy Halloween!

Event : Trick or treat (trick/treat, food source! Bucky, half-vampire! reader, “You’re mine. It’s all fucking mine.”)

You’ve been barely holding it together for weeks now.

You had been surviving on animal blood from clueless farmers and willpower alone. It wasn’t working anymore. You could feel the hunger taking over, the control slipping away.

The worst part of this was that Bucky saw it too. He was watching you fade into a shell of the daywalker you were, right before his eyes.

Bucky had tried everything to reach Eric Brooks. He left messages that grew more urgent, more frustrated. His pleas over the line were becoming more and more desperate. He’d even been willing to track Eric down himself, but the daywalker they called Blade was off the grid. And no synthetic serum that he concocted monthly was coming your way. Nothing to stave away your craving. Your starvation.

“You’re paler,” Bucky muttered one morning, worry carving new lines into his face. He traced his thumb along your cheekbone, tracing your hollowed cheeks. His heart broke, seeing the way your eyes had dulled from their usual brightness.

“I’m fine,” you managed to say, though even you could hear the weakness in your voice. 

But it wasn’t the truth. Far from it.

The ache of starvation echoed through your ribs, a painful emptiness that you tried to hide.

You tried your best to push away the temptation— the constant, all-consuming urge to sink your teeth into the first human that came close enough. 

And Bucky knew it. Every time his scent drifted toward you—warm, alive, so rich with the power of his super-soldier serum—it made you weak. Drove you insane.

You’d found yourself waking up in the middle of the night, your fangs bared, fists clenched in the sheets as you lay beside him, listening to his heart beat. You’d nearly lost it more than once.

You could feel your body betraying you, your gaze following the strong curve of his throat, watching his pulse with a raw, shameless hunger.

Bucky was keeping a close eye on you now, his touches tender, protective. He kept the distance if you said you needed it, but he lingered in your peripheral vision, making sure you didn’t die out of this hunger.

Tonight, after your latest mission, that final sliver of control was gone.

You’d been drenched in enemy blood, and that faint taste—a drop of your attacker’s blood splashed against your lips— sent your senses into a frenzy. You could still taste it, feel it. You had not tasted human blood in so long.

It was all you wanted, all you could think of. But not just anyone’s blood.

His. Bucky’s.

You stumbled back into the safehouse, body shaking, fangs clenched so tight it hurt your cheeks. You were woozy now. The last drop of your energy was gone. 

You were starving.

Bucky was beside you in an instant, his hands steadying you.

“Hey. It’s alright,” he murmured, his grip strong, pulling you in. “We’re done. We’re safe.”

He hadn’t noticed your hands shaking or your eyes fixating on the bare line of his throat, following the rapid flutter of his pulse.

“No, Bucky, you don’t understand,” you whispered, as he helped you stumble into bed. “I can’t… I can’t be near you right now.”

“Tell me what you need,” he said, his voice steady, unflinching. His hand cradled your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Let me help.”

“Bucky…” you barely choked out, eyes widening at the implication of his words. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.” His voice was lower now, rough. His fingers tightened around your wrist as he sat next to you. “I can handle it.”

The words sank in, and then came a rush of dark and heady desire, the thrill of his offer— but how could you?

“No. It’s not safe,” You were shaking your head before, backing up. You wanted to run, to protect him from you. “I could hurt you. I could turn you…”

Of course, you knew you shouldn’t be able to turn him unless you wanted to, but with no control over your starvation, who knows if it could happen by accident— you’ve heard stories of it one too many times.

He let out a frustrated laugh, his grip firm. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ve survived worse. And Hydra’s pumped my blood full of so much shit…” he murmured. His blue eyes pierced yours, as if daring you to look away, “… I don’t know if I can even be turned.”

“I can’t risk it,” you whispered, your voice shaking. The hunger was clawing at the edges of your mouth, threatening to consume you if you didn’t consume him.

“You’re half-vampire. I’m a super soldier. If anyone stands a chance at surviving this, it’s me.” he countered, his hand cupping the back of your neck. “Take what you need.”

The words shattered any scrap of control you had left.

The thought of him had filled every corner of your mind. The fear melted into a raw, primal need, your fangs aching as you gave in, surrendering to the urge that had been haunting you for weeks. His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you against him. He kissed your forehead, a soft, quiet invitation.

Your fingers twisted on his tactical undershirt as you lifted it up, throwing it on the floor. You dipped your head, lips grazing along his jaw, savouring the warmth.

His breath hitched as his hands roamed down your back, his heartbeat racing faster as you trailed down, your lips brushing the pulse on his neck. 

The moment your fangs touched his skin, he let out a shuddering breath. His fingers tightened around you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the power of his blood thrumming in your throat.

He tasted like fire and sunlight, flooding your senses in a dizzying rush. His blood was different—thicker, richer, carrying that unmistakable power of the serum.

A moan tore from his low in his throat, his hands tangling in your hair. His hands gripped you as you drank, his body arching into yours, his head falling back as the high hit him.

“Fuck…” he rasped, “don’t stop.” His voice was rough. His grip on you unrelenting, desperate, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear to let go. He was so potent that it drove you mad with need.

His body trembled against you, his breath coming in ragged gasps, a low groan slipping from his lips as his hands moved down, gripping the curve of your ass. The rush was mutual, his heartbeat thundering in your ears, his voice roaring with urgent pleasure.

When you finally pulled away, your tongue trailed over the wound. 

He let out a broken sigh.

“More,” he murmured, pleading, “Please.”

It sent a jolt through you, fanning the flames of your hunger.

You felt his hands exploring your back, his breath hot against your skin, peppering kisses on your shoulders. 

“Are you…” you started, voice barely a whisper. He cut you off, his lips capturing yours in a fierce, desperate kiss. His fingers slid through your hair. 

The taste of his blood still lingered in your tongue.

“I’m fine,” he whispered against your lips, his voice soft but exhilarated. His fingers traced down your cheek, stopping at your jaw.

Before you knew it, Bucky’s lips were on yours again in a feverish kiss. His tongue searched for the remnants of himself in your blood, almost pleading. When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his eyes dark and filled with a wilderness you have never noticed before.

“Bite me again,” he whispered. His fingers tightened around your waist. He pressed his forehead against yours. “Please. I didn’t think… I didn’t know it could feel like that.” His voice dropped. “I’ve never felt anything so good.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity of his words, of the way he was looking at you—like he’d tasted something addictive, something he couldn’t live without now. 

His hands slid down to your thighs, pulling you against him, his body pulsing with that same primal energy that hummed through your veins now.

It was more than just hunger now. It was pleasure. 

“Bucky…” You tried to keep your voice steady, but you eyed the open wound you had created. “If I do this again, I might…” 

“Might what?” he murmured, one hand moving up to brush his thumb over your lips, “Hurt me?” 

His mouth tilted into a slight, knowing smirk. You could sense how much he wanted it, how much he trusted you.

How much he knew you would never ever take more than he could give.

You whispered, unable to look away. “I might not be able to stop.” 

But he only pulled you closer, “Then don’t.”

Bucky’s lips crashed against yours once again, his hands running feverishly over your body, fingers exploring, like he couldn’t get enough of you. 

His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, tracing up your sides with insistent, deliberate touches. His body trembled beneath your touch, pleading for more. Your hands moved over to his chest as you followed the hard lines of his muscles and scars. 

“Bite me,” he whispered, his voice rough, edged with a need that was eerily similar to your own. He tilted his head back, offering his throat, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you there with an urgency that sent a shiver down your spine. “Take what you want.”

Your hands roamed over his shoulders, gripping, pulling. Your lips hovered at the base of his throat. 

You could feel his pulse fluttering beneath his skin, steady and strong, drawing you in like a hypnotic pattern. 

Your teeth grazed his skin, and his metal hand slid down to grip your waist, pulling you so close it felt like you might sink into him entirely.

The second your fangs pierced his neck, he let out a low, guttural noise. His nails dug into your hips. 

His blood rushed over your tongue —a heady, intoxicating rush that flooded your senses, burning and sweet.

It was an overwhelming heat spreading through you both at the same time.

His hands explored every inch of you, fingers tracing down your spine, gripping your shoulders, roaming across your back with an unrestrained passion. 

Every drop of his blood bound you closer to each other, connecting you in a way that went beyond flesh.

He was gasping, his breath hitched against your earlobe.

His voice let a hoarse murmur of your name out of his lips, the quiet sounds of pleasure leaving his lips like a prayer.

He succumbed to the rush, the sheer ecstasy of it all.

“Don’t stop… please, don’t stop,” he begged, his voice filled with both desire and surrender. He was giving himself completely to you. 

It was erotic, maddening, the rush binding you in a loop of pleasure and need. You could feel his every reaction, every small gasp, every desperate shiver. The sounds he made—raw, breathless—were as addictive as his blood, music to your ears.

You could feel his pulse slowing as you finally drew back.

Still, his hands pulled you closer, his eyes dark and hazy, beautifully vulnerable.

In that moment, with his blood coursing through you, his heartbeat was still a steady anchor.

It felt like the world had always been just the two of you. The intensity of the bond was stronger than any pull you’d ever felt before.

Bucky’s eyes were hazy, darkened with the remnants of that high, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I’ve never felt anything like that,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like… like you’re part of me now.”

You felt your chest tighten, his words resonating in your stomach. He smiled softly, running a hand through your hair, pulling you in for a slow, gentle kiss that left no doubt in your mind that he would want this again, that the need wasn’t yours alone anymore.

You held him close, savoring the warmth radiating from him. Whatever blend of serum— Hydra experimentation, maybe multiple super-soldier tests— that coursed through his veins had left him remarkably steady despite everything you’d taken. In fact, he seemed almost… blissful. Euphoric.

You gently eased him down, guiding him back against the pillows, brushing his hair from his face.

You were amazed at his strength. This would have killed a full grown adult, and here you were, marvelling at how peaceful he looked. His face was bright in the low light, eyes heavy-lidded, just slightly unfocused as he gazed up at you. Bucky’s hand slid up to yours, his fingers threading as he gave you a lopsided smile.

“Whatever Hydra did to me left some silver lining, huh?” he murmured, his voice thick with the remnants of that heady pleasure, a quiet wonder behind his tired gaze.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Maybe it’s the reason you’re okay, the reason you found it… pleasurable.” You hesitated, brushing your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “The reason I couldn’t turn you. Even if I wanted to.”

The thought filled you with relief. The fear you’d held for so long—that you’d lose control, that you’d harm him in a way that couldn’t be undone— it had finally eased. Whatever Hydra had broken in him had given you both something unbreakable. A chance at a bond you hadn’t thought possible.

He nodded, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. His thumb traced slow, comforting patterns against the back of your hand. “Makes us even more perfect for each other, doesn’t it?” His voice was steady with certainty, as if he’d known it all along.

“Perfect for each other,” you echoed, a warmth spreading through you as he pulled you to lay in the pillow next to him. He let his arm rest around your waist. You could feel his heart beginning to recover to a steady, unhurried rhythm. 

His fingers traced idle circles on your skin. His voice was a low rumble that reverberated against your shoulder. “I don’t want you biting into anyone else"

You blinked, feeling his words settle deep in your core— primal. Almost jealous? 

He brushed his lips along your collarbone, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Your bite is mine. And my blood is yours."

He lifted his head to meet your eyes, those stormy blue eyes dark with a possessive hunger that made your stomach flip. 

“You’re mine,” you traced your hand over the bite mark you left. “It’s all fucking mine.”

"Fuck Eric and his subpar serum," he continued, "All you ever needed… is me.”

You were his in that moment, bound by more than hunger or desire—it was an instinct, a natural bond now—shared and undeniable.

"I mean it," he murmured, "If anyone else so much as tries, I'll… fuck, I don’t know what I’d do."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

“Just ours,” you promised.

Pressing a kiss to his temple and enjoying the silence, you finally muttered. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He let out a soft, contented sigh as his eyes finally fluttered closed.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you felt a peace. The super-soldier blood would be enough to last you weeks, maybe months. When the time would inevitably come that you’d need to feed again, you knew he’d be there, waiting.

You brushed a final, lingering kiss against his brow, murmuring a soft goodnight.

You both knew that the pieces of yourselves that had been broken and twisted by forces beyond your control had somehow, impossibly, found a way to fit. The bloodlust you’d carried, the pieces that Hydra had broken in him—they’d found a home together.

-end (?)

—

Companion piece / bonus text: What is a blood bond?

Part two out now! : Blood Bound

[allfearstofallto]

Ok so, I've been having this taught of reader falling into a coma and not remembering anything from what happened before waking up. Which yandere do you think would take advantage and which would feel bad about doing so?

And why is it Diluc?

You were told you told a nasty fall. Right down the stairs at that. You're quite the clutz, one of your maids joked to you, but it's not like you'd remember. Everything about yourself, other than your name was blurry. Your name and something else. Red hair. Long red hair flowing down his back. Other than that, your mind was empty of memories, like you'd been reset with nothing.

"Master Diluc will be here shortly," the maid said with a smile as she used a wet cloth to dab the knot on your forehead. Swollen and painful, you could see the water in her bowl turning red from the dried blood, but she still smiled. Almost as if she enjoyed tending to you, "He's been dying to see you. You've had him worried sick, my lady,"

"Diluc...?" You repeated his name back, it felt foreign on your tongue, yet all too familiar at the same time. You forced yourself to think on that name as you'd done your own and nothing came up. Just empty, hollow, and blank.

She chuckled at your response, "Your husband! My boss. Master Diluc?" She tested these words while staring into your eyes, waiting for any sign of familiarity, but that flicker never lit in your eyes, and you grew more and more confused as she spoke. She watched your face change and in turn, hers did as well. You recognized the expression she was making. A look of worry and fear, that she tried to mask.

"I-i...have a husband?" You asked. The idea sounded crazy even to you. You'd gotten married and completely forgotten the person, forgotten the wedding, forgotten yourself.

Her little bowl was sat to the side and she dusted her hands on her apron. Moving quickly, she gave you a weak, worried smile as she marchd to the door, "I'll go get master Diluc." She said hurriedly, and she was gone. Leaving you in an unfamiliar room, with a strangely comforting ticking of a clock.

It wasn't long before the door opened again and he stepped in. He looked serious, almost scary, but also strangely remorseful. His eyes danced over to your forehead, where the bump was, then back to your face. His lip quivered as he knelt down at your bed side, reaching out to take your hand and being surprised that you allowed it. But his touch was gentle, he traced his thumb up and down the back of your hand, testing words on his tongue before he finally asked, "What do you remember?"

A weak smile formed on your lips. How could you tell him nothing? Or that all you had were bits and pieces of memories and even then, they weren't anything to go by. Yet that little shy smile was more than enough to tell him what you were thinking. He grimaced a bit before taking your hand and squeezing it, his touch was warm, borderline hot against the back of your hand.

"I'm your husband, Diluc Radnvindr and you're my wife. We've been married for two years," he spoke slowly, as if he were explaining this all to a child who wouldn't understand, "We live just a little bit outside of Mondstadt, I own a winery and the surrounding land as well."

At his mention of marriage, you looked down at your hands. Bare. Not even the indent of a ring on your finger.

"We don't have rings?" You questioned curiously, but sure enough, when you looked at his hand, he was wearing his wedding band dutifully. A plain gold band that wrapped around his finger.

Diluc's face tensed when you asked the question. It was an odd expression, not the type to face you expected your husband to make. But he still reached into a table at your side, opening a velvet box and showing you a similar gold band, only this one sparked with jewels and gems. It looked practically brand new. Not even a scratch or fingerprint on it. Almost like it'd never been worn.

"You always told me you weren't too fond of rings," he muttered, but his face looked sorrowful, "I couldn't force you to wear it so you never did."

You looked at that ring and you saw pure beauty. It looked like it was forged with love. You couldn't imagine why you didn't wear it, it was to pretty to not be seen. When you slipped the ring out of the box and onto the finger, Diluc made a face that was a mixture of surprise and horror. You gave him a questioning glance, but only was met with a stiff, but reassuring smile.

Days went by with you being a doting wife to Diluc, but the back of your mind something always felt wrong, like you were doing everything wrong. When you questioned why Diluc always ate his meals in his office, he did sit and eat with you at the table, but the maids looked confused at the sight of him. When you mentioned that it was strange that you and Diluc had supposedly been married so long, but didn't share a room, he allowed you into his bed. But even seemed uncomfortable by your presence.

Your dreams were restless that particular night. You dreamt of memories that you'd forgotten like you were living through them again. It was pouring rain and your heart was pounding. As you ran through the gardens, your feet bare and filthy with mud, all you could think was that you had to get away. But away from what?

Your heart thumping in your ears seemed even louder than the rainfall, your clothes soaked, fear being the only thing that pushed you further. When your wrist was grabbed, you screamed. Screamed harder than you had in your entire life. You expected to see a stranger when you turned, but instead you were met with familiar red hair, and angrier red eyes. Diluc.

He struck you. Hard across your cheek. It was a stinging slap, only calmed by the cold rain water hitting your face. Before you could even get the chance to fight, Diluc was dragging you back the way you came. Towards the manor. Towards your prison. You dug your feet into the mud, but you didn't stand a chance against his superior strength.

When you awoke in a cold sweat, chest heaving and eyes threatening to cry, his arm over your waist felt more like a restraint than a comfort. He slept peacefully right next to you as your mind tried to make sense of your dream, your memory. A pit formed in your stomach, a feeling of fear and worry as you thought about every strange thing about your marriage. About the strange way the maids looked at you. About how Diluc himself seemed almost surprised by what you assumed was typical martial affection. You swallowed hard as faint memories came flooding back. And the sudden realization of the fact that you were being lied to. And the liar, the cause of all of it, was nuzzling his face into you side.

[shybluebirdninja]

A Long Road

Summary: Logan, old and insecure, finds comfort in the warmth of his younger girlfriend despite whispers of doubt from others.

(Oldman!Logan Howlett x Younger!Gf-Reader)

Logan’s POV

The coffee shop wasn’t too crowded, but it wasn’t empty, either. Enough people for a few glances to find their way over to us—for the murmurs, the curious looks.

I sat across from her, trying to look comfortable while stirring a cup of black coffee that’d gone cold ages ago. She had some fancy latte with cinnamon sprinkled on top—whatever they do to drinks now—and damn if it didn’t suit her. That sweet, new taste on her lips seemed right. Meanwhile, there I was, sticking to my usual, too set in my ways to try anything else.

But that wasn’t what was getting to me. It was the people. Or maybe it was just me. Seeing the way they looked at her, then looked at me, wondering what the hell she was doing here with a guy like me.

Some guy at a corner table gave me a quick up-and-down glance, as if he thought I wouldn’t notice. The words nearly spilled out, some snap about minding his own business. But she was scanning the pastry menu, her eyes bright, so I bit it back. Didn’t want to wreck her day.

“Babe, you wanna try one of these?” she asked, her finger tracing the list of pastries. There was a glint in her eye, all excitement over something simple—an apple twist or whatever fancy name it had.

I forced a smile, grumbling under my breath. “Eh, coffee’s enough for me, sweetheart.”

She just laughed, nudging her coffee cup forward, insisting. “Come on. Live a little. It’s apple cinnamon. You might like it.”

I rolled my eyes but took a reluctant sip, letting the cinnamon and sugar coat my mouth. It was...fine, but it wasn’t me. I grunted in approval, handing the cup back, catching her watching me like she found it all adorable or something. I tried to act casual, but it only made me feel more... out of place.

Across the room, two people whispered, stealing glances our way. Couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could guess. ‘Serious? Those two? Must be her dad. No way they’re together.’ Their words hung in the air, even if they hadn’t said a damn thing.

“Hey, uh...maybe we should get outta here,” I mumbled, tugging my jacket off the back of my chair, feeling the worn leather under my fingers. This place was starting to feel too damn small.

She looked up, confused but gentle. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just... too many people.” I forced a shrug, standing up and trying to shake off the irritation clawing at me.

We headed out into the cool evening air, her arm brushing against mine as we walked. For a second, it felt good—free, just us. But as soon as we stepped inside the apartment, something in me cracked wide open. I shut the door, staring at the floor. Couldn’t bring myself to look at her, couldn’t explain the feeling clawing its way up my chest.

“What’s wrong, babe?” she asked, her voice soft as she set her keys down, coming closer.

My throat tightened. I couldn’t look her in the eye. “You know, I’m almost two hundred, sweetheart. And I look every year of it.” My voice came out rougher than I wanted, almost a whisper. “People look at us, and they think...”

She reached up, placing her hands on either side of my face, thumbs brushing over the lines and scars. The worn edges, the parts of me that looked like they’d been through hell and back. “Let them think what they want. It’s just noise, Logan.”

I let out a laugh, bitter and hollow. “Noise, huh? Well, that noise gets pretty damn loud sometimes.” My voice broke, my hand coming up to grip her wrist, holding onto her like she was the only solid thing in my world. “I mean, hell...if this is how they act when we’re just dating, what’re they gonna say if I...if I ever asked you to marry me?”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned closer, so damn calm, brushing her lips over my forehead. “Logan, I don’t care what they say. I’m here with you. I chose you.”

Those words broke something in me, something buried so damn deep it hadn’t seen daylight in decades. Before I knew it, my throat tightened, my eyes burning with something I hadn’t felt in years. I closed my eyes, letting her hold me, feeling the steady beat of her heart as I let the tears fall.

After a moment, I pulled back, taking her face in my hands, my thumbs tracing along her cheekbones, rough and calloused.

“I’m gonna mess this up, you know,” I muttered, trying to manage a half-smile, the sarcasm slipping out of habit. “Gonna scare you off with all this old-man crap.”

She smirked, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Then you better hold on to me tight, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.”

I kissed her, slow, letting myself feel every second, every taste of that damn cinnamon latte still lingering on her lips. Holding her like she was the one damn thing keeping me together.

[rootedinrevisions]

Just...Stay

SUMMARY: When he rolls back into her life every few months, Tyler Owens brings with him all the irresistible charm and warmth that first captured her heart, leaving her breathless and hoping for more. But as the years slip by, so do his promises, and every departure leaves her with another fracture in her heart and fewer illusions about the man she loves. Caught between the comfort of the life she’s built and the pull of the only man who’s ever felt like home, she must finally decide: will she wait for him one last time, or find the courage to let go and forge a path on her own? PART 2 HERE

Inspired loosely by "All the Cowboys" by Alexandra Kay.

WORD COUNT: 4.6k

WARNINGS: Angst. Unrequited love. Mentions of/Implied Smut.

TAG LIST: SEE COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists or be tagged for a specific character please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added! Below are the fandoms I currently write for.

Glen Powell (himself and the characters he's played)

Twisters (Mostly Tyler right now, but possibly others soon)

Top Gun: Maverick (Hangman, Rooster, possibly others soon)

Marvel / MCU (Bucky Barnes as of now, but possibly others soon)

WWE / Wrestling

The screen door creaked as you settled onto the back porch steps, the sun beginning to dip beneath the horizon. You held the phone close, balancing it between your shoulder and ear as you traced absent circles on the weathered wood with your fingertip.

Your mom’s voice crackled on the other end, warm and familiar. “You’ve been keeping busy out there?”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, Mama. Got a load of wash done, fixed that fence post that was leaning. Even tried to fix the gutter on the barn.”

She chuckled. “You sound like you’re doing just fine then. So, what’s got you out on that porch, calling me like you got the weight of the world on your shoulders?”

You hesitated, glancing out at the fields stretching endlessly before you, caught between the quiet beauty of dusk and the ache you felt blooming inside. “I don’t know, Mama,” you said, almost whispering. “Just feeling a little lost, I guess.”

There was a long pause on the other end, and you could almost hear her piecing it together. “You saw him again, didn’t you?”

A sigh escaped you, a mix of regret and resignation. “Yeah, I did. He was just… there, like nothing had changed.” You shook your head, remembering the way he’d looked at you, that familiar glint in his eye. “I know what you’re gonna say, Mama.”

She didn’t hesitate. “That boy’s no good. He comes ‘round whenever he pleases, but he leaves just as quick. You can’t be holding out for someone like that, honey.”

You felt your chest tighten, the truth of her words hitting harder than you’d like to admit. “I know, Mama. Believe me, I know.” You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, fingers fidgeting. “But when he’s here… it’s like I forget all that. I forget how many times he’s done this before, how I feel every time he leaves.” Your voice grew softer, thick with frustration. “And then he’s gone, and it feels like… like there’s this empty spot he left behind.”

There was a pause before she spoke again, her voice gentle but firm. “Why do you let him do this to you, sweetheart?”

You exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know. Maybe I keep hoping it’ll be different. That maybe… he’ll stay.” The words sounded hollow even as you said them.

You could feel her weighing her response, the silence heavy between you. “Honey, some people just aren’t made to stay. They get what they need and they’re gone, leaving folks like you to pick up the pieces.” She paused, and you could almost see her shaking her head. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

A lump formed in your throat as you thought of Tyler driving off into the sunset, no promises, no goodbyes—just gone. You let out a weary breath, looking down at the chipped paint on the porch step beneath you. 

“Why do they always leave, Mama? Every time things get good, he just vanishes.”

“Oh, honey…” She sighed, the sound deep and knowing. “It’s in some folks’ nature to chase what they don’t have, always looking for something else just over the next hill. Doesn’t mean you have to keep getting hurt by it, though.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the truth settle heavily in your chest. The silence stretched on, filled only by the chirping of crickets and the fading warmth of the sun. You knew your mother was right, but as you sat there, a small part of you still hoped that maybe, just maybe, he’d come back one day and stay.

The memory came back in a slow, aching wave. Just two nights ago, you and Tyler lay tangled up together under the sheets, his arm wrapped tightly around you. The world felt quiet in those moments, like the whole world had shrunk to just the two of you, his warm skin against yours, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

You tilted your head up to look at him, his face softened in the dim light. “So… how long are you sticking around this time?” you asked, half-joking, though you both knew the question carried a heavier weight.

Tyler’s gaze drifted, his lips twitching in that familiar, evasive way. “Maybe longer this time,” he mumbled, though he couldn’t quite meet your eyes when he said it. Instead, his thumb traced absent circles over your shoulder, a touch meant to soothe but only deepening the pit forming in your stomach.

You wanted to believe him, wanted to hold on to that maybe, but his tone, that shift in his eyes as he looked away—it was the same pattern, the same script. You’d been through this dance too many times not to recognize the truth hiding behind his words. He would be gone by morning. And as much as he’d tried to sell you that soft maybe, the two of you understood this wasn’t a visit that would last.

But in that moment, as you curled up against his side, you pretended you didn’t know. You buried yourself in the warmth of his embrace, letting yourself have just one night, pretending you wouldn’t wake up alone.

And sure enough, the next morning, when your hand reached across the bed to his side, it found nothing but cool sheets. You stared at the empty space beside you, that hollow ache settling deep in your chest. With a sigh, you threw back the covers and padded over to the closet, grabbing one of his old T-shirts he’d left on one of his previous stays, back when you still believed he might keep leaving pieces of himself behind to build something more permanent with you.

The shirt smelled faintly of him, a hint of cedar and summer nights that made your throat tighten. Tugging it over your head, you went to the kitchen, the floor cold against your bare feet as you filled the kettle, automatically going through the motions of your morning coffee.

And that’s when you saw it—the note, lying in the center of the kitchen table, his handwriting scrawled across the torn piece of paper.

It was a short message, just a handful of words that were supposed to feel like a promise, but instead felt like one more empty reassurance. You picked it up, reading the rushed lines that only served to emphasize his absence.

Didn’t want to wake you. Take care, darlin’. I’ll see you around.

The words felt flimsy, like the paper might disintegrate under the weight of your disappointment. You crumpled the note in your fist, feeling the familiar sting behind your eyes. This wasn’t new—this cycle of him drifting in, leaving pieces of himself in the form of old T-shirts and half-hearted promises, only to vanish before you could say goodbye.

You’d been through this so many times before, and yet, as you stood there, clutching that note, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this time was the one that would finally break you.

Your mom’s voice cut through the silence, gentle but firm. “Honey, you still there?”

You blinked, realizing you’d let the silence drag on too long, your mind caught in the weight of memories you could barely hold onto. “Yeah, Mama,” you murmured, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

“I know you love him,” she continued softly, but her words carried a strength you weren’t sure you had anymore. “But I need you to ask yourself if he’s treating you like he loves you, too. ’Cause, baby, love isn’t something you only hold onto when it’s convenient. It’s there in the hard times, in the moments that aren’t so pretty. And if he’s not showing up for you… maybe it’s time to ask yourself why you’re still waiting.”

You nodded even though she couldn’t see you, staring down at the crumpled note still clutched in your hand. The truth of her words was painful, like a splinter lodged too deep to pull out.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know you’re right.”

“I just hate seeing you go through this, time and again,” she said, her voice tinged with a sorrow that made your chest ache. “You deserve someone who’s there for you, who doesn’t keep running just because things start feeling real.”

You exhaled, forcing a smile that felt as brittle as glass. “Thanks, Mama. I… I just needed to hear that.”

“Anytime, baby,” she said, her tone softening. “You take care of yourself. And remember, it’s okay to let go.”

After a quiet goodbye, you hung up, setting the phone down beside the note. Your mom’s words echoed in your mind, a steady reminder of what you deserved, a grounding tether pulling you back to reality. She was right, of course. She always was. And yet…No matter how many times he left, or how much you knew he wasn’t treating you the way you deserved, there was still a part of you—a foolish, stubborn part—that couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he stayed. Just once.

You closed your eyes, letting the bittersweet ache of a daydream settle over you, imagining what it would be like if he stayed. Just once.

You could almost feel him there beside you, his arm still wrapped around you as you stirred awake. In this vision, his side of the bed wasn’t empty; he was there, his breathing slow and steady, a soft smile tugging at his lips as you rolled over to nuzzle closer. The warmth of his body against yours made you feel safe, grounded, as though he was finally, truly yours.

Later, you pictured the two of you in the kitchen, the early light streaming in through the window as you handed him a mug of coffee. He’d take it, wrapping his hands around yours just a second longer than necessary, his fingers warm against your skin. You’d share a quiet laugh over something simple, something easy, while the steam curled between you. And as he sat across from you, his eyes would linger like he was savoring the moment, like he was savoring you.

In your mind, you watched as he’d finish his coffee, rising from the table to head out to the fields with you. He’d tug on a worn cap and grin over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling in that way that always made your heart stumble. You’d walk side by side, falling into the comfortable rhythm of working together, your boots crunching over the soil as you talked about things that never came up in his fleeting visits. What you’d plant next season, what you’d add to the place if you had the time and the money. He’d joke about the future, and for once, you’d let yourself believe in it.

Evenings would come, and you’d find yourselves on the back porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon, casting a warm glow over everything. He’d reach for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You could almost feel the weight of his head resting against yours, his soft murmur of how he’d missed this, missed you. And as night fell, the stars would come out, and he’d pull you close, wrapping you in his arms as though he had nowhere else to be.

And then, in this daydream, he’d follow you back inside, his arm draped around your shoulders as you led him up to bed. There, tangled up in the sheets, he’d hold you close, his touch lingering and gentle, making you feel like you were the only person who’d ever mattered to him. His whispered promises wouldn’t be half-hearted or hesitant; they’d be real, as solid as the feel of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. You’d fall asleep in his arms, knowing he’d be there when you woke, that he’d finally found a place with you he wouldn’t leave behind.

But as you opened your eyes, the reality settled around you like a familiar chill. It was just a daydream, a vision of something you’d never have, as fleeting as his footprints fading from the dirt driveway. And yet, you couldn’t help but hold onto it for one more heartbeat, wishing with all the fragile hope you had left that someday, somehow, it could be real.

* * * * *

A MONTH LATER

It was a late afternoon, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows over the gravel drive as you stood on the porch, the distant rumble of an engine reaching your ears. You recognized that sound before you even saw the dust cloud rising in the distance, stirring up memories you’d been trying to put to rest for weeks. His truck rounded the last bend, and there he was, windows down, that easy, rugged grin spreading across his face as he slowed to a stop in front of the house.

Tyler stepped out, stretching his arms like he belonged there, like he hadn’t left you picking up the pieces last time. Dust clung to his boots as he walked toward you, his eyes fixed on yours with that familiar spark—one that made you feel seen in a way that was hard to shake, even when you wanted to.

He looked just the same, though maybe a little more sun-worn, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, his jeans frayed in a way that was somehow endearing, like they’d seen as much of the road as he had. He stopped a few steps away, his gaze softening as it met yours.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm and low, as if no time had passed at all.

You stayed still, hands clenched by your sides. You’d prepared yourself for this—told yourself a hundred times that if he showed up again, you’d keep your distance, guard the pieces of your heart he kept leaving behind. But as he stood there you felt the walls you’d built begin to crack.

“Hey,” you replied, the word catching in your throat.

A beat of silence hung between you, heavy with all the things left unsaid. Then his face softened, his smile widening in that way that always undid you. And, as if by instinct, he reached for you, his hand lifting to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a gentleness that felt almost like an apology.

For a moment, you considered stepping back, holding onto the anger and hurt that had filled the empty space he left behind. But as his touch settled, as his thumb traced a line just below your cheekbone, all your defenses crumbled.

Before you knew it, you were reaching back, your hand settling over his as you let yourself lean into him. It was like slipping back into a familiar dream—the one where he stayed, where he was yours for longer than a fleeting moment.

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and you sank into his embrace, feeling the weight of his chin against your hair, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. And in that moment, against all reason, you let yourself believe that maybe this time would be different, that maybe he’d come back not just to leave again, but to finally stay.

He held you close, his arms wrapped around you with that familiar, unguarded tenderness. His chin rested on top of your head, and for a moment, it felt as if the world beyond his embrace had faded away. His fingers traced slow circles on your back, a quiet, grounding rhythm that felt as real as his voice when he finally spoke, low and rough against your hair.

“I missed you,” he murmured, the words so soft you almost didn’t catch them. He shifted, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours. “I’m glad to see you again.”

You looked away for a moment, the words stirring both warmth and ache deep in your chest. It was unfair, the way he could come and go, the way he could leave you longing for more, but when he looked at you like that—with his guard down, that rugged charm softened by something raw and honest—it was hard to hold onto your resolve.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, barely able to meet his gaze. He smiled at that, a slow, almost relieved smile, as if he’d feared he might’ve lost his place in your heart.

He let his hand drift to yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a familiar gesture. “Come on,” he said, tugging you gently, “let’s make a day of it.”

With Tyler by your side, you found yourself lost in the rhythm of farm chores that felt lighter, easier, with him there. He was quick to lend a hand, reaching for the same tools you did, working alongside you with that easy, capable grace he seemed to carry everywhere.

You walked through rows of vegetables, pulling up the last of the summer crops, the sun warm against your skin. Tyler watched as you tossed a few stray weeds into a pile, a hint of amusement in his gaze.

“So,” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence, “how’s the team? Boone, Lily, Dani, Dexter?”

He chuckled, swiping a smudge of dirt from his forearm. “They’re all good. Wild as ever. Boone’s still dragging his feet over settling down, though I keep telling him he’s a fool if he lets Lily go. And Dani’s got herself a new truck she’s way too proud of. Dexter? Well, you know him; he’s just happy to tag along for the adventure.”

You smiled at the thought of his friends, feeling a pang of longing for the life he lived—a world of movement and adventure, so different from the one you held steady here. “They sound like they’re keeping you busy.”

“Yeah, they do.” He looked at you, a softness to his expression that made your heart skip. “But they’re not the only ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Been thinking about you too, you know. Wondering what you’re up to when I’m gone.” He paused, glancing around the fields before adding, “How’s your mom doing?”

You swallowed, touched that he remembered to ask. “She’s good. Stubborn as ever, trying to do too much on her own. But we manage.”

He nodded thoughtfully, reaching out to steady you when you stumbled on a loose patch of earth. “You’ve got your hands full, don’t you?”

“Guess so,” you said, shrugging with a small smile. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering, as if taking in the way you belonged here, rooted to this land and this life. For a moment, you thought he might say something more, but he only squeezed your hand, wordlessly acknowledging that unspoken divide between his world and yours.

Later, after a simple dinner you’d shared at the kitchen table, you both made your way out to the porch as the sun dipped low in the sky. He settled onto the swing beside you, letting his arm drape casually over the back of it as you leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek.

The evening was calm, the colors of the sunset stretching across the horizon in soft shades of pink and orange, and you found yourself sighing into the quiet.

“This…this is nice,” you murmured, glancing up at him.

Tyler gave a soft hum of agreement, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles along your shoulder. “Could get used to it,” he said, his voice soft, as if testing the thought aloud. “It’s different from the rush of things out there. Being here with you—it just feels right.”

The words settled between you, gentle and unassuming, but laced with a longing that you felt all too acutely. He looked down, catching your gaze, his eyes holding yours in the fading light.

“I know you’ve got your life on the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “But sometimes I wonder…what it’d be like if you stayed.”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting out over the fields that stretched into the distance. Finally, he gave a small nod. “I think about it too. More than you know.”

You fell into a comfortable silence, his arm around you, your head resting on his shoulder as the last light slipped below the horizon. And in that quiet moment, you let yourself imagine a world where he was yours—not just for today, but for all the days and nights to come.

In the quiet glow of the fading sunset, Tyler’s gaze grew heavy, lingering on yours with a kind of tenderness that always seemed to pull you in too deep, too fast. And in a heartbeat, he was scooping you up, lifting you effortlessly into his arms as you laughed, breathless and already feeling the rush of surrender. He carried you down the hallway, his eyes never leaving yours, each step filling the space with anticipation you could feel in every beat of your heart.

The bed was cool beneath you as he laid you gently on the sheets, his body following close, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of any distance between you. His hands were careful yet urgent as he traced familiar paths along your skin, murmuring against your ear, his voice low and rough with want. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he whispered, his breath warm against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his voice wash over you, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your chest. “I’m lucky,” he murmured, his lips brushing your collarbone. “I’m the luckiest damn man alive that you’re mine.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to cling to those words and tuck them away, to let them soothe every doubt he’d left behind. But you pushed the ache aside, banishing it to some quiet corner of your mind where it couldn’t reach you now.

Instead, you let yourself get lost in him, in the way his hands knew every inch of you, how his touch left you dizzy, breathless, like you were the only thing that mattered in his world. Every whispered word, every gentle kiss pressed to your skin, they all felt like a spell you couldn’t break. And for that one perfect night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth.

Afterward, as you lay tangled together in the sheets, your body pressed close to his, his arm wrapped around you, it was almost easy to forget. To ignore the hollow ache in your chest and pretend that this time, he wouldn’t slip away with the sunrise. And so, for those last quiet hours before dawn, you let yourself exist in that fragile, fleeting moment, letting go of everything but him.

The soft sound of Tyler stirring pulled you from the haze of sleep. You opened your eyes to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, already reaching for his clothes. The early morning light filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over his figure as he moved quietly, carefully separating your clothes from his in the pile by the bed. For a moment, you wanted to reach out, to pull him back, to press your face into his shoulder and beg him to stay. But something in you had finally had enough.

He noticed you were awake, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile that you’d once let yourself believe was meant just for you. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hand brushing over your shoulder. 

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured. “You need the rest.”

But you couldn’t—not anymore. Watching him move through the room, watching him get ready to leave again as if it were just another morning, you felt something inside you finally shift, that last fragile bit of hope you’d clung to finally snapping.

Sitting up, you took a steadying breath. “Tyler,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. He looked over, a hint of surprise in his eyes at your tone. You struggled to keep your voice even, the words tangled in your throat. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep waiting for someone who always leaves when things start to feel... real.”

He stilled, the easy expression on his face fading as the weight of your words sank in. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the same struggle you’d seen a dozen times before, but this time you weren’t going to let it end with an unspoken understanding. You were done with the quiet promises, the hope that somehow, one day, he might change.

“Stay,” you whispered, feeling the tears prick at your eyes. “Just... stay. I’m not asking you to give up chasing. I just want you to come home—to make this your home. To choose me.”

He looked at you, something like regret flickering in his gaze, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you wanted. 

Instead, he let out a shaky breath and looked down, and when he looked back up, all he managed was, “I’m sorry.” And you knew, in those two words, he’d already made his choice.

As he turned and started for the door, you found yourself following him, your steps echoing in the silence of the house as you trailed him through the hallway, the kitchen, the living room—all the way out onto the porch. You watched as he opened the truck door, throwing his bag into the backseat like he had a hundred times before.

“Don’t come back,” you said, the words escaping before you could stop them. Your voice wavered but held firm, steady with a finality that startled even you. 

He froze, his hand on the truck door, then turned to look at you. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—shock, maybe even hurt—as he crossed the driveway and came back up the steps, stopping just a few feet away.

“You don’t mean that, darlin’,” he said, his voice low and careful, as if he could talk you back from the edge. “You’re upset, I get that, but... you don’t mean it.”

But you shook your head. “I do, Tyler. I can’t keep doing this. If you’re not choosing me, then... then don’t come back.”

He held your gaze, searching for something, as if hoping to see the softness he’d come to rely on. But when he only saw your resolve, he let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly. 

“I’ll call you later,” he murmured. “We’ll talk.”

And just like that, he’d told you everything you needed to know. You didn’t need a call. You didn’t need another apology. You’d waited long enough.

You stood on the porch, watching as he climbed back into his truck. He didn’t look back as he drove down the driveway, the morning sun casting his truck in a halo of light as he disappeared into the Kansas countryside. You watched until he was just a speck on the horizon, your heart breaking and mending all at once with the realization that this was truly goodbye.

You’d loved him with everything you had, but you knew now that you couldn’t keep waiting for him to choose you. And when the phone finally rang, you knew you wouldn’t pick it up. Not this time. Not ever again. Because the next time he came back, you’d be moved on, ready to start again without him.

[harryspet]

well kept [5] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, emotional/mental manipulation, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: even longer chapter :)

word count: 5.3k

In which Rafe presents you with his plan for your future and you question the true cost of his offer.

well kept masterlist

You breathed easy for the first time in a long while. You laughed, smiled, and your heart beat at a normal pace. You sipped your drink not from nervousness but from a desire to truly enjoy yourself. The evening was about fun and connection, and you were determined to embrace it.

The week following your cabin trip had been a deep pit of depression. Your friends, concerned by your obvious distress, had insisted you join them for the weekend. They only saw the stress of work weighing on you, Rafe’s hidden bruises were invisible to them. You had opted for jeans and a crop top, deliberately avoiding a dress that might reveal the lingering marks of his anger. 

It was an act of rebellion to wear something Rafe hadn’t picked out but it was freeing. It was time you accepted that he didn’t own you 24/7, he had no right to you two days out of the week.

You bought your friends drinks, a part of the new perk that came with having salary. You liked treating them but every swipe of your card reminded you of all you were putting up with to get it. 

What Rafe did to you, he did out of selfishness, no one who cared for you truly could treat you like he did. You certainly weren’t a couple like everyone in Rafe’s close circle assumed you were. You didn’t know much about relationships or what real love looked like, but you were certain of one thing: whatever you had with Rafe would never evolve into something warm and tender enough to be labeled as love. You were reclaiming some normalcy. Or at least, that was what you hoped for. 

The three of you had decided to move the party back to your apartment at 2 AM, and the city lights flickered like stars in the darkened sky. Imani, with her arm securely interlocked with yours, clung to you, her presence both comforting and grounding amidst the night’s chaos.

You squeezed into the backseat, chatter and laughter from the evening buzzed in your ears. Angel was making smalltalk with the driver because that was just the type of person she was. Closest to the window, you checked your phone for the first time all night. Three messages from Rafe. Your heart started to beat in the rattled way it had been, pressing against your ribcage in a way that made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. 

Two images of you. Outfits you’d sent him. Along with a message. 

For Monday and Tuesday. - R.C. 

Sent at ten the night before. Imani leaned closer and you locked your phone, shoving it between your legs. 

“He’s really texting you? It’s Saturday.”

“Sunday now,” You tried to not sound rattled as you met her eyes.

“Like that makes a difference,” You expected her tone to be light given the vodka on her breath and silly pop songs playing on the radio, “No wonder you’re going crazy.”

“Crazy?” You laughed but it came out hollow, “Y-You guys thought I was sad and now I’m going crazy?”

“Yes,” She spoke matter-of-factly, “And it’s strange that you won’t tell us anything about him.”

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” You said, realizing she wasn’t going to drop it.  You wondered if this was her plan, to get you drunk and then pry out all the gossip about your new boss.

“I’m really worried, Y/N,” She said, “You don’t have to tell us everything but at least … let us help. We can help, I promise.”

Angel tuned into the conversation, realizing it had gone serious, “Yeah, my Mom and Dad are literally cops, Y/N. Just say the word-” 

“I promise it’s not that serious, Angel,” you said, shaking your head. The idea of involving the police felt almost laughable given the magnitude of Rafe’s wealth and influence. “I told you g-g-g-guys, he’s just a demanding asshole.”

“If it’s not that serious than why has he been over at our apartment? If you’re not sleeping together or not dating?”

“It’s complicated,” You spoke robotically. 

“We want to be there for you,” Angel added. You wanted to believe that. If you told them the truth, you’d have to explain why you hadn’t walked away yet. Rafe had given you every reason to quit and yet here you were. 

“You guys are there for me. I-I-I appreciate this night so much. I’ve just b-b-b-been letting work consume me. You guys have pulled me out of my fog. This next wwww-week will be better because I’m actually taking care of myself.”

It was an excuse, a way to rationalize why you hadn’t walked away from Rafe yet. You started to believe it, convincing yourself that things would get better just because you were trying to take care of yourself now.

“Just because he’s rich doesn’t mean he gets to have your body,” The world seemed to go quiet after Imani spoke those words. The music quieted and both you and Angel stared at her, the heavy silence enveloping the three of you. 

“She’s right, you know,” Angel said softly. 

How had she seen so clearly what you were trying to hide? Why were they prying into your life? You were an adult, after all. You should have the right to make your own decisions, however flawed they might seem to others. But their concern felt invasive, as if they were prying into a private struggle you were barely managing to keep under control.

Pity. 

Your best friends pitied you, “Oh, y-you’re not serious,” You smiled crazily, “He’s not …I’m nnn-n-not …you both have it so so wrong.”

They stared at you, trying to guage your reaction, but your heart and brain were going crazy. You couldn’t pick what emotion to convey because you were feeling all of them. 

“I’m drunk,” You rested your head back, “I’m so drunk.”

As the rideshare pulled up to your apartment building, you fumbled with your seatbelt, eager to escape the heavy conversation, “Y/N, we didn’t mean to upset you,” You heard Angel say at they followed you out of the car. 

“I’m okay. So okay.”

You wanted to hurry inside the lobby but felt a hand wrap around your arm, “Y/N,” Imani stopped you. 

You whipped your head around, panicked, “I’m fine. I sss-said I’m fine.”

“You boss’s car is parked over there.”

You followed her pointed finger, and your blood ran cold. There it was—Rafe’s sleek black car, parked conspicuously outside your building. “Wha—” you stammered, unable to process the sight of it, “Oh.”

“Why the fuck is he here?” Imani cursed. 

“I’ll meet you guys inside–”

“Go talk to him but we’re standing right here until you’re done,” Imani crossed her arms in front of her and gave you pointed look. 

“Angel,” You looked at you other friend, pleading. 

She shook her head, “We’re standing here, Y/N.”

“Fine,” You whispered. It was a quiet declaration of your frustration, a statement of your internal struggle. 

They didn’t trust you. You could take care of yourself. This would upset Rafe, you knew it would. You took a deep breath as you wandered towards the small parking lot beside your building. His bright truck lights shined against the brick of the building and you saw his arm resting outside the window, fingers drumming nervous on the frame. You pulled at your crop top, wanting to force it to be longer, as you got closer. 

“Y/N,” His voice cut through the night air with a sharp edge. 

Tonight, Rafe’s blue eyes were wild. Instead of the usual darkness you saw behind his pupils, you saw wildness. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and his other hand was busy rubbing worried circles over his buzzed haircut, a nervous habit you hadn’t seen before.

“Rafe, wh-what are you doing out here?” You dropped the formalities. It felt wrong to address him with respect, more than it usually did, when he was sitting outside of your apartment at two in the morning. 

He looked you over once, before his door opened, and he climbed out. Dressed in a polo and khaki shorts, he left his car running, before he was standing in front of you. Only a foot away and already you weren’t breathing correctly. He moved closer but you said, “You shouldn’t touch me.”

Hurt, confused, he gave you a look you hadn’t seen before, “Why not?”

You gestured as subtly as you could, to your two friend who were settled under the awning that hung over your apartment buildings entrance, “My roommates are waiting for me.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked, before his hands found his hips, “Right,” He nodded before he laughed, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just feel crazy tonight, you know?”

Yes, you knew. Now your crazy was starting to feel like nothing compared to whatever was building inside of your boss. He was different tonight, younger, and out of control, “What are you doing out here?” You asked again, “It’s two in the mmm-morning.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to show up like this. I just wanted to talk to you. I came earlier and you weren’t here and I … I started spiraling, you know? You’ve been out all night. I don’t like …I just felt fucking nervous.”

“Nervous b-because I went out with mmm-mmm-my friends?” Your words were cautious but you couldn’t help that your eyebrows raised in confusion. 

“I needed to see you.”

“You see me now,” You said, “What … what is it?”

Rafe took a breath, “I made a mistake at the cabin and I think, ever since then, you’ve been distant.”

You nodded as you tried to understand his meaning. He made a mistake when he spanked you with a belt, making two of his close acquaintances listen to you scream, and leaving you to cry yourself to sleep. The distance he now complained about was a direct result of his actions—a defense mechanism you’d put in place to protect yourself. And yet, here he was, expressing frustration over your response, as if your withdrawal was the real issue rather than his behavior.

“Rafe, honestly, this isn’t h-h-helping … I d-d-don’t know if I can handle this right now. I don’t know if I can be who you need me to be,” You took a step back and you were comforted by the fact that he couldn’t take a step towards you. He wouldn’t make a scene, not in front of your roommates. Maybe you could forgive their intrusiveness. 

Rafe seemed to tense at your words and you watched as his eyes wandered down the sidewalk towards your friends, “Okay, uhm …they say something to you?” His voice carried a note of suspicion, as if their presence was somehow a direct affront to him.

“They’re my friends,” you replied tersely, hoping that would be the end of it. Of course your friends had expressed their concerns about him. 

“Okay,” Rafe said, his voice edged with frustration. “I just … I’m here because I want to fix things.”

“C-Can we talk about it on Monday, please?” You asked, “I’ve been-”

“You’ve been drinking,” He filled in your words, more unamused than before, “It’s not safe, little girl like you, only your friends to protect you … there’s lots of bad, bad people in this city.” 

The way he said "little girl" stung. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it, but it felt more patronizing and condescending tonight.

“I can take care of myself,” you said firmly, taking another step back towards your building, trying to put more space between you and his imposing figure.

“Can you?” he taunted, the words heavy with mockery. “Alright, I’ll give you some space. You know what? Go ahead and take Monday off, you deserve it, sweetheart.” 

“Goodnight,” You said before you turned away from him. You jumped when you heard his truck door slam close but you didn’t look back. 

Your friends, witnessing the tense exchange from the corner of the awning, approached you with concern written on their faces. Angel reached out, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft but filled with worry.

“Fuck, that dude is crazy,” Imani said, “You have to quit. I’ll get another part time job. We both will while you look for something else. We’ll make it work.”

You should have cried in their arms, letting their comfort and love wash over you, but instead, all you felt was exhaustion and apathy. You didn’t have the energy to be comforted or to express your gratitude. Numb and drained, you trudged inside, your mind already longing for the softness of your pillow. Your friends followed quietly. 

Tuesday morning, your alarm didn’t wake you up. There was a pounding on your door before Imani stormed into your room. Heart racing, you lifted your head and checked your phone sitting on your side table. It was thirty minutes before your alarm was even supposed to go off, “What the-”

“Look!” Groggily, you sat up in your bed just as a crumpled white envelope was thrown at your chest. You held it up to the light trickling into your room from the window, and you easily saw red bold letters stamped across the top of the letter: EVICTION NOTICE. 

Without another thought, you ripped open the envelopement, “It’s probably a-a prank, Imani.”

“What is going on?” Angel stumbled into the room next, mouth full of foaming toothpaste. 

You held open the letter as you began to read carefully, “As per the terms of your lease agreement and in a-a-accordance with the state and local regulations, this letter serves as your official notice of eviction–”

“Fuck,” Imani cursed. 

“This decision has been mmmm-made in alignment with our current business strategy which includes renovating the apartment to increase its value and preparing the property for sale to a prospective buyer …”

“Someones buying our entire apartment building?” Angel asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

“This is fucked,” Imani added. 

You continued reading, “The termination for your lease w-w-w-will be affected sixty days from the date of this notice. Please ensure thhh-that you vacate the premises by this date …”

You read the letter over and over, trying to make sense of it. The signature at the bottom confirmed its legitimacy.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Imani sat down on the edge of your bed, head in the palm of her hands, “They can’t do this. It’s illegal! Where are we supposed to go?”

“Sixty days from now is right before the holidays start,” Angel leaned in the doorway, her eyes starting to well with tears, “I can’t go back home.”

Imani shook her head, “This apartment is my home.”

Determined, you climbed out of bed, pulling on the work clothes you had pre-selected. You kicked off your fuzzy socks, removed your bonnet, and began fixing your braids into a messy bun. “I’m going into the office,” you said resolutely. “I w-w-w-work for a real estate company. Rafe will know what to do. They can’t just do this. If anyone knows how to get out of this, he will.”

The two girls exchanged glances, their concern palpable. “We don’t need his help,” Imani said firmly.

“I don’t think I want it,” Angel added quietly.

You stared at them, incredulous. “He c-can help. You don’t know him like I do.”

“Y/N, is this really smart?” Angel asked, her voice tinged with worry.

“I can’t believe you guys. Get out, I’m getting ready,” you snapped, frustration rising. “Get out, now!”

As they left the room, their worried faces lingered in your mind, but you were focused on finding a solution.

Despite drunkenly conveying your uncertainties about your position with Rafe a few nights before, that morning, you were the epitome of perfection.  You wore exactly what he had chosen for you: a light blue dress embellished with sparkling sequins, pockets, and a Peter Pan collar. You even spent more than ten minutes putting on your makeup that morning, you looked flawless, more effort than you’d ever put in before.

You recited his entire schedule with only a slight stutter, had a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him at his desk, and arranged for lunch from one of his favorite restaurants. You allowed him to wrap his hand around your waist, to lean down and bury his face in your neck, to inhale your scent and press a gentle kiss against your skin.

It was like nothing had changed. Seeing Rafe outside of your apartment that night was frightening, a reminder of the presence he now had in your life, but you’d never seen him look so … desperate. Rafe Cameron was desperate for you, of all people. It dawned on you that perhaps there was room for negotiation. At the cabin, you had vehemently resisted his behavior, and his reaction had been explosively violent. But now, with him admitting to a mistake and showing a rare glimpse of vulnerability, you realized you might possess more leverage than you had previously imagined.

You spent the first few hours at work hyping yourself up to bring up the eviction notice to Rafe. All of his morning meetings went well and he didn’t have the usual cloud of darkness that was constantly over his head. When there was finally a lull in the day, you finally told him the news you’d learned that morning. However, his reaction made your face fall into a frown that you didn’t have the strength to correct.

“I’m not sure what the problem is. Don’t I pay you enough to be able to afford your own apartment?”

“My friends …” you began, struggling to find the right words. Mentioning your friends was wrong. You knew how he felt about the voices of reason in your life. 

“Right, your friends. What would you have me do?” His words continued to be indifferent and detached, as if he could want you so bad, but care nothing about the lives that were closest to you, “Offer them jobs? Pay for them to live as well?”

“No, that’s nnn-not what I mean,” It felt like he was purposefully miscontruing your words, and in turn, your character. Of course you didn’t expect for him to take care of your friends. Not letting him take advantage of the sea of emotions you were feeling, you recited your problem clearly, “I just want to know if you have any advice. For handling the situation. Something that’s in our control as tenants.”

“You don’t have much power at all, as tenants. You’re subject to the decisions made by the property management and the owners,” Before the reality of his words fully sunk in, he sighed, continuing, “You could look at your lease agreement and read it thoroughly to find any clauses that protect you. You could consult with a lawyer though that would be a pricy right to go down. You could talk to your landlord and try to get an extension to find a new place. That’s where I would start, sweetheart.”

Rafe’s hands folded together, looking up at you, as a smile graced his face. You nodded, “Okay,” You were grateful for a straight answer, but admittedly, you thought he would offer a better solution, “What should we look for in the lease? What would protect us?”

“Anything about early termination, language about renovations or changes in property management. Stipulations about how much notice is required before evicting you. If the landlord has violated any of those terms, it could be grounds for negotiation.”

“Huh,” you nodded, your heart filling with a small bit of hope, despite how out of reach some of his suggestions felt, “O-Okay, thank you. Yeah, I’ll t-t-talk to my roommates about it.”

“If it were me, I would be make sure I focused on my own safety and well being. You can’t really help your friends if you’re out on the street with them.” 

His words, rude and smart like always, stung but you didn’t dwell on them, “Thanks for the advice, sir.” 

For the rest of the morning, you shuffled between tasks and scrolling through your lease agreement. You searched it for the keywords that Rafe at mentioned and when that search wasn’t fruitful, you started to read it top to bottom. Your landlord was only required to give you sixty days notice for an eviction. You found absolutely nothing about property management changes. Hours passed and as lunchtime approach, you were sufficiently frustrated. 

You brought Rafe his lunch as he sat through a lunch time meeting but you made your way to the breakroom quickly afterwards.

Imani had called you a few time so you returned it. You’d texted your groupchat about all the steps that Rafe had mentioned. Imani had replied that he was probably withholding information. You weren’t quite sure why that idea hadn’t crossed your mind. 

“Hey, I still haven’t found anything–”

“Cameron Development is the one purchasing the apartment building, Y/N.”

Your heart sank and you plopped down on the breakroom’s leather couch with a heavy sigh, “Shit,” You whispered. 

“Shit is an understatement,” She replied, “Y/N, I’m starting to think you need to be really careful. Maybe we should go to the police.”

He’d lied to your face, unabashedly. 

"We'll talk about it later, I promise," You spoke before you hung up, not giving her a chance to argue.

It was much too late for careful. You should’ve ran after your first conversation with him but now … you were effectively trapped. Rafe had sex with you even when you didn’t want to. He hurt you and you held him for comfort after you. It had been weeks since you’d even felt like yourself. 

You leaned back to stare at the ceiling and you didn’t move for the next thirty minutes. Eleanor was the one who came to find you after you’d gone missing, “Y/N, Rafe’s been looking for you. What are you doing?”

“Did you know?” You asked her solemnly, your voice felt broken. 

She came to sit beside you and you felt her place a hand on your shoulder as she leaned closer, “Topper told me they rushed the deal. Offered twice the asking price. Said it was horrible idea, completely financially irresponsible, but Rafe insisted. ”

“Wh-What should I do?” You turned your head towards her, tears in your eyes, “I-I’ve never had sss-someone feel this way about me b-but th-this feels wrong.”

“What should you do?” She repeated, “I think he loves you.”

“L-Love?” You seemed to choke on the words. 

From what you could tell, it didn’t seem that Rafe was capable of loving anyone, “What does your gut tell you?”

This entire time, your gut had been telling you one thing, “T-To run?”

Even now, you were so unsure of yourself, “Makes sense, he’s suffocating you.”

You sat up in your spot, “Should I go now? Leave all my stuff? He p-paid for it, anyways.”

“I don’t think this is the time,” She squeezed your shoulder gently, her eyes soft as they fixed on you, “If you run, he’ll drag you back to his mansion kicking and screaming. Rafe just made this grand gesture to display his power. A huge fuck you to all the people you care about. He’s desperate. This is your time to get what you want from him. Tell him, you’re not going to be his little sex secretary anymore or follow him to the mountains, unless he changes.” 

“Y-You think he can change?”

“I didn’t think so before,” Eleanor said, her voice firm. “But now, seeing how desperate he is, I believe he’ll do anything to keep you.”

You could barely admit to yourself that part of you wished what she was saying was true. The notion that Rafe might have feelings for you, even if expressed through flawed and controlling actions, was both intoxicating and unsettling. Maybe you could take the bad with the good if the good started to outweigh the bad. But Rafe’s bad was more than bad. His soft gestures were often accompanied by demands and manipulations. 

There was no pros and cons list to be made. You looked at your situation objectively, Eleanor’s words having finally forced you to. If you ran, he’d come after you. If you ran, you’d have nothing. No apartment or salary to support yourself. You longed for a relationship where you felt safe and cared for and you wanted to live in a world where your friends were also taken care of. 

“I hope you’re not handling your personal business during workhours,” Rafe had said when you finally returned to the office. 

Ironic, given all the personal things you two had done together in that very office. 

“I’m not the one who made it personal,” You spoke easily, smoothly. 

You made your way to your desk. Your words seemed to bothered him but you didn’t glance at him long enough to take in his reaction. 

“And how did I make it personal?” You flipped through your personal calendar, taking a pen and marking down all of Rafe’s scheduled social events. 

“It’s not g-g-going to work. Using my friends to threaten me.”

“Oh?” That single word was dripping with venom.

“Just makes me think even www-worse of you. And I-I already had a poor opinion.”

“Yeah?” You wanted to look at him but you kept your eyes focused down, “What makes you think I give a fuck about your opinion of me?"

“B-Because I drive you crazy. Because I’m the one person y-you want to control completely.”

“Maybe I wanted to make things easier for you. Maybe I know that you’ll outgrow your little friends soon and you need a push in the right direction. You have friends in higher places now, you know that?”

“Y-You don’t like that they tell me to quit. That they know sss-somethings wrong with you.”

“You’re wrong,” He shot back.

“You’ve done a good job b-because now I can’t leave without losing everything,” It took everything to keep your voice from breaking. Finally, you turned your heads toward him. You saw the way his chair was towards you, the way his grip was tight on the armrests of his chair.

“Maybe I’ve been selfish.”

You scoffed at that, “You’ve mmm-made it clear that you don’t care about my needs or mmm-my feelings.”

“I know your feelings, sweetheart. You wear them so clearly,” Rafe replied, you could see it in his face that he was trying to keep his tone subdued He leaned foreward slightly, eyes as intense as ever, “Tell me what needs I haven’t tended to. Let me fix things, yeah?”

His offered seemed genuine and exactly what you were hoping for, weren’t you? 

“You really want to fix things?”

“Yeah,” He said like the crimes he’d committed against you were something that could remedied, “I can’t change what I don’t know.”

“It’s not just about what you’ve done wrong. It’s a-about how you handle things from now on,” You started, choosing your words carefully, “It’s about allowing mmm-mmme to set boundaries and respecting them.”

“Boundaries?” His head twisted to the side like he wasn’t entirely familiar with the term, “There’s multiple?”

“First, I want you t-to do what you can to remedy this apartment situation. Then, I don’t want you to ever bring my friends into this again.”

“Fine, I’ll get them another apartment. I’ll even throw in free rent.”

“No,” You shook your head, “You own the building which means you let us stay. No renovations.”

“I made an investment. I have to make a profit–”

“I’m serious,” You countered, “Y-Y-You made your point. You have all the mmm-money in the world and we have nothing in comparison.”

Rafe sighed, fingers tapping against his leg, “Okay, they stay but you come to live with me.”

“What? Why?” It was another layer of control, not a solution. 

“Your friends will want nothing to do with me or my help. If you continue to work for me, they won’t want anything to do with you either. If you want to maintain those relationships, some space would be better. Let them see you happy and they’ll come to their senses about our relationship.”

The implication of his words was clear. He was offering you a way to keep your friends, but it came with the price of further entangling your life with his. It felt like a manipulative trade-off.  You thought about the way he had manipulated you before, using your friends as leverage, and it made you wary of his intentions.

“I won’t say yes right now,” You decided, “Sss-sss-since we’re talking about living situations. Next year, I want to stay in Charlotte.”

“That won’t work.”

What had Eleanor told you to do? Had she forgotten how stubborn he was? 

“Y-You’re asking me to move across the state with you. I-It’s t-t-t-to much. There will have to be another arrangement.”

“Hmm, I won’t say yes right now,” he repeated your wording with an edge of mockery. You scowled, feeling the frustration build up inside you.

“You just sss-said you wanted to fix things.”

“My intentions … my intentions are to leave the city and spend the next few years settling down. I’m getting to a certain age and I’ve been thinking about, you know, getting married and having kids. It feels like the right time,” The information is a shock to you, not the thought of Rafe wanting a wife and kids, but knowing immediately he was implying that you’d be filling that role, “It’s a beautiful area. I wouldn’t expect you to continue your role there. You’d fully be a stay-at home wife, you could pursue any hobbies you wanted, and of course you’d have access to even more money than I’ve been paying you.”

Rafe began to paint a picture of a gilded cage. On the surface, it was tempting: a life of comfort, stability, and freedom from financial worries. But the price was your independence and autonomy. The thought of becoming a stay-at-home wife, completely reliant on him and cut off from your own life in Charlotte, was suffocating.

“What if I d-d-don’t want that life? W-What if I want my own career?”

He hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, “What career do you want? I’ll give it to you. You can do practically anything from home these days. If you want to spend the first years doing that, fine, I’m not expecting kids right away.”

You hadn’t realized it but your breath was starting to quicken. You placed a hand over your chest, all of that resolve you had going into the conversation starting to fade away, “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Rafe seemed to talk to himself, “Hey, hey, calm down.” 

Your breath came out in quick shallow breaths. Rafe’s proposal pressed down on you as the room started to spin. You felt his arms around you before you could fall from your chair, “Eleanor, I need you here,” You heard clearly. For the next moments, you could only hear their muffled talking. You remembered seeing both of them, panicked look on Eleanor’s face, a hand rubbing down your back. Rafe was talking to you, his eyes trained on you intently. You remembered a glass of water coming to your lips and you tilted your head back, welcoming the liquid, thinking it might quell the fire inside your mind. 

Though your thoughts still raced, the room’s spinning slowed down, and the you heard Rafe dsay, “It’ll help you feel better.”

He stayed with you, rubbing soothing circles into the skin of your thighs, “Thank you,” You whispered though you hated that you found comfort in his touch. A wave of drowsiness overcame you and despite your best efforts to stay alert, you felt yourself lean forward until you were fully in Rafe’s arms, “Rafe–”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Rest,” Rafe murmured, his voice soft and reassuring as he held you close.

This got too long, gonna have to make another part! Pls pls pls reblog and let me know your thoughts and predictions!

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 4 masterlist

-

At the quantum level, an electron can behave as both a wave and a particle. It is the act of observing it that confines it to a single form. The electron that once could’ve passed through multiple openings at once is forced to choose a single path when observed. 

Because what the eye sees becomes—

“—real,” you whisper, staring up at the face hovering in the window beside your bed. His smile doesn’t waver. “You can’t be real.”

“Sorry about the other day,” he says, instead of answering. “I got a bit lost after you left.”

Again, you pinch the soft skin of your thigh to wake yourself up and twitch when the pain sets in. The reassurance that you’re still awake doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you. 

“This isn’t real,” you repeat to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing heavily out through your mouth. “This isn’t real.”

Your words are met with a silence so profound that it almost feels as though you’ve plugged your ears, until you open your eyes and he’s still there, waiting right outside the window.

The blue lights around the inside of the window glow soft against his dark skin. You can make out the finer details of his face up close—the smoothness of his skin; the faint scar on his cheek; the fine grooves in his plush bottom lip. Too beautiful to have spent the last several days without food or water or sleep or fresh oxygen. You, with access to all of those resources, feel grimy; gritty. Skin tight against the bone, and hollowed.

“Was that you? Before?” you ask, thinking of the astronaut you saw drifting out in the distance, so lifeless and limp that you imagined the body within it long expired. 

He nods. The motion is slow, deliberate; still that sluggishness analogous with zero gravity. 

You wait for him to volunteer more information, but he just smiles wordlessly at you. It’s difficult to know where to begin. You’ve always been the kind to break a problem down into smaller, more manageable parts, but with this you don’t even know where to start. Its bigness is all you can focus on. The enormity of it. 

“Where did you go?” you ask instead. “You weren’t—…you were gone when I came back. We couldn’t find you.”

He blinks. “Elsewhere.”

“You can…move around out there?” 

“I can.”

His deliberate evasiveness frustrates you. Ostensibly one-dimensional with his glib charm and easy smile, but with an unplumbed depth. His response provokes more questions than it answers, and you can tell that it’s intentional. 

But again you’re prescribing an internal locus of control to an apparition that has been proven to exist only in your head. It can only supply you with information that you already have. 

And that’s the real quandary, isn’t it? The thing that has you whispering softly to yourself oh no oh no oh no oh no in the quiet of your room. Your body knows that the front door of your mind lies on its side, ripped from the hinges, dirt mounds blackening the entryway. And now outside stands a man, waiting to be let in. 

“How am I able to hear you?”

He smiles. “You must just want to listen.”

You huff out a breath through your nose. There it is again. 

“Who are you?” you ask, and you know that his answer won't matter. It won't matter because it won't be real. Because it's just you in your head and the words are too loud and whatever sickness is in your mind has crystallized in the body of a man that stares at you with a gaze too intense, too penetrating for what he is.

“You can call me Gaz,” he says simply, teeth peeking out from behind his lips when he enunciates the name. Glinting sharp like bone in the blue light. 

His answer makes you blink. It doesn’t seem like a name that you would come up with, but the mind works in mysterious ways. You didn’t think it could conjure up a person either, and now look at what’s happening to you. And it is happening to you, of that you’re sure. 

“Are you going to let me in?” he asks before you can open your mouth again.

He presses his gloved hand to the window. The folds in the fabric spread with his fingers, the pads of his fingers flecked with dust and grime, worn from years of use. 

You give a curt shake of your head. 

“Love…” Gaz says warningly. 

In the few days since he first appeared in the window, you’ve never heard him use that tone. You’re not too proud to say it frightens you. Whether he’s real or just in your head, so far Gaz has been perfectly affable, and you’re not sure you’re willing to face the implication that he might not always be that way. 

“I need to sleep,” you plead. “T-tomorrow—I’ll…I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

You press a button on the wall that drops a panel over the window with a quiet shunk, blocking Gaz from view.

When he knocks again, a shiver ripples down your spine. Guilt twists your insides up in knots. All you can do is pull the comforter over your head and block your ears. 

By morning, the temperature in your room has dropped a degree. You bundle up in a thicker sweatshirt and boots before going for your morning cup of coffee, but for the first time since takeoff all those months ago, you head for your work station instead of sipping your coffee in the cockpit. 

You start to hear him no matter where you are on the ship, a window no longer necessary. Always it comes after two solid raps against the hull of the ship, the sound jolting your heart into a frantic beat, pulse fluttering wildly under your skin. And then his voice, muffled through the layers of aluminum and titanium alloys, but intelligible despite the impossibility of it all. 

Sometimes, you respond. Just a few words to acknowledge his existence, even when the wall separating the two of you is impermeable, only his voice accessible to you. 

That makes it worse somehow though. Displaces his voice from his body, forcing you to reckon with his presence like a symptom of a bicameral mind, your own thoughts projected from you into the world. What difference is there between his voice and an audio hallucination? You should know better than to indulge in it. 

You’re beginning to understand the real root of the problem. The crux of it all. There’s a box in your mind labeled psychosis, and in the months of prolonged isolation and discomfort, you’ve inadvertently unshelved it, pulled it out of its storage space and peeled the lid open, all of its contents now released into the world. 

The thought is terrifying. You wonder if you can even trust your own mind, if everything is now compromised. Can you even trust what you see in front of you, or have you made it up as well? The thought is so disturbing that it paralyzes you in your bed at night. 

You’ve taken to sleeping in the medbay because it’s one of the few rooms without access to any exterior walls. Several other crew quarters separate it from the hull, while the main corridor runs along the other side. It’s the only place where you’re able to get a decent night’s sleep, though the lights stay on, fluorescent white at all times, programmed to stay at full brightness in case of an emergency. 

Even the sight of your own reflection makes you flinch until you realize it’s just you. 

One twenty-four hour period cycles into the next, pulling you into its embrace like crossing over an event horizon, your future self already distended out in front of you. 

In an effort to finally put you to good use (you try not to resent the implication when it’s framed like that), Farah tasks you with conducting pressure checks on the fuel tanks and lines around the ship while she continues to focus on the issue with the cruise control. You’re tasked with attaching a pressure gauge to the tank and increasing the pressure while keeping an eye out for any leaks or drops in pressure. A task simple enough that even the uninitiated could perform it. Busywork. 

You shut down the part of you that beats on your chest and demands that you leave. That this isn’t your job; you were brought aboard for a particular purpose and this isn’t it. You could be conducting your own research instead in the comfort of your lab, ensconced in data on antimicrobial resistance in space or microgravity-induced orthostatic intolerance. Not checking fuel tank pressure.

Someone raps their knuckles against the wall nearest you from the outside of the ship, startling you. 

“Shit,” you curse, the pressure gauge slipping out of your hand and clattering to the floor. You sigh when you bend down to pick it up and wince when you notice a crack in the glass where it hit the floor. 

“Love? Is that you?” Gaz asks from the other side of the wall, voice muffled.

Ignoring his voice doesn’t keep your heart from beating harder. You try to focus instead on the task at hand, pressuring the tank to fifteen hundred psi and waiting for the needle to stabilize on the gauge. Nothing abnormal. You jot it down and move on to the next tank, removing the gauge and starting the process anew. 

Another thump against the hull, the sound sending a jolt through your body. 

“I know you’re there.” He sounds amused. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

How could you avoid someone in your head? You almost say as much but then catch yourself on the verge of opening your mouth. You turn back your task, scrolling down the checklist on your tablet. 

There’s an edge to his voice the next time he speaks. “This is starting to annoy me, love.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you whisper, finally breaking, the stylus nearly slipping from your clammy hands. Brows scrunched, eyes shut tight. Another breath out to stabilize yourself. 

“Ah, there you are,” Gaz hums. “Thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Just ignore it, you think, breathing in and out again. 

“You’d rather talk to Farah than me,” he says when you don’t respond, almost accusatory, and you nearly brush it off until you register what he said.  

“How do you know her name?” you hiss under your breath, turning your head to stare at the panel that his voice emanates from behind. 

“I thought I was just in your head,” he says, amused again. Voice lighter than a moment prior. Easygoing as ever.

You worry at your lower lip until the skin threatens to break. “Yes, but—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Your head whips around at the sound of Farah’s voice. You hadn’t heard the cargo hold doors open, but she stands in the doorway, staring at you with an unreadable expression, shoulders squared and hands on her hips. 

Your instinct is to ask her how long she’s been standing there, but that won’t serve you in the long run. You almost want to ask if she heard his voice too, but you don’t think you could handle her confirming to your face that Gaz’s voice is all in your head. 

“…No one.”

Her face hardens and you wonder if you made the wrong call choosing to lie to her. But what else should you have said? The wall behind you remains conspicuously silent.

The next few seconds under her gaze feel endless. Eventually though, Farah pivots on her heel without another word and leaves the way she came, the doors sliding shut behind her. 

The room bellows its cold ire. Only the sound of your own breathing reaches your ears. 

An hour passes. Possibly longer. The stress eats away at your insides. Though you don’t cross paths with Farah for the rest of the day, you can’t help the way every sound makes you flinch and glance towards its source. Jumpy; paranoid. 

You make yourself dinner when the galley is still empty and eat in the medbay instead of with the rest of the crew. The peppery aftertaste is more prominent than usual while you eat; you almost have to choke your food down. Almost metallic, like antiseptic. 

It happens again on your way back to your quarters. The lights cycle with the night and dim in the hallway, a soft pale glow like a low-hanging moon illuminating the floor in front of you. 

You catch him in the corner of your eye this time, no knock to signal his presence. Just an astronaut hovering outside the window, nearly translucent with the absence of light. The fear that overcomes you is almost animalistic until it settles into the folds of your skin like an ointment rubbed in, and you turn to face him. 

It’s the same but different. You know what he wants. What he’s waiting for. 

“I don’t think I can let you in,” you whisper, looking away from the window to the other side of the hall. His gaze seers into the side of your head.

“Why not?” It’s the first time Gaz’s voice has sounded cold to your ears. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. 

“I’m worried you’re not real. That maybe you’re just in my head. And I can’t—” You bite your lip, swallowing the warble in your voice. “—I can’t let them know I’m crazy.”

Let them know. As if it were a foregone conclusion. As if you’ve already passed the point of no return. But what other conclusion could you draw from your observations as of late? The constant disappearances and reappearances, his voice in your head only when you’re alone. His voice in general, somehow audible despite there being no medium for it to pass through. You’ve been ignoring his anomalous properties because you’ve been desperate to believe that your mind hasn’t been compromised. That you aren’t a danger to the people around you—a voice in your head telling you to open the airlock when there’s nothing out there in space. 

When you turn your head, he’s still there, eyes stony behind the visor of his spacesuit. He tilts his head and the visor glints black for a second, suddenly opaque, obscuring his face.

He looms like a figure straight out of death, imposing even from the outside of the ship. Your arms hang limp at your sides, locked in place under his gaze. Even the thought of moving fills you with dread. 

But he isn’t real; he’s just in your head.

When Gaz lifts his head again, his visor clears and his smile is pleasant again, back to what it once was.

“I’ll prove that I’m real. Wait for me, love.”

And then he’s gone, the view beyond the window night sky black. Gone between one blink and the next; faster than light.