#i just feel like i physically can’t read fics

[atlabeth]

bittersweet - joel miller

summary: you stumble into joel's life and he has no intentions of keeping you there. too bad you're just as stubborn as he is.

a/n: did someone order a whole novella of plot mixed with occasional banter ending with no relationship in sight but a new bond that will inevitably grow to be more? no? here it is anyways!

set before joel gets to boston but he's already been separated from tommy but who tf cares about canon tbh we're just having fun here. i started this when the show first began and as usual, abandoned it and as usual, came back with a fervor 2 years later. hope you all enjoy! i barely proofread this bc ive already read it so many times while writing and i physically cannot do it one more time rn so please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes

wc: 20k (officially my longest one shot! congrats joel)

warning(s): fem!reader (she is southern); decent age gap (joel is 40 and r is 27), half and half on fluff and angst; canon typical violence, some directed at reader; a lot of cursing; a lot of gun violence throughout most of the fic; numerous gunshot wounds; threats of sexual violence against reader but nothing ever happens! joel kills a lot of people (and is kinda mean for the first half of this); inaccurate medical stuff!! i did my research but am prob wrong on some stuff so pls dont flame me

both gifs bc i imagined both of them while writing and bc theyre both so hot jfc

You wish you weren’t so accustomed to waking up to gunshots. 

You dart up from your bed immediately, the sound rattling around your brain as your weary mind tries to make sense of the situation. You have your pistol in your hand before you even fully realize it, your instincts honed even in your grogginess.

Screams accompany the gunfire and you push against the grimaces trying to fight their way to the surface. This isn’t the first time the compound you’ve stayed in has been taken over by force, but it’s the first time you’ve been this unprepared, and the first time you haven’t been on the ground floor for easy evacuation. No one is in your room trying to kill you—not yet, at least—and you have to take that blessing while you’ve got it. 

You throw on your jacket and shove your feet into your boots, thankful you tucked your laces in months ago. You can handle the minor discomfort in exchange for the advantage. You throw what you can into your backpack, ensure your knife is secured in its sheath, and edge towards the door. 

Normally, you share a room with Devon, but she went on a supply run alongside a few others a couple days ago—you regret not taking her offer to come along on account of your many patients, but you can’t waste what could become a very short life on regrets. 

You open the door and peer out, trying to gauge your chances. The gunshots are getting closer and the screams are louder. If you weren’t on the top floor, you would have considered the window. But you have to get to the infirmary first, and you don’t really feel like breaking your legs. 

Soon as there’s an opening, you run. Your most recent area of refuge is a run down high school, and you know it well after your months here. You practically throw yourself down a hallway to hide from a group of men coming up the stairs, and your heart threatens to beat out your chest. 

Their rifles and shotguns are much bigger than the little handgun that you’ve carried state to state. You have to press your body against the wall to stop it from shaking, and grip your pistol so tight you feel the ridged handle indent into your palm. 

“Go room by room!” one man at the front shouts. “Leave no survivors!” 

Your only hope is to get out before they find you. The infirmary is in the old nurse’s office on the first floor—if they’re already up here gunning down the last of the compound, then you have little doubt that your patients are already dead. There’s no point in joining them out of some false sense of heroism. 

There were no heroes anymore. 

You back up slowly, making sure you stay flush against the wall while you keep an eye on the hallway. You think about slipping into the classroom you’re next to, but you decide against it. You can’t afford to get trapped. 

You continue to stealth your way down the hallways, keeping your head on a swivel as you try and think through all your escape routes. 

There’s another staircase on the other side of the top floor, but that might be too out in the open. A couple of stairwells are tucked behind unassuming doors, but that would leave you even more trapped if things went south. And of course, you can always throw yourself out a window and hope you don’t break your legs. 

More gunshots, more screams—you hear the thumps of bodies falling to the floor and you have to steel yourself. It doesn’t matter that these people were your friends or acquaintances or anything close to it. They’re dead now, and you refuse to join them. 

You turn the corner and immediately retract—a trio of armed men are going classroom by classroom, and you hardly stand a chance against one. Once you retrace your steps, you poke your head around the corner only to be greeted with the sight of more bandits. You press yourself against the wall, heart racing. 

You’re stuck in this hallway, dead if they see you. Might as well make things a little worse and at least get yourself some cover if you’re trapped either way. 

The ceiling is crumbling above you, has been falling apart for a few months. You pick up a piece of tile, take a deep breath, and throw it as hard as you can. Two of the trio go to check it out, and the third is focused on them to watch their backs. You dart out of your hallway and run as quick and quiet as you can, and you make it to the alcove leading into a classroom. 

Twin classrooms actually, connected by a door in the middle, so you’re not completely stuck. You breathe out a sigh of relief, but it’s immediately short-lived when you hear the pump of a shotgun.

You whirl around to see the empty shell fall to the ground, your hands already flying up on instinct. You’re staring down the barrel of the gun, held by a man standing in the doorway between the two classrooms. He doesn’t look particularly nice, but he hasn’t shot you immediately, so you should learn to count your blessings.  

“I’m a doctor!” you proclaim, your heart threatening to pound out of your chest at this point. You’ve learned it’s the best thing to lead with. “Don’t shoot, I—” you suck in air as fast as you can, but all this running with your life on the line is wearing on you— “I’m a doctor.” 

Again, he doesn’t instantly kill you. He keeps his gun trained on you and takes a few steps closer, and you’re making much more eye contact with the barrel than him. 

“A doctor?” he repeats skeptically. “You look a little young for that.” 

“I was a surgical resident before the outbreak,” you lie. “I just have a young face.” 

He lowers the gun just slightly, so it’s not aimed at your head anymore. “You’re a surgeon?”

“Yes,” you nod repeatedly. “They said to leave no survivors, but I— I can help any of your wounded. As much as you need, just— just please don’t kill me.”

The man stares at you and you tense every muscle in your body to not shift under his scrutiny. Eventually, he fully lowers his gun. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. You feel like you could collapse from the relief, but it doesn’t last long as he moves in. Soon as he’s close enough, he slams your hand against the wall and your gun falls out of your limp grasp. 

Your heart rate spikes as you flatten yourself against the wall in an effort to put space between the two of you, but it’s fruitless. 

“If you’re fuckin’ lying,” he mutters, his hot breath hitting your face as his grip on your wrist tightens painfully, “you’ll end up like the rest of your people.” 

“I’m not lying,” you enunciate stiffly, staring him right in the eye. 

The man holds your gaze for another moment before he nods, seemingly satisfied. He lets go of you to pick up your gun from the ground and tuck it in his holster, and you stumble forward when he pushes you with the barrel.

“Get movin’, little lady,” he says. “I’ve got an awfully itchy trigger finger.” 

You fight the urge to talk back. You’ve avoided getting shot for this long, and you don’t really fancy getting a shotgun to the face in such close quarters. You keep your hands up and start walking, hoping by pure will you can stop them from shaking. 

You walk out of the classroom and through the hallways, and you’re able to catch glimpses of dead bodies as you go. You recognize far too many of them—those with their features still intact, at least.

These people welcomed you into their community with open arms, treated you like family even though they’d only known you for a few months. You knew anyone like that didn’t last very long, but you tried to ignore it. 

You couldn’t think about that now, though. That was how the world worked—how it had worked for a long time now. 

You stumble your way down the stairs and finally make it to the lobby. Even more bodies litter the first floor—you see Eleanor, the woman who brought you back here when she could have left you for dead; Delilah, who you worked with in the infirmary; Cade, who flirted with you too much for his own good but always managed to make you laugh—

Your focus is jarred from thoughts of your comrades survival to those of your own as the man pushes you hard with the barrel of his gun. You just barely manage to catch yourself with your hands as you fall to your knees. You look up to see yourself in the middle of a group of bloodstained bandits, and you clench your hands into fists to keep them from shaking. 

“What part of ‘no survivors’ do you not understand, Jake?” one of them says. “We don’t need another mouth to feed because you want a plaything.” 

Your skin crawls at the thought, but he just shakes his head with a grumble. “I’m not like Marshall. Didn’t kill her ‘cause she says she’s a doctor. She can get Becca and Joel back on their feet,” he looks pointedly at a woman, “can make sure Nadine’s still in working order.” 

“How do you know she’s not lying?” the woman counters, and she squats down to look you in the eye. You meet her inquisitive gaze, refusing to look away—she breaks first, at least, and stands back up. “Could be tryin’ to save her own ass.” 

“I’m not lying,” you grind out. “Wouldn’t do me any good to get shot at your camp instead of here, would it?” 

“Watch your mouth,” she says, but she backs off anyways. 

“Check her for weapons and tie her up,” another one says. “We’ll take her back once we’ve picked this place clean.” 

Again, you swallow the words you want to say. You bite your tongue when you’re wrestled from the ground and searched for weapons. You don’t fight back as your hands are tied together behind your back, you don’t fight back when Jake prods you with his gun even as he follows you to the infirmary to get your medical bag, you don’t fight back against anything. 

You’re a captive of the people that slaughtered your friends, only alive because of the overexaggerated skills you’ve used like a shield since the outbreak started. Your continued survival depends on helping people you might not even be able to save, and you doubt this group will want to listen to your medical explanations. 

But you are alive. And that’s all you care about. 

(You’re not breaking the one damn promise that still matters.)

-

It’s not a very fun ride back. 

These people travel by horse and they don’t want you running off, so you have to sit in front of Jake, the man who spared your life who seems to be some kind of leader. He makes idle comments to pass the time, and it’s not as bad as it could be, but you dislike him anyway. He did help murder your whole community. 

Sunrise comes around just as you make it to camp—you have to fight to stay awake on the ride, and when you jump down, you’re reminded that this slaughter happened in the middle of the night. 

It doesn’t matter how tired you are, though, because your work starts almost immediately. You think about asking Jake for coffee as he leads you to your first patient, but you don’t think he would take too kindly to it. 

He mentioned Becca when he was pleading your case, and she ends up being your first stop. She’s got a nasty gash on her leg that she got from hopping a barbed wire fence and it’s kept her off her feet since it happened. 

You clean it out as best you can and stitch it up with what these people have on hand, which happens to be a needle and thread. At this point, you think you’ve done more stitches this way than the normal way. To her credit, she bears it well—better than Jake, who grumbles every time you ask him for the materials you need. It’s like he doesn’t even want you to help, which doesn’t really make sense when he’s standing there with his gun like he’s ready to shoot you at any moment. 

Next is Nadine, and you’re accompanied by the woman who accused you of lying. They must be close, because she doesn’t leave her side during your entire checkup. Nadine has a broken arm that you can tell she hasn’t been resting properly, but at least there’s no swelling. They’ve already done a makeshift sling for her, so you just do a par for the course checkup then refashion her sling to be more effective. None of them appreciate you telling her she needs to rest, but you figured that would be the case. This doesn’t seem to be the happiest bunch of people. 

Finally, you’re hauled off to your last patient, Joel. You’re exhausted from your sleepless night and walking on glass with every passing second, but he’s the last one. He can’t be too difficult to deal with. 

You reach the final room and Jake pounds on the door. 

“Joel!” he calls. “You decent?” 

“Do you know what time it is?” a gruff voice responds, and you hold back a sigh. Is everyone here difficult? 

Jake opens the door anyway and gestures for you to walk in. You do, and you see a man laying down in bed atop the sheets. His eyes are closed but he doesn’t even look peaceful—just annoyed. 

You purse your lips. Everyone here is difficult. 

“We got ourselves a doctor,” Jake says. “So stop complainin’ and let her look at you.” 

“I don’t need a doctor,” he says. 

“You got shot two days ago,” he retorts. “Only reason no one’s looked at it more is because no one thought you would make it through the night.” 

“I’m fine.” He sits up with a groan characteristic of someone who is not fine, and he levels his gaze at you. “You’re wasting your time.” 

“I’ve got nothing but time,” you say. “I don’t think he’s gonna let me leave until I look you over, so…” 

Joel scoffs. “Don’t tell me you went and kidnapped a doctor.” 

“We got lucky at the school,” Jake says. 

He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m fine.” 

You glance at your captor. “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.” 

“You better get somewhere,” Jake says. 

“I might make better leeway without you standing over me,” you say. 

He frowns. “You’re a prisoner. Can’t trust you alone.” 

“I’ve gotten through the past two patients just fine.” 

“I don’t need you jumpin’ out the window and running the first chance you get,” Jake says. 

“Look,” you say, a muscle working in your jaw, “do you want your man to get through this or not? Because if you do, I need to work in silence, and it doesn’t seem like the two of you are very good at it together.” 

He doesn’t budge, and you let out a loose breath. “You can wait outside, and if I do anything suspicious, feel free to shoot me. But at least give me the room.” 

The approval of your own murder seems to satisfy him, however temporary, because after staring at you for another moment, he grunts. He goes over to the door, then lifts his gun and looks at you. “Remember, I’ve got an itchy trigger finger.” 

He leaves the room to let the threat sit in the air, and you close your eyes and sigh deeply. You don’t know when, but you know you have to get out of here eventually. 

“And just who the hell are you?” 

You open your eyes to see Joel staring right at you, very unimpressed. He looks to be in his 40s, the greying in his scruffy hair and beard giving it away—if that didn’t do it, the hardened weariness in his eyes would. 

Men like him tend to be the worst patients, at least in your limited experience. Something tells you Joel won’t be any different. 

“A doctor,” you say. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t look like a doctor,” he says. 

You already hate this guy. “Sorry. I lost my white coat and stethoscope when people started eating each other.”

“I mean you look too young.”

“Well, you look too old to still be this annoying,” you retort. “Now tell me what’s wrong with you so we get over this quicker. ” 

Joel grumbles and rolls his eyes, but he eventually answers you. “Got shot a couple days back.”

“There an exit wound?” you ask. 

He nods. 

“How much does it hurt?” 

“Like hell.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “You this short with all your doctors?” 

He grunts, and you sigh as you kneel down next to him. “Alright. Show me.” 

Joel stares at you for a moment before relenting. He shrugs off his jacket then pulls up the bottom of his shirt, revealing a shoddily bandaged wound on his lower chest. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Who patched you up? And when?” 

“Does it matter?” he asks. 

“Yes, actually. Helps me know the likelihood of infection, and if there is one, how fucked you are.” 

“Why do you need to know who did it?” 

“Because it’s pretty shitty handiwork,” you say. 

“Kept me alive,” Joel says. “Far as I’m concerned, that means it’s pretty good.” 

You roll your eyes. “You tell yourself that when you’re dying of sepsis.” 

“Not everyone has your luxuries, doc,” he responds dryly. 

“I’d say you certainly have some luxuries,” you say. “Looks like this missed your major organs, for one. You’re extremely lucky.”  

 He huffs a mirthless laugh. “Wouldn’t really classify myself as lucky.” 

“You should,” you say, glancing back up at him. “Takes an awful lot of it to get by these days.” 

Joel remains silent. You sigh again and take it as your sign to start working. 

You gingerly peel back the bandages, and to Joel’s credit, he only grimaces the smallest bit. 

“No infection,” you murmur. “That’s good.”

“Guess it was patched up pretty well then,” he says. 

You glance up at him. “You dressed it yourself, didn’t you?”

Joel shrugs. “Maybe.” 

“You seem pretty normal for someone who got shot a few days ago,” you say. 

“‘Cause it’s not the first time,” he says. “You tellin’ me you haven’t been shot?” 

You shake your head. “Stabbed, sliced, scratched, bit, but never shot.” 

His eyebrows rise. “You’ve been bit?” 

“By people, not infected.” You chuckle. “The one thing I’ve managed to avoid, at least.” 

He makes some noise of acknowledgement. “Things get crazy in that hospital of yours?” 

You smile wryly. “Nothin’ crazier than I see out here everyday. And nothing worse than Outbreak Day.” 

Joel goes quiet at that. You don’t know why you continue on as you clean out his wound, why you’re talking so much when you went through the last two patients in relative silence. Maybe it’s because Jake isn’t standing over your shoulder. 

“I worked in a hospital in the middle of Boston,” you explain. “The city practically imploded when it all started—felt like we were the epicenter of it all. Patients turned their nurses, folks in the waiting room killed their families, and all the infected that managed to escape went on a rampage in the city.” You shake your head with a sigh. “Sometimes I still don’t know how I made it out alive.” 

You feel Joel’s gaze on you for a long time after. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, so you busy yourself with dressing both sides of his wound now that you’ve cleaned it out. Eventually, though, he speaks. 

“Boston’s a long way from Kansas,” he says. “How’d you end up here?” 

You shake your head again as you finish taping the last piece of gauze across his exit wound. “Can’t reveal all my secrets day one.” 

“Bold to think I care that much,” he says. 

You frown. “You were the one that asked.” 

He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted when the door opens. Both of you look over to see Jake, looking unapologetic. 

“I got bored,” he says, answering your unspoken question. “Can’t take this long to bandage someone up.” 

You set down your nearly depleted roll of gauze. “I just finished, actually.” 

“He gonna live?” Jake asks. 

“Bullet went straight through and missed any vital organs or arteries, so he really avoided the worst of it,” you explain. “I cleaned it the best I could and covered it with gauze—I think it would do more harm than good to stitch it up. He should be okay, but someone should really monitor him for the next few days to make sure it stays that way. And if you have antibiotics, send ‘em his way. Better to be safe than sorry when it comes to infection.” 

“Good,” he nods. “I think we have a couple—I’ll get ‘em to you.” 

“Good,” you echo. “Then I think we’re done here.” 

You stand up from the bed, thinking you’re finally in the clear, when he pulls out a pair of handcuffs. You’re about to question it when he opens them and clips one side around the radiator next to the door, then looks at you. 

“We got one last order of business,” Jake says, and it clicks in your head. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you say incredulously. 

“You said it yourself,” he says. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on him. Might as well be the one that treated him.” 

“This is ridiculous,” you spit. “I did what you asked, and you treat me like— like a goddamn animal?” 

“You’re a prisoner,” he says, like he has to remind you. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. You’ll run off the second you can.” 

You grind your teeth together. “Can’t even put me in a cell like a dignified prisoner?” 

“If Joel dies, it’s your head,” he says. “You should thank me. This gives you the best chance possible.” 

You want to fight it, but you can’t. Not when he could put a bullet in your head with that shotgun he seems very fond of.

So you clench your jaw, swallow your pride, and let him handcuff you to a radiator that looks like it’s a decade older than you. This motel they’ve hitched up in really has all the luxuries. 

“What if I do start dyin’ in the middle of the night,” Joel says dryly. “She can’t exactly work her magic with one hand.” 

“I’m sure she can do plenty magic with one hand,” Jake chuckles, and your skin crawls as he looks you over. You clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack. 

“Real clever, jackass,” Joel intones.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Just walk your sorry ass across the room if you have to.”

“You really thought this out,” he says. 

 “Don’t make me regret makin’ her save your life,” Jake says, and he turns his attention back to you. “Don’t do—“

“Anything stupid,” you interrupt despite yourself. “Yeah, I know.”

You feel the pain before you even really see him pull the gun out, the glint of metal the only hint to the searing fire in your cheek. You fall to the ground, hissing as your free hand darts up to nurse the wound rather than try to catch yourself. The pain smarts both on your knees and your cheek, blood already spurting from the cut he opened up. Your vision swims in front of you. 

“Watch your mouth, bitch,” he growls. “Remember why you’re here.” 

You just grit your teeth as he holsters his pistol—no, your pistol, the bastard—riding through the wave of dizziness. You want to remind him you won’t be of much use if you’re fucking dead, but you don’t feel like earning yourself another badge of his approval. So you just nod in submissive acknowledgement, and he looks at Joel. 

“Keep her in check, will you? I don’t feel like dealing with more of this bullshit in the morning.” 

“Sure,” Joel says. 

That seems to satisfy him, because Jake only gives you another dirty look before he leaves and kicks the door shut behind him. 

Your eyes begin watering against your will, lesser pain than you’ve experienced in the past somehow managing to bring you down. You bite down hard on the inside of your lip as you shift to sit against the wall, hoping a different source of pain will force the blood trickling down your cheek into the background. 

You can’t cry over something like this. Not in front of a man like Joel. 

“I know you’re looking,” you say bitterly. “If you want to call me an idiot, just do it.” 

“You’re an idiot,” he says. You don’t really know what you expect. 

“It’s one hell of a group you’re running with.” You pull your hand away from your cheek, grimacing at the concerning amount of blood coating your fingers. Between this and the dull pain in your knees, you’re going to bruise something fierce. 

Nothing like getting pistol whipped with your own gun by one of the hunters that slaughtered your community like sheep to make you feel at home. 

“They’re the same as everyone else,” he says. “Don’t know how you’re still surprised after all these years.” 

Your thoughts go back to the first group you had to leave. The first time you were forced to be terribly, horribly, woefully selfish, when you lost the only thing that mattered. You wonder if he thinks about you as much as you think about him. 

Screams echo in your mind. You shut them out. 

“...I’m not,” you say. “Just acknowledging.” 

As silence consumes the air between you, you can’t help but pull your legs closer to yourself in an effort to be as small as possible. You’re intimately aware that you’re at Joel’s mercy, and you can only hope he’s not that sort of man. Jake’s comments don’t bring you much solace. 

He must notice how tense you are, because he sighs and shakes his head. “Relax. Ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

“Sorry if I don’t believe that,” you mutter. 

Joel scoffs. “Don’t matter what you believe or not.” 

“Well, I believe that I’m royally fucked,” you spit. “I’ve been here for five hours and I’m already bleedin’ and stuck in a room with you. Doesn’t fare well for my future.”

“How’d you even end up here?” Joel asks. “We ain’t exactly bringing in new folks.”

You huff. “You weren’t too far off with them kidnapping a doctor.”

He doesn’t seem fazed, and you think that should concern you. “What, they just wander into a hospital and pick you up?”

“They wandered into a high school and murdered my whole community,” you correct. “I’m only here because I pleaded my case before they could shoot me.”

“...Wound does feel better,” he says. “Least you kinda know what you’re doing.” 

You glance away. “Bandaged more GSWs these past few years than I ever did in med school. I’m used to it by now.”

There’s another knock on the door and your whole body tenses. Joel calls out that it’s unlocked, and you’ve never been so grateful to see the woman from before. Nadine’s sister, you remember— Rachel. She breathed over your shoulder the entire time you fixed up her sister’s sling. 

“You better?” she asks. 

He nods. “Back on my feet, at least.” 

“Good,” she says. She seems to notice you, bleeding and deflated and restrained, and looks back at Joel unfazed. “What’s the deal here?” 

“Jake did it,” he says. “Wants to keep her in check.” 

“Long as it means she’s not a problem, I couldn’t care less,” she admits. “But you gotta get your ass in gear, Joel. Community meeting in the lobby.” 

“Y’all woke me up at four in the morning,” Joel complains. “Can’t let an old man sleep day after he gets shot?” 

“You said it yourself; you’re back on your feet,” she says. “Better see you in five.” 

She leaves and closes the door behind her, not even passing a second look at you. You felt less alone when you were moping your way through Missouri. 

Joel heaves a sigh and stands up. He grabs his jacket from the bed and slips it back on, buttoning it up in the middle. You watch him go through the motions because you have nothing else to do, but you notice the roughness of his hands. 

“You gonna do anything about those torn calluses?” you ask. 

He glances at you with a frown. “Why’re you lookin’?” 

“Got nothing else to do,” you say. “You don’t cover those up, they could lead to infection.” 

“Sounds like everything can lead to infection,” he mocks. 

“Kinda does,” you say. “‘Specially in this world.” 

Joel huffs a laugh and he pulls a couple bandaids out of your medical bag, still sitting on his bed. “That good enough for you?” 

“Don’t do it for me,” you say. “Do it for yourself.” 

He grumbles as he tucks them into his pocket, and you continue to watch him as he gets ready. Ties up his boots, shoves knives into sheaths on each leg, fixes the watch on his wrist—

“Quit starin’ at me,” he mumbles. 

“I told you,” you say. “Nothin’ else to do.” 

“Look at the wall,” Joel says as he slings a rifle over his shoulder. “More interesting than me.” 

“The wall doesn’t have your overwhelming charm,” you say. 

He scoffs. “Can’t believe I’m stuck with you.” 

You shrug. “Can always kill me yourself and be done with it.” 

“Who’ll save me when I crash in the middle of the night?” he mocks. 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” you say. “You patched yourself up, after all.”

Joel exhales a little harder than usual out of your nose, and you figure that’s what passes as a laugh around him. You take a strange amount of pride in it. 

You think he’s about to leave, but instead he picks up your medical bag and slides it over to you. 

“Patch yourself up for a change,” he says. “Don’t want you bleedin’ all over this expensive flooring while I’m gone.” 

That gets the slightest laugh out of you as you pick it up. “Thanks.” 

Joel grunts in acknowledgement, and he moves over to the door. You start unzipping the bag but have to pause, the sight of your blood all over your hand making you grimace. You’ve gotten some on your jeans unwittingly, and you can’t help but sigh. Sure, they’re already covered in dust and grime and blood from other people, but you didn’t want to add yours to the mix. Especially on your favorite pair of jeans. 

Maybe you’d be able to scrounge a bottle of hydrogen peroxide up sometime. It’s the least this world could give you. 

You look up to see Joel standing in the door frame, looking at you instead of leaving. 

“You’re gonna be late,” you say. “Then we’ll both be on Jake’s shit list.” 

Joel blinks. He looks like he wants to say something, but he just nods. 

“See you ‘round,” he says. 

“Not like I can go anywhere,” you say wryly. 

You go back to rummaging through your bag, trying to find the gauze you haphazardly shoved back in. Joel’s still looking at you, and his gaze burns your skin. You hope if you ignore him, he’ll leave. 

He does. He shuts the door behind him when he leaves, quieter and gentler than you expect. 

You stare at your hands, one bloodstained and the other cuffed. You’ve taken care of your calluses better than Joel, at least. 

The thought is warmer than it should be. 

Makes you realize how cold the room feels.

-

Joel doesn’t come back for a while. Half the day, you think. 

It’s difficult to keep track of time in here. With the door closed and the window shutters down, what little light streams through doesn’t give you much of an idea of the hour. 

You also don’t really have much to do, which makes the time pass even slower. 

You clean your cheek out the best you can and tape it shut with some small butterfly bandages. You hope that’ll make it heal quicker, or at least keep it protected from the elements. You can’t let it get infected after all you’ve spouted to Joel. 

It still smarts, but you try your best to ignore it. Jake did a number on you, and with your own pistol at that. 

He might have spared your life, but you’re killing him before you escape this place. 

You try to sleep, but it doesn’t really work. You’re exhausted, plain and simple, but you think your body will have to give out for you to get some rest at this point. The position you’re stuck in is too damn uncomfortable for your brain to shut off, and every time you get close, you just see the bodies of your friends, see the same nightmares you’ve relived for a year and a half. 

So instead, you decide to test your boundaries. 

You’re handcuffed to one of the middle pipes, which goes all the way down to the ground and about a third of the way up the wall. You use your finger to measure and figure out you have around five inches of leeway with the chain. Not enough to do much of anything with, but still something. 

Once you’re done with that, you just… look around. There isn’t much else to do, but this is Joel’s room. You were a psych minor before the world ended—maybe it’ll give you some insight into him, give you something to use. You’re not above manipulation if it means you can get someone on your side. 

But frustratingly, there’s almost nothing. It’s not like you expect him to have a whole decorated room in the apocalypse, but he’s really giving you nothing here. 

An open pack of bullets sits on his bedside table. His sheets are still a mess from his rude awakening because he didn’t bother to make his bed before he left. The extra unused pillows lay scattered on the ground, 

So you can’t analyze him using his barebones room—you have nothing but time, so you think back to how he looked before he left and go from there. 

Joel’s beard and facial hair were both relatively under control, so he’s someone who cares a decent amount about cleanliness and hygiene. He carries two knives and a rifle outwardly, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he had a handgun hiding somewhere or more weapons in his bag. He speaks with a Southern accent—stronger than yours, but you lost some of it while you were studying in Boston. 

You used to not mind. People seemed to respect you more without it, seemed to take you more seriously, and that was all you wanted in med school. Now, it just feels like another part of yourself that you’ve lost. Like you can’t even call yourself an Okie anymore. 

He looks to be in his forties, but you don’t remember a wedding ring. Whether he’s been a life-long bachelor or loved and lost and just chooses not to wear it, you don’t know. From what you’ve seen, all hardened survivor-like, it’s hard to imagine him with a wife and kids and a white picket fence life. 

But what do you know? Anyone who’s still alive at this point has to have a hardened heart. There’s no other way to survive. There’s a reason you’re fucking handcuffed to a radiator. 

Maybe before this all started, Joel was kinder. Softer. Maybe he did have a wife and kids, and he loved them more than anything. Maybe he actually smiled. 

You shake your head. No use thinking of the past, and certainly no use judging him. You’ve changed too. Everyone has. And if he has a family that he lost, then you’ve got more in common than you think. 

Maybe you can use that. 

Joel is covered in blood when he eventually comes back into the room. He gives you half a glance before he pulls his pack and rifle off and sets them on the bed. 

“Can’t believe you’re still here,” he says. 

“Can’t exactly leave,” you respond. “How’re you all bloody after a meeting?”

“Went huntin’ after,” he says. “Things move quick here.” 

“Well, how’d that go?”   

“We ain’t gonna starve, so as good as it could be.” Joel passes another glance at you, this time a little longer. “Your cheek looks better.” 

“Feels like shit,” you say. “How’s your chest?” 

“Feels like shit,” he echoes. “But I’ll live.” 

“None of that blood is yours, is it?” 

“No.” He points his finger at you. “And you’re not doin’ another checkup, doc, so don’t even think about it.” 

You smile sweetly and hold up your shackled wrist. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.” 

Joel huffs. “Still can’t believe Jake did this. Like he’s tryin’ to punish me, sticking you with me.” 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I feel like they’re punishing me by sticking you with me too.” 

“You can’t be stuck with me,” Joel says. “This is my room. You’re the intruder.”

“I’m real threatening, huh?” you mock. “So much so that I gotta be restrained.” 

“Threatening, no. Annoying, yes.” 

“You’re too kind,” you drawl. You watch him unpack some more, then you purse your lips. “Y’know, you really shouldn’t have gone hunting when you got shot a couple days ago.” 

“Was only half a mile out.” Joel scoffs. “There you go provin’ my point.” 

You hum. “Guess you really are stuck with me, then.”

“Lucky me,” he mutters. 

-

Joel is in and out for the rest of the day, and even when he’s in you don’t really talk. When he comes back for the night he at least brings some stale bread and a small ration of meat for you—you and your growling stomach are appreciative, but it makes you feel like a prisoner even more than the handcuffs. 

What’s worse is how annoyed he seems about it all. Like this was your choice—like you not only chose to throw in with these people, but you chose to stick yourself with him. You think about telling Joel that, but you decide against it. 

Just because he said he wouldn’t hurt you doesn’t mean he won’t go back on his word. People tend to not really care about their word these days. 

You try to make small talk, but he doesn’t give. Eventually, when he settles in for the night, you decide to try as well. 

It’s even more uncomfortable than when you tried earlier. You lay down on the ground, you lean against the radiator, you settle against the wall— it doesn’t matter what position you try because they all cause some part of your body to start hurting within minutes. 

You thought it would be easier, considering how many nights you’ve spent sleeping on hardwood floors and cold dirt, but it’s not. Blame it on your privilege from the bed in your previous compound or the unsettling nature of being stuck in a stranger’s room or the endless nightmares that follow you wherever you go—it doesn’t really matter. 

A few pathetic hours of tossing and turning pass, and Joel ends up throwing a pillow and a blanket in your direction. When you thank him, he just grunts in response and goes back to sleep. 

It makes it a little easier. Makes you feel a bit better about your forced company, at least. 

Jake comes by in the morning to send Joel on his way for whatever task he has to do that day and pick you up. He unlocks your cuffs and takes you on the world’s shortest version of rounds. You look at Becca’s leg wound (no infection), ensure Nadine is resting her arm (she is), and by the time it’s Joel’s turn, he’s already out and about. 

Turns out him lounging in bed was an oddity caused by being shot the day before, because you and Jake find him in the parking lot with a couple others getting ready to go out on a supply run.

“You know, you really should be resting,” you say as you walk up to him. 

Joel scoffs when he sees you approaching and puts the last bullet into his rifle’s magazine. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, allowing you to see the slight ripple of his forearm muscles as he pushes the bolt back into place. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Certainly don’t need you followin’ me around.” 

He grimaces a little when he stands up, and though he hides it well, you see his arm move for just a millisecond as he fights an instinct to press against his wound. 

“Clearly,” you respond dryly. “Look, I know what I’m talking about.” 

“You look like you learned medicine from watching Sesame Street.” 

You scowl. “I know more than you ever will. Just like how I know that if you ain’t careful, you’re gonna ruin all my hard work.” 

“I’m not gonna run a marathon, so stop bothering me, will ya?” 

“I’m your doctor,” you say. “This isn’t bothering.” 

“You’re not a doctor,” he says. “And you’re certainly not mine.”

“I am one, and certainly the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you huff. “You’re not dead, are you?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Just keep your mouth shut. It’ll do you a lot more good around here than whatever the hell you’re doing.”

“If you just let me do my check up, I would be gone already,” you insist. “Instead, you’ve gotta be a stubborn asshole.” 

Joel looks behind you at Jake. “You put her up to this?” 

He shrugs. “None of us really want you to drop dead out there, I ‘spose.” 

He groans and shakes his head—you’d think you were asking him to shoot his mother the way he’s protesting. But eventually, he sits back down and does a flourish with his hand. 

“Make it quick,” he tells you. 

“I’ll do it well,” you retort. “Pull your shirt up.” 

Joel does, revealing the bottom half of his chest once again, and there’s a whistle behind you. You see Joel shoot an absolutely scathing look out of your peripherals, and you do your best to ignore it all. 

The gauze is bloody, but it isn’t soaked through. You remove the dressings and redo them, glancing up on occasion to make sure you’re not hurting him. He doesn’t grimace or wince, but when he tenses every time your fingers brush against his bare skin. 

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I should’ve asked if I could touch you.” 

“I don’t care,” he says, but you feel him shift anyways. 

The rest of it goes by pretty quickly, since you did all the important work yesterday. Once you’re done, you zip your medical bag up and nod. 

“You’re good to go,” you say. “Just keep it clean to avoid infection. And don’t get shot again.” 

He snorts. “Don’t plan on it.” 

Joel walks off to rejoin the other hunters, and you watch him go until Jake clears his throat behind you. 

“Time for you to start payin’ your keep, little lady,” he says. 

You hum. “So I don’t just get to stay handcuffed to a radiator all day?” 

He pushes you with the barrel of his gun to get you moving, and you stumble into a walk. “I hope you’re better at maintenance than you are at jokes.” 

You just sigh and bite your tongue. He sucks, but he’s not actively threatening you. Might be the least you can ask for, at this point. 

-

Your keep, it turns out, is doing miscellaneous chores. 

You do laundry. You clean rooms. You help reinforce the wall. Bits and ends of a lot of different odd jobs, but you honestly don’t mind. It’s better than sitting in Joel’s room, shackled to a radiator and going stir-crazy. 

The one bad thing about leveraging your skills is that it makes you useful, and therefore, important. These people can’t risk you running out on them when there’s new injuries to deal with every day, so you’re constantly being watched. 

Random survivors that run off are just freeing up space and food. Random doctors that run off are risking lives. 

Jake tries to make conversation, and it’s painful, but you go along with it. You swear your cheek hurts every time you look at him—he doesn’t even apologize for it, even though he’s there in the background the entire day. You want to ask him if he has any other job than to stand around you and threaten you into submission with a shotgun, but you decide to keep your mouth shut. 

Night is falling by the time you finish things up, and you sit on a milk crate in the parking lot with another stale piece of bread and half a can of beans as your dinner. Not the most glamorous, but enough to fill you up. 

You’re beginning to think it’ll be an uneventful night when you hear yelling. 

“Open the fucking gate, now!” It’s Joel’s voice, angry and frantic. “We’ve got wounded!” 

You jump into action before you even really know what you’re doing and run to the wall, following two other men that were eating their own dinner in the parking lot. Jake is on your heels as the three of you push the dumpster working as the world’s worst gate out of the way. 

“The fuck happened?” Jake yells. 

“The fuck you think happened?” another one responds. “Runners and hunters and—”

“And Paul’s fuckin’ bleeding out,” a woman continues, out of breath as she runs in. 

You look up to see Joel bringing him over in a fireman’s carry, and you meet each other’s eyes. You let out a deep breath and nod, then pull your jacket off and lay it on the ground. You snap your fingers at another one of the supply runners. “Gimme your jacket.” 

He frowns and looks at Joel, and he narrows his eyes. “You fuckin’ deaf? Do what she says.” 

He does, thankfully, and you put it down next to yours. “Put him down, Joel.” 

Joel shifts him off his back slowly then squats down to get him on his feet. Paul’s knees buckle and Joel catches him, then lowers him to the ground. 

“Go get my medical bag,” you say. “It’s in your room.” 

He nods and runs off, and you look down at your patient. The top half of his shirt is completely soaked with blood, but you see it’s coming from his arm. You put as much pressure on the wound as you can, ignoring his groan of pain. At least that means he’s still alive. Unconscious, but alive. 

You look at another one of the supply runners. “What the hell happened to him?” 

“One o’ the hunters shot ‘em in the arm,” he says. 

“And where the hell is Daniel?” Jake suddenly says. “And Lee?” 

“What the hell do you think?” the woman spits. “They got bullets in the head before we even knew what was happening— runners had us distracted.” 

“And you thought it was smart to lead ‘em right back here?” Jake asks incredulously. 

“We already lost two,” she grits. “I wasn’t gonna lose a third.” 

“God fucking damn it!” he yells, and he points at the men that helped you open the gate. “Close the damn wall off, get your damn guns, and shoot on fucking sight! You hear me?” 

They nod and get to work, and Jake runs off just as Joel gets back. He has your bag in his hand and you look up at him. 

“Get down here,” you say. “I need your help.”

He nods and kneels down beside you, setting your bag next to you. 

“Put pressure on the wound,” you say. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding, but I think the bullet hit his ulnar artery. That’s why it’s gushin’ like hell.” 

Again, Joel does what you ask without questioning you. You’re thankful that everyone is listening to you when you need it—you only hope he survives this so they give you a little more leeway in the future. 

You rifle through your bag until you get your water and gauze. You push Joel’s hands out of the way and you hastily clean the wound, just enough to ensure any dirt and debris is gone. You start packing the bullet hole with gauze, again ignoring his groans as you push it in deep. You do the same to the exit wound so you don’t have to get your ungloved fingers all the way in his arm—thank god, because dealing with bullet fragments is a headache you don’t think you can handle right now. 

You see Jake run past with a number of people behind him. You recognize some of them from the raid on your commune, and it makes you realize your patient wasn’t one of them. 

They all have their guns drawn out of an abundance of caution, and you think it’s a bit ridiculous, but you keep your focus where it’s supposed to be. You get Joel to apply pressure again while you check Paul’s pulse, two fingers on his neck then his wrist. It’s weak, but it’s there, and right now that’s all you need. 

You’re just about to let yourself take it down a notch when a bullet whizzes right past your ear and buries itself into the pavement. 

Your scream gets stuck in your throat, and your hand flies up to your ear on instinct. You can’t even tell if you’re bleeding because there’s already so much on you. Guess it wasn’t ridiculous. 

Joel instantly shoots up from your side, bloodied hands already pulling his rifle off his back. He’s fired before you know what’s happening, and you lunge back over to put pressure on the wound again.  

A firefight erupts immediately. Jake and another woman are yelling orders, and you can’t see whoever is shooting at you all but your only thought is that of your patient. 

You watch Joel take another shot, and then he looks over his shoulder at you. 

“Get out of here!” he yells, fire burning in his eyes. You don’t need to be told twice. 

You slip your arms underneath Paul’s shoulders and stand up, then you pull him up as much as you can. You start dragging him, a mixture of adrenaline and pure willpower getting you through it. You get to the infirmary, thankful you stopped by there earlier when Jake was putting you through the gauntlet of odd jobs, and you get him onto a bed. 

You check his pulse once more—still there at a similar strength. His wound isn’t actively gushing blood anymore, and he’s regained some color in his face. Since it’s not worse, you collapse into a chair next to the bed. 

Gunshots ring out in rapid succession, and each one makes you wince. You would join to help, but you don’t have your fucking gun. At least if Jake gets shot, you’ll be able to get it back. 

You don’t think you have any friends here. But god, you really hope Joel makes it out unscathed. 

-

You don’t get to relax for very long. Three more wounded get brought in over the course of twenty minutes, each facing death in different ways. When the second is carried in, you force the escort to run out and get your medical bag, then stay with you so you can delegate. You only have two hands and you can't do every goddamn thing at once. 

One man dies almost immediately. He took a couple bullets to the chest and one hit an artery. He bleeds out before you can even start trying to pack one of his wounds. You can’t even take a moment of silence for him because your second patient starts crashing. 

It all blends together, honestly. Reminds you of the times you were with the code team for a shift, when everything was a life or death situation and everything could go wrong at once. But there’s only so much you can do in a motel room without any hospital equipment. 

You tie a tourniquet with pieces of your shirt and a stick from outside. You pack wounds once more. You drag chairs and pillows around to elevate limbs. You put pressure on the wounds until they stop bleeding. You get blood on every damn thing you touch because you haven’t been able to find latex gloves anywhere for the past two years. 

There’s only so much you can do when you have so little. 

Eventually, though, it settles down. The gunshots stop, the bleeding stops, and the pulses get stronger. Everyone that was alive stays alive over the next few hours, coming in and out of consciousness. It’s still quiet, though, because most of them immediately fall back asleep. Getting shot takes a lot out of you. 

Your assistant leaves after the first hour when you assure him you can handle the rest. You wish the sinks worked so you could get all this fucking blood off your hands, but you wipe off what you can and deal with the rest. Your shirt’s already covered in it. 

Maybe you’ll convince Jake to let you go on a supply run so you can stop by a lake or something. You don’t want to waste what little water you have on cleanliness, but you make a point not to touch your face more than you have to. The last thing you need is to get an infection because you got blood in your eye or something—you think that would be the stupidest way for you to die. 

You’re rifling through the barebones medicine cabinet, trying to see what would help in case of an emergency, when you hear approaching footsteps. You turn around to see Joel, and you can’t help but smile. 

“Joel,” you say, relief rampant in your voice, “you made it.” 

“So did you,” he says. He doesn’t sound half as glad as you do, but you’ve learned over the past two days that he doesn’t tend to show emotions other than anger. “How are they?” 

“One’s dead, three are alive,” you say with a gesture. “Dunno their names besides Paul, so I guess you can spread the word.” 

Joel nods as he looks at each of them. Again, he hides his emotions well—if he feels a particular way about any of them, he doesn’t show it. Eventually, he looks back at you.

“How are you?” His eyes trail up and down your body. “Any of that blood yours?” 

“Thankfully, no,” you say. “The worst is over. I found some antibiotics, so hopefully we’ll be able to avoid any infections. Barring those or any freak changes, the rest should make it.” 

“Good,” he says. 

“Any of that blood yours?” you ask, inclining your head. He already has a fair amount of dried blood on his jacket—comes with the territory of being Joel, you think—but there’s some fresh. 

“No,” Joel says. “We got most of the hunters, but some ran off. Couple of us went after ‘em to finish the job.” 

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he says. “Tracked ‘em to their camp and did what we had to do.” 

You nod. Seems these people are pretty good at taking out other communes, Joel especially. 

He probably wasn’t in the group that killed your people because of his gunshot. Had he been healthy, you bet he would have slaughtered them like all the rest. 

But he didn’t. And he’s shown you more kindness in his own way than anyone else here has.  

You realize hypotheticals don’t really matter to you as long as the bullet ends up in someone else’s head. You don’t really know what that says about you. 

So you look back up at Joel and ask, “We safe for the night?” 

“Yes.” 

You nod again. “Okay.” 

And that’s that. 

-

You spend the next few days in the infirmary watching over your patients. Jake is in and out, mostly checking in during the day to ask about the injured and make sure you’re not about to run away. When he stays, he lets his shotgun rest against the wall rather than keeping it pointed at you. Maybe he trusts you more—you think it’s more likely he assumes you won’t run because you have critical patients.

He’s right. You don’t know them, and you only know Paul’s name, but you feel like you have to save them—have to save him. 

Maybe it’s because this guy wasn’t part of the group that killed yours, maybe it’s because you think he’s your age, maybe it’s because he looks shockingly similar to Connor. But you feel a strange amount of obligation to this man to save his life. 

Even if you were in here alone, you don’t think you would run. Guess the Hippocratic Oath stays with you even after the world has ended. 

On the third night, Joel comes in. He has a bottle of water, your rations, and your jacket. 

“You left it in the parking lot,” he says when he hands it to you. “I picked it up when we got back from the hunt.” 

“...Thanks,” you say. You’ve been in these bloodstained clothes for way too long, but you don’t really have any changes. You were ripped out of your community as a prisoner, after all. 

You pull your shirt off and slip into your flannel. Even though some of the blood soaked through to your skin, you already feel better. You’re doing up the buttons when you realize Joel has turned his head, making a point not to look at you. 

“Uh, sorry,” you say. “I didn’t really think you’d care.”

“Figure at least one person here should respect your privacy,” Joel says. 

You chuckle. It’s oddly touching from someone like him. 

“Thanks.” 

You hang your shirt on the back of your chair. It kinda is your only top, so you can’t just go throwing it away. You’ll get it clean eventually. 

“The number’s down,” Joel says, looking at the beds. “Maya’s good?”

“I guess.” You still don’t know their names. “Bleedin’ stopped, and she was talking up a storm. Sutured her wound, gave her some pain meds, and sent her on her way.” 

“Good. How’re the rest doing?”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m mostly just waiting until they’re consistently awake and making sure the wounds don’t get infected.”

“You talk an awful lot ‘bout infections.”

You shrug. “Out here, they’re usually a death sentence.”

“Noted,” he says wryly. 

The two of you stand there for a while. The silence is awkward, but but you prefer that over the heaviness of the first night. 

“Just make sure you get some sleep,” he finally says. “You won’t be much good if you’re fallin’ asleep when we need you.”

You chuckle. “Noted.”

Joel nods again and walks off. You sit back down in your uncomfortable chair, ready for another night of anxiety, when he stops in the doorframe and speaks up.

“I’m sorry ‘bout how you ended up here,” he says carefully, as if he’s unsure of his words. “But it’s probably a good thing someone like you is at this motel.”

You smile. You think this is the first time you’ve heard him be this genuine.

“Thanks, Joel,” you say. “You’re a stubborn jackass, but you don’t make for a bad roommate.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him. “Night, doc.”

“Night, Joel,” you say softly. 

-

Things change after that week. 

Joel looks at you differently. Everyone does, honestly—no one thinks you’re lying anymore, thinks you’re some naive twenty-something. You can hold your own, and you’re not someone to mess with. 

But not everything changes. 

(“Are you fucking kidding me?” you protest when Jake takes you back into Joel’s room. “I save three of your men and you still don’t trust me?”

“I trust you to save my men, not stay put,” he says. Since you don’t offer your hand, he just grabs your arm, pulls you forward, and locks the cuff around your wrist. “And you’re more important than ever now, little lady.”

You lunge at him, but you come up just short when Jake steps out of your range. He tuts and shakes his head at you. 

“No need for that,” he says. “I’d hate to ruin that pretty face all over again.”

“This really necessary?” Joel asks, a hard edge to his voice. 

Jake shrugs. “Way you’ve been spendin’ time with her, figure you’d jump at the chance to have her to yourself. Just don’t break her.” 

Joel clenches his jaw as Jake leaves, letting out a growl when the door shuts.  

“Un-fuckin-believable,” you mutter. Now you’re sure you’re going to put a bullet in his head before you get out of here. 

“Took the words outta my mouth,” he grumbles. 

“You wanna shoot him for me?” you ask. 

Joel shakes his head as he sits back down on his bed. “Not yet.”

You blink. “Not yet?”

He grunts. “Ain’t talking about this with you.”

So you don’t. You don’t say much because he doesn’t say much—after your conversation with Joel in the infirmary, you’re not too keen on annoying him.)

You’re good enough to save lives but still can’t be trusted on your own. Maybe it’s actually a smart move, because you spend every spare moment thinking about ways to escape and ways to put Jake six feet under. 

You also can’t stop thinking about Joel’s words: not yet. 

You might have found an ally in the most unexpected place.

Another week passes with more of the same.

You check on your patients who have all survived their wounds. They’re out of commission for another week at least, but they’re alive. You finally have a conversation with Paul and he’s so much like your brother you want to cry.

You do the chores asked and now expected of you, and though you mainly keep to yourself, you find a friend in a woman named Trish when you spend a few afternoons together sewing up holes in clothes.  

Though you’re still not trusted alone and you don’t have your own room or the freedom to move around at night, you’re no longer expected to spend every moment inside the walls. You end up doing weekly supply runs with Joel and you don’t hate it as much as you thought you would.

They never let you take the horses out, and you still don’t get a fucking gun. Apparently, you’re still a flight risk. 

They’re not wrong, but you wish they would fall for it. It would be so easy to run with a horse.

So instead you’re given a knife, and you and Joel have to set out on foot each time. Always you and Joel, because apparently you can’t get away from each other. Maybe they think he’ll kill you if you do try to run. Maybe they can see you’re starting to warm up to him. 

You don’t know, and you don’t particularly care. Joel has made it clear he won’t hurt you if you don’t try to hurt him, so you feel safe hunting with him. Besides, he’s a killer shot and you’re great with a knife, so you make a good team either way. He even gives you his revolver to use on the road sometimes, though you always have to return it before you’re back at the motel. 

But if Joel is looking at you differently because of a newfound respect, you’re looking at him differently because of newfound feelings. 

He’s handsome, anyone can see that—gruff and grizzled and muscled from the life of a survivor. He has sharp, dark eyes that narrow at everything, so much so that you bet his crows feet are from years of distrust rather than years of laughter.

You never really paid attention to it at the beginning because you were terrified you were going to die. Anything you tried to figure out about him or his life was in the name of survival, was about pinning him down in order to manipulate him. 

Joel is angry and impatient and mean, and he's probably killed a hundred different people in a hundred different ways in the name of survival—but since that night he visited you in the infirmary, you swear he’s softened around you. 

Quite frankly, it’s ridiculous. He’s at least fifteen years your elder, this is the apocalypse, and you’re still in a camp full of enemies. You have no time to be making heart eyes at Joel.

So you don’t make heart eyes. Instead, you just stare at him like you normally do and tell him he’s crazy when he questions you about it. 

But god, it isn’t easy. You spend more time with Joel than anyone else—you guess he’s your Jake-appointed chaperone now—and the second time you go out on a supply run with him, you run across a lake. 

You convince him to stay for a bit so you can wash off, finally cracking when you swear to him you still have lingering blood on your hands from your night running the camp ER. You strip down to your undergarments with little care and dive in, and when you catch Joel looking you up and down in what he thinks is a covert way, you think your heart might burst. 

It’s been a while since you’ve done… well, anything sex-wise. You doubt you will ever get there with Joel, mostly because you’re going to take these feelings to your early grave, but you’re allowing yourself to be delusional when absolutely everything else in your life sucks.

After all the shit you’ve been through, you think you deserve it. 

You end up having to cut your luxury excursion short when you hear the distinct croaking of stalkers. Joel grumbles the whole time you’re getting dressed, saying you’re gonna be the death of him and this was stupid and he regrets ever saying yes to you, but he puts himself in front of you every time he thinks he sees one. 

It’s the little things. 

Two weeks later, on your fourth supply run, things go a little differently. 

Everything close by has been picked clean either by Joel’s group or people traveling through the area, so Jake and Marcos, the group leaders, decide that you’re going to go out farther than usual in order to get more supplies. Even though you go out every week, and other people hunt when they can, but it’s not enough. 

You’re fine with it and Joel grudgingly agrees to it, so after getting some extra rations and water just in case, you set out on your way. 

You find an abandoned convenience store when you’re walking down the side of a road that still has some water, meds, and cigarettes behind a couple toppled over shelves. It’s better than nothing.

When you venture into the woods you find a house. Joel insists on going first in case anyone’s inside—he checks the bedroom and the kitchen and says they’re clear. When he’s going up the stairs with his gun drawn, you a few paces after him on the bottom step, you get grabbed from behind. 

Your scream of surprise gets Joel’s attention immediately, and there’s a knife to your throat before you even know what’s happening. Joel has his gun trained on the head of whoever’s got you just as fast. 

“Let her go,” he says. 

“Not everyday I get a couple bargin’ into my house,” your captor says smoothly. He has one of your arms in an iron grip, and your other hand is an open palm to convince him you’re not a threat. “She’s too pretty for you, don’t you think?” 

“Joel—”

“Let her go,” he growls. 

“Y’all were gonna steal from me,” the man says. “Don’t see how we can walk out of here all friendly-like.” 

He presses the blade into your throat just enough to draw a thin line of blood, and you clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack. Joel meets your eyes, and they actually have something in them you haven’t seen before—fear.

“What d’you want?” Joel asks. 

“I think you know what I want,” he says. His grip on you tightens and something inside of you snaps. 

You stomp on his foot as hard as you can. He grunts, the action shocking him more than it hurts, but his grip loosens and that’s all you need. You move faster than him as you rip your knife from your belt and reel it backwards to stab him in the gut. You grab his wrist and wrench it to the side, giving you the space to turn away from him and kick him in the chest. He falls to the ground, you pull Joel’s revolver out, and you shoot him in the head. 

Your breaths are coming out as pants by now, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest as you stare at his dead body. Pools of blood are already forming behind his head and gut, and you feel nothing but red-hot rage. 

You’re so fucking sick of men thinking they can take whatever they want, thinking they have a right to whatever they want. You’re honestly glad this happened. It meant you got to put a bullet in his head. 

Joel says your name and you realize it’s the third time. You can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“I feel fine,” you say. This isn’t the first person you’ve killed, you want to tell him, far from it. This isn’t the first time you’ve killed to save your life, you want to tell him. 

For some reason, the words don’t form. 

“He tried to slit your throat,” he says. “You’re not fine.”

“Still standing, ain’t I?” 

He says your name again, a bit stronger this time. “You’re bleeding. You need to sit down.” 

“I’m—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and get you out of here myself.” 

You huff. “Now you know how I felt that first night.” 

Joel shakes his head. “Always gotta be right, don’t you?” 

“You know me,” you say faintly. 

You do sit down, eventually, if only because Joel looks like he would absolutely make good on his promise. You sit on the third step and he goes one below you, and you pull your medical bag out of your pack. 

“I can clean it out,” you say as you rifle through it for your gauze. “Your hands are probably dirty.” 

“Y’know, I’m not a complete idiot,” Joel says. “Remember when you said my bandaging was good?” 

“I said it was passable,” you correct. 

“‘Good enough to keep you alive’, I recall.”

“And you think I want good enough?” 

You finally get to your gauze—you swear, it falls to the bottom every time—when Joel puts his hand on your wrist. It’s gentler than you expect, even with the calluses. 

“Let me do it,” he insists. “Need to feel fuckin’ useful somehow.” 

You stare at him, hoping your pupils aren’t dilated or something else just as stupid to reveal that your heart is beating out of your chest. 

“That’s what this is about?” you whisper. 

Joel clenches his jaw and glances away. “He could have killed you and I just stood there.” 

“You didn’t have a clear shot,” you say. 

“I should have made one,” he says. “Out here, we’re a team. Partners. You don’t let your partner get grabbed.” 

“We had no idea he was here.” 

“I should have known,” Joel says roughly. “I shoulda known and I shoulda stopped him and you wouldn’t have had to kill him.” 

You cover his hand with yours before you can doubt yourself, and Joel looks back at you, surprised. He doesn’t pull away. 

“It was a mistake, and we got out of it,” you say. “If we’re partners, then you can’t put all the weight on your shoulders and none on mine. I held my own, didn’t I?” 

Joel doesn’t respond, and you sigh. 

“If they keep sendin’ us out on these things, then you’ll save my ass so many more times,” you continue. “And I’ll save yours, and we’ll joke about it when we get back to that shitty motel and Jake locks me to the radiator for the hundredth time.” 

“So it don’t matter that I pulled more weight this time,” you say. “Because it’s a whole lotta push and pull—you just can’t pull away from me because of this.” 

“Clever,” he says wryly. “You sure you’re not a writer?” 

You manage a smile. “Not even close. Are we good?” 

Joel pauses for a moment, his gaze falling down to your hand on his. He clears his throat and pulls away, then holds his hand out. You huff a laugh and give him the gauze. 

“We’re good,” he nods. 

You sit together in silence as Joel cleans the blood off your neck, only interrupted by your occasional wince. He’s surprisingly gentle with you in a way that you never would have expected, never touching you more than he has to. Your skin burns wherever he does, and it takes everything in you to keep your breathing steady. You don’t want him to know, and you don’t want to mess up his work. 

Joel finishes soon enough, and after a quick investigation in a broken bathroom mirror, you approve. You take what’s left from the house in supplies and then you get out. It takes a little longer because Joel refuses to leave your side—”what if a clicker bursts in through that broken window? You’d be dead like that.”—but you don’t argue. You think it’s sweet, actually, but you don’t tell him that. 

When Joel insists on heading back early, you don’t fight him. When you insist you want to keep his knife back at the motel, even if it has to be a secret, he doesn’t fight you. 

You don’t talk much on the walk back, but things are different. The air is lighter between you two. Joel doesn’t frown at everything. He actually manages to joke around with you. 

Things are different. 

You’re finding out that you don’t really mind. 

-

You go even farther on your next supply run. The area isn’t as scarce as it could be, but Marcos insists on stocking up before summer, when it’s too hot to constantly venture out like this with little water. 

Things are going pretty well, all things considered. You run into a decent amount of clickers over the miles that you’re able to take down with you distracting and Joel stabbing each time. You don’t run into any people, though Joel keeps his head on a swivel.

Eventually, though, it starts to rain. Clear skies shine above you, but you still get drenched within a couple miserable minutes. 

“Where the hell did this come from?” you complain. 

Joel takes a cloth out of his pocket and wipes down his gun. “They not teach the water cycle in schools?” 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” You scowl at the sky. “Was ‘sposed to be clear skies all day.” 

“We’ll just call it short,” he says. “Go back to the motel.” 

“We’re five miles out,” you say. The rain starts coming down harder and you curse. “We’re not making it back without getting soaked.” 

“You can’t handle a little water?” Joel asks. 

“I’m already miserable enough being around you,” you say. “Don’t need to add trench foot to the equation.” 

He shakes his head with a huff. “Fine. I remember a cave a while back— you have another mile in you?” 

“As a matter of fact, I did cross country in high school,” you say. “Also walked a whole lot when I was getting away from the coast.” 

“Always gotta one up me, huh?” 

You smile. “Always.” 

It ends up being a little more than two miles, but you and Joel make quick work of it. Soon enough, after you’ve checked for any infected, you’re sitting in a little grotto waiting out the rain.

You’ve both taken your top layers off to let them dry, alongside your boots and socks. It feels a bit strange, a bit too familiar, to be doing all this with Joel—but like you said, you’re not too fond of trench foot, so you deal with it. 

You sit near the opening of the cave, entranced by the downpour. The tension in your shoulders has slowly dissipated as you’ve watched the storm. There’s something calming about the sight, the sound— the way the world feels once it’s over. 

“You shouldn’t be so close to the outside,” Joel says. Miraculously, the tension comes back. 

“It’s fine,” you say. 

“Ain’t so fine when everyone can see you,” he says. “Ain’t so fine when a passing hunter doesn’t like how you look and puts a bullet between your eyes.” 

You sigh as you adjust your position to look over at him. He’s taken to sharpening a stick with one of his knives. “You always this positive?” 

“I’m realistic,” he says. “How do you think I’ve survived so long?” 

“Well, I’ve survived too,” you say. “And I’m not half the miserable bastard you are.”  

“You’re half my age,” Joel says. “Give it time.” 

You shake your head with a huff. “Got a bright future ahead of me, then.” 

“I’m alive,” he says. “That’s as bright as it can be these days.” 

“That’s so sad,” you murmur, your gaze turning back to the rainfall. 

You hear him stop with his knife. “What’d you say?” 

You know he heard you. Probably just trying to give you a chance to take it back, but you don’t care. “I said it’s sad.” 

“Don’t see how it can be sad,” Joel says. “Survivin’s all anyone wants out here.” 

“Maybe on a base level, but I—” you pause and shake your head again, trying to collect your thoughts. “I got a life I’m trying to build. Things I’m chasin’— things that make this all worth it.” 

“Like I said, you’re half my age.” The joking lilt he’s had fades, and you know you’ve struck a nerve. “Everything you’re trying to get, I’ve already lost.” 

“Joel,” you attempt, but he shakes his head. 

“I built a life and I lost it,” he says. “I’ve trusted people and I’ve paid for it. So don’t act like I’m doin’ all this for no reason.” 

“Then tell me,” you say, bolstered by his tone. “Tell me what you’ve gone through, what justifies this, so we can move past this— this barrier you’ve put between us, and actually get to know each other.” 

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” he grumbles. 

“Fine,” you say. “Then I’ll go.” 

By this point, you’ve shifted your position completely to face him. Joel still won’t look at you, but he’s gone back to sharpening that damn stick. 

“I’m not actually a doctor.” 

Sure enough, that gets his attention. He stops so abruptly that you think he might slice his fingertip off. He doesn’t, but he looks at you incredulously. 

“What?” 

“I’m not a doctor,” you repeat. “Or a surgeon, really.” 

He frowns. “Then how do you know how to do all this shit?” 

“I was studying to be one,” you say. “But I still had a pretty long way to go.” 

Joel glares at you. “How long?”

“I was in my third year of med school when the outbreak started,” you say. “Got to be MS1 for all of two months before everything went to shit.” 

“You didn’t even graduate?” he marvels. 

You shrug. “I passed my boards. Well, Step 1, at least. The world ended before I got to the others—”

“Oh my god,” he mutters. 

“I was still a student doctor,” you assert. “I know plenty—” 

“Not enough,” he interrupts. 

“Enough to keep my patients and myself alive,” you remark. “And more than enough to stitch up your sorry ass.” You gesture at him. “How’s that gunshot feel?” 

Joel just scoffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t look mad, like you thought he would be—just looks shocked, surprised, annoyed. Maybe angry just for the hell of it. 

“Why are you tellin’ me the truth now?” he asks. “No one else is around. I could kill you right now for bein’ a liar—tell the group clickers got to you.” 

“A liar with medical experience is better than nothing,” you say. “From what I’ve seen over the years, folks aren’t too keen on killing people like me. ‘Specially after I saved their people.”

“Besides,” you incline your head, “I don’t think you have the guts. Not after last week.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Joel says. “I’ve killed plenty of people less annoying than you.”

“Well, I don’t go down without a fight,” you say. “And I’m very good at stayin’ awake. So if you decide to go for it, you can’t take the easy way out.” 

He scoffs, but you notice it doesn’t have the malice you’d expect behind it. 

You should be wary. You’re alone together in the middle of nowhere, miles from your group—and they wouldn’t save you if it came down to it. For God’s sake, Joel has a knife in his hand. He could take you down easily enough if he wanted to. Weren’t you terrified of that when you were first stuck in his room a few months ago? 

But you’re not. You can’t deny that you like him anymore, and that could be clouding your judgment, but you’re not scared of him. Not since that night in the infirmary. 

You go back to watching the rain, making a point to have your back to Joel as you do. Maybe as a sign of trust, maybe to show you’re not scared of him—you don’t really know. But nothing happens. He doesn’t stab you in the back, literally or figuratively. 

And eventually, he speaks up.

“I’m from Texas.” 

You laugh wryly. “I tell you I’ve been lyin’ to everyone this whole time and you tell me you’re a Texan.” 

“It’s somethin’,” he says. “Ain’t that what you wanted?” 

You turn around and raise your eyebrows. “Where in Texas?” 

“Grew up in Arlington,” he says. “Was in Austin ‘fore everything went to shit.”

You nod. “That makes sense. The accent and the attitude and everything else.” 

Joel snorts. “‘Everything else’?” 

“The way you carry yourself,” you say. “How stubborn you are. Classic ‘Don’t mess with Texas’. You ever have a bumper sticker like that?” 

That gets an actual laugh out of him. A genuine laugh, a genuine smile. “Hell no. I didn’t need to showboat like that. Sarah woulda never—” 

He stops suddenly, his smile fading just as quickly as it appeared. You feel the moment slipping out of your grasp quicker than you can run after it, and you feel a little desperate. 

“Who’s Sarah?” 

Joel shakes his head. “No one you need to know about.”

Just like that, the moment is gone and the barrier is back up. You try to hide the disappointment you feel. When Joel’s not being a jackass, you really enjoy talking with him. 

“...Okay,” you say. You’ve already pushed him once. You don’t want to push him again on something that brings out that sort of reaction. 

Joel goes back to sharpening the stick. It’s half the size it was before, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He’s got a couple to keep him busy. 

You go back to watching the rain. The downpour continues, and eventually, you hear the crackling of thunder in the distance. 

“Great,” you murmur. 

“You see any flashes?” Joel asks. 

“No lightning,” you say. “Least it ain’t close.” 

“That means we can still get out of here tonight.” 

You shake your head. “No way I’m doin’ seven miles in a thunderstorm.” 

“We went five miles out,” Joel reminds you. 

“And then went two miles off course to get here,” you say. “It’s already getting dark, and these woods have infected. You really wanna go through all that just to get back to that shitty motel?” 

“They got food there,” he says. “We have nothing.” 

“We’ll be fine for a night,” you say. “It’s not like we’re in danger of freezing. We can sleep in shifts so nothing can sneak up on us. We’re tucked away pretty well, anyways.” 

Joel stares at you for a good, long second. You can tell he wants to fight—he always want to fight, you’ve learned—but eventually he lets out a sigh and makes a flippant gesture. 

“Fine,” he concedes. “But we’re leavin’ at first light, rain or not.” 

“Fine,” you echo. 

You’re able to relax a little after that, knowing Joel’s not going to make you hike back to camp in these conditions. 

The rain doesn’t ease up, but as night falls, your anxiety gets the best of you and you end up sitting against the wall, across from Joel. You have a sad little dinner together, the usual of stale bread and meat from whatever animal was hunted that week. 

Soon enough, it’s pitch black outside and you only have the rain and the crickets for company. Better than rain and clickers, you suppose. 

You wish you had a book, or a ball of yarn and some needles, or literally anything to give you something to do other than stare at a cave wall. Joel isn’t much of a talker, even now. 

“I’m from Oklahoma, you know.” You decide to fill in the blanks, unable to take the silence much longer even with the rainstorm. “So we’re two southerners in a pod.” 

“Knew you had some kinda accent,” Joel says. “Just couldn’t place it.” 

“It faded while I was in Boston for med school,” you explain. “I wanted to get out as soon as possible.” 

“How’s it feel, being back in the middle o’ nowhere after spending all your time in the city?” 

You chuckle and look over at him. “You’re not gonna believe it, but I grew up in the middle of nowhere. Born and raised on a cattle ranch in Beaver.”

“No shit,” Joel says incredulously, and he actually smiles. “No shit you’re a farm girl.” 

“Don’t act so surprised!” you exclaim. “I’ve more than held my own out here!” 

“Thought you were some big city hotshot doctor when I first met you,” he says, shaking his head. “Turns out you’re just a farm girl med student.” 

“Well, you’re just a jackass from Texas,” you retort. 

“And you’re a jackass from Oklahoma,” he says. “Guess we ain’t so different after all.” 

You laugh and look away, unable to bite back a smile of your own. “Whatever.” 

That lightness from your walk the past week returns, and you and Joel spend the next few hours just… talking. You do most of it, because getting Joel to talk about his past is like pulling teeth, but you don’t mind. 

You tell him stories from your childhood, what it was like growing up as a rancher’s daughter. How you spent your whole life trying to claw out your roots and how, now that it’s gone, it’s the only thing you want. What undergrad was like, what med school was like, how you spent just as many nights blacked out from alcohol as you did studying until your eyes bled. 

Joel contributes in smaller places, like telling you what he was like as a kid or relaying his own high school stories, because he didn’t go to college. Tells you about his work as a carpenter. You find it hard to imagine a younger Joel when it’s near impossible to look in his eyes and see something other than the world-weary, grizzled survivor he is now, but with his words you’re able to piece it together. It helps that his voice is so nice to listen to when he’s not yelling. 

You want to ask him about Sarah, but you don’t. Things are going so well that you’d be an idiot to ruin it. You hope he trusts you enough one day to tell you. 

In the middle of it all, you realize the way you’re thinking: into the future, long-term future, with Joel a part of it. Your plan from the start has been to bide your time until you can gather enough supplies to run, get your pistol back from Jake and use it to put a bullet in his head, then get the fuck out of here. 

But now you can’t stop thinking about Joel, and you realize you want to keep him in your life. You don’t want to stay here, but you don’t want to leave him. You don’t care if he doesn’t like you the way you do, you don’t care if he doesn’t even want to be your friend—you’re just tired of running from everything and defending yourself with lies. You’re tired of being alone. 

Eventually, you can’t fight your yawns anymore. Joel tells you he’ll take first watch and you can already tell he’ll refute any arguments. You put your jacket and shoes back on and make sure Joel’s revolver is in grabbing distance, then you lay down using your pack as a pillow. 

“Y’know, this is the first time we’re sleepin’ in the same room without a radiator.” 

Joel huffs. “Yeah. You get through the night without runnin’, maybe I can threaten Jake into getting you your own room.” 

“I dunno.” Your eyes are closed at this point, the mixture of Joel’s timbre at a softer volume and the downpour all around you almost lulling you to sleep. “I kinda like being in the same room as you.” You smile. “We can ditch the cuffs, though.” 

Joel is silent for a while. If your brain were sharper, if you weren’t nearly asleep, you might’ve had the sense to worry or be ashamed. You’re sure you’ll regret it in the morning. 

“Get some rest,” he finally says. “You need it.” 

“Night, Joel,” you murmur. “Wake me up in a couple hours or I’ll kill you.” 

He laughs quietly. “Night, doc.”  

-

You dream of your old life. Early mornings on the ranch. Fighting with your brother to get the better chores and swearing you’ll never talk to him again when he gets the ones you want, just to end up racing him to the boundaries of the farm and back to settle disputes as usual. Waking up in the middle of the night to make your favorite dessert for the two of you, homegrown strawberries with whipped cream. 

You dream of the day everything fell apart. Screaming in the hospital and your coworkers being killed and sights so brutal in the streets of Boston that you will never, ever forget them. Connor forces you to keep running through it all, tells you that you can’t stop to save anyone because you’ll die too, and he is not going to let you die. He swears he won’t leave you. 

You dream of the night you saw him for the last time. Having no choice but to break the one promise your mom forced you two to make before she died in your arms, and making another one that you refuse to break for anything. The last time you saw Connor, a night that you’ve relived a million times where you’ve failed to change the story each and every time. 

You wonder what he would think about the kind of person you’ve become. 

-

It’s light outside when you finally wake up. You expect your back to be killing you, but after sleeping against a wall, floor, and radiator for most of the past few months, this was actually kind of comfortable. 

You rub the grogginess out of your eyes and realize there are dried tears on your cheeks. You hope to god you didn’t actually cry in your sleep over some nightmares—you don’t need Joel to see something like that. 

When you sit up, you see Joel cleaning his rifle. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he says wryly. 

“Mornin’,” you say, interrupted by a yawn. You have to shield your eyes from the sun, and you’re about to ask him how he’s doing when it hits you. 

“Oh my god— what time is it?” 

Joel says nothing, just focuses on wiping out the barrel. 

You push his shoulder. “Why didn’t you wake me up, you jackass?” 

“You needed your sleep,” he says simply. 

“Like you don’t?” you retort. “You’re twice my age, old man. You need it more than I do.” 

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll sleep when we get back to the motel.” 

You scoff. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“And don’t you feel so much better?” 

You shake your head as you stand up and begin to gather your things. “First light, my ass.” 

Joel sighs. “Helpin’ you out is a thankless job.” 

Though you want to stay mad, it’s a champagne problem that you get over it pretty quickly. You feel more refreshed than you have since you ended up in this group, and considering you were sleeping on a cave floor with your backpack as a pillow, things aren’t really going to be better for you back in Joel’s room. 

You give him a grudging thank you right before you’re about to leave, and he accepts with a smugness that makes you regret it. 

You make casual small talk for the first mile, but things go in a different direction when Joel pops an unexpected question on you. 

“Who’s Connor?”

You trip over your own feet, and you know it’s wishful thinking to hope he didn’t see it. You regain your footing and keep walking, making a point to not look at him. 

“Where’s this coming from?” Your words might come out a little too aggressive, but you don’t really care right now. 

“You talked in your sleep half the night,” Joel says. “Kept muttering about some guy named Connor, how you didn’t wanna leave him.”

“It’s none of your business,” you say. 

“You don’t get to pull that shit with me after tryin’ to go all Twenty Questions last night,” he insists. “You told me ‘bout half your life anyways.” 

Just because you told him about inconsequential childhood and college things doesn’t mean you owe him actually important stuff. You can do what he did and just shut him down again, and every other time if he happens to ask again. 

But you were preaching all that shit about togetherness and getting to know each other and breaking down the barrier. Joel might be a hypocrite, but you have to be better than Joel. 

“...He’s my brother,” you finally say. The words feel heavier saying them to him for some reason. 

“He dead?” Joel asks. Leave it to him to be blunt. 

“No,” you say roughly, hastily. “No, I—” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and shake your head. “I don’t know. We lost each other a while ago, and I’ve been trying to find him ever since. So I guess I just really, really hope he’s not.” 

“When did you see him last?” 

“Two years ago,” you say. “We were in some commune in Ohio with a buncha hunters that tolerated us because I was a doctor and he was a good supply runner. One day, one of the leaders started accusin’ a bunch of people of stealing meds. Swore the supply was goin’ down—accused every person I’d treated the past few months of bein’ a junkie and stealing. Killed every single one of ‘em over the course of a week.” You shake your head as the memory comes back in full force. “Meds kept disappearing. Soon enough, no one was left to blame but me.” 

“Did you take ‘em?” Joel asks. 

“No,” you say. “I had no reason to. Still don’t know who did it. But Connor realized I was next on the chopping block and no amount of reasoning would bring him down from the edge, even if that meant killing his only doctor.” You bite the inside of your cheek to hold the tears back. “Connor and I fought like crazy that night, but eventually, he won. He gave me all his supplies and got me to leave in the middle of the night. I wanted him to come with me, but he said they would hunt me down. Said he had to stay cover my tracks. Told me to go back to Boston, find the QZ— he would meet me there.”

Joel is silent for a moment. When he speaks up, it’s his usual. 

“You’re pretty far from Boston.” 

“Roads I was tryin’ to take were completely overrun,” you say. “I had a car back then, in pretty decent shape—decided I would try and get back to the farm just to recuperate. Resupply, take a breather, just try to shit out before I had to get all the way to Massachusetts.” You shrug. “And I guess a part of me thought that Connor might have thought the same thing.” 

You huff. “Pretty clear I never fuckin’ made it there, though. I just gotta hope he had better luck than me, and that’s waiting for me there—not dead in a ditch in Ohio.” 

“He probably is,” he says.  

“Fuck you, Joel,” you snap. “That’s all you gotta say?”

“I’m bein’ honest—”

“Well, I don’t need your honesty,” you bite out. “We made a promise to each other. Far as I’m concerned, he ain’t dead ‘til I see his bones. I don’t care how stupid you think it is.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a while, but when he does, it’s about what you expect. 

“It is stupid.” 

“Joel—” 

“But it’s also admirable.” 

You glance at him. “You hit your head back there or something?” 

“No. Just think it’s rare to be able to keep up hope like that.” He shrugs. “One of the things I’ve admired ‘bout you for a while.” 

Again, you feel your cheeks heat—your whole body, honestly. You busy yourself with the path ahead of you while you try to remember the art of subtlety. 

“...Thanks,” you finally say. “But I think you’re lyin’. You thought it was stupid when we first met.” 

Joel snorts. “Things’ve changed since then. You’re way less annoying now—can’t hold that against me.” 

“I am the same level of annoying, thank you very much.” You smile at him. “You like me more now. Face it.” 

He just huffed and shook his head, though you could tell he was fighting a smile of his own. “Just shut up and keep walking.”

You do, for the most part. Your path is pretty straightforward, only having to take a few detours due to infected that you take out pretty easily together. You and Joel have really found a groove working with each other since you started going on these supply runs. 

Maybe that’s what gets you to speak up again. 

“You really think my brother’s dead?” 

Joel doesn’t respond immediately. He lifts a low-hanging branch so you can duck under it, and when you glance over at him, he looks conflicted. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he says. “Only matters what you do.” 

“You say all the time that you’re older and wiser than me,” you say. “So give me some of that elder wisdom.” 

Joel frowns. “I’m only forty.” 

“Can’t be only forty when you’re constantly sayin’ I’m too young to know things,” you retort. “So tell me the truth. Do you really think he’s dead? That I’m wasting my time trekking across the country?” 

“...I don’t know,” he says. “Been eight years since all of this fell apart. Logically, neither of us should still be kicking, but we are.” 

“So you think he’s alive.” 

“I think people beat the odds all the time,” Joel says. “And if your brother’s got the same stubborn genes as you, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s beat ‘em too.” 

You nod a few times. Whatever Joel said wasn’t going to change your mind—you meant what you said, that you won’t believe Connor is dead until you see his lifeless body. But it feels like Joel is on your side, even if it’s just one foot over the line. 

Those words echo in your head again: not yet. 

You decide to test the boundaries. 

“I think so too. It’s why I’m putting up with all this,” you say. “This… group. Jake’s bullshit. So I can get out when it’s time and keep trying to find my brother.” 

This is bigger than the doctor thing, and you’ve just dropped it on a casual walk. You’re still considered a flight risk, hence Joel’s constant companionship and the radiator nights even after you’ve more than proven yourself. You don’t know how much Joel ever believed it, but this pretty much confirms that it’s true.

“Shouldn’t talk like that out in the open,” Joel says after a moment. 

“We’re in the middle of the woods,” you say. “Who—” 

“Anyone,” he interrupts. “Here or there. So whatever shit you’re planning, don’t tell me about it.” 

“Joel—” 

“I mean it,” he continues. “I don’t care if you get yourself killed. Just don’t get me pulled into it.” 

You walk the rest of the way in silence. 

-

Joel is barely around the next day, or the day after that. You earn your keep like normal, but it makes you nervous. You try to talk to him at night, but he doesn’t give. You shouldn’t have tested the boundaries. 

It’s not like you think he’s loyal to this group—you don’t think he’s loyal to anyone but himself—but he’s been with them for longer than he’s known you. Why would he choose you over them? It doesn’t matter if he got scared when you were grabbed, if he let you sleep a little extra. It’s probably just a glitch in his programming or whatever. 

One thing you should always remember about Joel is that he will always put himself above anyone else. You might have thought differently at some point, but it’s the truth. 

You just hope he finds it in himself not to turn you in. 

-

You barely sleep the next night, too paranoid about everything going wrong just because you decided to trust Joel with something other than watching your six. 

That means when gunshots start erupting, it’s less of a rude awakening and more of a reprieve from your pitiful attempt at sleep. 

You dart up so quickly you nearly slam your head against the radiator. You don’t like most of the people in this group, but at least they tolerate you—most of them respect you. You’re not too keen on pulling this stunt again with another group of hunters that could be even worse than this one. 

That is, assuming this is an attack by humans and not infected. People, you can bargain with. Runners and clickers, not so much. 

The thought makes you look over at Joel’s bed, surprised he’s not the one that woke you up. You quickly realize why.

He’s gone. 

His materials, his bag, his weapons—it’s all gone. What’s more surprising is that he’s actually made his bed for once. 

You don’t think he’s dead. But you also don’t think he’s coming back, so you’re officially on your own. 

A part of you hopes against it. But why would he leave without saying goodbye if he wasn’t leaving for good? 

You blink back tears. They shouldn’t even be falling. You’ve only known him for a few months and you spent half of those fighting him. But you liked him, damn it—sharp, jagged edges and all.

But it doesn’t matter. 

You’re so tired of being at the mercy of others, constantly begging for your life with white lies you can only hope are enough. You can’t sit here and cry. You have to get out of here. 

You pull your cuffed hand. It hurts, obviously, and you immediately switch tactics: pulling at the pipe you’re attached to. You grip it as tight as possible and pull, your feet pushing against the body of it for more power. 

This radiator doesn’t even work anymore. It’s old and rickety and it can’t be that sturdy, even if it’s made of metal. You’ve been stuck to this thing for your whole time here, and you are so fucking sick of it. 

You finally pull the pipe apart from the radiator with a yell, and you land on your back a few feet away from the force you used. You try to even out your breathing as you recover, and pull yourself back into a sitting position. The door suddenly slams open and you wield the pipe like a weapon, pushing away from the entrance on instinct. 

Instead of an intruder or a clicker, it’s fucking Joel. 

He stumbles inside, covered in blood with a hand pressed against his side and curses waterfalling from his lips. Your eyes widen as you continue to breathe heavily. He looks towards the radiator, then to you, but he doesn’t even seem surprised. 

“The hell are you doing?” he asks. 

“Trying to escape,” you respond breathlessly. “The hell are you doing?” 

“Comin’ back for you,” Joel says. Your face heats inexplicably. “But it looks like you already handled half the job.” 

He pulls something from his pocket and tosses it over to you. You loosen your iron grip on the pipe to catch it. 

It’s the damn key to your handcuffs. You can’t help but laugh. You wasted all that effort just for Joel to show up ten seconds later, your knight in bloody armor.  

“What’d you do?” you ask. 

“What needed to be done,” Joel responds. His voice is gruff from the pain, though he tries to hide it. You don’t understand why. There’s no point. “Now get yourself out of those things and let’s go.”

You blink and look up at him. You’ve been dreaming of getting out of this place from the moment you got here—of killing everyone that killed your people, of clawing your freedom back from those that stole it from you. You can’t believe Joel got to it first. 

“Why’d you do it?” You can’t help but ask. Far as you knew, he got along with these people. If not that, he at least survived with them. Didn’t care about the people they murdered. 

“Because I had to,” he says. “You just gonna stare at ‘em?” 

You want to ask more, but you have a feeling you won’t get anything out of him. Not now. So you push down on your thoughts of lost revenge to finally free yourself from those cuffs rather than relying on another. 

“You’ve got a minute to grab anything you need,” Joel says. You’re just starting to massage your raw wrist when he starts to walk off, hand pressed even harder against the wound he’s trying to hide.  

“Wait!” You shoot up, nearly tripping over your feet trying to follow him. It’s not hard to catch him when he’s doing more stumbling than walking. 

“There’s no time to wait,” he says. “Gunshots bring people and clickers, and I ain’t dealing with either.”

“You’re hurt,” you say, only proven correct by how easily you get in front of him. The growing patch of blood on his shirt, holding his weight on his uninjured side, his labored breathing—you don’t need to be a med student to see the obvious. “Was your murder spree interrupted?”

Joel scowls. You find it funny how he always seems to take offense to you caring about his health. “Don’t act like it tears you up inside. I did you a favor.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that,” you say wryly. “Now, can you chill out for a second and let me at least look at whatever they did to you?” 

“We don’t have—” 

“We do have time,” you interrupt. “I assume you killed everyone in here, so we don’t have them to worry about. It’ll be a second before any infected get here, but if it makes you feel better, the doors lock. And in my medical opinion—” 

“You’re not a doctor,” Joel bites out. 

“I’m the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you retort. “And I don’t think you’ll make it a mile before your adrenaline fades and you’re out of luck.” You cross your arms. “Without bandaging it, you’re practically begging for an infection. How’s sepsis sound to you, Joel?” 

He stares at you—glare is more appropriate, actually. “You and your fuckin’ infections.”

You stare back, refusing to move. “Not my fault you haven’t taken a shower since the outbreak started.”

Eventually, he groans in annoyance and walks back over to the bed, taking a seat that causes him to wince. 

“Can’t believe you just wanted to walk out of here,” you say as you grab your medical bag. 

“Save the preaching, get to stitching.” 

You laugh and shake your head. “Pull your shirt up.” 

He does, and you get to work, going through the same motions as the first time you met. 

“You get shot or stabbed this time?” 

“Stabbed,” he says. “You ever gonna wine and dine me, or you just gonna keep tellin’ me to strip?”

You smile. “You find some good wine out here and a kitchen that works, I’m more than happy to do it.” 

You feel his gaze on you as you continue to work, feel his muscles tense then relax every time your fingers brush his skin, and you like it. You like knowing that he killed all these people without a second thought and he still reacts this way to your touch. Maybe it’s sick—this sort of lightness does feel wrong after what he did—but the more you think about it, the more you don’t care. It’s not like there’s anyone still around to judge you. 

“Noted,” he says. 

You bite back your smile to keep it from growing. “Who did this to you?” 

“Don’t matter,” Joel says. “They’re dead now.” 

You sigh and shake your head. “How’d you do it, then? These people are capable—tore my community down like it was nothing. You’re just one man.” 

“Why d’you think I did it in the middle of the night?” Joel looks away. “Surprise is one hell of an element. They expected it from you, not from me. ‘Sides, it’s not the first time I’ve done this.” 

“Ah.” 

“Always known I would do it,” he continues. “Ever since I joined this group. They were just a means to an end—they were too reckless for their own good. Woulda gotten me killed sooner or later, and I ain’t lettin’ that happen.”

“Awful lotta time to make a murder plan,” you say. “Mine feels half-baked compared to yours.” 

Joel shrugs. “Guess that’s why I did it before you. Helps not being handcuffed to a radiator. 

You shake your head with a huff. “Worst way I’ve ever slept.” 

You continue on in silence for a good while. You don’t mind because it helps you focus, especially once you start sutures—you’re usually the one that starts the conversations anyways. But then—

“I have a brother too,” Joel suddenly speaks up. 

You smile wistfully. “Now you’re openin’ up.” 

He shakes his head. “Just answerin’ your question. Why I did this.” 

You frown. You continue suturing without faltering, but Joel must see your face because for once, he keeps going. 

“You weren’t gonna get outta here anytime soon,” Joel says. “Not with Jake up your ass, makin’ those kind of comments. You didn’t hear the way he talked about you with everyone else.” 

A chill runs up your spine. You fight to keep your hands steady. 

“There was only so much I could do to protect you the way things were here,” he says. “So I changed things.” 

He talks about it so simply. Slaughtering a whole camp of people is changing things. 

But he did it to save your life. Can you really cherry pick any of that? Especially when you thought about doing the same countless times over the months? 

“My brother and I fell apart,” Joel continues. “He didn’t like the shit I was doing to survive— said there was a line we had to draw, that there was more to life than just survivin’. I didn’t agree. So we went our separate ways.” 

Joel meets your eyes. “I ain’t gonna let that happen to you. Not when you’ve still got a chance.” 

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek when you feel the pinpricks of incoming tears. 

He really did do this for you. To keep you alive—to keep you safe. 

When you fell asleep that night, you thought he was only a couple steps away from betraying you. 

Instead, he was your salvation.

-

After you stitch Joel up, give him some painkillers, and make sure he’s not going to die, you take your time going through the rest of the camp. There’s a surprising amount of materials around, especially that was being kept in individual rooms. It’s a little difficult seeing all the bodies, but not as hard as you thought it would be. 

When you get to Jake’s room, you take your pistol from his body and shoot him in the head with it. He’s already dead, but it still brings you some sort of satisfaction. You think Joel will chastise you for wasting bullets, but he doesn’t say a thing. 

You fit as much as you can into both of your packs and even more in your horses’ saddle packs. You pick the two that look to be the strongest and set the others free—they’ll stand a chance on their own rather than tied up here. 

It’s nearly morning by the time you’re done, and you stand next to Joel as you watch the sunrise. It might be the one thing you never get tired of—one of the few things that remind you of how beautiful the world used to be. 

Dawn is… oddly silent here. You grew up with frogs and cicadas and all sorts of barn animals making themselves heard into the night and early morning, but the apocalypse brings a strange sense of serenity. When it’s not being interrupted by infected or hunters, that is. 

“Feels wrong standing out here,” you murmur. “Knowin’ what you did.”

“I told you, it had to be done.” Joel shakes his head. “You wanted ‘em dead anyways.” 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” you say. “Nothin’ does.”

“Maybe for you,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. This isn’t something you want to fight over—not know. 

“Where’re you goin’ after this?” you ask. 

“No clue,” he murmurs. “I sorta… drift from place to place. Anywhere I can survive.”

“I understand,” you say. “Spent a lotta time like that.” 

You feel Joel’s gaze on you. “What about you? Where’re you off to?” 

“Boston,” you say. “It’s where Connor and I agreed to meet again. We heard about a QZ there, so figured it would be a safe place to meet after however long it takes to get there. Been tryin’ to get there for a while, but I’ve been thrown…” you chuckle, “majorly off course. Seems like a pipe dream now, but I’m still gonna try.” You glance over at him.  “Can you believe we’re stuck in Kansas?” 

“Got no idea how the hell I ended up here,” Joel says with a chuckle of his own. “Figure you would like it, though. Close enough to your panhandle.” 

“Close enough but farther than ever,” you say, and you smile wistfully. “I miss the farm.” 

“I miss Texas,” he admits. 

“Someday, we’ll get back,” you murmur. 

Joel hums in acknowledgement. He looks back at the sky, and a good ten seconds of silence pass between you before he speaks.

“I’ll get you to Boston.” 

Your eyes widen. For a moment, you’re not sure if you’ve heard him correctly. “What?”

Joel shrugs. “Didn’t save your life back there to leave you to die out here.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Joel,” you say. “You— you barely know me.” 

“Actually, you talked my ear off enough that I know plenty,” he says. “‘Sides, I’m gonna need someone to keep an eye on this wound—rather have it be the devil I know.” 

You feel a certain warmth settle in your chest, alongside a growing smile on your lips. “You’re serious.” 

“As a heart attack,” he nods. 

You stare at Joel for a good, long while, and then you hug him. 

You can’t help it. You can feel his staggered heartbeat, his uneven breathing—the way he just… stands there, like it’s the last thing he expected. It makes you wonder how long it’s been since someone last hugged him, showed any kind of affection. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. It takes a second, but he hesitantly wraps an arm around you. He pats your back more than anything, but when you pull away, he’s fighting a smile. 

“I mean it, Joel.” You laugh, almost giddy. “It felt like a death mission on my own. But with you… seeing my brother again feels real.” 

“No sense in lettin’ someone else lose a brother when I can try and stop it,” he says. 

“You’ll find Tommy again,” you say. “I know—” 

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “We made our choices. But you and Connor still got a chance.” 

You swallow the lump building in your throat and nod. No use arguing with him over one of the sorest subjects. “This means more than anything, Joel. I’m serious.” 

“Then let’s not waste it on being sentimental,” he says. “C’mon. We’re burning daylight.” 

You let out a breathy sort of laugh, full of relief, as you follow him over. Joel locks his fingers together to give you a step up onto your horse, and once you’re on, he gives you an amused look. 

“You do know how to ride a horse, farm girl?” 

“Please,” you huff. “I grew up around ‘em. Probably know better than you.” 

“Let’s not get crazy now.” 

Joel gets on his horse and you ride up closer to him so you can look him in the eye. 

“So we’re goin’ to Boston,” you say. “Any idea how the hell we get from here to there?” 

He pulls a rolled-up paper out of his pack and flattens it out. “Just so happens our benevolent leader Jake had a map. It ain’t the best, but it’ll give us a path to follow.” 

You nod a few times, your resolve steadily growing. “We can actually do this.” 

“‘Course we can,” Joel says. “Didn’t do all this just to fail.” 

“Some actual optimism,” you marvel. “I can’t believe it.” 

He shrugs. “Balance is important.” 

“And a joke, too,” you say. “If the world hadn’t already ended, I would think it was right now.” 

“Alright.” Joel huffs and shakes his head. “Let’s get goin’ before I regret bringing you with me.” 

You don’t try to bite back your smile this time. 

You stir your horses into action as you begin to ride, Joel in front of you to lead but little distance between you. 

You knew you would get out of this place somehow, but you thought you’d slip out in the middle of the night alone, running for your life with no idea of where to go next. You’d run into a group of people, barter your skills in return for your survival, and so on and so forth until you somehow made it to Boston. A pipe dream indeed. 

Instead, you’ve got a horse, a pack full of supplies, a plan, and Joel. 

You’ve got Joel, and you feel like you can breathe for the first time in months.  

[bucketsorbueckers]

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 9

Paige X Azzi

warning: some homophobia, cam!, language, nods to adultish content sorta

A/N: if you thought you hated cam yesterday, just wait till you read this! lmao ok this story is winding down. but no worries. we've got more cooking. toxic WNBA fic loading. love yallll <3

Azzi’s POV

Azzi crossed, then uncrossed her legs beneath the booth. The one tucked into the far corner of the student center—the kind you only noticed if you were looking.

She’d picked it on purpose. Sent the text. And waited.

But now it was past time. Eleven minutes, exactly. Not that she was counting, except she was.

Her phone stayed face-up beside her, untouched and unbearably empty. The seconds dragged. Her knee bounced. Her irritation simmered, slow and low.

She had practice in a few hours and had been hoping to squeeze in a nap before getting her ass kicked. She scanned the room again. Still nothing.

With a sigh that felt more like surrender, Azzi opened the message thread and tapped her fingers against the screen sharply. 

are we still meeting?

A beat. A breath. A heartbeat too long.

yeah. walking up now.

She stared at the reply. No apology. No explanation. Just that.

Azzi clenched her jaw and flipped her phone face-down on the table. Too late now. She was already here. She blew out a breath and tried to calm herself down. 

Right then, the door swung open.

Her head snapped up. And her heart stumbled in her chest. But not in a good way. In an anxious, terrible way that always happened before she let someone down. 

Cam stopped in the doorway, eyes landing. She could physically feel the weight of his gaze. 

For a second, neither of them moved. He just stared, like maybe he didn’t expect her to actually show. Then he exhaled. Long. Measured. Almost bracing. And walked toward her.

He slid into the booth across from her, propping his elbows on the table. 

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he replied, flat.

Azzi chewed on the inside of her cheek, already feeling the distance stretch between them. She knew where this conversation was going. She just didn’t know how to get there without drawing blood.

“How have you been?”

Cam shook his head, sharp and immediate. “How do you think, Azzi?”

She swallowed. Her knee started to bounce under the table.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I know I haven’t really been around.”

He laughed. Bitter. Cold. Like he’d been saving it.

“Yeah. I bet you’re really fucking sorry,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Must be hard to remember I exists when you’re fucking Bueckers.”

Azzi physically flinched. Eyes blowing wide. She knew Cam was upset but didn’t expect such vitriol. It took her a few seconds to reorient herself. 

“Cam. I -”

“Does it make you feel special?” He pressed. “That Paige Bueckers picked you?”

She knew it wouldn’t go over smoothly. But this? This was nuclear. Cam leaned in, voice quieter now. Meaner.

“Can’t wait to see what happens when she gets bored,” he said.  “When the shine wears off and she realizes you were just something easy. Something temporary. She’s got the whole world, Azzi. And you think she’s gonna stay small for you?”

Azzi didn’t mean to let it get to her. Didn’t mean to show anything. But it was like Cam knew exactly where to hit—those soft, still-raw parts of her. The old insecurity. The part of her that still wasn’t sure she’d ever be enough.

She bit down on her bottom lip to keep the tears at bay. Two escaped anyway. Cam saw. Of course he did.

“How long?” he asked, voice flat. “How long have you been in love with her?”

Azzi stared at the table. Quiet. Honest.

“Since I was a kid,” she said.

Cam laughed. Low. Cruel. Like it amused him how easy it was to pull her apart.

“Of course you have,” he said. “I used to watch you watch her, you know. Thought it was harmless.”

He leaned back, stretching like the knife in his words wasn’t intentional.

“And then—guess how fucking stupid I felt when she opened your dorm door the day I came to talk?” he went on. “Wearing your shirt. With that smug little look like she knew. Like she was proud of it. Of having you. Just because I wanted you.”

“Paige isn’t like that,” Azzi muttered, swiping at another tear.

Cam rolled his eyes. “You haven’t heard the shit people say on this campus. Because according to them? She’s exactly like that.”

Azzi shook her head, the first flicker of heat curling back into her chest. The tears didn’t dry, but the ache in her gut was quickly turning into something sharper.

It was one thing to talk down to her. But it was another thing entirely to talk about Paige like that. Her Paige��with the gentlest heart, the steadiest hands. The girl who tried so hard to carry everyone else’s weight that she forgot to ask for help with her own.

“You don’t know her,” Azzi said, louder now. “And neither does most of this school, though they love pretending they do.”

She paused, chest rising and falling. That familiar burn rising in her throat but this time, it wasn’t grief. It was rage. It was clarity.

Because Cam didn’t know. He’d never known.

He didn’t know what it meant to love someone like Paige Bueckers. To watch her carry a thousand expectations like they were stitched into her skin. To see her wake up early just to make sure everyone else had what they needed. To hear the way people talked about her when they thought she wasn’t listening—how fast they flipped between praise and poison.

He didn’t know what it was like to see someone that gentle get torn apart by a world that never stopped asking for more.

But Azzi did.

And she had always wanted to protect Paige. Even before she knew what the feeling was. She would’ve handed over her own breath if it meant making Paige’s life easier. Would’ve put herself between Paige and the entire world, if she thought it would matter.

But she couldn’t stop the noise. And she couldn’t make people like Cam disappear.

What she could do was stop pretending she didn’t know how to fight back.

“She’s a good person. A good person. Who just happens to be extraordinary at things. You don’t get to make her the villain because the world chose her,” Azzi Fudd wasn’t known for being cruel. She was the even one. The steady one. The peacekeeper. But when it came to Paige—when it came to this—maybe she didn’t have to be. So she mirrored Cam’s grin. Sharp. Icy. Unapologetic. “Because I chose her and not you.”

Azzi watched it land. Watched his face twist up. Bitter, bruised, small. And for once, she felt nothing. No guilt. No urge to soften it. No apology rising in her throat. Just a steady, quiet kind of rightness humming in her chest.

Cam scoffed, voice scraping the air between them.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” he said. “Paige’s dirty little secret.”

Azzi froze for a second. Nails digging into her thighs. She forced her jaw to unclench. To look Cam in the eyes. 

“Nothing’s a secret with Paige,” She muttered. “We’re just private.”

"Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, Az." Cam rolled his eyes, “Funny thing about privacy though. In the blink of an eye, it can just go poof.”

He pushed up from the table, turning to look at Azzi one more time. 

“Would be a shame if someone did you wrong. Paige Bueckers really is a household name,” He said. “No telling how quickly things could get twisted.”

And then, he shrugged, leaving her at the table. 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

Azzi was on the edge—of a panic attack, of punching a street pole, of bursting into tears in the middle of campus.

She sat on the curb outside the student center, hood up, elbows on her knees, fingers threaded together like maybe if she held herself tight enough, she wouldn’t fly apart.

She wasn’t crying. Not yet. But her vision was swimming, and her breath was doing that stupid catch in her chest like it didn’t want to cooperate. Like even her body was mad at her.

The thing was, she’d just wanted to protect Paige. To say the thing Paige never got to say out loud. To stand in front of her, just once, and take the hit instead.

But she hadn’t taken the hit.  She’d invited it.

And now it wasn’t just about her anymore.

It was about Paige’s name. Her reputation. Her career. The thousand tiny ways the world chipped away at her already—and Azzi had handed them another blade.

She tugged on the sleeve of her hoodie until the fabric twisted in her palm.

She couldn’t tell Paige. Not yet. Not when Paige had been so happy just this morning. Not when she’d said: “It’s nice having something that’s just mine.”

Azzi felt sick.

She didn’t want to be the reason Paige lost the one piece of herself the world hadn’t gotten its hands on yet. So she sat there.

For ten minutes. Then twenty. Then long enough that her legs started to fall asleep.

She replayed the conversation with Cam over and over. She typed out a dozen different texts. Some sharp. Some desperate. Some that said please don’t and others that said try me.

But she deleted every single one.

She’d already made a mess. There was no use handing him proof. No screenshots, no words he could twist when someone eventually asked him to back it up.  Because they would. Of course they would.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d just circle, teeth bared, waiting for the next excuse to tear Paige apart.

But still, she wondered if he’d already saved something. Some old photo. A text. A time-stamped moment that looked just incriminating enough if you squinted hard and stripped it of all its context. The thought alone made her stomach lurch.

Because the fear wasn’t about being gay. It never was. It was about being Paige’s weak spot. And everyone knowing it..

Because once it was out there, they…The media, the fans, the ones who loved her when she won and turned on her when she didn’t would use it. They’d say Paige had lost focus. That she was distracted. That she was spending too much time tangled up in Azzi Fudd instead of locked in on the court.

They were teammates, and that would be the story.

Azzi had seen it before. Heard it whispered about other players. Love weaponized to the point of ruining things.

And then there’d be the others. The louder ones. The ones hiding behind burner accounts and comment sections.  Saying all the ugly things people say when they think they’re anonymous. When they think you’re not human.

Some people were just hateful.  And Paige Bueckers—who led with kindness, who carried her spotlight like a burden and still held her hands out anyway—was exactly the kind of target they loved.

Because the world didn’t know what to do with a girl like her. So it would try to break her. Softly at first. Then all at once.

She groaned. This was supposed to be her protecting Paige. Instead, she might’ve handed someone the exact weapon they’d been looking for.

And the worst part? She didn’t even know if the blade was coming. Just that it could. And somehow, waiting for it was more panic inducing than anything else.

Her phone buzzed at her side and she flinched, full-body. She fumbled it out of her bag, breath caught in her throat, then let it out hard when she saw the name.

Caroline: are you okay?

Azzi frowned. Had something already happened? Another text came through.

Caroline: do you often find yourself hanging out on curbs in front of the student center? or is that a new habit? 

And then:

Caroline: just gauging how worried i should be.

Azzi looked up and saw her.

Caroline, standing across the walkway with her arms crossed and her face pulled into something careful Concerned, as always, but softer this time. Like she knew to tread lightly.

She raised a hand in a slow wave. Waited. Azzi didn’t move. So Caroline approached like Azzi was a spooked animal. Cautious. Slow.

When she crouched in front of her, it only took one look—one real look—for her to nod.

“Come on.”

No questions. Just that.

Caroline pulled her up without fanfare and they walked, shoulder to shoulder, back to her dorm. Nothing loud. Nothing sharp. Just the sound of their footsteps on the pavement and the hush of a friendship built on showing up.

And when the door closed behind them, Azzi sat on the edge of Caroline’s bed and told her everything. When Azzi finished talking, she stared at her hands. Like maybe if she looked up, everything would be different. Less heavy.

Caroline was quiet for a moment. Then she exhaled through her nose, sat back against the wall, and said:

“I love you. You know that, right?”

Azzi nodded, still not looking at her.

“So I’m gonna say this with love. But also you need to listen to me.”

Azzi glanced up, bracing.

“You have to tell Paige.”

The words landed like a second heartbeat in the room.

Caroline didn’t stop. “You don’t get to be in this—really in this—and shut her out the second it gets hard. That’s not how it works.”

Azzi opened her mouth, but Caroline lifted a hand.

“No. I know you’re scared. I know you’re trying to protect her. But trust is part of that too, Az. You don’t just get to pick the parts of her you want to carry.”

Azzi flinched, barely. But Caroline saw it.

“You’ve been best friends since you were kids,” she said, softer now. “You owe her more than this short-sighted, self-sacrificial spiral. Paige would burn the world down for you, and you’re out here deciding things for her like she doesn’t get a vote.”

Silence. Then, after a beat:

“If this is going to really work you have to let her be scared with you. Or it’s not real.”

Azzi bit down on her lip. Caroline’s voice gentled even more.

“Tell her, Az. She deserves that. You deserve that.”

Azzi knew she was right.  Knew that this was part of it…part of the hard they’d brushed past in whispers, in moments when things were still soft enough to ignore.

But this was it, wasn’t it?

This was the part where love didn’t just mean holding each other when it was easy. It meant choosing to stay in the mess. Letting yourself be seen in the panic. It meant letting Paige be in it with her, even if that meant watching her face fall. Even if it cracked something open that might be hard to close again.

She wasn’t protecting Paige by hiding. She was just…hiding. And maybe that had made sense before. But it didn’t anymore.

Azzi finally sighed and nodded. Caroline didn’t say told you so. She just reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Anyway,” she said, casually, like they hadn’t just talked through a complete emotional unraveling, “if there’s anyone who can handle this, it’s Paige. Friends in high places and such.”

That pulled the smallest smile from Azzi. Tired, but real.

“She does have a terrifyingly efficient team,” she mumbled.

Caroline smirked. “Exactly. By the time you tell her, she’ll probably have already handled it.”

Azzi squeezed her hand back before letting go and collapsing backward onto Caroline’s bed. The ceiling spun just a little. Or maybe that was just the leftover adrenaline finally burning off.

“Thanks, Caro,” she said, eyes closing.

“For what?”

“For… all of it.”

Caroline shrugged. “Please. It’s literally my job as your favorite best friend.”

Azzi let out a quiet laugh. Thankful for people who were smarter than her. 

Paige’s POV

Paige was in the gym, chasing silence the only way she knew how.

Shot after shot. Around the horn. Reps until her shoulders burned and her vision blurred with sweat.

The more shots she took, the better she’d be. That was the deal, right? More work, more control. So she stayed in motion—kept the ball moving, the net snapping, the echo of each make loud enough to drown out everything else.

She was locked in. Right now, it was just her and the game. The rhythm. The feel. The fix.

Nothing was technically wrong. She just wanted to be better.

There’d been a few miscues in the last game. Sloppy reads, rushed decisions. Little things. Things people maybe wouldn’t even notice. But Paige did.

And if she worked hard enough, long enough, she figured she’d beat the bad habits out of herself one way or another.

“Don’t you ever want to just…take a nap?”

The voice echoed across the gym, loud enough to cut through the sound of the ball snapping through the net.

Paige rolled her eyes. “Sleep is for the offseason.”

She turned to see Nika standing at half court, hands on her hips, grinning.

“Can sleep when we win a national championship,” Paige added, snagging the rebound.

Nika chuckled, the sound warm, familiar. “Won’t hear me complain.”

She jogged over to the bench and started lacing up her shoes.

“Hey, P?”

“Mm?” Paige said, eyes still on the rim as she rose for another shot.

“How bad of a sign is it if Azzi’s texted you six times in the last hour?”

The ball hit the rim—clanged once, rolled, and dropped through. Paige froze. Just for a second. 

“She what?”

“Six texts. Azzi Fudd.” Nika flashed her phone. “Aw, do I also have emojis by my name? Or is that girlfriend only privilege?”

Paige half-sprinted over and snatched the phone from her, scanning the notifications like they might rearrange themselves into something less urgent.

Azzi wasn’t a frequent texter. And she definitely wasn’t a six-texts-while-you’re-at-the-gym kind of texter.

Something was wrong. Paige could feel it in her chest.

Azzi💎[1:41 PM]: hey. when you’re done, can we talk?

Azzi💎[1:45 PM]: no rush of course

Azzi💎[1:47 PM]: i’m fine. promise. just anxious

Azzi💎 [1:53 PM]: sorry. don’t mean to dump it on you

Azzi💎[1:57 PM]: i didn’t tell you earlier because i didn’t want to ruin your day. or your shootaround. idk i probably should’ve told you 

Azzi Fudd💎[2:01 PM]: it’s about cam.

Paige stared at the screen. For a second, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Then she grabbed her water bottle, her keys, and started toward the door.

Nika barely had time to ask, “Everything okay?”

Paige’s voice was tight, steady, already halfway gone:

“Gotta go.”

Paige barely remembered the walk over. Just the echo of her own footsteps and the way her heart felt like it was pacing ahead of her. When she reached Azzi’s dorm, she knocked once and the door swung open almost immediately.

Caroline.

Her eyes widened for a second, but she didn’t ask anything. Didn’t need to. She just stepped aside.

“She’s in her room,” Caroline said. “Hasn’t really moved.”

Paige gave her a small nod, barely a sound of thanks, and stepped past her without pausing. Her sneakers whispered against the floor as she moved down the hallway.

And then, Azzi’s door.

Paige didn’t knock this time. Just opened it slowly, quietly, like she was afraid of startling something fragile.

“Az?”

Azzi didn’t look up.

She was curled into herself on the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, legs tucked tight to her chest like she was trying to take up less space than usual. Her eyes were on the floor. Or maybe nowhere at all.

Paige crossed the room slowly, like if she moved too fast, Azzi might vanish. When she reached the bed, she didn’t say anything. Just sank down beside her and placed a hand on her back. Gentle. Solid. There.

Azzi didn’t move. So Paige leaned forward.

“Az… what’s going on?”

For a second, she thought she wouldn’t answer.

But then Azzi turned, slowly, and tucked her face into Paige’s hoodie like it was the only place left she trusted. Paige wrapped her arms around her without hesitation, without question, and pulled her in close.

Several seconds passed. The kind that stretch.

And then, finally, Azzi’s voice, so small Paige almost missed it:

“I fucked up.”

Paige didn’t flinch. Didn’t loosen her grip. 

Just pressed her lips to Azzi’s temple and whispered, “I’m sure you didn’t.”

But Azzi nodded against her chest, breath hitching.

“I did.” A beat. “I met with Cam.”

And for a beat, Paige went still. Not from fear.  Not even from the threat that was coming next. But from jealousy. The kind that was immediate and instinctual. The kind she didn’t want to feel but did anyway.

It hit in the ribs—sharp and stupid.

You went to him. You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?

Still, when she looked at Azzi, it crumbled. Because it wasn’t about her.  Not right now. Not about her petty feelings or ancient insecurities or whatever awful, selfish thing had just risen to the surface.

It was about Azzi.

So Paige swallowed the jealousy. Buried it. Told it to wait its damn turn.And she reached for Azzi’s hand. Quiet. Steady. Honest.

“Okay,” she said, voice low. “Tell me what happened.”

Azzi’s eyes dropped to their joined hands. She stared at their fingers, like maybe they held the words she couldn’t find yet. Then she exhaled. Long and shaky.

“I thought I could handle it,” she said finally. “I just…I wanted to close the loop. End it clean. He kept texting and I didn’t want it hanging over us anymore, so I told him I’d meet.”

She paused, like she was bracing for impact. Paige didn’t flinch. Azzi kept going, the words picking up speed.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry-” she cut herself off, shook her head. “It wasn’t about him. It was about me. Us. And I was trying to prove that I could handle it. That I could be brave about something without needing you to fix it.”

Her throat tightened.

“But I said too much,” she whispered. “I let him get under my skin. I provoked him, and then he…”She swallowed hard. “He threatened to out us. Said some shit about how easily privacy can just… disappear. Like it’s nothing.”

Her voice cracked.

“I thought I was protecting you. But I think I made it worse. And I know you trust me to show up for you, and I—I didn’t. Not the way I should’ve.”

Paige was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that came from shock. Not disappointment, either. Just… processing. She stared at Azzi for a long moment. And Azzi, suddenly unsure, started to pull her hands back. But Paige didn’t let her. She held on.

“I don’t care about Cam,” she said softly. “I mean—I do, and I’m pissed, but—” She broke off. Exhaled. Tried again. “That’s not what I care about right now.”

Her thumb brushed across the back of Azzi’s hand.

“What I care about is this,” she said. “You. Me. Us.”

Azzi blinked. Her lips parted like she might speak, but nothing came out.

“I’m not mad at you,” Paige said, finally. “I hate that you felt like you had to do it alone. I hate that he made you feel small. But more than anything, I hate that you thought this—” she motioned between them, “—was something that could break.”

Azzi’s breath caught.

“This isn’t breakable, Az,” Paige said, softer now. “Not from this. Not from a moment of fear or a conversation gone wrong.”

She leaned in, forehead nearly brushing Azzi’s.

“You don’t gotta be perfect to be with me. You just have to be with me.”

She leaned forward. Forehead nearly touching Azzi’s.

“Do you understand that? I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut. Like hearing it hurt a little. Like maybe it was the first time she fully believed it. Paige stayed there, breath soft against her cheek, holding the space open between them. But her brain was turning over the conversation. The threat. 

The conversation. The threat. Cam’s voice, echoing secondhand in her head. Privacy doesn’t last forever.

She didn’t let herself tense. Not with Azzi this close. But beneath the calm, something sharp had begun to settle. Because now she wasn’t just thinking about what had happened. She was thinking about what came next.

What Cam might say. What others might run with. How fast the story could spread if it got in the wrong hands. But none of that was Azzi’s to carry, not anymore. Paige would make sure of it.

Later. She’d handle it all later.

Right now, Azzi was still in her arms. Still here. Still hers. So Paige kissed her temple. Light. Certain. And said nothing. Not yet.

Azzi fell asleep curled into her side, one arm slung across Paige’s waist, breath steady against her collarbone.

Paige didn’t move. Every instinct in her body wanted to stretch. To roll her neck. To pull out her phone and start fixing things. But she didn’t.

She stayed. Because this mattered more.

Because the way Azzi had melted into her felt like something sacred. Like trust, finally handed over. Like love curled in the shape of a girl’s sleep-heavy grip.

So, Paige just tugged her a bit closer, like she couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them. She pressed a kiss to Azzi’s shoulder. Then another. Just because she could.

God, she was so in love with her.  It made everything else feel quieter. Smaller. Easier to breathe around.

Paige closed her eyes and smiled into the back of Azzi’s neck.

This—this was the part she’d never get over.  The sweetness of being next to her.  The miracle of being allowed to stay.

So she did just that. Stayed. Her body curled around Azzi’s, her thoughts somewhere half-alive. She stared at the ceiling and counted her breaths. Let time pass in slow, patient inches. Watched the light shift across the walls, just enough to remind her the world was still turning.

An hour passed before Azzi stirred.

Her fingers twitched first, brushing against Paige’s ribs. Then a soft hum, her forehead nudging instinctively closer. Paige looked down, smiling. 

“Hey.”

Azzi blinked slowly. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Hard,” Paige murmured, smiling. “You snored a little. Very flattering.”

Azzi groaned and buried her face in Paige’s side again. They stayed like that for a few minutes. Wrapped in warmth, in the illusion that the outside world hadn’t already begun knocking. But Paige could feel it. The peace cracking around the edges. 

Azzi shifted. Cleared her throat. And finally said, “So. What are we going to do?”

Paige had been expecting it. She’d been thinking about it the entire time Azzi had been asleep…spinning every possibility in her head like a half-court play. And she’d made her decision almost immediately.

She didn’t want this to be Azzi’s burden to carry. Not because she didn’t trust her. But because Paige knew how to take the hit. Knew how to balance pressure and privacy like it was part of the game. She was built for this.

So she smirked. Didn’t sit up. Didn’t change her tone. Just leaned over and pressed a sloppy kiss to Azzi’s cheek.

“Don’t stress about that, baby,” she said, casually.  “I’ll handle it.”

Azzi looked up, her eyes searching. “How?”

Paige just smiled. Brushed a thumb under her eye, gentle as ever. 

“I’ve got connections,” she said. “People who don’t ask questions. People who know how to keep things quiet.”

A pause. Then, even softer:

“Let me carry this one.” 

Azzi blinked, jaw tight like she wanted to argue. But she didn’t. She just nodded. And sank back into her side.

A few seconds passed before Paige asked the question that had been quietly gnawing at her.

“What did you even say to rile him up that much?”

Azzi’s cheeks flushed pink immediately. She groaned, burying her face in her hands. But eventually, she mumbled it out, face still hidden, voice muffled. And when she finished, Paige threw her head back laughing. The sound cracked through the air, bouncing off the walls around them.

“Damn,” she said, grinning wide. “Didn’t know I had a dog in my corner. Might start bringing you to interviews—let you handle the reporters who get too cute.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she smiled. Quiet and slow, like it was just starting to feel safe again. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.  Just… honest.

Paige cleared her throat.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing, by the way.”

Azzi glanced over, curious. “What wouldn’t?”

“If the world knew about us,” Paige muttered. Still not looking at her. “I mean—I’m not embarrassed. Of you. Of us.” A shrug. Too casual. Like maybe if she didn’t look at Azzi, it wouldn’t feel like a confession. “Just figured you should know.”

It wasn’t a big speech. It didn’t need to be. Azzi heard it. All of it.And Paige saw the shift. Saw how much it meant to her.  How badly she’d needed to hear it out loud.

Azzi bumped her shoulder against Paige’s.

“You’re such a loser,” she said, soft and smiling.

Paige just grinned. 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

When she left Azzi’s, Paige shifted.

Because while she was gentle with Azzi, she wasn’t with anything else. Not in her nature. Especially not now.

The truth was, she didn’t really care if she got outed.

Would it be ideal? No. Not with the season about to start. But people already assumed. People had always assumed.

What mattered more was Azzi. Protecting her from the inevitable noise. The think pieces, the whispers, the careless reposts and comment sections that always managed to cut deeper than they should. And for that reason alone, Paige would tap every connection she had.

NIL reps. Media liaisons. PR friends in high places.

She’d pull every string. Press every silent button.

Because if Cam wanted to test her?

He was about to learn exactly what it meant to come for the one thing Paige Bueckers still considered hers.

She pulled out her phone. 

Group Chat: "Team P"

Paige: need a favor

Paige: someone’s threatening to leak something personal

Paige: want it handled quietly

Paige: preemptively, if possible

She tucked her phone away and kept walking. It didn’t take long to get a response. 

Team: Send a debrief. We’ll handle it. Team: UConn student?

Paige licked her lips, typed:

Paige: UConn athlete.

A typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Came back.

Team: Oh. Easier than I thought. Team: Send the brief. We’ll handle it.

Paige typed out everything they needed to know—quick, clean, no fluff.  No unnecessary details. No names. Except Cam’s. Because of course his dumbass name made the cut. And then she hit send. 

She trusted her team. Knew they’d handle it. So she tossed her phone in her bag and headed back to the gym.

Still, there was a buzz under her skin, restless and hot. Part of her wanted to get her own lick in. To find Cam and ruin him. With words. With facts. With that smile she reserved for her only her worst moments. 

But she knew better. Knew her temper was better held. Because sometimes, a well-timed email spoke louder than anything sharp she could sling across a table.

After practice, she checked her phone. No surprise. The email was waiting. CC’d, just like she’d asked. It hit at 4:42 p.m. Barely an hour after she’d rung the alarm.

She opened it without blinking.

Subject: Student Conduct Concern – Privacy Threat to Student-Athlete

Hey Sheryll,

Reaching out on behalf of Paige Bueckers regarding a private issue involving another student-athlete at UConn.

There’s been a verbal threat to disclose personal information related to her relationship with another athlete, made in a way that could violate student conduct and NIL compliance policies.

We’re not seeking a formal report at this time, but we would appreciate the university addressing it directly and quietly. Paige would prefer to avoid escalation, and we trust your office can handle this discreetly.

Have attached Paige’s brief. If you need further context or documentation, we’re happy to provide it.

Thank you,

Lindsay Kagawa Colas

Wasserman

PR/Representation for Paige Bueckers

Paige read the email once. Then closed the app. The devil might work fast. But a well-paid PR team team worked faster.

Beside her, Azzi watched carefully.

“You think I’m pretty or something?” Paige asked, without looking up.

Azzi rolled her eyes but leaned in anyway.  “What’s going on?”

Paige shrugged, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “All’s handled.”

Azzi’s brows lifted, suspicious. “How so?”

Paige smirked, lips tugging sideways.  “Don’t worry about it.”

She’d tell her eventually. But God, she loved a moment to be cocky. Especially with Azzi. Especially when it was earned.

Azzi narrowed her eyes, bit down on her lip, and bumped their shoulders together.

“Show-off.”

Paige grinned. “Only for you,” she muttered. “Obviously.”

Azzi’s POV 

Azzi loved a post-win Ted’s trip.

Nothing but sweats, sneakers, and Paige’s hand tangled in hers as she tugged her toward the metal roof of the only place still open in Storrs.

The game had gone about as perfectly as a game could go. So perfect, in fact, that even Geno had barely found something to nitpick. A miracle. A high. The kind of night that made you feel like maybe the whole season would go like this.

Paige followed willingly, hood up, cheeks still a little pink from the win. Azzi didn’t let go of her hand once.

When they walked in, Paige tugged Azzi toward the back and said, “Go grab the booth. I’ve got this. Lead scorer of the night deserves VIP treatment.”

Then, before Azzi could argue, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to her neck. Quick, casual, completely lethal.

Azzi let out a half-laugh, half-gasp, already unraveling.

 “Unfair,” she mumbled, grinning like an idiot.

But she did as she was told. Collapsed into the booth in the far corner, still flushed from the game and now very possibly more flushed from Paige.

She propped her chin on her hand, eyes already tracking her girl across the room. Messy bun, hoodie half-tucked, ordering like she owned the place.

She was still watching Paige—laughing with the bartender, her whole face lit up—when someone stepped between them, blocking her view.

Azzi looked up.

Cam. Drunk Cam. He swayed slightly as he tilted his head, eyes dragging over her like she was an exhibit he’d already seen too many times.

“Congrats on the win,” he said.

Azzi offered a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

He cleared his throat. Took a long sip of whatever was in his glass.

“Got an interesting email a few days ago,” he said. “Seems like Bueckers got the impression I was planning to muddy up her name.” A beat. “Wonder where she got that idea.”

Azzi dragged her eyes up, finally meeting his. They were glassy from the alcohol. And from something else. Something bitter and bruised and maybe always there.

“Probably from me,” she said evenly.  “Since you threatened me. In the student center. To do exactly that.”

Cam shook his head, laughing under his breath. The sound was bitter. Familiar.

“That was a conversation, Azzi. Not a threat,” he said, like she was the one being dramatic. “I was just pointing out how interesting it would be. If it happened.”

He took another sip. Looked over his shoulder—toward the bar. Azzi followed his gaze. Paige had noticed. She was still smiling, still talking, but her eyes were locked on them. Alert. Ready. Waiting for the signal. Cam turned back.

“Looks like you took it a little personal,” he said, smirk creeping back into his voice. “Makes you wonder though.” He nodded toward the bar. “All those strings pulled. All that heat. Just to keep you a secret.”

Something about that made Azzi laugh. Not bitter. Not wounded. Just...tired. And maybe a little stronger than she used to be.

Because once, that line might’ve split her clean through. But now she knew the difference. She wasn’t Paige’s secret. Not in the ways that ever made her doubt it.

So she laughed.

“Good try,” she said, tipping her head.

Cam arched a brow. “What? She sent a full legal team to make sure I didn’t so much as whisper your name in the same sentence as hers.”

Azzi shrugged, unbothered. “My name’s in the same sentence as hers all the time, Cam. That’s not exactly new.”

Cam leaned in, eyes mean and glassy. “Yeah,” he said, low and cutting. “But usually it’s not about fucking you.”

Two cups hit the table with a thud. Cam jumped. And turned. To find Paige standing there.

“Cam,” she said with an unfriendly grin. “Always showing up where you’re uninvited. A real talent.”

He rolled his eyes, but Azzi saw it. The twitch in his jaw, the swallow he tried to hide.

“Bueckers,” he muttered. “Got real intimate with your legal team recently.”

Paige nodded once. “Yeah. So I heard.”

She took her seat beside Azzi, tugging her into her side. Arm slung around her shoulders. Not possessive really, just proud. So, Azzi leaned into her. Braided their fingers together with a hum of satisfaction. 

“Weird thing to sick your paid associates the second the word might get out that Azzi’s your girlfriend.”

Paige took a long sip, rolling her neck. 

“Well, I’m glad you at least know she’s mine,” Paige said, tilting her head.

That landed.

“Yeah, Bueckers. Sure,” he said, voice dropping, bitter in that familiar, jealous way. “Until she remembers what it’s like to be with someone who can actually give her what she wants. You know. In ways—” his eyes dragged over them, slow and smug—“you physically can’t.”

Azzi didn’t need to ask what he meant. She knew. They both did. But before Paige could say a word, Azzi laughed, sharp and cold and completely unimpressed.

“She can’t, huh?” Azzi smiled, slow and tired. “News to me.”

Paige smirked at that, licking her lips like she was trying not to smile. Then, she looked past him.

“Oh,” she said lightly. “Cam, looks like we got an audience.”

He turned.

A small group of his teammates stood near the bar. Manny among them. Their faces were tight. Eyes narrowed. One of them crossed his arms.

“Yo,” Manny said, stepping forward. “The fuck are you doing, man?”

Cam blinked. “What?”

“We came over to say thanks,” another guy muttered. “Paige sent us shots. That was solid.”

“But then we hear you running your mouth? Harassing them?” Manny cut in. His jaw tightened. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“You drunk?” someone else asked. “Or just showing your whole ass on purpose?”

Cam’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He looked cornered. Caught.

Paige didn’t say a word. Just rested her arm on the back of the booth like she was watching a show she’d already seen the ending to. And as Azzi studied her—cool, unbothered, lips twitching like this was exactly the outcome she’d hoped for—realization bloomed.

The drinks sent to his teammates. How long it took her to come back to the table. All of it.

Azzi snorted and immediately buried her face in Paige’s neck, trying to hide the laugh that nearly cracked her open. Paige tilted her head slightly, like she felt it too.

“Get the fuck away from them,” Manny said, finally. Voice low. Firm.  “Go home. Sober up. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

Cam turned, looking back like he wanted to plead, explain, twist the story into something else. But Paige, in all her quiet, relentless glory, gave him a two-finger salute.

“Have a good night, Cam,” she said. Almost sweet.

He stormed out.

The guys lingered, awkward, clearly thrown.

“Hey—um, we’re really sorry,” one of them said, eyes flicking between them. “I don’t know what he was trying to do, but…yeah. That wasn’t it.”

Paige nodded once. Easy. “You’re good,” she said. “No need to let one guy ruin a perfectly decent night. Enjoy the shots.”

“Thanks Bueckers,” They muttered before walking away. 

Paige blew out a breath. 

“Shit baby. What did you do to that guy to have him so damn obsessed?”

Azzi’s face flushed. “Honestly? Nothing.” Her voice was quieter now. She and Paige hadn’t really unpacked the whole Cam thing yet, but she wanted to. Not right now though. In public. “We hung out a few times… not even just us. Never one-on-one. I—”

Paige kissed her. Quick. Certain. Like she could read Azzi's mind. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for attention but might’ve gotten it anyway.

Azzi didn’t really care.

“I’m kidding,” Paige said. “I’d be that down bad too if I had a chance with you and lost it.”

“Yeah, well,” Azzi muttered against her skin. “Nothing you have to worry about.”

Paige bit back a grin. “No? Should I remind you he’s wrong about what I can’t do? Just to be sure?”

Azzi flushed, her whole body catching fire as Paige’s hand gripped her thigh a little tighter.

“If it’ll help your ego.”

That earned her a low laugh. Paige leaned in, lips grazing warm skin.

“Bet.”

[nadvs]

the power play is one of the best fics I’ve ever read. Like seriously. I love the way you write dialogue and the dynamic between those two :)) for the blurbs, I was wondering if we could see more of how reader adjusts to their new relationship. though they’ve been doing the fake thing for a while now, do you think she gets hesitant about what to ask for in a relationship since this is her first one? like does she have a hard time telling rafe what she wants, whether that’s emotionally or physically? no pressure at all, but if you’d be interested in writing a little blurb that explores that dynamic, I’d be eternally grateful 🫶

thank you 🥹 writing their dialogue was my fav part!! omg you read my mind. this is why she needs sm reassurance once they start dating for real. it doesn’t go away on its own. and we know he has his own issues 😬 set in the power play au.

at the beginning of their relationship, they’re in a total honeymoon phase. arguments are rare and usually shallow and get resolved quickly, because they have a good understanding of one another.

but eventually, they start arguing more, and the fights get harder to resolve. she gets to a point where she’s so in love with him that it scares her, and she starts to think that she cares more about him than he does about her.

rafe gives her all the reassurance he can, but he starts to feel like he’s failing as a boyfriend if his girl is asking if he even likes her as often as she does.

and it’s a fear of his, not being enough. he starts getting defensive, leading her to spiral more. she worries she’s asking for too much, or maybe that she doesn’t even know how to ask for it in the right way.

on top of that, rafe has crazy bad insecurity. he gets horribly jealous at times. he knows how charming his girlfriend is and in his darkest times, he thinks she’s only with him because she could get along with anyone, and he was just there at the right time.

she doesn’t take his jealousy well. she tries to communicate to him that she needs him to trust her, but again, she doesn’t know what’s ‘normal’ and she second guesses herself a lot as they get more serious.

their differences are both good and bad, because they challenge each other, but they show love in opposite ways. he shows her he cares with actions, while she’s all about words, wanting to hear that she’s loved.

they have a lot to work though, but she eventually finds a balance of asking for reassurance from him, while also improving her own self-esteem so she doesn’t have to rely on him to make her feel worthy of love.

they both entered the relationship with very damaged hearts, and with time, they realize they can’t rely on the other to fix all the pain. they have work they have to do on themselves and sometimes, they need time apart to do that.

[sundrop-writes]

I'm Not Angry (Anymore)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

I'm not bitter anymore - I'm syrupy sweet.

I'll rot your teeth down to their core... if I'm really happy.

It depends on the day, if I wake up in a giddy haze.

Well I'm not angry... I'm not (totally) angry...

I'm not all that angry anymore.

Part Two: Epoximise

Summary:

You and George Weasley are definitely not friends. 

Especially not after he handcuffed himself to you to prove some weird point, as part of another one of his obnoxious pranks - it only made you remember why you weren't friends with him. Now you're stuck like this for the foreseeable future - tied to him because of a stupid stunt.

And it's not your fault when your annoyance and hatred are slowly chipped away as the night slowly feels more like a date. He shouldn't be doing this to you. He shouldn't be acting this nice, cooking this well, smelling so nice, looking so handsome -

The two of you definitely aren't friends. (But you're terrified that you might be something else after this.)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader. Enemies to Lovers. Smut with Heavy Plot. Set Post War.

Word Count: 37,100

Harry Potter Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this one has a lot of the same warnings as the first part, because it carries over a lot of the same themes and just deepens them; also if you haven’t read the first part, please do because this is a oneshot that has been split in half and this will not make sense if you don’t read the other part first; the reader character goes by she/her pronouns and has a vagina (though as with most of my fics, most of the pronouns used throughout are you/yours); this fic does use Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); there are no descriptions of the reader’s race, weight, hair colour, eye colour, or general looks other than a few statements about George being taller than the reader (and even then, it does not say how much taller he is than her and it does not state that she is ‘tiny’ or petite) - this is based off the idea that Oliver Phelps is 6 foot 2 and most people would be shorter than that by comparison; there is descriptions of the reader wearing very hyper feminine clothing, including skirts, dresses, and high heels (and it is stated that she wears high heels on a regular basis), and it's stated that she regularly wears makeup, it’s also mentioned that she is slightly self conscious without makeup - not because she thinks she’s ugly without it, but because she is so used to wearing it and feels ‘naked’ without it (also plays into the theme of appearance vs natural real self); the reader is a Slytherin, and this fic explores the ‘evil Slytherin’ trope; the reader is the same age as George, so in this fic, they would be 23/24; the reader is a Pureblood and comes from a family that upholds typical Pureblood values - while she used to believe in those things (or was taught to) she broke away from her family and is not a Pureblood supremacist; the reader has a father and other unnamed family members who are Death Eaters; this is a ‘Fred Lives AU’ (I can’t put George through all that); this might be slightly OOC Fred - but I do think this is genuinely how Fred would react if one of his siblings had a crush on a Slytherin (the Weasleys can be petty); general themes of trauma and PTSD (because both the reader and George fought in and experienced a war); the reader has trauma because she comes from an emotionally abusive and neglectful household (though there are no mentions of her ever being physically abused at home); alcohol and drinking - in this part, George and the reader have a few casual drinks with dinner, but neither of them are inebriated or drunk and neither of them lack the ability to consent to sex; again, passing mentions of vomit and blood due to the fact that Fred and George sell gross products, but it does not happen in the fic; again, this has the basis of them being ‘accidentally’ chained together with a pair of handcuffs due to a prank gone wrong, so this could be considered forcible confinement; George calls the reader ‘love’; mention(s) of the reader being raised by House Elves; mentions of the reader having poor eating habits (not a full blown eating disorder, but just poor habits in general); mentions of the reader having sex with random unnamed Slytherin characters (sometimes while under the influence of alcohol - though it does not state that she was ever too drunk to consent); (technically) non-consensual staring at someone’s naked body (mostly from George toward the reader, but technically from both of them) (but it’s murky dubcon and they’re both attracted to each other and trying to navigate this radical shift in their relationship); a flashback to The Battle of Hogwarts which includes - mentions of death, danger, the reader is hit with the Cruciatus Curse, the reader’s life is threatened; a separate flashback has slight themes of sexual assault - the reader is a not a date with an unpleasant random guy and he verbally harrasses her and tries to grope her, but she defends herself. 

This part does have smut, so the specific warnings for the smut are: George calls the reader ‘pretty girl’, ‘love’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘good girl’, ‘nasty little bitch’, and ‘missy’ (in a condescending way); there is some dom/sub undertones - George is more dominant and the reader is more submissive, though at first the reader is more of a brat before she submits to George; strength kink - the reader likes George’s muscles and strength; marking kink - George leaves love bites on the reader; teasing - from George toward the reader; tit sucking/tit play (reader receiving); fingering (reader receiving); ‘Sir’ kink - George likes being called Sir (doesn’t play into the fic too heavily, but it’s there); some size kink - George has a giant dick and the reader is definitely turned on by it; finger sucking; unprotected penis in vagina sex (or, as I have said with other Harry Potter fics, you can pretend it’s protected - you can pretend that the characters took some kind of contraceptive potion or used a spell that’s not mentioned here, but no condom is mentioned or used in the fic); praise kink - the reader likes it when George praises her; mentions of anal sex - it is used as a ‘threat’ toward the reader but it does not happen in the fic (and the reader likes the idea, so it’s not much of a threat); overstimulation - towards the reader (not to a severe degree); creampie kink - they are both turned on by the idea of him cumming inside of her, but it’s not breeding kink because there is no specific mentions of breeding or pregnancy; oral sex - reader recieving; lots of dirty talk; and I think that’s it for the smut.

A/N: I am so glad that this is finally done omg. I do apologize that this took so long, but this was a lot to edit, and my illness has been flaring up a lot lately, so I am just proud of myself for getting it done. I really hope that his was worth the wait for you guys. Also, one of these scenes is a flashback to the Yule Ball, and I could not resist putting a reference to the reader's dress - aka the dress I had in mind for her when I was writing this. I have put a link to the Pinterest post where it's relevant, so you can click on it and take a look while reading and then come back, and I have put a picture of the dress at the very end of this fic if you would rather scroll to the end, take a look, and then read the fic. The model wearing the dress is thin, but in my mind that does not mean that the character depicted in this fic is thin or that a fat person wouldn't look good wearing that dress. It's just the photo reference that was available. Anyway - I really hope that you enjoy reading this fic!!

...

Two or three days. 

Two or three days. 

The longer you sat with the information, the more of a headache you developed because of it. 

You had collapsed into a large, plush armchair in the small sitting room of the flat, trying to ignore the horrifying situation that you found yourself in. 

Two or three days. 

With your neck leaned against the back of the chair, you closed your eyes, trying not to let the stress cause you a terrible headache - which seemed inevitable with the situation that you were in. Especially with the cool metal still gnawing at your wrist, ever-presently reminding you that you had an entire man directly attached to you that you could not run away from. 

Anxiety, stress, and dread all battled inside of you, turning into a deadly kind of numbness that forced you to appear calm. 

George knelt down in front of the chair, forced to maintain that closeness between the two of you - quite literally unable to give you some space in order to calm down, even though he knew that was what you needed. When he put his free hand on your knee, seemingly to comfort you, you didn’t even have the energy to get angry about it. The usual defensive disgust about him being in your personal space was nowhere to be found. 

And you would deny that it was because some small part of you liked the warmth of the touch - his hands so impossibly hot, even though the lace of your tights. 

You simply didn’t have the energy to yell at him. It was almost as though your mind and body was shutting down, preparing to conserve energy for the next exhausting hours that you would have to spend tied to him. 

“Come on, love, it won’t be that bad.” He said, his voice soft and soothing as though he was trying to calm a wild animal, trying to mitigate the situation. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. I can bring you over to my place and cook you a nice dinner. You want a nice steak, don’t you? Yes, that sounds nice. Trust me, you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.” 

You let out a harsh breath, and finally opened your eyes to give him another deadly glare. 

“I want your head on a platter.” You told him, your voice eerily steady and calm. 

“Well, I’m afraid that wouldn’t be terribly tasty.” He replied, a small grin breaking back onto his lips. 

Of course he was still making jokes. It was something that made you want to swing a knee up into his chin just to prove a point. But you had agreed not to get violent. 

“But I do have some choice cuts sitting in my refrigerator, and I’ll do ‘em up real nice for you. So you could waste the whole evening glaring at me, or we could try to make the best of it.” 

Strangely, you knew that he was right. Which, for a moment, only made you more angry with him. But you also knew that he would have to spend the rest of the time ‘making it up’ to you (and likely a lot more time after the cuffs came off) - so you might be able to get a neck rub out of it if you played your cards right. His sense of nobility could turn him into an indentured servant to you. For a little while, at least. 

“I want wine.” You told him. “And I want you to be quiet so I can have some peace.” 

“All I have at my place is bourbon. But it’s top shelf,” He replied, giving you a hopeful smile. 

“I have wine in the fridge.” You told him, standing up from the chair. 

When he stood up too, it instantly put the two of you close together, your bodies brushing chest to chest. There was a single, terrible moment where he looked down at you, his eyes reeking of fondness as he craned his neck to make eye contact. 

It caused a shiver down your spine. You swore his stupid smirk grew wider when he noticed it. 

You hated it. 

“And I - I have to get my things.” You stuttered out, desperate to change the subject as you broke out of the awkwardly close position and began dragging him toward the kitchen. 

You walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed the large bottle of wine that you had there. 

George resisted making a comment about how the bottle of wine was all you had in there. 

You didn’t consider being embarrassed about how pathetically bare your refrigerator was - not knowing that was a drastic shift from how the kitchen had looked when Fred and George had been living in the small flat. You had never been taught how to cook because you had spent most of your life being served by your family’s House Elves, unintentionally rendered helpless by having them do everything for you. Now that you lived alone, you bought prepared foods or sometimes, on a particularly bad day, you drank your dinner in wine or tea before falling asleep, not caring to truly take care of yourself. 

“It’s not like I can just pop back over here after your apology dinner is finished.” You added on harshly, thinking about how you would have to bring enough things to stay at his place overnight and pray that the cursebreaker would arrive early. “Which, by the way, we’re not Apparating like this. So your Floo better be open.” 

Your mind flickered to the terrible consequences that could occur if you and George potentially got mixed up. You had no clue what kind of magic was causing the handcuffs to be so strongly held together, and you didn’t want to find out if it would cause the two of you to mend into some horrible amalgamation if you tried to Apparate while cuffed like this. It was a horrifying thought. One much more horrifying than spending the night alone with George. 

“Okay, fine.” George nodded, trying his best to be agreeable toward you because he had been the one to get you into this mess. “And the Floo is open, it’s all fine.” 

You shoved the bottle of wine into his arms and guided him along into your bedroom - again, feeling a slight twinge of embarrassment at the mess that you had left behind that morning. You had absolutely no idea that someone, especially not George Weasley, would be seeing it later in the day. You waited for him to say something mocking about it, and strangely - it didn’t come. 

You kicked some dirty laundry under the bed and grabbed a bag, starting to gather everything you would need for an overnight stay. Inside, you were dreading the idea that you would have to sleep beside George. You tried not to think about that too much for now. 

He looked on silently while you moved, finding intense personal interest in the way you kept your belongings. He thought for certain that someone like you would have been an intense neat freak, not so messy and disorganized. But part of him thought that it was oddly adorable. He found it comforting that - as uptight as you were - at least one part of your life was messy. There was one area of your life where you allowed yourself to let go and be human. 

You grabbed some pajamas and some clothes for the next day, shoving them into your bag without much thought. And then you opened your top drawer to get some underwear, and you noticed George’s eyes instantly glued to the mess of unfolded lace and sheer fabrics. He began staring with intense, wide-eyed enrapturement, clearly unashamed that he being so blatantly nosy about your collection of intimates. 

It made you suddenly self conscious about which ones you were going to choose to put into your bag. With his eyes carefully on you, whatever you picked up, he would then obviously know that you would be wearing them the next day. And with the look on his face, with his likely perverted mind, he would be picturing you in them. Even if he didn’t necessarily find you attractive. 

“Stop looking at my underwear!” You scolded him sharply. 

Feeling intensely caught, his head snapped upward, craning his neck toward the ceiling to avoid further accusation. 

“Sorry.” He mumbled quietly. “Can’t help it.” 

You didn’t bother to argue, and only let out a sigh in reply to his pathetic defense. 

You continued to rifle through the drawer, now incredibly self conscious of your choice. Aside from the few pairs that you wore during your period (which were in the hamper from the week previous) you didn’t have many pairs that were modest or unsexy. You liked wearing pretty, lacy, sexy things for yourself. Wearing them made you feel good. 

So you grabbed a few different ones off the top and vowed to decide later, continuing to hate the predicament that you were in. 

Then you dragged George to the bathroom, and you grabbed your toothbrush and toothpaste and started shoving your messy, scattered make-up products into your make-up bag to bring those along (again, something that you wore for yourself). You were desperately trying not to forget anything important, because you didn’t want to drag George all the way back here if you did forget something. 

Meanwhile, George took on a particular fascination with the fancy glass bottle that you had sitting on the edge of the sink. Clearly, it was the perfume that you wore regularly (as it was only half full, mostly used up at this point), the one that drove him mad every single time he smelled it on you. 

He made a mental note of which one it was so that he could buy one later (definitely not for the purposes of spraying it on his pillow to drive forth the pathetic delusion that you slept in his bed on a regular basis). And then he used his cuffed hand to reach out and grab the bottle, lifting it to his nose for a sniff. 

You were occupied, rooting around in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror to see if there would be anything else that you would need, temporarily too distracted to notice what he was doing. When you heard him inhaling deeply beside you, you glanced over and found him with your perfume bottle practically shoved up his nose, and you found that strange twinge rattling through your stomach once again. 

It made you annoyed and defensive. 

“Give me that.” You whined, not waiting for him to follow the instruction before you reached up and snatched it from him. 

“It’s nice.” He complimented, giving you a smile. “Do I sense a hint of rose?” 

‘You can sense a hint of my foot up your arse.’ 

“Let’s just go.” You sighed. 

… 

You never liked traveling by Floo. 

It was a harsh, hot pull that left you filthy and covered in ash, and it usually ruined whatever nice clothes you had picked out for the day. You avoided using the Floo whenever you could. The minute you turned seventeen and got your Apparition license, you stopped Flooing unless it was absolutely necessary - and it being entirely necessary in this case just ruined your day a little bit further. 

Still being chained to another person when you came out on the other side only highlighted your sour mood - sputtering and coughing as the thick smoke and ash bloomed up around you, drifting up into your nose and causing a terrible irritating reaction that only reminded you why you hated this method of travel so much. 

“You’re supposed to close your mouth, you know.” George commented quietly beside you, clearly unable to resist the urge to make another joke as you struggled to regain your breath. 

“Wh-what did I - I say about you b-being quiet?” You reminded him between gasps, shooting him another glare. 

He rolled his eyes and escorted you from the tall mouth of the fireplace further into his home, taking your bag out of your hands and tossing it into a nearby chair as he began shedding his jacket (that he had wrestled back on with one arm earlier). 

It was then that a truly bizarre realization hit you - you had never been inside Fred and George’s house before. 

You knew that they used to share the small, cramped flat above the shop as their living space before they moved out and upgraded. Something that had happened just a few short weeks before you had moved into the flat, which was why it had been fully furnished and still had some of their homewares and nicknacks in it. But it never really occurred to you to think about where they had moved to. 

Truthfully, up until now, you never thought much about their lives outside of the shop. You knew that most of their lives were the shop. They spend pretty much every waking moment at the shop. Aside from their weekly Sunday dinners with their family, and before Fred had started dating Angelina a few months prior, they had devoted most of their lives to being at the shop. 

They spent all their time making products for the shop, doing business deals for the shop, cleaning and restocking, working, dealing with customers. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was everything to them, and it never occurred to you to think about what they might have outside of that. 

And you realized in those moments that if you had been forced to picture a place where George Weasley lived, this most certainly would not have been it. 

This place was shockingly… nice. It was beautiful, warm, and well decorated. It didn’t remind you of the twins’ gaudy taste in clothing or the packaging they chose for their products at all. 

The fireplace put the two of you out into what appeared to be the main sitting room. The walls were paneled in warm wood tones, some kind of natural dark oak that immediately made the place feel intensely warm and cozy. There was a large patterned rug in the middle of the room, upon which sat a nice dark stained wooden coffee table. It was lined by a very large, comfortable looking couch and two oversized, plush armchairs, with a few smaller side tables between them. 

You were intensely impressed to see books on a shelf that was inlaid into the wall - not just a few, but a very intense, sprawling collection. And a record player in the corner, sitting on a small stand that held a select collection of vinyls in their sleeves. This was sitting beside a bronzed cart that held some of that ‘top shelf’ liquor that George had been talking about. 

They must have entertained here - during the few evenings a year when they weren’t in their office at the shop, hunched over some new invention, trying to get it right. It looked like a lovely, cozy place to hang out. (Not that you would ever be invited back here after you were detached from George’s arm.) 

“Oh, dammit.” George’s frustrated grunting from beside you pulled you out of your thoughts, and you turned to him to see him still struggling with his coat. 

It was as though he had just realized that he wouldn’t be able to get it off cleanly because - again, the two of you were attached at the wrist. It was almost like he had created a glaring problem when he had chained you two together for a quick laugh. He was running so fast that foresight would never catch up with him. 

“Problem?” You asked, giving him a sarcastic smirk. 

“Come on.” 

He said stiffly, quickly dragging you into another room, forcing you to practically trip over yourself in order to follow him (not even giving you time to shed your heels - your feet hurting after the agonizingly long day that you’d had). You ended up down a short hallway in what appeared to be the kitchen. It was another small, cozy room with floral wallpaper and slightly outdated pastel coloured appliances. But you didn’t have time to admire the decor here before he was moving frantically. 

He immediately brought you over to the counter against the wall and tore open one of the drawers, took out a large pair of scissors and slammed them onto the counter. 

“Cut it off me.” George demanded. “As much as I love this damn coat, I can’t be draggin’ the thing around all night.” 

“You’re serious?” You gaped at him. 

You were shocked that he trusted you enough to hand you a pair of scissors and ask you to start cutting. Especially after all the threats you had made earlier. Not that you would actually hurt him - but you were surprised that the underlying trust was there from him. 

It was a very nice looking, expensive coat, but you had done some damage to it earlier with your reckless spell casting, trying to get the two of you out of the handcuffs. So perhaps it was a lost cause. 

“Yeah.” He said. “This whole thing is my stupid fault, so I guess I have to pay for it, right?” 

That made the whole thing even more strange. He seemed far more upset about the fate of his coat than the potential of you hurting him with the scissors - that part didn’t even seem to be in his mind. And something inside of you told you that it was important to rise to the silent trust he put in you. The same kind of trust he put in you when he left you alone to take care of the shop, even for short periods of time, or when he trusted you to make beautiful displays of products that you claimed not to care about. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized that he was the first person in your life that had ever trusted you like this. Your father always assumed that you would ruin the family name somehow, always telling you that you were never good enough in his eyes. And he turned out to be right, just not for the reasons he had first assumed. All of your classmates only viewed you as a terrible, evil, Pureblood Slytherin, and even when you ended up on the right side of The War, people like Fred still saw you as someone with cruel intentions. 

George was the only person who never seemed afraid of you without you having to beg for him to believe you. Without you even having to ask. 

You picked up the scissors and pulled your joined arms closer as gently as you could, slipping the open mouth of the blades into his sleeve. You were curious as to why he seemed so upset about this particular jacket being maimed when you had seen him in so many other ones that were equally as nice, or even nicer. 

“I’m sure you’ll be able to have it mended.” You said, an attempt to be comforting that felt strangely foreign to you, making that hesitant first cut - a slicing of fabric that left a wounded look on his face while he watched. “Besides, you have others, don’t you? It’s not like you’ll be running around naked.” 

You knew that he was truly hurt when he didn’t take the opportunity to make a joke about you picturing him naked. 

“This jacket was one of the first things I bought with my money from the shop.” He explained, his voice quiet. He used his free hand to pull the sleeve back up to his shoulder, unrumpling the fabric so that it would be easier for you to cut him out of it. 

Oh - there was a sentimental attachment. 

“I was walking by Madam Mulkins with a big box of supplies in my arms and it caught my eye - she had it displayed on a mannequin in the window. And originally, I thought it would be a waste of money. I thought I didn’t need something so dressy. But Fred went on this whole rant about how we needed to start ‘dressing smarter’ so that people would take us seriously and wouldn’t just view us as a couple of kids.” 

You finally wrestled through the thick collar with the scissors, freeing his arm from the very nice jacket, truly destroying it in the process. He let it drop to the floor, looking down mournfully at the now ruined pile of fabric before he finished his story. 

“Before that, it was all hand-me-downs. Everything had been stretched out by Charlie or stained by Bill. And I didn’t really mind it. I never thought about my clothes too much. But nothing I had ever worn before, aside from a few Christmas jumpers that Mum had knit - had ever actually been my own. Nothing had been bought just for me.” George continued. 

There was something in his voice - you couldn’t quite place it, but it made your insides quake. It wasn’t jealousy, or even regret. It was a deep kind of sadness that you didn’t know for yourself. You had been so lonely your whole life, you had never considered what living in the shadow of three older brothers would be like. Especially when having a twin that people constantly compared you to. 

“And yeah, since then, Fred and I have bought a whole wardrobe full of smart clothes, and I dress nicely all the time, and I do look like a proper businessman - and it’s probably stupid-” 

“It’s not.” You felt the need to butt in, for once in all the time you had known George truly believing that he wasn’t being stupid. “It’s one of the first things that you earned for yourself, and you value it. And I just destroyed it.” 

You let out a heavy sigh as a wave of guilt engulfed you, creating a terrible ache through your chest. 

You silently vowed that you would use some of the money you had saved up from working at the shop in order to have the jacket mended for him. The second that you were separated from the cuffs, you would steal away the ruined fabric and bring it back to Madam Mulkins to be fixed up. You would have to dread explaining to her how it had gotten sliced up, and singed, and likely have to make up some lie about an accident at the shop - a pair of rogue Chattering Teeth or something. 

“Come off it.” George sighed, taking the scissors from you and shoving them back into the drawer before he slammed it shut. “I asked you too. And like you said, I’m the idiot who got us into this.” He added on, motioning toward the handcuffs. 

He did have a point. 

He took his wand out of his pocket and used it to vanish the ruined fabric away. Well, that plan was now dead in the water - perhaps you could commission Madam Mulkin to make him a new one in the exact likeness of his old jacket… well you mulled that over, George moved toward the fridge. 

“Now - dinner?” 

Your stomach did pang with hunger, finally reminding you that you had eaten very little that day and a good meal sounded like a fantastic idea. Again, you hated that George was right, but you couldn’t deny it. However, your feet were still aching from wearing your heels for so long and you wanted to take them off - but something about walking around in George’s kitchen in just your stockings felt slightly inappropriate. 

Perhaps it was the way you had been raised - the constant hammering on you to never let your posture slip, to never be too casual around others, never too friendly. Never show weakness, because it would be a huge crack in your precious reputation. But even as your feet began screaming with pain, you hesitated to take off your shoes. 

“Can you pass me a knife?” George asked, motioning toward one of the kitchen drawers. 

When he noticed the deep discomfort on your face, he frowned. 

“Look, I know I said that I would cook dinner, and I will take the lead here, but we’re still bloody attached, so I am gonna need a wee bit of your help.” He griped. 

“It’s not that.” You sighed, opening the drawer that had held the scissors and grabbing a large knife, handing it to him. 

He used it to cut open the packaging that held the steaks - two very large, nice looking ones, before he looked back at you with an intensely puzzled expression. 

“It’s - ugh.” You growled quietly under your breath and gestured toward your feet. “My feet are hurting, but - I don’t make it a habit of taking off my shoes in other people’s homes. I don’t behave like some slob, it’s not the way I was raised-” 

George let out a bright laugh, grabbing a pan from a different cupboard and putting it on the stove before he lit the flame. 

“I thought you were breaking away from the ways that raised you?” He posed, reaching around you for a bottle of olive oil, reminding you just how close the two of you were forced to be. 

You tried to ignore the smell of his cologne mixing with the musk of fire coming off the stove, and how intoxicating it was. 

“Well, there’s a difference between being grossly prejudiced and lacking basic manners.” You replied. “Fred and Ron haven’t quite figured that out yet-” 

“Fred and Ron missed the boat on manners because they were too busy fighting Percy for IQ points, not because of how they were raised.” George bit back. “I happened to come out with the perfect combination of manners, stunningly good looks, smarts, and cooking skills.” 

He announced, smirking at you in that terribly smackable way as he grabbed a pair of tongs off a small hook on the wall and used them to lay the steaks in the pan, causing a sharp sizzle. A mouth-watering smell began to drift through the air. 

“Then I guess your brothers got all the common sense.” You said, jingling the chain of the handcuffs as a reminder. 

George rolled his eyes at this. 

“Well, as someone who understands manners and hospitality, I am officially inviting you to make yourself at home.” He told you, his voice sounding firm and for once - serious. “And that means making yourself comfortable by taking off your shoes, if it pleases you to do so.” 

Your insides were shaken by that word - hospitality. 

You then radically realized that he didn’t lack manners, he simply knew them in a much different way than you did. It was once again, the simple fact that the two of you had been raised so differently, and it meant that his idea of manners was very different from yours. 

His mother had likely raised him to believe that being polite to guests meant making them feel comfortable in your home - inviting them to relax and drink and have fun. And your father had always raised you to believe that being mannerly meant being as stiff and uptight as possible, putting up a front of absolute perfection in front of anybody who was watching you. Having guests in your home meant showing others that you were more sophisticated than them by never letting your perfect facade crack - never letting your guard down, not even for a second. 

You had been taught that daring to relax in another person’s home was an utterly terrible crime that you should never even think to do. And George believed that he was a bad host if you didn’t feel relaxed in his home. 

You finally gave in, stepping out of your heels and kicking them back behind you, causing them to end up underneath the small two-person dining table that they had in the kitchen. (You didn’t know that they had a larger, much nicer dining table in a dedicated dining room down the hall that was specifically meant for guests). When you looked over at George after he had turned the steaks, he was grinning at you in that terrible way like he knew something that you didn’t. 

“What?” You demanded sharply. 

“I never realized how tiny you are.” He chuckled, putting down his tongs and reaching over to pat you on the head - a move that immediately reignited your dulled out fury into a full blown fire. 

“Don’t touch me,” You snarled dully, batting his arm away, causing a condescending laugh to come from his lips. 

“Okay.” He replied. “But you are adorable.” 

George was a towering tree of a person, and there were very few people who actually measured up to him in height. Other than Fred, of course. 

So even in your heels, you still often had to crane your neck to make eye contact with him and you always felt short compared to him - anybody would. But you did have to agree with his observation of the fact that without your usual shoes on, it truly emphasized the height difference between the two of you. 

You didn’t exactly like it, though. You didn’t like feeling small compared to him. You didn’t like being reminded that he was tall and broad and muscled and he was now forced to be close to you. You didn’t like the fact that he was such a huge muscled man who towered over you. 

“I am not-” You huffed out, cutting yourself off as you realized that it was useless to argue the point. “I need a glass of wine.” 

George summoned the bottle of wine that he had previously abandoned in the sitting room, and you hated the mischievous glint in his eyes as he poured you a glass. 

… 

Cooking dinner while chained together turned out to be quite an adventure. 

George was very good at helping you clear hurdles that you didn’t even know existed, because you soon realized that it was the most cooking you had ever done in your life. And if George picked up on your inexperience, thankfully, he didn’t say it aloud or take the opportunity to mock you for it. 

He just continued to guide you along gently, telling you how to cut things - making small jokes about the crude nature of your knife cuts with your non-dominant hand while your good hand was chained to his. Telling you where he wanted things put and even helping you identify a few herbs and other ingredients that were entirely alien to you. 

You were surprised that he knew so much about food - you thought that with the way his mother was, he would have simply survived off being babied by her. But you guessed that it was more the opposite. She forced her boys to learn how to feed themselves; she wanted them to be self-sufficient and they actually picked up a lot of useful skills that you (regretfully) had never been taught with the way you were raised. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you were sitting down to a rather nice dinner of perfectly cooked, medium rare filets, miniature golden potatoes pan fried with butter and herbs and bacon lardons, and steamed green beans. He poured himself a glass of wine, then another glass for you. You had finished your first glass during the cooking process, taking a sip every time he accidentally tugged on the handcuffs, trying to remind yourself not to snap on him in frustration. 

A strange layer of intimacy crept in when he had to put his plate close to yours and had to move the other chair from the direct opposite side of the table to be much closer to yours so that his arm wouldn’t be awkwardly outstretched while he ate. You were now huddled very close together, shoulder to shoulder over the warm, delicious food. 

After you ate a few of your green beans, you were faced with trying to cut your steak with your awkward hand, and found yourself holding the fork limply with your non-dominant hand, trying to pin the meat down while tugging the knife against George’s dead weight with your cuffed hand. This led to him heaving out a dramatic sigh and then reaching over to take the steak knife from you - you watched, slightly shocked as he cut off a piece with his firm, free hand and then stabbed it with your fork and offered it up to your mouth. 

“You don’t have to feed me.” You hissed at him quietly. 

“I know that I don’t have to,” He replied with a grin. “But it’s fun.” 

You rolled your eyes sharply, eyeing the meat with hesitation. 

“And I don’t want to wait until tomorrow morning for you to finish your supper. You do deserve to taste this while it’s hot.” He added on. 

You did have to acquiesce to that point. And for some stupid reason, rather than simply taking the fork in your own hand - you indulged him. 

You leaned forward and grabbed the bite of meat off the fork, and any thoughts about how ridiculous the whole situation was melted away as soon as you were met with the amazing taste. He had done a wonderful job cooking it, and it was some of the best food you had eaten in a long time. You couldn’t conceal the moan of enjoyment that you let out, and he couldn’t contain his utterly satisfied smirk at your reaction. 

“Good?” He posed, so utterly self satisfied, already knowing the answer. 

“It’s fantastic, you ass.” You replied after you had chewed and swallowed (unable to shirk those ingrained manners) - sadly, unable to deny him the compliment. 

He continued grinning at you, and you couldn’t help but to add: 

“But you know this means that I’m going to be bothering you to cook for me all the time now.” You told him, hoping that this would deter him a bit and finally dampen his impossibly large ego. 

But he kept on grinning that stupid grin as he went about cutting up the rest of your steak for you to fork it and pick it up yourself, knowing that he wouldn’t get away with cutting it up to feed it to you piece by piece. 

“So that means that I’d have you over here all the time for meals?” He gasped in a cartoonishly sarcastic way. “How absolutely dreadful.” 

Though you knew he had emphasized the sarcasm in his words for a reason, you couldn’t think of any reason why he would actually want to have you in his home more often. He didn’t actually like you and it wasn’t truly necessary. Very strange. 

When you were finishing up your main meal, George surprised you by summoning something down from the top of the refrigerator - a small box that landed in the middle of the table. When he opened it, it presented some very luxurious looking chocolate truffles. 

“Peanut butter fudge is your favourite, right?” He said quietly, selecting a particular one out of the box and placing it down beside your nearly empty plate. 

You took a sip of your wine as you eyed it heavily, knowing that he would have to be absolutely mad to give you one of his ‘dosed’ prank sweets while the two of you were forcibly attached. If you started vomiting profusely or bleeding from the nose rapidly with no way to stop it, then he would have to deal with the consequences. Naturally, he saw the look of pure apprehension on your face, and he knew just the right words to play it off. 

“You need to have something sweet after a good meal, right?” He posed, giving you a sweet, genuine smile. 

Your stomach twisted harshly - unsure how to react to something so absolutely thoughtful. He had remembered something so small that you had told him all those years ago. A fond memory of your mother giving you chocolates after a meal because she believed that it was a good practice. 

You reached out and picked up the bonbon then, trying hard to disguise the shaking of your hand, overwhelmed with emotion, as you guided it up to your mouth. 

“Are you a stalker or do you just have a really good memory?” You asked before you bit into the sweet chocolate, resisting the urge to let out another moan of enjoyment at the perfect combination of chocolate and peanut butter. 

“Bit of both.” George shrugged, giving you a cheeky smirk as he selected one for himself. 

…

After dinner, when you were a bit more than comfortably full (unable to resist finishing your plate even as your stomach began to protest) - George posed that you retire into the sitting room for a while. 

Obviously, he was trying to delay the inevitable, the fact that the two of you would have to sleep in the same bed together for the night. 

You took your still mostly full glass of wine in your hand to bring with you and he finished his off with a long-necked gulp, leaving the empty glass on the table. And then he piled your plates and forks together and shoved them into the sink, mumbling something about washing them later (you were silently thankful that he didn’t insist that the two of you attempt joint dishwashing together). 

Then, the two of you walked back to the sitting room, and he used a flick of his wand to scoot the two large armchairs much closer together, causing a loud scraping across the floor. The rug wrinkled up underneath the feet of one of the chairs - something he also fixed with another simple flourish. It felt surprisingly intimate as the two of you sat in the pair of chairs side by side and George used his wand to light a fire in the fireplace, knowing that nobody else would be coming to pay a visit anytime soon. 

Your body melted into the comfortable plushness of the chair when you sat down. Until then, you hadn’t realized how much the stress of the day had truly affected you, making your muscles tight and achy. You found yourself staring at George as he began flicking his wand in the direction of the drink cart, concentrating on pouring himself a glass of the bourbon that he preferred. 

For the first time in all the years you had known time, you truly took in how handsome he was. 

Sure, you had never been obtuse to the fact that the twins were intensely good looking. (Even if most of Fred’s good looks were erased by how much of an ass he could be towards you.) Fred was dating the woman who had been declared Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Upcoming Quidditch Star for a reason. On top of his looks, he could be charming toward her. He knew how to act sweet when he wanted something out of it. 

You had seen plenty of women come into the shop just to flirt with George, buying products that were meant for children that they clearly had no interest in just for an excuse to linger around the cash register and twirl their hair while they made ‘fuck me’ eyes at him. And at times, he had flirted back and even gone on dates with a few of them. You could only assume that it never culminated in a follow up date or a relationship due to his rampant immaturity and not because of his cooking skills, for sure. 

But even you had to admit - he was very handsome. 

You were deeply reminded of that while looking at his striking side profile in the warm light of the fire. His ginger hair that practically seemed to glow, his pale skin with a few stray freckles, his large nose that suited him so well, along with his round cheeks, so well made for laughter and smiling, and his strong jaw. You had always been too busy being annoyed with him, or fleeing from that annoyance, to actually notice his looks before. When he was calm and not actively aggravating you - it was much easier to acknowledge the fact that he was handsome. 

When George finally took his drink in hand, putting his wand down onto the small end table that had ended up between the two of you, he glanced over at you and caught you staring. He curled a sharp brow in your direction as he raised the glass to his lips to take a sip. Surprisingly, didn’t say anything, but you could feel the mockery coming off him from his expression alone. 

Instinctively, you whipped your head in the opposite direction to avoid his gaze. Your eyes raked over the books that the twins had on their shelves, scanning the titles to avoid any conversation about what had just happened. 

“Some music?” He posed after he had swallowed a sip of his drink, sounding all too smug. 

You hated that you could perfectly picture his expression in your mind even though you couldn’t see it. 

“Yeah, whatever.” You huffed in return. 

George let out a hum of confirmation and you heard some shuffling as he chose a record with some well practiced wandless magic, which you tried not to be impressed by. 

Your eyes continued scanning the books, and you found yourself more and more surprised by the collection that the twins kept. Some of them were in depth books about potion making and the history of certain potion ingredients - no doubt used as research for their inventions at the shop. Some of them were surprisingly mature novels - romance novels, dark gothic horror novels. 

There were even well-researched historical pieces; books you had read that Hermione had recommended to you after The War, ones she had gifted to you, obviously hoping to expand your mind beyond your father’s teachings about what the magical world truly had to offer. At the time you had indulged her, though you had spent a fair amount of time in the library at Hogwarts doing your own search as well. If the twins had actually read all these books, then you were more than impressed. 

You found yourself even more impressed then the peaceful hum of what you quickly recognized as Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 came pouring out of the surprisingly smooth speaker of George’s record player. It was one of your favourite musical pieces by one of your favourite magical artists. 

You had only recently discovered, due to Hermione, that it was also famous in the Muggle World. Apparently back when Bach’s music first became popular, there wasn’t as much rigid structure and laws about the division of the two worlds and it was much more of a choice for Pureblood communities to live in isolation, cut off completely from Muggles and their society. So often, mundane magical happenings often became myth among Muggles, and wizards with great non-magic talents often became famous in the Muggle world too. 

“You listen to Bach?” You gasped quietly, turning to George with a questioning brow. 

“Yes.” He replied with a grin, taking a sip of his drink. “Even though I only have one good ear to listen with, I’d like to think that I have some taste.” 

“I’m just - I’m surprised that someone like you is so… cultured.” You replied, breezing right past his joke. 

He neglected to bring up the fact that he had only bought the album - a recording of Bach’s most famous pieces played by a famous cellist witch who had graduated from Beauxbatons - because he had heard you talking about it. 

He had overheard you ranting to Hermione about how Bach was by far your favourite famous composer. You found Mozart to be too ‘urgent and brutish’, while Bach was ‘melodic and evocative’. Ever since then, George wanted to listen to it because it was something that you liked. And he found that he ended up liking it very much himself, even though he had listened to mostly Wizard Wrock before, and the Muggle pop music that Harry and Hermione had introduced him to. 

“You tend to notice surprising things about a man when you spend less time trying to violently lop his head off,” George told you, smirking. 

“Maybe I could notice more of those things if you spent less time making me want to lop your head off.” You didn’t want to yet again point out the fact that the two of you were literally chained together, but you had a feeling that he got your point. 

You also didn’t want to admit the fact that this was shaping up into a rather lovely evening. Between the dinner, the drinks, and the music - this was better than most dates you had been on. And it was getting easier and easier to ignore the prison-like attachment around your wrist (aside from the soreness of the metal still lingering there, and the dull ache in your shoulder from the initial jostling around). The whole thing was beginning to feel strangely like an evening you had chosen to participate in - one of the nicest evenings you’d had in a long time. 

You felt an itch grow under your skin as a warm feeling grew in the pit of your stomach - one fuelled by George looking at you with fondness, feeling more strangely intentional and romantic while the soothing music swelled in the air. You became desperate to ignore it, so you turned back to the bookshelf and looked for something to distract you. Perhaps you could pick something to read for a while before… going to bed. You still tried to avoid the idea in your mind; the fact that you would later be sharing a bed with George. 

Your eyes landed on the spine of a certain book and you immediately became thrilled. 

“No way! You have Ruined Pride?” You bursted out excitedly, using a simple bit of wandless magic to summon the book off the shelf and a few feet toward you, catching it in your free hand and getting a closer look to ensure that - yes, you hadn’t been mistaken when you read the title. 

It was one of your favourite novels ever. One that you almost always had in your hands during your time at Hogwarts due to how many times you had re-read it over and over again. 

It was a story set back in the 18th century, about a group of Pureblood sisters who were all of marrying age and needed to be settled into marriage contracts by their strict, old-fashioned Pureblood parents. However, one night at a Courting Ball, the main character meets and dances with a tall, free-spirited, jokester of a man and instantly falls in love with him. Only to be utterly devastated when she finds out that he’s a Half-Blood - one of his parents being a Muggle - and therefore, her parents would never accept him as a match for her. 

After trying to deny her feelings for him, through many secret meetings together, creating a hot, intense love affair, the two of them decide that being together is more important than anyone else’s opinions of them. More important than the traditions of her family. And eventually, by the end of the book, they elope against her parents’ wishes. 

You would forever deny that you had read it so many times as a kind of private wish fulfillment fantasy. And you would also heavily deny that you had imagined the male love interest with hazel eyes and red hair, despite him being described multiple times as being blue-eyed and brunet. 

“Again, you sound so surprised.” George chuckled quietly from beside you. “Can a handsome, smart, funny man who cooks not also be cultured? Am I not allowed to have depth? Am I just a pretty face to you?” 

He whined these last words in an exaggerated way and you knew that he was joking, but you were forced to actually take his words seriously for a moment. You were forced to consider that previously you hadn’t thought of him as having depth. You had just thought of him as a prankster, someone always trying to get a laugh out of others without much more to it. 

“You’re so humble, too.” You hissed quietly, hating that he was right once again. “Because of course, the man who put a rubber snake in a pastry box and stood by waiting to watch me open it is definitely someone I would consider to have depth.” 

George rolled his eyes at this. He wanted to argue that it had been a funny prank, but he knew that he was already on thin ice with you. 

“Well I suppose I have stolen a great bit of my depth from you.” He told you. 

“What do you mean?” You asked, definitely confused now. 

“I only bought the album because I heard you talking about Bach.” He explained, motioning toward the record player. “And I only picked up the book because I remembered seeing you with it at one point or another. I was curious what could possibly capture your attention so much,” 

You felt utterly betrayed when a deep flush crept up over your cheeks. No - George couldn’t have possibly meant it in any way that was affectionate. He just wanted to know what went through your mind in the way that somebody would study a heinous bug or a strange kind of animal. Yes, that was it. 

“Well, what did you think of it?” You had to ask, motioning toward the book. 

“The ending was a bit contrived.” He answered. “A Pureblood girl marrying someone of such a low station? Impossible.” He scoffed, a sarcastic edge overtaking his voice once again. 

Again, you felt slightly puzzled by his use of sarcasm. You knew that he wasn’t actually bemused by the book’s themes and you weren’t sure why he spoke of it like that. So instead of further prodding at his words, you cracked open the book and started reading, signalling the end of the conversation. George summoned something off the shelf, opening it in his lap and beginning to quietly read for himself. 

Though at points you did get sucked into the plot of the novel that you had read so many times before, it was difficult to forget exactly where you were and exactly who you were with - especially during moments when you forgot that you were chained to George by the wrist and moved to turn a page with the wrong hand, tugging on him harshly by mistake and mumbling out an apology when you roughly jerked his arm. 

It was difficult not to enjoy the domestic atmosphere, even just due to the fact that it was relaxing. The niceties of it all. The fire crackling down over time, the low hum of the music, the simple comfort of having him in the chair next to yours as you sat in each other’s company without the need to speak; George offering to refill your wine when you finished off the glass. Which you declined and instead asked for a tea, causing him to summon the kettle and tea bags from the other room. He made your tea exactly how you liked without you having to ask just due to so many days spent at the shop together. 

If not for the forcible attachment literally holding the two of you together, you would have called it an overall pleasant evening. And something deep inside of you panged with yearning as you thought about the fact that once the professional cursebreaker freed the two of you from these insufferable handcuffs, you wouldn’t have an excuse to spend anymore time together like this. 

(And you would never, ever admit to the fact that George had been right about this whole thing after all. Never.) 

After an hour - possibly more, you hadn’t exactly been counting, but George had exchanged the record for something else harmonic and classical that you didn’t know off by heart. When you had just reached the lovers’ first kiss in the book, you let out a harsh yawn that you had been trying to contain for a while. You were exceedingly tired, but you didn’t want to admit it. 

“Time for bed?” George posed, closing his book and gently levitating it to the coffee table that sat in the middle of the room. 

“Fine.” You mumbled out, closing your book in surrender and putting it down beside your empty tea cup and wine glass on the table between the chairs. “Let’s get this over with.” 

You were used to having your own space in a bed, and you were not looking forward to attempting to get comfortable for sleep while literally being chained to him. Not looking forward to having to fight him for space in a bed and having him unconsciously tugging on your arm in his sleep. You knew that it would not make for a good night’s rest. 

“I see fatigue is a charming mood on you,” He griped sarcastically, clearly tired himself and letting it affect his mood outwardly. 

“Well you wouldn’t have to deal with my charming moods if not for your short-sighted bouts of idiocy!” You chirped, shaking the handcuffs again, only making your wrist more sore, causing dramatic emphasis - you stood from the chair to tower over him as he was still sitting down, screaming down at him to truly drive home your point. 

He didn’t say anything, only stood up without a word, silently reminding you that you were the lesser stature, and overall, he was not intimidated by you. 

Then he grabbed your bag from beside the fireplace and began walking down the hall, forcing you to trail behind him - past the kitchen, farther than he had taken you earlier, toward what you could only assume to be his bedroom. You passed a room along the way, and you took a glance inside to find that it was the bathroom. You shuddered thinking about the fact that it would likely be an issue that would come up if you and George were stuck together for two whole days. You would have to force him to wear a blindfold. 

There was three rooms at the end of the end of the hall, one with an open door that led to what appeared to be the twins’ office. With a large desk in the middle and shelves lined with all kinds of half-formed, brightly coloured objects, parchment with sketches of designs on them, some things in glass cases that you had to assume were being trapped because they were extremely dangerous (you didn’t know that they were trophies - treasured prototypes that were hallmarks of the WWW brand). The rooms across from each other were both closed doors, both with shiny brass lettering on the front - one with FW and the other with GW. 

George went up to his room, and as he unlocked the door with a mumbled spell, you pointed at the letters and let out a small laugh. 

“So you don’t get lost?” You asked, your natural sarcasm apparent in your tone. 

“No, so the dozens of hookers that we have over don’t get us mixed up.” George replied, clearly sarcastic as well. “We have to do something with the money from the shop, don’t we?” 

It was an easy joke, but you hated the sharp feeling that went through you when you wondered if he had other women here before. You hated that you so easily labeled it as jealousy, rather than annoyance. You hated even more that you knew you had absolutely no good reason to be jealous. You had no claim on George. If he wanted to start telling you about all his sexual exploits with other women just to piss you off - you couldn’t call it cheating, you couldn’t call it unfair. 

He wasn’t yours. 

As you had driven home time and time again - he wasn’t even your friend. 

He was your boss. 

Nothing more. 

George opened the bedroom door to reveal another very nice room in the beautiful, cozy home. 

It came as an intense shock to you that he had dark green wallpaper - the green that he claimed to hate so much because it represented his long rivaled Slytherin. But oddly enough, it seemed to suit him here. Green walls didn’t seem so ridiculously out of place for George Weasley’s bedroom. 

Likely because the wallpaper was paired beautifully with the dark wood, antique-looking furniture, and other homey touches. Furniture that consisted of a tall, ornate wardrobe across from the bedroom door in the far corner of the room - it was open with some of the clothes messily spilling out, showing off a mirror that was attached inside one of the doors. 

There was also a small desk under the window, which currently had the curtains wide open, showing the inky sky, reminding you just how late it was. And lastly, there was a large queen bed in the middle of the room, which was messy and unmade - at least there were signs that he actually lived like a real person too, and he definitely hadn’t been expecting any guests. 

It was nice to know that he likely hadn’t been judging you for your mess while you had been packing your things. 

“So, uh, I’ll get some blankets and whatnot and make myself comfortable here.” George said, gesturing to a spot on the floor between the bed and the wardrobe. “You can have the bed to yourself. I know I’ve already inconvenienced you massively enough with this whole stunt, so-” 

You cut him off with a rattling sigh. 

Of course he was planning on doing the whole noble Gryffindor thing by giving up his bed for you. 

But honestly, you could think of nothing more annoying than sleeping with your arm trailing off the bed all night to reach him on the floor - it would leave you dangling on the edge, trying to get comfortable. You might as well force him to sleep in the bed with a pillow shoved between the two of you as a purposeful barrier. Screw him and his nobility. 

“Really?” You hissed at him, too tired to care how truly sour your tone was. “The bed is plenty big enough for the both of us. So there’s no sense in you pulling my arm out of the socket trying to put some distance between us just because you want to feel like you’re doing the right thing in giving your bed up for a lady. Trust me, I’m not some withering flower who’s terrified to sleep in the same bed as a man. It’s not like you’re stealing my innocence, George.” 

You ploughed right through the words without even thinking about the implications behind what you were saying. After it left your mouth, you hated that it caused you to think back on why you weren’t exactly ‘innocent’. 

Your mind going back to parties in the Slytherin common room, times when they had been celebrating (rare) Slytherin Quidditch victories that had only been won because the best Gryffindor players had been benched or banned. Parties that were wild - the few times when you actually allowed yourself to ‘let loose’. Times when you had been ripe with drink and flirting with someone good looking who had absolutely no other appealing traits - someone who fucked you hard and fast and completely ignored you the next day. 

It was something that happened more than once, and left you ripe with worry that the rumors would get back to your father. That is, until you grew to hate him too much to actually care, and then you cared too much about The War to even look at boys anymore. 

You had never dated anyone seriously outside of those hook-ups. You had always turned out guys who had asked you out (even if you knew their endgame was likely wanting sex) because you knew that your father would hate them and try to get them hurt. And you never wanted to get too attached to anyone because for a while, you had resigned yourself to the fate of ending up in a Marriage Contract. And you didn’t want to be the idiot - someone like the main character in Ruined Pride - who fell in love with someone that her parents would never actually agree to marry her off to. 

So you always ended up fulfilling your purely sexual desires after you had enough alcohol in your system to forget about all that for a while. You never had a serious boyfriend. You had never even gone on a real, romantic date before. 

In fact, this night with George was likely the closest you had ever come to having a man ‘romance you’ - and it had been by force. (You knew how genuinely pathetic it was.) 

“Oh trust me, I’m not worried about your innocence.” George bit back bitterly, seemingly deeply annoyed by your ranting. “And I’m entirely thrilled to share a bed with you.” He mumbled under his breath, reeking of sarcasm. 

It then occurred to you how much he must have been hating the experience too. That he had given up his night to cook for you, catering to you trying to comfort you, and it was just awful - being tied to someone who bitched and moaned in return. He likely wasn’t excited to be tied to you all night when he was used to having the comfort of his bed all to himself. 

“Let’s just get ready for bed.” You huffed. 

“Fine.” He returned, his voice just as sour. 

Your stomach churned when he immediately reached for his tie, beginning to undress. 

Right - getting ready for bed would involve getting undressed in front of him. 

Because possibly the only thing more annoying than sleeping with your arm being yanked off the bed would be sleeping in the nice lacy blouse and button up skirt you had worn for most of the day (which, the waistband was quite snug on you now after the nice dinner you had enjoyed, and that would be even more uncomfortable to sleep in). The only thing you were thankful for was that the neckline of your blouse, the shoulders, and the end of the sleeves were all connected with small, dainty buttons - which was a decorative feature of the design, but it also meant that you didn’t have to cut the clothing off your body. And you were wearing a bra with removable straps. 

It was the only part of your day that seemed to fall under the category of luck. 

You turned yourself so that you were standing back to back with George, hoping that he would get the hint and not look at you. You weren’t looking at him while he undressed. 

You unbuttoned your skirt and let it fall, and then wrestled off your stockings with the use of only one hand, leaving you with the relatively easy task of taking off your blouse and bra. You only had to undo the buttons on one side before simply sliding off the sleeve from your free hand, so it wasn’t that difficult. After your bra fell to the ground, you reached for your bag - which George had dropped on the bed when he came into the room. 

When you turned to grab it, you caught his eye in the mirror. 

He was staring at your mostly naked body utterly shamelessly, making no effort to hide where his eyes were looking. He was frozen there, with his shirt unbuttoned, tie gone, pants missing, his black underwear sinfully tight on his body and revealing firm, toned thighs that you never could have imagined on him, looking so entirely delicious… 

When your eyes flickered back up to his face, he held a slight redness of a blush, but he did nothing to hide the fact that he was wantonly staring at you in the mirror, his eyes fixated on your naked breasts. 

“Hey!” You screamed, instinctively forced to be offended, even though you felt a terrible, undeniable heat creeping up within you. One that, you hated to admit, matched the look in his eyes. You used your free arm to cover your breasts, desperately trying to make yourself modest, though you knew that you were covering little surface area and only squishing the flesh together in an almost pornographic way. “Stop staring at me!” 

“Merlin - I’m only human!” George argued, slapping his free hand over his eyes. “It’s not like you’re ugly. I couldn’t have chained myself to an ugly woman for fun.” He mumbled the last bit quietly under his breath, and you were unsure if he was making jokes to try and defuse the tension or if you weren’t even meant to hear it. 

You found yourself almost regretful that he did follow your instructions. One small part of your brain itching for his eyes back on you, now withering without the intensity of his attention on you. 

You tried your best to shake off that strange heat that had spread through you as you got out your change of clothes. You put on a fresh pair of panties (feeling even more self conscious about the lacy, see-through ones you had brought with you) and slipped on your comfortable cotton sleep shorts. And then you let out a groan as you realized that you would have to take off your sleep shorts because you wouldn’t be able to get your shirt on over your head. 

At least you had thought to bring a camisole instead of a tee shirt, so it wouldn’t have to be cut up and shredded in order for you to put it on. You stepped into the camisole and clumsily pulled it up over your hips, the entire time with George humming to himself and dramatically guarding his eyes, making a point to demonstrate that he was not watching. 

You pulled the fabric up over your chest, only able to pull one of the straps on and having to leave the other hanging dumbly (ultimately deciding on tucking it into the side) before you put your shorts back on then gathered your discarded clothes to shove into your bag. 

“I’m done now.” You said pointedly. “Can you put some pants on?” 

It was only then that you realized George was still standing there in his underwear - his distractingly tight underwear that showed off the outline of his surprisingly large bulge - shit, you had to keep yourself from being a hypocrite by staring too. 

“Well I don’t see how I’m supposed to find my pants with my eyes closed.” George said, faking dumbness, still covering his eyes. 

“You can look now.” You ground out, growing impatient. 

“Oh.” 

He uncovered his eyes, and his gaze immediately went to your covered breasts, as though checking that they were still there. You resisted the urge to smack him. When his eyes finally made it back up to your face, you glared at him with hell in your eyes and a tightly locked jaw, and you hated the filthy knowing that now filled his mischievous eyes. 

“Get dressed!” You barked, urging him into action. 

He picked up a pair of cotton pajama pants that he had shed that morning - in such a rush to follow your orders that at first he stepped into them and pulled them on backwards, having to shove them off and right them before pulling them on again, awkwardly jostling your arm so that he could use both of his hands to tie them at the front. 

Then, he nosed out a tight sigh. 

“You’re gonna have to cut this shirt off me.” He said, and with a snap of his fingers, the scissors from the kitchen came zooming into the room, nearly stabbing you in the eye if not for your quick effort to dodge them. You glared at him harshly as he caught them in his free hand. 

“What are you going to put on to sleep in?” You asked, wondering how he was going to comfortably get a tee shirt on, knowing it would be stupid and impractical for him to go around with one arm hanging out of it. 

“I was planning on sleeping shirtless, as I usually do.” He said, handing you the scissors. “If that’s alright with Her Royal Highness.” These words were ripe with sarcasm, and you tightened your grip around the scissors as you resisted the urge to stab him with them. 

But you couldn’t find any good reason to protest against this. 

It was his home, his bed. Even if it had been his stupid idea that had landed the two of you in this mess, he deserved to sleep comfortably (as comfortably as possible while the two of you were chained together) just as much as you did. 

So you raised the scissors to his shirt sleeve and began cutting. There was no pitiful mourning over this silky shirt, seemingly one of dozens that he had according to the messy contents of the wardrobe. It was only moments before you had the fabric fully severed on your side and he was able to completely ditch it off his free arm. 

It was only now that you realized you had never seen him shirtless before. And you hated that the sight of his shirtless torso was immediately distracting to you. 

You knew based on logic alone that he was muscled. 

You had seen him play Quidditch during your years at Hogwarts. And though you didn’t know much about the sport, you knew that every position was known for having a certain type of ‘build’. Seekers were slim and light, to zip around the field faster. Chasers were usually also slimmer, with strong arms for throwing the Quaffle. Keepers were broad and muscled, using the bulk of their body to help deflect shots - and they were usually heavier with muscle because they didn’t need to be fast or do as much broom work. 

And Beaters were known for being strong - incredibly muscled, with strong arms and strong, thick thighs. They needed a lot of strength to swing their bats to even kick off the weight of a Bludger, let alone get it flying across the field. And they needed strong thighs to stay on their broom, because most of their flying was done with their legs, due to the intense amount of arm work that was involved in being a Beater. 

(Was this something you had taken an interest in just because George was a Quidditch player? Definitely not.) 

And though it had been a long time since George had played for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, you knew from the conversations that he and Fred had on Monday mornings about their Sundays spent with the entire Weasley brood, they continued to play casually with their family. (‘Casual’ of course, was a relative term. From the way they talked about it, it could get just as competitive as the Hogwarts games did - if not more competitive on occasion.) 

On top of that, George often impressed you with how many boxes he could lift, and how large and heavy those boxes were. Even though he had magic at his disposal, it seemed like he was determined not to get lazy while running the shop. (That, and he had warned you that many of the WWW products didn’t fare well with magical transportation, so they had to be lifted manually - which was a lesson you had learned the hard way on your own. More than once.) 

You knew that he was strong - but seeing his bare, broad, muscled body in front of your eyes was certainly something else. Seeing proof of it in front of your eyes began to rewire your brain. 

Seeing his pale skin covered in freckles, clearly from being shirtless in the sun a fair amount of times; perfect skin stretched across the most firm man you had ever seen - not someone who was unrealistically chiseled like a man out of Wonder Witch, but someone who was deliciously strong and so real. Someone with thick arms, a broad, puffed chest, and a smooth stomach with a bit of tummy that signified he ate his own cooking enough to know what he was doing. And your eyes became glued to a trail of fiery hair leading from his belly button and into his low riding bottoms before George snatched the scissors from you, pulling you out of your haze. 

“What - it’s your turn to stare now, is it? Getting me back, are you, love?” He said, his voice turning into a rumbling low whisper that ignited every nerve in your body in a terrible way. 

Your tongue went numb in your mouth and for once in his presence, you were utterly speechless. 

You simply stared up at him, getting locked into the cocky, smug gaze of his hazel eyes. You were partially tempted to slap him because of how insane the rising heat was driving you, and partially tempted to stay completely still just to see what he would do next. 

You wanted to scream when he cleared his throat and took a small step away from you - that stupid Gryffindor nobility acting up once again. 

“You need to use the toilet before bed? Brush your teeth and whatnot?” He posed gently, his eyes now glued to the floor, refusing to look at you. 

“Yes.” You replied quietly. “And you better brush yours. I’m not sleeping next to Mr. Bourbon Breath all night.” That bit of sourness flared up again, seeking some normality against this ocean of unfamiliar territory that you were fighting through. 

George smiled and let out a small, nasally laugh at your comment. 

Again, you felt a strange pang of domesticity as you stood beside George in the bathroom. A calm, eerie kind of familiarity while brushing your teeth together. He waited in silence for you to remove your makeup, wash your face and apply a bit of moisturizer. 

You felt oddly naked, probably more so than when he had been blatantly staring at your breasts, as this was the first time he had ever seen you without makeup in the entirety of knowing you. And when his eyes traced over your face in the mirror, you tried to decipher any judgement or disgust in his expression before deciding with a sudden burst of bitterness that you didn’t care if he liked your bare face or not. 

(Even though, deep down, you cared quite a lot what he thought of you.) 

“You don’t need it, you know.” He said, gesturing to the open make-up bag you had propped open on the side of his sink - the one you had taken your toothbrush out of. “All the - the extra stuff. You’re really quite… pretty without it.” 

You hated how painful it seemed for him to give you a genuine compliment, one not disguised as a joke, and - feeling that prickly defensiveness rising up within you again, you quickly fired back. 

“I know that.” You hissed at him, rolling your eyes. “I like it. I know that I don’t need it. I know I’m gorgeous.” 

“Good god, sometimes you’re so-” George cut himself off, holding back whatever horrid words he had lined up to describe you. “You can’t just take an earnest compliment, can you?” 

You were forced into a terrible silence. 

No, you couldn’t. For you, accepting a genuine compliment was infinitely harder than having an insult hurled at you. 

Perhaps that was what made you feel more naked than going the night without your make-up - having George’s eyes on you and knowing that he saw you for who you truly were. The rawness. Being forced to go without a shield. Not being able to run away from the one pair of honest eyes that stared you down and saw all the things about you that you feared admitting most. 

You couldn’t even muster a ‘shut up’ in return. You shrunk into yourself like a kicked dog, and, pitying you, George didn’t prod at the topic any further. 

The two of you finally moved back to the bedroom to go to bed. 

There was an awkward moment where you had to wait for him to climb into the bed on his knees and he nearly stumbled and fell on his face. But then you were able to sit down and slide your way in, and finally, you were able to collapse into a lying position, flat on your back, where you would remain for the rest of the night. You let out a sigh of relief as George raised his wand to turn off the lights. 

“Nox.” He mumbled quietly, causing the main light in the bedroom to go out, as well as the one in the hallway, shuddering the two of you in complete darkness. 

Strangely, it was something that, rather than making you feel anonymous and comfortable, suddenly made you hyper-aware of just how truly intimate the situation was. You were suddenly entirely conscious of George’s quiet breathing as he closed his eyes and settled into a relaxed position. Suddenly, you felt every inch of his body against yours. 

You had naturally sunken into a dip in the middle of the mattress; either one that was worn in from where he slept directly in the middle or a spot that was pressed down heavier due to the weight of his body, bringing you closer to him by some fucked up fate. This caused your arm to press into the warm, thick strength of his muscles all the way down to where you were joined by the still ever-present cuffs, causing your leg to melt into the warmth of his thigh - skin that was so damn hot, even through the cotton of his pajama pants. 

You couldn’t stand to spend the night like this. Even as his breathing became calm and rhythmic beside your head, signalling that he was beginning to fall asleep, and you knew that it would be rude to move so abruptly - you couldn’t stay still. You couldn’t resign yourself to an entire night laying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about George and his stupid hot skin. 

You roughly scooted away from him, and grabbed one of the pillows beneath your head with your free hand, moving it down to roughly shove it between your two bodies lengthwise. This created a very clear divider between the two of you from hips to shoulders - forcing you to put your cuffed wrists on top of the pillow with as much distance that the small chain would allow without painful dragging on your skin. The sudden movements caused George to let out some groans of complaint, and he blinked open his sleepy eyes to glare at you through the dark. 

“I thought we were going to sleep.” He mumbled, his voice strained with clear anger toward you. 

You knew that you had done a lot to make someone like him angered, and you did feel a pang of guilt for it. 

“I am.” You huffed in return. “I just - I need some space.” 

“Oh, of course. Because sharing a bed with me is such a chore.” He griped, though he did scoot his body an inch over, trying his best to give you that requested space without yanking on your arm. 

You couldn’t help but to think about the fact that sharing a bed with him after finding out that he was so irritably attractive was the part that made it a chore. Not the fact that it was him, not the sharing - you just hated this night. You hated the confusion. You wanted to go back to the shop. You wanted to go back to him winking at you and you pretending to be disgusted by it. You wanted to go back to morning pastries and him stealing boxes from your arms, telling you that ‘ladies’ shouldn’t ‘bother with such exerting tasks’. 

You just hated feeling so uncertain. You hated standing on the precipice and being terrified to fall into an endless nothing that you knew absolutely nothing about. 

You hated that if you surrendered yourself to him - you would have so fucking much to lose. And he wouldn’t. 

“You know, if I knew some spell that would break you out of the stupid handcuffs, I would have set you free and sent you home hours ago.” He said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I know-” 

“Because being attached to me is no picnic either, I know.” You finished the sentence for him, knowing exactly where he was going with it. “Trust me, as soon as this is over, we can go back to exactly how we were before - not spending any unnecessary time together, not liking each other and just trying our best to be polite.” 

That was just how you wanted it. You wanted things to go back to the way they were before. 

Unfortunately, those were the words that unintentionally triggered George into snapping. 

“Stop that! Stop saying that!” He shouted for the first time, his voice bellowing across the room at a level that almost frightened you. 

He bolted upright into a sitting position in order to look at you, giving you a harsh, angry frown that truly didn’t suit his face. You felt the sting of his interrogating gaze as he propped himself on one elbow, leaning on the pillow between the two of you to hurl more harsh words at you. 

“Stop saying that we don’t like each other! You can’t speak for me! No matter how much you dislike me, you can’t dictate how I feel about you! So just - stop it! Stop telling me how I’m supposed to feel! Stop saying that I don’t like you. Because it’s not true.” 

After a moment of staring you down, and observing the emotions that flashed across your face as you struggled to take in his words - shock, upset, but mostly pure confusion - he let out a harsh huff of minty breath in your direction and then collapsed back onto his pillow. 

“For fuck’s sake.” He muttered harshly under his breath. 

“But - but you don’t like me…” Was all you managed to get out, your mind stubbornly unable to take his words as the truth. 

The two of you had been enemies since your school days. Constantly at each other’s throat as a Gryffindor and a Slytherin should be. You were constantly on the receiving end of his pranks, constantly being jabbed with harsh words by the people around him. 

That’s when it hit you, harsh like a stunning spell that you never saw coming. 

That was exactly it: it was always the people around him. 

Fred was the one who called you harsh names while George slipped in seemingly ironic compliments toward you. George was the one who tried to stick up for you among a group of people who hated you - he was the one who advocated for you when the others accused you of having nefarious intentions. George was the one who had hired you at the shop and given you a place to live when you had no money and no place else to go. 

George had never done anything that ever implied he didn’t like you. It was always the opposite. 

“Are you seriously that thick?” George griped in return, his voice cracking with the unhinged exhaustion of his emotions. It was clear that he was truly, utterly frustrated with you. Because you remained silent, seemingly open to actually listening, he continued. “I do like you! I like you as a person, and as a friend. I’ve been trying to be your friend for years! For fuck’s sake - I thought we were friends. I thought you bloody fucking knew that.” 

“I’ve never had any friends before, I don’t know what it’s like!” You yelled in return. “I thought you knew that.” You mumbled the last part quietly, knowing how utterly pathetic it sounded when spoken aloud. 

That’s when it truly hit George - all this time, you had no clue that his kindness was supposed to be friendship. You didn’t know what friendship was like because you never had any friends before. 

You told him that you regarded your fellow Slytherins as classmates, some of them nothing more than polite acquaintances, and he knew that you spent most of your time at Hogwarts in isolation, studying. The only person that you kept in contact with as much as him was Hermione, but he knew that the two of you were polite on the basis of friendly co-operation (a pillar of Hermione’s life after The War) - the two of you weren’t particularly bonded or close. 

“What did you think all this was if you wouldn’t call it a friendship?” George asked, gesturing between the two of you, now entirely curious to hear your view of things. 

You let out a harsh sigh, hating that you were forced to put it into words. A horrible swell of embarrassment passed over you as you began to speak the words. 

“I guess…” You raked your brain for words, wondering how you would put it beyond a boss-employee relationship, wondering what you would label the strange kindness that had gotten you the job in the first place. “I guess I thought that you were just being nice to me. That you were being polite to me out of obligation, or something.” 

Even though you couldn’t see - with the two of you laying on your backs, facing the ceiling - George sharply rolled his eyes, and used his free hand to press fingers into his forehead, absolutely ripe with stress. Though he was glad to hear the words out of your mouth now, because a lot of things were radically rocketing into clarity now. 

“What obligation?” He prodded in return, not giving you a chance to answer before he continued. “Y/N, I’m not even nice to my brothers, and they’re my family. They’re people that I love dearly, and sometimes I am downright rude to them - which sounds horrible, I know, but it’s how siblings show their love.” 

This gave you a passing thought about how you were glad that you didn’t have any siblings, even if you had dreamt of having sisters plenty of times after reading Ruined Pride. 

“But for the record, I am nice to you because it’s a choice.” George continued on. “I do it because I am trying to make an effort. For fuck’s sake - I bring you pastries in the morning, and I make you cups of tea, and I go out of my way to help you lift heavy boxes, and I bring you leftovers from Mum’s Sunday suppers - do you honestly think that I would do all of that just to be polite?” 

You hated how utterly stupid you were going to sound now that all of this was coming to light. But you had to be honest with him. 

“Yes!” You stressed, thinking that it was the obvious answer. “I thought - I thought that it was just how you were raised. I thought you were like that with everyone.” 

“Then why isn’t Fred the same way with you? We were raised the same way, weren’t we?” George asked, posing the ultimate conundrum. 

From what you had seen, Fred was fairly polite to everyone else in his life. Everyone but you. There was only one answer you could come up with, and it forced you to admit that you had been wrong the whole time. Stupid and ignorant and just plain wrong. 

“Because Fred doesn’t like me.” You sighed, sounding truly defeated. “He hates me.” 

The fact of your terrible wrongness had barely soaked in before something else came skyrocketing to the front of your mind. 

“Is that why you did this?!” You asked, yanking on the cuffs to drive home exactly what you meant, unintentionally sending another pain shooting through your wrist. “Is this some stupid attempt to get me to realize that I’ve been an idiot this whole time and I just don’t know how to make friends?” 

“No,” George sighed, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it.” 

“Then what is it?” You asked. “Because I would really like to know the thought process behind it.” 

You resisted the urge to add on ‘if there was one’, not wanting to shut down the conversation with a poorly timed snide remark. 

“Honestly, after you insisted that we weren’t friends, I got more than a little offended.” George admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed to say it out loud. “I thought that you were being bitchy and contrary just for the sake of it. And I wanted to get back at you for it.” 

“So this is your twisted version of revenge?!” You squealed, more than upset that you were forced to be stuck like this just because he thought you were being ‘bitchy’. (If anything, he should be used to your bitchiness by now.) 

“No!” George huffed, getting upsetting that you were misunderstanding his words. “It’s not like that! It’s - ugh. I wanted the pranks to be fun. I wanted you to be forced to admit that you were having fun. I wanted you to admit that you are my friend and that you do like being around me. You never smile, and - I wanted you to crack a goddamn smile for once in your life.” 

Oh. 

His version of ‘getting back at you’ for being bitchy was literally trying to force laughter out of you. He was trying to force the bitch out of you and turn you into someone joyful. It made sense for someone who owned a joke shop. 

There was just one glaring flaw with his plan. You had never found his pranks funny in the past. 

“And you thought the best way to do that would be to annoy the hell out of me?” You posed, your voice dull in pointing out the obvious. 

“I thought that I might finally make you smile.” He explained. “That’s typically what harmless pranks are for - lifting the muscles of one’s cheeks in an upward direction, bringing a feeling of joy.” 

You wanted to remind him that you had never found any of his and Fred’s past pranks funny, but part of you wanted to commend him for trying, at the very least. You were very new to the whole ‘friend’ thing, so you didn’t want to bring him down when he already seemed to be in a foul mood because his pranks had already failed so much. Especially with the last one leaving the two of you locked together so disastrously. 

George let out another harsh sigh, and his next words, especially being delivered with such a heavy, downtrodden tone, surprised you. 

“Is it such a terrible shame that I want you to like me?” 

The yearning in his voice caused a crack over the words, and your insides quaked as what he said truly washed over you. 

He just wanted you to like him. He didn’t just want polite distance, he didn’t just want you to tolerate him - he wanted you to like him. You couldn’t blame him for that. 

But you had been doing your best to mess it up - to put some strange distance between the two of you since you had started working at the shop. Even before that. 

“George-” You rasped out, surprised to find tears straining your throat. 

But he cut you off before you could even begin to come up with the proper words to respond. 

“Is it such a shame that I want us to be friends?” He griped, putting intense stress on the words before he paused and took a breath, his lungs grating across the silence of the room. His next words came out much quieter and gentler. “The handcuff thing was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t intend for you to be stuck with me, especially not since it’s so horrible for you.” 

This struck your insides like a brick being thrown through a plate glass window. 

“It’s not.” You said quietly, hating how pathetic and weepy your voice sounded. 

“You don’t have to lie.” George quickly combated. Before you could argue, he continued. “I am sorry for all this, but I just wanted us to get along. Especially after all we’ve been through. But you’re right - after this night, we can go right back to the way things were before.” 

Something in his words caught your attention and had you skyrocketing to sit upright, staring him down with a glare. 

“What do you mean: ‘after all we’ve been through together’?” You hissed at him, confused and angry. “There is no ‘we’. I’ve been through a lot, I’ve been through hell having to put up with my father, I-” 

George glared back, just as feral. 

“Do you think I haven’t had problems? Do you think everything’s been peachy keen for me my whole bloody life?” He scoffed in return. “I almost had my bloody head blown off in a battle and then I fought in a war. And I saved your life, didn’t I?” 

This statement sent your mind rocketing back to a night that you swore to yourself you would forget. 

… 

Chaos. 

That was the only word to describe the castle as Voldemort’s army descended upon it. 

Every magical barrier of protection had been broken down, leaving everyone inside utterly vulnerable to a horde of Death Eaters and other horrible dark creatures as they flooded the grounds, determined to attack anyone they saw. Creatures who had no care for weather innocent people lived or not - a lot of whom would have found joy in the pain and torture of others. 

You were trying your best to help those you could, evacuating the youngest students out through the Hogsmeade exits that George had shown you, hurling spells at any passing Death Eater that you saw. But it wasn’t long until you were cornered in an old disused classroom by the one person you least wanted to see: your father. It had been years since you had been face to face with him, and it didn’t take him long to make his intentions clear. 

He began hurling spells at you, and you were quick to defend yourself. The two of you engaged in a heated battle, firing off curses - it was clear that he didn’t want to kill you, at least not right away. He wanted to truly confront you first. 

“Useless, terrible little brat!” He screamed, firing another curse that you blocked, thankful for the time that Harry had focused on protection spells in DA. “You always were your mother’s daughter! Defiant, disobedient, stubborn bitch!” 

You fired a stinging jinx at him, hating that he brought your mother into this. You had very few memories of her - but what you did remember of her was a kind, loving woman. You hated those memories being desecrated on principle. He dodged the jinx and fired another spell at you - again, one that you blocked thanks to your practice. 

“I’m thankful to take after her if it means I’m nothing like you!” You shouted in return. “You haggard old bastard! You’re stupid if you honestly thought that I would follow you into this madness-” 

“And you think you’re smart to throw away generations of tradition for what? Your own self righteous cause? For the love of a blood-traitor?!” He bellowed in return. “You would rather be a whore to a kneeling povel than the cherished daughter of an empire?!” 

His last words confused you slightly, but you didn’t dwell on why he said it. Nothing he did or said made much sense to you anymore. 

“Kneeling?!” You scoffed in return. “Says the man who lick’s The Dark Lord’s bullocks for a living!” 

For these harsh words, he fired a blasting curse past your head that you managed to dodge just in time. A large chunk of stone exploded behind you, and you managed to keep a steely expression even when you felt chunks of the debris hitting your back. 

“I do this because it’s right!” You shouted, ultimately answering his question. “I don’t care which side is more powerful - I know which side is more just!” 

You raised your wand to hit him with another spell - but ruefully, he was quicker on the draw this time, and he managed to disarm you. Your wand was flung from your hand, landing across the room before you could blink. Before you could rush to pick it up, he then did the unthinkable. 

“Crucio!” 

The spell caused a red flicker through the dimness of the room, and you cried out in pain as your muscles were stabbed with sharp agony, every single part of your body instantly crippled by the most terrible pain you had ever experienced in your life. In a moment, you fell to the ground, the pain ebbing away dully and leaving your whole body aching. When you opened your eyes - now blurred with tears - your father was standing over you. 

“You will lose in the end.” He said, his voice quieter, more determined. “And you will join your mother in death to maintain my honor.” 

You spotted your wand on the other side of the room, and when you made a move toward it, he pointed his wand toward you again. 

“Crucio!” 

More terrible pain shocked your body - knives pushing into your spine, lightning breaking through your skull. You were barely able to handle it, flailing against the dusty stone floor. You heard screams bouncing off the walls before you realized it was the sound of your own pained voice. 

But another voice entered the room - even with blood thumping so harshly through your ears, you easily recognized who it was. 

“Stupefy!” 

A body flew across the room and knocked over an old, empty shelf, smashing it to pieces - and when you peeled open your eyes, you received the small joy of seeing your father’s unconscious body on the floor among that debris. Then, your aching body was being pulled into a pair of strong, warm arms, and you were greeted with the familiar but utterly terrified face of George Weasley. 

“Y/N?” He said, his voice throttled by years. “Y/N, are you alright?” 

“I’m fine now.” You admitted quietly, no sarcasm on your lips for once. 

He let out a sob of relief - having seen you on the floor so limp and believed that you were dead - and pulled you tight into his chest, holding you tight in a hug. 

Any protests you might have had about the hug died off in your throat as your own emotions took over, causing you to squeeze him back, hanging onto him as an anchor of safety. Almost immediately, your own tears overwhelmed you, and you cried into his chest where you would easily be able to hide it. 

It was a brief moment in a horrible night, but came to your rescue once again, making you feel safe against the horrors of the world. 

… 

“I wouldn’t have let you save my life if I knew you were just going to hold it against me.” You huffed, moving back down to lay against your pillow, staring up at the ceiling as a harsh, angry tear leaked from your eye. The anger wasn’t directed at George, but entirely at your father as you remembered what had happened on that night. 

George bit his tongue to keep from calling you a name, wanting to call you stubborn among other things at your refusal to simply admit that he was right. He also wanted to call you many harsh things at your lack of a ‘thank you’ for his actions. 

After another prolonged silence, you were the next one to speak. 

“Do you know why I took the job?” You posed, sounding terribly nervous. 

“Because it looks stunningly fantastic on any resume?” George replied, utterly clueless, genuinely unsure what you meant and only able to fill the space with a joke. 

You were tempted to back down, then - tempted to tell him to ‘shut up’ and then roll over in order to go to sleep. But strangely, the events of the entire night had peeled you raw like a rotten apple, and you found yourself finally ready to be vulnerable with him. 

So you took a breath, and moved forward with honesty. 

“My father took everything from me.” You told him. “When you found me in that bar, I was getting blind drunk to ignore the fact that I had walked into Gringotts that day, looking to take money out of the account my mother had left me so that I could go on a trip far away from everyone and everything for a while, hoping to forget… and I found out that my father took everything.” 

Your words hit George like a train. You sounded so utterly broken, so sad. It was the first time that he had truly heard your voice so dull and lifeless, rather than fiery and passionate - even if that passion had been fueled by anger. 

He thought about how even if he was raised in a family that didn’t have much money, they always shared everything. If one of his brothers came to him asking to borrow money right now, he wouldn’t hesitate to open his pockets. And your father had been so greedy as to take everything so that you couldn’t have a single Sickle to your name. 

“He needed the money to aid in his escape, yes. But I also think he cleared out the vaults just so that I wouldn’t have anything at all.” You explained. “He didn’t want me to have any of the family money because he no longer considers me to be family.” 

You huffed, anger mixing in with your sadness now. 

“He thinks that I shouldn’t get any of his money or my mother’s money because I betrayed everything they believe in. It wasn’t enough for him to want me dead. When he couldn’t have that, he had to screw me over for the rest of my life… just to have some kind of sick satisfaction.” 

In a moment, George’s hatred toward the man who had tried to kill you easily doubled. 

He began thinking about the fact that if you were his - if the two of you were dating or even if you married, he would absolutely spoil you. You would never want for anything - if you even so much as hinted at desiring something, he would get it for you. You would never have to work another day in your life - not unless you wanted to, of course. Naturally, he would miss having you around the shop. 

But he would absolutely love coming home to you relaxed and pampered and giddy because of all the things he could buy you. He knew that money didn’t automatically equate to happiness, but he thought about how happy he could make you with expensive books and wine and records and fancy new clothes. 

He thought about the fact that he could take so much stress off you and truly give you the life that you deserved. A life that your bastard of a father never wanted for you and never would have given you anyway. George couldn’t stop thinking about wrapping you in his care and protection for the rest of his life and never letting you go again. 

Selfishly, he thought about keeping you chained to him for the rest of his life just because he could. 

Distantly, George thought about something that Bill had said about wedding rings and how Fleur was ‘stuck with him forever’ - and while his mind dwelled on that, you spoke again, your mind seemingly in a very different place. 

“You know, it’s really awful to constantly be seen as ‘the evil Slytherin’.” You sighed. “Even now, even all these years later, I can’t get out of my father’s shadow. Even now when I go places, people still give me dirty looks, like I’m up to something despicable and secretly planning to kill them. I’ve always just wanted to be my own person and make my own choices. Even if they end up being the wrong ones.” 

George had never thought about that. Perhaps it was because he looked at you with such fondness and he could never understand how anybody saw you differently. 

“People have never seen me as my own person either,” He replied, speaking honestly. 

“I guess it must be difficult in its own way to have a twin.” You said. “People never see you as an individual. They just see you two as two halves of one person, right?” 

“It’s not just that.” George clarified. “Being one of six brothers with red hair - it’s difficult to stand apart. Now people mostly just see me as the one with the manky ear.” 

You huffed out a laugh at this, and George grew confused. At first, he thought you were laughing at him, mocking the hilarity of his mangled appearance. But then you spoke up and he grew even more confused - and more intrigued. 

“I don’t think so.” You said. “You and Fred couldn’t be more different. And it’s always been like that. It was like that long before your injury.” 

“Is that so?” He prodded curiously. 

“Yes.” You answered. “You have that bump on the top of your nose from the Quidditch game in third year.” You began to explain - you actually sat up on your elbow to look at him and gestured to his nose, causing George to immediately reach up and start feeling his own nose, analysing your words. “So I could tell the two of you apart for years. And aside from looks, there’s still loads of differences.” 

“Like what?” George demanded, far too curious to know what you meant now. 

Strangely, you decided to humour him.  

“You’re much more gentle. And you’re easier to talk to. Your laugh is nicer - you don’t do that thing where you throw your head back like a gremlin and Fred does. You’re more charming. You actually know when to be quiet during a conversation. You-” 

You cut yourself off abruptly when you noticed George staring at you with a smug grin. He was enjoying your words far too much. Your stomach tangled with harsh embarrassment when you realized that everything you were saying could be interpreted as complimentary. 

“So you do like me?” He said, entirely too happy. 

You felt that twist in your stomach again, and you were eager to escape it. If you hadn’t literally been attached to him at the wrist, you would have run away - you would have Disapparated in a second. But that was the problem of the whole night, now wasn’t it?  

“Goodnight, George.” You huffed, laying back down and turning - as much as you could - forcefully closing your eyes to ignore him even though you could still feel his eyes on you. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He said, still sounding far too pleased with himself. 

You ended up laying there for a while with a mixture of sickening nausea in your stomach and something that you hated to call affection bubbling in your chest, all adding up to a terrible anxiety that made it intensely difficult to fall asleep. 

… 

You were disoriented when you woke up and blinked into the darkness. 

You had that strange feeling that you were sleeping in a bed that wasn’t your own - the same feeling you always got during the first few nights back at Hogwarts at the beginning of a school year, and the first few days back at ‘home’ after returning at the end of the year. The same feeling you had gotten when you had first been settling into the apartment above the shop. But that feeling easily fell into the background as you felt a persistent nagging in your bladder. 

With your eyes barely open, still feeling incredibly tired, you moved to crawl out of bed, and just after your feet hit the floor, you were rocketed out of that gentle sleepiness as you were literally yanked back to reality. You felt a sharp pain around your wrist and you were stopped by a dead weight anchoring you to the bed - one that was so stunningly heavy, it caused you to stumble backwards and fall into the bed. You nearly fell on top of George, where he was still sleeping soundly, lightly snoring with his mouth slightly parted. 

It took you a tired moment to remember that the dead weight was George. You couldn’t just get up and leave freely because you were still bound to him by the wrist. 

You were immediately enraged. 

Any calmness or friendliness you had felt towards him, any nice feelings that had built up through the night immediately flew out the window as you were harshly reminded for the entire reason for this sleepover - the fucking metal cuffs that held the two of you together. The fact that he was now holding you prisoner because of some stupid prank. Your rage boiled over as you remembered that this could end up going on for days. 

“Hey!” 

You shouted at the top of your lungs, entirely uncaring about waking him up. 

One, because your sleep had been disturbed, so he didn’t deserve to sleep peacefully while you were awake. And two, because of his stupid stunt, you couldn’t sneak away to the bathroom by yourself. You needed him conscious and mobile in order to do anything, and it was his own damn fault. He didn’t even stir, and that only annoyed you further. 

Unbeknownst to you, he was entirely used to loud noises trying to disturb his sleep, and well used to sleeping through them due to the household he’d grown up in. 

“Hey!” 

You drew out the word more this time, absolutely annoyed as you became more and more alert. The feeling in your bladder wasn’t even as nagging anymore as your anger and annoyance grew more persistent. 

You shoved him in the chest, and when he barely moved, you let out a sharp growl and then moved to climb on top of him. You weren’t even thinking about the possible implications of being so close to him - only thinking about invading his personal space more so that your voice would be louder to him. 

“George! You big dumb oaf!” You screamed right in his face, delivering a harsh smack to his bare chest that resonated loudly as it was bare skin on skin. This finally jolted him from his sleep, and he awoke with a snort. He began blinking blarily at you, clearly not in a rush to fully wake up - not even with you urgently hanging above him. “I have to use the toilet - and since you chained us together, I’m making it your problem!” 

You let out a quiet gasp when he placed his hands on your hips - two incredibly warm hands that felt larger than they looked when they were spread out against your flesh (somehow radiating intense heat even through the cotton of your sleep shorts). You had to contain a moan when he shifted his hips beneath you, practically shoving his pelvis right up against your crotch, forcing you to feel a certain hardness that you hadn’t known you were nearly sitting on until that moment. You knew that you should have rushed to get off him, but your bones were melting and somehow, your muscles were stiffer than concrete, making you entirely unable to move. 

What the hell was this man doing to you? 

“George-” You choked out, half wanting to apologize, half wanting to scold him, any words quickly dying off in your throat. 

“At least you’ve woken me up to a gorgeous view.” He mumbled tiredly, licking his lips as he stared you down with his eyes still tiredly half open. 

For a moment, you had no clue what he was talking about. 

And then you realized that his lazy gaze was fixated solely on your chest. When your own eyes dipped down, you realized in horror that in your sleep, your shirt had slipped down (likely aided by the fact that you were only wearing one strap due to the god-forsaken handcuffs). So now one of your breasts was completely out, while the other was mostly there, leaving little to the imagination. Not that George would have to imagine, with what he had seen in the mirror earlier. 

You gasped and moved to pull the fabric up with your one free hand, but George’s hand caught yours. You had no clue why - but you froze under the touch, leaving yourself exposed to his hungry eyes. 

“Not so fast, pretty girl.” He whispered, causing harsh goosebumps to pop up all over your skin at a rate so fast that it was almost painful. 

You found yourself numb with shock and terrible intrigue as he ripped the neckline of the fabric out of your fingers and pulled it even further down with utter urgency - pulling the one remaining strap of your shirt down over your shoulder and your free hand and discarding the thin fabric of the top so that it was bunched around your waist. This left your breasts heaving freely in the air as you struggled not to hyperventilate with the pure anticipation of what would come next. 

This was beyond uncharted territory. 

George kept steady eye contact with you as he then moved his hand - agonizingly slow - toward your breast, almost as if afraid that you would suddenly change your mind and smack him across the face for daring to do such a thing. But when no signs of displeasure came from you, he began groping your breast heavily - digging his fingers into the flesh in an utterly possessive, rough way that made you moan and arch your chest toward him. 

You unintentionally ground your crotch against his, your body writhing with pleasure against your will. You became ever more conscious of the large bulge beneath you (that seemed to be growing larger) and the heat between your thighs that was so demanding that it was almost painful for you. He gave a small smirk that would have been utterly insufferable any other time - still kind of was - but you couldn’t even bring yourself to comment on it as you were overwhelmed with pleasure from his touches. 

“Fuck, George-” You hissed out, the words leaving you without permission, your mind still partially convinced that you were still asleep and simply caught up in a bizarre wet dream. 

“I’ve got you,” He mumbled back hotly, his voice dripping with urgency. 

You were surprised when he removed his hand, causing you to let out a whimper of disappointment from deep within the back of your throat. You were surprising yourself with your own desperation - but his touch was so hot, so perfect. 

Thankfully, he didn’t leave you cold for long - he moved his touch to your hip and used his grip to scoot you up his body. You were forced to truly feel his strength now, something you had seen him apply to heavy boxes and stuck doors - but it was so much different when you felt it applied to you. Feeling his strong arms against you forced you to see him as more powerful than you had ever imagined him, and it caused an embarrassing clench in your cunt. 

You almost yearned being moved off his bulge, missing the feeling of it underneath you as you now sat on his lower stomach. And that mental yearning meant that you didn’t see that he had intentionally moved you to be closer to his mouth - now set on devouring your gorgeous tits as he now knew that you would allow him to touch them. 

From there, he didn’t waste another second. He arched himself up off the pillow into a rather uncomfortable position that put his head right at your breasts, moving your cuffed arms so that he could lean on that elbow and forcing you to lean on your hand near his hip. But you didn’t care about the awkward positioning as his mouth engulfed your breast with eagerness and warmth and he began to suck, lavishing you with intense attention that immediately lit your body on fire and flooded your panties with wetness. 

Fuck, he was good. 

“Oh!” You hissed out, unable to contain yourself. “Oh, fuck!” 

You began instinctively grinding yourself against the perfect softness of his stomach, your cunt tingling and needy as he tongued at your nipple. He moaned against your tit, bringing his hand up to better push the fullness of your flesh into his mouth, downright nuzzling his face into your chest with a very characteristic greediness. Clearly, he couldn’t get enough - now that he had permission to touch you, he wasn’t going to give you up so easily. 

He began harshly sucking on your nipple and tonguing around it, causing you to grip onto the sheets of the bed beside his hip with your still chained hand, overwhelmed by the sharp shocks of pleasure coming from his mouth on you. You were desperately needy to cling onto something with your other hand, and you finally landed on gripping onto his ginger hair - weaving your fingers into the fiery redness and holding on fiercely, shoving him tighter into your breast while your chest arched up into him, inadvertently smothering him. 

(Not that he would ever want to escape, not even if you started to pull away.) 

You could do little more than whimper and gasp into the darkness, seemingly a victim to his selfish whims now. You could do nothing but writhe against him, grinding your clothed cunt against his body as you grew hotter and hotter, no longer able to deny your intense attraction to him. Especially not with the way your underwear was sticking to you and every fiber of your being was screaming with lust. All you would do was hope that he wouldn’t be too stubborn to fuck you now.

All you had was the tiny shred of hope that he wouldn’t deny you and leave you needy just to prove some stupid point.

Soon, George did pull off your nipple, only to kiss a hot path across to the other breast, leaving a few fierce bites along the way - his sharp teeth digging into your skin only causing you to let out increasingly pathetic moans. As he wrapped his lips around your other nipple and sucked, you could hardly stand it anymore - you were growing too impatient, too hot and dizzy. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your clit was singing with need, aching for attention. It was all too much, having his hot mouth laving attention on one of your most sensitive areas - but at the same time, you desperately needed more. 

“George, please-” 

You whimpered, tugging on his hair, trying to pull him away from your chest. You were desperate to get his attention elsewhere, onto more important things. 

Surprisingly, George did comply, leaning back from your skin with his lips rosy pink and slightly swollen now, a perfectly smug grin forming on his face that had regret swirling in your stomach. You hated that grin so much. But at the same time, that stupid expression had you swimming with lust. 

“You know, Miss L/N, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’ for anything. Not for as long as I’ve known you,” He hummed, his voice descending into a raspy husk as lust overtook him - it was a tone that shook your insides and caused even more wetness to ruin your clothes. 

You hadn’t even realized it. The word just felt so natural on your lips. 

You hated it. 

Naturally, your mind went on the defensive. Not so sharp as to scare him away, of course. But you wanted to play the game, rather than shrinking down into some docile, complacent little thing. 

“Maybe you’ve ever done anything worthy of evoking true manners from me up until now.” You replied, impressed with yourself that you managed to keep your voice so steady as his large, intensely hot hand stroked up your back, reminding you how strong his touch was. 

“I can’t wait to see your polite side.” George whispered, all hot breath, the words dripping with a kind of innuendo that could only exist between the two of you. 

Before you could blink, he used that strong hand on your back to shove you down into him, poking a weak muscle between your shoulder blades that he seemed to know would knock you over. Almost like he had spent time analyzing all your weak spots from afar; like he had spent time planning every detail of this moment in his mind so that it would be perfect and go off without a hitch, just like he did with his pranks. Of course, it worked just like he wanted it to, even when his pranks didn’t. So this simple move sent you tumbling into his lips, locking the two of you into the very first kiss that you ever shared. 

Though this kiss wasn’t chaste or sweet or romantic - it was nothing like he had dreamed it would be, and somehow, that made it even more perfect. 

You moaned whorishly against his lips, desperately trying to suck breath into your lungs as he consumed your mouth, making you even dizzier. And of course, your efforts to breathe were even further defeated when he used a quick, well thought out move to flip the two of you over. He kept his mouth glued to yours, continuing to move his lips against you with a kind of skill and finesse that had the world melting around you. You couldn’t even wonder where he had gotten all the practice or be jealous of his past conquests, because you were enjoying yourself too much. 

The moment he had you on your back, he spread your thighs with his knees and positioned himself there, hovering above you, kneeling between your legs. Then he moved your hands to a position above your head, rattling the chain of your joined wrists beside your ear, causing you to remember the handcuffs, the entire reason you were in this bed in the first place. It was something you had almost forgotten about at this point due to the mind-numbing pleasure that he was now giving you. 

You would never say it, but you were almost thankful for the stupid prank now. 

A little too soon for you, he pulled his lips away, and whispered against your mouth: 

“You know, love, if you wanted me to fuck you, all you had to do was ask.” 

It was another wave of cocky energy from him, boastful and prideful, and it caused a terrible shiver of lust through you. You didn’t have the room to admit that up until now, you had barely realized that you wanted him to fuck you in the first place, let alone knowing how badly you wanted it. 

You had been far too busy being annoyed with him to ever realize that somewhere under the frustration and anger, you were turned on by him. 

All you could do was gasp in reply when he left another sharp welt on the top of your breast with his teeth, clearly intent to mark you. He then moved his unchained hand down from where he had pinned your wrists above your head, teasing his fingertips down your body, just barely grazing your skin in a way that made you gasp and arch into his touch. With the roughness of his calloused fingertips, contrasted by the agonizingly gentle touch, your muscles seized up at the slow taunting that he raked over you - something that was barely enough, yet sent shocks of stimulation through your whole body. 

“Stop - stop teasing,” You moaned out, all breath, wanting it to sound a lot more demanding than it ended up being. 

“Oh? You want me to stop, do you?” George echoed back, pure trouble in his voice the second you heard it. 

He then moved off you completely, rolling back over to his own side of the bed and putting far more distance between the two of you than you ever would have wanted in those moments. You let out a kind of wounded sound that you didn’t even know you were capable of, absolutely insulted by his actions. You shoved yourself up on your elbows to stare blearily through the dark for him, wondering what the hell he was doing. 

“Well, goodnight again, I suppose.” He said, sarcasm ripe in his voice as he laid back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, clearly pretending to sleep. 

“George!” You squealed, downright annoyed once again. “George Fabian Weasley, I swear to Merlin, if you don’t-!” 

“Oh, you’re going to threaten me into fucking your brains out?” George chuckled, cutting you off and making you choke on your words as your throat swelled with embarrassment. That had been your idea, yes - but now that he said it aloud, it sounded incredibly stupid. “Also, how do you know my middle name?” 

You could answer that by reminding him of a time that his mother had been loudly shouting across the shop because he had sent her a package full of seemingly endless, expanding confetti and balloons for her birthday - but you didn’t want to kill his wood completely by bringing her up. 

“Nevermind.” He sighed, the thought dying off in his mind. 

(As he eyed your breasts, which were still so beautifully out in the open, anything else seemed unimportant.) 

Just as you hoped, he did turn back toward you and crawled back on top of you - this time kneeling high above you, truly lording his height over you even while not even standing, creating a tall, intimidating shadow above you that only turned you on more. He also entwined his fingers with yours between your chained hands so that the handcuffs wouldn’t further maim your poor wrist. 

“Let me give you a taste for how this works, love.” He said, his voice so utterly confident as he stared you down with fire in his eyes. 

He began skimming the fingers of his other hand along the waistband of your shorts, just above the fabric, making your muscles quiver under his touch. It was the barest touch of skin on skin, and it made you whimper out so pathetically. You hated that he was continuing to tease you in the most terrible way as your pussy wept inside your underwear. 

“I am the one in control here.” George stated firmly. “Right now, I’m not just some idiot you can yell at to get what you want.”

Staring into his eyes as he said this, seeing the dark lust that lived there - it truly thrilled you. 

This was the first time in your life that you were actually excited to hear a man say something like this, and not simply tempted to slap him for it. Or at the very least, you didn’t even feel the urge to challenge him into submission. Perhaps it was because you truly trusted George - you trusted him with your life, always felt safe around him because you knew that he had nothing but goodness and nobility in his heart. With him, you were absolutely eager and dripping with slickness to find out what he would do when you eagerly gave up control to him. 

“Outside of this room, you are a queen and I will be your humble servant.” he explained, grinning at you while he said the words. “I will get on my knees to help you put on your shoes, I will pour your wine, I will massage your feet after a long, tiring day, I will cook your meals and hand-feed you if you so desire-” 

Was he trying to make himself sound like the most tempting man in the world? 

“But within the walls of this room, you are mine.” 

The words, and the sudden shift of his voice to roughness absolutely shook you. You let out a girlish gasp and he smirked at you. 

He dug his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties together and used the elastic as a tether to yank you harshly down the bed, just a few inches closer to him. It was an impressive show of strength that had you yelping out in pleasure, shocks of electricity shaking you, your eyes still tethered to his, utterly enraptured in his gaze as his ravenous, smooth honeyed words continued. 

“You will do as I say, you will live for my pleasure, and you will beg for it if you want anything in return. You will be nothing but a set of holes for me to use. You will be a good girl for me - no lip, no backtalk, no whining. No complaining if you ever want my cock, do you understand me?” 

You found yourself panting, now - so overtaken by lust at his words, your body supercharged by everything he was forcing you to imagine that you were reacting as though he was already fucking you when he hadn’t even taken off your bottoms yet. If you were conscious past the intense pleasure, then you would have hated how much power he held over you. But perhaps you let go because he was just the right person to wield that power without abusing it. 

“How does that sound, love?” 

Of course, with all of his perfect nobility - he still had to ensure your consent. 

“Perfect.” You huffed in return, licking your lips to try and combat some of the dryness that was blooming through your mouth. “George, please-” 

He cut off your whining with another kiss, locking your joined hands above your head, making the whole thing feel desperately intimate as he pinned your hand to the bed with his fingers warmly entwined with yours. With your fingers laced together, it felt far too sickly sweet for what you knew was coming next. All you could do was grip his hand tightly back as you moaned into his mouth, gripping his thighs with your knees and bucking up against him, hopelessly seeking friction on your poor, weeping cunt. 

He couldn’t help but to love this version of you. 

He had been dreaming of this for years. He had imagined it so many different ways - getting you alone in an abandoned classroom when the two of you had been back at Hogwarts; getting you alone in his office in the shop now. He had spent so long imagining what it would be like to get you underneath him, moaning and lustful for him. The reality was so much better. And he certainly wasn’t going to waste it now. 

With his lips still pecking at yours, delivering surprisingly sweet kisses, he started finally pulling down your shorts, bringing down the fabric of your underwear along with them. You raced to help him, yanking them down over your body with your one free hand, entirely eager to get him to touch you where you needed it most. If this were any other time, you would have hated looking pathetic and needy in front of him, but in the darkness, in the isolated quiet in the room, it almost felt natural to let yourself finally fall to your inner most whims. 

Especially after the entirely bizarre day that you’d had of being chained to him and having what felt like a date with him, this didn’t seem so strange. 

In fact, the longer this went on, the more and more it felt right. 

It felt right to be underneath George, having his heated gaze tracing over every inch of you. 

You didn’t even have room in your lust-clouded brain to consider the fact that this might have been his plan all along. That right from the moment he had handcuffed the two of you together, he had been waiting to get you naked and needy underneath him. 

Which actually wasn’t true at all. He really had been planning to unlock you from the cuffs the moment that you freaked out and threatened to hex him. But sometimes, his mistakes just had a way of working out really, really well in his favour. 

And that couldn’t be more true as he tossed your clothes careless over his shoulder and came face to face with your gloriously pretty pussy - the prettiest pussy he had ever seen in his life. 

He put his hand on your thigh and forced your legs open, likely with more force than he had originally intended, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was all the more riled up when he heard you let out a pretty moan and your lips dropped open with shock - so he took it even further, pressing your thigh up into your stomach almost harshly. 

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help getting a bit too excited about the perfect whiff of your natural smell he caught and the glistening wetness he saw clinging to your pubic hair. (His eyes now well adjusted to the dark, especially with a bit of light coming in from the window, casting a glow over your body that made you look even more perfect.) 

“Oh, fuck-” You gasped, clearly loving the way he took control over your body. 

So you did like to be manhandled a bit, you liked him using your body for his own pleasure. 

“Merlin, look at that,” He said, his voice a deep pleasurable hum, unable to take his eyes off the sight of your gorgeous pussy. “Dripping for me, aren’t you, love? Sweet little cunt just drooling everywhere. So fucking wet for me.” 

Your pussy was swollen, puffed with blood from how turned on you already were, downright sticky - utterly glistening as you continued to leak out wetness in anticipation. You were clenching with need and spilling more, smearing some of that wetness onto your inner thighs and even beginning to leak onto the sheets. 

(George made a mental note that if somehow he couldn’t get you back into this bed, he wouldn’t wash these sheets. He knew it was sick and perverted, but he would want to smell you on them for as long as possible - wanting to have something to keep his fantasies going and to assure him that his hadn’t been one very detailed wet dream.) 

He couldn’t resist the urge any longer - he skimmed his touch down your thigh and dipped his fingers in, letting out a quiet moan himself as he finally felt you - as he was finally able to feel how wonderfully wet and hot you were for the first time. 

“Fuck, this is the most perfect pussy ever.” 

George moaned, leaning down to kiss along your shoulder as he continued exploring you with his fingers, still teasing - sloppily stirring your wetness, teasing just to the edge of your entrance before he came and bumped up against your clit and back. He loved the way a moan threatened out of your throat and the way you arched up toward him as he did so. 

“So much better than I ever imagined.” 

His words hit you like a truck. 

He had imagined you like this before? 

He had thought about you sexually before? 

You were shocked. You had no clue that he had ever thought of you this way before. 

“George,” You gasped out, reaching up with your free hand to grasp his shoulder, and he hummed out a moan of acknowledgement in return. “You’ve - you’ve thought about me before?” 

He let out a chuckle, and the nearly mocking tone of it caused your cunt to clench horribly (something that you certainly didn’t expect). Seconds later, he rose up from kissing your neck to look you in the eyes. He traced over your face, and when all he found was genuine shock, he decided to indulge you. 

“Of course I have, sweetheart.” He told you, nothing but pure honesty on his lips. 

He finally brought his touch up to your clit, causing a gasp to rocket from your lungs as he drove sharp stimulation over the sensitive organ all at once - drawing hard circles onto the tiny, swollen bead with the tips of his fingers for a moment before he stopped. Then, he began to circle lazy touches there as he continued to speak. This had you panting harshly in his face while his words floated into your nearly numb ears. 

“You have no idea how many times I would see you walking down the corridor in those pretty skirts, with your shiny heels and your black stockings and all I could think about was shoving you over a desk and ripping a hole in the arse of those tights so that I could fuck you senseless.” 

“Oh, fuck.” You gasped in return. 

Of course, this immediately put a vision in your mind of him cornering you in an empty classroom and shutting up your bitchy complaints by shoving his cock down your throat. 

Or - as he had said, bending you over a random, dusky old desk and ripping a hole in your tights so that he could fuck you senseless. Your sex-addled brain even did you the favour of adding something delicious to the picture - him gagging you with his Gryffindor tie and guiding the length of it around to the back of your head to use as a kind of leash. Both for practicality to keep you quiet so that you wouldn’t get caught, and as a humiliation ritual, showing that the big, strong Gryffindor had truly tamed the bratty Slytherin girl. 

“You like the sound of that, do you?” He whispered heatedly, pressing more harshly circles into your clit again. “You have no idea how many nights I spent in the Gryffindor dormitory with my hand around my cock, thinking about you - thinking about that mouth, thinking about what it would be like to finally shut you up and have you choke on my cock,” 

He growled the words savagely, and you couldn’t help the whimper that you let out in return. 

“I spent so many nights awake, wondering what it would be like to have this sweet little cunt wrapped around my cock, dripping for me, soaking my bullocks - wondering what it would be like to finally have you underneath me, moaning for me, begging me to make you cum.” 

You bucked your hips up into his touch, crying out as a grinding madness flowed through you. His words swam in your brain and his touch created a fire in you from below, making you hot in a way that you hadn’t known was possible before. He overtook you, causing an ultimate domination over your body that overtook you and ultimately harnessed you under his control. 

“Everyone who knows me thinks that my dream for all those years was to run a joke shop,” George whispered frantically. “But my real obsession has been you.” 

You drew frantically close to orgasm, and you let out a pathetic sound when George took his fingers off your clit, taking his touch away from where you needed it most. He dipped his fingers back down to your hole, circling his fingertips around the needy gape and even slipping his touch in, just barely teasing his fingers inside - threatening you with more but not yet fulfilling you in the way you needed. 

Little did you know, in his mind, he was getting back at you for all those nights, getting his own little petty revenge for all the times he had pathetically cum in his own hand while dreaming about you. 

“You’re lying,” You gasped in return, forcing yourself to believe that everything he had said so far was simply for the sake of dirty talk. 

You tried your hardest to angle your hips the right way, trying to trick him into touching you where you needed it the most. But of course, he was smarter than that, always clever even if he was ‘stupid’. And even if he was one hand down, he could still outsmart you. He used a knee on your inner thigh to pin you down, keeping you in place - something that had you letting out a little pathetic moan as he teased his touch back up to your clit and drew more light, taunting circles there. 

“I wish.” He chuckled in response. “If I were lying, then I wouldn’t have been such a pathetic fool all these years - pining after a woman I thought I had absolutely no chance with.” 

Again, these words punched you in the gut. And strangely, he did have a point there. 

“Do you think it was fun for me having you around the shop but knowing that I couldn’t reveal my feelings for you because I thought that you would never feel the same way?” 

He growled out, fire in his eyes that immediately struck you in the gut. 

“Do you think it was fun for me - running to my office every ten minutes because I saw you bent over something and I could barely hold back? Because you looked up at me with those damn eyes? Because you called me Sir and my cock got so hard that I could barely think and I had to lock myself in my office and wank my cock raw just so I could attempt to stay sane?” 

These words truly left you breathless. 

You remembered times when you were having a particularly bad day and he had been getting on your nerves. Days when him giving you orders about stocking shelves or helping customers had caused you to call him ‘Sir’ in a griping, sarcastic tone - ‘Yes, Sir’ ‘I’ll get that done right away, Sir’ ‘Rearrange the front display again, Sir? Of course, Sir.’

At the time, it had been because you were being annoying on purpose, performing a sarcastic version of politeness because he had complained about you back-talking too much. You had always thought that him letting out a huff and stomping away was his way of showing that he was done with your bitchy attitude and fed up with you in general. 

You had no idea that the ironic title turned him on. 

“You like it when I call you Sir?” You posed, still breathless, a unique spark of mischief glinting in your eyes as you thought of all the ways that you could use this fact against him. 

George absolutely loved that look - loved to see you scheming, because he had never seen you do it before. He had only ever seen you too terribly serious. 

Perhaps he had done something utterly dangerous by revealing such a deep secret, by giving you a puppet string of his that you could pull on. But he didn’t care all too much about that right now, because he loved the way that the word sounded on your lips. If he had damned himself, he was having a great time on the way down. 

“Yes,” He admitted weakly, unable to stop himself. 

His hand moved from the wetness of your pussy, now shaking slightly as he moved to grip your thigh, simply needing to hold on to something. 

You gave him a wicked grin as you moved your free hand to the tie on his pajama pants, heavily eyeing the impressive bulge that you had been sitting on not long ago. You wanted him out of those pants - yearning to feel the fullness of it, desperate to know what he would be like inside of you. 

“Please, Sir, I need your cock.” You moaned out, pulling the tie on his pants, giving him your best seductive expression, now fully able to take advantage of a kink that you didn’t know he had. 

“Oh fuck,” George moaned, his head collapsing against your breast as he became breathless - hearing you say the words punched the air out of his chest, twisted up his stomach in the most perfect way. 

You resisted the urge to laugh at how abundant and instant his reaction was, biting your lip to stifle the sounds. Oh, hell yes - you were definitely going to use this knowledge to your advantage in the future. 

“You’re bloody evil.” He added on quietly - no punch behind the words, not truly smiting you for playing into a fantasy that he had always wanted to see come to life. 

In fact, he helped you untie his pants, and he was quick to shuck them off, along with his underwear, just as eager to get his cock out as you were. This resulted in a sharp gasp from your lips as the heaviness of his cock flopped out and fell onto your thigh while he pushed the fabric down and untangled it from his ankles. 

He propped himself up on his knees to toss his pants over the side of the bed, and it gave you a chance to fully admire his cock in the minimal lighting. If you hadn’t felt the size of his bulge earlier, you would have almost thought that the sheer size of what you were looking at was some kind of visual trick due to the shadowiness of the room. 

But there was no denying it - he was huge. 

His cock was a stunning nine inches long, tall and skinny like he was, pale with a bright red tip (exactly like a mini George). An intimidatingly long rod that swung out from his body like a beast - standing stiff and proud, leaking precum, clearly tight with need from how badly he wanted you. Unconsciously, you licked your lips just from looking at it. 

It was by far the biggest cock you had ever seen (including ones you had seen in dirty magazines), let alone the biggest one you had ever been fucked with. You could only imagine how it was going to feel fucking you open, reaching so far up inside of you that you would be able to feel him in - 

“Biggest you’ve ever seen?” George posed, smirking at you, his expression far too cocky for your liking… But you supposed that he had a right to be cocky this time. However, that thought made you hate it even more. “Biggest you’ve ever taken?” 

He reached his free hand down and began slowly stroking himself, and you felt drool collecting in your mouth as you watched his beautifully large hand grip that cock - it was utterly mesmerizing. 

You chose not to answer his question, but your stunned expression and lack of words was more than enough of an answer for him. 

He gave you a truly filthy smirk as he spoke again. 

“I always knew those Slytherin boys just couldn’t measure up.” 

This caused a jolt in your stomach. 

You had never told him about your trysts with boys from Slytherin, and you had hoped that the Hogwarts rumor mill wouldn’t get to you - but you couldn’t be so lucky, could you? 

“George, please don’t-” You choked out his name, hoping that he wasn’t judging you. 

And of course, he wasn’t. 

“Shh, shh.” He said, raising his hand up to gently stroke your cheek, cutting off anything else you had to say. “It’s alright - you’re with the best now. You can forget about all the rest.” 

Of course. He didn’t care who else you had been with - he only cared to make you forget about any other man who had fucked you by making a distinct impression. He only cared about proving that he was the best. 

He wasn’t trying to call you out as some kind of whore… he was just being prideful, as any Gryffindor would be. 

“Not until you prove it.” You huffed out, feeling strangely brave. “Force me to forget about all the others. Make it so that I can only remember the feeling of your cock inside me, George.” 

The heat in George’s eyes seared to a bleeding madness, and you knew that you had pushed just the right button. 

He let out a laugh - not his usual sweet, harmonious laugh, but one that was laced with maniacal madness - a sound of warning that had your breath stilling in your chest, had your stomach twisting around itself as you quaked with anticipation. You carefully took in each of his movements as he scooted up between your thighs, pumping his cock a few more times in his hand before he took the base gently between his fingers, teasing his cock along the hot wetness of your slit - still taunting you. 

“Will you even be able to take all of it?” He posed, pure mockery in his voice. “No girl I’ve been with ever has.” 

Of course, he was bringing up his past conquests, now trying to make you jealous. As the round cockhead bumped against your clit, only further driving you to madness, there was only one thing you could think to say. 

“You should know that a Slytherin never backs down from a challenge,” You hissed sharply, spreading your legs more and trying to force your body down onto his cock. “Now shut up and fuck me before I change my mind, Weasley.” 

You thought that perhaps this might taunt him into roughly shoving his cock inside of you, finally giving you what you had been craving all night. But no, unfortunately, he had more self restraint than that. He had been practicing his self restraint for years when it came to you. 

No - it was as if he knew that the most torturous, agonizing way to go about this would be to go as slow as possible. 

“Love, I told you-” He chuckled, continuing to wipe his cock along your wetness, loving how perfect and sticky you felt against him, how warm. “You can’t boss me around - not here. You can complain all you like, but I am the one who decides how this goes.” 

His stunning confidence and unwavering attitude had you swallowing thickly - for once, you were truly intimidated by him. 

Because you knew that he was right. 

He finally brought his cock down to your entrance and pushed in so utterly slowly, popping the round head into the tightness of your hole - something that caused him to let out a perfect, deep groan as he savoured the feeling of you sucking him in for the first time. 

From there, it was the most creepingly slow, inch by inch movement that you thought you were going to burst. 

You wanted to scream as he kept you pinned in place with his knee on your inner thigh, keeping a hand on the base of his cock to keep himself honest. He had to make sure that he didn’t get too eager and thrust forward into the inviting heat of your pussy and fuck you until you were screaming like he wanted to. 

And yes, in his mind, that was one of the reasons he was doing this so slowly. Obviously, he was trying to get you back for your bratty mouth. 

But he was also afraid of hurting you. He had meant what he said about none of his previous partners being able to take it all. All of his previous experiences had been shallow thrusts and him not being able to cum from penetrative sex because he had been too terrified to hurt the woman below him, wanting to make it a safe, pleasant experience for her. And he wanted nothing but the same for you, even if he couldn’t cum with you.

“Please,” You whined, trying desperately to buck your hips up, unable to move with the angle he had you pinned at. “Fuck! Hurry up!” 

As your frustration and annoyance grew, you dissolved from lust-addled politeness back to the griping bitchiness that you were more accustomed to, hoping that despite his earlier warnings, it would work to get you what you wanted. 

Especially because it was more and more difficult to keep yourself composed when his cock was right there. 

The fullness of his cock splitting you open, your pussy desperately leaking around him - his thickness, his perfect length making you feel so full. You had managed to take all of him - it wasn’t anywhere close to a challenge. You had no clue why he was sitting still, why he was so intent on making you wait with his cock just sitting inside of you. You didn’t know why he was just splitting you open, taunting you as the muscles of your pussy quivered around him and your body silently begged for more. 

You needed him to move. You needed him to pound you senseless until you couldn’t remember your own fucking name. 

“Hurry up and fuck me!” You cried out, tears leaking from the corner of your eye as your desperation only grew. 

You let out a shocked gasp when he reached up and grabbed you by the jaw - a rather aggressive hold in contrast from the sweet, soft, teasing touches that he had been using with you all night. He dug his fingers into your cheeks, forcing your gaze to meet his. The roughness immediately sent a thrill through you. This caused you to leak even more wetness around where the two of you were joined, making your pussy flutter around his cock as he growled his next words at you. 

“If you don’t behave yourself, missy, I’m not giving you the last two inches.” He told you, heaving hot breath into your face. 

The last two inches? 

But - 

Oh fuck. 

The reality hit you like a ton of bricks - the fact that he wasn’t fully inside you, not yet. The fact that there was more of his cock to come. Within seconds, it truly broke your mind - it filled you with intense desire and had moans echoing from your lungs that you couldn’t control. 

“You’re so big!” You moaned out, truly trying to comprehend the size of his enormous cock. “You’re so big! Fuck - you’re so big,” 

You craned your neck down, trying to get a better look at where the two of you were joined, now desperate to see those last two inches still sticking out, barely able to picture it. Your neck began to ache and you couldn’t see properly with the angle and ultimately, you gave up and collapsed back onto the pillow. 

“Yes love, I warned you.” George said, giving another terrible smirk. “Do you still want it?” 

“Yes!” You chirped back - there was no other answer in your mind. “Fuck, please!” 

He chuckled and smoothed his thumb along your chin, dipping the digit between your lips, trying to soothe some of your stunned words by giving you something to do with your tongue. You eagerly started sucking on his thumb, too dumb with pleasure to think about your pride. And finally, he eased those last two inches inside of you, causing you to moan wildly against his finger, feeling a beautifully stinging kind of fullness that you never would have imagined was possible. 

When George’s pelvis finally hit your inner thighs, finally sinking all the way inside of you, both of you moaned intensely. You had no idea that this was his first time truly being this deep inside of someone, truly feeling all that heat and wetness swallowing up his cock. Both of you were loving the feeling so much, loving being so wrapped up in the other person, clutching at the other person’s hand - so much so that it almost made that horrible collection of metal still wrapped around your wrists almost seem forgivable. (Almost.) 

“Good girl.” He sighed, the words coming off his lips so naturally. “Such a good girl, taking all of me.” 

You choked on your breath at this, and then let out another moan as the words truly hit you. 

This was the first time anybody had ever called you good. Ever. 

Even though it was a lustful pet name, it triggered a need for validation deep within you that you had long tried to turn off, and it melted everything inside of you, making you even warmer and more pliant on his cock. 

He pulled his hand away from your face, pulling his thumb out from between your lips - he wanted to hear you now. And he was easily satisfied as your moans echoed even louder as he finally began to move his cock. 

It was a slow grind of his hips quickly turning into sloppy, quick fucking as he lost himself in the feeling of your warm, perfect cunt. Distantly, he was thankful that Fred wasn’t home (especially because neither of you had remembered to close the bedroom door before going to sleep). But part of him wouldn’t have even cared if Fred was around, because of all the times he had woken up to the sounds of Fred and Angelina going at it and had to retreat to the shop to do some late night work just to escape it. 

Though that distant thought soon became a ghost in his mind as you continued to moan and squirm below him. 

He hammered his hips into you at a smooth, even pace - he loved the feeling of you around him so much, and he was afraid to cum too early. And it was instantly clear to you that he was holding back, rather than using this delicious, long cock to its full potential. As your pussy quivered around him, a harsh tingling in your stomach cried out, aching for more. 

“Harder!” You demanded, your voice breathless rather than sounding truly authoritative at all. “Fuck me harder! Come on!” 

“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” He growled out, his voice gravelly and perfect. 

He slowed his hips to an unbearable grind, once again intent on teaching you a lesson. He shoved his cock deep inside you, stuffing you full and rolling his hips tightly against you, reminding you just how impossibly big he was as he gripped tightly onto your hip, likely leaving marks. He pinned you in place as he forced you to feel the full might of his cock, punishing you with every precious inch. 

“But you’re just a demanding little brat, aren’t you?” He huffed, sounding self righteous as ever. 

“And you’re just a tease.” You whined in return, a pathetic moan leaving your lips as his pelvis pressed against your clit, making your whole body shake. “I b-bet you can’t even make me cum.” 

You tried offering up a challenge, hoping he would be determined to prove you wrong, hoping that you could use that Gryffindor stubbornness to your advantage. But instead, he simply smirked at you, rolling his hips against you in deeper, slower strokes - and he became even more satisfied when your wetness leaked down over his balls and he felt your stomach quake against him. 

Your body was telling him everything he needed to know. You were desperate, and he could do whatever he wanted to you. He was in control. 

“Why should I? Why would I want to give into a needy brat like you?” He posed, the low rumble of his voice only driving you more insane. “I could just pull out now and leave your little pussy all alone. I could leave you gaping and needy. I could just leave you like this without letting you cum at all.” 

You had to forcefully bite your lip to keep yourself from outright begging - to stop that needy thing inside of you that wanted to cry and grovel and beg him not to do that because it would be the worst possible outcome. Now that you had gotten a feel for what his cock was like, you couldn’t imagine not having it. You couldn’t imagine not cumming on his cock before the night was through. That would be a tragedy of epic proportions. 

But you knew that George Weasley was just as stubborn as you were, and he would pull out and leave you wanting just to prove a point, even if it meant that he fell asleep with his cock hard and covered in your wetness. He would suffer if it meant that you did too. 

You had to play things extremely carefully from here. 

“If you did, then you would just have to watch me touch myself until I do cum.” You said, trying your hardest to sound confident. It was difficult to keep your voice even as he ground his hips tantalizingly slowly against yours, driving the tip of his cock impossibly deep inside of you. “And - and you wouldn’t be able to leave.” You added on, gesturing with your cuffed hands, reminding him of your ever-present attachment. “S-so you should just fuck me yourself and do it right.” 

Sadly, this didn’t seem to phase him. 

He leaned down, whispering his next world-ending words into your ear. 

“I could pull out and fuck in you in the arse instead,” He rumbled in your ear, absolutely no hesitation in his words. “I could stop touching your pussy completely and cum in another one of your pretty holes to get myself off and just leave you wanting, leave you begging for more. Teach you a lesson.” 

This idea sent sparks shooting off in your brain - something you had never thought about before, something you had never even considered wanting - the idea alone now had your cunt drooling more pathetic wetness around George’s cock. Your mind became consumed by thoughts of him punishing you by fucking you in the ‘wrong’ hole just to teach you a lesson. 

George felt that extra bit of wetness - heard the little gasp you let out that you hadn’t even noticed went past your own lips. He let out a dark chuckle in response. 

“Wow, you actually like that idea, don’t you?” He laughed. “You’re such a nasty little bitch.” 

Before any insecurities could creep in, he let out a dreamy sigh and added on: 

“Oh, my dirty, sweet girl - I love it.” 

And then he swooped down, capturing your mouth in another heated kiss that had you moaning wildly against his tongue. 

Despite not wanting to give into your bratty demands, George felt an intense need growing inside of him. Between the feeling of your perfect, warm cunt surrounding him and how perfectly turned on he was by you - he felt a need to hear more of your moans. He felt a need to please you. 

So ultimately, he gave in. And he did pick up his pace. All too soon, he devolved into a completely mindless, sloppy mess. He was driving his hips forward with almost no finesse, fucking into you with sharp, hard strokes that began driving you cleanly up the bed as he pounded into you harshly. The pure power in his hips knocking the wind out of you as the way his cock smacked into your cunt caused loud, wet sounds to echo throughout the room, barely concealed by his groans and your responsive moans of pleasure. 

“Oh fuck, fuck-” You gasped, everything in the world becoming numb to you except for the feeling of his cock continuously driving up into you, that impossibly long, large thing that was creating a void inside of you that no other man would be able to fill. “George!” 

A desperate knot was drawing tighter in your stomach, having been teased into a tight bind all night - it really didn’t take much and your orgasm was already getting so close. 

“Please, please, please!” 

His mind was swimming as he lost himself to the feeling of that perfect hot wetness surrounding his cock, making it feel like the world around him began and ended with you. And he could have easily stayed inside of you forever. But still, he knew all the signs - the sputtering shallows of your breathing, the way your cunt was fluttering around him, the way your thighs were tensing up, beginning to grip a bit tighter around his hips. 

And he was going to make you beg for it. 

“That’s it, come on,” George growled ferally, leaning in and pressing his teeth to your cheek, loving the light sheen of sweat on your face and lapping a lick at it, enjoying the taste. He chugged in a breath before he spat out his next words. “Beg for it. Beg me to let you cum. Be a good girl for me. Then you can cum on my cock just like you need to,” 

His words - the sheer depravity in his voice made every single nerve ending in your body sing, stealing the breath out of your lungs and temporarily melting your brain. Your voice choked out of your throat and for a moment, all you were able to get out were a few pathetic, nonsensical syllables that truly didn’t add up to any words. You were desperate to comply with his demands as that searing heat grew more maddening in your stomach, as your orgasm became closer. All the while, he continued to pound sharply into your cunt. 

Luckily, George took pity on you. 

“Say: Sir, please let me cum.” He ordered sharply. “Say it. Be a good girl for me.” 

You gulped in a huge breath, and then struggled past the haze of his cock pounding into you in order to comply. 

“Sir, please let me cum!” You shouted, your voice much more desperate than you ever imagined it could be, warbling with pleasure as your pussy clenched around his cock. “Please, please, please-” 

“Shh, good.” He soothed you, so utterly pleased and turned on by your words. “Such a good girl for me. You’re such a good girl. My good girl,” 

He spoke the words with intense liquid madness and determination as he pounded into you harder, bringing his unchained hand down to furiously rub your clit, utterly determined to have you cum on his cock. 

“Such a good girl,” 

Consciously or unconsciously, he kept repeating it because he wanted you to find it true. Ever since you had looked him in the eyes just those few ghostly days after The War, the only thing truly present in your drunken state being the anchoring harsh truth that you believed you were somehow a ‘bad’ person - it had haunted him. 

And he had tried his hardest to spend every single day since then trying to get you to believe that you were a good person. He needed you to know it. You had done good things, and it didn’t fucking matter what anybody else in this fucked up world believed about you. 

You were good because he believed it. 

You were his good girl. 

“My good girl, my precious girl.” He moaned furiously into your skin, licking across your neck as you moaned an echo back. 

And now he was trying his hardest to chase any doubts that you had about this out of you by pounding them out of your head with the fury of his cock. 

These words - spoken with such intense passion and power that it couldn’t possibly be a lie - this is what had you arching up off the bed as your orgasm ripped through your body. 

Those simple but utterly possessive words, the thing that nobody else had ever dared to call you before - the thing that nobody had even considered coming close to labelling you as. Good. It was now something so entirely precious on George’s lips as he sucked a claiming mark into your flesh, moaning ravenously into your shoulder in the process. He continued to fuck you harshly through the waves that whipped at your body, digging his thumb into your clit in a way that was nearly painful but felt so damn good. 

“George!” You rasped out his name, your throat raw at this point from how much noise you had been making. 

You had never been fucked like this before, and you had a feeling that if George expected this to be a one time thing, no other man would ever measure up for you. Not after this. 

As the last of your orgasm ebbed away, leaving you tired and tingling, George’s thrusts slowed down. Eventually, he stilled, leaving his cock rod-stiff and full inside of you, still lighting up the nerve endings of all those absolutely sensitive places and making you ache in the most beautiful way. You were panting harshly as he kissed up your neck, and you did not expect the words that he whispered in your ear next. 

“At least now you have a reason to like me.” He said, a light, joking tone to his voice. 

You couldn’t help the soft, genuine, breathless laugh that you let off when you heard the words. Coincidentally, in all the time you had known him, it was the first of his jokes that you had ever actually laughed at. 

George leaned to your lips and gave you another soft kiss, and you let out a sharp whine as he pulled his hips back. You were expecting that he was going to begin fucking you again - likely at a softer, slower pace due to some gentlemanly regard for your now very sensitive pussy. But you felt a swell of annoyance when he began to pull out completely. 

“Don’t you dare pull out!” You hissed against his lips, your sense of entitlement and general attitude immediately swinging back into play. 

You moved your hand down to his lower back before he could blink, digging your nails sharply into his flesh and using this touch and your knees on his hips to trap him there. This pushed him slightly forward as you tried to force him back into place. 

“Fuck!” He breathed out sharply, thrusting forward instinctively, loving the gasp you let out when his cock slapped against your swollen pussy once again. 

The words smacked him so suddenly - you acting like it was a terrible crime for him to pull out. It was most certainly a kink of his, but something that no woman had ever said to him before. 

He had dreamt of you begging him no to pull out with his hand around his cock, and now you were literally forcing him back inside of you. 

He couldn’t hold back now - he knew that it wasn’t polite or proper, but he shoved his cock inside of you once again, creating a filthy slap as more of your wetness leaked around him. Then, he put all of his unrestrained power into pounding into you, now chasing blind pleasure inside of your perfect cunt. You let out a howl, scraping your nails across his back in delight as a beautiful kind of overstimulation ripped through your body. 

“Filthy bitch.” He growled into your breast. 

“Fucking tease.” You responded, any desire to behave completely thrown out the window. Now that you had cum, any desperation he had teased into you was gone, and any desire to obey him was gone right along with it. He had wound you up with teasing and given you what you needed, and now you were free to taunt him again. “You were trying to scam me out of what’s mine,” 

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” He replied, growing more breathless as he became lost to the feeling of your cunt squeezing his cock. 

“Your cum.” You replied. “You taunt me all night and won’t even cum inside me? It’s not fair.” 

With you being such a brat, he should have made some snide, clever reply about how life isn’t fair. But your voice saying the words ‘cum inside me’ quickly sent him hurdling over the edge - this time, you had the upper hand. 

Mere moments after the words left your lips, he let out a shuddering groan as he slammed his hips tightly against yours, shoving his cock deeply inside of you to milk the feeling. His shoulders shook, gripping your hand so tightly in his where the two of you were chained as he shot his load deep inside of you, savouring the feeling of cumming inside someone for the first time, so utterly happy that it got to be with you. 

He was loving everything from the feeling of your wetness dripping down over him to the way your pussy fluttered around him to the way you gripped his back with your nails and the way you held his hand just as tightly with the other hand. Even the little gasp you released beside his ear as you felt his cum stirring into your guts, marking you so deeply. 

“Fuck.” He sighed. “Perfect.” 

“Fuckin’ right.” You replied. 

You were quickly growing obsessed with the fact that someone like him - polite, courteous, genuine, funny - could dissolve into a beast of a man under the right circumstances. You were growing addicted to both of his sides - the polite gentleman who had made you dinner and set up a perfect romantic atmosphere aftwards, and this man, who was making you lustful and weak on his cock. 

You weren’t sure if you could live without this now - without him. 

George finally pulled out, and you found the gush of a mess that began spilling out of you halfway satisfying and halfway gross. 

“Time to clean up, I suppose.” He hummed out, his voice wrecked. 

You thought that he would reach for his wand, going to use some cleaning spell so that the two of you wouldn’t have to navigate trying to shower while cuffed together - though cleaning spells didn’t work as well as good ole fashioned soap and water, it would be a fine temporary fix. 

You were absolutely surprised, but entirely pleased by what he did next. 

He moved down your body and situated his head between your thighs. Your cuffed hands ended up lingering around your hip, with his fingers digging into the flesh there, while his other hand was on your thigh, holding your legs apart before he dove in with no hesitation. He licked an eager stripe up your cunt, tasting the combined essence of the two of you before he shoved his tongue deep inside of your swollen, gaping hole, now set on ‘cleaning you up’. 

“George,” You whimpered out, reaching down with your free hand to grip his hair, needing to hold on. 

You couldn’t resist humping your hips into his face as you heavily enjoyed the feeling of his fat tongue lapping at you, slurping up your wetness and his own cum as it flowed out of you. 

He began moaning against you, shoving his face tighter into you to feel more of your warmth, determined to lose himself inside of you. This caused his nose to begin bumping up against your clit, perfect stimulation while his tongue fucked inside of you and he lovingly, lazily enjoyed your taste. You couldn’t help but to ride his face, digging your fingers into his scalp as you took a more demanding hold on those gorgeous red locks. 

“Holy fuck, George,” You moaned, more undeniable heat stirring up in your belly. 

You were bone tired but you wouldn’t have asked him to stop - not for anything. 

It didn’t surprise you when a perfect, lazy orgasm rolled through you - one that pitched your breath into a tight gasp as your body stiffened against him, your back arching slightly off the bed. His humming moans against you made it all the more perfect as your thighs quaked beside his head. 

He let out one last deep hum of satisfaction as he moved to pull away, leaving a small, tender kiss on your clit that caused your thighs to jolt. Cheeky fucker. Then, he kissed his way back up your body before diving into a sloppy kiss on your mouth. A kiss that had you tasting yourself on his lips, complete with him shoving his tongue past your lips that you could truly soak in the taste of your own pussy combined with his cum, and how utterly filthy it was. 

You weren’t surprised to feel his cock still hard against your thigh, and you pulled away from the kiss with only one thing on your mind. 

“Stick it back inside me where it belongs.” You huffed at him, looking down the length of his body to that gorgeous cock, now wet with your juices and glistening in the low lighting, so absolutely perfect. 

George groaned lowly, clearly affected by your words. 

He shocked you when he flipped you over, keeping your chained arms above your head and forcing you onto your stomach, giving you a faceful of pillow as you became filled with hazy confusion. He was quick to shove your thighs apart, and in a moment, he complied with your demand - fucking his hard cock back inside of your sore, needy pussy. This time he didn’t wait for you to adjust before he started fucking his hips into you at a rapid pace, forcing sounds out of you and causing you to fall forward into the pillow, which did smother you slightly. 

“So demanding,” He huffed into your ear, hammering his hips even harder. “Good thing that I like demanding, whiny little bitches.” 

His words ripped through you, and you forcefully dug your head out of the pillow, turning your chin to the side to get some air in order to muster a reply. 

“Good - good thing I like lanky, red-headed gits,” You breathed back, the words not packing nearly as much of a punch with your voice lust-weak and breathless. You sounded just like he wanted you to - defeated. And he continued to pound the air out of your lungs with his massive, impressive cock. 

George chuckled, and the sound alone caused a whimper from your lips. 

“Yeah, lanky, red-headed gits with huge cocks.” He whispered in your ear, shoving his hips forward harder in a way that caused you to moan loudly again.

… 

You didn’t even quite remember falling asleep. All you knew was that you spent most of the night in a tangle of limbs, heated and pleasurable with the one person that you never thought would bring you those feelings. 

And you absolutely loved it. 

… 

The next time you woke up, it was due to the strong morning sun hitting your face. 

You almost never slept with the curtains open for this reason. 

Even though you had to get up early every single morning to help open the shop, you preferred getting ready in the soft lighting of a table lamp instead of being assaulted by overhead lighting or the damn sun first thing after opening your eyes. And usually, you got up most morning before the sun even rose anyway. 

You moved your hand to grab your wand, wanting to use it to shut the curtains and get that damn light out of your face, and you were quickly reminded of the stupid circumstances that had set the whole night in motion. 

Your wrist buzzed with pain and a quiet metallic rattle reminded you that you were chained to George Weasley. Chained together with a pair of handcuffs due to a stupid fucking prank. A prank that you never could have guessed would lead to this. 

Currently, he was cuddled tightly into your back like a clingy cat, his limbs tangled up with yours, even in the places where the presence of a pair of handcuffs literally kept the two of you bonded together. His legs were entwined with yours and his other arm was underneath your neck with his hand dangling down by your breast - he had fallen asleep fondling it like a comfort toy. His head was nearly on top of yours, with his whole body so tightly pressed into your back, pure skin on skin underneath the covers. 

Where you were usually grossly adverse to touch from anyone else, you found yourself oddly loving this. And you didn’t know why. You couldn’t find any complaints about this situation. Except for the goddamn metal bracelet around your wrist that was slowly making your skin more and more sore. Other than that, you wouldn’t have changed a thing. Well, the curtain. You wanted to close the curtain to shield the sun from your eyes so that you could get some more sleep. 

You started looking around to find your wand (which, if you remembered, was in your bag, on the floor, over by the wardrobe) - or George’s - but all you could see was a mess of abandoned clothes that caused a flare of heat through your stomach as you were reminded of the night before. And George’s drafts of parchment, his ideas for the shop. As you looked around, unintentionally squirming underneath him, you felt him stirring from his sleep. 

He let out a groan as he swelled to consciousness, and the arm under your head moved to grip your body a bit tighter. An oddly comforting move that caused you to relax back into him as he began kissing down your neck warmly. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.” He said, the morning rasp in his voice sounding so attractive. 

“Morning.” You replied. “I would call it ‘good’ or - better, at least, if this was gone.” You said, shaking your joint wrists for emphasis. “You know people usually take the handcuffs off when the kinky sex is over.” 

George laughed. 

“Yes, I know.” He replied. “And I am truly sorry that I have put us in such a predicament.” 

At least you felt the genuine nature of this apology. 

“Thank you.” You replied quietly. 

“And at least we know that the next few days of our lives won’t be so utterly terrible while we’re stuck together. We have found a way to make the time pass rather nicely,” He added on, his voice slipping into that suggestive tone as he kissed over your shoulder. 

Though something that he said stuck out to you. 

“Our relationship being ‘not so terrible’ - will it just be for the next few days while we’re stuck together, or… will it go beyond that?” You dared to ask, glad that he was behind you and you didn’t have to look him in the eye for this. 

Relationship. 

You were daring to call it a relationship. 

What the fuck had happened last night? 

Oh the damage a pair of little handcuffs could do. 

“Oh, sweet girl.” George sighed, pulling away to hover above you, and you felt his eyes on your face in a way that made you feel far too transparent, far too minuscule. “Look at me, please.” 

For some reason, you followed the instructions. 

You turned your head, leaning into the comforting strength of his bicep underneath you and looking up at him. In the golden light of the morning, his face was even more beautiful - his red hair now more orange, his skin almost luminous, his smile beaming down at you. 

Your stomach twisted with horrible nerves, unable to anticipate what he was going to say next. You hated not knowing if he was going to let you down easy, being the gentleman that he was, or if he was going to say the very wonderfully terrible thing that you were hoping he would say. 

“I meant everything that I said last night.” He told you, passionate dedication brimming his voice in a way that made his throat swell, almost causing him to choke on the words. “I have been dreaming about you for such a long time - and not just in a sexual sense.” 

This jolted something inside you, truly awakening senses that you didn’t even know you had. This filled you with affection, fear, and maybe even love that you didn’t know you were capable of. 

George Weasley… 

Had it really been him this whole time? 

“Is that so?” You dared to prod at him, your throat quivering with terrible fear as you spoke the words. 

George grinned. “Woman, I’ve been in love with you since I was 16 years old.” 

He knew it was likely terrible to use that word with you - the big terrifying L. That if his fussy caring and affection had only annoyed you, then surely this would have you attempting to hack off your arm to get free. But instead of anxiety, all he saw staring back up at him was trepidation - intense insecurity as you took an unsure step toward those huge words. 

You weren’t ready to flee from something so huge - you were once again terrified that it wasn’t real. 

“You - you’re lying.” You declared, your voice quivering even more now. You were trying your hardest to hold back tears while in such a tender state. “I - I was so horrible back then. There’s no way-” 

You cut yourself off, a single tear sliding from the corner of your eye as the words died off in your throat. 

“Hey, Y/N, come on.” George pressed on. “I wouldn’t lie about this, I mean…” He dove into his mind, remembering it so fondly, knowing that there was only one way to truly convince you. “I’ve had a fondness for you for as long as I can remember. But the moment I truly knew it was love - The Yule Ball. Our Sixth Year, when you wore that big poofy dress, with the big gaudy flower on the chest… your hair was done and your make-up was stunning-” 

“Of course you liked how I looked.” You huffed in return, your protective instincts flaring up once again. “It’s easy to fall in love with a girl when she’s wearing a gorgeous, expensive dress.” 

“Yeah, but that wasn’t the reason.” George argued firmly. “I didn’t just think you were a pretty girl in a dress. It didn’t really hit me - the fact that I was truly, utterly, hopelessly in love with you - not until I saw you smack that bloke across the face.” 

His words speared deep inside your gut, and sent your mind reeling back to a night years ago that you had mostly tried to forget. 

For George, it was a very fond memory that he liked to hold onto. 

… 

The Yule Ball had been talked about at Hogwarts for weeks. 

People anticipating the event in hushed whispers, everyone trying their hardest to get dates and moping around if they couldn’t, younger students endlessly upset because they wouldn’t be allowed to attend the once-in-a-lifetime event. 

George honestly thought that it wouldn’t live up to the hype, but on the night of, he found himself pleasantly surprised. 

The decorations were gorgeous, The Great Hall absolutely transformed from how it looked on a day to day basis. It was nothing short of breath-taking. And, with a few well-researched textile spells, the once wretched looking second hand dress robes that their mother had picked up for them actually turned out quite spiffy. (He did slightly regret not having enough time to lend his newly found tailoring talents to his younger brother to save him from the same embarrassment, but - sometimes little brothers just have to go through the natural hurdles of life on their own.) 

Upon Fred’s insistence that he too get a date (after he had made a foolish public show of asking Angelina to the ball, not at all subtle about his interest in her), George walked into the ball with Katie Bell on his arm. Of course, it was only because the girl had been hand-picked and practically shoved in his face by his twin brother - along with a nagging comment about how she was Angelina’s friend, and George would be a crappy wingman if he didn’t bring her along. 

She was a sweet, beautiful girl, and George was glad to be keeping her company while Fred went about his ‘twelve step plan’. Apparently it was some long, drawn out map that he had made to marrying Angelina and having kids by the time they were thirty-five, with those future children’s names already picked out - oh, the blackmail he would have against his dear brother if he ever needed it. But George wasn’t exactly thrilled to be stuck playing wingman, babysitting Angelina’s friend while Fred was off in some corner, snogging his date. 

Between the dancing and the socialization and the general revelry, George’s eyes kept wandering to you. 

His gaze had glued to you the moment you first came in - you were wearing a gorgeous, black and green dress made up of a tattered-looking fabric, something that Fred had snorted and called ‘heinous’, and made a joke about how you looked like you had gotten attacked by ghouls. It made the girls laugh, but George never thought to laugh at your expense, even when you weren’t around to hear. 

George thought the dress was beautifully fitting on you, especially with the delicate flowers on the chest and the waist. Your makeup and hair were beautifully done, as always, with a matching flower behind your ear, topping off the way you had styled yourself. Truly, the only thing that ruined the royalty of your look was the twat dragging you around. 

Your date was someone George didn��t know the name of - he kept racking his brain and all he could come up with was B. Bradley, Bailey, B… Butt. Arsehole. He chuckled to himself and Katie looked at him strangely. When he asked Katie if she recognized the boy on your arm, she gave a stiffly annoyed brow and said that he was a Ravenclaw boy in his seventh year, the year above you, named Craig Burman. 

Burman. Fucker. He had been on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team at one point, for a few months back in George’s Fourth Year. 

George smiled to himself when he remembered Burman crying after Fred had broken his thumb with a Bludger. Which was likely why his stint on the Quidditch team had been so short. 

Even with that satisfaction in mind, George’s eyes kept wandering to you, watching as you danced with him, as he flirted with you - leaning in and whispering in your ear, too ruddy close for his liking… He couldn’t help the sourness in his stomach when your neutral (almost bored) expression turned into a frown and then you stormed out of the Great Hall into one of the connecting corridors. 

George’s insides became even more sour when Burman chased after you. 

George also couldn’t help it when he stood up from his chair and began craning his neck over the heads of other people in the room (thankful for his natural tallness), waiting for a moment to see if you would return. 

“Is something wrong?” Katie asked, her voice a bright, cheerful chirp. 

“Uh… I’ll be right back.” George told her, giving her as much of a smile as he could muster when he was so full of worry. 

He bumped his way through the crowd on the dancefloor and made it through the door you had rushed out of, going around the stragglers lingering in the corridor, gossiping and chatting - as he got further from the noise of The Great Hall, he was drawn down one of the other halls by the sound of your voice. 

“Are you stupid?!” You shouted, your voice echoing off the stone, intense fury in your tone that made every hair on his body stand on end. 

“I - uh - um - ah -”

Another voice came back, not with words, but more as a bit of stuttering nonsense - and you didn’t give the person a chance to form words before you spoke again. 

“‘Buh - bah - buh’.” You mocked him, and then let out a huff. “That’s not an answer! I’m serious, are you daft?” 

George crept closer, and peeked around the corner in curiosity - and just in time, his eyes came upon the sight of you having backed Burman tight against a wall, your stance large and intimidating, your hand winding back to slap him in the face. The crack of skin on skin was glorious, hrash - clearly, you weren’t holding back. 

George couldn’t help the small, silent cheer that he did as your date recoiled, pathetically holding his cheek. 

In some part of his mind, he had imagined himself as the valiant knight, coming to rescue you because your date had been treating you poorly. But it became instantly apparent that you didn’t need rescuing. And he found himself even more attracted to you because of that. 

“I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be smart!” You shouted, continuing with your verbal berating of him. “But I suppose your incessant mouth-breathing has deprived your brain of too much precious oxygen and allowed you to recess to a bloody neanderthal in order for you to think this kind of behaviour is at all acceptable!” 

George was curious as to what kind of ‘behaviour’ got him on your bad side - knowing you, it could have been something as minor as not using a napkin to wipe his mouth after eating. You were incredibly up tight. 

“It’s not my fault, okay?” Burman hissed in return, still clutching his aching cheek. “Blaise said you were easy! That’s the only reason I even asked you out! He said if you had a few drinks-” 

George’s insides stilled with shock. That awful fucking cocksucker- 

“Oh Blaise said that, did he?” Your voice was clearly struck with intense hurt, which you were trying your best to conceal with rage. You reached to your cleavage, pulling your wand out from the front of your dress, and Burman let out a terrified sound and began to run away, but not before you could raise your wand and fire off a curse. “Furnunculus!” 

George stepped toward you then, not wanting you to do anything that might get you expelled due to a mindless momentary fury. 

Burman ran away crying, clutching his face tightly as boils began popping up all over his skin, and George grabbed a hold of your wand arm tightly and held you back. He kept you from stepping forward, clearly attempting to pursue him. 

“I think he’s had enough.” George huffed quietly. 

“I can’t believe you’re siding with him after-.” You cut off your own words, snatching your arm back but thankfully moving to tuck your wand back into the top of your dress, glare sharply at George. “You blokes are all the same, aren’t you?”  

“I’m not siding with him.” George replied, quick to clear up the misunderstanding. “I just don’t want to see you expelled over some stupid prat who’s not worth your time.” He told you. “And you should know that I believe in alternate ways to get revenge.” 

He almost offered up plans on the spot, already thinking of all the things he was going to do to Burman. But he knew that talk of itching powder and fake bugs likely wasn’t going to make you feel better. At least not right now. 

“He - he doesn’t deserve to keep his bullocks after what he did.” You heaved out, the tears in your throat making it more difficult to get the words out. Now that the screaming was done, the upset of the whole situation was truly hitting you. 

“What did he do?” George asked, trying his best to keep his voice calm. He knew that it would be hypocritical to let his anger irrationally take over when he had just stopped you from truly feeling yours. 

You hastily wiped at your eye, trying to stave off the tears, hating the idea of potentially ruining your make-up, and you forcefully looked away from George before you grunted out: “Why do you care anyway, Weasley?” 

George grabbed the decorative cotton pocket square from his jacket and shook it out from being folded, offering it to you as a handkerchief to wipe your tears. 

You stared at it, then at him, seeing nothing but genuine concern on his face. You knew that even though he was a prankster, he wouldn’t have thought far ahead enough to sabotage his own suit in order to prank someone with it. You reached out and grabbed the fabric and then began delicately wiping the edges of your eyes with it, still being careful not to ruin your precisely laid make-up, even through your tears. 

(You had no idea that to this day, George still kept and treasured the stupid small square of material with your black make-up smudges on it because it reminded him of that night.) 

“You can tell me.” He said quietly, trying his best to sound approachable and non-threatening. 

“It’s stupid.” You huffed. “Ugh - he’s stupid.” 

“I have absolutely no doubts about that.” George replied, rolling his eyes. 

“He… he said ‘how many drinks will it take for you to suck my cock?’ And then he tried to take my hand and shove it down his trousers. It was all very juvenile.” You heaved out, trying to get the embarrassing words out all at once. “Like I said, you blokes are all the same.” 

“Not really.” George opposed. “When I take a woman on a date, especially one as rare as you, I respect her. I would treat her like a queen and make sure that she knows she is the most beautiful, special, exquisite creature on earth.” 

George knew the intense irony behind these words, considering the fact that he had practically been ignoring Katie all night and treating her as lesser because he had been watching you out of the corner of his eye, wishing that you had been his date instead. But he didn’t regret his words or the unhinged passion with which he spoke them - not when he saw you swallow thickly and he witnessed the flicker of affection behind your eyes. 

“And if I do have sex with someone, it’s only after a tender seduction that leaves her begging for it.” He added on, feeling far too bold. “I would never be caught using some stupid line like that.” 

You opened your mouth to say something, and George wanted to scream in protest when his name was called from further down the corridor. 

“George! Psst - Georgie!” 

Fred called out, causing his attention to be distracted from you as he whipped around. He found his brother waving at him, standing beside a slightly rumpled looking Angelina, who was hanging tightly onto his arm, and a rather annoyed Katie. He was pointing to a large bottle of Fire Whiskey that was very poorly concealed, being cradled in the breast of his jacket. 

“Come on!” 

Ah yes. Time for the ‘get drunk in the Gryffindor common room’ section of the evening. George had the urge to invite you, but he knew that would likely be frowned upon by his compatriots. 

“You should go.” You said, carefully folding the pocket square with attention to detail, making sure that none of the make-up marks would show on the outside, and then stuffing it back into his pocket. 

“That’s yours.” You mumbled, smoothing your hand over the chest of his jacket after you tucked it in - a gentle touch that had his whole body tingling. 

“Thank you.” He said quietly, now breathless because of you. 

“George!” Fred called out again. 

Hesitantly, George walked away, glancing back over his shoulder to let his gaze linger on you once more - wondering what the night would have been like if he had asked you to be his date to the ball instead. 

… 

A week later, when the boils had just barely cleared up, Craig Burman ran from the Great Hall screaming. He had been delivered a box of sweets that turned into cockroaches right after he bit into the first one. It was a product deemed too unpleasant to go with the WWW line, but as everyone at the Ravenclaw table either laughed or recoiled in disgust, you locked eyes with George across the room, only receiving an all-too-knowing smirk. 

… 

“That night, I instantly fell in love with your fire. Your fight.” George declared. “Seeing the way you stood up for yourself - I just couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. You are someone who never let any bullshit pass without speaking up against it, and I fell in love with you because of that.” 

“You fell in love with me because I was a bitch?” You questioned, still shellshocked by the words. 

George let out a snort of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I suppose… you could put it like that.” He sighed. “But truly, I fell in love with you because you’re strong. Stronger than you ever give yourself credit for.” 

You became overwhelmed with tingles of affection, and you were stunned into silence, sitting there quietly as he continued to speak. 

“Fred thought I was mad for pining after you for so long, but… there’s never been anybody else for me. Not like this. And if you had never looked my way - if you had never felt the same way about me, then - I guess I would have just died a lonely old bat.” 

Your throat nearly closed in on itself, and all you could do was continue to listen to his impassioned speech for a few more moments. 

“I meant it when I said that I would do anything for you. I will cook for you and do your laundry and be your little servant boy if you want me to. Having you in my home as my guest last night was one of the best nights of my life, even before the sex, and-” 

You couldn’t help it any longer, you pulled him down into a kiss - unsure what to say in the wake of his passionate words, you expressed yourself the only way you could in those moments, kissing him intensely, passionately. 

When he pulled away from the kiss, gently pressing his forehead against yours, you tried your hardest to form words. 

“You are mad.” You told him, a joking tone to your voice that made him smile. “But I understand it now, at least. And I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you… just, without the little chain in the middle.” 

George let out another bright laugh - a sound that you absolutely, utterly loved. 

“Alright.” He sighed. “But I was rather starting to like being chained to you.” 

You let out a bright laugh. “You dickhead!” 

“What? Is it so wrong that I want to wear a pretty girl as a bracelet?” 

… 

Soon, the two of you agreed to get up and get breakfast. 

Getting dressed while still stuck together was much easier this time, especially because you weren’t particularly worried about modesty this time around. He simply put his pajama pants back on (without underwear - something that made his soft cock hanging inside the fabric truly distracting for a few moments). 

You picked out a pair of clean underwear (he let out a cartoonish whistle and picked through the ones you had packed, making a joke about how all you had were ‘stripper clothes’) - and put your shorts back on. And then he went into the office and got a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes promotional tee shirt for you, one that he could sacrifice to cut the neck extra wide so that you could pull it up over your hips and step into it. It ended up foolishly falling off one of your shoulders, then, but it was comfortable and mostly covered you, so you didn’t entirely mind. 

You had to laugh when you realized that you somehow always ended up in that gaudy orange. But as you watched George carefully nurse a pan of scrambled eggs, his hair glinting in the morning light pouring in through the kitchen window - you had to think that it did kind of suit you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” George asked, very much not used to you standing beside him, staring at him with doting affection in your eyes. 

“I was just…” You leaned in, hiding your face in his shoulder, almost embarrassed. “Thinking about how orange suits me.” 

“Orange?” He replied, mischief in his voice. “Or ginger?” 

“Shut it.” You sighed in reply, the words playful now more so than angry. 

“Georgie!” 

You were surprised when someone called out from the sitting room, clearly having just Flooed in. 

“Georgie, you awake?” 

Fred. It took you a moment to recognize his voice when he wasn’t being snarky or angry. 

“Kitchen!” George called back, and then he gave you a confused look. “He’s not supposed to be in for another few days,” He told you, speaking quieter so that only you could hear these words. 

Leave it to Fred to ruin your (nearly perfect) weekend. 

“Well, brother, you are going to owe me big time-” Fred began speaking in a boastful voice, but cut himself off when he entered the kitchen and his eyes landed on the two of you. 

It was likely that he hadn’t been expecting to see you. You were surprised that news of your ‘handcuff’ predicament hadn’t gotten around to the entire Weasley clan just by gossip alone. As Fred’s eyes scanned over the two of you in your (unfortunately) scantily clad state, his eyes grew wider and you resisted the urge to hide behind George out of embarrassment. 

“I can explain-” George rushed out, only to be cut off. 

“No need.” Fred said, clearly dampening down laughter. “Ron already covered it in his letter.” He held up a parchment envelope, waving it around. 

Your stomach dropped. So they had been gossiping. 

“Ron?” George choked on the name, upset. “What the bloody hell does he have to go with this? What did Bill do?” 

He abandoned his eggs for a moment, tearing across the room, seemingly forgetting that you were attached to him and dragging you uncomfortably along in his pursuit to steal the letter from Fred. Of course, he knew his brother too well and dodged around the table to avoid the move, keeping the letter close to his chest and grinning widely as he released the information slowly, lording over the power for a few minutes. 

“Oh, our dear oldest brother was trying to help you,” Fred grinned. “He didn’t want you to have to wait three whole days for an appointment with the curse breaker, especially not while being forced to be attached to such a moody, terrible girl,” 

“I did not describe you that way in the letter,” George turned to you, rushing to say this. 

You knew he likely wouldn’t have. It was just the other Weasleys’ impression of you. They had interacted with you during your time as an Order member, and they had not liked you much then. 

“So he took a copy of your letter and sent it off to Percy, attaching a note asking if he knew anybody else in the Ministry that knew anything about curse-breaking, but - ah, luckily Percy had contact with Ron and Harry’s handler because he helped set up their top secret mission.” Fred continued on. 

“So he got a letter to Ron, asking for Harry’s spare key, and Ron sent me this,” Fred said, holding up his letter with intense triumph. “Stupid bloke didn’t know I was busy with my girlfriend…” He mumbled this part furiously. “And I was on my way to rescue you. I cut my vacation short so that I could rescue you because I thought you were here, having a miserable time. But it looks like you’ve been just fine.”

Between the marks on your neck and the scratches on George’s back, and the lack of clothing that you were both wearing, you couldn’t make much of an argument to the contrary. It was very clear what the two of you had gotten up to. 

For a few tense moments, nobody spoke. 

Fred and George engaged in a terrible staredown, exchanging a wordless conversation that only twins could. It was clear that George wanted to deny that he had a fantastic night last night, despite his outcry for help. And Fred wanted to directly call him out on having sex with you, but didn’t want the gory details because he hated thinking of you that way. 

“Did you get the key or not?” George pressed, desperately trying to change the subject. 

“Angelina won’t have another week off for three more months!” Fred shouted in return, clearly upset that he had been forced to abandon his time with her. 

“Okay, well - it’s not my fault Ron addressed the letter to you and not me. It’s him you should be mad at!” George quickly defended himself, passing the blame as he had been trained to do growing up. 

“I am.” Fred said plainly, nodding. “And I suppose since you’re having such a great time with your friend here, I’ll just leave you to it.” He grinned. “And you won’t be needing this.” He opened the envelope and tipped it, and something slid out - the tiny, silver, utterly elusive handcuff key. 

You had to contain a gasp when you saw it. 

George opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, you did something entirely dumb, and entirely impulsive. (George was rubbing off on you.) It was something entirely grown out of frustration and a hatred for the soreness in your wrist. 

You picked up the spatula that George had been using for the eggs, and threw it across the kitchen at Fred, hitting him squarely in the face. He let out a harsh ‘ow!’ and dropped the handcuff key - and you used a quick, simple summoning spell to get the key before it hit the ground, catching it tightly in your palm before he even realized what was going on. 

“What was that for?” Fred barked, rubbing a now sore spot on his head and looking from you to the spatula that was now at his feet. 

But you were already unlocking the handcuffs at your wrist, so utterly relieved to be free. George grinned at you as you unlocked his side, going so far as to stick his tongue out at his brother in mockery - knowing that this round, he had gotten the victory. 

“Well I suppose that since you’re no longer attached to my brother, you can go home now,” Fred said dismissively, still rubbing that spot on his head. 

“No, I’m just going back to bed.” You replied, moving toward the kitchen door. Then you turned to George. “And you know what whole ‘making it up to me’ thing? That’s gonna start right now. And I’m not just talking about the handcuffs - I’m talking about the snake in the pastry box, the feather eyebrows, everything.” 

“Of course, my love.” George replied, winking at you. 

“You can start by making me breakfast and bringing it to me in bed. But something other than those eggs - because they’re burning.” You told him, causing him to turn and rush to take the pan off the stove as a light smoke began to come off it. 

You let out a light laugh as you walked out of the room, looking forward to closing the curtains and relaxing in his bed for a while. 

“Snake in a pastry box?” Fred gaped. “What the hell have you been up to while I was gone?” 

“Trust me, brother, the details would bore you.” George chuckled in return, his smile so cheek-splitting that it was beginning to hurt. 

… 

Just about a year later, you found yourself in Hogsmeade. 

It was a place that reminded you of your youth. Of course, it was a place that was frequented by students during trips that Hogwarts allowed, but you were never someone who went on those trips frequently. Back then, you never had friends to attend with you. You went if you wanted some sweets or if you wanted to browse the shops, but even when you did do those things, you never stuck around for more than an hour or so before you took the long walk back up to the castle and enjoyed the time that the Slytherin common room was fairly empty because everyone else was socializing down at the village. 

But today, it was a place of joy and new beginnings. Today was April first - April Fool’s Day. The biggest day of the year for any prankster, and the grand opening of the official second location of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. It also happened to be Fred and George Weasley’s birthday. 

The second location was a beautiful orange building at the very end of the village. A place that the twins had specially built for this purpose, towering over every other small shop around, and utterly magnificent. And as luck would have it (or, as their perfect marketing skills had seen to) - it was a Saturday, so the students from Hogwarts were visiting, rushing down the bustling streets like a crowd of ants, eager to get into the brand new shop. 

You had worked a morning shift at the flagship store in Diagon Alley before trading off with Benny. He was someone new they had hired to help with the transition while opening the new store, knowing that they would have to be in Diagon Alley less and less as they tended to their new baby. And after you had worked your shift, you had picked up George’s special birthday present from Madame Malkin's before you Apparated over to come and help them with the inevitable rush from all the Hogwarts students coming on their afternoon trip. 

You had to elbow your way in the door, and you were struggling your way through the crowd with the large gift box. You were amazed by how many people were already here on the first day, both young and old, not just students but people who had seemingly come to Hogsmeade just for the opening of the shop. Holding the gift box up in front of your face to protect it from the bustling crowd, you accidentally bumped into someone. 

“Oh, sorry.” You said, lowering to see who it was, pleasantly surprised to find Hermione - or rather, Professor Granger standing in front of you. 

“Y/N.” She grinned. “I suppose you’re here to help the twins?” 

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I’m trying to find George to give him his birthday present first.” You said, tapping the box to tell her that’s what it was. 

“Oh, goodness.” Hermione said. “I completely forgot today’s their birthday. I’ve been so busy grading essays, and with exams coming up-” 

“I’m sure they don’t mind.” You said, knowing how anxious she could be. 

“Wish them a happy birthday for me?” She posed. You nodded. “Right now I’m just trying to make sure the least lethal items get into my students’ hands.” 

With that sentiment, you had to wonder if opening a WWW so close to Hogwarts was a good idea or not. But you supposed that the twins truly didn’t care about that. If anything, they were up for encouraging students to buy the ‘most lethal’ products. 

“Gregory!” Hermione called to someone behind you, using a sharp tone that you had only heard her use with Ron a handful of times. “Gregory, put that down! Now!” 

She walked around you and charged toward whoever Gregory was, and before you could linger on the interaction, you finally spotted George. He was standing in front of a display, giving a demonstration of one of the products.  

“Trick coins.” He said proudly, showing off a coin that would always land on whatever side was ‘called’ while it was in the air. “Bet your friends and win every time! Heads or Tails, young man?” 

He asked, picking an eager young Third Year who was wearing a Gryffindor scarf from the crowd. The boy smiled and George flipped the coin up with an elegant flare of his thumb. 

“Tails!” The boy called out eagerly, and when George caught it and flipped it against the back of his hand, and then he revealed it to the crowd, it was still the non-face side of the coin, as the boy had called out. Naturally, this recieved many ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’, and many loud cheers. 

“Due to an advanced transfiguration charm, it responds to your voice and morphs on command, but appears to be nothing more than a regular coin to the naked eye!” George explained, holding it up as he gave the last of his pitch. 

The students began cheering, and then swarmed the display as he walked away, having spotted you. 

“Hello, love.” George grinned, leaning down and giving you a kiss on the cheek. “Please tell me that those are some extra Extendable Ears, we sold out in like two hours-” 

“No.” You replied, knowing that you had packed an extra box of the Extendable Ears and hidden it in the back. You would show him later. “It’s your birthday present.” 

George’s smile widened. 

“I thought you already gave me my birthday present.” He replied. 

The glint in his eye immediately told you what he was talking about. 

The night before, you and Angelina had baked a cake that was definitely lopsided, with slightly melted icing, but ended up tasting good, and you both gave it to Fred and George as you sang them Happy Birthday. It looked pathetic compared to the multi-layer cake that Molly made for them with orange frosting and decorative patterns of fireworks in different colours of frosting, with three Ws on the top and some small sparklers. But they loved it because both of you had tried even though you both had minimal experience with baking. 

And early that morning, before the sun had even risen, when he had been eager to get out of bed and rush to Hogsmeade to make last minute preparations before the shop made its grand opening, you had pinned him to the bed. You had dug your nails into his hips and practically sucked the life out of his cock, leaving him trembling and causing him to get dressed standing on shaking thighs while you grinned at him from the bed. 

“Technically, this is your gift.” You said, motioning toward the box. 

“You know if you’re not careful, I’ll become spoiled.” He told you brightly. 

You wanted to make a comment about how you were simply repaying him - someone who made an effort to make you dinner almost every night, bought you beautiful, thoughtful gifts at random for no reason, and generally pampered you. But the affectionate words got stuck somewhere along the way. 

George took your hand and guided you back to his office - one that was much smaller than the one he had in Diagon Alley, more meant for doing simple paperwork than actually experimenting and coming up with new products. 

He pulled the chair out from his desk and turned it around to face you, letting out a tired grunt as he sat down. Clearly, he was already very tired even though the day was barely half over. You knew that he loved his work so much, but you did worry that he didn’t take enough breaks from it - enough time to actually relax. 

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face as you gave him the box, and he quickly tore off the shiny paper and lifted the lid. His eyes danced with happiness as he lifted the fabric out of the box. 

It was a perfect replica of the shiny, royal purple coat that you had been forced to cut apart when the two of you were cuffed together. Not only was it a good birthday gift, but you thought it was a perfect way to honor the opening of a new shop. Seeing as he had loved the other one because it had signified the twins opening their shop in the first place. 

“It’s the same, right?” You asked, hoping that you didn’t sound overly eager, but at the same time hoping that you had remembered it in enough detail to describe it to Madame Malkin properly. In fact, you had drawn a picture of it and carefully chosen the fabric with her, telling her that she would be trying to replicate her own past work because George had loved it so much. “I tried my hardest to remember it-” 

“It’s perfect.” George beamed, standing up to try it on, his smile absolutely cheek-splitting at this point. “Thank you so much.” 

He put two hands on either side of your face and pulled you in for a kiss. You savoured it for a moment, truly loving that you could have him - that all his sweetness and his affection was yours now. 

“I did make one small change, though.” You told him as you pulled away. 

You grabbed the left side of the jacket, pulling it back and showing off the inner breast pocket. Here, you had asked for detailed embroidery of a serpent to be added, similar to the one on the Slytherin crest. 

“So you can keep me close to your heart.” You said. And then immediately thought: “Is that too cheesy?” 

“It’s just cheesy enough, thank you very much, my love.” He chuckled - and then he put a gentle hand on your cheek and titled your face upward, pulling you into another kiss. 

“George, please told me that you found those Extendable Ears-” 

Of course, the two of you were disrupted by Fred barging in. Annoying. 

“L/N.” He said your name curtly, acknowledging your presence rather than greeting you. “George really doesn’t need to be distracted right now-” 

“I packed another box of Extendable Ears and put them in the upstairs store room.” You said, turning around to face Fred. 

“What? No!” Fred spat back, immediately ready to argue with you. “There’s nothing up there but Skiving Snack Boxes and Morph-O-Masks, you-” 

“Did you actually pull out some of the boxes and look?” You stressed, immediately steaming forward and walking out of the office, now on your way to the store room, determined to prove him wrong. 

“I don’t need to look to know that you’re wrong!” Fred argued back. 

George sighed and took off his new jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair to come back to later. He knew that he would have to go and break up the argument, but he took a breath, giving himself a moment of peace before doing so. 

As much as some things change, some things are just damned to stay the same.

...

So that is officially the ending of this fic!

I might write more with these characters set in this universe in the future, but for now that is a very big MIGHT and I am not directly working on anything like that at the moment. I always like to leave my fics with a very distinct ending so that way I can move on to other things and feel satisfied that I have finished with a certain fic.

I really appreciate comments - I would love to hear your thoughts about this fic, because it does take a lot of hard work to write and edit a fic that is over 60k. But please, if you are going to comment, do not simply comment asking for 'part 2', or asking for more. I do consider it rude when people finish a long fic and then immediately ask for more, because it feels like someone is blatantly ignoring all the work that I have put into a fic and saying that I have not worked hard enough, or saying that an already completed fic feels incomplete.

I would love to hear your thoughts about the characters, the dynamics, or certain moments during the fic. I always love it when someone comments telling me what their favourite moment was, and I never find long winded comments to be annoying or 'too much'. Always feel free to bring your enthusiasm to the comments!!

Anyway, even if you don't comment, I hope you enjoyed reading, and I hope that you have a great day!! And if you enjoyed this fic, definitely feel free to check out my other Harry Potter related stuff on my Harry Potter Masterlist.

Happy Reading,

Sunny ☀️

PS, here is the picture of her dress:

[axkirak]

By Order of the Eye of Zaun

(𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫) Peaky Blinders AU

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings:  Silco x f!reader

Fandom : Arcane (TV Series)

Themes : Peaky Blinders AU

Status : WIP (Weekly Update) This is a long fic, probably over 20 chapters.

Summary :  “Mom… who is my father, really?” The moment Noel dares to ask the question on the morning of her twelfth birthday, the answer she receives changes her life forever.

A/N : finally started writing this fic for real, I hope everyone likes my Silco Peaky Blinders AU. My English isn’t very good (I’m Thai), so some sentences might be a little strange. You’re welcome to give me tips on my English

➡  Next Part (Soon!)

Prologue : How I Met Your Father?

Noel has always loved Christmas.

Not just because it’s a holiday when she can sleep in as late as she wants, or because all of Ionia is blanketed in snow and glowing with beautiful lights.

But because it’s also her birthday.

“That’s why you’re named Noel. Be glad you share a birthday with Jesus,” her mother once told her. It’s one of the few things her mother has ever said freely, without hesitation or the uneasy expression that usually appears when she talks about the past.

But things are different now.

Noel isn’t a little girl anymore. She’s about to turn twelve, which marks the beginning of adolescence. Her science teacher says being a teenager means going through a whirlwind of changes, both physical and emotional. And it seems those changes have already started for Noel.

In the days leading up to her birthday, she can’t sleep. Her mind is a restless swirl of thoughts stirred without warning by one persistent question, a question that has gone unanswered since the moment she was born.

Who is her father?

Noel has never minded growing up with just her mother. Plenty of kids these days live with single parents. And her mother takes care of her as best as any mother could. Even with long and exhausting shifts as a nurse, she still manages to spend time with her daughter. They talk about everything, woman to woman, almost every day. There are no secrets between them.

But even so, Noel knows her mother is keeping one secret from her, a secret she avoids no matter how close they are.

Noel first asked about him when she was very young, maybe six or seven. She remembers the change in her mother’s face all too clearly, the hesitation in her voice when she said, “He might not be here with us, but your father has always loved you.” And she remembers catching her mother crying quietly alone in the kitchen after tucking her in.

That was when Noel realized the word “father” was forbidden.

Since then, she has never spoken of him in front of her mother again.

But she knows he exists. And somewhere out there, he is still alive.

This morning is both Christmas Day and her birthday, yet it feels anything but bright. The heavy snowfall since yesterday has drained all color from the streets, leaving nothing but a stark, endless white. Even the sky is gloomy, veiled in gray.

Noel steps down the dark polished wooden stairs and heads to the kitchen, where she sees her mother at the stove, busy frying pancakes and bacon for breakfast. It’s a familiar sight, part of the daily routine she knows so well.

Normally, Noel would greet her mother with a cheerful “Good morning.” But today, she walks past her in silence. She moves straight to the counter, reaches for the pot of English breakfast tea, and pours it into her pink ceramic cup. Her movements are absentminded, and she nearly scalds her hand with the hot tea.

Last night, she peeked into her mother’s diary. It was a rash and thoughtless decision. And now, she knows something she was never meant to know. It is a truth her mother has hidden from her for so long.

Silco—That is the name she saw in her mother’s diary.

Her father. The man who abandoned them.

What really happened twelve years ago?

Why didn’t her mother stay with him?

What kind of secret has she been hiding all this time?

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Her mother sets a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of her, but Noel doesn’t respond. She just sits there, stirring her tea with a focus so intense it seems almost desperate. Her strange, withdrawn behavior doesn’t escape her mother’s notice. Concern flashes in her eyes as she pulls out a chair and sits beside her, gently holding Noel’s hand.

“Is there something special you’d like for your birthday this year?” she asks softly.

Noel finally lifts her eyes to meet her mother. She stares for a moment, then speaks.

“If I want to meet my father for my birthday, would you let me?”

She sees it again—that familiar shift in her mother’s face. Just like the first time she ever asked about her father. That same mixture of longing, and deep sadness. But this time, her mother looks calmer, almost as if she’s been expecting this day to come.

“So… you know already?”

Noel nods, watching her mother’s reaction closely. “I saw it in your diary. His name.”

Her mother falls silent for a moment, taking a deep breath as if trying to gather her thoughts, an effort that seems to weigh heavily on her. “No matter what you think of your father,” she says softly, lifting her teacup for a slow sip before continuing, “the truth isn’t always what we believe it to be.

That only deepens Noel’s frustration. The way her mother still dances around the topic, still trying to dodge it, grates on her nerves. “Then tell me,” she snaps. “What is the truth? Why did he leave us?”

“He didn’t leave us, Noel. I was the one who left him. I was the one who walked away.”

Her voice is barely a whisper, yet Noel hears every word with absolute clarity. And it only makes things more confusing. Even though she’s sure her mother is telling the truth, it still doesn’t make sense. Why couldn’t they have just been a normal family, like everyone else?

The old heater hums quietly in the background, its sound swallowed by the colder, heavier silence that settles over the kitchen. Neither of them says a word. Each is lost in the tangle of her own thoughts.

Noel watches as her mother lets out a long, weary sigh. When their eyes finally meet, her gaze is tight with tension and gravity.

“If you really want to know the truth,” she says at last, “then I’ll tell you.”

So here it is, the moment of truth Noel has always longed for.

And yet, now that it’s finally here, she isn’t so sure anymore whether she truly wants to face it.

[spicy-dragon]

I’m gonna be honest my autistic ace ass does NOT understand what someone would get out of sleeping with a stranger that you couldn’t get from jerking off lmao

[touchlikethesun]

i have such an aversion to omega regulus like. no i can’t i can’t. i don’t normally have reactions like this but i just can’t

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

I had this idea for my 8th year fic (that I have mostly dropped bc I felt like this storyline was making the fic too complicated) about the muggle studies class doing a play and Ron and Draco are playing the leads bc they’re the best actors in the group but the leads happen to be a married couple so they have to (petition to of their own volition bc it’s not in the fucking script) kiss onstage.

[jiminrings]

mature

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: the good thing about professing your feelings to jungkook is that it'd be over with, whether or not he likes you back — the bad thing is that he rejects you, even if you haven't confessed.

alternatively, crushing on jungkook who's in your friend group is, has, and will never be a good idea.

[ push n pull fic YIPPPEEEEE, fluff, angst, So Much Yearning, friends to lovers trope, jealousy, dunking on a stewpid jk (as one does), arguments that kinda hit home, redemption!! ]

notes: WE R SO BACK!!!! thank u for waiting 🫂🤍

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

You will never tell Jungkook how desperately you want to be loved.

In your defense (much to Jungkook’s offence), you want to be loved as desperately as he acts on an everyday basis. He’s not pathetic in the sense that he’s hopeless, but rather pathetic in the light that you want the entirety of him (stubbornness and occasional dimness included) to rub off on you.

You want to be loved pathetically in the same way that Jungkook never computes his expenses when it comes to self-indulgence yet always calculates when it comes to actual requirements. You want to be loved as wholly by the guy who can get by one DIY dorm dinner at a time by asking for scraps from the whole floor with a grin and his hands cupped in begging.

Jungkook’s one of your friends, if not the best you’ve ever had, and it’s a miracle that you haven’t jumped at each and every available chance to confess your growing feelings for him.

You bit your tongue that one time he bought you "one of those silly blind boxes you like" on a whim from a bookstore he only went inside to in the first place because he was dying outside in the heat, only to open it for you with your eyes closed and earn you an extra rare figure.

You had to physically restrain yourself (read: clasp your hands together in front of you) when Jungkook made you swap your counterfeit, barely-holding-on kitten heels for his trustworthy slides on the way home because your research presentation prior had you pacing nervously.

Every time that he gives you your tax of whatever he ordered (which always ends up being the best variant that your friend group could possibly order for a meal or a sweet treat), you have to etch into your head clearly, with ballpoint pen, that you will never tell Jungkook how desperately you want him to love you.

Every time that he gives you a one-on-one friend outing, just as he does with everyone else from your circle of ten people and counting (you lost count because you figure that all of you are about to outgrow the long table in the library that nobody else could fill), you convince yourself to never tell him how much you want it to be just you.

You figure that you’ll tell Jungkook that you do hold a candle for him, despite not detailing the extent, in this lifetime— maybe even the next time you get a moment alone with him, but you figure you won’t do it now; now, when he’s berating you for just a tiny sacrifice you made that’s minuscule for everything he does for you and everyone else.

“You’re impossible!” he huffs, his annoyance for you being loud enough to stop his faux display of studying and gather attention from everyone else in the library who actually is. Jungkook holds up his phone for you to read, brows scrunched at your look of amusement. “Jimin told me you were lactose intolerant!”

You can’t figure how and why Jungkook and Jimin’s conversation even flitted towards you when you recall clearly that the lactose-filled meal in question was from two weeks ago. You don’t question it because you already know that even giving it a second thought would already be too pompous of you, and you don’t question either why Jungkook looks too devastated at the realization.

“I just tolerated it,” you snort, burying your nose back into your notes, missing the flash of regret in Jungkook’s features.

He doesn’t know whether he’d feel more sorry over the fact that he didn’t know you were lactose intolerant, or that you didn’t speak up at all to preserve his excitement over eating at the restaurant he wanted to try out.

“But why would you?” he sulks, completely foregoing the textbook he has opened on the same page for the last hour.

You know exactly why you did, but you’d rather not tell Jungkook now. 

You’ll tell him some other time, that much you’re sure of, but not now — not now when he’s too devastated over your tummy issues, and not now when he’s just one revelation away from chewing you out over something he has to learn from someone else.

“Your broke ass bought it so I had to,” you murmur, rolling your eyes as you rest your chin on the palm of your hand.

“Foul,” Jungkook immediately chuckles, shaking his head at your retort even if he knows you’re just kidding around (he knows you won’t hurt him like that that), finally opening his laptop.

Jungkook, your friend, finally types on his laptop, yet it’s not for the contribution that he badly needs to put in for a group project.

Instead, he opens up the Google Doc and writes in a bullet point underneath your name, the words do not give cheese acquainted with three exclamation points — along with your name, is the names of your mutual friends and Jungkook’s observations that would come in handy for an outing, a gift, or both.

Jungkook’s that good of a friend, and that’s why you’ll never tell him how desperately you want to be loved by him.

( ♡ ) 

Getting gifts for someone who has a credit card and has no inhibitions when it comes to buying whatever they want is a difficult task.

Getting Jungkook for Secret Santa this year is even harder than the last, and that was when Jin snuck five strips of his name and left more than five of you (you don’t even know how that happened) without gifts, all while he was laughing to himself after he successfully gaslit everyone into thinking that they were all drunk and made the mistake themselves.

You don’t know what to give Jungkook that he doesn’t already have. He doesn’t have a girlfriend the last time you checked and while you can’t exactly wrap yourself in ugly, recycled kraft paper (as opposed to Jimin’s dumb, all-knowing-about-your-hidden-feelings suggestion), you’d rather not drive Jungkook away, even if you don’t know either how to drive him in.

You don’t have the slightest clue to what his ‘surprise me ;)’ scribble underneath his name means and it makes you feel guilty, far more than he ever could have after Jimin’s revelation of your dietary restrictions. 

It’s not the dilemma of who would sit next to who in the large albeit crowded dining table in the cabin that you rented out, nor is it the cooking and wrapping duties that each of you are tasked with that stresses you out this holiday season.

You wish so badly that the largest champagne problem you have at the moment was wondering if your Christmas gift for your nitpicky mom and nonchalant dad back at home arrived in time. You pray that your biggest hurdle is either convincing Namjoon that his room is just cold and not haunted, or breaking off a fight between Eunwoo and Soomin because they keep fighting over whose overpriced film camera will be used for the picture by the tree, or even talking Mingyu down from smacking Jin in his sleep.

The largest champagne problem that you have, even if it’s actually between life and living said life in peace without minding your inevitable heartbreak, is worrying about Jungkook’s gift.

You hold your breath as soon as Hoseok gathers everyone into the living room, your nerves probably getting the best of you because you hear Jungkook hollering to whoever’s closest to the thermostat to adjust it because your teeth kept chattering.

You have nothing to be nervous about, you convince yourself as Jungkook steps up into the middle and awaits with wide arms, your best friend being another victim of assuming that the comically large wrapped present is his (it’s not).

Jungkook doesn’t have any expectations for you to meet, you convince yourself as he becomes even more hyper when he learns that it’s you, so much so that he takes a lap around the backyard with his hands clapping furiously.

You can’t love Jungkook any more than you do now, you realize as you see Jungkook throw his head back in glee when he opens up your gift.

It’s only a Himalayan salt lamp. It’s only a lamp that you didn’t buy for so much. It’s only a thing that Jungkook said to you in passing one time, yet he’s beyond grateful — enough for him to carry you in his arms and take another lap around the backyard.

“God, you love me soooo bad,” he lulls, teasing you mercilessly as he unceremoniously drops you so he could adore the lamp up close. “I always wanted to lick one!”

“You’re so stupid,” you mutter, rolling your eyes at his excitement over something so simple; something so insignificant in the world of thoughtful, expensive gifts.

You affectionately think that Jungkook’s stupid, yet you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

“I didn’t hear a no,” Jungkook hums with his tongue out, eyes wide and flickering between you and the lamp. “Should I do it? Should I? I’m doing-…!”

You put a spoonful of cake into his mouth instead, the whine that escapes his throat still sounding like gratefulness to your ears.

Tonight’s not the night wherein you tell Jungkook how badly you want to be loved by him — not when he’s so preoccupied with his new salt lamp that he keeps daring people to take a lick of, not when he’s the one who’s being convinced that there’s a ghost in Namjoon's room and being bullied into sleeping in.

Not when Jungkook’s being the perfect, lovable friend that he is during the holidays and every other day.

( ♡ ) 

You’re well-aware that Jungkook’s a catch.

You know that he’s a catch and he’ll never live it down, and neither can you.

You’re very painfully aware that Jungkook’s a catch because you’re reminded of it every single day whenever you’re with your friends. You know that atleast two of them were integrated into the group in the first place because they liked Jungkook, and that doesn’t really bother you (more than it should, atleast) anymore. 

Sora’s crush formed out of boredom on Jungkook disappeared as soon as she got a boyfriend, but you understand why her gaze lingered on him in the first place.

Eunji’s crush on Jungkook already dissipated the moment she learned about his GPA, but you get why she had been attracted to his charm anyway.

You know that he’s a catch and that he’s not solely yours either, and the latter makes you humble.

“There’s flowers on your desk again,” you point out, the arrangement irking you for more reasons than one. “Why do you have to be so popular and handsome.. and lovable,” you mumble, the tail end of your mini rant barely being heard by Jungkook because he's too busy admiring his gift.

“What’s that now?” Jin piped up, eyebrows furrowed upon picking up your angry muttering. He's beyond confused, maybe just as much as you are, when you just snarl at him for his unintentional use of supersonic hearing.

“And why do I have to sit next to you even if I have allergies,” you redirect your attention to Jungkook who has to sweep the flowers to a beaten-up paper bag for safekeeping, the item in his backpack being the most used object for all of the admiration towards him.

“Because you’re the best-est friend ever,” he rolls his eyes, the faux pout on his lips surprisingly softening you instead of the opposite. “And maybe I’m the worst-est one to keep putting you through this.”

“You sound so stupid,” you reply automatically, crossing your arms and keeping them there. “But you’re right,” you exhale through your nose, conceding your defeat over willingly letting him put you through this, carrying the blame by yourself.

Jungkook doesn’t only act like this with you anyway. There’s no special treatment, there’s no false hopes being promised — it’s just you genuinely happening to fall for him.

“Come on, just tolerate it! Pinch your nose or something!”

“Why should I? Find another seatmate,” you sulk, making a point to angle your back away from him and towards Jin who’s at your right, doing his best at holding in a laugh over how ridiculous the both of you look.

“Obviously you’re the one with the latest phone so you have to take pictures of me with the flowers!” Jungkook whines, punctuating his sentence with a hand on his hip. He’s sulking because you’re sulking, and you’ve never hated him more at the moment. “Why else would I force you to sit with me?”

Jungkook’s stupid, and so are you, so you’d rather not tell him how desperately you want to be loved by him today.

( ♡ ) 

In all fairness, you thought you would lose nothing.

You thought you would lose nothing because in the first place, you barely expected anything out of Jungkook. Liking him didn’t mean that you were indebted to him, and liking you back isn’t something that he owed to you either.

You weren’t expecting Jungkook to fall on his knees and say something stupid to hint at his mutual love for you (although you did think about it a couple of times), but you atleast expected a little bit of respect from him to try and see the strength it took you to even confess.

You planned it perfectly, even taking a page off his book and making a whole word document for it wherein you spent days typing whatever crossed your mind throughout the day and erasing what seemed the most impossible throughout the night. 

In your word document, you and Jungkook would be out in the snow, skating in an outdoor rink even if neither of you know how to. You figure that you won’t attempt to drag (read: hobble with) him to the middle of the ice because in case he doesn’t like you back, the waddle back to the exit wouldn’t be as awkward; if Jungkook does like you back, you’ll still be hobbling to the exit, albeit happily.

In your word document, there’s a spine of a script that you would say when the day comes. You’ll skim along the lines of how you’ve never been so enamored with someone in your entire life (with the internal note that you’ll dial it back a bit if his expression turns sour), of how bright he makes your days for you, and how he doesn’t have to be obligated to like you back.

In your word document, you’re set. You’ve planned a foolproof blueprint of what would turn out, whether or not Jungkook is set on loving you the way you desperately want to be —

Except now, Jungkook completely undoes everything you’ve ever worked for.

Now, he looks at you with a glint in his eye that looks more apologetic than it is endearing. You don’t even know what led to your heartbreak exactly because one minute, you were just studying, and by the next, Jungkook’s already letting you down even if you haven't had the chance to rise.

You swear on your life that you weren’t giving any signals at all that you were actually about to confess. You were only silent, refusing to talk to him because you were too stressed over your task and that you were scared you would burst into tears if you tried mouthing the formula out loud, yet Jungkook mistakes it for your love.

Whatever you do on a daily basis, whatever you do based on your nature, Jungkook mistakes it for a confession that he wasn’t even supposed to hear until the end of the week.

He wasn’t wrong about the fact that you love him — what he’s wrong about is his assumption that your silence around him when it’s just the two of you, right now while you lose your mind over an assignment as you’re dressed in last week’s sweater and last semester’s horror, is your confession.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Jungkook winces, gently patting you on the shoulder as you’re yet to digest his rejection. “But I just don’t think we’ll work out.”

( ♡ ) 

You theorized that getting over Jungkook would be fairly easy on the chance that he rejects you after your confession.

You figure that Jungkook himself as a concept would be drastically difficult to move on from because he was just so lovable. He doesn’t know how to read a room and it’s one of his better quirks when you’re worrying over nothing. He doesn’t know much about knowing when to let up, and it comes in clutch when he’s pushing you to wholeheartedly do an assignment even if you’re already burnt out from crying.

Jungkook, as a concept, is indestructible. He’s the everyday variant of the goodness that some frat guys possess occasionally. He’s the realistic, attainable version of a main lead in a manhwa that’s only perfect 1/4 into the plot. 

He’s the manifestation of every good deed a stranger has done for you, except he’s someone you know with your heart and not just someone you could sketch from memory. 

With that, you also figured that moving on from Jungkook can’t be that hard because he was too out of reach despite being in the same friend group as you. Surely, it wouldn’t be so catastrophically hard to move on from a guy who just gasps for air every five minutes when he’s in charge of cooking in the BBQ hangout (instead of using the exhaust like a normal person), or from a guy who thinks citing references for a paper is only a suggestion.

The funny thing about it all is that you never actually confessed to Jungkook.

Actually (and contrary to the assumptions of the other friends you have from your circle), you’ve never said it to his face that you do have a crush on him. You’re ultimately known to be the friendliest person to ever walk the campus, and while not the most confrontational, they atleast expected for you to confess to Jungkook in your own way.

What actually happened was that Jungkook read through you — he does happen to be right about your feelings for him! He’s the second friendliest person right beneath you, and so the way he rejected you should never sting this much.

Jungkook thought it out meticulously. He read into the way you spent extra attention listening to him with your eyes practically gleaming. He read into the way you’d lag back behind him and hold him by his wrist whenever you were all crossing the street. Hell, he even read into the way you would take a shot at opening the extremely tight water bottle from the vending machine before everyone else.

The funny, tragic thing about it is that whilst Jungkook wasn’t wrong about pinpointing your feelings for him — you never confessed.

Jeon Jungkook, the second, ultimate friendliest man that your university has ever known, rejected you without even hearing the actual words from you.

He’s turned his back on you even before you could reach him, and the realization sinks in you unsettlingly. You never expected for him to like you back because it would be unfair of you, and you knew that; what just happened to hurt you most was that Jungkook didn’t even think twice.

He hadn’t given you the chance to pour your heart out at the very least.

He hadn’t even given you the space to breathe right after the rejection, because he skips and puts a smile on before winking, telling you that he’ll never speak of it again because you must probably be embarrassed.

The funniest thing about it all is that you aren’t embarrassed — you’re actually devastated about it.

It’s an odd event for Jungkook to feel lonely because with such a big friend group, he never thought he’d feel a little empty despite literally rubbing elbows in a circular table. He never thought he’d come to be a little annoyed at Jimin and his routine, playful, borderline offensive banter he’d always have with you at the top of the morning, and he never thought he’d even be more annoyed over the absence of it.

There’s one less laugh in the circle. One less bag strewn underneath the table, one less coffee order written on the notes app, and one less person to look for when hanging out.

You’re missing from the friend group, and oddly enough, Jungkook seems to be the most devastated about it.

“Why is Y/N not here?” he asks in the middle of Jin retelling his drunken fishing story, grabbing the attention of everyone in the table and maybe just about everyone else’s in the common area with the way his voice is frantic. “And why is she there with the new kid instead?”

Everyone flits through separate conversations after Jungkook’s interruption, some even wincing to themselves because although they know about your admiration for the guy and not your confession-that-wasn’t-one, they figure that nothing good could come out of Jungkook sucker-punching the new kid in his head.

“I don’t know, man. Buddy system, maybe?” Jin shrugs, stealing his food because it was obvious that Jungkook’s attention is everywhere but himself and the table.

Jungkook snorts, crossing his arms tightly to the point that even he feels a little suffocated. His entire face is crumpled with hurt, eyebrows furrowed out of frustration when you still aren’t looking at him; when you’re still not looking at him with confusion in your eyes, silently telling him off for glaring.

“Buddy system? We’re in uni. Who the fuck would bully that guy?”

“By the looks of it, probably you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he huffs, refusing to unclench his fists on his thighs.

“Well, what’s it to you that Y/N’s hanging out with someone new? What are you so heated for?” Jin elaborates, eyes flitting to you again.

Jungkook could only glare at you.

“What are you so nosy for?” he asks defensively, leaning back on his chair in a faux display of relaxation when all he wants to do is to remove the stupid smile on the guy’s face as he watches you talk.

Unlike Jungkook, Yoongi’s not stupid at all — in fact, he’s been vigilantly aware of Jungkook’s glare on the side of his face ever since you sat in front of him.

Yoongi’s not stupid, so he angles himself in a way that Jungkook gets to see him more. He doesn’t know the guy personally, but he does know of him and his “charm” that seems to make everyone go nuts for him. 

If looks could kill, then Yoongi would’ve already had mourners at his feet, but if provocation could poison, then Jungkook would already be frothing at the mouth.

The thing is, Yoongi doesn’t even know about your admiration nor your foiled confession to Jungkook. The latter hasn’t even done anything personally to him. 

All he knows is that you’re in a big friend group and that you chose to sit with him, your friend whom you share a couple of advanced classes with but not a friend-friend like Jungkook is, and that you’re very easy on the eyes and admirable yourself if he thinks about it (he doesn’t need much time to ponder over it) — and, that he doesn’t really like being glared at.

“No really, I insist!” he laughs, pulling out a handwritten reviewer from his backpack with a grin. “I don’t know anybody else who likes making reviewers anymore by hand, so really, you’re just perfect to get them.”

“But you worked so hard on them,” you gasp, eyes already widening in both surprise and awe at the thick stack of papers in front of you. Yoongi’s handwriting and formatting are perfect; there’s no unnecessary calligraphy, the vividness of the highlighter is just right, and there’s even sticky notes at the bottom for additional details and references you could cross-check. “I.. I don’t want you to feel that I’m taking advantage-…”

“But I offered! You didn’t ask for reviewers from me shamelessly like every other opportunist does,” Yoongi laughs, throwing his head back as he slides the papers closer to you. “I’d be a really shitty senior not to give you any help. If anything, I think you deserve even better than-…”

Jungkook can’t resist.

Jungkook can’t take any more of watching you and Yoongi push and pull over whatever topic he can’t hear nor force Jin to eavesdrop on. He can’t take another second of seeing you be so happy talking to a guy that he doesn’t know, so much so that he comes up to you without a second thought.

“Hey,” he greets, his body only turned to you, completely ignoring Yoongi and blocking him off from your sight. “You didn’t order any coffee.”

You angle your body slightly to excuse yourself, except Jungkook conveniently happens to mirror your every move, confusing you even more. “Oh, I wasn’t feeling like it,” you trail, looking up at him in confusion while Yoongi could see right through him.

“Really?” Jungkook replies, the smile on his face being far from amused, eyes narrowed as he tries to catch up with the own annoyance that he harbors. “Because I’m seeing two coffees right now, and one’s in front of you, so…” he trails, shrugging his shoulders exaggeratedly.

Jungkook’s jaw is still clenched, along with his fists by his sides. He’s standing tall between you and Yoongi with his shoulders squared and his face steeled, the immovable forces that are him and the unnamed pit in his stomach starting to garner attention.

Namjoon has his phone out. 

Hoseok only has one cheek remaining on the seat because he’s ready to stand up and collect bets. 

You’re still sitting, mostly confused, when you realize the attention that’s starting to build towards the three of you.

“Yes, Jungkook. Great observation,” you snicker, the discreet roll of your eyes making him take offense.

“Oh okay, I see. So you were lying by saying that you weren’t feeling it, and I don’t get the hold-up of you-…”

“What did you come here for now, Jungkook?” you angrily whisper, keeping your head down as you retain your gaze on him and lightly tap at the table to indicate to Yoongi for the both of you to move. “It’s a little far-fetched for you to come all over here to pick a fight about coffee.”

Jungkook huffs, turning his head back to Yoongi behind him because he most definitely saw your signal. The lazy, amused gaze of Yoongi is what sets him off even further, the anger in his eyes unmistakable, except you recognize it for only what it is and not jealousy, because Jungkook doesn’t see you like that.

Or atleast that’s what the both of you assume.

Jungkook, your best friend, scoffs loudly.

“You sound so defensive right now.”

( ♡ ) 

You don’t respond much to Jungkook’s calls. 

As a matter of fact, you don’t respond much to Jungkook at all.

You don’t show up whenever he’s present, meaning that you’re only magically available whenever there’s half of your friend group at the most because if there’s more, then the search for the missing members would ensue, then you’d end up squished in a long table next to Jungkook again.

It’s very much like him to form grudges, yet he can’t even tell if he’s capable of having one towards you. Jungkook, with all his chest and afflictions, wants so badly to hate you because you’ve been blowing him off ever since he literally and physically came between you and Yoongi.

He apologized to you for that (and not to Yoongi because he didn’t really matter to him at all), and he doesn’t know the answer for it yet because his messages still remain unread. He’s enlisted the help of your mutual friends on various occasions by trying to get them to give all his little treats for you, yet you refuse them as soon as you catch wind that it’s from Jungkook.

He even tried studying for real in the library in hopes that reverse psychology (he thinks that’s what it’s called) would work and that thinking he doesn’t want you to come would make you do the opposite, yet it still doesn’t work. Jungkook’s already mad that he studied for nothing (he’s more interested in getting you to notice him than to actually learn), but he becomes even more heated to realize that your anger for him is just directed at him alone.

You still talk to your best friends, with the exception of him, and Jungkook has never been more envious of people who are apparently of the same status as him.

Jungkook wants you to drag him like you drag Sora to the nail salon and have you whisper at his ear to tell the nail tech not to cut your cuticles because you’ve been afraid of getting them done since that 1/34th part of a medical drama episode you watched on your phone.

Jungkook wants you to complain to him like you complain to Namjoon when you’re frustrated with a professor whom you’re convinced is only critical to you and no one else, later making him promise not to tell anyone else from your friend group because they like said professor.

Jungkook wants you to run to him as you always did, just because you feel like it. He wants to sit in silence with you again and put his hand on your knee when you’re in the verge of tears just looking at your schedule for the week.

He wants to stand guard again outside the bathroom door of the expensive coffee shop because it’s either the lock is broken or because Namjoon's managed to instill in you the existence of ghosts in cold spots.

He wants to be the Jungkook like you’ve always known, again, because it seems like you’ve forgotten him completely. You have the Yoongi now, it seems like — the smarter, more composed, and more charismatic variant of him that he wants to get rid of because Jungkook never predicted the existence of him.

Even more, Jungkook didn’t even entertain the concept of him being replaced because it was always the two of you together, even in a sea of friends. 

He’s your best friend, your confidant even, but nothing more — all Jungkook feels is that he’s even less than the status the both of you are assigned to be. 

He’s angry and sad and disappointed all at the same time because he thought he had almost lost you since he rejected your confession. You were fine; you were as fine as you could be for someone rejected when it comes to yearning to be his, and yet the moment you let Yoongi in, Jungkook feels as if you threw everything the both of you had just for him.

“Just so you know, student-teacher relationships are illegal,” he corners you one morning in your dorm, two godforsaken weeks after chasing you around the campus yet turning up empty.

“What the fuck are you on about?” you immediately scrunch your nose at him, the accusation he throws at you being too farfetched to the point that you don’t even think of shutting the door at him, ignoring Eunji’s betrayal for you by pretending to come over.

“What am I on about?” Jungkook exasperates, the scoff that leaves him making you feel small in front of him. “You’re literally the one who’s getting chummy with fucking Yoongi of all people!"

"Yoongi's a teaching assistant! He's our senior! Do you not know that?"

"Do I look like I'm interested in any other people outside of our circle?" he retorts, lips turned up in a snarl. Jungkook provokes you with a sarcastic glare, the look on his face enough to make you throw your head back in irritation.

"Come on, even Jin and Jimin are friends with Yoongi and-..."

"This is not about them!" 

"But you just-..." you stop as soon Jungkook interrupts you, losing your gaze on him for a single second to close your door and when you look back, you find that he’s already comfortable being vindictive on your bed, his arms crossed and his back straight.

"Also, teacher and teaching assistant both have the word teach so it's literally still illegal," he narrows his eyes sarcastically, the tone to his voice unclear despite his words suggesting otherwise. "You look so stupid right now."

"Jungkook can you stop?!" you burst, your temples stinging at the back and forth that Jungkook’s thrown the both of you in. “What the hell is going on with you?"

Jungkook had sworn to himself up and down that he has so much stuff to pick with you. He knows he has so much baggage to unpack and how much shit he has to bring up, even if it’s only been two weeks with you. He’s partly relieved that you’re in front of him and you still haven’t fled, yet a large part of him is beyond frustrated with you because you don’t even look like as if your time apart has taken a toll on you.

Between the two of you, it’s only Jungkook who looks like his distraught has manned him completely beyond surrender. Even coming to see you by hatching a plan with a hesitant friend is something he considers an act beyond surrender — whatever the space is between surrender and demand is where Jungkook lies with you.

"No, what's going on with you!” he argues, standing to his feet to come face-to-face with you. “You can't just spin this around when I've done nothing but be a good friend to you!"

"You think I'm not being a good friend to you just because I don't spend every single minute attached to you? I can still hang out outside of our friend group without being-..."

"This is not about our friend group!" Jungkook emphasizes once again, the tell-tale sting of tears behind his eyes coming up because he feels as if you can’t hear him no matter how much he repeats himself. ”This is about us and how you abandoned me ever since I rejected you!"

"I didn't abandon you, Jungkook!" you spit, pushing at his chest lightly with your finger to get him to back up from your face yet he refuses to. He’s still insistent at staring you down with his jaw clenched, eyes wide and unblinking because he knows that if he moves even just a millimeter askew, he’d cry. “You didn't even give me the chance to confess to you! You rejected me without even hearing me out. Do you think I would still be able to talk to you, face to face like how you want so badly, as if nothing happened?"

"The answer would've been the same even if you confessed,” he grits with his chest heavy, not at the way he keeps holding his breath in order not to break down in front of you, but because you look at him with so much disdain that it makes him want to puke.

"Do you not think I know that?" you laugh humorlessly, gnawing on your bottom lip as you don’t drop his gaze. “Do you think I didn't prepare for that possibility? I knew what could've happened if I confessed and I'd still be okay with it, Jungkook!" you raise your voice, throat already giving out at the slightest pressure because you know you lost the fight ever since you let him in. "What I'm not okay with is that you didn't even give me the chance.”

It’s evil, really, with the way no amount of self-pity could ever pull you from the grave you’ve dug up. You went for Jungkook, carrying all grief you knew you were bound to feel, and yet you still feel unprepared. You still feel unworthy even moping for someone like Jungkook because not even his rejection, nor anyone else’s acceptance of your admiration by some sort of miracle, is enough to make you feel like you’d be missed.

Your two weeks without Jungkook is your rehearsal for the two months, then two years, then two forevers eventually without him by your side. You had still been able to live by yourself and with your friends, excluding him, and you thought you were fine because it feels as if nothing had changed.

You thought you were fine until Jungkook gets in your face to tell you that it’s not, and all over again, you’re reminded of how desperately you want to be loved by him to the point that you’d rather drown in your own pity to try and preserve whatever’s left of you.

"I told you the answer would-..."

"Shut up!" you cry, steeling your nerves when you realize that Jungkook’s angrily crying in front of you, wiping at his eyes hastily. ”For the love of god, shut up!"

Jungkook stays quiet, not because you told him to, but because nothing good comes to mind when he realizes that you’re crying because of him.

"See? You don't even get where I'm coming from because you're not even giving me the chance to explain myself without making it all about you,” you sob, finally pushing him away, to which he lets you. "That's the problem with you, Jungkook. You're too self-involved."

"Not true," Jungkook whispers, shaking his head earnestly even if he feels the stupidest he has ever did in his life in front of you.

He follows your steps out of routine even if his brain had convinced his system that he hates you just seconds ago, arms instinctively trying to crowd you when you almost trip on the flooring on your way to the coat rack.

"Since you keep insisting that I abandoned you," you chuckle dryly before grabbing your jacket, turning your back on Jungkook and on your own space, which had just been the default hangout place of the both of you for the longest time, in pursuit of your own quiet without him. "Let me follow through."

Jungkook doesn’t want to tell you how desperately he wants you to want him again, to love him as you already did, and neither do you.

( ♡ ) 

The perks of having a big friend group is that the absence of several members wouldn’t make that much of a difference when it comes to hanging out. It would still sustain itself without a few extra voices joining in on the chatter watching movies and the bullying when it comes to a forgotten birthday greeting here and there.

The downside of being in one, is that said big friend group doesn’t matter at all to Jungkook when you’re not in it.

The lengths that your friend (read: a word that Jungkook’s come to abhor) has went through since your fight at your dorm are basically incomprehensible because he’s fully involved himself.

He’s pining after you pathetically, just like how you had always dreamed of, yet seeing him take turn after turn just trying to gain your forgiveness for something you’ve always pitied yourself for makes you feel guilty.

In Jungkook’s defense, he wants to be forgiven and loved (again) as desperately as he acts on an everyday basis. Not only is he pathetic in the sense that he’s hopeless, but also pathetic in the light that he wants the entirety of you (stubbornness and occasional sharpness included) to rub off on him.

“I know I’m stupid. I-I.. I know that I was unfair for not even letting you confess your feelings because I felt like dying when you started to ignore me,” he mumbles to your bedsheets, his legs crossed on the ground and his head muffled by the fabric because he doesn’t even want to sit next to you in fear of you revoking his chance to apologize in person, again, as if that’s not what he had been doing the past weeks. “Y/N, you don’t deserve someone as stupid as me and I hate it so, so bad.”

The sound of Jungkook apologizing to you has already been repeated enough to the point you’ve learned when to tune him out, but with the way his heart precedes his tone this time, you stop folding your clothes in favor of Jungkook who’s just two seconds away from passing out on your bed by fabric conditioner-bathed quilt-induced suffocation, to which he couldn’t pass up on because it was your scent and he missed hugging you.

“I can’t catch up with you on anything that you’re talking about with Yoongi. The only times I open a book are when I want to look at you but I don’t want you to see me. I can’t— I can barely even talk to you without feeling like I’m beneath you,” he admits lowly, the truth of his rejection finally springing up a little too much, and almost a little too late. “I thought, stupidly, that we wouldn’t work because you deserve someone better.”

“I don’t need you to catch up with me, Jungkook,” you murmur, lightly slapping his cheeks because he looks sleepy from all the sniffing he’s done on your quilt, but really, his eyes are only narrowed into slits because he feels like he’s about to cry. Again.

“But I need to, b-because when we run out of things to talk about that you’re willingly to dumb down to my level, what else could we catch up on?” 

“You’re not stupid. I just say-…”

“No. Don’t make excuses for me,” he laughs lightly, still sat on your carpet obediently like a dog because he doesn’t want to push your boundaries. “I’m beneath you and I didn’t want to drag you down with me because I.. I didn’t feel that you deserve me,” he confesses. “But I want you so badly, Y/N. You have no idea.”

Jungkook wants you so badly, that in your insistence of self-pity, it was his self-preservation that led him to cry by himself when you finally left the library after not-confessing to him.

He wants you so badly, that in his fit of self-preservation disguised into stubbornness, he had tamped down his desperation for you.

“I want to catch up with you, not you to slow down for me,” Jungkook rests his chin on your thigh, his wide, pleading eyes looking up at you. “I’m so sorry, my baby. I’m so, so, so sorry for being stupid enough to let you go the first time,” he tilts his head, resting his cheek on your awaiting hand. “Please. I’m just begging you to slow down for me this one time,” Jungkook swallows the lump in his throat, nudging your hand gently with his cheek. “Please let me look stupid trying to earn you.”

Jungkook, without fail, tells you how desperately he wants to be loved by you.

[butyoudidthis4what]

No Man's Land

Jack Abbot x f!Reader

5.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || C.W.: mentions of blood, mentions of guns and shootings, mentions of death/dying/coding, CPR, anxiety about partner's safety, Jack's traumatized, reader's traumatized, mentions of dissociation and compartmentalization, poor description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, very very light smut, angst, age gap kind of implied with Jack but not explicitly referenced, no use of y/n or related, not proofread, no beta, I think that's all but if I missed any please (nicely) let me know.

Summary: This is my Pitt-Fest-But-Not fic. Development of your relationship through vignettes of the past and conversations between Jack, Dana and Robby. There's a shooting where you work. Jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

A.N.: If my Robby reads like John Carter I'm sorry, except that a little bit I'm not. I feel like I'm struggling with my Jack characterization but can't tell if that's just me hating everything I do. This is my take on one of my fave tropes where reader is in mortal danger. I needed a physical location that could be associated with reader and settled on a courthouse, but what it is reader does there is not described. Probably (definitely?) needs a part two. If you get the nickname, thank you, I feel seen. If you don't I explain it at the end. This is absolutely something I would call him, in part to fuck with people who know his real name. I would love to know if you enjoyed and to hear any thoughts you'd like to share.

“He has a girlfriend,” Robby smirks at Dana. 

She blinks at him. “I’m sorry, I thought we were talking about Jack Abbot.”

“Oh we fucking are.” Robby stifles his smirk and forces his lips to remain closed and as neutral as possible. 

“You’re shitting me.” Dana’s incredulous look breaks Robby a bit and he starts to laugh, tries to turn it into a cough when both he and Dana look up to find Jack staring at them as he takes his snow dusted beanie off. He gives Robby a ‘really?’ look even though he knew Robby would rat him out to Dana the second Robby had dragged it out of him. 

Dana looks back at Robby. “Who? How did they meet?”

Robby holds up his hands. “You now officially know as much as I do about her.” Dana makes a noise of vague discontent but knows Jack well enough to know Robby is telling the truth. That’s all that’s been revealed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s not worth it,” you whisper. Jack blinks and looks around, unsure if you’re talking to him. He has no idea who you are, has never seen you before in his life but it appears that you are in fact whispering to him in the middle of this bookstore. 

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not?”

You shake your head, give him an almost conspiratorial smile. “No, he must have gotten a new ghost writer. It’s really bad in comparison to his other stuff. Save your time and money. I’ll give you a summary right now for free if you’re that curious.”

Jack smiles to himself a little bit as he sets the book back on the shelf. There’s something about you, your smile, the way you just randomly spoke to him. He’s drawn to you. An alarm goes off in some part of his brain telling him to ignore it, ignore you, he could get hurt. He pretends to weigh his options as he turns to face you fully. “How about for a cup of coffee?”

Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment. There’s simply no way this unfairly attractive man is asking to buy you a cup of coffee. “The summary?” You clarify. “That I’d give for free. You want it to cost a cup of coffee instead?” You let out a nervous laugh and some part of his heart aches because you’re so adorable. “I just want to make sure I understand before I potentially make an even bigger fool of myself.” 

“Yep.” He can’t help but laugh a little. “You give me the summary over coffee. Actually, you know what? You’re going to have to give me a recommendation too because now I’m going to have nothing to read.” He clicks his tongue at you. 

“Well,” you laugh out, all breathy as you try to pull yourself together. “You drive a hard bargain but I think I’m willing to accept those terms…” you glance at his name badge, “Dr. Abbot.” You give him a full smile and Jack knows then and there he’s totally fucked in the best of ways. 

“Jack.” He smiles at you as you both begin walking towards the café. “Call me Jack.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything quiet enough after handoff, Robby walks out with Jack into the morning sun that does little to warm the breeze pulling leaves off the trees. “Any chance you can cover a shift on Thursday night?” Robby is asking, yes, but he knows it’s not really a question, Jack is always willing to work.

“Can’t.” Jack says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.” There’s an expectant silence that hangs between the two as they keep walking.

“Care to elaborate?” Robby finally asks.

“No.” Jack turns and smirks at him. “It’s none of your and Dana’s business.”

“Ha!” Robby laughs. “So it’s her, it’s about her! The ever elusive girlfriend. Will we ever get to meet her? Or does she not want to meet us? Is she real?” Jack stops walking and gives Robby one of his looks. “Holy shit, is it someone here?”

Jack snorts at that. “No it’s not someone here. She’s not even in the medical field.” He sighs, half longing and half resignation of some kind. “She’s honestly dying to meet you guys, especially you and Dana, but I’m trying to protect her from this hellhole. It’s hard with schedules too, to find a time.”

“That’s such fucking bullshit,” Robby laughs. “Are you afraid to truly commit? Think bringing her here will make it too real?” 

It’s a valid question but one that Jack nevertheless resents. “No, actually, if you must fucking know Thursday is our one year anniversary. We have plans. So you’ll have to find someone else to cover. But I’ll bring her around soon,” he laughs through his nose to himself at your stubbornness, “if I don’t she’s liable to just show up one of-”

“A year?” Robby laughs, incredulous. “A fucking year? How the hell did you hide it for three months before I dragged it out of you?”

Jack ignores him. “Also, I’m moving to days. It’s better for us.” He’s so nonchalant about it, just states it like he’s saying the sky is blue, like it’s not going to make Robby’s eyes widen and mouth drop open like it does.

“I don’t,” Robby huffs a laugh, “I don’t even know where to fucking begin.”

“Then don’t.” Jack smirks, starts to walk again while Robby stays frozen, running a hand through his hair. “Go do some actual work.”

“I thought you found comfort in the darkness?” Robby yells after him. 

Jack slows and turns around but keeps walking backwards, one hand holding the strap of his backpack to keep it over his shoulder. He glances down at his phone and the photo of you that is now his wallpaper. He smiles to himself a little, yells back. “Guess I find it somewhere else now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You giggle, honest to god giggle and Jack could lose his damn mind as he nibbles at your collarbone. “You know if my anatomy class had been this fun, I might have become a doctor too.” 

You’re laying on your back in bed as Jack kisses your sweat slicked skin all over as you both come down from your last round. He’s taken to 'teaching you anatomy' like this, identifying different parts of the human body with his mouth.

“Hmm,” Jack hums against you. “I’m glad it wasn’t then. Fuck doctors.” He starts to kiss down your chest. 

“That has become quite the favorite pastime of mine, yes,” you smirk. “Fucking one specific doctor, actually.” 

“Getting fucked by one specific doctor more like it,” he murmurs into your sternum. He kisses laterally, lips hitting your breast and moving towards your nipple. 

“I think we’ve established what those are,” you moan softly as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You let your hands run through his salt and pepper curls that you adore so much. 

“Can never be too thorough.” You giggle at him again and can feel him smile against you. “But fine, you want something new?” You nod, let your nails scratch gently at his scalp. 

“Nipple,” he kisses your nipple and then down your torso to right above your belly button, “to navel is no man’s land.” He continues to lavish kisses on the soft skin of your stomach before looking up at you when you don’t respond. 

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.” You eye him with mock suspicion. 

He laughs and it’s your favorite sound in the whole world, you swear. Well maybe second, only behind hearing him tell you that he loves you. 

“I’m not. Nipple to navel is no man’s land. It’s a real thing. It’s one of the worst places to get shot or stabbed because there’s so many organs that could be hit and the place we’d expect to get hit would depend on whether the person was breathing in or out at the time, whether their lungs were inflated or deflated. And we generally have no way of knowing. It can be difficult to get clear imaging.” He starts kissing lower, down below your belly button, rubbing his stubble along your skin to tease you as he gets lower and lower. “It’s never a good time. Lots of poor outcomes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s supposed to be his day off and yet Jack finds himself staring at the board and running a hand over his face. “It’s still so fucking weird seeing you here during the day and it not meaning something catastrophic has happened.” 

Jack turns to look at Dana. “I’ve been working days for a month now and it’s my day off.”

“You can go, we’re fine for now,” Robby nods at Jack. “Thanks for the brief assistance brother.”

“No, no,” Dana interjects, “he’s not allowed to leave until we nail down a time to meet his girl.” 

Robby raises his eyebrows and starts to tilt his head and open his mouth to agree with Dana. A dispatch comes through before anyone can say anything else and Dana grabs it, pinning Jack down with her eyes, daring him to leave before discussing meeting you. 

“Saved by the bell,” Jack huffs, taking his stethoscope off and starting to walk away. 

“Shooting at a courthouse,” Dana relays to Robby, “not a mass cas, just a few people, two a little iffy, one they’re already doing CPR on, a few caught in the race to get out. Two dead on the scene.”

It takes a few seconds for Dana’s words to truly register with Jack, but when they do his hearing fades to only a sharp ringing in his ear. This wasn’t happening. He’d been so reticent at the beginning of your relationship, waited so long to give in and define it and hand his heart over to you, terrified he’d lose you because of himself and who he was, his imperfections, his past, his trauma, his PTSD, his baggage, as he thought of it. He feels so stupid now, in the moment, not having worried about how he could lose you from a random act of violence, that in the moments he can’t be there to protect you somebody could come in and rip you from him. Just like that. With the pull of a trigger. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You know, I can confidently say this is the most unique date I’ve ever been on,” you tease Jack. 

“Hey,” he pants, “me teaching you CPR is a great date.” 

“It would be better if you took your shirt off,” you whisper and wink at him before letting your eyes linger on his arm.��

“If I did that you’d be so distracted you’d learn nothing,” he smirks at you, sweat glistening on his skin just a little. Just enough to drive you nearly feral for him. 

 “I think I’ve got the compressions part down, but I may need more help learning the mouth to mouth part.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You fucking love it,” you shoot back at him, leaning into his space and bumping him with your shoulder. 

He can’t help but kiss you. “Yes,” the word is muffled against your lips, “yes I do.” He gives you a firmer kiss this time before he pulls away. “But really. You should know how to do it, just in case. It will help you feel in control in the moment if the need for it ever arises. You’ll know what to do.”

You bite your lip and smile at him. 

“What?” He eyes you with suspicion. 

You shrug. “Nothing, I just love you so much. Sometimes it overwhelms me, how much I love you.”

He can see it in your eyes, how much you love him, can almost feel it physically squeezing him like a tight hug. He’s really not sure what he ever did to deserve you or your love. “I love you too, Doll.”

“I love you more, Peter.” Your face pulls up into that usual self-satisfied and silly grin you get sometimes when you call him that nickname. It’s a recent thing. You’re calling him it more and more though, it’s becoming a natural way of referring to him. From anyone else he would hate it, hearing it between another couple would make him roll his eyes. But from you? He loves it more than you’ll ever truly know. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack spins around.

“Jack you can still go, we’ve got it covered.” Robby looks at Jack for a minute and then meets Dana’s eyes as she looks to him after taking her own look at Jack. 

“What courthouse?” Jack asks. It’s quiet, controlled and clipped and almost missable in the chaos of the ED. He’s not looking at either of them, staring past them at a wall with a chest heaving more and more by the second as his face grows paler. 

He tries to keep it together. Dana will say the name and it won’t be your courthouse and he’ll go straight to your actual courthouse, grab you, take you home and never let you leave. A perfectly reasonable reaction, he thinks.

“Jack-”

“What fucking courthouse?” It’s louder this time, almost enough to pause the chaos of the ED. 

Jack’s voice drips with what sounds like rage to most of those who hear him but is unmistakably fear to Dana and Robby. 

Neither of them have ever seen Jack like this, this scared, struggling this hard to keep it together, truly raising his voice for anything other than to quiet down an unruly patient. His eyes find Dana’s and they’re glassier than she’s ever seen them, the intensity of his gaze making it painfully clear he’s hanging on every word and the wrong ones will shatter him. 

She swallows and opens her mouth and Jack knows what she’s about to say before she even says it. And she does. The name of your courthouse. 

“I’ll triage.” He says it before Dana has even finished, the words hollow and breathless and commanding all at once. He spins and starts off to the bay doors with nothing more. He obviously knows from the report Dana gave that they won’t need triage. He just needed to get out of there and try to create an excuse to stay in the ambulance bay. He knows Robby won’t let him, that Robby and Dana already know you’re at that courthouse, could be a victim. 

Robby and Dana share another look, So you work at a courthouse. This courthouse. “Fuck,” Dana mutters, “I really hope we don’t end up meeting her today.”

Jack’s hand dives in his pocket as he strides to the ambulance bay. He already knows in his heart that there’s not going to be a text from you saying that you’re okay. He hasn’t felt his phone buzz. He never even kept his phone on him until you. 

Even though he knew he wouldn’t have any messages, waking his phone and seeing none hits him like a freight train all the same, right in the chest. It threatens to bring him to his knees, make him sick, but he can’t. He sets it all aside. If you do come out of one of the ambulances he can hear in the distance you’re going to need him at his best. But what if you’re one of the two people dead at the scene? He has to shove that out of his mind too, can’t give into the complete panic that threatens to consume him. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

His fingers fly across his phone automatically, calling you having become so routine. He prefers it so much to texting, hearing your voice, communicating more directly. “Call me,” he starts, “the second you get this message. Or fucking text me,” his voice breaks, “please. Fucking please.” He hangs up and calls again, knowing he’ll get your voicemail again but trying anyway because it’s all he can do. 

He’s helpless, powerless, he can’t do anything to try and save you and that threatens to swallow him whole. 

Your voicemail recording telling people to leave a message plays again and all Jack can wonder is if this is all he’ll have left of your voice in his life. Your voice on your mailbox, maybe some voicemails you’ve left him, videos, voice memos you’ve sent. All distorted by recording, not your real voice. He can’t remember what your real voice sounds like all of the sudden. What your laugh sounds like, how you sound when you’re sleepy or in the throes of pleasure or telling him you love him. God, did he even tell you he loved you the last time he saw you, when he said goodbye? 

“I need you to call me,” he says into the phone again, pauses. “I love you.” He takes a ragged breath in and speaks through his teeth. “I love you so fucking much, so you have to be okay and you have to fucking call me.”

He sends a series of texts asking you to call him or text him or call the hospital or do anything to let him know you’re okay, asking if you are okay, asking where you are as though you’re going to respond. He already knows you’re in the back of one of those ambulances because of fucking course you are, because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life apparently. How could he be so stupid to think differently?  

“Hey, we don’t need triage for this. The numbers are controlled.” Robby walks out to stand next to Jack in the ambulance bay. “If you want to stay you can, but you can’t wait out here to see who shows up, you have to-”

“Yeah, yeah, jump on the first patient that pulls up, I know, I got it,” he interrupts Robby. 

There’s a silence as Robby passes him a gown and ties for him before he does the same for Robby. 

“Jack, if she’s in one you cannot-”

“Like fuck I can’t.” It’s just a statement. Cool and collected and a projection of indifference. It scares Robby more than if Jack had yelled. 

“No, actually brother, you can’t. I’m telling you right now. You’re not working on her. We don’t work on family, on significant others, and you would tell me the exact same thing. It’s too risky, you’ll be too clouded.” Robby watches Jack’s jaw clench and roll as he stares out at the street. 

He wants to argue that of course he’ll be clear, he’ll be focusing on saving you, he’ll have never been so clear in his life. But part of him knows that seeing you like that on his trauma table, your blood all over the table and him and his hands might make him freeze.

“Fine.” Jack whispers. “But if she’s,” Jack has to pause and take a shuddery breath. “If she’s gone or really going and it’s inevitable you have to let me in. You have to let me try to save her. You have to let me code her, Michael.”

He can taste the rising bile in his throat just at having to talk about coding you.

The first ambulance pulls up before Robby can respond and Jack’s on it so fast Robby’s surprised Jack doesn’t get smacked in the face by the door opening. 

It’s not you. It’s someone who is very much not you and is clearly one of the iffy ones. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

Jack forces himself to go emotionally numb as he listens to the paramedic rattle off vitals and history, trying so very hard to focus on this, something he can do, even if it’s not for you. By the time they hit trauma one Jack’s fine and in full swing, running it like he would any other trauma. Nobody on the team in the room with him suspects anything is amiss.  

He hates the way he can’t see the other’s who come in, that he has to stay with this patient until they’re stable and can’t go looking for you. He chastises himself for not having brought you here before or at least having you meet Dana and Robby. They don’t even know what you look like, couldn’t identify you.

“Jack!” He glances at Dana who stands at the door as he preps for the chest tube. “What’s her name?”

He yells your name at her, impassive and stoic as he reaches for the scalpel, ignoring the looks everyone throws each other at the slightest tremor in his voice.

“I’ll look for her.” Dana promises. He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’ll fall apart. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The restaurant you’re at has to be the fanciest place you’ve ever been to. It’s the hottest place in the city and you have no idea how Jack snagged reservations here for dinner to finish out celebrating your one year anniversary. 

The lighting and low hum of other patrons talking to each other and glasses and silverware and plates tinkling is cinematic. You feel like the main character. But then that’s always how Jack makes you feel. 

“I got you something.” He pulls out a wrapped rectangular object. 

You click your tongue and tsk at him. “We said we’d do them at home! I didn’t bring yours!”

“I know. I have something for you at home too.” His eyes sparkle in the flickering candle light, a little smirk pulling up. “I didn’t mean for it to be a double entendre, but both are true.” You snort a laugh at him and take the gift from him. “Open it.” He’s still smiling, eyes still sparkling,  but there’s something there. He’s nervous. It makes you even more curious. 

You carefully unwrap the object until it reveals itself as a hardcover book. That same one Jack had in his hand a year ago and that you told him was bad and gave him a summary of over coffee. 

“Oh, Jack,” you say softly, eyes getting a little watery. It’s so perfect. So sweet and sentimental. The book that brought you together, that gave you each other. It’s almost like a physical representation of the foundation of your relationship in a way. 

“You have to open it,” he instructs you in a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow but do as he says. 

‘Move in with me?’ is written on the blank first page. 

You look between the page and Jack. “Is this?” You look back at the page and then up at him again. “Are you really asking…?”

He nods. “Move in with me. Or move somewhere with me, we can get our own place, it doesn’t have to be my apartment. We basically live together anyway at this point. Let’s just make it official, yeah? Wherever you want, you can decorate however you want. Just as long as it’s our place.”

You bring a hand to your mouth for a second before using your napkin to dab at the inner corners of your eyes to stop the tears from falling and look back at him. 

“You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot,” you hum all dreamily. 

“You better not tell anyone. Can’t have you ruining my street cred.” He smirks, but his expression and the way he fidgets show he’s still anxious. “So?”

You realize then you never actually answered him. Sniffling a little laugh and letting a few tears fall you give him his answer, voice thick and full of emotion. “Yeah, I think I’m willing to accept those terms. I’d love to move in with you… Peter.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hears you counting to yourself before he sees you. “One, two…”

It’s not loud, just said in a normal voice, softer if anything because of how you’re panting, but Jack is so on edge and so desperate to find you he’d subconsciously been listening closely to his surroundings, military training kicking in. His head snaps to you and he doesn’t even know what to think when he sees you being rolled in on top of a gurney, performing CPR that would rival the quality of his own. 

“Why is she..?” He hears Robby question the paramedic as you roll in. 

“She was performing them just as well as we could and it was better to just scoop and run,” the paramedic explains. “She must have had one hell of an instructor.”

“Peter!” You yell, without looking up, not sure if he’s still here. You’re so used to it by now that the nickname is just what comes out of your mouth as you look for him. He���d texted you to let you know he was going in for a bit.  

Jack could sob and the entire team in the room with him can feel a crushing tension shatter. Maybe he does get a little teary just from the sheer relief. He tells himself it’s sweat in his eyes.

“Yeah Doll?” He yells back, not giving a fuck about everyone hearing him call you Doll, and you calling him Peter, knowing full well he’s going to have so much explaining to do about this entire situation, the confusion in the room palpable. 

“I’m okay!” This time he does laugh to himself. 

“Yeah I’d say so,” he mutters, smiling. He’s still anxious to see you, get his own eyes on you, feel you with his own hands. 

It’s only about thirty more seconds before his patient is stable enough and he can rip his gloves and gown off and start putting fresh gloves on as he walks into the trauma room you’d been wheeled into. Normally he’d yell out for someone to talk to him or ask what they’ve got but not this time. This time he doesn’t even care about who’s on the table, only the person who came off it. Only you. 

You’re standing to the side now, watching Robby and the rest of the team work, impassive as pink tears stream down your face from the dried blood on it. You’re just so fucking overwhelmed by everything and now that you’re not doing CPR everything that’s happened is hitting you at once. 

Jack says your name as he moves to you, needs his hands on you. 

“Are you hurt? Were you hit?” He rushes out. His voice brings you back and you look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He goes to look you over but you latch onto him, hugging him tightly, shaking a bit. 

“I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m, I’m sorry,” you start to rattle off, fisting at his scrub top and clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. In the moment he might just be. 

He hugs you back just as hard, kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t care who sees right now, all he cares about is you. “It’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay. I thought… I thought you were…” He doesn’t have to finish, you know what he means. “I can’t fucking lose you. I love you way the fuck too much.”

You’ve been so wrapped up in each other neither of you have noticed that Robby’s patient, the one you were doing CPR on, has started to code again. “Abbot, need you here!”

You let him go, nod at him. “Go on,” you whisper, “I’ll be right here. I’m okay. I love you more.” Jack nods at you and walks over, jumping in and assisting Robby.

It’s once you’re out of Jack’s arms, away from his warm body and more grounded in reality that you notice how cold you are, how you’re swaying because he was supporting you far more than you realized, how lightheaded you are, how your abdomen and chest really fucking hurt. You chalk it up to the adrenaline wearing off and being sore from the chest compressions you just did. 

On the other side of the room an instrument tray gets knocked over, metal hitting the floor in a loud clang. It startles you, makes you jump and twist quickly to see what it was, if it was another gun, another shot. You feel something almost tearing, a sharp pain across your abdomen and lower chest, a feeling of sticky warmth against your shirt.

You sway a little, start to realize how much worse the pain is now. It’s bad enough that you can’t even make noise to express the pain. There’s no air in your lungs, you swear. You realize your lightheadedness is now much, much worse, that you’re shivering from how cold you are. Or are you just shaking? You can’t tell. It doesn’t make sense. The room isn’t even that cold. You shouldn’t be so cold. Not unless.

You pull your shirt up slowly and look down and run your hand over your skin and sure enough, there’s a bullet hole seeping blood, about half way between your nipple line and belly button, skin now covered in a dark bruise. 

You cough a little, it’s quiet. It starts feeling like there’s water in your lungs. Like you can’t get any oxygen in even though you’re in a room full of it. The metallic taste in your mouth is what manages to seep into what’s left of your consciousness next. You cough again, into your hand, and feel something wet hit your skin. Blood. 

It hits you. You’re drowning in your own blood. That’s why it feels like you can’t breathe. You’ve been shot. In a bad place, one of the worst places, Jack had told you that night. You get scared, feel your heart pounding. It feels like you’re dying. You don’t want to die, don’t want to leave Jack. You’d just finished moving into your new place together, were going to spend all weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You were going to make your home.

Time. You were supposed to have more time together.

“Hey, Jack,” you slur softly, struggling to keep yourself standing. Luckily he hears you. Your use of his first name and the slur to your voice has him panicking again already. Time slows as he turns around to take you in, eyes going from your face and the blood coating your teeth and trickling from your mouth as you try and smile reassuringly at him, down to your torso where you’re still holding your shirt up just enough for him and everyone else in the room to see the bullet hole and bruising marring your skin. “I think, I think I’m not good, it’s not good.” Your vision tunnels so fast you can just barely see Jack’s expression of sheer abject unadulterated horror and panic as you get out your last words. “Nipples to navel… no man’s land.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter. Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. Yes, I worked in a bookstore through college.

Part Two is up!

[mrsbarnesblog]

the zipper

masterlist

summary: when you ask Bucky to help with your dress while you two at the gala, it doesn't go the way you planned

words count: 2.1k

warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, mild dominance, light overstimulation,

a/n: I guess there are already tons of fics with congressman Bucky at the Gala (even though I still haven't read any of them), but this has been on my mind for a few days, so I have to give it to y'all.

The gala was in full swing, with way too many important people wandering around, talking, and pretending that they like each other. Bucky didn’t like it. He didn’t like the crowdedness, the tight and fancy suit, and the fact that he still couldn’t fully figure out what Valentina was doing irritated him even more. 

At least he had you by his side, and most of the time you were on his arm, soothingly rubbing his back or placing a kiss on his cheek when you noticed him getting overwhelmed. You were a good distraction—his favorite and only one. 

Though while he was talking to Congressman Gary, Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you went to the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago and still didn’t come back. His mind started wandering off, barely listening to the man in front of him, even if it was extremely important. He just couldn’t focus when he didn’t know where you were and what was happening. 

In that exact same moment, his phone rang with a notification from you. 

Buck, I have a problem with a zipper. Could you come and help me, please?

He physically felt himself relaxing, knowing that you were just struggling with your dress, and he excused himself from the conversation as he went down the fancy hall. Bucky knocked a few times at the door until your head poked out of it with a shy smile, and you gestured to him to walk in. He locked the door before fully taking you in when you stepped further into the room. 

Hair pinned up, with a lip gloss in your hand, you applied it standing in front of the mirror. Bucky’s breath hitched when his eyes fell lower, at your chest, to be exact. Probably that was the reason you called him, because the zipper on your back was only halfway done, making the front part of your dress hang dangerously loose. The fabric barely covered your boobs, as it slid so low that Bucky could see that there was no bra underneath. 

You stood there unbothered, looking at yourself in a mirror, and completely unaware that within a second you caused him to have a hard-on. 

“...and I took it off to remove the label from the inside, but I can’t zip it back.” His ears caught only the last part of your sentence, while you were still innocently focused on your reflection. “I’ve tried so hard to reach it, but I’m afraid that I might break my nail… Buck, you okay?” Your soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he stepped behind you, metal hand on your waist. 

“Yeah, just fine, doll.” He mumbled in a gruff voice. Bucky was higher than you, so standing behind your back, he could perfectly see that your loosely hanging dress left basically nothing for the imagination. He looked down at the smooth skin of your back, framed by the soft color of the silk fabric, letting out a deep sigh as his other hand hesitated in the air. 

His cock was pulsating in his suit pants, desperately craving your attention, the feeling of you. So before he could think of anything better, his hand tugged the zipper down to your ass, and he groaned, looking back in the mirror to see the full front part of your dress falling down and bunching at your hips. 

“Bucky!” You gasped at the feeling of cold air against your bare skin. Your hands instantly shot up to cover yourself, your lip gloss fell on the floor and was probably ruined, but Bucky moved quicker, wrapping one hand around your body. “We’re… at the gala…” 

“Like I care, baby. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” His head fell forward into your neck, stubble scratching your delicate skin, lips ghosting just enough to send shivers down your spine. He pushed his hips forward, grinding his bulge against your ass and groaning at the feeling. You gasped again, instinctively melting in his arms, when his metal thumb brushed around your nipple. “No fucking bra, God damn, do you want to kill me here?”

“You don’t wear a bra in such dresses.” You mumbled weakly, throwing your head backwards and barely able to hold back your moans when Bucky teased each of your breasts. 

“Mhm, you should wear them more often then.” 

His other hand trailed down your stomach, using a high slit on your dress to sneak in between your thighs and press his palm against your core. He palmed you shamelessly, feeling the warmth of your pussy through the lacy material, which already started to get soaked. Bicky knew your body better than he knew himself, so the subtle movements like the tilt of your head to the side, parted lips, and barely noticeable rocking of your hips gave him everything he needed to take you right in this bathroom. 

You knew that you shouldn’t do anything in the middle of the gala, when you still had to go to the main room afterwards and face people, pretending that nothing had happened. But it was Bucky, the one who could make you feel lightheaded with only one touch, who always found an excuse to fuck you anywhere and everywhere, who was currently intoxicating you with his cologne and fingers that he already pushed inside of you.

“Oh, please—” You whimpered as he pumped his fingers into your dripping hole, pressing a thumb against your puffy clit. His other hand was still busy with your boobs, twisting and pinching your nipples, almost sending you to tears. 

“‘M gonna fuck you, baby. Fuck, you’re so hot like this.” He groaned against your ear, withdrawing his fingers with a loud, wet sound and immediately reaching for his pants. You felt him fidgeting with the buckle, then pushing your dress up for easy access. His hand softly pushed in between your shoulder blades until you bent over with your hands on the sink and your ass on display for him. 

Bucky’s metal hand pushed your legs further from each other, then slid your panties down until they were bunched around your ankles. At that point you wanted to cry from desperation, looking at him through the mirror and basically dripping from how horny you were. But then you felt the blunt tip of his cock sliding through your puffy folds, teasingly nudging your clit, as Bucky let out a loud moan. “Just soaking my cock, doll. You need it bad, huh?” He teased, slapping your ass once, just nudging your entrance but not pushing inside. “We got five minutes before someone notices. Think you can be quiet for me?”

“Yes. James, just please…” Your eyes rolled back the moment he slammed into you in one smooth motion, stretching you wide around him just the way you both liked, not even giving you time to think when he started slamming into you with full force. Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on the mirror, obsessed, addicted. Your reflection was pure sin—mouth parted, brows knitted in pleasure, tits bouncing with every savage snap of his hips. You tried to muffle your sounds, biting your lip until it hurt, but your breath kept catching on broken little gasps that made Bucky thrust even harder.

He groaned behind you, gripping the flesh of your ass, probably leaving marks on the skin, and keeping you still so he could use you the way he wanted. The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with the faint music echoing from the gala. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He rasped, voice rough like gravel, forehead slick with sweat as he leaned over you. “You were made for me, doll. Fuckin’ made for me.” Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him twitch deep inside you, and Bucky let out another guttural groan. 

His relentless assault on your G-spot easily pushed you closer to the edge, making you gasp for air in poor attempts to not moan out loud. When an orgasm washed over you, Bucky didn’t stop or follow you the way you expected him to. Oh no, after mumbling a bunch of curses mixed with praise, the palm of his hand pressed on your lower stomach, and his fingers reached your clit, moving in circles. 

“Gonna cum again, doll? Soak my cock, huh?” He growled, breath hot against the shell of your ear, his fingers working your clit with maddening precision while his cock kept pushing into your sopping cunt.

Your answer was a strangled moan, your body trembling as overstimulation surged through you like fire. The first orgasm hadn’t even faded, and he was already pushing you into another, forcing your body to submit, to unravel under his touch again and again.

“Jesus, Bucky—” You whispered, your voice wrecked, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as your thighs started to shake. “Too much, I—” He hushed you softly, his metal arm wrapping around your waist to keep you steady as he pounded into you mercilessly, lips brushing your ear.

“You can take it. You will take it. Give me another one, sweetheart. Be my good girl.”

That tipped you over the edge. Again.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your nails scraping at the counter as another orgasm ripped through you, harsher this time, your vision nearly whiting out from how intense it was. Your whole body went limp, but Bucky held you upright, grunting as your walls clamped down on him like a vise.

“Fuck, baby—fuck.” He hissed, his thrusts losing rhythm as you dragged him over the edge with you. One final snap of his hips and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you with a moan and then pushing his cum into you like he didn’t want to waste a single drop. 

“You’re insane…” You managed to mumble, barely able to straighten up. Bucky shifted behind you, slowly pulling out with a groan and tucking himself back in his pants. He bent down to help you pull your panties back in place, and then, as if nothing had happened, he fixed the back of your dress, lifted up the front, and this time properly zipped it. 

“That’s your fault.” Bucky shrugged casually, giving you a shit-eating grin after spinning you to face him. You slightly wobbled in your heels, and you gripped his shoulders for some stability. He placed his hands on your waist, leaning in for a slow and soft kiss. Being a gentleman, as if he hadn’t just railed against the sink like there was no tomorrow. “Still shaky?” He whispered against your lips, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You gave him a playful glare, but it was half-lidded and dazed. “Gee, I wonder why.” You took one look in the mirror—your hair still mostly intact, makeup a little disheveled but passable, and your eyes? Yeah, they were screaming just fucked, and you wondered how many people could pick up on that instantly. “I guess we have to go back now. Even though I look totally fucked. Both literary and figuratively.” 

“You look perfect, I promise.” Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand slipping into yours as he led you toward the door, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. “I’m more interested in seeing how you’re gonna keep that poker face of yours. You’re gonna have to hold it together, doll. Until we get back home.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, fighting the flush that threatened to creep up your neck, knowing exactly what he meant. “Oh, I can do poker faces.”

“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced, but the playful gleam in his eyes told you he was looking forward to watching you try.

[imaginedisish]

I'm Not In Love (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

A/N: Okay, so this if my first fic in over a year, and it's also my first Wolverine fic...so please be kind. I'm just getting back into the groove. Expect it to possibly be a little rough. This is big time inspired by "I'm Not In Love" by 10cc. This fic is also thanks to a request I got from an anonymous user! Thanks for the idea, anon! Hope it's okay! Enjoy guys.

Summary: After harboring a crush on Logan for months, things finally come to a head while on an overnight mission.

Warnings: SMUT. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. There's like no plot here just smut, Unprotected PIV sex (wrap it up), Oral (f!receiving), AFAB reader, Sizekink!(this was a specific size kink request, and so the reader is therefore described as being smaller than Logan/his shirt being big on her), cursing, praise kink, OOC!Logan (just putting this out there because I haven't seen the X-Men movies/read X-Men comics in forever and I'm probably giving him terms he doesn't use/having him act in ways he might not typically), feelings, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan, one bed muahaha, probably grammar errors, think that's it?

Word Count: 3,162 I got carried away

He was driving you absolutely crazy. Logan. Logan fucking Howlett, with his cocksure attitude and self-satisfied smile. Maybe it’s the way he thinks he’s always right. Maybe it’s that stupid stubbornness, that prowl he does when he walks across a room to meet you. To mock you. His whole being towering over you—his musky, pine-scented cologne filling your lungs. He’s everywhere—and not just metaphorically—literally and physically. His giant frame shadows yours, and you can’t help but admit that there’s something about it…something about him. 

You want him. Bad. And although you won’t admit it, you’ve wanted him for months. And so, as of lately, he’s not so much a nuisance as much as he’s a distraction. 

You just had to be sent on this mission with Logan—this ridiculous two-day stake-out that you could have done on your own. You’re certainly strong enough; your telekinetic powers and regenerative abilities are enough to handle any situation. And yet, here you are, walking up to a motel with Logan fucking Howlett. 

His frame practically consumes yours as he stands behind you on the sidewalk. You swear you can feel the ghost of his fingertips against your waist, impatient and ready to guide you forward. You silently wish he would—wish he would grab your hips and take you down that alleyway and—

“You okay, darlin’?” His voice is gruff against the shell of your ear. “You seem awfully distracted.”

You swallow your embarrassment and hope he won’t pick up on how fast your heart is beating. “I’m fine, just tired,” you mutter, lying straight through your teeth. You can feel his smirk against the side of your head. He has to know what he’s doing. He has to know how much you want him. 

He chuckles and his chest vibrates against your back. “Too tired for the mission, bub? We’re almost at the motel, don’t worry.” The condescension in his voice is palpable. He knows exactly how to get under your skin. You’re putty in his hands. 

He steps out from behind you, and before you can mourn the loss of the contact, he grabs your hand and leads the way through the doors of the motel. “This okay?” He whispers in your ear, his massive hand giving your smaller one a squeeze. All you can manage is a nod as you approach the front desk. You know it’s just to support your cover—you and Logan are posing as a married couple—but you can’t help but hope it means more. You need it to mean more. 

God, you are so fucked. 

You’re so distracted thinking about how close Logan is to you that you almost miss the moment when the worker at the front desk says the only room left has just one bed. 

You crane your head to look up at Logan, who you find is already looking down at you. 

“That’s perfect,” he says, his eyes still on you. His stare doesn’t budge as the man behind the front desk slides the key towards the two of you. Logan grabs the keys and finally breaks the moment. His hand is still holding yours as he navigates the two of you toward your motel room. 

The room is…small. There’s one queen bed in the center, a bathroom on the other side of the room, and an old box television resting on an even older-looking oak dresser. On the bright side, the place appears to be clean. 

“I should freshen up,” you say, taking off your shoes. Your hand slips out of Logan’s as you pad over to the bathroom with your bag. 

The bathroom isn’t horrible either. Dated, but clean. You brush your teeth and wash your face before undressing and searching for your pajamas in your bag—which, naturally, you forgot to pack. 

“Ah fuck,” You mutter louder than you meant to. 

You hear Logan stirring in the other room, his footsteps quickly approaching the door. “You okay?” You can sense the concern in his voice, and you can’t help but smile. 

“Yeah, just forgot to pack something to wear to bed.” There’s more shuffling on the other side of the door. You hear Logan’s bag zip. 

“You want my shirt?” He asks, standing just outside the door now. 

“I’d feel bad, then you—” Your protests are ignored as he opens the door just enough to toss his Calgary Flames t-shirt onto the bathroom sink, closing it tightly once the shirt lands. You smirk as you walk over to the shirt and put it on. The hem lands at the middle of your thighs. Logan really is massive, you think to yourself. 

You take a deep breath, slowly twist the knob of the bathroom door, and head outside. Logan is lounging on the chair next to the dresser, his eyes on you as you place your bag down on the floor at the foot of the bed. 

“Th-thanks for the…” You stutter, trailing off as you nod down to the shirt. 

Logan smirks as he pushes himself out of the chair and makes his way toward you. You think you see him take you in, look you up and down, but that can’t possibly be.

He shakes his head as he stops at your side. You swear you hear him mutter a low fuck under his breath. “You look good.” But he doesn’t stop for long. He pushes forward and into the bathroom. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he mumbles as he shuts the door behind him. 

“Let’s just share the bed,” you shout back, unsure of where the confidence to say that came from. But there’s no response, just the running of water from the sink. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for what feels like forever, but Logan doesn’t take long at all. After a few minutes, you hear the sink shut off and the door creek open. 

You shake your head as you stand from the bed to face him. “By the way, you’re not sleeping on the floor, don’t be ridic—” You’re too stunned to say another word. You’ve seen Logan shirtless before, sure, but not like this. Not in just his boxers. Not in a room with him, alone, for an entire night. You need to relax, to calm down, but there’s nowhere else to go, and nothing else to look at. You know he can your heart beating out of your chest now. 

 He steps toward you, engulfing you with his presence. You stare up at him. “Am I really that scary?” He closes the distance between the two of you. 

You try to play dumb. “W-what are you talking about?”

“Every time I get close to you, that little heart of yours practically explodes.”

You swallow roughly. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about, Logan.” But your shaky voice gives it away. You know exactly what he means. 

His arms snake around your waist, resting on your lower back. “Yeah, you do, darlin’,” he says. “You afraid of me or something?” God he is so fucking cocky, you think to yourself. 

“’M’not afraid of you,” you whisper. “Could never be afraid of you.” 

He smiles and walks you to the edge of the bed, your knees threatening to buckle under the pressure. “What is it then, hm? You like how big I am? That it?” Your eyes frantically search his face for some sort of excuse, some sort of denial. But he can read you like a book. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” He’s towering over you, caging you in. 

“It’s more than that,” you admit. 

He cocks his head to the side. “Oh yeah? What?” He won’t let that be enough—you know he won’t. He’ll tease it out of you. His presence is dizzying and distracting. You’re not even sure you can form another complete sentence. 

“I-it’s just you,” you finally choke out. 

But it’s not enough for him. “What about me?”

Everything, you want to say. You want to tell him how you feel. “Logan, I…” But you can’t. I’m not in love, that’s what you’ve been trying to convince yourself of for months.  

“Go on, say it. What’s got you going?” He tightens his grip around your waist, his thumbs rubbing gently along your back. He leans down, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Use your words, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes flutter shut, and you take a deep breath. He’s everything and he’s everywhere. He’s in your head and in your hands. You can smell the musk and the pine and a hint of mint and that extra thing that is just distinctly him. He’s warm and his breath ever-so-lightly tickles your ear as his forehead rests against yours. 

And then finally, it comes out.

“I want you, Lo.”

You open your eyes and immediately notice the change in his expression. That cocky grin is gone. He isn’t teasing anymore. This is something else. Want. No, stronger than that. Desire. Adoration. Longing. Like those four words undid something in him. Untangled some knot that had been there for far too long. Almost like he thought you maybe wouldn’t want this. That maybe someone wouldn’t want him. 

So, you say it again. “I want you, Logan.” 

He shuts his eyes. “Fuck.” 

And then he’s pushing you down onto the mattress. His lips find their way to yours, crashing like the world is about to end. You can feel his hunger, his desperation. He rests one hand next to your head for balance and slips his free hand underneath the shirt he lent you. He’s exploring the curves of your body, the dips and turns, eventually pulling the shirt up and over your head. 

He comes up for air as his fingers play with the clasp of your bra. You watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “This okay?” He asks, waiting for your approval. You nod and the hooks are immediately undone. You arch your back so he can slip the bra off. “Fuck, pretty girl,” he mumbles. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

His hands find their way to your chest, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, teasing you, pinching lightly. 

“Lo, please. Need you,” is all you can say. 

He trails a line of kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, the center of your chest, his mouth traveling achingly slowly until finally landing on one of your tits. He kisses your nipple before taking it into his mouth, biting lightly and licking the hurt away. 

“Please,” you beg again. 

He comes up for a moment. “Please what?” He asks before moving on to the other side. 

“Need you so bad,” You whimper. But he doesn’t stop. “N-need you to touch me.”

He pauses again. “Think I’m already doing that, darlin’. Gonna have to be more specific.” 

“Fuck me, please.”  

He shakes his head. “Wanna make you feel good first, pretty girl.” 

You sit up a bit, ready to protest. “But you are. You’re making me feel so—” You’re cut off by the sight of him staring up at you as he trails kisses down your stomach, stopping at the top of your panties. He grabs your hips and pushes you further into the center of the bed. His fingers slip under the hem of your panties, waiting for your approval. You nod, and he practically tears them right off you. 

Logan kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly charting a path toward your core, his thumb tracing circles on the other thigh. You’re already squirming under his touch. “Lo,” You whimper. “Please—Fuck!” Without warning, his tongue licks a long stripe up your folds to your clit. His lips lock around it, sucking softly, his fingers suddenly teasing your entrance before slipping a finger inside.

“So tight darlin’. Gonna feel so good,” he mumbles against you, the vibrations of his deep voice sending a jolt up your spine. 

He’s taking his time, tasting you, savoring you. His tongue laps at your cunt, licking slow circles as his finger pumps in and out. You need more.

“Lo,” You call out, your back arching in pleasure. But he doesn’t answer. He keeps going as if he’s gotten lost in you, as if there’s nothing that can possibly be said to bring him back. “Lo, please,” you moan again. 

He chuckles against your core. “Please what, pretty girl?” He mumbles. You can feel his smirk against you.

“M-more,” you beg. You can feel his smirk grow wider as his motions stall. “No don’t stop, please don’t stop.” 

He looks up at you, his finger buried deep inside your cunt, his lips just inches from your clit. “Wanna take my time with you, darlin’.”

“Y-you c-can,” You stutter. “W-whatever you want. Just need more.”

“More?” He repeats, arrogantly tilting his head. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight. 

“Yes, please.” But you know by the look in his eyes that you’re getting more than you bargained for. 

He adds another finger, pumping in and out faster than before. His lips latch onto your clit, sucking roughly. It’s overwhelming, and you know he isn’t going to let up. His tongue draws circles around your core, flicking harshly before ruthlessly sucking again. You can feel a third finger prodding your entrance before slipping in and stretching you out. 

“This what you wanted?” He teases.

“Lo, I—” It’s too much, you can’t speak. 

“I’ve got you darlin’. I’m right here. You’re doing so good for me.” His words by themselves practically send you over the edge. 

“’M’so close Logan,” You whimper, spurring him on. His pace quickens; his circles become harder. You can feel your walls tightening around his fingers. 

“I know, pretty girl. Wanna feel you come on my fingers. Can you do that for me?” 

You can’t even speak anymore. All you can manage is a hum that passes for an affirmative. He pumps in and out of you, still alternating between sucking your clit and circling it with his tongue. 

“Look so beautiful like this darlin’. So fucking beautiful,” He husks. And that’s all it takes to make that liquid heat, that tension building in the bottom of your stomach, cut like a knife, pouring out of you. Your vision blurs as you let yourself go. You chant his name like it’s a prayer, a spell, something otherworldly. He finally slows down, letting you ride out your orgasm. 

He pulls out and away from you, crawling up your body so that he’s on top of you. He’s absolutely huge; his arms rest next to your head, caging you in. “You alright sweetheart?” He asks, one hand coming up to cup your cheek as he presses a chaste kiss against your forehead. 

“Hm,” You hum. “Like you like this.”

There’s that cocky smirk again. “Like what?”

“O-on top of me,” You admit freely now. Your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, but he quickly pins them above your head.

He smiles widely, his forehead coming down to rest on yours. You can feel his erection press against your core through his boxers. And—fuck—he’s big. “Gonna fuck you like this then, okay pretty girl?”

“P-please,” you stutter. 

He sits up, pulling his boxers down, revealing just how big he is. You swallow harshly, sitting up and watching as he casts his boxers to the side. He doesn’t let you watch for long. He pins you down again, one hand keeping your hands above your head and supporting his weight, while the other guides his cock to your entrance. His slides against your folds before slowly sinking inside you. You can’t help but arch your back to meet his chest. 

Everything is slow. He’s taking his time again, letting himself feel every inch of you, giving you the chance to adjust to the size of him. His free hand reaches in between your bodies and finds your clit, drawing slow, gentle circles. 

His forehead rests against yours as he thrusts into you. “Wanted this for so long,” he confesses, his thrusts growing faster. “Always wanted you, darlin’.” You can feel your heart burst in your chest as his lips meet yours. You can feel his hunger, his desire. 

“Wanted you too,” You whisper against his lips between kisses. 

His cock rubs against your walls, hitting that sweet spot every single time. He’s massive, stretching you out with each pump. He builds speed, his thrusts growing rougher as his fingers circle your clit faster. 

He whispers praises in your ear. “You feel so good, pretty girl. So fucking tight. Need you, darlin’. Always.” 

Always. 

It’s all too much. The words, the vulnerability, the feeling of him rutting into you with no end in sight. The promise of something else, something more. 

“Logan, I’m gonna…” You trail off, your walls tightening around him. It’s all so overwhelming. But if you’re being honest, you never want it to end. This. This feeling. Him inside you. Him around you. 

He curses under his breath, his thrusts becoming sloppier and faster as he chases his orgasm. “I know darlin’. Wanna feel you come on my cock.” He keeps his fingers steady on your clit, circling roughly, chasing your orgasm too. 

“Lo,” You mumble. “It’s so good. Y-you’re so good, so b-beautiful.” You’re a bumbling mess, but you want him to feel good too, to know what he’s doing to you, to know that he deserves this. Deserves to be wanted. 

You feel wetness on his cheeks as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. “Always wanted you,” he whispers again against the shell of your ear. “Always gonna want you.” 

The tension snaps, and you feel blaring white heat ripple through your body. Logan somehow buries himself deeper inside you as you come, your walls squeezing him tighter. 

“F-fuck,” he groans. “Where do you want—”

You cut him off this time. “Inside, please,” you pant. “Safe.” He curses under his breath and calls out your name as he fills you up. 

“So perfect,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

His thrusts slow down as he finishes, and he slowly pulls out of you. But he doesn’t pull away. He keeps you close, moving you both towards the headboard. It takes a minute, but he manages to keep you close to his chest as he undoes the covers and gets you both inside them. 

Logan holds you tightly, peppering kisses against your temples every now and then. 

He’s the first to speak. “When I said always…” He trails off. You brace yourself for the worst. It was just the heat of the moment, bub. ‘M’sorry I said it. This shouldn’t happen again. It was a one-time thing and I—

“I meant it.”

You look up at him, eyes wide. He smiles. But it’s not that cocky smile, not that self-satisfied shit-eating grin. It’s that other thing again. Longing. 

“I meant it, too.” 

tags: @cypherpt5fttaehyung

[limerlove]

FIND YOUR WINGS, VALENTINE

❝ VI!ONE SHOT ❞

pairing. roommate!vi x femcoded!reader x exsituationship!caitlyn

caitlyn kiramman, a woman who yearned to have her cake and eat it too. violet, a simple girl who has fallen for someone emotionally unavailable and you — trying to disperse between heartbreak and a new love.

warnings. eighteen+, nsfw content: 17k wc. bartender!reader, melvika cameos, lesbian sex, semi-public sex, mutual finger-off, anal play, shy!vi, caitlyn is a cunt (in this), unfaithful mentality, valentine's day aura?

rayray rambles, chat! we made it. truthfully, this fic got away from in so many ways and i'm proud of myself for reigning it in. this originally was going to be a new years eve fic but it got so impossibly long that i wanted some more time with it. but i hope you enjoy it, this is my latest baby and a lot of love was put into it. happy valentines ♡

— special thank you to my amazing proofreader reader, @meganegatari, plu, i love you dearly.

‪‪and to my love, @sinstear, thank you for always listening to me ramble. happy valentines bubba, ily. even though you've already read 85 percent of this bc i was so excited about it

You could still feel her.

Like it was just last night with her finger buried deep inside, pinning you against your front door with her slender fingers, the soft pad of her fingers stuffed inside your pants, making you see stars. A last ditch effort to keep you around. 

Caitlyn likes to chase but she becomes a bambi in headlights once she’s caught her prey. There was desperation for the last cry, a final effort to keep you around. You’d never seen such a progressive emotion from her. 

Before tonight, every moment; every word said seems transactional. 

The hauntingly blue windows of her soul look anywhere but you. You wonder if it's a tactic. Refusing to make eye contact when she’s most vulnerable. As if one glance at you would cost her the rest of her life, an outcome she can’t afford. 

These days, she’s afraid of her own shadow. Unable to look anyone in the eyes, her spirit crushed like she’s anywhere but here. When you try to pull her back to shore, she recedes even further. 

Nothing is good enough. 

Caitlyn makes it abundantly clear that you aren’t. Insults bite into your skin like a bullet, the blow never to your heart, the place you desperately want it to be. 

But for now, you lick your wounds and you let her have what she wants. Even if she’s fading from your grip, you can still hold her, you can still pretend she loves you the same way, and you can cry after she leaves. You wonder if she sees you for who you really are or if Caitlyn only sees what benefits her. 

It’s a cycle that keeps you here, entangled with a woman who doesn’t have the decency to let you go. If Caitlyn is half the woman you believe her to be, she would have mercifully kicked you out of her apartment. 

Then, there’s Vi.

Nothing with her is serious, not even physical, she just whines and dines you, she holds you like she loves you. Above everything else; Vi makes you forget. Even if it’s with a soft smile, a harmless joke that’s so stupid it makes you giggle — it’s a moment of peace. One you crave more than desolation. 

There’s a softness to her that Caitlyn doesn’t allow. You’re sure that’s why the two didn’t work out. Caitlyn is rough. Kind when she needs something, vengeful when you get in her way but when she seeks retribution for her sins, it’s entirely too late. 

Vi is everything Caitlyn isn’t, what she’s incapable of being — a simmering token of hope you keep close to your chest. 

The more you think about it, the more your stomach twists in knots over your neediness. Entertaining Violet so she can quench your emotional thirst. And keeping Caitlyn around in good faith, a blind faith you place in her, hoping that you’re not wrong. 

You can’t be wrong. 

Somehow she’ll change, right? 

“Why do you have to leave so soon?” Her accent bites into you like an icy river, devoid of emotion as she reveals what she really wants. A silky blue robe untied as her full breasts sit perfectly on her chest. 

Almost as if it’s muscle memory, your thumbs circle over her pink nipples, it buds under your touch and Caitlyn does what she does best. 

She grasps onto the reins of control, refusing to let go. 

With a firm hand, she applies pressure on the back of your neck, beckoning your mouth to find home on her perfect tits and they do. At the moment, you’re her favorite toy and she lets you play.

Plump lips latching on her nipple while your free hand squeezes the other, your tongue flicking over the sensitive nipple as your teeth graze over the sensitive skin, a gasp falling from Caitlyn’s lips. 

“Pretty girl just needs her mouth put to work. Give the other some attention, she’s feeling quite lonely.” 

Doing as you're told, your desperate drool collects on her chest as you bite the swell of her chest, before sucking on her other nipple as if she’s lactating. Then the idea of Caitlyn’s belly swollen makes you whimper, moaning into her skin as she runs a finger up her own slit, your eyes looking up at her as you suck, flick, and bite. 

As if your life depends on it. Maybe it did. 

“Come back to bed, babygirl. I need my perfect little slut. I can fuck you in the shower just the way you like.” 

The ammunition of her poisonous words might as well have penetrate your bloodstream. Displaced trust turns you into another toy for her to use. Trapped perpetually in a cycle you had a hand in enabling. Words full of steam leave a third-degree burn on your skin, not a single drop of blood to be found. 

But even if you want to pull back, you can’t. 

There’s no further arguments as you slip into the lion’s den. With soul-crushing desire, your bare chest presses against the fogged glass, Caitlyn using her favorite dildo as she fucks you into the wall of glass, a dignity you posses withers with each thrust. Perfectly manicured slim fingers pull at your hair as an arch to your back is forced. 

With each thrust she becomes more aggressive, her pace is punishing and it’s meant for you to fall in her hands. But you’re resisting, holding off the orgasm and the high that comes with it. The higher you fall, the harder you crash. You know Kirakiller won’t be there to catch you. 

You’ll burden the fall on your own. 

“Cait, please—” 

The slap of your stretched lips being thoroughly obliterated by her brutal cock can be heard throughout her apartment. She wants to make you come, that’s clear, but she also wants to break you. There’s nothing more a Kiramman loves, hearing you beg for mercy. To have the pathetic and whiny girl who blindly loves her, shattering at her grip. 

“That’s not my name. You fucking know it’s not. Good little sluts say it, don’t they?” 

Before you can even process it, she slaps your ass, three times, sending the orgasm raging through you. All Caitlyn does is fuck your pretty face into the glass as you take every inch of her. Then her pace halts as your heavy breath is heard over the shower. She turns the water off and you’re stuck there, unable to move.

Afraid. 

 Your heart would collapse right with you. 

Caitlyn moves swiftly, like a knight coming in the dead of knight to steal the princess. On all fours, she rummages through the cabinet before locating the precious wand. With a profound smirk, she grips the handle as if it’s an extension of her limb. 

“Looks like you’re getting punished today, babygirl. How do you wanna take it?”  

The lines blur together over the next few hours until you’re stumbling out of the apartment. Caitlyn not directly kicking you out of her home but your stay is only welcome for as long as the fucking window is open. It’s nearly three hours past midnight, tears in your eyes as you tread home with a gaping hole punctured with her sharpest end of her carefully placed blade. 

You wonder if she’s always been like this. Hot and hungry for power, ready to hurt anyone in order to get it. The angry flesh begs to be fed, and she gives in each time. Even when it means she sees the love depleted from your eyes, or when you refuse to make eye contact, or like tonight when she watches you hold in tears to escape out of her apartment. 

Some nights, you did want to be handled with a gentle hand but it’s not something Caitlyn gives. 

Anything more than a generous hand and greedy lips begging to lap at your cunt and Caitlyn comes up short. Living up to her name to the fullest. 

Kirakiller, they called her. 

There’s a dozen reasons for her name. How she slaughters everyone on the pitch,  academically she’ll make you feel inferior to her own privileged, private education prior to university. How she kills your spirit if you aren’t someone she sees as an exceptional academic student for Piltover University. 

All of it seems to be a game for her. With Cassandra Kiramman as the dean, the board members sit heavily in her overflowing pocket, she runs things as she sees fit. Her daughter being taken care of and on top of the world is her number one priority. There’s been a dozen to come after the Kiramman’s and none have been successful. Murmurs of corruption grace the hallowed halls but not a soul dares to challenge the wealth and power of the prestigious bloodline of the Kirammans.  

Caitlyn “Kirakiller” Kiramman associating with someone who was merely on scholarship wasn't in Cassandra’s plans. Even if you didn’t even know it yet, you were too low on the totem pole to be associated with the future of a daunting legacy. An entire life laid out for Cait before she even took her first breath. 

It was dumb to buzz her up to the apartment. Even more idiotic to respond to her texts in the first place but besides all her failed attempts, she still tries to worm her way through your heart to take what she believes is owed. Just like last week, you let her. 

She leaves when you pretend to fall asleep after, the two of you telling yourselves it’ll be the last time, but it won’t be. 

It’s a vicious cycle, one has your insides spinning, your stomach churning and your heart aching. But you’re too weak to end. It’s a tale as old as time. You want something more and Caitlyn can’t be bothered to be committed to the wrong type of girl. 

It’s all about appearances and you’re not good enough. 

Cassandra, the respectable dean and the mother who is the puppeteer of her daughter’s life, behind the scenes pulling the strings in order to maintain image, status. She holds it closer than her own blood; a need for her bloodline to prosper and Dean Kiramman will trample anyone’s heart to complete the task. 

Whether she wants to fight against her mother’s future or not? You didn’t know. 

Truly, you never know what she wants, besides getting herself off or getting you off, Caitlyn was stuck between a world she’s born for and one that’s decided for her. A child acting out but waiting until college to do so. 

Kirakiller. 

That’s what they called her. Ruthless in all of her conquests, never calling back, never fucking the same girl again, it wasn’t something Kirakiller did. She used, abused, and moved onto the next one. 

But for some reason, she’s incredibly stuck on you. 

The new year puts you at a distance when Cait refuses to bring you home for the holidays. Of course, the fight rages as soon as she’s done fucking you. 

“What do you think this is?” 

“You tell me.” 

There’s a look in your eyes, gleaming and sorrowful, the rejection crystal clear. That’s all any of this has been. A severe procrastination tactic to put off what you want, her. 

What makes it worse is Caitlyn knows it but she’s still here, trying, and who the hell knows why. 

Hope. A poor woman’s faith guts you, ripping your insides of love and prosperity. In your line of vision, you just see claws tearing at your skin, all flesh raw and bleeding as she begs for more. 

A wish that you hope for every time you see her. This time she’ll choose differently, she’ll be kind this time. I’ll be enough to love. This will be the moment. 

But when she doesn’t, the accent you love so much burns you at the stake, you’re screaming on deaf ears. Begging for her to hear just one, but she snuffs you out. Like the moonlight you bring, she pretends you don’t call to her like the moon pulls the tide. 

Instead, you’re met with Caitlyn’s greed. 

“Why do I think this is? I expect some basic level of human compassion but you’ve forgotten that too. I’ve always given you the benefit of the doubt. Even when everyone tells me you’re fucking other girls besides me, even when I see with my own eyes how you act when you think I’m not around. You clearly don’t respect me. Every time I’ve tried to have this conversation, you avoid me. Do you think I deserve that?” 

“There is nothing to even discuss. This is nothing.” Her accent is sharp, cutting right through your heart. A woman you love too deeply reaffirming how little she thinks of you. 

Dismissal. 

Absence. 

You are nothing, might as well have fallen from her lips. 

Her heart is ice cold,  her piercing eyes bite like the bitter wind of winter. A slim view of fire rattling within her dark blue eyes, pupils dilate so much they practically turn black. 

You feel your stomach tense, the pit in your stomach has once returned, denying you of what feels so real to you. 

It’s just a game for her. 

Always a game Caitlyn has to win. 

“Fine. Then leave. But don’t come back next time, don’t text me when you’re lonely or horny, don’t call me when everyone else won’t hear you out. Forgot about me and let’s be done with it, yeah? Go back to those girls you love to fuck so much. The ones that are bright, shiny, untouched by your venomous heart.” 

“I will. They sure will be a hell of a lot better lay than you, maybe they’ll let me fuck their ass.” 

You scoff but your expression is stone cold as you watch her struggle to pull her clothes on. There’s no sudden movements made. Certainly no apologies. 

Once Caitlyn fully dresses, she waits there as if you’ll change your mind. A wish she’s so desperately hanging onto as your eyes remain cold. A shiver is sent up her spine — you’d never been more ruthless — and for the first time her chest feels tight at the loss of you. 

“It’s what you want. A pretty rich thing your mother will accept and the control in the bedroom you need since the real Kiramman controls every aspect of your life, even your love life. Good luck, you’ll need it.” 

“You’ll come begging back, you always do.” 

You want to choke Caitlyn with the smirk she’s currently wearing. 

“We’ll see about that, Kirakiller. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.” 

In an instant her face drops, her acute lips turning into a frown, cursing under her breath before she finally slams the door. It’s only then do you allow yourself to scream into your pillow, agony coursing through you, desperation, and most of all — a rage that wouldn’t be quenched. 

—

The fairy lights, softly winking at you each time the sequence goes off. Violet craved to put them up around Christmas but never bothered to take them down. Perfectly, they fit with your shared home. The small apartment stuck between the suburbs and the city, close enough to campus where it was only a short drive, the two of you carpooling or Vi moving her schedule around to drop you off. 

It happened to work out for the two of you. You didn’t think you’d get to be so lucky. Finding a decent roommate is a tall order, but now the two of you are inseparable and you couldn’t imagine your life any different. 

If not for her, you didn’t think you'd survive spending the holidays alone. 

Caitlyn made sure to isolate you but Violet holds you close.  

The memory of new years solidifies the budding infatuation growing within you; as much as it excites you, it sends a freezing shiver down your spine. Like a bitter winter to an evergreen bush, who knows if it’ll last the season without one moment to be basked in the sun. 

— 

New Years Eve, 2024. 

Sevika nursing an old fashioned. Trying to avoid the smell of cheap corona and budweiser intruding her relaxed nostrils as Mel sips on a glass of wine. Her smaller frame leans into Sevika’s arm looped through hers as their hips nearly become conjoined. They watch as Violet watches you. You’re standing there alone, fending off a few women who try to make a move on you. 

Whispers of your former fling, Caitlyn Kiramman make their way across campus, the colossal cunt raging her anger during practice. Just as you’ve been reminded by her teammates who blame you for her toddler tantrum. Violet’s heart sinks to her chest as she watches Caitlyn make a straight shot for you. 

The second she entered the room, Violet could feel the dread filling her body. Half because seeing her reminds her of all the horrors, everything she let Caitlyn do to her. Now, Caitlyn’s moved on to her next victim and she wonders if you’ll ever truly escape from her. 

“Do you think we should–” Vi speaks softly, a murmur she didn’t intend for anyone else to hear. “...interrupt?” 

“Calm down, casanova.” Sev interjects letting the whiskey soothe her throat. 

“Easy for you to say, coupled up love birds.” Vi rolls her eyes as she watches the scene unfold before her. 

The light in her eyes cracks, like a sparkler losing its flame. Each time Caitlyn attempts to worm back in your life, you’ve always let her. Even when she’s the last person who deserves even a moment of your time. It takes anything in her not to wince when you let Caitlyn touch your arm but after a moment you push her off. 

Well, that’s new. 

“You should go over there.” Mel chimes in, “Caitlyn would surely run for the hills then. She’s all bark but no bite.” 

“Go be her knight in shining armor.” Sev says it like it’s a bad thing, her sarcasm biting into the air. 

All Vi continues to scratch away at the label unraveling from the condensation, just as her heart rips each time Caitlyn gets closer to you. It’s a strange feeling. Her ex-girlfriend and the person she loves. Nearly spiteful her heart becomes, almost wanting to fling herself off a bridge. It’s more than Vi wishes to deal with and she tells herself she won’t. 

You’re not worth the trouble, she’s just making her feelings bigger than they actually are, right? 

Whatever Caitlyn says pisses you off enough to throw your drink in her face, coating her from hot to toe in the vodka cranberry Vi had made for you earlier in the night. 

“You’ll eat those actions, babygirl. Next time, it’ll be you who is soaked and we both know it.” 

Caitlyn screams for all to hear as she checks you with her shoulder before heading upstairs. 

It’s five minutes before midnight and Violet watches as you crumble, running outside, needing to catch some air. You need something to make you feel less suffocated. Even with a drink thrown in her face, Caitlyn still finds a way to get an upper hand. 

“Vi, would you be a dear and check on her? Sev and I will be there in a sec.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Violet sees you in the corner of her eye, trying not to break down, but she notices the tears threatening to spill. 

“Don’t look so glum princess or you’re going to make me cry and nobody wants to see that.”  The lightness of her tone makes you chuckle. Vi’s trying to make you laugh and she succeeds. 

Everyone pours outside as the clock strikes closer to midnight, Mel and Sevika come out but they keep their distance. Vi kneels at your feet, gently wiping the tears away you finally let fall. The small hiccups leaving your chest as you feel inadequate, wondering if anyone would miss you if you just melted away — not a single trace of you to be found. 

“She makes me feel so small, even when I leave, she wants more of me. I have nothing left to give.” You sob, hands shaking as you make fists trying to stabilize yourself. “No one understands how…how fucking awful and addicting she is.” 

“I do.” 

“Of course you, Violet. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. She’s just…” 

“Frustrating?” You nod, trying to laugh off the heartbreak but the familiar glee doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“And now I’m alone, on new years.” You say, cursing at the premature fireworks illuminating the sky. “While she goes to shag whoever wants to clean the vodka cranberry with their tongue.” 

I want to taste the cranberry on yours. 

Violet doesn’t speak those words. It’s just a dream — one that only drips in her mind until her thoughts pull at her like a pomegranate as it sheds from the skin. 

“She’s an idiot for letting you go. Anyone here knows that.” 

“Really? Funny ‘cause I’m here single. Caitlyn just wants me to crawl back to her with me on all fours just so she can say, i told you so, in that insufferable English accent. God, I wanna rip it from her throat.” 

“Then don’t give her the satisfaction.” 

“Easier said than done.” You say as everyone counts down from ten, “At least we still have each other.” 

Vi smiles, her powder-blue eyes sweet on you. There’s nothing more she wants than to kiss you. But Vi will screw the both of you if she moves too quickly. 

3…2…1! 

The buzz of the party reaches an all-time high and you’ve never felt so close to hell. Watching as everyone kisses the person they love, the gleeful-holiday making them smile as they wrap in the warmth of their partner. Vi sees how sad you are, how close you are to breaking, so she does something stupid. An action that will only get her heart in all kinds of trouble. 

Nearly almost planting her lips on yours, but saves herself with a peck to the apple of your cheeks. 

She blushes and you smile. 

She considers it to be a win when she gets a positive reaction from you. That’s all she really wants, to hear you laugh and you do. 

Again. 

The both of you speak nothing of it, the heartache too heavy and the love in Violet’s eyes too bright. You rest your head against her shoulder as the both of you watch the fireworks shining the midnight sky — it feels awfully like a fresh start. 

God knows you could use one. 

— 

The last thing you want is to miss her but you do. 

Longing instilled the moment she infected your blood; making each beat of your heart consistently flow for her. You couldn’t admit it, not her or yourself. It’s what she counts on. For you to slip, to venture back into the lion’s just so she can gut you from root to stem. 

With your finger hovering over her number for the past few weeks, each time, nearly a moment from giving back into her needs. Not once had she called, texted, or even looked at your way. Not even when she sat across from you in the library last Monday. Before her tongue found home in the girl who threw herself in Caitlyn’s lap. Promptly deciding that was enough studying for the day. 

The nights are the worst, you stay secluded in your room, tired of thinking about her and everything that’s transpired. How much you miss her, how much you love her — wondering if you ever should have — and how much you clung to this version of her that maybe just never existed. 

It isn’t until Vi tries to get you out of the house that you realize how heartbroken you actually feel. How unbearable it would be to do anything but the bare minimum that’s expected for you to survive. 

“C’mon, it won’t be bad.” Vi throws herself in bed with you, “You’re with me you’ll have a fantastic time.” 

Vi cheekily smiles, “Plus, I can’t go without you. Those are the rules.” 

“Oh really?” She nods, the sincerity reaching her eyes so blindingly, it makes the swell in your chest ache. 

“Basically the law, so if you don’t want me to handcuff you, you’ll listen.” 

Raising an eyebrow at the question, you watch her as your roommate goes into the closet and comes out with three dresses back in hand. 

“You always look, um u-uh, really pretty in these.” 

Violet’s always been like this. Unsure, a little bit flirty, and with a heart so gentle you would be too afraid to hold it in the palm of your hand. All it took was one introduction from Sevika and the two of you instantly clicked. 

You cooked at the housewarming party for Mel and Sevika, in the middle of having a breakdown when you didn’t have crucial ingredients you thought you did have. It’s when Violet came to your rescue. Already in the kitchen watching you nearly have a panic attack over not being better prepared, she instantly grabbed the keys to her truck, off to assist. 

With your former roommate flaking out after the second semester in your apartment off campus, and Violet coming off a messy breakup, the two of you helped each other out. 

“Which one is your favorite?” It’s an innocent question. 

It really is. 

Then you remember the last time you wore it, Violet unable to keep her eyes off you when she thought you weren’t looking or how she would meet your eyes when you caught her staring. Dramatically clearing her throat as she scratches the nape of her neck, bashfully blushing. 

“The black one. You always look beautiful, any of them really. That one is just my favorite.” 

Feeling the fabric of the silk dress, the neckline is plunging and the back is open until it reaches your lower back and you don't dare bend down to pick up anything in this little number. 

“Someone’s being sweet tonight.” You smile softly, kissing her cheek before you disappear into the bathroom. It’s long before you come out, but when you’re ready Vi nearly has to do a double take. 

Visibly, she gulps. 

Fuck, she forgot how amazing you look in that dress. 

“Where’s it at this time?” 

“You remember Natalie?” 

“Oh?” 

“It’s not—” 

“I didn’t say it was.” But you’re smirking and Vi has no other option but to groan into her hands. 

“You were thinking about it.” Harmlessly, you shrug. 

“Regardless, it’s some new girl who’s gonna be on the team this season. It’s kind of a get together before the season starts.” 

“You’re taking me to the kick-off banquet?” Vi winces as your voice shrieks, slightly piercing her eardrum in the process. 

“Uh,” Vi runs a hand through her vibrant, messy head of hair. “Uh, yeah. It’s really not a big deal.” 

“So, why not Natalie?” 

“Does it matter?” Vi counters. She becomes uncomfortable about how she would have to answer the question. There wasn’t a way for her to answer without fully exposing herself so she pulls at her cuticles until she’s slightly bleeding before she stuffs them inside her pockets. 

She doesn't want to have the conversation, and honestly, neither do you. 

“The she-devil won’t be there. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? One night for yourself, there’s a little dancing, we can have a couple of drinks—” 

“Y-You’ll dance with me…in front of everyone?” You sound more unsure of yourself than you ever have. The words are foreign on your tongue as if you’re speaking another language. 

“Is that a statement or a question?” Vi chuckles before she stands up from your bed, “Give me ten minutes and we’ll head out. We can stop and get some burgers. The food they cater is ass anyways. All that money from the snobby rich parents and Piltover University can’t even splurge on anything decent.” 

It doesn’t take long before she’s emerging into the living room, her white button up has the top three buttons undone, the tattoos creeping on the outside of her neck visible as does her name she has on her cheek. The one you chastise her for consistently. 

“You ready?” Violet stuffs her essentials in her deep pockets before taking you in. 

“Yeah, I think so, I was just waiting for you.” 

She seriously has to assume your exes are severely ill for ever letting you out of their sight. Violet despises how rapid the beat of her heart is, how shaky her hands become when she offers a hand to help you off the couch. Only two nights ago, it was the two of you cuddled up, Vi shrieking in fear from your favorite horror film. 

The terror in her powder-blue eyes made you laugh. Violet sees it as a big enough consolation for her downright distress. 

You’re too gorgeous for your own good. 

She may be pushing her luck tonight. Even pulling you out of bed makes her feel slightly accomplished. Between work and class, your mattress has been your chosen place to nurse your heartache. A few of your friends had been in and out, trying to get you to grab a fresh breath of air, or find the bottom of a bottle of tequila but all had failed. 

“You look….” You bite your lip, watching as your eyes drag over her frame, overwhelmed by just how well she cleans up. 

“That bad, huh?” Violet smirks as she makes her way over to you, and with your heels, she can’t help but admire your height. She supposes she does have a type. Who can blame her? 

“Something like that.” Your face is burning, the world doesn’t seem so bleak when she locks the door with one hand, her left warm-calloused hand holding yours in a firm grip. 

“How do I look?” You do a twirl, there’s a smile you try to contain when her eyes drag over you, taking all the time in the world as open the door to her truck, guiding you inside. 

“You look beautiful but that’s no surprise, princess.” 

The drive is quiet. Violet itches to place the palm of her hand on your thigh but she resists. With a quiet mind, she listens as you ramble about a new album you listened to earlier and she hands you her phone so you can play it. Immediately, you’re bewildered at the trust. 

Caitlyn wouldn’t even let you use her phone when yours died. Ordering the uber herself as she left you on the curb as she took her sports car and faded into the intersecting street. 

It’s only a twenty minute drive to the diner and the red neon sign greets you, the outside wall painted in a pastel-yellow, it’s gaudy and nearly unpleasant to the eye but there’s the charm about it. Zaun outlasted the gentrification of the corporate pollution, still one of the only places to remain standing and family owned. 

You’re led to a booth where you both take a seat, glancing over the menu as you decide what you want, trying to make a decision in your mind is something that drowns you like a misty fog at the crack of dawn. 

Finally you settle on a burger and so Violet. The conversation is easy with her. Everything seems to flow with a simpleness you find yourself reaching for. Like the last copy of your favorite book at the library, you crave to wrap your fingers around the crispy edges, sinking your smell into the spine of a new novel. Where the beginning feels like a first kiss — blissful notions of someone new — when the thought of love doesn’t seem so jarring. 

Before you’re terrified of getting your heart shattered into a million pieces. Before love morphs into something violent, you turn to Violet and you wonder if she’s ever been scared to love. Does it come easy for her? Would she let herself go for the right person? You feel too broken to ever let yourself fall that freely again. 

But she has blue eyes, a scar on her upper lip making her more charming, and tattoos adorning her back that only attribute to the surface level of her allure.  

Shortly after you sink into your thoughts, ones you don’t believe you should even have, you're ravaging your burger when Violet notices the attention you're getting. It’s obvious. To everyone. But you just talk to her about anything but the elephant in the room, you’re so chatty tonight she might even think you’re nervous. 

But it’s Vi. There’s nothing to ever be nervous about. 

Nothing at all. 

“God, this was such a good call. Who knew I needed to bury my sorrows in a pound of grease.” 

“Carbs. They are a beautiful thing.” Vi winks, you chunk a fry at her but she catches it in her mouth. 

You finish your food in silence, Vi smiling as she takes another sip from the cane-sugar coca cola. The sweetness of the syrup  coats the back of her throat as she watches you watch her. She wants to say something but the timing is wrong. She wonders if you see a future or a rebound, maybe even just a friend, only time can tell and Vi fears she would wait a lifetime waiting for you to figure it out. 

It’s how she loves. Free, without restrictions, even if she still mourns the love she once had burned to flames — you make her forget it all. Renewed in holy water, she basks in a touch that hasn’t scorned her, freely washing her of past sins.  

“What happened to Natalie? I thought things were good.” 

“For a time, yeah.” Violet says something without saying much. 

“Vi, are you being coy?” 

The blush coats her cheeks as she tries to shy away from the conversation. She feels the heat from your attention, the way her heart beats a million times per second as you have her cornered. Different in a way she would typically imagine when you came to mind. Even if she does try to stop herself, Vi can’t help but wonder about you and if you would feel the same way she does. 

If you do and just aren’t allowing yourself to let go of the wall you have up in the horrendous shape of Caitlyn Kiramman.  

The way you pry, your bold eyes slightly squinting at her as if you’re already figuring out the self-righteousness of the sinner. Secrets she hides under lock and key but even on a good day, the confession bubbles on her tongue as she catches herself choking on her own spit. You’re always so careful of the questions you leave hanging in the air. 

In a moment of frustration, Violet thinks of how Caitlyn’s manipulative patterns may have sinked into your brain. She knows that much — the blue-haired witch has done the same to her. Making you question everyone’s motives, wondering if anyone could ever be truthful. 

But others can. 

Caitlyn can’t. 

Vi distracts herself, avoids the question even if it is just a second to recollect her thoughts, a minute to buy time and divert from this conversation. It’s a truth she doesn't want unraveled. 

“What’s the saying? Don’t kiss and tell.” She grumbles as she stuffs her face with another bite of the beefy patty. “But we just didn’t work out s’all. Plus, I’m not looking for anything serious I guess. She was.” 

Another lie but Vi keeps her lips tight. She doesn’t need you to know why her latest attempt at a relationship blew up in her face, catastrophically. 

“Maybe you and Kirakiller should date again.” You tease. 

“Take that back. She’s the devil’s spawn and I’m still sorry you learned the difficult way. Just like me.” 

“Well, she definitely lives up to the name.” 

“I wish she would have changed her ways. You didn’t deserve to get hurt at all and especially by her.” Violet reaches across the table, soothing the back of your hand, rubbing circles into your skin. The action is sweet, lighting your skin ablaze with goosebumps as you watch her show affection, especially where other people can see. 

At the moment, you want to be claimed by her. Marked as Violet’s girl and you would be proud to be. You close the thought from your mind as soon as it opens. This isn’t a date. Just because Violet flirts doesn’t mean she’s interested. The two of you are roommates. 

Pull yourself together. 

Jesus Christ. 

She knows how much everyone can’t stop looking at you. The diner, outside the gas station even when Vi told you to stay in the car, and then the banquet. But you latched onto her, practically glued to her side as new sponsors came to speak with the new head captain. Vi’s nursing a beer when the music hits and she grins. 

“Are you ready for this?” 

What is she talking about? 

Vi latches her hand with yours as she pulls you to the open floor, only a few couples begin to lightly sway to the classical being played. It’s different from what she was used to but she was nothing if not resourceful. 

“I don’t bluff, princess, and I certainly don’t lie.” Vi tugs you close as you make no arguments, she leads as you find shining faith in her eyes. 

It’s a new feeling, unfamiliar as it courses through your body. Vi isn't ashamed of you, as a friend, as a roommate; she’s full of warmth when she glances at you. Sending a sense of belonging through your skin, a home you want to throw yourself in before the foundation has even been laid. 

Violet’s too good at this. You secretly love it but you pretend like you hate it. As if getting attention from someone as kind and hot as her is a bad thing. It’s nearly too much, almost making you sick with how much you’re enjoying being held by someone who actually wants to hold you. 

She’s not playing chess and using you as a pawn. 

It’s a recurring thought you have to remind yourself of, she’s not Caitlyn. 

Violet doesn’t make promises she doesn’t keep, she doesn’t say careless compliments to only have sex with you. With a firm palm on your back, calluses kissing your spine, she’s looking at you — so much so it feels as if she’s looking right through you. 

 “You don’t have to—” She twirls you around before you can protest, guiding you back into her gentle care. 

Vi shrugs, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me princess but I’d never go back on my word.” 

The other couples start to move on the dance floor as each song blends into the next. 

“That’s refreshing.” 

Violet hand placed on your exposed back feels so warm it nearly burns her skin. Leaning in, leaning her head against yours. You smell of vanilla and something else entirely too sweet, maybe jasmine or fresh lilies. The delicate breath kissing your neck feels tempting. You would never consider yourself to be a siren, but with each promise laced up in your tongue, you wish to serenade her into a future with you. 

“So are you, sweetheart.” Violet pulls away just enough to look at you, her temple presses against yours. 

You can hear the shake in her breath, her grip around her back tightening like she’s trying to restrain herself. But she doesn’t restrain, she leans in, the tip of her pierced nose kissing yours. If either of you moved an inch forward, your lips could taste hers. 

Is her chapstick cherry, strawberry, or maybe even blueberry? They look irresistible as the glisten, you need to crave the ache deriving from your bones. Violet has itched herself into every part of your life and she’s the only one to make you feel a sliver of joy again. 

“We should…” The dazed woman doesn’t even know what she’s pleading for. This is all she’s been wanting but somehow her heart is pulling away, terrified to be crushed under the unforgiving weight of rejection. 

“Yeah.” You say. Somehow understanding what she wishes for, silently you’re able to see her exposed skin, raw to the notion of a love dying to bloom in the beginning of spring. 

Violet kisses your cheek again and somehow you feel the warmth of the fresh season. In the February rain, there is still sunshine spilling over the clouds — washing you in hope again. 

— 

The rest of your life fell back in place as if she never existed, except the ache in your heart that wouldn’t stop. You did your best to ignore it. Word got around Caitlyn went back to fiercely fucking. Apparently instead of sleeping just once a week while she was with you, she went back to her ever-growing appetite, nearly every night. It isn’t too difficult for her; not when there’s a line of women waiting to be at her beck and call. 

You threw yourself into your studies, picking more shifts at the bar and hoping she doesn’t pull any of her usual stunts, showing up drunk and begging to fuck. 

One more time, baby. This could be good for the both of us. 

Caitlyn uprooted the past semester of uni and she didn’t even have the decency to apologize. All your friends with a knowing look of — I told you so — without actually dispersing the words from their tongue. It feels too much like a blurry dream but Sevika is good at making you smile. Even if you wanna throw yourself against a wall until the memory of Kirakiller fades for good. 

The night had been busier than expected but nothing you and Sevika couldn’t handle. Even if there’s an ache in your knees, the muscles in your shoulders strained, it feels nice to just work. Everything flees your mind, all the insecurities bubbling inside you escaping to get out. The emotions you’re attempting to keep at bay and failing. 

“You good, kid?” 

“Yeah, life’s just a shit fire. Nothing new.” 

Continuing to wipe the bar down for new customers, you clean off some glasses in front of you, as you dry your hands on a clean towel before tending to the other side of the bar. 

The rest of the night comes to you in a blur. You’re flirty enough with the men to ensure a nice tip but when one tries to get too handsy, you tell them to fuck off or Sevika will throw them out. They eye up her frame as she makes her way over, height hitting at over six feet, her muscles visible through the fitted black tank she chose tonight. If you didn’t know any better, she would terrify you. 

“Got a problem here?” 

“I’m not sure, what about you boys? Do you think there’s an issue?” 

With a quick shake to their heads, they take a nervous sip of their beer and the rest of the night goes along swimmingly. It’s last call when you spot the familiar pink-haired roommate, nursing her second bottle of beer it seems. 

“How long has she been here?” 

“Came during the rush for you, but didn’t wanna bother you. She’s been waiting for a few hours.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your tone goes high and squirrelly, murderous eyes finding her glimmering, silver eyes. 

“Well, it's only Vi, right?” Sevika smirks. 

That itself was a loaded question. If you’d been asked six months ago, it would have been a flat friend but now Vi had somehow turned into a friend. The almost-kiss you’ve been having dreams about. How she would kiss you — would it be tender — or would she be depraved about it in a way that would have you bruising your knees at the speed of lighting. 

“Stop that. Vi is as harmless as a puppy.” 

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” 

“Wasn’t Kirakiller here last month waiting for you and you didn’t bat an eye? Plus, the only thing she seems to be jealous of is Vi. The diva had a meltdown when she saw Vi picking you up after the end of your shift last week, or that’s just what I heard.” 

“Mel needs to stop telling you so much.” 

“Pillow talk. It’s a beautiful thing. Isn’t it?” 

Rolling your eyes, you throw your apron at her, collecting your tips for the night. Vi still looks innocent as ever, Gert making friendly conversation with her as you just watch her. Her thick, wool beanie matches her hair and you can’t help but think of how cute she looks. Her fingerless gloves you always chastise her about, doing very little to keep her warm. 

You knew she had a date tonight. Hell, it makes you nervous why she’s even here. Racking your brain with some excuse to get you out of this. What’s so important she couldn’t wait until you got home? She waits up for you every night. Doesn’t let herself fall asleep until she hears the familiar jingle of your keys outside the door. Pretending to read the book in her hands like she’s casually perched on the couch at three in the morning for any other reason. 

“Well, she’s one of the good ones and I’m not.” 

You’re frustrated as you split the tips, handing Sevika her half. Things with Vi had been more than complicated. You weren’t sure if you were over Caitlyn but you also knew things with Vi were getting closer to an edge you couldn’t come back from.

The flashbacks of the banquet you attended as her plus one just a few weeks ago haunt you. Her lips so close to yours, the hitch in her breath and whimper you let out that stopped it all. 

You would be an idiot to ruin the best friend you’ve ever had. A deep secret buried in your mind tells you how much of a bigger idiot you would be if you let her slip right through your fingers. 

“Doesn’t matter if you are or not. She sees something in you. Count yourself lucky. Oh, and before you head off Mel wants to invite you over for Valentine’s. Some big party she’s throwing. You know how she is. Be there or she’ll come and find you if you resist.” 

The wink Sevika sends you is insufferable. Similar to her attitude this entire night. 

“Yeah yeah, tell Mel I’ll be there.” 

“Now that’s the loving spirit, lovergirl.” 

You make your way over and Gert’s hand is touching Vi’s forearm, a look in your eyes that sends an annoying pit to your stomach. Gert’s eyes flutter and her smirk is evident but Vi only gulps when you make your way over. 

Gert may just take your attitude for tiredness but Vi knows better. Your two seconds from blowing up the way your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding as you fight to act like a complete and utter cunt. Vi’s a very pretty girl. Women flirt with her all the time. It’s not anything you didn’t know but to see it up and close was new for you. 

As was the jealousy practically sprouting out of you. 

“Well call me, yeah?” Gert’s eyes sparkle, dodging you entirely as she walks away and into the back. 

Violet gulps as it’s just the two of you. 

“Why are you here?” You snip, arms crossed over your chest, unknowingly making your cleavage even more apparent. “Sev says you’ve been here for hours.” 

“I came to see you but you looked busy.” 

“Mhm, yeah. Busy. You look awfully busy.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

But you ignore her. 

You rolled your eyes, the irritation raging within you. Fucking Gert. You drunkenly told her about your confusing feelings for Vi and she took that as Vi's single. It’s slim pickings out there but fuck, did Vi have to entertain it right in front you? 

But you didn’t like to think about how she did. You weren’t dating, you weren’t fucking, you essentially were just roommates who cuddled sometimes, or went on these almost dates with and almost kissed. 

Vi hasn't been dating since Natalie but she’s free to do as she pleases. It’s a colossal hit to your pride but you can’t be mad. You are, but you can’t be. 

You really cannot be doing this. 

Vi is just a friend. Only a friend. That’s it.  

“I’m going but Gert will be off soon. Goodnight, Vi.” 

It’s short and not so sweet. Swiftly turning around as you are practically running out the door. The chill of February hits you first and then you hear Vi and her voice calling after you but you just keep walking. Hoping she’ll give up and go back. You’re a lost cause, anyone with eyes can see it. 

“Would you stop running away?” You turn around and Vi is so close that she runs into you, her arms wrapping around your waist to stop you from falling. “Jesus, are you insane? It’s fucking freezing out here. I don’t care if you’re mad right now, I’m driving us home.” 

“Violet, let me—” 

“No. You’re not getting sick. It’s past midnight. It’s not safe. We are not arguing about this.” You pout as she holds your hand and practically drags you back to her black truck. Opening the door for you as you get in, shutting the door once you’re situated before she gets in on the other side. 

Igniting the engine, it revs on and while the car warms up Vi sighs, rather loudly. She’s always good about waiting until she calms down to speak. Letting the anger roll off her, the frustration you’re sure was caused by you. She slides the beanie off her head as the car reaches a normal temperature and runs her fingers through beautiful pink strands being kissed by the light of the moon. 

The natural fluff to the strands is restored, no longer inflated by the beanie you had embroidered her full name on. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. She must feel it because Vi catches your gaze and instantly her eyes go soft. It’s too much so you turn your eyes away; focusing on the snow falling on the windshield. 

“What’s going on? I’ve been patient for weeks but something changed and you’re not telling me.” 

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.” 

“The truth would be a good place to start.” 

Vi sighs, again, when you’re silent. No smartass rebuttal, no snide remark, not even an exasperated curse underneath your breath. Complete and utter silence.

But you feel trapped.

You’re terrified. Vi is too warm, loving, and painfully-pure. She might not know it, but she’s the girl you come back for. The one who you bring home to meet the family, the one who will bring you breakfast in bed when you feel under the weather and the one who will make sure you feel loved every single day. 

When other people figure that out, if Gert does, it’s over for you. Because maybe it was foolish, pathetic, and possibly tragic but you were just trying to sort yourself out long enough to see if you want those things with her. Now, it’s only a matter of time before she dotes on someone else who can give her everything she deserves. 

You should let her have this, it’s far better than her pleading eyes begging for something you’re not sure you can give. Caitlyn broke pieces you're not sure are repairable, parts of yourself that can’t be put back together. You didn’t even realize you had been crying until Vi’s wiping away your tears. 

The pad of her thumb is careful as she wipes all the tears away. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, princess. It’s just you and me.” 

“I-I can’t. It’s too…I just can’t.” You confess, sniffling as you try and calm yourself down. 

Vi guides you into the crook of neck as she does her best to hold you over the middle console of her truck. “It’s okay, princess. Shh, I’m right here.” It’s then that your sobs wrack your body and Vi decides she needs you as close as possible. Using her strength, she brings you into her lap, wrapping her tight arms around you as you sob into her neck. Salty tears stain Vi’s neck but she really doesn’t care. 

All she cares about is you. 

“It’s about Kiramman, isn't it?” 

Vi can’t hide her disdain for the woman. That much is clear as day. Whatever happened with the two of them burned deep. 

“Maybe murder isn’t such a bad thing.” 

“Vi.” You chuckle half heartedly. 

“There’s that smile..” You lift your head from the safety of her warmth, pressing your forehead against hers. Your breath is heavy on her lips, staring at the beautiful scar, the plumpness to her lips practically staring right at you. Close enough to see the constellations of freckles littered across her full cheeks. 

Your timing is awful but your heart gives into Violet’s gaze, lips falling closer together to hers. 

“Don’t make it like this.” Vi whispers, her powder-blue eyes gleaming at you. 

“What?” 

“Don’t kiss me for the first time because you’re sad about her. I can’t be her runner up. I’ve been playing that for too long.” 

“I won’t kiss you, not if you don’t want me to.” 

The tears are still fresh, but this need churning within you isn’t. Since the moment you met Vi, you’ve been fighting it. Fighting this. 

“Fuck, I do but,” Vi stalls when you unzip her leather jacket, revealing her wrapped chest, abs on display. “Shit, princess.” 

Fingers playing with the button of her trousers, waiting for her to push you away but she doesn’t. She does nothing of the sort. Vi’s breath is heavier than you’ve ever heard it. Looking down at your hands, waiting for you to pull the trigger on all of this. It’s then you realize Vi is letting you have all the control. If this is going to happen, she wants you to take it. It’s different from what you’re used to. 

A choice. 

It’s more than you could have expected. Vi isn’t pushing you away, isn’t telling you to stop. Not when you unbutton her pants and not when you suck on your fingers before slipping them beneath her boxers, feeling the soft curls and wondering if they match the drapes, before your fingers get perfectly acquainted with her. 

“Oh fuck—” Vi curses as she grabs onto your ass, lifting the short skirt you’ve been wearing all night, rucking it up to your hips as she sinks her nails into the skin. 

When you slip inside her, she clenches around your fingers, fucking her hips into your pace and Vi struggles to contain the whimpers. They flow out of her like a tidal wave. She’s been thinking about this moment with you for so long, just you and her — it’s the only thing Vi wants. 

When Vi saw you tonight she thought it was absolutely ridiculous for you to wear this strapless top, only because your nipples poked through the small fabric, but now she’s grateful you did. It’s easy to slip as she sucks a pierced nipple into her mouth. Her tongue plays with the barbell, causing you to groan as she pinches and delicately pulls at the other. As Vi kitten licks your nipple, she finds home on your ass again, before ripping your panties off. 

Her mouth is eager, hot, as she won’t stop giving attention to your chest. You’ve never wanted to kiss her more. 

“Can you take two, princess?” 

Eagerly you nod, a yearning yes falls from your lips. Vi doesn’t waste a beat. 

You try to fuck Vi harder, but she doubles down on her efforts, her fingers so deep and you feel so full. Trying to chase the high, you ride her fingers, almost as if you were riding her, your ass unable to stop humping against her. It’s just the two of you, a silent competition to get the other one off first and you can feel Vi winning. Then she’s extending her thumb, rubbing circles on your clit, and you know you’ve lost. 

“That’s it, just like that princess.” 

“Vi, Vi, baby, oh my godddddd—” 

Vi’s purely evil with every thrust of her fingers but she’s so full of light, an angel sent to you in your darkest hour. Batting her long eyelashes at you while she suckles on your bouncing tits, knuckle deep inside you as she gives you everything to just take. She’s too beautiful to look away from. With her pupils dilated, her blue eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. Letting off your perfect tits with an obnoxious pop, she kisses up your sternum as she marks you with her lips everywhere but the place you actually want. 

But then her words revere in your mind once again. 

Don’t make it like this. 

“Look at me.” 

Eyes drifting back to her as she curls her fingers inside you, your grip on her hair iron tight, unwillingly to let go of you. 

“Such a beautiful girl, so special, so pretty when you form a sentence. The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. There’s no need to be jealous, babygirl, don’t need anyone else but you. Mhm, just you, alright? Yeah? Keep looking at me, yeah baby, just like this.” 

You nod, close to the brink, her compliments send a rush through your head and your throbbing clit feels it. 

The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. 

“Baby, I, shitttt Violettttt—” 

The name of her full name, the first time she’s ever heard it fall from your lips since the first time you met. Vi’s too close and hearing you scream her name isn’t helping. 

“C’mon, princess. Show me how pretty you can be.” Vi commands and you come undone around her fingers. 

Arching your back against the steering wheel, and the horn blows. 

You giggle and so does she but the soft moment is short lived as your body twitches, selfishly basking in the way you irrevocably coated her fingers in your cum. 

Bringing Violet with you as you pull at her hair, her face planting on on your chest as your breasts smother her moans as she jumps off the cliff with you. Sucking at the flesh, marking what she craves as you fuck yourself on her fingers, her pace even more brutal as Vi coaxes you through your blindingly, hot orgasm. 

“Just like that princess, pussy just can’t stop drenching for me, yeah? My pretty girl can paint my face next time. Do you want that? My face covered in your cum, dribbling down my chin, on my tits…you’ll clean me up though. A good girl like you will. So fuckin’ pretty.” 

One slap to your ass has you trembling, body shaking and that’s when Vi lays off, her fingers slipping out of you and you feel so empty without her. 

As if you didn’t need any more torture, you watch as she lavishes at her fingers, covered in your cum, her high cheekbones suctioning as she sucks every last drop. Vi smirks as you drool a little bit before you wipe the saliva off. Sweet as always, she doesn’t say a word. Saving you the embarrassment from a crude joke. 

One Caitlyn would definitely make. 

“Um, sorry, I think I got carried away.” 

“We both did, it’s okay, Vi.” 

There’s a soft silence, it would almost become cumbersome if it wasn’t so peaceful. The only thing you can hear is her exhale of breath as Vi tries to regain some composure. All of it feels complicated, the severed tie to Caitlyn doesn’t seem so entirely severed when her ex-girlfriend makes you come in the driver’s seat of her truck. 

If anyone found out about this, about the two of you, it would be the talk of the town. Caitlyn’s exes making a victory lap in Kirakiller’s grave. The victory is so triumphant even the goddess on top of the mountain gets scorched. It’s your worst nightmare. Your wish is to coddle this as long as you can. Savor the feeling, keeping Vi under lock and key. 

You just want to have this one thing for yourself. 

Even if you are far from her reach, she has a way of making sure any good thing gets ripped from you, torn from your hands before you even have a second to enjoy. As much as you enjoyed her company, this complicates. 

But it doesn’t stop your heart from thumping loudly. A shiver runs up your spine as Vi pulls down your skirt. There’s a tenderness to her touch as she fixes your top, covering your chest once again. You nearly lock your lips with hers when she rubs your full cheeks with the pad of her thumb, smoothing along her jaw as she leans in to kiss the tip of your nose.  Unable to snuffle it, you smile. 

It’s genuine when the light reaches your eyes. Vi says nothing, anything would be too heavy, something neither of you are ready for. A silent agreement to enjoy this moment for what it is. 

“Are you doing anything for Valentines? Mel and Sevika are having this party and I thought you might wanna go together.” The panic surges through her powder-blue eyes the moment she asks the question. 

Is that why she came tonight? Did she want to ask you? 

Reminding you of the first night you met, a party and Sevika and Mel’s but you find yourself to be in an entirely different position. The idea of a date without the pressure, you’d be surrounded by your friends. But you tremor with the thought of Violet wanting to spend Valentine’s day with you. 

“But it’s, um, perfectly fine if you already have plans. It's just I don’t want to spend it alone. Powder is off spending it with Ekko this year, Vander is doing god knows what and Silco well, that would just be pathetic if I asked him what his plans are. I really just—” 

“Violet.” 

Violet.

Violet. 

Violet. 

The second it rolls off your tongue, a crimson hue forms on her freckled cheeks, even spreading across the bridge of her nose before it coats the tips of her ears. A soft pink unlike her vibrant locks of messy hair, partially due to your tugging and pulling. 

“Sorry, Vi. It just slipped.” 

“No. I mean not no. I wasn’t trying to be rude. You can call me, Violet, if you want to.” 

I like hearing you say my name, it sounds even more beautiful than when you whispered it falling apart on my fingers. 

But Vi couldn’t say that. 

“Well then, Violet, I would love to go with you. Count me in.” 

She didn’t need to know you already had plans on going. This was much better. 

— 

Mel decides to take you up on the offer of studying at the library tonight. With your future hanging on by the thread that is your scholarship, you have to keep your grades airtight. Not to mention the downfall of your situation with Caitlyn only puts a bullseye on your back. 

The first couple of hours have been silent for the two of you, the accountability keeping you in check to stay focused. Then the third hour approaches and the two of you start to quietly converse in the nearly vacant library. 

“Did Sev tell you who came into Leagues last night?” 

Shutting your book, your eyes squint in confusion. 

“Kiramman.” 

“I thought the ship had sailed away during that fight. God, it nearly made me want to strangle her and we all know violence is more of Sev’s choice of resolution.” 

“It has. She likes checking in on her so-called…wounded. She’s never been one for grace. I wish she would make it less obvious, Leagues isn’t even her scene. Her pompous ass would never be caught dead in there when we were, well, whatever the fuck you would call us. But she’s been quite the regular ever since I cut things off. 

It’s surprising she would come to you, but on the other hand, she didn’t know where you lived. It was the only straw for her to grasp on. It’s probably killing her to know she’s been blocked on everything, no contact, a complete ghost town. Almost as if none of you even existed together, just a memory faded, one you hope to burn into ash. 

“Well, Vi was there hanging out with Gert and—” 

“She was?” 

Mel suddenly felt like she said something she shouldn’t have. 

“Appearances can be deceiving, they did talk for a bit, yes, but how does that have any level of importance?” Mel can’t hide her lips upturning. 

“Nothing.” 

“Hey kid, lighten up. I think you’re two seconds away from snapping that pencil in half.” The rasp of Sevika’s voice pulls you back to earth, but it’s too late for the pencil as the infrastructure snaps. You feel like a child, caught in doing something they shouldn’t do. 

“Oh, so this is a thing? Vi?” Mel almost speaks a little too loudly, her voice reaching endless limits as the object of your affection is named in the very silent library. “I just thought you wanted to make Kirakiller jealous. Not actually…” 

You bury your head in your notebook, wanting to strangle Sevika as you hear her chuckle, taunting you as your traitorous heart fails you in your time of need. Maliciously giving you up as your tragic negligence exposes you truly. 

Even if it’s silly, needy, or a little bit selfish — you wanted this one part of your life to be concealed from beady eyes. 

“Finally coming to your senses.” Sevika taunts. 

“Enough. I’m not…Violet and aren’t…that’s not what this is.” 

Mel gives you a knowing look, arching her perfectly arched eyebrow, hazel eyes with a ring of gold surrounding them piercing so deeply into your soul. It almost has you stuttering out how you let her fuck you in Violet’s truck, driving you back home with her warm, soft hand on your exposed thigh. Absentmindedly drawing circles into your skin. 

“Violet?” Sevika and Mel say in unison. 

“Did I say something wrong?” 

“Vi doesn’t let anyone call her that. The only one who's ever called her that is well, her family. She yelled at Kirakiller for calling her that whenever they fought. Vi looked like she could rip her tongue out.” 

The information makes your head spin, there is only so much you can take. 

“It’s just a name. Seems like Vi is preoccupied anyways. This is just so…” 

“Hey Vi!” 

You turn around, hearing her greet someone she was friendly with. In her athletic shorts and cleats, it’s clear practice had started again, her gym bag in tote. The sweat and grime layered over her face, the sleeves of her jersey rolled into her shoulders. With each movement, her muscles rippled in the dim lighting of the library. 

The navy blue jersey complimented her vibrant strands of pink, she laughs at whoever she’s talking to and she looks so happy and at peace, it makes your heart soar. Rugby always made her the happiest. Vander and Vi used to play when she was just a girl, even Powder joined as they got older but when Violet got stronger, she restricted for playing seriously with classmates her own size and not old men whose knees could give out in any second. 

She still doesn’t see you and you want to keep it that way so you turn around, minding your own even if your two closest friends in the world just watched you gawk over Violet. 

“It’s just going to get worse. Living together. It’s only a matter of time until one of you…” Sevika gestures to the pencil lying broken on the table. 

“Well, try not to act too disheartened at the party. Vi said she’s bringing someone. I’m sure it won’t work out between them. Ever since she’s gotten here she hasn’t been able to—” 

Sevika places her hand on Mel, to cue her to silence herself as Vi walks up to the table, grabbing the chair closest to you and discreetly pushes it even closer to you when she takes her seat. 

Immediately, you chastise yourself for loving how turned on you are by her sweaty body, her muscles clearly acquiring the pump from her practice, those stupid strong calves brushing against yours. You admire the scar against her top lip. Tattoos on display, making your head feel dizzy, and she leans over and asks if she can have a couple of your orange slices. Before falling right back in conversation with Sevika. 

Violet does anything to be close to you. Mel and you are engrossed in a conversation, when she shows you the video you were discussing, Vi has to lean over to see. Her arm hanging off your shoulder, her neck craning to see but when she sits back, she keeps her arm around the back of your chair. 

“How did practice go today?” You ask. 

“Fine.” But the grass stains on her shirt tell you differently, so does the burn on her exposed shin. 

“Who the fuck did you let kick your ass?” Sevika interjects before you have the chance to. 

“Can’t kick Kirakiller’s ass. Dean Kiramman might throw me out faster than I can blink. I’m already on thin ice and Kirakiller just made it worse. She doesn’t like losing.” 

Violet glances at you, her expression unreadable as she turns her attention back to Sevika. 

“Got outvoted for Team Captain and she can’t fucking stand it. You know the pompous Kirammans don't believe in democracy. One for all and all for none. Some bullshit Kirakiller says while she’s trying to out-bench me in the weight room. Not my fucking problem. Hasn’t been for a while. She went in for some cheap blows during drills. It is what it is.” 

Sevika nods her head, “Seems like you did a real number on her. She shouldn’t have fumbled half of this table.” 

“Sev.” You shoot a glaring warning. 

Violet visibly tenses but she doesn’t remove her arm, Mel elbowing Sev in the gut softly before she coughs up a quiet apology. The tension could be cut with a knife, but Violet just plays with the material of your cotton shirt, soothing herself as she tries to forget. 

“Right, yep.” An awkward silence disperses before Mel and Sevika excuse themselves leaving you and Violet alone. 

“Violet, I can talk to her. She shouldn’t be taking this out on you. This is all my fault.” 

“It’s not you, alright? Not directly. Caitlyn likes to hurt when she’s hurt. I can handle her.” 

Vi chew on her lip, breaking through skin as blood comes to the surface, the iron taste coating her tongue. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You question Violet. 

“She knows she can’t lash out at the one thing she wants.” 

The one thing we both want, Vi thinks to herself. 

She takes the brunt of Caitlyn’s anger and she doesn’t even know why. Maybe an understanding but doesn’t know the full picture. You’re too much of a coward to let it slip. If everything goes south, the woman you adored could truly hate you and that’s the last thing you wanted. It’s silly to even hide a secret. Especially when you feel as if she sees right through your heart when her curious blue eyes look at you. 

“Trust me, I’m playing against what I want but she’s not as done as you think she is. She’ll come back for you, princess. You’re someone anyone would come back for. I’m the low totem pole trash found underneath her designer sole, there’s never been a place for me in her life.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“It’s the truth.” 

“No, it isn’t. You’re more than how she treated you. Don’t talk about yourself like that. It’s the furthest thing from the truth.” 

Vi nods, tries to offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“What really happened? You look banged up and it looks more than just a rough practice. You know you can tell me anything. I’m all ears for you.” 

Vi struggles for a moment, and contemplates on telling you the truth. You deserve to know the truth and she knows that but she also can’t stand for Caitlyn to hurt another piece of you. This entire time apart from Caitlyn, you’ve done your best to separate and get over her. She can’t be the person to make you feel any worse about the situation. 

Caitlyn can’t get more in the way, she won’t allow it. 

“Kiramman just being a cunt, okay? It’s nothing I can’t handle.” 

“Okay but I’m cleaning that cut on your arm when we get home.” You nudge your shoulder against hers. Talking solace as she places her head in the crook of your neck. 

“Whatever you want, princess.” 

Then the question nags in the back of your mind, I saw her with Gert. But you’re putting her with Caitlyn. You think she’s cheating on you but there’s isn’t anything to cheat on. You’ve never spoken about that night in her pick-up truck but still dream of it. 

Luscious, greedy cunt taking her fingers in ease as you fucked her to completion. The whines she made, how harmonious they were with your own. The image stays imprinted on your mind, scorching the deepest depths of your mind for all eternity to see. 

But it’s not everyone taking a look. 

It’s just you. Keeping a lid on it has been more than you bargained for. Vi is the person who has been there to help you. When you’ve felt like the cards are stacked against you, it’s her that pulls you out. Every day after the breakup, if you could even call it that, you evidently were just a warm body to fuck for Caitlyn, Violet was there to make sure you were okay. 

The daily check-ins, making sure you were staying hydrated through all the tears, cooking dinner for the both of you when she knows you skipped lunch. It’s the little things you’re beating yourself up over and it makes you wonder what was really going on. 

If Caitlyn had taught you anything, it was people did fuck you because that’s the only thing they want. But you wanted Violet to be different. More than you ever had than Caitlyn, you need her to be more than what you’ve always been. 

“Are you alright, princess? Lost you there for a second.” 

You hope she never does. And you never want to lose her. You swallow your jealousy, you decide to trust, despite your best efforts; your heart remains unprotected. You chose blind trust, even if you know better, you lean into the faith. 

“Yeah, I’m here with you. Promise.” 

—

There’s red, pink, and white — everywhere. Mel is passionate about Valentine's day. In weeks of build up, this party is all she spoke of. Dragging you along to shop when buying decorations, but you didn’t mind. Sevika covering you at the bar means one less shift this week. After last night’s events, you could use the breather. 

If Sev wasn’t there, putting the men in place, the status of your safety would severely be in question. Vi came after you called, just complaining about it on your break, and thirty minutes later she sat on your section of the bar with one of her favorite books in hand. 

“You didn’t have to come. See? Still in one piece.” 

“Mhm and that’s how I want you to stay. Sorry princess, I’m not going anywhere.” 

It’s not like you needed any more reason to enjoy her company. You have too many. And they come to your mind as needy as a bee to honey. It’s why you bail on coming as a pair, you had a valid excuse, but you also knew if Mel knew why you were helping decorate their home she would literally kick you back to be with Violet. 

Hanging the banner in the entry was the last of your duties and before you knew it everyone was shuffling in one by one. The party is in full swing by the time Violet walks in the front door and you nearly collapse from just how damn good she looks. A bouquet of flowers, an assortment of pink and yellow roses with a few lilies meticulously placed in the arrangement. 

“I hope it’s not too much but I wanted to do something nice for you.” 

“They are beautiful, Violet. You really didn’t have to.” 

She smiles as she leans in to kiss your temple, “Of course I did.” 

The rest of the night goes off without a hitch, the games Mel has planned are fun. Everyone engages with each other and it is surprisingly pleasant. The only unsettling feeling stirring in the pit of your stomach is the ginger in the corner who has been eyeing you all night but the shirley temples you’ve been drinking all night has you dazed, sitting on Violet’s lap with her arms wrapped around your waist. 

Vi’s a bit inebriated as she plays with the hem of your dress, whispering how beautiful you look in your ear. You fidget in her hold, grinding against her even when you’re really not even meaning to. 

Astoundingly, the door slams, her arrival being announced. 

Uninvited and as prompt as ever. 

“Oh, so this—“ Caitlyn gestures to Vi as if she’s the sticky gum on the bottom of her overpriced sneaker, “my leftovers is why you chose to end things?” 

She’s charging as the ginger gets up from her seat, trying to hold Caitlyn back but she fails but in an instant, Vi stands up. Every protective bone in her body goes hyperactive, proving herself as a blockade between you and the devil herself. The smirk Vi wears makes Caitlyn violently scowl. She may be taller, but she’s smaller, thinner, not packing nearly as much muscle in her punch. 

There was nothing she would love more than to punch that stupid, coy fucking smile off her face. 

“What are you gonna do, cupcake?” She says the once endearing nickname, crathing to slither underneath her skin, she wants to piss her off to no end. Make Caitlyn regret ever fucking with either of you. It’s all this ever was, a game. Kiramman’s are always desperate to win, to annihilate your opponent. Any future moves made would be contingent in how she made you feel. 

“Get out of my way, Violet.” 

“Call me that again and I’ll knock your teeth out. And what are you going to do about it? Everyone may be afraid of you outside of the field, but in case you have forgotten, this isn't on campus where things are done the Kiramman way. If you wanna take a cheap shot at me, better make it count.” 

With a careful gaze, Caitlyn’s eyes beam down to the hand clinging to Vi’s bicep, how you’re looking at Vi and touching her skin and how dreadful you look to her. 

She directs her voice to you, “What? You’re gonna pick her over me? Like we mean nothing?” 

Bitterly, you laugh, but it isn’t funny. Not one bit. 

“It’s painful, isn’t it? Being on the other side of it.” Taking a step forward, leaning against Violet’s shoulder, intertwining your fingers together. “Those were your words exactly, Kiramman. This is nothing.” 

“I–” For the first time, right before your eyes, she’s stunned. For the first time since she’s met you, she’s speechless. 

“Caitlyn, we should just–” 

“Maddie, enough.” 

The both of you have done more than just rattle her, you’ve surprised her and Violet would be smiling so damn wide if Caitlyn still wasn’t in front of her. 

“Baby, can we talk about this? Just a minute of your time and we can sort this out.” Violet won’t stand for the desperate pleas for a moment longer. She takes a step forward, getting in Kiramman’s face, “I think you and your little orange muppet should get the fuck out before I throw you out myself.” 

“This isn’t any of your business, Vi.” 

“When you’re talking to my girl like that, it really fucking is.” 

My girl. 

Violet seems to be two seconds away from physically throwing her out when Mel finally interjects. “Caitlyn, you are unwelcome, uninvited, and you’re trespassing. I ask that you please leave before other extreme measures need to be taken.” 

A venomous scoff leaves her lips as Maddie drags her away, slamming the door on her way out. 

You're rattled, but not from Caitlyn, but from the assertiveness you didn’t know Vi possessed. The implications of this would serve consequences to not just Vi but to you but you couldn’t focus on that right now. She had called you her girl. 

Vi’s girl. 

“Well now that’s out of the way…” Mel jokes, lightening the mood as the party jumps back in full swing. But all you hear is Vi’s voice calling you hers and it’s like she knows what you’re thinking of when she spares a glance. 

“I’m sorry it just slipped but I couldn’t stand her looking at you like that. Like you were some piece of meat she can have whenever she wants.” Violet apologizes. Rubbing the back of your hand with your thumb, tracing her name into your skin. 

“It’s okay, um, it was actually really hot…” Immediately, she takes a step forward in an effort to be closer to you. “I-I’ve never really seen you be so uh–” 

“What princess?” Mischievously, she girls her head, biting her lip right before she licks them, her tongue piercing teasing you. 

“I dunno…it was just really hot seeing you like that…calling me that.” 

“My girl?” Vi smiles. It’s so genuine, making you swoon with a sincerity only she can give. 

“Yeah, something like that, maybe.” 

“I can call you a lot more things if you want. Wanna take a bet if they actually locked their bathroom?” 

Neither of you have ever moved so quickly in your life. Clothes get thrown on the tile the minute the two of you are alone, pressing your frame against the door as she decorates your neck in sovereign possession. She never wants anyone to question, you’re her girl. 

“Vi, do you,  fuccckkkk, really think this is a good idea?” She only grunts in reply as you're nearly fully exposed, your weeping cunt grinding against the muscular thigh she offers so graciously. Your friendship with her hangs in the balance, and you don’t want to think about that right now but you can’t help but have your doubts. 

“We can stop if you want to. Whatever you want.” Vi moves to remove her thigh until you whimper, tugging her closer by her pink hair towards you. 

“I didn’t say that. Please, don’t stop.” 

“Mhm, okay princess but only because you asked so nicely.” 

Vi pushes her against your pussy, your hips falling more erratic as Violet gets lost in your neck. Lips marking whatever inch of skin they can find as your folds get the needed friction from her trousers. Blindly sucking on the sweet spot behind your ear, making you putty in her hands. 

With a tight grip, you pull at her vibrant hair, her roots grounding you as the build in the pit of your stomach increases. But she pulls away just when you’re getting close. If your hands didn’t have the edge of the sink to hold onto, you’re not sure your legs would have supported you. 

“Did you want to stop?” 

“No.” Vi smirks. 

“Then why the hell did you?” 

She says nothing, infuriating you further. It almost pisses you off to the point where it’s painful. Vi keeps smirking at god knows what. Maybe she finds you just as pathetic as Caitlyn does. It may have been a distant future, when Caitlyn had actually been decent in her freshman year, her and Vi were the talk of the town until it all abruptly ended and no one knew why. You’ve never asked. 

Vi’s friendly with you but not to the point where she’s an open book. She’s hardly an open book with anyone, she’s careful when she hooks up with others. Especially with the who, she doesn’t want someone who's going to go off and tell the rest of campus how many fingers she used while she makes them come. 

But now, you like her. Really fucking badly. 

The way she snapped on her, protecting you, nearly connecting her fist with Caitlyn’s sharp jawline. It’s one of the reasons you’re in here with her. But still, not knowing the reason makes you feel slightly unsettled. 

There's been different rumors over the past few years surrounding Vi the sweetest girl around and Kirakiller. All of them painting Caitlyn in a god awful light. 

Kirakiller cheated on Vi. 

Vi left because Kirakiller didn’t want to make things official. 

Kirakiller‘s tenacious appetite for the bedroom couldn’t be satisfied by Vi. 

Kirakiller said Vi couldn’t make her come. 

The list goes on and on, and on. Neither of them were seen to be around each other again, not until Caitlyn seemed to catch you in her web. It was the sin of the century. Vi’s roommate seeing her ex-girlfriend. It was messy to say the least. A few long weeks and you cooking Vi her favorite meal, buying her favorite sour candy in bulk, along with some new gadget for her computer she’d been wanting. 

It’s all it took to forgive you. Her only request was to keep Caitlyn out of the apartment while she was here. She never spoke about her again and you never pressed the wound. If Vi didn’t ever want to talk about it but why they broke up gnawed at you. 

But Violet doesn’t seem to give a shit about that right now. 

“Get on your knees, princess.” 

You obliged as Vi took off the sweater, revealing a grey fitted tank-top, showing off just how fit she stayed in the crisp of winter. 

“Good girl. Now, take off my belt, yeah?” 

You released the belt from the latch, pulling it through the loop and handing it to Vi. Her firm grip grabs the belt, as she kneels behind you, bounding your wrists together by the smooth, cold leather. It’s black with a silver clasp, it feels nice against your wrists as she tightens it. As far as you can tell, it’s new and it makes you wonder if she bought it for just an occasion like this. 

Wrists bound behind your back, Vi slaps the fat of your ass before soothing over with delicate fingers, the calloused pads of her fingers playing with your puckered hole as she thumbs it gently. 

Pulling it back for a moment, collecting saliva in her warm mouth before drooling over your ass. Smothering her own spit, a place you’d never let anyone touch. You've convinced yourself all this time it’s because of your boundaries but when Vi did it, you didn’t have a problem with it. Then you realize you have trust with Vi, one you hadn’t had with anyone else. 

It was just a spur of the moment, two horny girls lonely and single, needing someone else but you also know Vi wasn’t one to sleep with half the campus. She’s a one-woman kind of girl. Maybe you need that trust. 

You’re hesitant, still but you can’t bring yourself to say no. She’s attentive, making sure you’re alright with each moment. Not wanting to push you past a limit both of you can’t come back from. 

“Is this alright?” Vi whispers into your ear as if she can read your mind. 

“Yeah, it’s good.” You take a beat before moaning as you lean into her chest, “A little too good.” 

Vi chuckles into your ear, the vibrations tingle throughout your body. Suddenly your mind is wondering how a simple giggle can make you feel so soaked. With a gentle hand, her thumb keeps on playing with your ass as she maneuvers you into her lap and that’s when you feel it. 

A faux cock. 

“Is that a—” You want to ask but for the first time in your life, you feel shy. 

“A cock?” 

“Someone’s cocky.” 

You both giggle at your innuendo. 

Lightly, with soaked fingers she pulls out of your lips, she rims your puckered hole, a coveted limit in your body but with her, you so freely wish to give it. 

The eye contact feels awfully intimate but you can’t bring yourself to tear yourself away. It’s entirely new to you. Caitlyn never liked to look you in the eyes when she fucked you. Always something to hide, how she truly feels about you is privy to anyone else but her. 

You didn’t have the right to know. 

With Vi, everything becomes so clear. 

It’s crystal clear when she asks if she can slide a finger inside your ass, it’s overly intimate when you tell her yes as your eyes never leave hers. Her eyes are as hooded as you’ve ever seen them but she won’t break eye contact. Not for a second. You’re questioning if she’s even blinking. 

With each passing second, her pink hair surrounds you as her forehead pressed against yours, blue eyes open as she asks again if you’re okay with it. You give her another yes before her middle finger slides in your mouth, your tongue circling the digit before sucking on it dramatically. Letting off with a pop, Vi teases your forbidden hole one more time before she gently coaxes you open for her. 

“Shit, Shit, that’s—” You squint your eyes shut. The new sensation is a little too much for your brain to process much less the fluttering pressure in the pit of your stomach. 

“Look at me, princess. Keep your eyes on me, alright?” Vi lightly commands, her tone as sweet as you’ve ever heard it. 

With the sweet words thrown your way, your eyes flutter open, long eyelashes kissing your brow bone. Vi smiles softly, her top lip lifting as she sees the way you’re looking at her. 

Kirakiller is so fucking stupid, Vi thinks to herself be she keeps the words to herself. 

Vi stretches you more as her entire finger sits within you, waiting for you to be ready for more and when you are, she nearly comes herself. You’re louder than anyone she’s ever been with. She’s thankful for the loud music Mel insisted on, some shitty pop tune drowning out the two of you. Violet’s never been so thankful. 

Those shitty pop tunes are drowning the especially deafening screams of Vi’s name until your vocal chords are shot. With a strong wrist and the flick of her wrist, she can tell you’re already close. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.” Shining eyes are glossy as ever as you struggle to keep them open and focused on her. “Never felt this, shiiiittttt, Vi, please. I’m so close.” 

“What do you mean? Has no one ever fucked your ass? You’ve been sleeping with Kiramman. How have you not—” 

“Never let her.” That sends Vi’s clit throbbing viciously. 

“Kirakiller’s an ass lover, everyone knows that.” 

“Are we gonna sit her talking about her the entire time or are you gonna make me come?” Agitating you roll your eyes but Vi licks her lips slowly as a distraction, pulling your attention to her pierced tongue and then you feel another finger stretch at your ass. 

“What did you say, princess? Something about coming?” Vi uses another finger, her long digits spreading the slit in your lower lips, making a mess as she spreads the pre-cum spilling out of you. “Be a good girl won’t you?” Vi pinches your clit and just like that your eyes shut again, a completely shattering orgasm washed over you. 

Body twitching as Vi keeps you in her hold with a strong grip, your body riding against her fingers but she isn’t too pleased for a moment as she tuts. 

“What did I say princess? Eyes open, now.” You struggle, again, but you’re able to meet her demand. There’s an urge to look away, to hide in Vi’s pink hair, her tattooed neck, but you do none of it. Dangerous eyes look at yours as she fucks you through it. You wanted to tug at her hair, pull her closer to you, but hands are bound so all you can do is take it, with loud moans being released, ones you’re trying to control but utterly fail to do so. 

“So pretty like this, yeah? God, those gorgeous eyes of yours are gonna get me in trouble. Crying for me like that, makes me wanna take you back to our home and fuck you on my bed, baby. You’re such a beautiful girl and deserve to be treated like one, my sweet girl.” 

Vi isn’t sure if you’re crying from the intimacy or from the orgasm, probably both. It’s not a secret since the start of the semester you’d been with Kiramman but Vi knew first hand what that meant. There’s no eye contact, no cuddling, no reassurances, it’s just sex. When Vi was going through it herself, she could see the toll it even took on Caitlyn but she didn't break. Her resolve is rock solid and Vi had learned it the hard way, just as she supposed you did. 

It was an endless cycle and it seems Kiramman continued it again with you. It’s evil the way she pulls you apart, makes each part of you feel special, like you’re her entire world and there’s no one else but there always is someone else. Always. Kiramman will lie through her perfectly aligned teeth but there is always someone she keeps for a backup. 

Vi wipes away your tears as she soothes you with soft whispers and delicate hands running up and down your back. It feels like the easiest thing she’s done, soothing you into serenity. With gentle care, she takes the belt off of your wrists, rubbing soft circles over the sensitive skin as you come back to yourself. The alcohol feels like a memory. Her kindness makes your head spin and your heart flutter. 

Now, you understand why the two of them never worked. 

Vi is everything Caitlyn struggles to be. 

It’s like looking in a mirror of everything you want to be but knowing you’ll never be her. The imperfection of Caitlyn’s kindness and the overabundance of Vi’s is probably too much of a bruise to her ego. One could see how much it would eat her alive. Vi helps you relocate your clothes that are scattered across the bathroom floor. Shamelessly, she watches as you dress yourself again, not one to look away from the woman she had screaming her name not even five minutes prior. 

“You’re so beautiful, can’t keep my eyes off you.” 

“C’mon Violet. We live together, I’m the same ole’ me. Now, you’ve just fucked my ass.” You try to brush off the compliment. You feel more similar to Caitlyn then you’d like to admit. Vi’s wholeheartedness is overwhelming, leaving a sting of longing every time she looks at you with a light in her curious eyes. 

You slip on your dress and Vi is quick to zip you up but not without kissing the nape of your neck. 

Tonight’s actions suddenly feel very sobering. 

Vi isn’t done with you as she lifts you up on the countertop, finding her sweatshirt before she covers her toned figure again. You’re wondering what she’s playing at. What she’s thinking about. Vi finds your heels, the versace platform heels Caitlyn had gifted you for your birthday a week after the fact. A pity gift. Similar to herself, you couldn’t say no, it was just too pretty. 

They’re too expensive to come from a broke college student. Vi knows where they came from but she exercises that tight lip of hers. 

With a gentle tap, she taps your calf lightly a couple times and you offer your leg to her as she slaps the heel back onto your feet, clasping the strap around your ankle before she does the same for the other. The both of you stare at the lingering hands on your thighs, rubbing soft circles into the skin, the bluntness of her fingernail causes goosebumps to spread across the skin. 

Caitlyn is terrified of this, something so soft and fragile, her grip would be too tight; she’d break you in the process. She’s a chapter you want to close. All you want now is the woman in front of you. 

Vi has only ever been just a friend and she treats you like this. An imaginative mind, one of your own making, starts to wonder…if Vi was in love with Caitlyn, was she even sweeter to her? If her golden heart wasn’t enough for Caitlyn, whose would it be? 

The question makes you lost on the idea. Maybe it’s the post-nut clarity of being fucked like you just were, but you see Vi an entirely new light. One that feels as blinding as the sun but she’s smothering you with a perfect amount of warmth. 

“So…that happened.” Lightly, Vi laughs trying to brush off the seriousness of the moment. 

“Yeah and it seems you came packing.” 

Mel has been talking her up all week, telling her she wasn’t just seeing things, all she had to do was give you space and you would come to her slowly. It seems like Mel hadn’t been totally wrong. You are clearly attracted to her but the more protective side of her mind wonders if this is all that it extends to — sex. 

The flashback of Caitlyn and all her little twisted games comes to mind while your curious eyes inspect her intensely. 

“It’s just a stroke of optimism.” Vi tries to control her breathing when you close your legs around her waist, crossing your legs over the other as you lock her into a secure position. 

The tight dress you’re wearing bunches up again, almost resting on your hips. 

“I think you were wanting to stroke something else.” 

“Uh. No. I was, definitely…okay…maybe I was. A little bit.” Vi admits as you continue to play with her hair, your heel lightly grazing her bum as you tease her for just a little bit longer. 

“It’s cute. I like it when you’re confident. You packed a cock in your pants because you wanted to fucked me tonight. Be proud about it. Yeah, maybe you didn’t get to use it but you sure did fuck me.” 

“How do you do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“You’re so brave. Nothing stands in your way, when you want something you go after it. I could never do that.” 

“Well, you kinda did. Unless, um—” But the words die in your throat. Suddenly they seem too real and if you tell her, this whole charade will be over, reality will set in and this magical night will only be reduced to primal, drunken needs. 

For all you know, Vi didn’t mean any of this. Maybe you just wanted to get your pussy wet, wanted to fuck a pretty girl, needed to see some tits to get her through this lonely holiday. The one that patronizes the single. 

Maybe that’s all this is. You’re just a nice piece of ass to fuck. It makes you feel dirty, the air feels thinner, and before you know it Vi’s whispering in your ear to take deep breaths. 

“Princess, I’m right here, alright. Just breathe and tell me. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“I-I just thought because you know, well, after the last month I thought I was more than just…” 

“A girl I wanna fuck?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, you are. Would that be such a bad thing? I know with Caitlyn you had something casual, and maybe you liked things that way, but I want something more serious. I don't want to play with your feelings and I don’t want you to play mine. If this is what you want then I think it’d be worth a shot but if not, we can just be friends, alright? There’s no pressure.” 

“But Natalie…you said she wanted something serious and you didn’t.” 

“I lied to you and I’m sorry for that. But I wanted something serious, just not with her.” 

“You know what you want.” You stated it more like a question, puzzled and perplexed about a woman, for the first time, saying exactly what she’s looking for. 

“Well…yeah? I respect you enough not to waste your time.” Her eyes gleam, expectant and waiting for you to answer. 

“I’ve never had someone so honest with me. I kinda don’t know what to do with it.” 

The most sincere eyes look into yours, as she leans into your fingers that play with her vibrant, violet hair. It’s all so fast but Vi nurtures everything once broken within you until you’re healthy once again, restoring the strength you once felt before your heart stopped listening to your head. 

It’s a warm, comforting feeling you want to sink into. She’s the closest you’ve had to a semblance of hope. You wondered how anyone could ever let go of her. It wasn’t that she had just given you the best orgasm of your life, it was more than that. Vi made you feel more in thirty minutes than Caitlyn had in your entire time together. 

There wasn’t a worry in the back of your mind if this mattered, if you mattered. Her eyes were so open, letting you into the love dripped like honey, full of sweetness, every empty jar of yours waiting to be filled. 

“Don’t do anything right now then. For now,” Vi leaned forward, her lips ghosting yours. Close enough where her breath could be felt on yours. “I don’t know where you’re at but I’ve never felt like this, about anyone, and if you wanna start slow we can. Although, we have twice now so I don’t know how slow we can actually go, or we could even go on real date and then you can decide but—”

“Violet?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You talk too much.” 

You lean in and Vi doesn’t waste the opportunity, capturing your top lip between hers, wanting nothing more than to get lost in every inch of you. Holding you like a delicate flower she’s afraid to crumple in her hands, Vi lets herself get lost in this. 

For once she doesn’t think of the consequences, if this is moving too fast, wondering what Caitlyn would do if she knew and who she would actually be jealous of. It’s a slippery slope, you messing with her, Vi messing with you. 

But she desperately wants it to be more than your roommate, more than a friend — more than secret meeting where Vi fucks you senseless. She can’t get into this and for it to mean nothing and she’s terrified Caitlyn already has her claws dung in deep to you. Then there’s a moan of Vi’s name being said, and her greedy tongue slips in your mouth as she aches for more of you. 

Strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling your frame impossibly close to her, commanding your mouth with her pierced tongue as if she was born for it, the coolness of the stainless steel ball tangled with your tongue is a high you want to chase. With every touch, a shiver runs up her spine, like there’s a live wire exposed within you and only her touch can spark it alive. 

Vi knows where you want to be touched before you say a word, like she has a connection to your mechanisms, every craving designed for her to carry out as if she’s the one who put them there in the first place. Violet’s pelvis presses against yours, as she gives you the kiss of your life, it leaves you breathless as you chase her lips, your grip pulling at her roots as if it’s your sole purpose in life. 

The rest of the world melts away and it’s just the two of you. The lingering shadow of your ex fades into the background and all you see is Violet. Right under your nose this entire time and only now do you realize just how wonderfully perfect she is. 

Violet ravishes in how good it feels to be chosen and it’s by you. 

The angel who can fly all on her own now; wings no longer clipped by the devil herself. 

Fin. 

[xazse]

I don’t know about the anon but I freaked out when I saw the new fic. It was so good 🤤. I love how you’re giving us so much content nowadays and I’m here for it! Anyway, I was hoping that maybe you could figure something out for snow leopard Gojo and cat hybrid reader (him as a cat jest feels right) ? Imagine Satoru having this in mind ever since he saw you, I mean, big cats mate practically for the solo reason of breeding ?and he's no different- having many pups is a necessity to prove you're his and the best way to show how much he adores you! He’d be very protective about you while you’re carrying, never stepping away from your side and he’s become so needy too because you smell so divine with all those hormones to him.

It makes me think back to that kitty tiger fic where he would lick her and I see this as a continuation of short!

Well, not really since I mentioned a leopard but honestly if you did a tiger and really wrote it as a continuation l'd be thrilled. Do you think you’ll write more because I’d love some Satoru tiger/leopard fics. Have a nice day lovely 💕

Notes: SORRY ITS SO SHORT I HOPE YOU LIKE IT, I HAD FUN WRITING IT!!

Warnings: Pantysniffing + breeding + hybrids + little hybrids + pregnancy + overprotective!Satoru

Pairings: SnowLeopardSatoru + KittyHybrid!Reader

Oh yes of course SnowLeopard!Satoru was in love the day Suguru brought you home, you smelled of that icky place but eventually when you got comfortable he began cleaning you of that filthy, licking you everywhere to ensure you smelled exactly like him.

After scenting you to smell just like the touching started, it starts small with Satoru laying you in his lap or letting you stroke his hair until it got even more physical he was having you bent over balls deep inside of you, this became a daily occurrence where he’d pump you full load after load.

The leopard loved you so much, of course when you started showing signs of morning sickness he was so damn excited, well when he had said that you gave him the nastiest look ever but he had to phrase it as he was excited for the baby!

The first few months were absolute hell for you, Satoru could not and would not leave you alone, he insisted mining everything and anything with you.

You needed a shower? He’s in there helping you get in places your cute little belly prevents even in public he’s always making sure your near him, he keeps a tight grip on your arm so he doesn’t lose you.

He also keeps close because you smell, so fucking good, it drives him damn insane, he keeps you in his lap for hours just sniffing your neck or even having your legs wrapped around his head so he can smell your cunt.

He loves getting into your dirty laundry and smelling your panties, who cares if you catch him jerking off with it around his fat cock, he’ll look you dead in your face as you slowly close the door to let him have that privacy, he can’t fuck your pussy like he used to anymore so this’ll do.

When the babies come it’s so hectic around the house, you and Satoru are constantly chasing the little ones around, they don’t give either of you a break some days. It’s so cute to see how they look exactly like Satoru in some ways, two of them have his hair and the third one looks exactly like you, a carbon copy is what she is.

Their little ears and tail swish behind them so freaking cute, the amount of photos Satoru has in his phone is astonishing, he also posts them on his instagram always, everytime, Suguru also does his hair share with helping with them when you and Satoru are stressed. He’s like their uncle and it’s so adorable to see them braiding his hair or him reading to them.

When you finally get alone time, Satoru’s fucking you like he wants to put even more babies in you, the way he’s groaning is so damn loud it pairs with the way you sound when both of you meet in the middle, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t fucking back on him just as hard, it’s already been multiple orgasms and you’re both still going at it.

[saatorus]

almost yours — a satoru gojo fic (teaser)

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

teaser wc — 1.4k

expected wc — 15 - 20k

taglist status — open

warnings — explicit sexual content, tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, nerdjo turned fratjo (physics major satoru), will add more as i go along

authors note — well. so.... uh... hi i'm too giddy reading what i've written so far so here i am, releasing a snippet because why not <2

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on.

He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.”

He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then.

He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore.

Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different.

Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges.

And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot.

So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way.

Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. 

And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me.

It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body.

Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up.

And then—there’s him.

Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts.

You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you.

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets.

“I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!”

Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.”

Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system.

He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?”

You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.”

You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?”

He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.”

You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs.

You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts.

And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change.

But you know it is.

He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly.

You look up, startled. “What?”

His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?”

Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire.

He’s still watching you.

But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand.

Still. You tuck it away.

Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night.

He won’t.

But you will.

authors note ; wow i love writing this should be my full time job tbh. also dw reader is not 16 in this fic the snippet is like a small flashback sorry jus had 2 make that clear and yes i said brothers bestfriend in my previous posts but bestfriends older brother is so much hotter so i tweaked what i've currently written to all ts sybau pmo icl yo gurt ok bai

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 10

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader manage to discuss the direction of their physical relationship between makeouts. reader isn't feeling comfortable at her apartment, so they plan their first trip together.

series masterlist

this fic is 18+ warnings/tags: d/s dynamics but not smutty, softdom!spencer/sub reader, mild pda?, hint at switch!spencer, they talk about sex/how r feels about her first time, making out, r has long hair, almost dry humping if you're standing several miles away, unresolved sexual tension, teasing/flirting. don't like? don't read a/n: yayyyyy hi guys!! no idea when part 11 will be out. I missed them. I love them so bad. they are my favorite ever. they are so special to me 4ever. hope u missed them and ur just as happy to see them happy as I am :")

“Do you like eyelet?” Spencer asks, reaching up to grab a set of sheets you couldn’t. He insists that you let him get everything from the top shelf because it’s been handled less. 

You shrug, distracted by the angle of his jaw and the line of his throat as he retrieves the plastic package. 

It’s Sunday. Three nights in a row spent with him—the longest sleepover streak thus far—and you don’t want to go back to sleeping alone tonight. But you know it’s time. Both of you have things to attend to tomorrow, and you’re not exactly in the habit of getting things done when you’re together. All weekend you’ve lounged in his lap on the couch or tangled yourself in his arms in bed—fully clothed, of course. Spencer had suggested the no-sex rule on Friday, and you’re glad for it. You feel no pressure to be doing more when he’s kissing you or holding you. 

Of course, the concept of having sex again crosses your mind—when you’re washing your face and catch a glimpse of the bruises on your neck in the mirror, or when the tips of Spencer’s fingers trace idly over a span of exposed skin on your lower back as you watch a movie on the couch and you’re struck with desire, or you move just right and feel a tiny lingering twinge of soreness. There was a time when if you had Spencer Reid to yourself for three nights, a Navy SEAL wouldn’t have been able to pull you off of him. Now, when you think about the fact that there will be a second time, you get that butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling—but you’re not sure if it’s good or apprehensive. 

Either way, it’d be too much right now. 

You do miss feeling that kind of closeness with him. That intimacy. It can’t be replicated, no matter how many naps you take together. Probably something to do with brain chemicals and hormones. He could explain it all, if you were brave enough to ask. 

So you know it’d be too much… but it’s not that you don’t want it. There is also, of course, the issue of the way he looks. It’s not helping your cognition. It’s not encouraging you to make good choices. 

You’re not supposed to be thinking about sex. You’re supposed to tell him if you like eyelet. 

“Yeah, I guess.”

Spencer gives you an exasperated look and sighs. He’s wearing his glasses today. His hair is freshly washed and fluffy. The navy blue sweater he’s wearing is about the only step between a button down and pajamas for him, and he looks good in casual clothing. You chew your lip. 

He doesn’t notice your ogling. “You’ve said that about everything.”

“I’m really not that passionate about the fabric of my sheets,” you defend, shoulders rising and dropping. 

“Surely you like some of them less and some of them more. Usually you jump at the chance to express an opinion.”

Okay. Uncalled for. 

He’s obviously kidding. You overreact anyway. 

“You suck,” you mumble, brushing past him in search of something suitable for your bed. 

Spencer processes this for a moment and then trails after you down the aisle. 

“I suck?”

“Here, look. Bamboo. That’s good, right?”

Your boyfriend glances at the package you’ve selected, probably holding back a whole host of facts about bamboo farming in China. 

“It’s fine. Why do I suck?”

“Because you implied I’m opinionated.”

“I didn’t imply it. It was an explicit statement.”You groan petulantly and put the sheets back on the shelf with force. Spencer picks them up and follows you deeper into the store. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“You didn’t,” you huff, turning around to face him once you’re safely sequestered in a new aisle. The store’s not busy—an elderly couple roams for fake fruit and towels, humming vacantly to the Muzak, and a single mom wrangles her kids in a cart. Back here, it’s just the two of you. “Not really.”

“Then what did?” He asks gently, stepping closer. Spencer’s not overly-affectionate in public, but the tone of his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he can see your thoughts, feels intimate. 

You’re helpless when he gets like this, and he probably knows it. It’s an abuse of power and when you can think straight again you’ll have to scold him for it. 

“It doesn’t even matter. You’re just gonna drop me off after this anyway.”

He tilts his head like a curious puppy, eyes alight with a good puzzle as he quickly strings together the facts in his head. 

“Is that it?”

You frown and hesitate, eyes catching on a loose thread at the hem of his sweater. 

“… No.”

“Yeah, it is. You’re upset because I’m taking you home.”

You scramble to deny. “That’s not it.”

“I think it is,” he murmurs, a smile playing at the corners of his perfect mouth. 

You study the waxen floor tiles intently. 

“Well… I mean, would that be weird? You’re gonna miss me too, right?”

You sound unsure—insecure, even. When you look back up at him, his eyes are melted chocolate, even under the fluorescents. He glances down at your mouth briefly and then over your shoulder. 

Pleasekissmepleasekissmepleasekissme.

He doesn’t, but you can tell he really wants to, which is almost as good. 

“Of course, I’m going to miss you. But we’ll see each other soon. Probably tomorrow.”

“Unless you get called out on a case. But it’s not even really that. It’s just—how am I supposed to… I don’t know! We just spent three nights together. How am I supposed to go back to sleeping alone for a whole week?”

Maybe you’re too attached to him now, because acknowledging the thought which has been lurking all morning opens the floodgates that were holding back a sea of dread, and you feel it in every inch of your body. Five nights alone stretch out before you like an infinite, impassable forest. Friday is an eternity away, and there’s no guarantee he’ll even be here Friday night, if the team gets a case. 

Spencer somehow regards you with both curiosity and innate wisdom, like you’re a new specimen in a familiar field, for a long enough moment that your cheeks begin to warm. 

“Sorry, that was embarrassing. I’m being weird, it’s fine—”

Just as you go to walk away, he pulls you carefully back in by the wrist, even closer than before. 

“No. You’re sweet,” he murmurs, hand warm even through the knit of your sleeve. Gingerly you look back up at him. 

“But you’re not gonna miss me as much as I miss you.”

“Do not undermine my capacity for yearning. I missed you when you were brushing your teeth this morning.”

“Ooh. So clingy,” you tease, though you’re obviously delighted by the information, and he borderline pouts. 

“Don’t say that. Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” you laugh as he pulls you to his chest, keeping you there with a hand to your back. 

“Okay. Now say you love me.”

For a moment you’re distracted by the proximity, the lowering of his voice as he brings you into his space and your faces are only inches apart. The smell of his body wash coming from both of you. 

“I love you,” you breathe, and it’s not as teasing as you’d meant for it to be as his eyes dart to your lips. 

Even though you’re bossy, is what you don’t say. 

This seems to please him, because finally, he’s tilting his head down and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. It’s still enough to make you lightheaded. 

“Apology accepted. I love you too,” he murmurs. And then he’s pulling back, trying to walk around you. “Do you wanna stop for coffee on the way back to yours?”

“Wait,” you order, suddenly listless and disoriented in the middle of the aisle. “You’re not gonna…”

Spencer frowns back at you.

“I’m not gonna what?”

“You’re not gonna… say it?”

“… I love you? I did say that.”

“No, there’s—usually when I do stuff you ask me to do, you say—”

Only when the first ray of understanding illuminates his face do you realize you actually shouldn’t have said anything at all. 

“Nevermind. Yeah, let’s just go.”

Spencer catches your arm again as you attempt to walk past him, laughing quietly as he leans down to speak in your ear. 

“I am not calling you good girl in the small decorative statues aisle.”

“What if we go back to the bedding aisle?” You ask, through the warmth of your own cheeks. 

It’s sort of a joke. 

“Remember what I said about appropriate context?”

“All those sheets, and duvet covers, and stuff. It’s basically the same.”

When he doesn’t respond, you gather the courage to tear your eyes from a little robot statue and look at him. Eyes ever-so-slightly narrowed, warmed only by a hint of humor. A barely detectable curve of the mouth. 

Oops. With all your blind-button pushing, you might’ve accidentally tapped the one responsible for all the marks on your neck—the one that makes him tick in a way which usually ends with you underneath him. 

And then, for the first time, you actually watch as he pushes it down—activates some sort of self-cooling system. Probably he understands that whether you meant to be provocative or not, this interaction isn’t headed in a salacious direction. Even if you weren’t in public, the rule is holding fast. 

His hand slides from your arm to intertwine with your fingers. 

“What are you doing next week?”

You blink at the sudden change in subject and tone. 

“Uh… I don’t know. Working, probably.”

“From home?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He chews his lip thoughtfully. 

“I… still have a few days of annual leave that I need to use. I don’t know if this is… this might be too much, and you can say no. But Rossi has a place in Shenandoah. It’s a cabin—it’s, it’s really nice, I’ve seen pictures. He used to use it for hunting, I guess now he rents it out in the summer and fall but it’s empty during the off-season and he’s always offering it to the team. It’s only like, an hour away. An hour and nine minutes actually, if you take the 66 Express outside the Beltway from Arlington. I looked it up, um… semi-recently. I’m sure he’d let us use it, if you wanted to come burn four days of leave with me. No pressure. Of any kind. I could also, just, y’know, stay home, and we could still spend time together that way. We could finish Deep Space Nine. Or watch something else. Or watch nothing. Whatever you’d like to do.”

Your heart rate has been increasing steadily since he started his impromptu speech—you’re glad he seems nervous inviting you. You’re a little nervous accepting. A trip together is definitely a new step. But getting the hell out of dodge with him for a few days sounds wonderful. 

“I’d love to go,” you say earnestly. 

Spencer’s face goes blank for a second, and then his eyebrows raise, like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes. 

“Oh. Oh! Great! Okay, I’ll—I’ll talk to Rossi about it tomorrow.”

He remains highly chipper as he hands his card over to the cashier for your new overpriced bamboo sheets. 

The promise of getting Spencer to yourself for four consecutive days and nights is the only way you’re able to fall asleep to a cold bed that night. 

It’s harder, at home now—you’re self-conscious of every and any noise. Music, cooking, talking on the phone. 

It doesn’t make sense, because you know you can’t hear your neighbors, so they shouldn’t be able to hear you, and Jerry’s a creep, who might’ve made the whole thing up just to get under your skin—but it’s all you can think about, when you’re there. 

Monday evening, Spencer comes to visit, as promised. You undo all the locks and open the door just enough for him to slip through. 

He kisses you hello as you close the door and sets his things down at the table while you relock. 

“No Jerry today?”

“Nope. I haven’t seen him since Friday.”

“Good,” Spencer says only once you turn, a distinct chill to his tone and a mostly unfamiliar frigidity to his eyes. It’s not directed at you, but it’s unnerving nonetheless, so you draw closer and wrap your arms around his waist—hoping to melt him back into your Spencer. 

He reciprocates, speaks softer now that he has you in his arms, and immediately you feel better. 

“Rossi said yes to us staying at the cabin and Emily said I can take the time off. Did you still wanna go?”

You’re pre-occupied with your face buried in his shirt, so you just nod, basking in the scent of his shower products once more. They’ve gone from simply comforting to intoxicating. 

“Is everything okay?” He asks quietly, brushing your hair over your shoulder. His fingers barely glance off your neck and you almost shiver. Want begins to pool deep and warm in your stomach as you lift your head and he looks down at you, so fondly. 

Want which you can’t afford to feel if you’re not willing to act on it. 

“I’m fine,” you breathe. Fuck. He’s too close. He’s too hot. You pull away and move to the kitchen. “Um, dinner. What do you want? We could make something. Or order something. I don’t have much, honestly.”

“I’ll be happy with anything. You sure you’re alright?”

“I don’t want to have sex!”

The words simply explode out of you, like a bat out of hell as you whip around. Just barely you manage not to clap a hand over your mouth in mortification. 

You stand, back to the fridge, watching Spencer nervously for his reaction. 

His brow knits. His lips part and close again several times. 

You’re wondering what the fastest and most convenient method of not being alive anymore would be when he finally answers. 

“… Okay. I wasn’t trying to initiate anything, did I—did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No! No, I’m sorry. I just… I wanted you to know that while I’m still, like, figuring things out—like, with my neighbor and everything—it’s just a lot, so… so I know this past weekend we agreed to not do anything and I think it would be best to… keep not doing anything. Just for now. I shouldn’t have said it like that—I didn’t actually… mean to say it. I was gonna, um, find a way to bring it up more delicately.”

You clear your throat and look down to study the patterned tile, cheeks burning. 

By way of several nervous glances up at him and back down, you watch Spencer silently come to lean against the counter across from you, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Okay. Thank you for telling me. We’re not ever going to do anything you don’t want to do. But, out of curiosity… is this just because of your neighbor? Or because you maybe don’t feel ready yet?”

He’s asking gently, because he wants to know, and you know there’s no wrong answer. It’s still nerve-racking.  

“Um… like, a combination of the two, I guess. Mostly… the neighbor. I think. But I’m telling you this because…” and here comes the worst part. “I need you… to… hold me accountable.”

“For what?” He asks plainly, but you know what he sounds like when perfectly suppressing a smile. The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your face as you close your eyes and forge ahead in the name of open and honest communication—something the two of you are trying to work on.

“If I… come on to you… you have to turn me down.”

This is not getting any less embarrassing. 

“Should I anticipate you coming onto me?”

“Probably,” you sigh, looking at him through your lashes and bringing your hands to your cheeks, hoping maybe they’ll cool you down and poor circulation will work in your favor for once. “I know myself. You know me. I like… asking you for things. But for the rest of the week, if I do… you know, want something from you—you have to tell me no.”

Spencer nods slowly. “What if you genuinely change your mind?”

“I won’t. I might think I have, I might even tell you I have, but don’t believe me, okay? I don’t think straight when I’m turned on, and if we do anything, I’ll like it until fucking Jerry is pounding my door down the next day, and I just can’t deal with that.”

Spencer’s face goes completely void of expression to the point that if it weren’t for context clues you’d have no idea he’s probably imagining pistol-whipping the guy. 

“Has he knocked on your door?” 

Testosterone. 

“No. Back to my point. I’m trusting you to keep me in check so I don’t do anything I’ll… I’ll end up regretting. Not that I regret the other night!” You scramble just as Spencer’s brow begins to furrow. “I don’t. I just regret that my gross neighbor had to get involved. And I don’t want that to happen again. So… is that… is that okay? Will you do that for me?”

“Of course I will,” Spencer says gently, without hesitation as he pushes off the counter. “Can I ask a follow-up question?”

You nod and regard the space between you, unsure if you want to eliminate it or keep using it like a buffer. By not coming to you, he’s giving you the choice. 

“You said this was mostly because of your neighbor. But you didn’t sound sure. It’s fine if you aren’t feeling ready yet. I just want to make sure I know what’s going on with you.”

“I don’t really know,” you admit, after a brief pause. “I feel like… as long as I know he’s on the other side of the wall I wouldn’t even be able to wrap my head around how I actually feel. It’s also confusing because, like I was saying, I… just because I feel like I want something in the moment, doesn’t necessarily mean I’m actually ready for it, you know? I don’t even know if… I don’t even know what being ready again really means or would look like.”

“You did the other night.”

“Yeah, but that was different. Because now I’m gonna think I know what I’m getting myself into, but that’s not necessarily true.”

Another pause in which you chew your lip and look away. 

“I don’t want you to overthink it, honey. I think being ready just means you’re comfortable, and you’re with someone who’s going to keep you safe, and nobody’s pressuring you, and you’re not, you know—pressuring yourself. Wanting it is actually really important, too. But what I’m hearing right now is that even if you might want it, you’re not in a place that feels safe. And that makes sense to me. So we’re just not gonna do anything until that changes, okay?”

Eyes still cast downward, your lips twist into a sardonic little smile. 

“I feel like I’m talking to my therapist.”

He laughs with a single breath. 

“I really hope your therapist doesn’t speak to you like I do. The ethics there would be highly questionable.”

The joke refreshes your courage and you look back up at him, smile still edged with humor but mostly unspoken gratitude. 

The half-smile on Spencer’s face, however, is fading steadily as he studies you in flickering passes. Like there’s something still on his mind. You were hoping for a subtle invitation back into his arms, but the space between you remains—infused now with a tension as it becomes increasingly obvious. 

“Also… this trip we’re going on. I feel like I should say this—I don’t know if it was even on your mind, but… I don’t want you to feel pressured to have sex just because of the timing. Me inviting you on a last-minute trip to an isolated cabin—it’s not a master plan to get you to sleep with me again, I promise. I really just wanted us to be alone. Not—not that kind of alone—I mean, we’ll be alone, but it doesn’t have to be like that. I was just thinking about how nice it was for us to get those three nights together, you know, and the whole weekend too, and with my job, that’s not always going to happen, so it just seemed like a good opportunity—”

“Spencer,” you laugh, letting the tension snap like a rubber band as you go to him, slinging your arms over his shoulders, delighted to be the one doing the interrupting and not the flustered rambling, for a change. “I know you don’t have an ulterior motive. As for what kind of alone we’re going to be… we’ll figure that out, okay? Don’t worry about me. I don’t feel pressured by you. I never have. If anything, I’m the one who pressures you for sex.”

You’ve got him smiling once more, as his hands find your waist and his gaze flips from your mouth to your eyes and back again. It goes very subtly mischievous in a way you don’t quite trust, but he’s dipping his head to kiss you, and something tells you it’s going to be a good one, so when your nose bumps against his, and you can feel his breath on your lips, you’re not at all prepared for him to speak. 

“Begging is not the same as pressuring, sweet thing,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you so thoroughly you don’t even have time to be properly affronted. The offended gasp gets stuck in your throat, and melts into a tiny huff as it turns out the kiss is a very good one. You can’t think hard enough to be offended. Not even when he chuckles against you. 

“That’s not fair,” you mumble when he allows you a second to breathe. He hums, satisfying himself with kisses to your cheek and playing along. 

“What’s not fair?” 

“You… I was supposed to have the upper hand in that situation! You were the nervous one for once!”

Another hum, buzzing against your lips this time. 

“You have to learn how to take the upper hand, angel. I’ve had a lot of practice. It’s a big part of my job.”

Admittedly it’s hard to think when he talks like this, but you try. 

“So… you manipulate me? That’s not very romantic.”

He laughs quietly again. 

“No. I do not manipulate you.”

“You’re just a control freak,” you tease. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, immediately, still soft-spoken as he pulls back to carefully search your eyes. “Does that bother you?”

You search hands and knees for a crumb of outrage, for a hint of any of that strong feminist theory you’ve instilled into your brain over so many years. 

There’s nothing to be found. 

“No,” you admit, dejectedly, hanging your head as much as he’ll allow. “Should it?”

“Only if you don’t like it. When I take the upper hand like that, I’m really just… posing a yes or no question. So far, you lean towards saying yes. You let me win. But you don’t have to.”

“What happens if I… if I don’t let you win?”

He angles his head, coaxing you to look in his eyes once more. A hand comes up to swipe a dot of mascara from under your brow. He’s looking at you so serenely, like none of this is at all complicated. 

“Whatever you want. I wouldn’t be the one making the rules anymore.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

You laugh nervously. 

“That’s a lot of pressure. What if… I want you to keep making the rules? For forever?”

He kisses you again, insistently enough you have to tilt your head back. When he answers, it’s low, a promise, and pressed right against your waiting mouth. 

“Then I will.”

You loose a tremulous breath from your parted lips and you know he can feel it. He can feel how you’re clinging to his shirt, pressing yourself closer, how your skin has warmed and your breaths have hastened, he can probably taste how much you want him, how you’re already thinking about giving it all up for him—

And maybe that’s why he laughs dryly into your mouth before pulling away. 

Because he’s a good boyfriend. 

Spencer knits his brow and clears his throat as his hand slides down your arm, eyes narrowed like he’s wondering how things escalated so quickly. You certainly are. 

Suddenly he’s back to the nerd you met in a coffee shop all those months ago, and you like him like this, too. “So… dinner?” 

“Mhm. Yeah. We should… we should definitely eat. What do you wanna eat?”

You don’t miss the quick once over he gives you. Or the way his throat bobs once he tears his eyes away. 

“Um… how does Indian sound?”

You swear you don’t know how it happened. 

Everything was going fine—there was food on the coffee table, a show on the TV. Spencer made tea. It was wholesome. 

And then, somewhere between setting the plastic takeout bag down and actually opening it, you ended up like this. Kneeling next to him on the couch, one hand braced on his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as you kiss slow. Like this could actually be leading somewhere. 

“We should stop,” he reminds you, even as his hand traverses up your leg. You lean further into him—he has to tip his head back to meet your lips. 

“We’re kissing. It’s nothing.”

“You were—” kiss. “Just telling me—” kiss. “That you don’t want this right now.”

Deep kiss. The grip he has on your hip does not agree with his words. 

“This is just kissing. Kissing isn’t sex.”

Even as you’re saying it, you’re throwing your leg over his lap, landing in a straddle. 

“No,” he groans as if pained, throwing his head onto the back of the couch and depriving you of his mouth. “Baby. You have to get off. We can’t do this.”

“My bathroom—we could—it doesn’t share a wall with his apartment, we could go in there and turn on the shower and we could be really quiet—”

Suddenly there’s a hand over your mouth. It’s not yours. 

“Please stop before I say yes.”

You pull his hand away, fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

“You should. You should say yes. It’s a good idea, I know he wouldn’t be able to hear us over the shower—”

“It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that you asked me to turn you down not even an hour ago, no matter what you say, and I said I would.” He takes a shuddering deep breath. “And… I’m going to. I’m saying no.”

“No,” you whine, head falling to his shoulder, because you know he’ll keep his promise. He cups the back of your head—a kind, sympathetic gesture, which does nothing to alleviate the heat of your blood or the ache between your legs. You pout into his neck. “This is terrible. I might not survive.”

“I think you will.”

“Maybe if I enter a coma.”

He laughs and strokes your thigh. 

“There are worse things than sexual frustration.”

“Not right now. This is the worst thing I can imagine.”

“I’m so sorry. You poor thing.”

You pull back to face him, hands on his shoulders. 

“Oh my god. Don’t act like it’s not bothering you.”

“I’m not bothered.”

“I know that’s not true. You know how I can tell?”

The slightest adjustment of your hips draws attention to exactly what you mean. Spencer goes completely deadpan. 

“Stop,” he orders in monotone, and you laugh even you allow yourself to be tossed back onto the couch because you’ve successfully flustered him again. He puts a throw pillow over his lap and leans forward, hiding his blush beneath perfect hands with a tortured groan. “You’re terrible.”

The couch attempts to suck you in as you wriggle back from a lying position, propping yourself up on your elbows and grinning at him. 

“I did it,” you gloat. 

He angles his head toward you, revealing half a pretty face, still dusted red but now with all the markings of inquisition. 

“You did what?”

“I took the upper hand.”

Those dark eyes narrow and before you can think to retract your legs he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles, pulling them over his pillow and leaving you flat on your back once more. Again you giggle. 

“You took nothing,” he asserts, but you’re not bothered—still smiling as you accept your new position and toss your arms above your head casually. 

“Somebody’s a sore loser.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Eat your curry.”

“Sorry, I’m full. From, you know, the taste of victory.”

He exhales a dry chuckle, leaning forward to finally retrieve the containers of food. 

“I can’t believe I ever let you call me a nerd.”

The rest of the evening remains PG. Conversation flows and trickles comfortably over dinner on the couch, and afterwards, he suggests a documentary. From the outside, it might not look like much—but to you, with your head on his chest as the TV casts its flickering, ghostly light over the room, with the beating of his heart against your ear and his breath against the top of your head, it’s everything. Six months ago you didn’t know what it was to exist so comfortably around another person like this. Now, though he feels familiar and safe, you don’t take it for granted. The novelty of something so simple is not lost on you, and you feel like the luckiest girl in the world as your eyes begin to flutter. You’re lucky to have someone you feel completely safe with. 

Spencer murmurs your name like a question.  It buzzes against your ear. You hum in response. 

His thumb fans lines over your shoulder blade. “Can I ask you about something?”

“Mhm.”

“The other night… we didn’t really get a chance to—to debrief, afterwards. Which is fine, you were tired, it was late. But then the next morning I had to go, and everything with your neighbor happened, and we talked about that a little bit, but… but earlier, it sounded like maybe you… I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t feeling good about how it happened?”

“Spencer, I told you I don’t regret it,” you remind him, pushing up from his chest to look him in the eye. His hand slides down your back. 

“I know… I just wanted to give you another chance to talk about it. In case anything was on your mind.” He frets over your hair, an invisible speck on your skin. Like he’s nervous. “And I want to make sure you’re feeling okay about how it went. I know what happened the next day was an unfortunate addendum, and I’m sorry about that. As soon as you give me permission, I will have him arrested. But I don’t want that to overshadow your experience.”

“It’s… not,” you breathe, fiddling with a button on Spencer’s shirt. 

“So how did you feel about it? Barring anything external?”

“Good.”

Spencer strokes your jaw with a knuckle, gently admonishing. 

“Don’t just say that. Think about it.”

“I have,” you assure him immediately, cheeks warming as you realize just how swiftly you’d replied. 

What a lovely button. Mother-of-pearl. The shirt is a pale lilac. It looks good on him. One of your favorites, actually. 

Spencer lets you pick at it. He would probably let you pull the button off, tear every stitch on the shirt with a seam-ripper if it helped to soothe your nerves. 

“I’m not trying to embarrass you, or make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to go into explicit detail. I know it still feels weird to talk about. But it’s something we do have to talk about.”

“I know. And I would bring it up if something didn’t feel right. But it… was…” you chew your lip as you think of a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound too mushy-gushy. “Overwhelmingly… a very positive experience.”

“You sound like Yelp review,” Spencer says through a smile. You attempt to smother the continual heat of your embarrassment against his shirt. He’s seen you at your most vulnerable, more intimately than anyone ever has before. And you’re still shy about acknowledging that fact. 

“Shut up. Say something nice back.”

With a typically gentle hand, he pushes hair away from your ear. 

“I…” he begins meaningfully, taking a moment to sweep your hair over your back. “Feel incredibly grateful that you trusted me to take care of you. I know that’s big for you, and I know it can be a really scary thing. Mostly I’m happy you’re happy. And that I didn’t mess up irredeemably.”

“What would you have messed up?” You laugh, retreating from your shelter against his chest to knit your brow. 

He makes a face in the half-dark like he shouldn’t have said it. 

“Uh… that… veers into explicit detail… and possibly too much honesty.”

You laugh again and adjust to frame his sheepish smile between your hands. 

“I see. You have to keep your mystique in tact.”

“I really don’t think it’s that much of a mystery.”

“Well, I’ll spare your ego.”

“Wow, thanks. For the first time in your life.”

You go in for a chaste, smiley kiss, which stays sweet and kind even as it melts into something stickier. 

It comes to a turning point and Spencer inhales deeply, gently angling his head away and shifting to check his watch. You collapse on his chest, catching your breath. 

“I should go.”

“No. I feel like you’re going away to war.”

“I’m going to Court House. Where I live.”

“What if I never see you again?”

“It’s twenty minutes away. So you could always just drive.”

You frown. 

“I hope you get trench foot.”

“You know seventy seven thousand soldiers died from trench foot in World War Two?”

“Obviously I did not know that.”

“Well, next time you should just say you want me to die. Up.”

He pats the back of your thigh and you push off of him, only after considering trying to hold him hostage for a split second. 

You hover by the couch like a ghost, watching with increasing anxiety as he gathers together the empty containers from your meal and throws them in the kitchen garbage before collecting his things. 

There is one thing—one potentially difficult thing you haven’t mentioned to him that seems to be a direct consequence of finally sleeping together. 

You’re clingy. 

Clingier than you’ve ever been. It didn’t seem possible to want to be around him more than you already had, but now when he’s gone you feel his absence like a vacuous hole by your side. Without his warmth, you’re always a little colder. A little less comfortable. 

It’s embarrassing to admit that you’re starting to get separation anxiety, so you won’t put it into so many words—but you think, as he turns, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a knowing look, that he understands. 

At the same time, you begin to close the space, meeting gently in the middle, toe to toe. You keep your hands behind your back, afraid that otherwise you’ll try and glom onto him like a barnacle on a ship’s hull. 

“There are some things I’d like to get done this week so I don’t have to worry about them during our trip. So I might not see you for a day or two.”

Dutifully you nod, though you’re slightly crushed. 

“That’s okay. We’re grownups.”

“I don’t know,” he tuts. “I’m worried I’m gonna start writing my name with your last on all my notebooks.”

That stupid, stupid charm. 

“Mm… I’m kinda out of your league,” you grin. 

Spencer’s smile wanes slowly, but his eyes remain soft and aglow as they explore your face as reverently as his hands would. When he speaks, it’s in an honest, borderline whisper. “I’m acutely aware.”

Slowly his head dips, and your eyes flutter shut. A sweet, lingering kiss lands on your cheek. Then he’s pulling back. 

“That’s it?” You can’t help but ask, peering up at him and barely concealing a frown. 

He smiles that lovely smile, but by this point you’re attuned enough to his facial expressions to recognize the subtle heat playing just beneath the surface of those golden-oak eyes. 

“What? Did I give you the impression that I put out?”

“It’s just a kiss.”

That teasing edge becomes ever so slightly sharper as he regards you, head tilting. 

“Mhm. And the last time you said that—was it before or after you mounted me?”

You shoo him away pretty quickly after that—partly for discipline, and partly because the sooner he’s gone, the sooner you’ll go to sleep, and the sooner it will be tomorrow. 

And this trip can’t come soon enough, because you’re pretty sure you know exactly what kind of alone you’d like to be with Spencer Reid.