#it’s been a rocky eight years

[iamrheaspeaks]

I’m a year older today and I feel like I just took my first real breathe since my dad died.

Happy Birthday to me I guess.

[alexanderwales]

Everyone is born into a Genre, except for those poor souls who are destined to be side characters and bystanders, or occasionally taken hostage.

You were born to parents of different Genres, which was unthinkable a generation ago but now only raises a few judgmental eyebrows. Your father was a spy and your mother was a ninja, which is one of the more acceptable Genre pairings. There's crossover there, people understood it.

But when you were four, you first put on a cowboy hat, and it just felt right. Your parents were appalled. They didn't even know where the cowboy hat had come from.

You'd think, given the struggles they had in their own marriage and the prejudice they faced from the rest of the world, that they would be more understanding, but your father yanked the lasso you made from bedsheets away from you when you were eight years old, and your mother made you do throwing star drills in the family dojo for hours. You were horrible at it, and she blamed your father. Granted, you weren't any better at dodging laser tripwires.

Eventually you settled into dressing "normal". Dad and mom could pretend that it was a disguise, and it sort of was. Dad didn't wear his tuxedo everywhere, and mom only wore her shinobi shozoku when things were getting serious.

But then when you went to college you saw her, a coed walking across the quad in boots with spurs on them. Her blonde hair was in braids that stuck out from beneath her ten gallon hat. She was wearing chaps, and you followed after her like a puppy dog, trying not to be obvious about it but in retrospect being very obvious about it.

It was a rocky start. You made an awkward introduction, then she thought you were making fun of her when you started asking all kinds of questions. Western wasn't a popular Genre. It's time had come and gone. And even when she realized that you were serious, she was skittish, worried that you were interested for the wrong reasons, a Genre seeker.

Eventually she understood where you were coming from, that you were Western too, even if you didn't look like it, even if you didn't speak the language or have the skills.

One night, a week after you'd met, you asked her some innocuous question and she gave you a playful shove and called you a greenhorn. You felt your heart soar and a frission go across your skin. "Aw shucks," she said as you wiped away a happy tear, "Weren't nothin' but the truth."

From then on it was a blur of rodeos and saloons. You bought new clothes from the one general store they had in the city. You learned how to hogtie and cattle call. You ate beans around a campfire and then went to class the next day smelling like wood smoke and yearning for the wide open plains.

Going home felt itchy. It was too difficult to ignore how the clothes didn't feel quite right, and you wore flannel and jeans, on the edge of acceptability, flirting with the line. But you carried yourself differently too, and that was harder to disguise, especially since it was hard to remember the mask you'd been wearing.

One of these days you'll tell yours parents who you are, but there's a nagging feeling that they should have known all along, that they deprived you of a childhood that could have been happier if they hadn't tried to mold you into a version of them.

But until then, you'll guide your horse through town, moseying along, eating your vittles, and maybe with a cowgirl by your side.

[shaisuki]

some efforts

FEATURING. GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU

CONTENT WARNINGS. mentions of past abuse.

NOTES. got sidetracked by requests and i didn't really put up with this chap. apologies. i swear i only update when someone asks if i'm still continuing this fic.

SYNOPSIS. the awaited date and some memories ruins it for you.

chapters one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve

the bistro was filled with numerous chatters. coming from patrons and customers alike. conversations over good food and the small laughter coming from them. surrounded by the warm glow of the lights like sun rays but more subdued. hitting the wooden interior with its soft light. creating a more laid-back atmosphere where everyone can wine and dine.

you were still on guard. geto sees how you scanned the room more than twice. avoiding eye contact at him and twiddling your fingers in the smallest of manner. he knows you were still wary of him. a bully or a former bully. it sets a bitter taste to his tongue. the knowledge of being one of your tormentors and realizing it later in life how he deeply regretted for hurting you.

he's not his former self anymore. he tells to himself. this date where you reluctantly accepted after many times of convincing you. saying that he'll make up all the years of the misery he caused. proving to you that he's no longer that person who causes you tears and pain but is it when he sees you. sitting across from each other with your gaze who couldn't even look at him and your withdrawn hands not making it nearer to where his rests.

“look at me.” there's tinge of authority in his voice but gentle when he spoke to you. it was like coaxing you to go outside of your box. “can't we unless talk?” rich coming from him who can make you say the filthiest of words while he used to torment you.

“i guess.” you briefly muttered. gathering every nerve to your body to look at him and you die a little bit inside how similar his eyes to his. a complete copy of him but you shake the thoughts. it was just you and him. “thank you for taking me out here.” your eyes briefly landing at the small frame pinned at the door.

a bit distracted and intimidated. gripping your cup filled with tea to prevent from squirming to much. it's not like everyday your former bully would invite least asks you for date. you were reluctant of course but geto is persistent to get what he wants and it earned you.

he picks good. the place didn't scream high-end or some posh place that their menus didn't have a price and the bill ending up as a month's worth of salary.

a ghost of a smile etched in his face at your response. there it is. what he has been waiting for. geto can't help but to admire you. the same round face that used to look at him. there's the softness in it and something new. perhaps determination? he can guess but nonetheless it isn't the time to guess what you're made of now. you've changed just like he is.

before any of you can continue, the waiter arrived with the food you both ordered. placing the plates in front of you and bids you both to have a nice meal.

you began to eat. taking a spoonful of the food and chewing softly. surprised that you managed to work an appetite despite how guarded you feel around him. “you and gojo fucked me up, literally and metaphorically.” you paused in between bites before continuing. “but you two never made me feel bad about eating. i'm kind of glad for that.”

shrugging as you placed your utensils down. taking sip of your beverage. your relationship with food was kind of rocky around in the edges. you never ate in public. afraid of the stares and judgement that strangers give to you when eating and never in front of someone. let alone as cruel as gojo and geto. surprisingly they never made you feel bad about it and encouraged you to eat with them when they're particularly in a good mood. often going as far hand feeding you.

you didn't beat around the bush and geto applauded you for that. it often got you in trouble when you talked back and defy them when you won't do a particular thing they want you to. they were such an asshole to you. “you look happy when you eat. simple gestures like that is hard to come by.”

pouring the creamer in his cup of coffee and adding two sugar cubes. geto stirs it with a spoon. he finds you looking at it. his large hand dwarfing the cup and it was like a teacup rather than a coffee cup.

“is it?” pausing and trying to sink in what he said. somehow your lips curved into a smile. it was rather a pained one. “and you, gojo would take pleasure in hurting me afterwards.” now, you killed the mood. the food gone bland in your mouth. feeling like your eating nails. the memories came flooding and it just made you ache in places. a phantom pain.

putting down your utensils down. your appetite's lost. everything's heavy now just like it was in the first time.

geto freezes at your words. it was like a punch in his gut. you were still stuck at that time but you never made it seem like it affected you and you were doing it just to make thing seems right. for his own comfort.

a pang of guilt hits in his chest. seeing you hung your head low and blinking back the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. he hears you mutter an apology.

he stands up. grabbing the back of his chair and placing it besides you. “hey, it's fine. it was never your fault.” he says, holding your cheek in his hand and forcing you to look at him. “it's been years, sugu. why does it still hurt?” you asked him. peering through your blurred vision of tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. you could have pushed him. recoiled at his touch and when you leaned in. giving up to his touch — you asked yourself why? and you understand it. why some people come back even though they were hurt by the same person and you weren't any different from them cause the best comfort will always come to the one who had hurt you the most.

a stray tear rolls down your cheek. suguru was quick to wipe it with his thumb gentle. cradling your face in his one hand. he looks at you and there wasn't any emotion shown in his face except for the conflicting emotions inside him. pain? guilt? and new emotions he never felt mixes with it and the more he stays with you, the more he feels all of it.

geto wasn't anything remorseful for what he had done. he and gojo had their fun playing around with you and what happened after that night — you disappearing without a trace and shoko's warnings that they shouldn't interfere with your life anymore despite the circumstances that you were working for both of them.

he did fucked you up and reduced you to this mess. the younger him would relish over it but seeing your tear-stained face. he felt worst. everything since you came back is forced. always driving you to a corner and if he really wants to build his relationship with you again. he have to change and he's willing to make it.

the weather's warm. with the slight breeze of wind sweeping throughout the park. the scent of the sakura blossoms wafts in the open air. after that little breakdown of yours earlier. geto decided that you need a breath of fresh air and the park is where he took you.

both of you remained silent. you in the most part. embarrassed at the sudden burst of emotions and thinking that you ruined the supposed date. “i'm sorry.” you softly muttered. glancing at the man besides you.

strands of his hair danced along the rhythm of the wind. he only hums. slowly inching his hands towards you. holding your hands in his. “don't apologize.” reveling in the softness of your hands in his and suguru's mind drifts for a minute. marveling at the sight of your hand in his. if things were just normal and he pursued you in a much kinder approach — is this how you two will be? except for the part where he's the reason why you suffered at his hands.

“i shouldn't have said that.” meeting his gaze and you suddenly felt bothered. “you were making it up to me and i ruined it.” blinking and biting your lower lip in guilt. you should have never brought it up.

geto sighs. he swipes his thumb in your knuckles. the gesture sweet and intimate with gentleness in their touch. “you didn't ruin it. i should thank you for accepting that date. it was pleasant to talk to you about things.....” his words trailed off. referring to what happened three years ago.

you only nod.

“can we start again?” your former bully eyes widened at your suggestion. “no talks of the past and all? just us two adults as friends?” and you have that effect on him. geto isn't easily swayed. it was the opposite he's the one that should be doing this and here you are.

there is no need to know what was his answer. it was a yes. without hesitation.

it was hard to tear his gaze off away from you. despite the earlier dilemma of your sudden outburst everything was going fine after that. you were just eating but why do you look so alluring. your cheeks puffing up in a manner while you ate.

“is something the matter, sugu?” pausing to glance at him and he reached to wipe the cream in the corner of your lip before licking it off with his tongue. your face burns in embarrassment at what he had done before looking away. clutching the hem of your sweater and ignoring the sudden rise of your heartbeat. face warming at the gesture.

geto chuckles at your reaction. his eyes narrowing and his pupils dilating. it is known that there is still the attraction lingering in your body after all the years you're away from them. too used to their touch that your own responds without the will coming from you.

it's going to be sweeter this time pursuing you.

gojo was running impatient.

he has been waiting all day. wondering what happened to the date suguru had scored with you and he did get the full detail of it. geto smirks triumphantly in front of him and gojo felt an annoyance towards him.

“she won't even glance at me, suguru.” he sighs exasperated. running his hand in his hair out of frustration.

“she knows you're in a committed relationship. you're engaged and to sayuri. don't compare (y/n) to your ex-flings and sayuri. she won't do anything that would jeopardize a relationship because of her.” geto explains. he knows all of it. girls didn't care about the others when they really liked someone and when he got the gist of you working under satoru. he quite abandoned the thought of other women. fully commiting to you. trying to get back to your life and make you his.

gojo scoffs. “what's your plan, suguru?” his blue eyes glinting behind his glasses. there's been change of plans. he's not going to woo you anymore. he's going to pursue you.

“nothing really.” he lied. “i know (y/n)'s going to give in to me. anytime if i played my cards right. you should know we're not the only men in her life. we don't know what really happened to her life the last three years.” he didn't lie on that part. geto knows someone in your life is trying to also pursue you. one that you owed deeply.

his friend remained silent. taking a long sigh before going back to his desk. he can hear the cogs running in his brain right now. he's out of it and he just can focus to you and only you. he didn't need to drag his ass to gojo even it was planned from the start that they would have you.

guess he's not sharing you to him.

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[nataliasquote]

Double the trouble | Switch Up | n romanoff

Double the trouble AU

Summary: Yelena is back, the twins are older, and her scheming ways do nothing but backfire. a mother always knows…

Age: 8

Warnings: none

wc: 3.3k

note: hello! I’m back with another little oneshot for DTT. I’ve missed writing tbh and although this isn’t the best, I’m pleased to finally write. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting!

-⧗-

Leaving the twins with Yelena was either the best idea or the worst idea Natasha had ever had. But with Wanda away visiting her brother, Natasha didn’t really have much of a choice. Work didn’t allow her to take time off like this, so she turned to the next best thing.

The blonde was as grumpy as anything until she was faced with the two bundles of joy that were her nieces. She hated kids, but Isla and Y/n were an exception. She opened the door with a huge grin as the twins came barreling towards her, crouching barely over the threshold to collect them in a hug.

Natasha hovered back by the stairs with a soft smile tugging at her lips. Despite having a rocky patch, she truly loved Yelena with all her heart. And seeing her girls happy was all that mattered. She wished she could stay, but with new development plans happening at the studio, she had to oversee the final meeting.

“Are you staying all day?” Isla asked, peering round to look at Yelena’s truck parked in the driveway. “Where’s Fanny?”

“I’ll get her out in a minute, and yes I am, lucky duck.” The twins cheered at her response, their chatter tumbling over the top of each other as they bombarded their aunt with questions. Natasha quickly stepped in, taking them by the hand so Yelena could finally enter the house. After sending her girls over to the couch, Natasha pulled Yelena to one side, whispering in hushed voices.

“It shouldn’t take long, but in case I’m held back, there’s boxed mac and cheese in the cupboard and the girls made cookies last night so they’re in the green jar.”

“Mac and cheese, green jar, got it.”

“Please don’t give them too much sugar,” Natasha warned, knowing her sister’s tendencies, “and they have been arguing a lot, so good luck.” She didn’t really need to tell Yelena what to do, she’d babysat since they were really little, but it gave Natasha a piece of mind to know they were well looked after.

“Natasha, they’ll be fine. Don’t you trust me? Yelena asked with a grin.

“Absolutely not.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “So who’s the troublemaker this time?”

“Y/n has been in a mood for the past few days, so it’s currently her. Apparently Isla's existence annoys her.” As if on cue, a yell sounded from the living room and Natasha inwardly groaned. A moment of peace was never on the cards.

As she went to sort out whatever argument was occurring with her eight year olds, Yelena let Fanny out of the car and watched the Akita bound up the front steps, her tail wagging frantically. Any normal person would feel bad about the amount of hair she shed, but it only made Yelena laugh. She truly made every place her home.

The scene in the living room was absurd even for Yelena. Natasha was scolding a pouting Y/n whilst Isla cried in her arms, clutching something hidden behind her hair. Yelena hovered awkwardly, unsure how to approach, and Fanny did the same. It was almost like she could read the room.

Natasha, breathing a sigh of relief, gestured for Yelena to approach, to which she did. A sniffly Isla was pushed in her direction and the young girl lunged at her aunt, clinging to her waist with a sob.

“What happened?” Yelena mouthed, her eyebrows shooting up as Natasha held up what looked like a barbie doll. “Where’s the hair?”

“This one got scissor happy,” Natasha said exasperatedly, jabbing her thumb in Y/n’s direction.

“She stole my barbie!” Y/n protested, folding her arms across her chest in a huff.

“No!” Isla burst out,” that’s mine!”

“Well I don’t care, I was playing with it!”

“Get your own!”

Above their heads, Natasha gave Yelena a look. This is what she had been dealing with since Wanda left and although she hated leaving her kids, the bickering was starting to wear her down. It was Yelena’s turn to handle it for once. She just hoped the house would still be standing when she got back.

“Girls, please,” Natasha sighed, standing up with the barbie in her hand. “Mama has to go in a minute, and I’m not having you acting up for Yelena.” She used her stern mom voice and Y/n paled, hating being told off. “Y/n, can you apologise to Isla please.”

“No.”

Natasha may have a soft spot for her youngest but the glare that crossed her features made the little girl’s eyes well up and she hung her head in shame. “Y/n…” Natasha warned, knowing what came next if she didn’t start behaving.

“Sorry,” Y/n mumbled, suddenly very interested in the sleeve of her pink sweater.

“Good,” Natasha stated, brushing off the dog hair from her sleek black suit trousers. “I want you two on your best behaviour, and Yelena will tell me everything that happens. If I find out that you’ve been disrespectful and naughty, I will tell Mama. Okay?”

The girls mumbled in chorus, with Isla still clinging on to Yelena and Y/n standing by herself. It was just a phase, Natasha had to keep reminding herself that, but it certainly felt as though it was going to last forever. She wasn’t the bad mom, but Y/n’s behaviour had been so bad lately that not a day went by where she wasn’t being told off. It hurt her to see her daughter so upset, but Natasha stood strong. It was her own kindred spirit that she saw in Y/n, and now she understood why she was such a difficult child sometimes.

“We’re going to have fun, right guys?” Yelena asked with extravagant enthusiasm, although the responses she got were far from it. “You can go and do your boring adult stuff whilst the cool kids do… cool kid stuff.”

Natasha anxiously glanced at her kids, a wave of doubt washing over her. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I can cancel-”

“Natasha, go, I’ll be fine. They’re angels with me and I’ve got Fanny with me if it all goes wrong.”

The dog in question gave a small woof and Natasha eyed her warily, far more a cat person than a dog person. She wasn’t totally convinced, but motherhood had made her anxious so she straightened out her jacket and nodded, psyching herself up.

“I’ll be back by 5, 6 at the latest.”

“Have a good day Mama,” Y/n said quietly, trying desperately to get back on her good side. Having Wanda mad at her was bad enough, but having Natasha was the worst thing she could think of. And when her Mama crouched down and opened her arms, Y/n took her chance to get to the hug first, muttering another ‘sorry’ to try and make amends.

“Be good, girls. I’ll be home soon.”

‘Aunty Lena, does Mama hate me?” Y/n asked as the door closed. The blonde frowned and turned to her niece, her large green eyes piercing into the Russian’s soul.

“Of course not, little bug. But you have to start being nice to Isla, okay?”

“I know,” Y/n replied. “She just really makes me mad.”

“That’s what sisters do. Your mama and I used to fight all the time.”

Y/n’s eyes lit up. “You did?”

“It’s totally normal, little bug. When your mama had blue hair, I used to tease her about it all the time.”

Isla’s head perked up at that. “Mama had blue hair?”

“Has she never shown you pictures?” Yelena asked in disbelief. Both girls shook their heads and Yelena grinned. “I’ll make some hot chocolate and I can show you. Your grandma put all our photos as kids in an album.”

The twins cheered loudly and ran to the kitchen, laughing with each other. It was such a stark contrast to earlier that Yelena had to do a double take at what she was witnessing.

“I’m glad you’re not this much work,” she muttered to Fanny, who barked happily at the noise. Kids really were hard work.

~~~

“Lena, kick it!” Isla yelled across the garden, dancing around the goal whilst her aunt really took her time. She was doing it purely to mess with her niece, and it was working perfectly. With another yell, Isla sprinted out of the goal in an attempt to tackle, but Yelena took her chance and sent the ball flying into the goal with a thud.

“That’s not fair!” She cried, running over to retrieve it.

“Another point to Aunt Lena!” Y/n announced from her place at the side before launching into another back walkover. She’d only recently learned the skill at dance and was more than happy to do acro tricks whilst they played. As long as she kept score as promised.

“No! That doesn’t count,” Isla protested, one foot propped up on the ball. “She cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat, you just have no patience,” Yelena said sassily, propping a hand up on her hip. “You’re not going to make a very good goal keeper.”

“I hate soccer anyway,” Isla grumbled, kicking the ball as hard as she could in Yelena’s direction. “It sucks.”

“It’s only because you’re bad at it,” Y/n piped up, now sitting on the porch steps after exhausting herself from cartwheels.

“You’re worse!” Typical comeback but Yelena had had enough. With a roll of her eyes, she marched towards the goal, giving Isla a bump with her elbow as she walked past.

“New game, I’ll be in goal and you have to work together to score. Deal?”

Isla shook her head. “I’m not playing with her, she can’t even kick a ball!”

“I can too!” Y/n protested, sprinting up to her sister. “I’m better than you and I don’t even have lessons.”

“That’s so not true. You-”

“Guys!” Yelena shouted, her Russian accent thickly coating her words. “Do you ever stop this fighting? It’s so annoying!”

The twins went silent, an uncommon phenomenon. Y/n muttered something under her breath but Yelena didn’t have it in her to care anymore. Every time she babysat it made her more and more impressed at how Natasha did it. A true saint.

“New rules. You have to pass it to each other before trying to score. If you don’t, the point goes to me. Okay?”

“Fine!”

Surprisingly, very few fights broke out over the course of the game. Isla did most of the scoring after Y/n well and truly botched her tries. But in her defence, her legs weren’t made for kicking the shit out of a soccer ball.They were made for cartwheels, which Isla soon got fed up with.

After far too long outside, Yelena rounded them up and herded them back inside after teeth started chattering and Y/n’s soaked trouser legs from falling over were turning her lips slightly blue.

After a quick bath she sat them both on Isla’s bed and dug through her closet for some comfier clothes. After a few minutes she sat back on her knees, her mind racing.

“Do you guys match anymore?”

“Ew,” Isla said, her nose scrunching. “Never. All Y/n wears is pink, and I hate pink.”

“You also hate dresses too.”

Yelena was quiet for a moment, the cogs in her head turning. She turned around with a sheepish smile, almost shaking with excitement.

“I have an idea, but you need to cooperate… okay?”

~~~

Natasha sighed as she stepped out of her car, her breath forming a small cloud in front of her. It was far too cold for October and she rushed up the front steps to get inside. The building work was looking amazing and she knew Y/n was itching to get back to the studio just as much as she was (there was only so much kitchen ballet they could do).

It was eerily quiet as the front door opened, only her heels sounding on the wooden floor as she approached the kitchen. She wasn’t met with a pile of bodies throwing themselves at her, which was probably more strange than the silence. Had she trusted Yelena too much and her sister had kidnapped her children and ran off to Russia? Honestly it wasn’t such a surprising theory.

Empty kitchen… empty living room… this was weird. But the sound of giggles couldn’t be hidden and Natasha kicked off her heels at the bottom of the stairs and took the stairs two at a time, her trousers straining around her thigh muscles. Isla’s laugh was the most distinguishable and she pushed the door open slowly, trying not to startle anyone.

The wholesome sight of the three of them sitting on the floor surrounded by stuffed animals was enough to melt Natasha’s heart and she smiled softly, leaning on the doorframe waiting for someone to notice her. And strangely it wasn’t Y/n but Isla who jumped up first, almost stumbling over Fanny to get to her Mama with a shriek.

Natasha caught her daughter in her arms and pressed kisses all over her face, warmth flooding her body. She would never feel complete when she was away from her girls.

Y/n quickly joined in, wanting the same cuddles. Natasha crouched down and stroked their cheeks before pausing slightly, squinting. Something wasn’t right and Yelena’s overly wide grin didn’t help her suspicions either. She stroked Isla’s hair with a chuckle and straightened up, her back aching from bending down so much.

“Did you girls have a good day?” She asked, watching as Y/n settled back on the floor beside Fanny. “You both look happier than when I left.”

“We played soccer and beat Aunt Lena!” Y/n piped up. “I scored all the goals.”

“No, I helped too!”

Natasha didn’t miss the way Yelena nudged her nieces or how their eyes went as wide as saucers. But the redhead just chuckled and took a seat on Isla’s bed, her legs slightly aching from standing all day.

Isla stood in front of her, clearly torn with where to go. Natasha knew she wanted to sit on her knee but watched as she settled beside Yelena again. It was impressive, Natasha gave her that much. Very dedicated to the cause.

“You did? Well done baby. Have you behaved today?”

“They’ve been angels, sestra, as usual. It’s only you they are bad for.” Yelena had a shit eating grin and it took everything in Natasha not to launch a pillow at her head. But she could not condone aggression around her violent children anyway before Y/n got any more ideas.

“Is that right?”

“Mama you had blue hair!”

If looks could kill, Yelena would be well and truly dead. If there was one thing Natasha hated, it was pictures of her younger self. She made far too many questionable decisions and went through one too many boxes of hair dye, so seeing pictures was a no no. Not even Wanda had seen many. And now her daughters had seen the worst ones which she was never going to live down.

“Yelena Belova… what did you do.”

The blonde just shrugged and jumped up, causing Fanny to do the same. The queen of avoiding things. “Who wants Aunt Yelena’s special mac and cheese?”

The twins both cheered and raced out of the room after their aunt, leaving Natasha slightly bewildered in the blue and white room. There were times where Natasha convinced herself that Yelena wasn’t all that bad, and then she pulled stunts like this and put herself back on top of Natasha’s hit list. But that was never going to change.

“What else did you show my kids, Yelena?”

No reply. Typical.

Natasha truly was outnumbered when her sister was around. But then she remembered what was really going on and a small laugh escaped Natasha’s mouth. Adorable, really.

Y/n and Isla helped as much as they could to make dinner, including standing on a chair to stir the boiling noodles and dumping the cheese packets in when instructed. Natasha was banished to setting the table after Isla gave her a lecture about her inability to cook, clearly something else she’d picked up from Yelena. But Natasha yielded, setting the cutlery down with a shake of her head. The longer it went on for, the more she tried not to laugh. And the more slip ups she noticed.

Like how Isla wouldn’t stand on the chair because she was scared of heights, even though yesterday she climbed the largest tree in the backyard. And how Y/n stood still when waiting for her turn, when she’d usually be twirling around with her apron. Natasha could only watch as Yelena heavily emphasised their names and the twins burst into giggles whenever they answered her. It was adorable to see and she couldn’t wait to tell Wanda.

They ate in silence, which was usually the case when mac and cheese was involved. And the girls did very well, Natasha gave them that, until she pulled an admittedly evil move.

“How about cookies?” Yelena asked once plates were cleared and the table was wiped down.

“It sounds good to me,” Natasha agreed, grabbing the tin and sitting back at the table. “One each, you too Yelena. And Y/n, you know the rules. You got in trouble today so you don’t get a cookie.”

She slid the tin to Isla who happily reached in until a protest sounded from the girl next to her.

“That’s not fair! That’s my cookie!”

Isla had already shoved her cookie in her mouth at this point, the crumbs sticking to her cheeks and the front of her shirt. She grinned happily, thankful she agreed to Yelena’s scheming plot.

“Mama! That’s mine!”

Natasha shook her head. “No Y/n, those aren’t the rules, you know that.”

Isla smacked her palm against the tabletop. “I’m not Y/n! She is!” She pointed at her sister harshly, who was licking the crumbs from her fingertips. “We switched!”

“Isla!” Y/n whined, “You weren’t supposed to spoil it!”

“I’m not losing my cookie, give it to me!”

“No,” Y/n said with a grin. “Mama said you can’t have one, so you can’t.”

“I hate you!”

Natasha watched the scene unfold, with Yelena looking more and more concerned. The blonde turned to her sister for help, but was met with only a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“Do something!” Yelena hissed, but Natasha shook her head.

“Absolutely not,” Natasha said, leaning back in her chair. “It’s your mess, you fix it.”

“Tell her Aunt Lena!” Isla cried, tears threatening to spill. “Tell her I’m Isla! I’m not Y/n.”

Whilst Isla was nearing a breakdown, Y/n’s mean streak thickened. “These cookies really are good.”

“Mama please!”

Natasha rounded the table and placed a kiss on Isla’s forehead before passing her the biggest cookie from the tin. “Here baby, you’re okay,” she soothed, gently wiping her tears. “But your Aunt is an idiot. I did know it was you all along Isl’s, I’m sorry baby.” She picked her daughter up and set her on her lap, holding her close as she ate her cookie.

Yelena’s mouth fell open. “You knew?”

“From the moment ‘Isla’ ran to me first.” Yelena hit the table, muttering ‘dammit’ under her breath. “A mother always know, Yel. Always.”

[enhaheeseung]

Come back to me - L. HS

Pairing: heeseung X fem reader!

Warnings: mentions of smut, language, alcohol, verbal abuse, crying, heeseung is a very shitty husband.

WC: 2,274k

“My god, it’s my wife again,” heeseung sighed. He was just out trying to spend a “peaceful” night with his co workers, and here you are, blowing up his phone and spamming him about his whereabouts. “I have to go before she has a panic attack.”

“She has you so whipped,” his friend and coworker Jake says.

“We must all have the same wife,” Heeseung replies, making the rest of the guys laugh while he grabs his jacket and takes one last shot before leaving the bar.“See you guys tomorrow!” He waves to his table of friends before going home, and he dreads walking through the door and having to deal with your constant whining and complaining.

He takes a deep breath before entering his home, but nothing can prepare him for the nagging he faces as soon as he enters.

He didn’t even get to take his shoes off before you had already started motor mouthing him. “Oh my god,” he rubs his temples in frustration. He already had a headache from work, and now he has to listen to your high pitched whining.

“Where were you? Why didn’t you answer my calls? I was worried about you.” you walk over to him to greet him with a hug. You don’t mean to bombard him with questions, but you were worried sick. “Is that- is that alcohol? Have you been drinking?” You say after breaking the hug that he didn’t even bother returning.

“Yes baby, it’s alcohol,” he sighs and takes his coat and shoes off, loosening his tie while he looks at you, completely disinterested in what you have to say.

“Hee, were you drinking and dri-“

“Yes! Oh my fucking god!” he shouts, cutting you off. “I’m a grown fucking man. I can drink, I can drive, and I can definitely take care of myself. I don’t need you keeping fucking tabs on me 24/7. I’m not a child I’m your husband.” he brushes past you, heading straight for the fridge to get another beer cause the five he had at the bar weren’t quite enough to help him put up with you.

You stood there, completely shocked by what he said. You knew you could be a little over the top and overprotective of him, but you didn’t know that’s what he thought of you.

Making your way over to the kitchen, you parted your lips to apologize. “Please just don’t. I already have a headache, and I can’t do this with you right now.” You close your mouth and instead try to hug him as an apology, but he just pushes you away. “Can you get any more annoying?” He shakes his head, popping off the lid on his beer and drinking half the bottle.

To say you were hurt would be an understatement this had been going on for months, this strange behavior that your husband adopted seemingly out of nowhere. The first time you talked to him about it, he just told you he was stressed from work and had a few drinks. You thought that was the end of it, but more often than not, he’d come home late, reeking of alcohol and treating you like you had zero feelings. You weren’t trying to scold him or baby him. You were just worried about him, but obviously, he didn’t see it like that.

Things had been a little rocky in the marriage. Lately, he spent more time at work and less time at home. You two rarely talked anymore. More like he wouldn’t let you talk. Every time you tried to get him to open up, he just shut down, and now you were stressed out because now not only was your husband shutting you out, but he was treating you like absolute trash, and you couldn’t believe it the day you met him he wouldn’t have dared talked to you that way but the heeseung you married was apparently long gone and you can’t believe after five long years of a happy loving marriage it all just went to pot in the last eight months and you don’t even know where to begin to fix it cause now his rotten attitude was now rubbing off on you which is why you responded with. “I guess I wasn’t annoying in bed last night.”

He chuckles, taking another sip of his beer. “That’s right, cause your mouth was doing something useful instead of bitching”

You gasp from his foul language, and he has the nerve to laugh at your shocked face. “What is your problem? Why are you acting like such an asshole?” You say with tears welling in your eyes and a defeated tone.

“You’re my problem, and maybe I wouldn’t be “such an asshole,” he says with finger quotes. “if you weren’t such a needy bitch” he scoffs. “Like my god, give me a fucking break heeseung this heeseung that when do you ever just shut the fuck up?”

You looked at him for a solid minute, complete utter silence taking over the kitchen, and you know what, if that’s what he thought of you, then so be it. “F-fine, I won’t be your problem anymore.” you turn away from him, not before a few tears trickled down your cheek.

Once he noticed you crying, he kinda felt bad even though you were being so over dramatic. “Baby….” Heeseung sighed, walking after you and gripping your forearm.

“I’m not your baby, and don’t you dare fucking touch me!” You yanked your arm out of his grip and went to the bedroom, leaving him stunned in the hallway cause you never treated him like that before.

“Shit,” he mutters and plops down on the couch finishing a few more beers to give you some time to calm down cause he knew you were just overreacting and being emotional like you always are.

He quietly enters the bedroom a while later, stripping down to his underwear and slipping in the covers, attempting to put his arm around your waist, but you simply scooted away from him. Instead of him getting the hint, he scooted closer to you, trying to back hug you, but this time, you got out of bed, grabbing a pillow and a spare sheet to sleep on the couch. “Where are you going?” He whispers groggily. From all the alcohol he drank, you could literally smell him as soon as he entered the bed.

“The couch,” you respond, tone as cold as ice.

“Fine, be a cunt, then see if I fucking care” he turns around in the bed, throwing the blankets over his shoulder and pretending that he was alright with you ignoring his touch and sleeping on the couch.

You just shook your head back and forth and left without another thought, going to sleep on the couch cold, sad, hurt, and alone.

In the morning, heeseung felt like shit. When he woke up, his head was pounding, and his muscles were sore from all the hours he’d been working. “Morning bab-“ he stopped when he remembered the fight you guys had last night, and that just made his head throb even harder than it already was.

After getting ready for work, he came out of the bedroom expecting breakfast, but you were still asleep on the couch. It looks like you slept a little bit more soundly without him than he did without you. He was literally tossing and turning all night.

He quickly kissed your forehead before leaving for work.

By the time you woke up, it was five in the afternoon, and that was the perfect time. Heeseung wouldn’t be home till eleven, and you’d be done packing far earlier than that.

You’d be lying if you said getting a divorce hasn’t been on your mind, but you gave it a couple of months to see if things would get any better between the two of you. But sadly, it didn’t, and divorce sounded like the only option. heeseung wasn’t communicating with you, and the past few months were eating you alive. If you stayed much longer, you probably would have lost yourself even more than you already have.

You gave up on dressing nice. What was the point when your man wouldn’t even take you out of the house you barely cleaned cause you just didn’t have the energy to, showering happened every other day, and you always felt useless cause your husband was struggling and you couldn’t help him the only thing that seemed to make him feel better was having you at night but even in bed he wasn’t the same he was more demanding always concerned about his pleasure and not yours which was a turn off for you.

But luckily, that was all going to end. After tonight, it would finally be over. You were freeing yourself from eight long months of abuse.

Once you finished packing, you stood on his side of the bedroom, a single tear leaving your eye as you slipped off your beautiful wedding ring and placed it on top of the divorce papers that you had already signed.

You left sooner than later because the longer you stayed, the more it was going to hurt, and you’ve been hurting for far too long already.

Heeseung was at the bar again, drowning himself in beer after beer and shot after shot, trying to forget the argument he had with you, but nothing was working.

He kept checking his phone every other minute, keeping an eye out to see if you sent him a text cause if you did, he was gonna respond right away and head straight home, so you wouldn’t have to worry about him being stupid for the countless night in a row yet a text never came, and he figured you must be really really upset with him this time.

“Is that your wife?” Jake asked, noticing him checking his phone every few minutes.

“No, actually,” he dryly chuckled, his thumb hovering over the power button on his phone. He turned it on and unlocked it, sifting through all his messages, and still not a single one from you. And now he was starting to get worried because this wasn’t like you. He should have at least ten missed calls and twenty different texts by now cause it was past midnight, and that’s always when you really started to spam him.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be at it soon enough.” his friend Jay pours him another drink, one that he doesn’t bother touching cause he’s still too focused on his phone, waiting to hear from you. “Ugh,” Jake sighed, a ding going off on his phone. “If it’s not one, it’s the other, am I right? Jake laughs, responding to his wife, telling her he’d be home soon and not to worry cause he’s with friends.

“Yeah,” heeseung mumbled and fake laughed if he was being honest. He was a little envious of Jake cause at least his wife was texting him.

Heeseung repeated his previous actions, checking for a new message, but he still had zero notifications. “You know, I think I’m gonna head home for the night.”

“What? It’s still early, though,” Jay complains.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I’ll see you tomorrow.” he drops a fifty on the table, quickly grabs his jacket, and jogs to his car. Something somewhere deep inside him was telling him that there was something wrong, and if anything like a break in or something bad happened to you cause he was out at the bar, he swears he’d never forgive himself.

Speeding down the street, he tries calling you, but no answer, which makes him even more worried. “Fuck! Baby, please be okay.” he feels himself on the verge of tears as he runs multiple red lights to get home to you. Most people might think he’s overreacting, but you never missed a call from him ever, not in your whole five years of marriage.

His heart drops when he finally arrives and sees your car no longer in the driveway. “Baby,” he mutters and unfastens his belt. Jogging up the porch, he quickly inserted his house key, and when he comprehended what he saw when he entered, it shattered his heart. It was almost as bad as a break in your stuff nowhere to be found, your shoes gone, all your little ornaments and decorations completely wiped out. “What’s this?” He says after entering the bedroom and, his heart felt like it stopped when he saw your wedding ring on his nightstand, accompanied by divorce papers. “No,” he shakes his head in denial, slowly backing away from the nightstand until his back hits the wall. “No,” he whimpers, sliding down the length of the bedroom wall. “Baby, no,” he whispers to himself, not wanting to believe what he was seeing. He knew he could be an asshole sometimes, but he never thought you would ever divorce him. “I’m so sorry,” he cries, running his thumb over the diamond on your ring. And right now, he’d rewind time just to hear your back to back questions when he came through the door. He’d never touch alcohol ever again if it meant he got to feel your welcoming hugs, and if he had just one more chance, he’d treat you the way you deserve.

He sniffs, wiping his tears and reaching for his phone, dialing your number only for it to go straight to voicemail.

He drops the phone at his side, staring off into space as tears roll down his cheeks. “Baby, I’m sorry. Please come back to me.”

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Thanks for reading likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated sorry for any typos or errors I hope you all have a good day/night♥️

[unholyhelbig]

I just want to say I'm already hooked on the beast you made me. I can't wait for the next chapter!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 2/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 5151

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, fatal injuries, animal bones, mentions of death, containment, and horrible grammar because I don't proofread

[a/n: Thank you all for the overwelming support on the first chapter! I truly didn't expect that much reception. I'm going to be traveling for the next week so the next chapter might be delayed a bit]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

1917, Rural Pennsylvania

A sweeping river cut through the patch of sweetgrass on the south side of the farm. It emitted a gurgling sound that often soothed your nerves. There was a rocky clearing sandwiched between the tree line and the plain of grass that had become a perfect spot for you to settle in and read the hard-covered books you’d gotten from the corner store.

Your father would bring back any book you requested from the city during his travels. You devoured them faster than he could provide them and had read ‘Eight Cousins’ ,Lousia May Alcott’s foray into the adventures thirteen-year-old Rose, enough to nearly tear the pages from the binding.

The book itself held the clean honeyed scent of the earth, of the secluded spot that you called your own. Your muscles would thrum from loading the bales of hay into your fathers ford. Your fingers were calloused, and dirt caked around your ankle in a dark ring. All of that vanished when you cracked open the book about a girl that was so much like yourself.

It was easy to lose yourself in the paragraphs, the hum of the river sometimes lulling you to sleep. Your mother would pack you a sandwich on warm, hand-kneaded bread, usually some salted meat and mayonnaise. She’d pack sweet tea and send you on your way, knowing that you wouldn’t return to the house until you saw a flicker of a firefly.

Today, you’d fallen asleep under the sun. The book was discarded, and your forearm draped across your eyes. It was easy to drift, and easier still to dream about leaving the small dairy farm for something bigger- the very city that your father would return from with new literature and arts, and spices that made your mouth buzz with flavor.

You were in a haze when the ear-piercing scream cut through the air as if it were a natural solid. Your ears pinched at the sound, heels digging into the coarse sandy shore. Maybe it was a dream. It could have been an animal that had sunk its pointed teeth into the artery of another.

So, you waited, panting with your heart in your chest and the corner of the book barely lapped by the muddied water. And there was this sound. It was no fox caught in a trap or bovine tangled up in the barbed wire fence around the property- no, this was familiar. This was your sister.

Helena was quiet, often described as demure and borderline submissive. Despite being younger than yourself she carried a certain poise about her. Mother would often boast about how she would have no trouble finding a husband, how the boys already fawned over the child of hers that was not feral and unkempt.

Her cry was the loudest you had ever heard her and it had you on your feet, scrambling up the bank. Once past your small world of wonder, you were greeted with an endless sea of sweetgrass that was waist high in some areas.

A warm breeze created waves against the landscape, the farmhouse a small speck among the expanse of land. Your head was spinning, it was hard to track exactly where it had come from. It took another cracking screech to set you North.

Your legs pumped until you were consumed in a blind speed. You’d been renowned for your quickness, for your dedication to get from point A to point B. The kids in your town often joked that you were steadier than a steed. Not only were you the fastest in the class, but the fastest in the county according to some. Still- only a child of fifteen, and no man would want to wed someone with speed. It wasn’t a practical skill.

There was a pit deep in your stomach whirled, instinct knowing precisely where Helena was yowling from.

Jorge had gotten there at the same time you did; his brow was leaking with sweat and he panted against the hot air that surrounded you both. Your older brother was tall and lanky, serpent-like with beady black eyes and pitch hair to match your father’s. His shirt hung low against his midsection, his skin pale despite his hours in the sun working the fields.

“Stay back, y/n.” He demanded sharply.

The old well was a mere foot in front of you both but neither made the effort to move forward. The aged wooden plank that covered the stone shaft had been splintered through the middle, worn from age and weather.

Helena’s soft cries echoed up. When your father had first acquired the property, the previous owners explained that it had been boarded up after of the bulls had fallen down and snapped it’s neck. It was too large to pull out and they left it to starve and then rot.

Your father never let any of his children peer down into the well. You wondered if something had pulled Helena here, or if she had simply forgotten of it’s existence. Jorge dropped down to his knees and did a cautious crawl as if his own two feet couldn’t’ hold him anymore.

You saw the exact moment his skin became waxier, almost a gray porcelain paleness that had a green tint. He was swallowing too much, his white shirt coated in the red clay dirt.

“What?” You asked, voice breaking “What is it?”

“Go get Mama.”

It would have been easy to listen to your brother. He was the man of the house when your father wasn’t there but with him pleading for your mother, for an adult, you got a rancid taste in your mouth.

Against your better judgement you edged close enough to the abandoned well. The sun was setting in a fire-filled orange haze with enough color and angle to get a good view of the bottom; a slosh of fallen grass and rainwater, and muck, and yes; the bones of a beast once left to decay and rot in its own silence.

Your sister was wedged within the ribcage of the befallen bull, almost as if she replaced the beating heart that stopped pulsing long ago. Her hands gripped at the sun-bleached bone, knuckles nearly the same color.

It took you a moment to make out the slick, and the red that stemmed from the center of her stomach. The head of the bull had shattered under her weight, all expect the stretching length of it’s curved horn. That was wedged through her abdomen, surrounded in a vibrant rose red that puddled and had already coated her hands.

Prints from her struggle were against the limestone edges of the well. Her eyes pleaded up at you; your kind and caring, and animal-loving sister was trapped inside the remains of one. You fought back the urge to vomit, the rash thought that if the bone ripping through her flesh didn’t kill her, then infection would.

“Y/n get mama!” Jorge hissed again, and this time you didn’t hesitate. You nearly tripped over your own boots with the fever it took to back away from the scene, the metallic scent of blood mixing deliciously with the turn of rotted soil.

You had never run so fast in your life.

Wanda Maximoff had never felt the cold that wormed its way to her bones before. It was the type of cold that almost wasn’t, a stinging, horrible feeling that had her startled from the folded metal chair. It collapsed within itself as the blinked the wine-dark color from her eyes.

She stumbled backward, only to be brought back to the starkness of the room by a soft grip on her elbow. Wanda allowed herself to be held, if not for stability but for comfort. Steve Rodgers had a welcoming hand on the small of her back, the other steadying her.

He was a solid force, and her reaction stirred him.

“Fuck,” the expletive fell from her lips, “Jesus Christ.”

There was quietness to the room in the aftershock of the fallen chair. It was nicer than a standard holding cell. The walls were cream colored, triple enforced to keep people like you inside. There was a bed bolted to the wall, a bunk that was almost like a summer camp endeavor.

A charged glass wall was blocking you from the rest of the world. It was seemingly unbreakable, and in this moment, so were you. Wanda didn’t want to test the glass, nor did she know how to make sense of the memories- your memories- that had flooded every inch of her body.

You were asleep, chest rising and falling at a normal pace, as if none of what Wanda had just seen was flitting around your mind. Soft snores pushed past your lips, one arm hanging over the side of the bed while the other followed the flow of your breathing as it rested on your chest.

Wanda didn’t understand the secrecy and the precaution that surrounded you. The Avengers compound was a constant ebb and flow of different heroes, Inhumans and mutants. What made you so different? What made you an 0-8-4?

It was a term that Natasha had used only once that was usually attached to objects, not a person. It was an object of unknown origin and in that case, it was a power-filled object from space. Space. She’d been through different dimensions, but that, for some reason, struck her as terrifying.

0-8-4’s were never brought here, but then again, they’d never been alive either. Steve had told her that your energy signal was off the charts, and that they wanted her to dig around your head. Something that she denied doing at first. It was an invasion of privacy.

But, there was a certain pleading within Captain America’s eyes that scared Wanda more than the personal rules she set for herself when it came to her power. What she had seen, what she had felt was barely scraping the surface of what your mind contained. She wasn’t keen on pushing past that barrier for the conclusion of that story. Was it even yours?

“What? Wanda, what is it?”

“I… I don’t” She shook her head, eyes hardening as she stared into Steve’s “Where did you find her?”

He hesitated to answer, his eyebrows furrowing before he looked away from the witches’ prying eyes. She’d been part of this team for years now and they were still reluctant with what they were willing to share. Wanda clenched her jaw, then unclenched it before her stare flashed back to your resting form.

There was a small frown that creased your features. You looked so… harmless. You had shifted, folded into yourself as if you were scratching the surface of what flashed before her. Your arm was folded under your head, knees flush to your chest. A small, beautiful whimper escaped you.

“She’s in distress, Steve.”

“Discomfort, more like. It’s better for all of us that she stays in there for right now. The last thing we want to do is harm anyone but if that requires some temporary-“

“Imprisonment?”

“Containment.” He said firmly, eyes hard. Wanda crossed her arms over her chest but stayed silent, letting him continue. She was sure she wouldn’t have been asked if not for her ability to worm her way into minds, to rearrange things. “What did you see?”

“A memory, one that can’t possibly be hers. The timeline doesn’t fit, this is a woman in her mid-twenties and who I saw was barely a teenager on a farmstead. To experience that much tragedy, that much fear and heartache.”

She started to pace, trying to not only work through her own thoughts, but yours as well. It could have been a story, and she was convinced of the fact save for the vividness. There was the feeling of grass tickling her arms and the sharp, undeniable stench of blood.

“Her younger sister died, fell through some rotted wood and fell to her death.” Wanda’s fingers pressed against the edge of her hairline. “She could have lived, but I have my doubts.”

He lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at her. His expression betrayed his compassion towards you, his stance uncomfortable with the topic. While the revelation was heartbreaking it hardly made you extraordinary. They’d all lost people, none had stirred Wanda as you did.

Wanda’s stare found his after darting to you once more, “Steve, I have the sinking feeling that what I saw was only scratching the surface. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of memories that were pressing in on all sides.”

The sensation of being observed is what pulled you from your fitful sleep. Exhaustion had washed over you like a tidal wave, all at once and leaving your mouth dry like a spoonful of salt. There was a stiffness that rivaled that of the grave you’d crawled out of, and you hoped that it was all a dream.

You were in your bed, in your apartment, after having one too many drinks. It was a horrible stretching nightmare that had plunged you into one sea of darkness from another. But even you weren’t that naïve.

Just as you felt a stranger’s eyes on you now, you had felt the dirt under your nails, the cold sodium-filled takeout as you attempted to chew it. More than anything, you remembered the burning feeling of the Black Widow pressed fully against your back, bending you over Jenn’s kitchen counter.  

“I would prefer if you kept the feeling of my wife’s body against yours out of your mind.”

You shot up with a dizzying amount of quickness, heart suddenly in your chest. There was an imbalance to the bed that you were laying on. It was smaller than your own and unfamiliar. The room was stark white. It hurt your eyes and you had to blink the color away. You pressed the heels of your palms close to your eyes.

It felt as if you were locked in a glass shower with an audience and stage lights. The more you looked, the more you realized it was a room, something with no personal effects but a bed and a dimmer switch that you itched to utilize.

A pitcher of water was on an end table. It wasn’t color exactly, but it was more than the rest of your surroundings. Possibly with the worst manners you’d ever exhibited, you drank straight from the pitcher, not remembering the last time you had a drink. Suddenly, you were parched enough to soak your collar.

Despite your audience, you continued until you felt your stomach protest. You used the back of your hand to wipe away the moisture, black dirt was smeared across your skin. It was then, and only then, that you forced yourself to look past the walls of your prison, your enclosure.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” The woman said, walking close to the glass. You could see her clearly now, there was an heir of recognition about her, in the same way that there had been with the Black Widow.

“You were in my head.”

“For a while. It’s my job. But your thoughts are also deafening.”

“Sorry,”

This woman was intoxicating. Alluring and beautiful in her presence. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt hugging her form. You weren’t positive what time it was- what day it was- but it could be late into the night. She looked like she was roused from sleep, and a part of you felt guilty for the fact.

“Don’t apologize, sweetie.” Her voice was much more tender than it had been a few moments ago. “You can’t control being brought back from the dead. A lot of trauma comes with that.”

You stood shakily and walked closer to the glass. They’d taken your shoes and the tile under your feet was frigid. You crossed your arms over your chest and shivered into yourself. You didn’t want to think about the fact that they had undressed you, probably taken your clothes for testing. Instead they left you in a blue set of scrubs.

You averted your stare from your own reflection, not willing or ready to look too hard. You’d much rather look at this stranger, your heart not slowing, your head pounding. Nothing but a simple pane of glass separated you.

“And I was brought back from the dead, wasn’t I? That wasn’t a fucked-up dream where I got hit by a car and then poof God, if there is one, decided that me of all people was worth bringing back.”

She lilted her head, quirked an amusing brow at you. A chill flushed down your spine and seemed to fizzle out at your toes. This woman was gorgeous and terrifying and made you want to squirm. But if this was prison, you had to assert dominance. Right? That’s what Wentworth taught you.

This cell didn’t look or feel like Wentworth, and this Warden had an amused smile tacked to her lips like she had heard your every thought. And she had. At least you assumed that she did. She’d mentioned her wife earlier, and the woman’s body against your own was plaguing you like a runaway freight train.

When she didn’t say anything, you clawed to fill the silence “I want to talk to Bruce.”

“Bruce? Honey, he’s off world.”

“Off… world.” You laughed, softly at first but then almost manically, tears forming in your eyes that you wiped away with your cold fingers. “No, no, that’s really cool. I worked a 9-5 and now I can’t talk to Bruce because he’s in Outer Space.”

“Maybe not outer space, maybe another dimension.”

You leveled her with a humorless glare. She had both of her hands up as if she wanted to comfort you, or the caged animal you had become. You had to give her credit, she seemed just as horrified as you were. She offered up a dim, faltering smile.

There wasn’t a way for you to process this in a gentle manner, there was no one to guide you through it other than Jenn. She’d done this before, lived a whole life that was flipped upside-down and she’d come out on the other side. It was the uncertainty that scared the hell out of you.

“You were in my head earlier,” You stopped suddenly, pressing your fingers against the glass. The woman didn’t flinch. Your frantic breath fogged with each exhalation. “Do you know why I came back?”

She shook her head, “No. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” A weak chuckle, you let your hands drop. “At least we’re on the same page.”

The nurse they allowed to enter through the side of the containment unit took cautious steps towards you that made your chest ache. All your life, people had said how welcoming and kind you were; how they were never afraid to come to you with their worries. It had bothered you before the incident, before your death, but now you missed seeing the stare of those who didn’t harbor any fear.

She was small, a mouse of a thing that had pale blonde hair and startling blue eyes. Her name tag read Julia. Your mind rushed with the paths she’d taken to this place. She must be interning here, much too young to hold a classification herself.

Your finger twitched on your knee, palm sweaty. It’s heat radiated through the thin blue fabric of the pants they’d provided you with. You hated needles, always had. But, you struggled to stay still and the effect that had on poor nurse Julia was making you fidget more.

There was a scent about her. It was under the layers of hairspray, nail polish, and shea butter. It was a sweet metal that made your stomach swirl. Was it her sweat? You’d never smelt anything past walking by the bomb that was the boys locker room, and it certainly had never been this tantalizing before.

Your eyes met hers, crystal blue and uncertain. “You’ll just feel a little pinch”

This is when you pulled your gaze back and instead focused on the cream colored walls. There was no problem with needles, you’d dutifully sit for your flu shots, but something about the sharp edge pushing through a layer of skin and fat before hitting your vein made you nauseous.

“We just need enough to run a few tests.” Julia soothed.

She was a normal nurse in that one, small way. Your mind was itching, blood seeming to congeal. It refused to cooperate and her burning touch was all but dominant against your skin. You both waited for the small tube to fill with black liquid. 

Finally, you felt her press the gauze against the crook of your arm and withdraw the needle. Another small pinch and then a massive relief. Her smell hung around you and filled the room. There was an undeniable urge to sink your teeth into her. To taste her.

You’d stopped the elevator just hours before to assess your penchant for brain consumption, but this wasn’t that. This was an intoxicating pull. This was animalistic, the same rush of emotion that had flooded you without prompting during your earlier conversation.

Julia squeezed your shoulder calmly, not entirely over her own reservations, but on the penance that she was a nurse and this was her job. You kept yourself rooted to the bed, fingers digging into the wood. She left the room and you could hear the compressed lock reseal you inside, breathing a sigh of relief.

That sweet odor lingered, and your reaction to it scared you more than anything. The wood beneath your fingertips splintered, and suddenly that anger, that fear, rolled away to shock. That wasn’t… normal. None of this was normal, but you weren’t exactly picked first in sports either.

You were a middle kid, a I guess I wouldn’t mind having you on my team kid. Suddenly your fingers were cutting through wood like it was butter. You let out an indignant squeak and shifted the blanket until the slashes were covered.

“Is everything alright?”

Wanda, you had learned that her name was Wanda, occupied her usual spot in front of the window. A slick sweat covered your forehead. She was holding a small tray that had a steaming bowl of soup and a delicious hunk of French bread.

“I figured you were hungry,” She lifted her chin towards the panel next to your door. “May I?”

“I’m at your mercy.”

And you were, truly. You hadn’t seen anyone but her since you’d woken up. There were shadows of others, people that made the pit in the center of your stomach grow three sizes. You knew exactly what they were doing, you watched enough true crime with Jennifer to know.

Here was this beautiful and powerful woman offering you food and words of comfort, and you allowed yourself to fall for all of it. Listlessly. Because what did you have to lose? You’d already died, and the thought of putting your family through the heartache of resurrection and then possibly enough committal to the ground was too much.

So, let her Stockholm syndrome you. The food smelled divine.

Wanda didn’t hold the same fear that Julia had. In fact, once the compression of air signified that it was okay for her to enter, she did so without hesitation. She set the food down on the equally dull side table and lowered herself onto the corner of the bed, making herself at home.

She’d changed into a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt that had the outline of SHIELD on its sleeve. You frowned, for a company that does everything in its power to keep itself hidden, they sure loved that stupid bird so much.

“Go on, sweetie. You can eat.”

Wanda had a command about her that made you fold and listen despite any reservations. You took up a spot on the far end of the bed and shoveled the first spoonful into your mouth. An explosion of heady flavors coated your tongue, coaxing a low moan from your lips.

Blush rushed to your cheeks at the spark in the set of stormy eyes that watched you like a hawk. You rushed to break the tension. “So, what’s the plan here? Run a bunch of tests and keep me locked up?”

“Somewhat.” She paused, carefully thinking of her next words. “Y/n, I have the ability to get inside the psyche. Not only can I read every thought, every action, but I can control them too. It’s not something I like to do, nor something I want to. Not without permission.”

You frowned again. You certainly hadn’t given her permission to enter your mind before, and she tensed at the realization. But, you took another bite of soup and swallowed down the spiced broth. What’s done was done. You didn’t expect her to ask, much less admit to her wrongdoing.

“I prefer to ask. Can you tell me what you do for work?”

“Paralegal, the bar seemed like too much stress. But I’m good at my job. I was good at my job before a car turned me into sidewalk art.”

“Right, and your family, what about them?”

There was no desire to think of them and their perfect lives that you’d shattered with your death. Your mother used to sit in the tepid air on the porch swing, downing a glass of wine before she turned to you with tears in her eyes. She’d urge you to be careful working in the city. She’d plead for you to come home. More than anything, she’d utter the phrase a mother should never outlive her daughter.

“My mother is a seventh grade biology teacher and my father runs a painting business that’s been operating my whole life. They’re not very exciting people. They must be worried sick about me.”

Wanda nodded, “Any siblings?”

“Not anymore.”

She stilled at your words and didn’t pry. You were well aware of the fact that she could push through your deflections and learn the information that she wanted to know. But, you respected that she didn’t. Instead, she stared at you, and you stared right back, suddenly not hungry.

Wanda was someone that you felt the need to open-up to. Unlike the brief encounter you had had with her wife. Not that you let that word stick with you, not in the same way that her touch did. Again, you had to push the thoughts to the back of your mind, even if Wanda wasn’t prying.

Instead, she placed a warm hand on your thigh, sending a wave of shivers through your body. You suppressed a whimper at the sudden contact.

“I had a brother named Pietro. He was fast, unnaturally so. Neither of us ever wanted to be heroes, we didn’t think about the future like that. So, when the Avengers, these so-called saviors of the world, recruited us, we knew about the dangers. But it still shocked me when he died. He was my brother. He wasn’t supposed to be fragile like that.”

You stared at her with an amount of tenderness in your eyes that she wasn’t used to from the others. They cared, sure, but in the way that a co-worker would care enough to purchase cut flowers and a ‘sorry for your loss’ card. You were different.

“They’re our protectors.” You swallowed hard, mouth dry “when something drastic happens, it doesn’t seem real.”

“It still doesn’t.”

There was a lapse of silence that pushed memories in your direction. The burning cold weather on the day your own brother had died. You remember the scream that died in your throat and the way you’d knelt in the cracked snow until you couldn’t’ feel your legs or your fingers. It took an EMT with a heated blanket and a horror story about hypothermia to pull you to your feet.

“Jonathan.” You whispered.

She let out a questioning hum, pulling her feet from the floor and making herself more comfortable on the less-than-comfortable bed. “Your brother?”

“My older brother. I followed him around like a lost puppy, but he never complained. He was a hockey player and a damn good one too. He’d use the lake behind our house in Jersey to practice and one winter the ice broke underneath him. He drowned, and I was too weak to save him.”

Wanda let out a shuddered breath. You couldn’t read her facial expression. It was a mix of confusion, or sadness, but not pity and that was something you appreciated. You’d had enough pity, just as your family had enough grief without you adding to it.

She opened her mouth to reply, but both of you were startled when three quick knocks shattered the silence. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, stood on the other side. She showed no interest in breeching the containment unit. Instead, she leveled her wife with a dark stare and held up a folded piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” Wanda whispered, giving your leg a settling squeeze.

She left the plate and exited the holding cell. Her words were muffled, but those unripe green eyes that Natasha possessed kept flicking to you nervously. She too, didn’t’ show pity. It was interest and if you were being honest, you thought you saw the smallest spark of fear.

Wanda took the paper from her wife, squinted at something you couldn’t’ see. You felt like you were at a parent teacher conference, just out of bounds of hearing but you could see their body language; the way that Natasha itched to move closer to Wanda, the fingers that the taller woman pressed to her lips, thumb creasing the paper.

Finally, Wanda turned back towards the glass. Natasha met your stare without issue, hitting the intercom on the other side of the cell. It was her who spoke, her raspy voice falling from the speaker.

“In the spirit of transparency, we want to be honest with you about your blood results.”

You stood from the bed, moving to one side of the barrier. They were intimidating like that, standing shoulder to shoulder with a natural beauty. It made you want to shrink. If not for the paper in their hands you would have curled into yourself at the sight.

“Don’t tell me I’m dying.”

“No, honey.” Wanda shook her head, “Quite the opposite, you’re getting stronger.”

“I don’t understand.”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow and pressed the paper against the glass so you could read it. None of it made sense, it was lines of DNA that looked like musical notes. You shook your head, giving her a confused look.

Natasha scoffed, peeling the paper from the surface of glass. Wanda bit her thumbnail nervously. “According to these…You’re Asgardian, Kitten.”

[Taglist💕: @dannipotatoo, @non-binary-frogking, @mysticalmoonlight7, @metanoiablxxm, @coxlong, @b3nzzzzz, @simpforlizzie, @delulu-bayolet-era, @dorabledewdroop, @crescentcrush, @roselockwood, @ellieromanov, @leenasayeed, @theowlappears, @pitifulbinx, @pepemyfantasy, @tekanparadiae, @skittlebum, @mariabeloskivismyoc, @natsbiggestfan1, @marvelwomen-simp, @cinffy23, @kyky-maximoff, @natalierushmansstuff, @bstvst, @lezzylover, @404-almostdone, @mishimrno, @maxidentbby, @shayarshucky, @merlinsouls, @neothepotato]

[mayajadewrites]

Could've Been You: Aizawa x Fem!Reader x Hawks

summary: You're the new teacher at UA with a rocky past with one of their beloved teachers, Shouta Aizawa aka Eraserhead. You'd rather never see him again but alas, such is life. You also meet Keigo, aka Hawks, who is the opposite of Aizawa. Smiley, golden retriever energy. Nothing could go wrong... right? relationships: aizawa x fem!reader, hawks x fem!reader warnings: some chapters will be NSFW, they will have a warning on them in bold. not many descriptions of reader, other than she's midsize.

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT hehe (protected sex, handjob)

ao3

TAG LIST:

@come-away-with-me87, @kxshdoll, @evilsanzu, @friendly-neighborhood-turtle, @lili-pond,

@the-unhinged-raccoon @falling4fandoms @cherry-cosmoz @kkgraham @big-denki-energy @aphrodite-xoxo @keiweeny

CHAPTER EIGHT

You woke up in your own bed the next morning. Your pussy was sore from the feast Shouta Aizawa had last night, the skin must be raw.

You stand up to stretch your limbs and feel a headache creep into your body. A groan leaves your lips as you walk to the mirror in your living room.

You examine your body - more specifically your neck and chest.

Purple marks everywhere.

This man wanted to mark you. "What a jackass." You roll your eyes and pad to the bathroom, but not before you pass the vase of roses on your table.

Keigo.

It's wrong that you're doing this. It's wrong that you're sleeping with Keigo while doing... things with Shouta.

To play devil's advocate - you're single. You can date however many men you want.

You pile the concealer on your skin, making sure in every lighting you cannot see past the makeup.

You trained class 1A in the field today, letting them develop strategies that they could possibly use to defeat a villain that had your quirk.

Your arms were crossed over your chest when a familiar tall, muscular figure dressed in black walks into the field. His hair is in a messy ponytail again, his grey scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

He nonchalantly stood next to you with his hands in his pockets as he watched the kids, his kids, work together to form a strategy.

"Good morning." Aizawa said flatly as his eyes followed the class.

You stay silent as you observe the children working together, taking mental note of who is taking the lead.

"Didn't know I took away your ability to speak."

"I didn't know you were incapable of not making me look like I fell down the stairs for 3 years straight." You didn't turn your head to look at him. He half smiled as his eyes wandered over your figure.

"Looks fine to me."

"That's because I have 5 concealer bottles worth of product on me."

"You need this?" He pointed to his scarf.

"Yeah. To choke you with." You rolled your eyes.

"We'll do that later, Princess." Aizawa's voice was low, so low only you could hear it.

You scoff and walk a few steps towards the kids. "Okay, that's enough for today." You clap your hands. "Next week you'll be going up against me and Mr. Aizawa. So study and form a plan in your respective groups."

Shouta looked at you with a surprised smirk on his face. "You're including me in your class plans?"

"Might as well make yourself useful." You turned on your heel to walk out of the field. Aizawa watched your curvy body as you walked away from him, your ass slightly jiggling in your skirt. He bit his lower lip as he watched, thinking about last night.

Hoping you remembered every moment of it.

And you do.

Every. Single. Second.

___________________________

The rest of the week flew by as you continued your class. You're finally getting the hang of your teaching rhythm. You kept up with Keigo, but your feelings for Shouta have been weighing heavy on your mind.

Would it be wrong if you paid more attention to Shouta? You didn't want to lose Keigo, actually, you still wanted to explore your romantic relationship with him.

But you also really wanted to fuck Aizawa.

He didn't need to know what you're doing, right? After all - he's not your boyfriend.

Neither is Aizawa.

Friday came soon enough and it was time for Keigo to come over. Part of you wished it was Shouta coming over.

"Hello, beautiful." Keigo said as you opened the door. He greeted you with a soft kiss, which felt so different from Shouta's lips. Keigo liked when you took the lead, which made you feel powerful. Made you feel like he needed you.

"Hi." You smile against his lips and lead him into your room. He's carrying a small duffle bag filled with everything he needs for a stay over.

"How was your week baby bird?" He dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around your body, twirling you around.

You giggled as he lifted you off your feet. "Good actually. I don't think the kids hate me." You kissed his cheek, your warm lips leaving a ghost mark on his skin. "How was yours?"

"It was fine." He shrugged and kicked his shoes off and pushed you gently against the counter. "I've been looking forward to this." His hands roamed to the fat of your ass, squeezing it gently with his large hand.

"Looking forward to groping me?" You teased.

"Mhm." Keigo nods as he goes in for another kiss. You press your lips to his and allow his tongue to enter your mouth.

He feels so different than Shouta.

Thankfully your hickies have faded, so touching won't be a problem tonight.

You deepen the kiss as his hands find your waist, picking you up and placing you on the counter so you're above him now.

You looked down at his honey glazed eyes, with the hair to match. He's so cute. Your index finger glides along the side of his face to his chin, making him close his eyes.

"I don't know what you do to me." His voice was so smooth. He leaned his face against your hand, feeling your touch. His eyes fluttered open to you.

He was yearning for you.

"Kei." You smile, feeling the heat between your legs intensify. He pressed his hand on your plush thigh, spreading your legs to let him in. You oblige by crashing your lips into his.

Keigo took one of his hands and trailed it down your chest, your soft stomach, to your aching core. He could feel your wetness through the fabric. He smiled as his tongue dove into your mouth, his fingers rubbing circles on your heat.

You cradle the back of his head with your hand as you push your tits against him, the sensation causing him to moan. He turned his attention to them, your perfect, plump, fat tits. He lowered himself to your chest and knead them with his large hands as he threw his head back.

"Fuck." Was all he could get out as he buried his face in your tits. He kissed, bit, sucked, and licked the entirety of them. You pressed your palm against the back of his head, hoping that he kept going.

He took your nipple in his mouth, sucking on it roughly as he slipped his fingers into your leggings. His fingers are long but slim, nothing like Shouta's.

"You like these?" You pressed your arms around your tits, making them look even bigger than they already are. You wanted, no needed Keigo to talk more.

Tell you you're doing a good job.

Tell you that he wants this.

"Of course I do." His lips moved against your sweaty skin. "They're a work of art, baby bird."

You dragged your fingertips along his chest to find the button on his jeans. You could feel his erection pressed against the fabric of his jeans as you slid your hand inside of his pants. You wrapped your dainty hand around his length, teasing your thumb on the slit of his tip.

His heart was beating so fast it could've been a sign of a heart attack.

Your hands do something to him. He loves how you take care of your body, specifically your hands. Your skin is so soft and your nails are always done - manicured and perfect.

"Fuckkkkkk." He moaned as he pulled down his pants, letting his cock free. Your hand was still wrapped around him, pumping slowly as you stared into his eyes. You watched his eyes roll back as you pleasured him with only your hand.

"Do you have rubbers?" He could just barely open his eyes as his cock twitched in your hand. "I don't want to come on your hand."

You had this man ready to unravel and you're still (mostly) fully clothed.

"Yes." You hop off the counter and pull your tank top back over your tits before you pad into your room, pulling out the same box of condoms that you used before when you fucked Keigo for the first time.

Keigo grabbed your face when you walked back into the room, his tongue exploring your mouth roughly. His kisses are frenzied, like the world is about to end and the last thing he wants to remember is your lips.

You break away from the kiss and kneel down on the floor, tearing the condom wrapper. You slowly slide the rubber onto his length, watching his face in amusement.

He could not get enough of your hands on him.

You pull your pants down, wiggling your hips as you get them past your ass. You smirked when you notice Keigo is watching your body move, if his erection got any harder he might cut someone.

"You want this, baby?" You lean back against the counter and watch him through your lidded eyes.

He nods quickly. "Y-Yes."

"Have you been a good boy?" You voice was low, seductive even. You knew you held the power here and you loved it.

"Yes I've been a good boy. Please." Keigo whimpers.

"My sweet bird, hm?" Your hands hovered over his beautiful wings, your touch almost like fire. He winced at your touch, but not in a bad way. In a way where he needed you right here, right now.

You turn around and press your palms to the counter - your ass on full display. You spread your legs for him, waiting.

He pressed one palm to the small of your back as he aligned himself with your entrance. Inch by inch he pushed his length into your wet, warm pussy.

He almost bottomed out right there.

The sound of his thrusts against the fat of your ass filled the room as he picked up his pace. He grabbed your hips as he slammed into you, his strokes rougher than you remember.

You don't like doggy style all that much, only because you like looking at your partner. Watching their face as they experience pleasure.

Your pussy tightened around his length as he hit your sweet spot just right. Keigo dragged his fingers up your back to your tits, taking one of them in his hands and squeezing roughly. He used is thumb and index finger to play with your nipple as his thrusts became sloppy.

"I'm close, baby bird." His words came out as messy as his thrusts.

The words caused your pussy to clench around him, both of you reaching your highs. With one last thrust Keigo pulled out of you, his breath staggered.

Your body is sticky from the sweat and you need to shower.

"Want to shower with me?" You hold out your hand for Keigo.

"What kind of idiot would say no to that?" He takes your hand and follows you into your bathroom.

Keigo lathered you with soap and you made sure his the water wasn't too hot for his wings. He planted kisses on your face as he cleaned you, whispering compliments in your ear.

"You are beautiful in every lighting." He kissed your earlobe as he ran the washcloth down your arms.

"So are you." You gently poured water from your hands onto his wings. "You're gonna have to teach me how you take care of these things."

"I have a whole routine." He smiled proudly.

When you both washed off the sex you just had, you were exhausted. You climbed into bed, hawks quickly after you.

You fell asleep with Keigo's arms wrapped around you, his nose buried in your neck. He left kisses on your skin as he drifted into his own slumber.

When you woke up, he was gone.

No note. He didn't wake you up.

His stuff was gone.

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part eight

authors note: wow, you guys just keep on amazing me. all of the kind comments really do make my day, you have no idea. the beginning of this one is heavy, but i'm gradually working towards exposing more of reader and joe's backstories!!!

song inspo: with me by destiny's child

status: in progress // masterlist

warnings: angst (parental neglect, abandonment) language, suggestive themes

words: 6k

taglist: @pixiedust4000 @southerngirl41 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @wanderingreigns

“It’s been almost a year, babe.” His tone is the perfect combination of understanding yet frustrated, like he’s trying his best to be patient but his needs are getting the best of him. “You still not ready?”

You wanted someone to talk to for the drive, even if it was only an hour, but at this moment, you’re regretting choosing your boyfriend.

“I just….I want to be really sure, okay?” 

This has been the latest conversation between the two of you, more a point of contention. You care about Amir, you love him, but there’s something about letting him take your virginity you’re still a bit unsure about. Maybe it’s the fact that you just turned 16 three months ago and still feel like you’re a bit on the young side to take that next step. Or maybe it’s the fact that you guys have been rocky, almost since the beginning, having your fair share of arguments, even makeups and breakups. 

But, you also know that even with the ups and downs, a year deep for a high school relationship is almost unheard of. That has to mean something.

“I love you, and you love me, right?”

You check the rearview mirror and switch lanes. “Of course.”

“So let’s seal the deal.”

A glance at the navigation makes you aware that you’re roughly ten minutes away from your destination. Instantly, your stomach begins to twist and knot. And like many with anxiety, it comes out as anger.

“Look, can you please just stop pressuring me?” You snap. “I feel like that’s all you ever want to talk about.”

“Whoa, whoa, where’s all this attitude coming from?” He, understandably, becomes defensive. A small part of you feels bad, taking your nerves out on him, even if it’s not entirely undeserved. It has become an annoying, frequent hot topic. “Am I wrong for wanting to be close to my girlfriend?”

“Bullshit. You just want to get your dick wet.” 

“If that was the case, I wouldn’t be asking you,” he retorts, arrogantly. “I can get pussy anywhere.”

That’s the wrong thing to say, obviously, because you angrily fire back, “fine, then go do that and leave me and my pussy alone!”

He sucks his teeth on the other side. “I’ll talk to you when you not in one of your bitch moods. Must be on your period or something.”

“Fuck you, Amir.”

The phone disconnects.

He hung up.

Frustrated, for a lot of reasons, you squeeze the steering wheel and curse, loudly. This isn’t what you needed. You’re regretting not calling Mariah instead. You’re starting to regret this decision altogether but work to remind yourself why you’re doing it, why you want to do it. Amir and his shit be damned. He’ll always be there, and you’ll figure the shit out, like you always do. 

Right now though, you need to focus on yourself and your plan. 

So, you spend the rest of your time driving by feeding positive mantras into yourself in an attempt to bleed out the negativity. 

It’s especially needed when you finally arrive at your destination, parking your car as far back in the parking lot as you can. You blow out a big, deep breath, keeping your hands on the steering wheel as it really sets in that you’re doing this, finally doing something you’ve wanted since you got your license but have been too scared to follow through on. 

It’s going to be a daunting task no matter what, but it’s what you want, and you’ve come too far to back out now. 

Shaky hands reach to pull down the sun visor so you can use the mirror to assess your makeup and hair. You’d saved up your paychecks to afford this 14k gold necklace the local jeweler had gotten in stock and kindly agreed to hold until you could afford it. You just wanted to look your best.

You needed to look your best.

Blowing out another breath, you reach to spray another layer of your trial size perfume. It was some expensive ass designer fragrance that smelled sinfully sweet, but the trial one was all you could afford. 

Climbing out of the car with your best bag, you make sure to lock the door and start heading toward the entrance, offering a few small smiles to the cops you pass by.

Stepping into the precent, you march right up to the front desk with your head held high.

“Hi,” you breathe, pasting on that rehearsed smile. “I—umm, is Captain Wilson available?”

“Uhhhh.” She stands up and looks back, most likely where his office is. “I believe so, can I ask what this is in regards to?”

Crap. You hadn’t thought about what to say, how to explain how you knew him. Quickly, you settle on, “old family friend.”

She assesses you, probably wondering why their police captain is family friends with a high schooler.

Thankfully, she nods and moves from behind the desk to escort you. “Follow me.” 

You’re briefly relieved that the first part is done, far from the hardest but necessary for you to actually get to the hard part. 

She knocks on the open door. “Captain?”

He looks up, and your stomach drops. 

Years.

It’s been years since you’ve seen him, been this close in proximity. He’s older, obviously, but still very similar to how you remembered him all those years ago. He looks at you for a second, clearly confused and then at the woman.

“She said she’s a family friend.”

Nervous that this will mess up your plan, you interrupt, “I—I need to speak with you, please.”

The woman turns to you. “I thought you said—”

He lifts his hand, standing up. “It’s fine, Yang.” He motions to the door. “Leave us.”

You can feel her distasteful expression on you, but she follows his command, closing the door behind you. 

“Well, how can I help you, young lady?”

It's such a loaded question, but you came prepared, ready to jump right to the point. Don't want to waste any time.

"I, well, I'm—" Chuckling, you reach into your bag and pull out the old picture of your mom you kept in your locker. Opening and showing it to him, you watch his entire facial expression shift from friendly to shocked. "I'm your—"

“What are you doing here?” There’s a sudden change in his tone, even in his body posture, less friendly, more hostile. Clearly, he recognizes you.

“I—” The answer is simple yet difficult to get out, but you manage. “I wanted to meet my father.”

He suddenly asks, accusingly. “Did your mother put you up to this?” 

“What?” Frowning, you explain, “no, no, she—she doesn’t even know I’m here. No one does.”

“Good,” he mutters. “Listen—”

“I’m 16 now,” you interject, suddenly remembering the list of things you wanted to share with him, wanted him to know about you. “And I’m—I’m captain of my school’s cheerleading squad. Took my team to state last year. I’ve had a couple of scouts from colleges reach out already.”

“Listen—”

“And I just got my SAT scores back. I got a 1400. A 32 on my ACT. That puts me in the top 10% of the nation for both of them.”

“Is there a reason you’re telling me all of this?”

“I thought—” This is going the complete opposite of how you planned, how you hoped. You expected him to be confused and surprised, but you didn’t expect this level of disinterest and aggravation. Like you’re annoying him. Like you’re bothering him. “I thought if—if you saw me, if you met me and see I’m not a bad kid that—that maybe you’d want a relationship with me.”

 “A relationship?” He scoffs, actually fucking scoffs. “Why would I want a relationship with you? You’re not even supposed to exist.”

Of all the things to say—cruel, hurtful, mean—you’re not sure just what to label this. Because it’s almost inconceivable to you that he could say such a thing while looking directly at you, as if you’re not his blood. As if you’re not his daughter.

“I—” Any hope or confidence you had is all but squashed underneath the weight of his cruelty. “I’m your daughter.”

“No, you are a mistake that I paid your mother to take care of.” He turns away, one hand on his hip, the other running his hand over his face. “Biggest waste of money I ever spent.”

Devastated. It’s the closest word you can use to describe what you’re feeling right now, all over, in every crevice of your body. You never knew a person could feel so much pain at one time. 

That a heart could feel so heavy.

“How—”

“Honey—”

Turning your head, you see a woman dressed in fine clothes, adorned in real, 14k or more jewelry, and a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes when she sees the Captain isn’t alone. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

You’re unsure how to answer, especially when you notice the big rock on her finger. It doesn’t take much to realize this must be his wife. The same woman he cheated on with your mother and unintentionally created you. 

“Not at all,” he answers with a chuckle. You watch with a twisted stomach as she walks over to him, kissing his cheek. He smiles at her with such adoration, such happiness, a complete contrast with the disgust and disdain he sent your way. “I was just telling this young lady there’s nothing we can do for her.”

Young lady. That’s all you are to him, and it was stupid of you to trick yourself into believing otherwise. If he could go sixteen years without once asking or inquiring about you, he could go another sixteen. Another 100. You weren’t a part of his world, didn’t exist there, and you never would.

“Dad, Elijah won’t get out of the car. I swear, you should have kept me an only—” Another person enters the room and also stops mid-sentence. “---child.” An identical set of brown eyes land on you, eyes that he has, that you have. The similarities don’t stop there. Nose, lips, even bone structure to some extent, age. “Oh, my bad. Dad, who’s—” 

You never give her the chance to finish or yourself the chance to hear the rest of her question. Rushing past her as well as the other cops in the precinct who surprisingly don’t try to stop you, you don’t allow your feet to rest until you’re in the safety of your car. 

And that’s when it finally comes out. 

The guttural, vulnerable scream that you’ve been holding in. You beat at the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding the horn. You beat at that thing until your wrist aches and fist grows tired. Nearly hyperventilating, the sob erupts from your throat, almost your entire body shaking from the intensity. You’ve never felt so awful in your life, so empty, so unwanted and unloved.

It’s the kind of pain that’s so visceral you can only understand if you’ve felt it, and no one deserves to feel this. 

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You feel it, and more, for bringing yourself down here and making a fool of yourself. 

A family. 

He has a whole family. He already has children, has a daughter who’s close in age. A daughter he loves and whose life he wants to be involved in. 

And it’s not you.

It’s never been you, and it’ll never be you.

Finally, you understand why your mom always shot down or redirected any attempt you made to ask about your dad. It was for this reason. This is what she was trying to protect you from, and you idiotically ran right into the line of fire. 

Immensely grateful you had the wherewithal to park as far back as you could, you sit there for who knows how long, screaming, crying, heartbroken, avoiding what’s sure to be the longest drive home of your life.

There’s such an intolerable level of discomfort at this, this pain, this hurt. You don’t want to feel it, don’t want to sit in it. You can’t. You’re not sure if you can continue to function in this state.

You need a distraction. 

And you have the perfect one. Whatever development has occurred in the prefrontal cortex is nonexistent and inactive as you dig in your purse for your phone. 

With shaky fingers, you send him a simple text, knowing he’ll know exactly what you mean.

Tonight. Let’s do it tonight. 

________

Three days after her emergency surgery, Calista was officially discharged from the hospital, allowing her to be home with you just in time for Thanksgiving. Not that that ended up being anything to write home about. You opted to stay home with her, aiding in her recovery as your mom came over to drop off some food and assist in nursing your sweet little girl back to health.

It was much appreciated, especially as Joe had to leave the day before she was released, much to his and Callie’s chagrin. She loved the company of you, even your mom, but she especially loved being around and with Joe.

Not that he was any different. You could see how much it killed him to have to leave her when she was still admitted in a hospital, so you had to continue to remind him that the hardest part was over. Ironic considering how grounded he kept you in that terrifying experience. 

Joe’s promise of returning for Christmas was the only thing that kept Callie slightly less disappointed. She loves Christmas, and him being there for her favorite holiday will definitely mean a lot to her. You know she just hates having to wait so long to see him again. It’s safe to say she’s pretty attached to him, which warms your heart and makes you even more eager for her to finally realize that Joe is not just Joe.

He’s her dad.

And speaking of daddy, your dynamic with Joe has been both different yet the same. There’s always been this chemistry between you two, but it seems him finally admitting he wants to be with you and your finally acknowledging that it's something you’re willing to consider has given him privilege to up the ante.

He’s always been forward with you, but it’s been subtle, if at all present, since his return.

That's no longer the case.

He makes his comments and innuendos, always appropriate and respectful enough to not warrant pushback. But, it’s still there. 

And you like it, way more than you should for someone who doesn’t even know how she feels about any of this to begin with. 

“I have an idea.”

Th comment comes from the very person who you summoned to help with said ambivalence chimes with that mischievous smile that almost got you both kicked out of school at least two times.

Alexis Palmer stands on the opposite side of the kitchen, a bottle of vodka in one hand and another unidentified alcoholic beverage in the other. To say you summoned her may be a bit of an exaggeration. You emailed her, yes, but you didn’t except her to actually fly across the world to come visit you. Apparently, she was in Norway when she received your email.

“You couldn’t not expect me to come. You sent out the bestie bat signal!”

The first time you met Alexis, you hated her. She was your assigned roommate who you had the displeasure of meeting during move in week. A large part of your disdain for her was because she represented everything you’d always found utterly annoying: rich, entitled, privileged.

You’d quickly find out that was only partially true. Yes, Alexis came from money, but that was essentially all she came from. You’ll never forget the time you two were actually having a decent conversation and she casually mentioned that neither of her parents had ever told her happy birthday before. Ever. 

Even your mom, though not having much, made sure to make the most of all of your special days.

That was the first day you started to see our roommate in a different light, and now, over ten years later, you consider her a best friend. If Alexis didn’t spend her life randomly traveling to various parts of the world, living comfortably off her trust fund money, you’d absolutely be much closer. 

But until, or if, she gets tired of always being on the go, you settle for email updates and countless snapchat messages because WIFI is a wonderfully universal thing when compared to international texting and call fees.

Alexis's partially drunk ass skips out of the kitchen, clearly going to retrieve something as you take a moment to check your phone. It took a moderate level of convincing for you to agree to Callie spending a day or two with your mom, not that you didn’t believe she wouldn’t be in the best care. It was just some lingering anxiety from your baby being hospitalized, that mother’s fear of something happening in your absence and you not being there to comfort her.  

But, your mom brought up a valid point, that you’d spend almost nonstop time with Callie since her discharge, and that was fine. You loved spending time with you little girl, but you also needed some time for yourself. Some adult interaction, and Alexis' surprise visit created the perfect opportunity. 

So, that brings you to your current scenario, having an in-house girl night with your college roommate, drinking wine (harder liquor for her) and figuring out just what the fuck you’re doing with your non-existent love life. 

When Alexis turns with one of your poster boards, you protest, “Lex, those are for my students.”

She gives you the most disgusted look. “Girl, fuck them kids. If it’s not my sweet Cal Gal, I don’t care.”

Knowing good and well this is a losing battle, you let it go and watch as she lays the poster board on the kitchen island and pulls out a sharpie.

“What are you—”

She lifts a finger, silencing you as she continues to write. Shaking your head, you take another sip of your wine. 

Alexis is done in a matter of a few minutes and finally prompts you to look. “Okay, all done.”

It’s in reading what she’s created that you nearly drop your wine glass. “Lex, what is this?”

She rolls her eyes, pointing with the sharpie to the title. “Obviously, it’s the ‘figure out who I should be with’ chart. Created by yours truly!”

You blink a couple times. “Alexis, why is Kai’s name up here? He was a high school hookup.”

“Yes, but still a hookup nonetheless, so he makes the cut.” Lord as much as you missed Alexis, you’d almost forgotten how draining her eccentric ways can be. “Now, as you can see, each option has a pros and cons column. I say we start with the pros, and I’ll even help you out.”

“Should I be scared?”

She pauses. “Maybe.”

Shaking your head, you wait for her to quickly jot down whatever she objectively believes is considered a pro. But, when she turns the poster around, you actually laugh. “Oh my god.”

She’s written only in Joe’s pro column, but it’s more what she has written that has you humored.

“Obviously, at number one, we have 'big dick' because that's the most important thing in life. Never commit to a micro-penis.”

Ignoring the latter part of her statement, you ask, “big dick? Really?” 

“Is it a lie?” She challenges. You open your mouth and immediately close it, taking another sip of wine. “I rest my case.” Yeah, you definitely can’t fight that one. “Wait, is he the one you tried anal with that one time?”

You nearly spit out your wine, for a couple of reasons. You'd never really considered yourself a feminist, but you were definitely someone who believed in women being free sexual beings. You never subscribed to that modesty bullshit. Sex was fun to you, and you liked it. You definitely considered yourself more on the freaky side. Outside of the really weird shit and threesomes, you were down to try whatever. Especially with Joe. Well, except for that. “Absolutely not. He’s too big. That shit already hurts, hence why it was one and done.”

Confused, she asks. “Who was it then?”

“Amir,” you answer, casually. Alexis, being Alexis, was pretty much the same as you when it came to embracing sexuality, hence speaking so openly about your sex lives.

She turns up her nose. “Yuck. Okay, back to Big Dick Joe.” After over 10+ years of friendship, you’ve learned, to some extent, certain things Alexis says just have to be chalked up to being a part of who she is. Like this entire activity that you’re for some reason entertaining. “Now get back to naming!”

You shrug, thinking about it, even if there’s not much to think about. “I mean, we have a child together already.”

“Oh damn, forgot about that,” she mutters and quickly adds Callie to the list of pros. “Sorry, Cal.”

This isn’t necessarily a difficult task. You’re pretty sure you could talk for 30 minutes straight about all of the reasons you like Joe. “He’s kind, smart, easy to talk to, an amazing dad to Callie.”

She downs the last of her concoction before shouting out, “oooh, don’t forget rich!”

Your eyes lift to the ceiling as you shrug, genuinely uninterested. “You know I don’t care about that.”

“You will when it’s time for Callie to go to college,” she ‘sings’, adding it to the board. “Fine as fuck,” Alexis talks aloud while writing the same thing. “Like very fine. As in you should have asked if his wife could fight fine because the way I never would have asked that man to leave—”

“Alexis.”

“Sorry.” She’s really not. “Why don’t we switch gears? How about we do the pros for Amir? Or even Kai?” You open your mouth to respond when she cuts you off. “Couldn’t think of any? Me neither. Back to Joe, it is.”

You run your hand against the side of your face, elbow on the section of the island that’s not occupied by the poster board. “Seriously, Alexis. There’s nothing there for Kai. At all. Hell, Amir neither.”

It’s like a light goes off, like all of her efforts have finally proved fruitful. The entirety of her eccentricity minimizes to something calm and considerate. “Exactly.” Laying down the poster, she comes and sits in the bar seat next to you. “You don’t like Amir. You definitely don’t like Kai. But, you do like Joe. Maybe more, though I’m not sure you’re ready to actually admit that out loud.” Much like a lot of what she says, though usually cloaked underneath her quirkiness, she’s correct. “So, what’s the real issue, roomie? It was his wife before, which I totally understood. You’re a moral person and shit. But now? He’s divorced, Y/N. You two have a child you’re trying to raise together. What’s holding you back?”

It’s a very, very valid question that you have no idea how to answer. You’ve tried, to some extent, to explore what your hesitations are. It hasn’t been high on the priority list due to your being focused on nursing Callie back to health, but as she’s on the mend to a full recovery, if not already at the eve of one, you know you’re gonna have to figure this shit out. Preferably sooner than later. 

Joe will respect your need for time and space, but you also know he can be a persistent bastard, especially when it’s something or someone he wants.

It’s how ya’ll even got together in the first place. 

“I’m gonna say something, and I don’t want you to bite my head off. Just hear me out. Let me put this expensive ass psych degree to use.” That makes you chuckle, but you remain quiet, allowing her to continue. “I think….I think whatever the situation is with your dad might be at play here.” Instantly, you're stiff, any hint of a smile or humor gone. “I don’t know exactly what happened outside of the fact that he’s not in your life, but something tells me there’s something there that you need to face.” And if she wasn’t already hitting you where it hurts, she adds on, “and I think it had something to do with why you didn’t tell Joe about Callie from the very beginning.” 

Alexis has always had this uncanny ability to make you wonder if there’s something possibly mentally wrong with her and in the same breath wonder why the hell she didn’t decide to pursue a higher degree in psychology because of her sage wisdom.

This is one of those moments.

You know there’s some element of truth to what she’s saying, some layers behind events you’d pushed so far back in your head, you tried to convince yourself they didn’t still impact you. 

But opening that box…..it’s hard for you to justify doing so. To understand why you need to revisit such uncomfortable, painful memories. You’re gonna be 32 years old next year. You’re too damn old to still be dealing with daddy issues.

Reaching for the bottle of wine, you pour some into your glass, noticeably more than the first one. “Maybe.” 

Alexis also knows you well enough to know that a dismissal was bound to be your approach to such a heavy topic. “Is that the sign to change subjects, even though that’s literally why you asked me to come?"

“Technically, you invited yourself.”

“Bullshit,” she snorts. “You send that wild ass email and expect me to not book it back here to make sure my favorite twerk partner isn’t Gucci?” She suddenly asks, “wait, do people still say that?”

“Probably not. We’re old and outdated now.”

“Speak for yourself, I had a 24 year old Frenchman eat me out last month, and it was C'est Magnifique,” she sighs, clearly reminiscing as you turn up your nose.

“Too young for me, girl.” Younger men have never done anything for you, even Amri, who was a grade above you, felt too close in age.

“That’s right,” she nods, and you just know there’s something on the tip of her tongue. “You like em’ older. Samoan, tatted, with massive arms and big dicks.” 

“Alexis.” You have to laugh, leaning into her side and laying your head on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you, girl.” You needed this, the time and space to be silly, to have difficult yet important conversations, to both think and not think. Alexis has always been that really great space for you, Mariah for even longer, but given your last interactions with her, you realize she’s not exactly the best candidate at the moment. 

And as if reading your mind, she asks, “how’s ole girl doing?”

Ole girl aka Mariah.

The relationship between Mariah and Alexis……well, there is none. Put simply, they hate each other. More hate on Alexis' part, Mariah has just always kinda ignored Alexis and her role in your life, which is significantly easier considering Alexis is always on the move. The reason for the dislike and incompatibility between the two of them will always be a mystery.

“It’s just something about that girl.”

That’s what she would always say, and it once reached the point where you and Alexis stopped speaking for a couple of weeks, because you were a lot of things, loyal at the top of that list.

Outside of the whole situation with Joe….you still don’t know what exactly happened there.

Nonetheless, it just became agreed upon that talking with one woman about the other would be kept to a minimum, preferably none.

You know Alexis is just trying to be nice by asking. She doesn’t really care. 

“I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “She’s been….I think she’s just going through something.”

She rolls her eyes, clearly unsurprised. “I’m sure she is.” 

You sigh. “Alexis.”

“I know you don’t like it when I talk about her cause that’s your other ‘best friend,’ but I’m telling you, Y/N, that girl is not your friend. She’s jealous of you. She been jealous of you,” she blurts out, as if keeping it in any longer would be painful. “But, imma be quiet.”

And she does which you’re grateful for, even if her words are, for the first time, starting to trigger some unfamiliar thoughts. Alexis, Kai, your own experiences. You’ve always leaned on the side of where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and Mariah’s forest is ablaze.

You just have to figure out how to approach all of this.

Among the other 50 fucking things you have to figure out.

_______

You can’t remember the last time you propped up your phone to call Joe for any reason other than Callie wanting to see or speak to him. 

And yet, here you are, in your bathroom, preparing for your nightly routine, doing just that. 

He answers on the third ring, eyes lighting up with surprise when he sees it’s you and not Callie. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Your tone is much too cheery for your taste, so you attempt to roll it back. “Is, uhh, is this a bad time?”

“Never a bad time for you,” he replies, smoothly. Looking into the screen, you realize he’s sitting up in bed, one arm behind his head. “What’s up? I thought you were having a girls night with Alexis.”

“We were. Well, we did, but she’s white girl wasted, passed out in my bed right now,” you answer, peeking through your ajar bathroom door to make sure she didn’t wander off somewhere. She was always that mobile drunk friend who had to be carefully monitored or else she’d end up on a local new station. “You talk to Callie?”

He nods as you grab your face wash and dispense some into your hand to lather. “Yeah, earlier. She seems to be having a good time with your mom.”

“She usually does, cause like you, my mom never tells her no.” You’ve always allowed that space for your mom to have her own relationship with Callie, one that you have no interference with. Similar to how it was for you with your grandma. But now with Joe being in the picture too, you foresee having to be that parent that actually tells their kid no.

Cause Lord knows Joe ain’t shaping up to be the one. 

“She doesn’t do anything for us to have to tell her no.”

You pause in the midst of scrubbing your face. “God, I can’t wait for you to finally experience one of her tantrums. Next time you come, I’m gonna keep her up so you can see how she gets when she’s tired.” Joe has been blessed to really only experience happy Callie, even, unfortunately, sad Callie, but he’s yet to see your little girl when she’s angry.

“Don't do that to her.” He immediately grows defensive, and you giggle. “She’s a good kid.”

“She is,” you agree, rinsing your face and adding, “but all kids have moments, Joe. I would know, I work with them.”

“Well, you—”

“He don’t wanna be saved, don’t save him!”

You’re in the midst of drying your face when Alexis’s drunk, random ass comes stumbling by the door. “Alexis, what the hell are you doing up?”

Your words clearly trigger something with her wasted ass, cause in a matter of seconds, she’s crying. “My name is Alexis, but I’m not from Texas,” she begins to cry profusely at the word ‘Texas’, and it takes everything in you not to fall out laughing. You haven’t seen her this wasted since your junior year of college.

Hand on her back moving in circles, you soothe, “it’s okay, sweetie. You’re way better than her anyway.”

“Are you sure?” She asks, all soft and innocent, the complete opposite of the porn star she’s crying over not being. 

“Of course.” You place your arms around her and mouth to Joe you’ll be right back. “Now, let's get you back to bed.”

“Are we gonna fuck?”

“No, Lex, you’re gonna sleep, and I’m going to finish talking to Joe.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment is hilarious as she yells out, much louder than necessary. “Bye, Joe!”

“Girl, you are gonna get me evicted,” you scold with a small laugh, guiding her into your bed and under the blankets. “Now, you sleep this off, and I’ll roast you in the morning over your antics. Deal?”

Alexis is so drunk, she couldn’t consent to breathing right now, but she does manage to give you a crooked thumbs up. “Deal.”

Stepping back into the bathroom, you give Joe a look and shake your head as he asks, “Damn. How much did ya’ll drink?”

“You mean how much did she drink?” You correct him. He knows good and well that’s not your thing. Never was. You didn’t need alcohol to have a good time. You could shake your ass on any table just fine, good and sober. “A lot. I just had two glasses of wine.” Suddenly remember something, you start speaking again, eager for his perspective on an idea that crossed your mind the other day. 

“I think we should—”

“Go out with me.” 

You both speak at the same time, but his statement obviously gives you pause. You stare at him, momentarily confused and ask, “what?”

He repeats himself, just as confident the first time around. “Go on a date with me.”

For a second, you think he’s joking, think he’s playing with you for some reason, but one look at his expression, and you know he’s being for real. You’re not sure how to respond, asking again, “like an actual date? A real date?”

“No, like a fake date.” He rolls his eyes, and you resist flipping him off. “Yes, an actual date.” 

Still confused, you ask in a quieter voice, “why?”

His answer is surprisingly simple and unsurprisingly genuine. “Because I’ve never actually taken you out, and I want to. You deserve that much.”

This has been such a wild ass day. Hell, ever since Joe reentered your life, things have been wild. For the majority, if not entirety, of your relationship, you spent most of your time with this man holed up in your apartment and hotel rooms. Now he’s asking to take you out on a proper date. 

What a 180.

It’s like he can see the wheels turning in your head and reassures, still with all the boldness. “We can take this as slow as you want, but you should know I’m heading in one direction and one direction only.”

Fuck. There’s nothing unclear about that, but it’s not surprising. He’s made it clear what he wants from you. He’s just waiting on you to tell him what you want from him. 

After a few minutes of silence, you ask, "just a date?"

“Just a date,” he agrees. You should know him well enough though to know that’s not it. Sure enough, he smugly adds, “but if you end up riding my dick, then that’s just fate, baby.”

And there it goes, that charisma and charm that always kept you coming back for more.

Your smile is hard to conceal, so you settle for biting your lip, looking away. This man has no filter sometimes…not that you’re complaining. At all.

Feeling bold, probably from the wine traveling through your system, you play into his teasing. “Maybe I just want some dick.” 

“That’s fine too.” He shrugs. “You know all you gotta do is ask, and I’ll get you right. Every single time.” A beat. “How you think Callie got here?”

That’s the thing….he’s not wrong, not wrong at all. You can’t think of a single sexual encounter with this man that didn’t either bring tears to your eyes from how good he was eating you up or had you walking with an almost limp the next day from how good he beat your shit up. Often both.

It’s always a good time with the head of the table.

Finally, you settle on an answer that feels most appropriate. “I’ll only agree if you agree to behave.”

He looks confused. Understandable. “What does it mean to behave?”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you answer confidently, “it means keeping your hands and body parts to yourself.”

If you agree to this, it has to be well regulated and feelings or hormones can’t get in the way of things. If you and Joe are to progress into something more, you have to take it slow, even if just for Callie. 

At least, that’s the hope. 

Nodding, he asks, mischief in his light eyes. “What if you’re the one who can’t behave?”

You snort, using the oil to grease your scalp. “Unlikely.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll see about that.” He has that look in his eyes, the same look that almost always ended up with you bent over whatever the most sturdy object in the room was. It’s a dangerous expression. 

And you suddenly find your thighs clenching together. 

Not a good sign. 

“Well,” you clear your throat, leaning over the counter, praying his perceptive ass didn’t notice that. “As much as I would love to continue to chat with you, I have to call our daughter and talk to her before she goes to bed.” It’s not an entire lie; you do need to call her. Just not at this moment. He doesn't need to know that though. 

“You’re flustered, aren’t you?” 

This man….

Two can play that game. 

Pushing your arms together to press your breast together, you’re pleased seeing his gaze darken. “Does it look like I’m flustered, baby?” His jaw clenching is all the satisfaction you need. Mission accomplished. “Goodnight, Joe.” 

Refusing to give him a chance to come back with something, you end the call, only realizing what just happened once you’re left alone with your thoughts.

You’re going out on a date with Joe.

What the fuck?

[greensagephase]

Nonviolent Communication - Part Seven

***Beautiful sketches for this chapter were made by two lovely artists and I'm ABSOLUTELY IN LOVE with them!! Please go and show them some love!! They captured Miguel so BEAUTIFULLY!! You can find them here and here. Thank you so much guys, I'm so in love with them and will always cherish them 🥹❤️ @sunsetdoodler @lauraolar14 ***

Miguel O'Hara x SpideyFemReader

Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Mr. and Mrs. Morales ask you to do something for them.

Word Count: 11,729 (I'm just gonna shut up about the word count at this point and just say I'm sorry.)

Warnings: Some readers may not recognize some food items mentioned but it's not too important for the plot, however, a brief description is included at the end if you're interested; mention of reader's family and their Christmas days (good memories); Miguel (I won't elaborate)

Music inspo while writing: (I'm obsessed with the ATSV album so much that Metro Boomin has been my #1 artist on Spotify for months lmao)

"Link Up" - Metro Boomin, Don Toliver, Wizkid, BEAM, Toian

"Self Love" - Metro Boomin, Coi Leray

"Hummingbird" - Metro Boomin, James Blake

"Calling" - Metro Boomin, Swae Lee, NAV, A Boogie Wit da Hoodie

"Nonviolent Communication" - Metro Boomin, James Blake, A$AP Rocky, 21 Savage (you already know)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine |

Part Seven

You returned to your apartment after Miguel showed you his ofrenda. You didn’t sleep. The candy and coffee Miguel gave you kept you up and so you resumed your chores, but your mind was elsewhere. It was occupied. By Miguel, who smiled at you that night. You couldn’t and won’t forget the sight of it. It’s branded into your brain forever. Even when you eventually found yourself in bed under your warm sheets that night, you laid there and stared at the ceiling.

He smiled at you. It was small but it was a smile. He showed you his ofrenda and shared food with you. You tossed and turned that night thinking that maybe… it was safe to assume you’re friends with Miguel. You couldn’t help but wonder if he thought the same about you though. You eventually decided that either way, you’re happy he has shared those moments with you.

There was a shift between the two of you, of course. It was like a door opened. A door that Miguel himself unlocked and opened for you to walk through. And he had in a sense, as that night he wished, for the first time, that you would cross his boundary lines by asking questions and sharing your thoughts with him.

As the days go on, you continue to spend time with him on missions, before meetings, and of course, when you organize his lab. You notice Lyla starts to involve him more in conversations when you’re there. He surprisingly adds to the conversation sometimes. He still doesn’t want to intrude, especially when he knows Lyla loves talking to you. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t pay more attention now though.

You’re also surprised when the following week after Dia de los Muertos, Lyla offers you snacks, mentioning that Miguel keeps candy in a hidden cabinet. He adds that you’re welcome to grab any. You don’t fail to notice that the cabinet contains the candy from that night, specifically the ones you enjoyed the most. What you don’t know is that no one else was informed about this candy cabinet.

The holidays quickly arrive. You spend Thanksgiving Day at Peter’s universe with Mary Jane, Mayday, and the rest of your friend group. For the first time in three years, you celebrate and feel the holiday spirit. With each passing day, you feel lighter. That feeling of moving forward grows each day.

As the days go by, the beautiful colors of autumn begin to fade. The leaves part ways with the trees with the promise that new ones will sprout in the spring. The days and nights are colder. The city is covered in snow. Christmas trees are displayed behind condensed windows. Lively Christmas music fills your ears almost everywhere you go when you go out on errands.

As always, the month of December flies by and suddenly you find yourself on Miles’s rooftop surrounded by his neighbors, friends, and family. It’s Christmas Eve and the building is having its annual party, to which you were invited by the Morales family.

You met Miles’s parents a few months ago, almost immediately after joining the Spider Society. According to Miles, he revealed his secret to them shortly after saving his dad from dying. The Morales not only know about Miles’s Spider-Man identity but also about the multiverse now. Due to that, Miles was able to introduce his friends to his parents, so they know everyone in Miles’s friend group. Once you were adopted by the group, you were no exception. You were introduced right away, and Miles’s parents took a liking to you quickly, which is how you found yourself invited to this party and other events in the past, including simple family dinners.

You’ve been here for over two hours now and have spent much of that time socializing both with your friends and Miles’s neighbors, who all seem curious about you and the rest of the group. You smile as you think of the many times you’ve had to say that you’re Miles’s mentor from school each time someone asks who you are. Of course, attending the party meant that all of you had to come up with excuses to avoid raising suspicions. Gwen is Miles’s girlfriend, but she lives outside of the city. Pav is a friend from school and you’re a school mentor. At least you guys had it simple and didn’t have to be as creative as Noir, who has spent much of his time up in the water tower hiding for obvious reasons with Peter Porker.

You lean over the rooftop’s parapet on your own in a less crowded section, trying to take a little break from so much socializing. You stare out at Miles’s neighborhood, listening to the music the DJ, who you were also introduced to, plays. He’s been playing some Christmas music here and there, mixed with other upbeat songs for the party. You hear the chatter and laughter. Children run in groups, excited about opening gifts soon. The city is covered in snow, and you heard from one of Miles’s aunts that a white Christmas is expected. You snuggle into your coat as you feel a breeze, thinking.

You can’t help but think about Peter. In a few months it’ll be four years since his death. You sigh. Time has really flown by. As your eyes scan the city, landing on other rooftops with people celebrating, you think about the first holidays without him. There were no decorations put out. No food was cooked. No parties or dinners were held or attended. You woke up on Christmas Day like it was any other day as you had already ended your previous friendships. There was no Peter waking you up with a grin telling you breakfast was ready, using that as an excuse to get you to go to the living room so you could start opening his gifts.  

On New Years, you slept through it as the rest of the city celebrated the arrival of another year. For you, it was just the beginning of the first full year without Peter.

With each year, you’ve slowly put some decorations here and there but until this year, you hadn’t put your Christmas tree up. You smile as you think of it now. You managed to do that this year. Yet another sign you’re moving in the right direction. And of course, being here now, that’s a sign of its own.

Even though you need a break from socializing, you look fondly over at your friends. The people that have turned into your little family. Yes, things have changed. Things are changing.

You have them, the Morales family, Jess… Miguel.

Your mind shifts to Miguel. You wonder what he’s doing now. What he did today. You saw him yesterday in passing as you were busy with missions that he wasn’t on. Then, there was an emergency at your universe just as there was an anomaly detected somewhere else, which he and other members handled. You meant to wish him happy holidays as he gave the Spider Society members today and tomorrow off but unfortunately you were unable to.

You feel your fingers graze your wrist, the one with your gizmo. You could send him a message, but you find the thought strange for some reason as you’ve never done that before. Maybe it would be weird, you think, but should you send Miguel a message and wish him a Merry Christmas regardless? You debate it as you look out into the city, your fingers grazing your wrist softly as you think of him.  

“Y/N!”

You turn in surprise, feeling like you were caught doing something wrong. You drop your hand from your wrist and regain your composure as your eyes fall on Mr. and Mrs. Morales, who stand in front of you. They both look pleased to see you. You notice Mrs. Morales is holding two plates wrapped in aluminum foil while Captain Morales holds two cans of soda, but you don’t think much about it.

“Mrs. Morales, Captain Morales, hey,” you say with a smile, still feeling startled.

“Sorry if we scared you, mija,” Mrs. Morales says. That’s another thing. Even though the Morales aren’t that much older than you, Mrs. Morales uses the endearing “mija” and each time she uses it, you can’t help but feel comforted by this.

You smile and shake your head. “It’s okay. I was just – thinking.”

The couple nods, giving you a knowing look. “We know holidays can be difficult with loved ones gone,” Mrs. Morales says in a tender and understanding tone as they both know about Peter and your overall lack of family and friends in your universe.

You nod and keep your smile, knowing very well that you weren’t thinking of Peter just now but of Miguel. You feel a little guilty, but you were thinking about Peter earlier, so it counts, right?

“Yes… the last couple of years haven’t been easy but I’m in a different headspace now,” you say with a pause, meaning it. “Thank you for inviting me again, by the way. I know I’ve already said it, but it means a lot to me,” you tell them.

“No need to thank us again. You know you’re like family. We’re just glad you’re here tonight with all of them,” Captain Morales says, referring to your group of friends.

You smile brightly at the couple now. You tell them you’re thankful to be there and mean it. You had no other plans in your own universe, so that means you would’ve been home alone despite feeling the Christmas spirit this year. The Morales couple pulls you in for a hug after you tell them that and you can’t refuse it, as they’ve been nothing but kind to you over the last months.

“And don’t forget, you’re always welcome to come over for dinner. So, if you ever feel alone – just use your watch and come join us,” Mrs. Morales adds with a smile that brings you comfort. Again, they’re not that much older than you but their parental energy brings you a comfort you haven’t felt in a long time.

You give them a soft smile. “I know, thank you. I appreciate it, truly. It means so much to me,” you say with your tone full of sincerity, hoping that they understand how much it truly means to you.

“No need to thank us. As Jeff said, you’re part of the family now,” Mrs. Morales says, patting your shoulder in a motherly way. “We were also looking for you to ask for a favor.”

Captain Morales nods and you wonder what it could be. You wonder if it has to do with Miles.

“Yeah, of course! How may I help?” you ask, curiously.

Mrs. Morales lifts the plates and Captain Morales lifts the cans of soda. “Well… Miles and Gwen mentioned a little while ago that you and Miguel are close.”

“And we were wondering if you would mind taking him some food to his fancy tech universe,” Captain Morales adds as they both watch you with smiles, hoping you’ll say yes.

You stare at them with a smile as you process their words. Close. You and Miguel are close. And Miles and Gwen said that? Of course, Miguel and you have grown close, but it has been something behind closed doors. You can’t help but wonder how Miles and Gwen reached that conclusion. It’s not like you and Miguel are strolling into the cafeteria together to have lunch. All your interactions have been private so far, minus the meetings of course, but even then, those can’t be enough to show the closeness between you and Miguel. You briefly wonder if the rest of your friend group talk about it if Gwen and Miles found it important enough to mention. Or maybe it’s not that important, who knows with teenagers.

And on top of that, you can’t help but feel like Mrs. Morales emphasized the word “close.” It almost makes it sound like you’re close in a different way.

“Yeah, I guess you can say we’re kind of friends,” you say, trying to clear up any misconception they may have. You briefly look at your friends, who are still under the water tower all grouped together, wondering what they’ve seen or heard.

“Right. Friends! That’s great. You know Miguel could really use some friends because Miles says he’s still a little close off even after what happened, you know,” Captain Morales says a little too fast, giving his wife a look she returns. It’s a look you can’t decipher as they quickly mask it, but you know an entire conversation took place with that shared look.

“Well, you know that man is so closed off. Anyone who says they’re friends with him should be considered close. That’s what Miles and Gwen meant,” Mrs. Morales says with a smile, probably trying to reassure you about what they said. “But do you mind? We invited him but he didn’t show up and it’s Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Morales says with a look that you recognize. Miguel is most likely alone on Christmas Eve.

You nod softly, still smiling. “I’ll gladly take the food,” you reply.

Miles’s parents beam at you before they hand you the plates and soda cans.

“Thank you, mija!” Mrs. Morales says. “If you don’t mind… staying with him for a little while. At least while he eats,” she says quieter, and you nod.

“I was planning on it,” you answer, giving her a reassuring smile because you thought about it the moment they explained their request.

“I knew you would. And hey, if he wants more, just travel back with your fancy watch and get more. Oh, before I forget!” she says and turns around.

She heads to a table and from a large box pulls out two goody bags.

“Here. One for you and for him. Take them before the kids take them all,” she says, jokingly. You slip the soda cans into your coat’s pockets to receive the goody bags, which you also slip into your pockets. “Tell him the Morales family wishes him a Merry Christmas for us,” she says just as Captain Morales puts his arm around her, pulling her closer.

You nod and give them both a smile. “I’ll let him know. I’ll head out now, that way the food doesn’t get too cold,” you say as you can feel the food was freshly served out of their containers since the plates feel hot. “If they ask about me, let them know I’ll be back shortly, please,” you say, motioning to your friends.

“We’ll tell them! Thank you again. We’ll see you in a bit,” Captain Morales adds.

You tell them goodbye and thank them again for the invitation. You make your way down the fire escape stairs, careful not to slip on ice until you reach the ground. You walk for a bit, looking for a place to open your portal discreetly. As you look around, you have a sudden thought. Is Miguel at HQ? He gave today and tomorrow off but did he also take the day off? Or is he still there? You click on your gizmo.

“Lyla?” you say, in an empty alleyway.

It takes a few seconds before Lyla’s hologram appears above your gizmo.

“Y/N! Merry Christmas Eve.”

You smile at her. “Merry Christmas Eve, Lyla. Sorry to interrupt you but I was wondering. Is… Miguel at HQ?” you ask, and Lyla raises her eyebrows.

“No. He’s at his penthouse.”

Lyla’s answer makes you feel relieved. You had a picture in your mind of him in his lab alone. The vision alone made your heart ache.

“That’s good! Do you think you can ask him to meet me there? At HQ?” you ask.

Lyla frowns. “I don’t think so. He’s – busy,” she simply says.

“Oh. Well, the Morales family are sending him food and they asked me to take it to him,” you say, not knowing what to do now.

“Just go to his penthouse.”

You stare at Lyla in disbelief at her suggestion that you should go to his penthouse, feeling like that would be an intrusion on his personal space. You know he’s been to your apartment a few times, three to be exact, but you don’t mind. Miguel on the other hand, might not be too thrilled about you visiting his place.

“Can’t you just ask him to meet me there?” you ask softly.

“He’s busy. He can’t leave his penthouse. Look, I’ll just tell him, okay? I’m sure he’ll be fine with you showing up,” Lyla says, shrugging like this is no big deal.

You sigh. “I don’t think that’s - ” you start but get interrupted.

“I’m going to ask him right now. If I send you the coordinates to his penthouse, then you know you’re good to go, okay? Merry Christmas!” Lyla says, cheerfully throwing her arms in the air.

“Lyla!” you manage to say before her hologram disappears. You sigh again and stare at the buildings in front of you. Great.

Not even thirty seconds later, your gizmo shows a new notification. You bring your gizmo closer to your face.

Coordinates.

You stare at the buildings again. The food is going to grow cold if you continue to stand here but you can’t help but feel nervous suddenly. You sigh and try to shake it off. It’s fine. Lyla sent the coordinates, which means he’s okay with it. Right? Or did he feel pressured to let you show up? Your mind starts wandering. What if Lyla made it seem like you wanted to go straight to his penthouse and not meet up somewhere less personal, like HQ? Lyla may have done that, especially because she looked like she was in a rush, which makes you wonder why she was even in a rush. It’s Christmas Eve! You release a shaky breath and try to pull it together. It’s no big deal. You’ll apologize right away and explain that you wanted to meet in HQ instead. You nod, reassuring yourself and try to calm your nerves. You look around, making sure that there’s no one around. You click on your gizmo and follow the procedure to open a portal in a specific location within a dimension.

The portal opens, lighting up the alleyway. You take a deep breath before you enter it, leaving Miles’s universe behind and stepping into Nueva York. Or rather, into a living room.

For the first time, you’re the one that stares into an unknown living room. In the span of a few seconds, you take in the sight before you. Your vision is immediately met with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city and you notice the closest building to Miguel’s building is far away, granting him privacy. Your eyes take in the living room section of his penthouse, or at least what you can see now. It’s all very sleek and modern. Very Nueva York. In front of you there’s a square table with different remotes and tablets floating above it thanks to the portal, far more advanced than those in your universe. There’s also a grey couch facing you and a few feet from it, you spot stairs to its left, leading to the second floor of the penthouse. To your right, you feel heat coming from a fireplace.

For once, Miguel is the one watching a portal fade away in his penthouse. He hears the items fall back into place as he stares at your back.

“Y/N.”

You turn around slowly, feeling Miguel’s gaze. You find him a few feet behind you, behind another grey couch you were unaware was there until now. The kitchen and dining areas of his penthouse are behind him. Everything looks like you’d imagine on Earth-928 with an advanced society. You meet Miguel’s eyes as he stands there. In normal clothes.

Miguel is in normal clothes.

“Miguel, hey,” you finally say, feeling odd. You wonder if this is what Miguel felt when he showed up at your apartment on Peter’s birthday.

“Hey,” Miguel replies looking down at you before his eyes flicker to the plates in your hands.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” you say, giving him a smile. You can’t help but feel awkward.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Miguel repeats softly, his eyes meeting yours again.

You stand there for a few seconds, staring at each other until you finally speak.

“I’m so sorry for bothering you. I asked Lyla if you could meet me at HQ and she said you were busy,” you explain, wanting to clear the air, still feeling shocked that Miguel is in normal clothes.

Miguel nods, pushing his hands into his pants’ pockets. You continue to hold his gaze as the image of him in normal clothes burns into your mind.

Miguel’s hair looks damp, as if he barely got out of the shower but it’s styled as always with curls framing some of his face. Instead of his suit, Miguel wears a dark grey, chunky cable knit sweater. The sleeves are pushed up his arms slightly, just enough that his wrists are visible. You notice he’s not wearing his gizmo, which is a strange sight on its own. To pair his dark grey sweater, Miguel wears black pants. You can’t help but think he looks so – cozy.

“She told me, but I couldn’t leave,” Miguel says, still watching you. He notices the way you’re trying very hard not to look at his clothes. He can’t blame you. In a few months, it’ll be a year since you joined the Spider Society and you’ve never seen him in anything else. “I was showering and I’m cooking,” he says quietly, and you nod.

“Oh. That’s nice,” you say, feeling happiness that Miguel is at home on Christmas Eve instead of at HQ working, on top of the fact that he’s in cozy clothes and cooking. You nod and then remember the whole reason you are here. You internally scold yourself for getting so distracted with being at his home and the sight of him in normal clothes. “Well, the reason I was trying to reach you was for this. The Morales family sent you food,” you say, lifting the plates higher. You can feel that the plates are still hot, thankfully.

Miguel looks a little surprised, but he nods. “Miles invited me to that, but I couldn’t go,” he admits, and you understand. You know that Peter and Mary Jane have been inviting him to their Friday dinners even before you were recruited into the Spider Society, but Miguel has never attended them.

“They noticed and wanted to send you some food. They wished you a Merry Christmas,” you say softly.

Miguel nods and he’s about to speak when a timer goes off behind him.  

“Mierda, let me check the food. Just – follow me, please,” he says, motioning for you to follow him as he starts walking to the kitchen area of his penthouse.

You stand there for a few seconds before you start following him. You watch as Miguel goes around a long kitchen island, heading straight for a stove and for the first time you notice there’s pots and pans on it. The scent of food suddenly envelops you as Miguel quickly and efficiently checks one of the pots. He grabs the designated spoon for it and stirs its contents with his back to you.

You look around a little bit, thinking how his kitchen island is longer than your kitchen itself. You also notice it’s all very clean and organized, which you expected from Miguel.

Miguel turns off the burner before he puts the spoon away. He turns around to face you, finding you standing on the other side of his kitchen island, still holding the plates.

“Let me take that from you,” Miguel says walking around the island to retrieve the plates.

You hand them to him gently, sharing the feeling of your fingers brushing past each other’s. You offer him a smile as you take a step back.

“Oh,” you say remembering. “They also sent these,” you continue, pulling out the soda cans and one of the goody bags from your coat.

You set them on the island just as he sets the plates down, too. He looks at the cans and grabs one, looking at it.

“Thank you for bringing it to me. You didn’t have to,” he says as he places the can back on the counter.

You shrug. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Morales asked me, and I couldn’t say no to them. Besides…” you start as he looks down at you. “I realized I didn’t wish you happy holidays yesterday.”

Miguel nods, staring down at you. “It was a busy day. It always happens right before Christmas,” he says with an amused tone but he, too, thought about that earlier. About how he hadn’t seen you much yesterday with the two of you being preoccupied with your own things. He also thought about sending you a message earlier, but he thought you might be busy and besides, neither of you have ever sent messages to each other. He thought you might have found it – odd. “But – yes. We didn’t get to wish each other happy holidays,” he says softly, thinking how both of you thought about it.

You give him a small smile as you hear his last statement. You shift in your coat, feeling a little hot suddenly in Miguel’s warm apartment. Your clothes were perfect for the party out on the rooftop but too hot to be inside. Miguel notices.

“Here, I can help you out of your coat. The party is on the rooftop, right?” he asks as he steps closer.

“Yes, it’s on the rooftop,” you reply as you slide out of your coat with his help. You watch as he drapes it, carefully, over one of the kitchen island chairs.

You fix your clothes slightly, feeling less hot now that you have one layer off. “That’s much better,” you comment, chuckling a bit. “I had to bundle up. It was freezing out there.”

Miguel stares at your outfit, noticing you’re in cozy and festive clothes but noting they are definitely too much to be inside. “I can imagine. The chilly breeze feels like it bites the skin,” he says looking out his windows. “It’s supposed to snow, too.”

“I have that forecast, too,” you reply, joining him in staring out the windows from afar. “Anyway, you should try the food. It’s amazing,” you say, remembering the food.

Miguel turns to the plates. “I have no doubt. So… they chose you to bring the food?” he asks as he slowly takes the aluminum foil off one of the plates.

Your conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Morales flashes back to your mind. They asked you because they think you’re close to Miguel.

“Yes,” you answer simply, hoping he won’t ask why you and not someone else, since he must know that Miles invited the rest of the group, meaning another colleague could’ve brought him food.

Miguel nods as he inspects the food, looking pleased, which makes you smile. “I see,” he says, his eyes leaving the plate to meet yours. He gives you a look that makes you feel like he knows you were chosen to do this specifically out of everyone else before he returns his attention to the plate.

You freeze for a few seconds. Did your face reveal something? You clear your throat and rest your hands over a chair.

“It’s – a great party. Everyone is in a good mood,” you comment.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says softly as he looks down at the food. “I’m glad they’re enjoying their holidays.”

You nod, noticing the sincerity of his words. He looks up suddenly from the plate as an idea pops into his mind.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, and you nod.

“I ate a few hours ago,” you say, thankful that your stomach is not embarrassing you once again in front of him. He nods, looking somewhat disappointed. “But I’ll probably eat something else when I get back,” you add before you even realize it.

Miguel meets your eyes. “This food looks and smells amazing. Please give my thanks to the Morales family when you get back,” he says, pausing. “And – I was going to ask. If you don’t have to return right away, would you like to… join me for dinner? I made too much, and I don’t think I’ll finish it all on my own,” he says quickly.

Miguel looks down at you, feeling nervous about asking you but unable to stop himself from hoping you’ll say yes, even if it’s just for a little while.

You meet his eyes feeling a little surprised, though you hide it well before you nod.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you say with a smile. You remember that Mr. and Mrs. Morales did ask you to stay with him while he ate. However, you don’t bring it up. It might lead him to believe that you’re only staying because they asked you and it would force you to admit that you were planning to regardless of their request.

Miguel’s brief disappointment fades and is replaced with a lighter expression.

“I made a few dishes, so you have options,” he says softly. “Let me show you.”

With that, Miguel motions for you to follow him to the stove. You do so, curious to know what he cooked. You have the brief thought that this will be the second time Miguel gives you homemade food. The two of you stand in front of his stove and before Miguel shows you the food, he pushes his sleeves higher up. It’s still a strange sight and you can’t stop your eyes from gazing at his skin, noticing the veins from years of physical activity and arm hair. You turn away as you feel heat on your face from proximity to the stove and how warm Miguel’s penthouse is. No other reason.

“In this pot, there’s pozole,” Miguel says, lifting the lid to show you. He tells you what it is before he moves on to the other dishes.

It turns out that Miguel did cook quite a bit of food. He mentions pozole, tamales of two kinds, and tinga. He also made atole blanco and ponche navideño, two hot drinks perfect for the Christmas season. “If I’m being honest, I was craving all of these foods,” Miguel says as if he knows you’re thinking about how much food he cooked. You chuckle.

“Everything smells amazing, so I don’t blame you for craving them all,” you reply as you bring the spoon with pozole to your mouth. The warmness of it spreads down your chest as the two of you sit on the kitchen island, side by side.

Neither of you notice how your bodies are facing each other as you eat.

Miguel takes a bite out of the food Mr. and Mrs. Morales sent him and you notice he looks like he’s enjoying it. You eat more of your pozole and think how well of a cook he is. You remember him mentioning his mom taught him to cook when he was a teenager back when he showed up at your apartment for the first time. Conchata definitely taught him well.

You finish eating your small serving of pozole as you want to try the other food he made. He notices and looks at you.

“Do you want more pozole? Or would you like to try the other food?” he asks softly, cleaning his mouth gently with a napkin.

You smile at him and nod. “I’d like to try the other food if you don’t mind,” you say, and he nods before he stands up.

“I can get it myself, don’t worry,” you say and start getting up, but he raises a hand, making you pause.

“You’re my guest. It’s only right,” he says with a determined look. “What would you like to try next?” Miguel asks as he walks to the stove. He grabs a clean plate and turns to face you, ready for you to tell him.

You sit back down slowly as he stares at you.

“May I please try the tinga?” you ask with a soft but embarrassed smile.

“Would you like it with tostadas or as a burrito?” he asks, motioning to the pack of tostadas and flour tortillas on the counter.

“I’ll have it however you prefer it,” you answer honestly.

“What if I make you one of each? That way you can try both,” Miguel suggests.

You nod. “Okay, that sounds… good. Thank you,” you reply, and he nods before he grabs both packs and starts working on your plate.

You look down at your gizmo as he preps your food. It’s almost ten now. You look up again. Miguel is busy warming up flour tortillas. You notice him flipping them with his bare hands, not minding the heat. You look around the penthouse. It really is a large place.

Miguel flips the tortillas and turns back to look at you. He notices you looking around and he can’t help but feel a little self-conscious in that moment. Fragments of your apartment flash in his mind. Yours is well decorated. It feels welcoming and warm. It’s lived in. It’s a home for you. His penthouse, on the other hand, seems the opposite of it. Even when he used to actively live in it, he didn’t focus a lot on decorating and because of that, Gabriel and his mom took the initiative to do something about it.

The fact that Gabriel and his mom helped decorate it was one reason why he hadn’t bothered to change it in the last years. Another reason it remained the same was that it didn’t matter to him as he hardly spent time here after everything that happened with Gabriella and her universe anyway.

Until recently, of course. Ever since Peter’s birthday celebration, ever since that night, Miguel made it a goal to sleep here at least once a week. So far, he has stuck with it. It’s now been several weeks, which he counts as progress. And now, as he sees you take in his home, he can’t help but think about it. However, when your eyes meet his again, he sees no judgment from you. If anything, he sees curiosity, which amuses him on the inside. You offer him a small smile.

“Everything is so sleek and modern,” you say as you take in the kitchen again.

Miguel turns around to check on the tortillas, and seeing that they are done, he puts them on a plate. “Is that… not to your liking?” he asks as he starts fixing the food.

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s great,” you say still looking around.

“But?”

You sigh softly and Miguel turns around, walking the short distance from the stove to the kitchen island.

“You can say it,” he says as he finishes fixing the plates.

“I guess, I like old architecture more,” you finally admit. “But this is really nice though,” you add, and Miguel lets out a low chuckle that makes you pause and wonder what a real laugh from him would sound like.

“I like old architecture, too,” he reveals as he finishes fixing your plate. He slides it over the counter to you gently. “It has more personality.”

“Thank you,” you say as you take the plate. “And really? I thought you’d be more of a fan for your architecture.”

Miguel nods and offers you toppings for the food before he takes his own plate and sits next to you again. As you eat, the two of you talk briefly about the architecture of different universes you’ve been to. Turns out Miguel appreciates architecture like that of your universe. You eventually fall into a comfortable silence.

The two of you sit on Miguel’s kitchen island eating quietly in peace on Christmas Eve. It’s strange how comfortable it feels but then again, this is the second time you’ve eaten together since Dia de los Muertos. Still, this moment is a big deal. It’s the first time either of you have celebrated this holiday in years but it feels right.

As Miguel eats next to you, he can’t help but think about it. He really asked you to stay for dinner. That’s a first but he couldn’t stop himself once he thought about it. And he isn’t going to lie – he’s enjoying your company. He’s enjoying sharing the food he grew up eating during the holidays with you. His mind briefly turns to his family again. To his mother and Gabriel and the last holidays he was able to spend with them.

As he thinks about his own past holidays, Miguel wonders what yours were like. He wonders about your childhood and your parents. He wonders about the holidays you spent with Peter. As he takes a drink from one of the soda cans sent to him, he looks over at you. The two of you have been eating in silence, enjoying each other’s company, or at least he hopes you are like he is. He begins to wonder if he’s kept you here unwillingly. He feels embarrassment, suddenly feeling like an idiot. Maybe you had other plans, and here he is, keeping you from them. Embarrassment runs through his body as he looks at you but then, you look up from your plate and you smile at him in a way that makes his worry and embarrassment melt away.

“This is officially the best food I’ve ever had,” you say as you finish eating. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you for the recipe.”

Miguel gives you a subtle smile, and despite how small it is, it still catches you by surprise, though you are better at hiding it now. “I can give it you, that’s no problem,” he says putting his drink down. “Or I can cook it for you if you prefer,” he adds, making him freeze internally. He hasn’t offered to cook for anyone in a while. Sure, he cooked that day at your apartment when you were unwell because of your period but this is different. Or it feels different for some reason Miguel can’t explain.

You nod and smile. “Either way, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says softly before standing up.

Miguel begins putting away the dishes and even though you try helping him, he declines your help because he’s the “host.” So, you sit on your chair and watch as he cleans up, wishing he’d allow you to help but you know he’ll decline again. You finish your drink, the other soda can you brought, and watch as Miguel finishes up. Despite knowing that Miguel knows his way around a kitchen, you’re still somewhat in awe at how fast and efficient he is at cleaning up. You can’t help but think of Peter in that moment. He, too, knew his way around the kitchen and helped with the chores around the apartment, which was something you loved and appreciated about him as you often heard female colleagues complain about their partners not helping when you used to work. You’ve always appreciated it when a man knows how to do chores and helps instead of leaving the chores strictly to the woman, and so you can’t help but think about this as you watch Miguel.

You pull your sweater’s neck slightly, feeling a little hot. Miguel’s penthouse is warm and you’re still wearing two layers of clothes. As Miguel finishes up, you slide off the sweater you have, leaving you in a long-sleeved top. You fold it neatly and place it on the next chair from which your coat hangs. If you head back to the party, you’ll just suit up again but for now, you’ll try to cool off.

Miguel turns around then and looks at you, leaning back on the counter as he holds a towel. He dries his hands with it after washing them. He notices your sweater is gone and feels a little amused. You were definitely wearing too many layers to be inside in the warmth.

“I don’t know if you’re still up for it, but I have those two hot drinks,” he says, flinging the towel over his shoulder in a graceful way.

Of course, you notice it. It’s not every day that Miguel O’Hara wears normal clothes or that he looks this relaxed, leaning back on a kitchen counter and swinging a towel over his shoulder gracefully. It’s a sight for you and you alone.

“Well… Miles and Gwen mentioned a little while ago that you and Miguel are close.”

You hear Mrs. Morales’s comment in your head as you nod at Miguel. “I’m up for it,” you reply, and he nods. There’s a pleased look on his face before he turns around to open a cabinet to retrieve mugs.

And he is. Miguel is pleased that you’re open to trying out the hot drinks. That you’ll stay a little longer. As he pours the drinks, he thinks about what this means. Of course, he’s thought about how much he’s shared with you and how much you’ve shared with him. He’s thought about it… about how you’re the closest he has to a friend.

You are his friend.

He thought about it on Dia de los Muertos night when he came to his penthouse to sleep. Anyone could argue that Jess and Peter were friends but his friendship with them has always been different. It wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for work, or at least he feels like that. They’re work friends and he’s never shared as much as he’s shared with you. No matter how much the two of them tried, Miguel never felt comfortable enough to share his life.

And with you, there he was. Showing up at your apartment to show you his ofrenda. His memories poured out of him like they had been waiting for the right person to spill out for. It was easy to talk to you. It was different.

Miguel felt like he had a friend for once in many, many years that night. And he didn’t know that night, or even now, if you feel the same. He knows you have your group of friends, the ones that quickly adopted you into their group when you were recruited. The same ones he was keeping you away from right now, but he hopes that you see him as somewhat of a friend despite being your boss.

Miguel finishes preparing the drinks. He takes two mugs to you, one with atole blanco and the other with ponche navideño. He slides them gently over the counter to avoid spilling any before he turns around to retrieve his own mugs.He walks around the counter and takes a seat next to you as you thank him again, this time for the hot drinks.

Miguel nods at you as he picks up one of the mugs. “I hope you like it. The atole blanco might taste a little strange when you first try it, but I swear it grows on you,” he says reassuringly. He briefly thinks back to when he first tried it. He was about ten when his mom asked him to try it. The first sip made him pause but after the third drink, he loved it. Gabriel, on the other hand, took longer to try it. He was almost twelve when he finally gave in.

You take a drink from the atole blanco while Miguel’s eyes are on you. He can’t help himself from wanting to see your reaction and he’s glad when he sees you react well to it. You smile at him and nod.

“This is great! I see what you mean by strange, but I like it. It’s very… cozy and comforting,” you say as you drink more. “It’s like – it’s perfect for Christmas. I can’t explain it,” you say, and he nods.

“This was a must on Christmas growing up,” he says as he drinks some, too.

The two of you enjoy the hot drink in peace. As you place the cup down again, you’re thankful Mr. and Mrs. Morales gave you an excuse to talk to Miguel tonight despite having felt nervous when you first arrived. Miguel seems comfortable and doesn’t seem to mind that you’re here, though it should be obvious as he did invite you to stay for dinner. Miguel places his cup down and turns to you, his knee brushes past your leg slightly and he moves it discreetly away.

“What were – what were your Christmases like growing up?” he asks suddenly, quietly.

You turn your face to him, though your bodies are facing each other already. You feel a little surprised by his sudden question, but you don’t mind it. You meet his eyes before looking at the mugs before you, thinking.

“To keep it simple, they were amazing,” you say, returning your eyes to him. “I was an only child, but my parents always went all out. They loved the Christmas spirit, so our apartment was always decorated after Thanksgiving,” you say with a bright smile as you remember. Miguel notices the glint in your eyes as you talk. “We always put the Christmas tree together and they’d let me put the star at the top, even when I was a teenager and later an adult. They were always good,” you say, nodding softly as you think of your parents.

Miguel nods with a faint smile though you don’t notice it. He thinks of a younger you, a version he doesn’t know and will never know. He thinks about Peter, unable to stop himself from thinking about how he probably knew that version of you. He lifts his mug and takes a drink, trying to wash away these strange thoughts.

“Sounds like you had a great childhood,” he finally says, and you nod, making you feel a little sad as you remember Miguel telling you about his step and biological fathers. He didn’t say anything, but you felt that his childhood was not always great.

You bring your own cup to your lips and drink, wanting to change the conversation but Miguel doesn’t mind. He has put a lot of it behind him, at least those parts of his life.

“So, when you said they’d let you put the star on the tree as an adult, you mean it?” he asks, sounding a little amused.

You nod and give him a smile. “I was in university, and they still allowed me do it,” you say with a chuckle. “Peter would tease me about it, but it was fun for all of us.”

Miguel nods, thinking. You notice he has that look on his face. The one when he’s thinking about something.

“What is it?” you ask softly.

Miguel turns to you and shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. I was just thinking… Wondering, I guess.”

“About what? You can ask,” you say, your tone sincere since you don’t mind. He has already shared quite a lot about his past. It’s only fair he asks about yours.

Miguel sighs softly, continuing to hold your gaze. “When did you meet Peter?” he asks quietly, as if unsure of asking this question.

You smile, not minding the question at all. “When we were sixteen. He moved schools and we instantly became friends, which then turned into a relationship,” you say fondly before you pick up your mug and drink.

Miguel stares at you as you do this, still thinking. Since sixteen. It was Peter’s twenty-sixth birthday just weeks ago, which means you had known and dated each other for almost a decade by the time he passed away. He looks down at his nearly empty mug. Almost a decade of a relationship and you still try to live life to the fullest. Miguel grips the cup.

“How do you do it?” he asks quietly.

“Do what?” you ask in confusion.

“You knew Peter for so long. Dated him for so long. And you still… you try.”

You stare at Miguel, feeling a little startled by the sudden change of conversation but Miguel looks like he genuinely wants to know. You remember this was something you thought about in the early days. How people could move on. How they could carry day to day even after losing someone.

“Miguel…” you start and look down at your cups. “It isn’t easy. Especially in the beginning,” you add softly, knowing that for Miguel, it has been a little over a year since he lost his wife and Gabriella. For you, it’s almost four years since you lost Peter. You’re on different points of your mourning periods. You sigh softly. “It isn’t easy at all in the beginning,” you repeat as you think of your next words. “I wasn’t the woman you know now, or even the one you were introduced to months ago,” you say lightly, making Miguel turn to you, with curious eyes. “I don’t want to ruin the Christmas spirit, so I’ll try my best not to.”

Miguel shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I don’t want to – take away the lightness of today,” he says with a regrettable look on his face.

Why did he ask, he wonders. Everything was going so well.

“No, it’s okay. It helps. Talking about it helps,” you say, reassuring him. You stay silent for about a minute, trying to figure out how to approach this. “I lost sight of things for a month or two after Peter’s death,” you start.

You look away, feeling shame course through you as you remember those dark days. You don’t want to see the look on Miguel’s face when you reveal something you’ve never shared with anyone.

“I’m not proud of it… It brings me great shame to say this,” you say as you stare down at the cups. “There was a time after Peter’s death – a month after everything took place to be exact – that I,” you pause. “I looked for him. I tried hunting down the man that did it,” you say quietly.

“I had a regular job back then, so I went to work. I mourned and tried my best to accommodate to my new life but at night… I couldn’t stop thinking how I could’ve done better. How I could’ve saved him. I thought of the man who did it. How he took Peter from me. The love of my life, my last bit of family…” you trail off, though your tone is still light, and you feel proud of yourself for it, for you know months ago, this conversation would’ve had you in tears. “My thoughts were consumed by it. So, I went out to try to find him. I didn’t plan on doing something to him, I swear,” you say pausing, trying to emphasize this. “All I wanted was to know who he was. Bring him to justice.”

Miguel continues to look at you with a pained expression on his face now as he hears you talk. There is a faraway look on your face, as if you were back in that time but you turn back to him and he’s like an anchor, keeping you tethered to this moment.

“One night, when I thought I had a lead – I was on a rooftop, and I finally realized that Peter would’ve never wanted to see me like that. And that I was failing my promise to him,” you say, meeting Miguel’s eyes. “He made me promise to try to move on. To be open to another love. I tried after that. It was slow progress. The last few months since I joined the society have really helped me,” you say with a soft smile as you wrap your fingers around your mug softly.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever really move on, but it feels easier as the days go on,” you tell Miguel. “I guess, it also helped that I eventually found the man. Or rather, he found me. I forgave him,” you say with a quiet sigh and offer Miguel a smile. And as he stares at you, he realizes how much stronger you are than he thought. “He was my own version of Flint Marko, otherwise known as Sandman. He never meant to hurt Peter that day. He was just – trying to rob a bank to get money for his child’s surgery.”

You stare down at the cups and think of Marko. Last you heard from him, he was trying to do better, and his daughter, who was now older, recovered from her illness. You lift the cup to your lips and take a small drink before setting it down.

“I’m not the best example of how to do it,” you say, looking up. “But I try and sometimes, that’s all you can do. For them.”

Miguel continues to stare at you and even though you thought you might’ve found judgment in his eyes, you see none of the sort. Miguel stares at you with even more respect than before. He looks down at his hands for a few seconds before he looks up again.

“I think – Peter must be happy that you are trying to honor his promises,” he says softly, wishing he could say more. Wishing he could reach out to you physically the way his hands were begging him to.

You smile at him. “I think so, too. I think he’s happy with where I’m now. You know, the whole reason I joined the Spider Society was because of him. I declined the invitation from Jess initially until she asked me what he would’ve thought about everything. I know he would’ve loved the idea of it. He would’ve loved learning about the multiverse,” you say with a grin and then shake your head softly as you pick up the mug again. “He loved science, too.”

Miguel stares at you, surprised at hearing this. Jess never mentioned you rejecting her invitation. He looks up at the ceiling a little bit and in that moment, he finds himself internally thanking a man he never met.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he says after a few seconds of silence. “I’m sorry if it made you…” Miguel trails off.

You turn to him again. “It’s okay. It didn’t. It helps,” you say, and your tone is still lighthearted. “I think I’m ready to try the other drink.”

Miguel continues to stare at you. “I think I am, too… This one is sweeter,” he says as he wraps his fingers around the mug. Miguel watches as you lift the mug to your mouth to try it and once again, there’s that pleased look on your face that makes him forget his worry from earlier about messing with your plans. You don’t seem to mind.

As the two of you sit there and enjoy the second hot drink, Miguel’s thoughts are on you. You’re so strong and not only in a physical way but in a way that Miguel feels he hasn’t been able to. You’re strong by trying to fulfill your promises. For forgiving the man that took Peter from you. For trying to move forward and trying at life. Miguel has never said it, but he respects you.

You’ve accepted his boundaries in a way so many others haven’t. You’ve offered him nothing but kindness. You’ve listened when he shares memories with you. You’re a hard worker and meticulous when it comes to your duties as Spider-Woman. You’re strong. So strong.

And his respect for you grows tenfold, if that’s even possible, considering how much he already respected you before tonight. Miguel thinks about this and the fact that you’re the first person that has been to his penthouse in years.

Friend.

Maybe you do consider him a friend, Miguel thinks to himself as he takes a drink, too.

“This is really good, too,” you say quietly as you drink more, and for some reason, it makes Miguel feel pleased.

“Glad you liked both,” he murmurs as he drinks more. He suddenly wonders what time it is. The two of you have been here for what feels like two hours now. He checks the time discreetly from a nearby clock.

It’s past eleven, which means it’s almost time for the annual AI Christmas holographic show. He stands up, making you turn to see him.

“It’s almost time for something my city does annually. I think you’ll like it,” he says and motions for you to follow him.

You see him take his mug and you do the same before you follow him to the windows that face his kitchen and dining areas directly, giving Miguel another sight of the city. He leans sideways on the windows and looks down, waiting for you to join him. You reach the windows and lean on them, too, mirroring his stance. You look down and see the Christmas decorations on the snow-covered ground despite being on the highest floor of this building. The decorations, which are holographic, make you realize for the first time that there’s no sight of a Christmas tree in Miguel’s penthouse. You don’t say anything about this, of course. You know with everything that’s happened, a Christmas tree is the last thing one can think about in times like these. You’re glad there’s at least a little bit of Christmas spirit in Miguel since he cooked and took the day off though.  

Still watching the decorations, you think of something and wonder. You’ve noticed some of them from HQ when you walk by the windows throughout the month, but it’s been like a second thought with missions and what not. You wonder now if everyone has holographic Christmas trees or if physical trees are still a thing here. You look up at Miguel and he turns, as if feeling your gaze.

“What is it?” he asks softly before he takes a drink.

“Are physical Christmas trees a thing here?”

Miguel gives you a small smile, which still catches you by surprise. “Only the wealthy have physical trees. Everyone else has holographic decorations,” he explains, and you nod. You know Miguel is wealthy, so his lack of a tree is not because of money but because he didn’t want to put one up.

You look back outside, thinking. Miguel continues to stare at you, wanting to know what you’re thinking.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he asks, though for him it isn’t. He’s used to the technology and to this tradition, but he can imagine how it can be odd for you when you come from a universe where physical Christmas trees are the norm.

You bring the cup to your mouth, enjoying the sweetness of the hot drink. “I was just thinking how putting the Christmas tree together as a family is a big thing. Or well, it was for my family and I.”

Miguel nods, remembering what you said earlier about your family and the holidays. He leans more into the window, crossing one of his legs over the other.

“To make up for that, families sit down and design the ornaments together through their devices. Then, they upload their designs to the tree. There’s a program and everything,” he says thinking about the process. He has an artificial tree, which is stored at HQ, but he also has a holographic one from previous years when he was too busy to put a physical one with his family. “I’ll show you,” he suddenly says, putting his mug on the window stool before he heads to the living room section. As he looks for a tablet on his table, he can’t help but think about this. How he’s comfortable showing you things. How he wants to show you things. Like how the holographic tree program works or the annual AI Christmas holographic show which should start soon.

Friend.

He finds the tablet and starts it up, which only takes about a second to boot up. He walks back to you as he opens the program. He reaches you and stands closer to show you.

“First, you put the tree up,” he says as he shows you the screen. The two of you stand side by side, looking at the screen as he clicks on the tablet. He looks up and points. “It’ll appear right there.”

Sure enough, a large holographic Christmas tree, decorated in classic Christmas colors, appears a few feet away from the two of you, near Miguel’s dining table.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur as you notice the star at the top of the tree.

“Thank you,” Miguel says as he looks at it, too. He wasn’t expecting to put up a tree this year but here he is. He looks back down at the screen. “Then, you can design your own ornaments using this program,” Miguel continues and shows you. He pulls out a stylus from the tablet, surprising you. The tablet is so thin you wonder how it’s even possible but then remember it’s Nueva York.

You watch as Miguel uses the stylus to design an ornament. He inserts lines as part of the design and changes the color of the ornament to match the theme. It takes him a few seconds to finish before he writes his name on it neatly.

“And it’s done. Now you upload it like this,” he says and shows you. “The program decides where it should go but you can manually change it if you want,” he adds.

The two of you look up just as it appears on an empty spot on the tree. Miguel then offers you the tablet and stylus. You look up at him, confused.

“Try it,” he says, still waiting for you to take the tablet and stylus from his hands.

“Are you sure?” you ask, looking down at it.

He nods. “Give it a go.”

You set your mug next to his on the window stool and take the tablet and stylus from him, your fingers brushing past his bare ones once again. You ignore the sensation and focus on the screen with the new canvas to design yours. Your brows furrow as you think for a second about what you want it to look like. You start working on it, with Miguel watching intently. He notices how quickly you figure out how to use the program and watches as you design your ornament with ease.

As you work on it, you can’t help but notice a scent. Or rather his scent. You’ve caught a bit of it before of course but it has never been this strong to your nose. Not like this when he stands by your side, so close your arms are almost touching, with him dressed in normal clothes. You add small details to your ornament as his scent envelops you, distracting you slightly as the combination of his shower products and shaving cream blended with his natural scent surround you. You can’t suppress the thought that pops into your head at that moment, which is that his scent is delightful.

You clear your throat quietly as you add your name to the ornament. You stare at it for a few seconds.

“Hmm, I like the traditional stuff, but not going to lie, this was fun,” you say and smile at Miguel, still feeling distracted by his scent. “I can see kids enjoying this a lot.”

Miguel nods, his lips curling upward again as you give him the tablet back, completely unaware of your thoughts. “You may not like the architecture, but I think you would settle just fine in this universe,” he comments, as he looks at your ornament, thinking of how quickly you figured it out and the fact that yours turned out better than his. “Now… you just upload it,” he says softly before he does exactly like that. You stare at the tree, feeling a little surprised that he’s adding your ornament, but you shrug it off. The two of you watch as your ornament, which matches the tree’s theme, appears right next to his.

Miguel stares at it, the sight of your ornament appearing next to his makes him pause for a second. It’s the first time in years Miguel has put up a tree in his penthouse. It’s also the first time that a non-family person has added their ornament to his tree.

Miguel now clears his throat quietly. “Not bad at all,” he says and nods. “Oh, the show should start soon,” he says, trying to put his thoughts away about the tree and your ornament.

You nod. “Thank you. That was fun,” you add as you turn your attention back to the decorations outside. You briefly look down at your gizmo. It’s 11:33 P.M. now, meaning Christmas Day is less than thirty minutes away now. You’ve spent a lot more time here than you expected but you don’t mind. You wonder if people back in Miles’s universe have left the party or if they’re still hanging out.

“Glad you enjoyed that,” Miguel says softly, putting the tablet on a nearby surface. You notice he doesn’t put the tree away. It’s still there as he leans on the window sideways again, looking outside towards the decorations as well. He briefly thinks about Gabriella. He only had one Christmas with her. He remembers it vividly as he looks out, recalling Gabriella’s excitement on Christmas morning. He remembers thinking how perfect it was and how, if all his future Christmases could’ve been like that, he would’ve never asked for anything else. His wife wasn’t in the picture then, so it had just been Gabriella and him. Now that he thought of it, he and his wife didn’t have much time together. It was very brief. Miguel clears his throat. He doesn’t want to think of the past like that right now. He doesn’t want to think of how rushed everything was when it came to his relationship and marriage. Not tonight.

His thoughts are thankfully interrupted when he sees the sign that the show is starting. He turns to look at you to make sure you’re watching, and of course, you are. Your eyes are on the sky as you see the announcement before it starts, filled with curiosity and awe. Miguel turns his gaze back to the sky as the show starts. Holographic Christmas trees appear from thin air, all lit up in Christmas colors. Reindeer fly by the windows, galloping here and there. Twinkling lights decorate the background as holographic snowflakes descend before they begin to form into snowmen that start dancing.

You watch in awe, finding this fascinating. Miguel steals a glance to see your reaction. He sees the awe and fascination on your face, clearly enjoying this.

“This isn’t even the best part,” he says quietly as he knows there’s always more to it.

You smile as reindeer fly by the windows again. “This is so – I wish we had this in my universe,” you answer quietly. “The closest we have to this are projections.”

Miguel chuckles lowly. “Well… You’re welcome to come watch it again next year,” he answers as he crosses his arms across his chest.

Neither of you say anything else. Was that an invitation for you to join him again next year? You push your thoughts away and focus on the show just as a holographic Santa Claus and his sled appear out of nowhere, making you smile.

“Santa Claus,” you whisper as the sled approaches Miguel’s windows. The holographic Santa Claus waves as he passes by making you chuckle. The show continues with Santa Claus flying around as the reindeer align themselves to the sled, supposedly to get ready for the flight. At one point the show presents Santa’s workshop and tiny elves working on different toys and preparing the sled. It concludes with Santa flying by the windows again, this time with all his reindeer and magical sack of toys before they fly off, disappearing into the sky. A large holographic “Feliz Navidad” message and red poinsettias conclude the show.

You stare at the message, still in awe with a smile.

“That was amazing. You grew up with this?” you ask softly.

Miguel nods. “Gabriel and I always looked forward to it.”

You smile, once again thinking of a younger Miguel. “It must be amazing, to experience this as a child,” you answer, thinking of kids.

“The kids love it,” he replies as he also stares at the message, knowing it will stay up past midnight.

You nod and the two of you just stare out the window in silence for a few minutes. You watch as you see white, tiny spots in the sky. With each second, more and more appear.

“It’s starting to snow,” you murmur, making Miguel pay more attention and sure enough, it’s snowing.

“A white Christmas,” he whispers, as the snow picks up.

“A white Christmas,” you repeat.

The two of you stand ever so closely, leaning on the window sideways, your bodies facing each other as you watch the falling snow. And in that moment, everything feels alright with the world for you and Miguel, despite everything.

You look down at your gizmo. It’s past midnight now.

“Merry Christmas,” you say, quietly.

Miguel smiles softly as the two of you stare out the window. “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

-

Thirty minutes later, Miguel stands in front of his holographic Christmas tree alone. You returned home a few minutes ago, looking and sounding tired after being out for so long. So, you both said goodnight to each other but not before Miguel asked if you’d want some food or if you’d prefer to join him again in a few hours for the recalentado.

You said yes to the latter.

Miguel continues to stare at the tree, or more specifically at the new ornaments, for a few minutes, thinking.

Friend.

He finally goes to sleep after storing the food away. He leaves the Christmas tree up, which you still find when you return hours later to eat dinner with him on Christmas Day.

__________________________

Translation for italicized words: Mierda - Shit Pozole - A kind of soup/stew made from hominy and meat (can be chicken or beef). Tamales - I think everyone knows these Tinga - Latin dish made out of meat (pork, chicken) in sauce with onions, chiles chipotle and tomatoes. Can be eaten on tostadas or as burritos (my experience) Atole Blanco - white atole, a Latin hot drink made out of corn meal Ponche Navideño - Mexican Christmas fruit punch Tostadas - toasted tortillas; usually used as a base for different culinary dishes Recalentado - word translates to "reheated"; this is the act of inviting your closest friends and family the day after you host a party to eat the reheated leftovers, it's supposed to be a smaller tight-knit situation and less formal because it's with close family/friends (do you see what this means for you, the reader? I'm not okay, right now)

--

May I just -

Miguel in a freaking chunky cable knit sweater. His damp hair. His bare skin. His scent (I KNOW HE SMELLS GOOD and you cannot change my mind). Him knowing that you were asked specifically to go drop him food. Him asking you to stay for dinner. Him serving the food. Him being a great cook. Him being a great host. His respect for you growing. Him wanting to comfort you physically (AHH.) Him showing you the annual Christmas show and how the holographic Christmas tree thing works and adding your ornament and staring at it because it appeared next to his and him leaving the tree up even tho he didn't plan on putting one up and him thanking Peter for influencing you to join the Spider Society even tho he never met him (CRYING, SCREAMING). Him inviting you for dinner again!!!!!!

So a lot of people said yes to the Christmas part but I was also selfish and wanted to write Miguel like this and get some Christmas comfort before the next part because... yeah. So, sorry to anyone who didn't want it. I needed this.

Also, I'm sorry for the late update. I meant to post Sunday but it was that time of the month and it kicked my butt. I hope you enjoy it, and if you've read this far, thank you for the support!! ❤️ I hope to be back Sunday with an update, tho I have a family event Saturday so idk if it'll be possible but I'll try.

I love Miguel so much and it's a problem but it's okay -Alondra

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[gloomwitchwrites]

Captain John Price x Female Reader Dark Romance

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, canon-typical swearing, brief suggestive themes, brief blood, rescue and escape

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Seven of Dangerous Pursuit (for @glitterypirateduck)

Price makes himself comfortable at lunch. Accusations are thrown. Revenge comes knocking.

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dangerous pursuit masterlist

Three years.

It seems like forever ago, and yet it only feels like yesterday when Ghost hauled you into his arms and Price became a distant face. Three years since the blood-drenched terror of not knowing whether you’d make it out of Thirst alive. Three years. Three years, and you firmly believed everything that happened is behind you, left to rot and wither in the recesses of your mind until you don’t remember it at all.

Three years.

Three goddamn years.

It was autumn then, like it is now, like it was when Alex first asked you out on a date and you accepted without your fight or flight response kicking in. Autumn, when the trees surrender their leaves to the ground and air, when the wind becomes a chilly companion, and the dredges of sharp heat melt away to cooler temperatures.

Autumn then. Autumn now.

And three years.

So much has changed, and yet you feel no different. You are back at the safehouse. You are back at Thirst. You are staring at the face of a man who is both familiar and strange. You are trapped and free and unsure of what moves to make. You are questioning everything and angry at the world for even thinking that it’s a fine idea to place this man in front of you again.

Ghost brought you to Laswell and Laswell was kind. Brief and upfront, but kind. There was a period of stasis, of not knowing what was going to happen to you. For almost a month, you were locked away from the world before salvation came.

And then you were off, moved across the country against your will with the only reasoning being “your safety.” First name the same. Last name different. With it came security, a fresh start, and deep down you know it only happened because Price must have had a hand in it. He made it happen so that your new life provided everything you could possibly want. Opportunities didn’t just appear, they were made before you even arrived, and you needed for nothing.

But it’s been three years. Life went on without a singular moment of contact from him. Now, Price is here, sitting across from you where Alex was just seated minutes ago. It is insulting but also so normal, like it should be him sitting in that seat and no one else.

Everything that happened, everything that occurred, is in the past. Haunting you still but so far removed at this point you rarely glance back at it. At least, it dwelled within a realm where you could extract yourself from the events. Taking them up, you wrapped them together in a bundle, and stored it away for therapy sessions and dark nights when sleep is an elusive friend.

This restaurant is your usual go-to spot with Alex. It’s a safe place. A sanctuary where the two of you can have some alone time. It’s shattered now. Fractured. The past is back. The past is here, and it is staring you in the face.

“Hello, love. It’s been a while.”

Your lungs are popped ballons, the rapidly escaping air slightly loud and unwelcomed. All the words—all the possible sentences—you could say go out with the air, leaving you with a singular name.

“John,” you breathe, the menu falling from the hands to land softly on the table.

Your lips begin forming the semblance of words again, your brain seeking a greater response than just his name. It is like sliding down a rocky incline but everything you grab onto slips from your hands or breaks your nails and fingers, pushing you further and further down into a rapidly sharp decline.

Just as your brain and tongue catch up to each other, Ivan approaches the table. His bland demeanor gives way to furrowed concern.

“Madam,” he addresses, turning fully in your direction, ignoring Price entirely. One of his thick eyebrows rises slightly. “Will the gentleman be joining us?” It’s clear on Ivan’s face that he doesn’t want to ask you that question, but he is retaining his professional appearance even as you sense the disdain for Price and the concern for you.

You glance at John for an answer. He gives the faintest nod. It’s not that Price is saying that he intends to stay, but to give you the choice. Can he stay? Do you even want him to? But you are curious, and even though it has been three goddamn years, your heart still flutters, and your stomach twists with anxious excitement.

“Yes, Ivan. He’s joining me for lunch,” you finally answer, glancing back at Ivan and giving him your best reassuring smile. It’s mostly for your benefit, because frowning or screaming or crying seems wholly inappropriate.

Ivan inclines his head and finally turns to address Price. “The lady is having wine. Will you be partaking?”

You want to curl into a ball under the table. Ivan’s tone has a hint of disbelief in it, like Price won’t take him up on the offer and order something mundane or beneath this fine establishment. At Thirst, Price ordered cigars and whiskey, and while smoking isn’t allowed in the restaurant, they do have plenty of whiskey selections to choose from.

“I will,” replies Price, sitting back in his chair, adjusting his jacket. Ivan’s lips tighten but it’s the only sign of emotion before the man promptly disappears.

Reality sudden comes crashing down around you. Your tongue and brain are one again, and it wants to slice, to sting Price with venom. To draw blood and make him regret not contacting you.

Sitting forward, you lean your elbows on the top of the table. “What are you doing here?”

While you intend to harm, your voice comes out too seething, a hissed sort of whisper that you immediately regret. Yet this whole thing is insane. You haven’t spoken to Price in three years, and now, here he appears like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. He is sitting in Alex’s seat, and he’s so fucking calm it’s nearly maddening.

“I’m here to talk to you,” he replies cooly.

You’re about to reply, to tell Price that you know that, because that’s really fucking obvious. But Ivan is back, pouring Price his glass of wine and then offering him the menu. Price thanks him politely and Ivan disappears again.

“About what?” you sigh, exasperated. Yes, you’re annoyed, but you’re also worried. With a three-year absence, this cannot mean anything good. It means that Price might not even really be here for you. That possibility hurts somewhere deep.

Price glances down at the menu and frowns. “Fucking prices are atrocious,” he murmurs.

“John,” you prompt.

When he glances up from the menu, he smiles softly. His gaze is slightly heated, admiring you openly and clearly. Anyone watching can see that for what it is. For you, it startles, throws you right back to the safehouse, and to that little room at Thirst. It recalls every touch and kiss, and how good Price felt when he was inside you.

“Why are you here?” you manage to choke out, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

“Your boyfriend,” replies Price dryly, smile dropping.

“Alex?” Your voice breaks slightly, and you clear your throat. “What about him?”

Price’s head tips slightly, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you or is genuinely surprised you have to ask. “Is that what you call him?”

“Does that matter to you?” you snap.

Where is this line of questioning going? What does Alex have to do with Price? Why is he here? Clearly, it’s really not for you at all.

“Alexandr Obolensky matters to me.”

“Why?” you ask sharply.

Ivan returns and Price shakes his head subtly. “Are we ready to order?” Ivan is looking at you. It’s more of a “do you need help?” look. A “blink twice and I’ll call Alex” glance.

“You know my usual, Ivan,” you smile softly, trying to put on a show of calm.

Price holds his menu out, and without look at Ivan says, “Steak. Rare.”

Ivan remains passive but you can tell he’s incredibly annoyed. He takes Price’s menu and then yours, disappearing like a ghost.

“Most expensive item?” you chastise.

Price shrugs. “Your boyfriend’s paying.”

“For me,” you correct but this doesn’t appear to faze Price in the slightest. Sighing, you place your hands in your lap, fingers clasped in agitation. “You want to talk about Alex.”

“Don’t want to ask me how I’ve been?” asks Price, trying the wine. His eyebrows rise slightly with surprise before he sets the glass down.

“It’s been three years, John. I didn’t think you’d care.”

His gaze darts up from the wine glass, and all your irritation and resentment slides off your body and to the floor. “I care.” He shifts in his chair. “How are you?”

How are you? As if you could even form a proper response. You are angry, annoyed, delighted, frustrated, confused, anxious, nervous, hopeful, and so many other fucking things it feels like you’re about to explode.

How are you? Ready to faint. Ready to scream. Ready to cry.

How are you?

How are you?

“I’m fine, Captain. Thanks for asking.”

“No,” replies Price, shaking his head. “You’re not.”

“How—”

“You didn’t expect me. You’re not fine.”

Ivan returns again and you want to tell him to stop bothering the two of you. To leave and not return until you and Price have had it out. But you also understand why Ivan keeps appearing. While he’s providing service, he’s also keeping tabs on you. This will get back to Alex. It’s likely Alex already knows.

Bread is brought out. They make it in house and when that delicious yeasty scent reaches your nose, your stomach growls. There are three types of butter. One is a standard salted butter. The second and third—as Ivan points out—are a chili, ginger, and garlic blend while the final option is burnt shallot. Bread and butter service is your favorite part of the entire affair.

And yet, even as your stomach growls, your chest is hot and stiff.

As you reach out to serve yourself, Price is already taking charge, loading the small plate with warm slices of bread and offering you the butter options first.

What is this? Why is he here? What the fuck is he doing?

“I’m sorry I never contacted you,” says Price, his voice dropping slightly to a low murmur. “Laswell said I couldn’t. And I tend to follow orders.” He shrugs. “Not all the time, but in this case, Laswell made a good case not to.”

“And yet you’re here anyway,” you reply, trying to remain calm. “Why? You just want to talk to me about Alex?”

“Alexandr Obolensky is the friend of my enemy. And I need information.”

No. No no no no no.

Fucking no.

You are not going back to this. You are not falling into this trap. Whatever is going on, whatever is happening, you want nothing to do with it.

“I don’t have anything to say, John.”

“What does he do for a living?” asks Price, completely ignoring the fact that you just rejected him.

“I’m sure you already know the answer to that,” you reply dryly, lathering up one of your pieces of bread with the burnt shallot butter. It’s heavenly in your mouth, and for a brief second, you forget how frustrated you are and just enjoy the food.

“But do you know?” Price does the same, chewing slowly on a piece, his attention fixated on you. It’s a bit unnerving how intense he is right now.

“He works for his father’s consulting firm.”

“And?”

“And what?” you shrug, shoving more bread into your mouth so you don’t have to keep talking.

Price leans back in his chair, relaxing entirely. It reminds you of when you walked into the VIP room at Thirst and saw him there, oozing danger and sex.

“Do you know what the client list looks like? Do you know the people that your boyfriend consults?”

“Can you not say it like that?”

“Like what?” shrugs Price.

You lean forward in your chair. “You have no right to be upset about the fact that I have moved on.”

Price doesn’t seem the least bit angry. He smiles, and you want to scream—or slap the grin right off his face.

He pops another piece of bread into his mouth, chewing slowly. You watch him swallow, and then your mind drifts, remembering the way he ran his thumb across his bottom lip after tasting the space between your legs.

“You haven’t moved on,” he says slowly, as if reading your thoughts. “Now, about Alexandr. What does he do?”

“I don’t really ask and Alex doesn’t say much.” Your bread is rapidly depleting and there is nothing left in the bread basket.

“That not suspicious to you?”

“No,” you say, a little too hesitantly.

Price smirks behind the wine glass as he takes a sip. “Are they watching us?”

“Who?”

“The wait staff.”

As discreetly as you can, you take a quick glance around the room. They are watching, but doing so in a way that might look like they’re working.

“I’m sure this will get back to Alex. Happy?”

“Good,” replies Price. “I want him to know I was here.”

“Why are you doing this? You haven’t spoken to me or reached out in the last three years. Why are talking to me now?” You wave you hand dismissively. “And don’t say it’s because of Alex.”

“It’s him.”

“Oh, of cour—”

“The man you’re dating is protecting my enemy,” interjects Price. “I want him to know I’m on to him. And I also want to warn you.”

Warn you? Warn you?

“About what?”

Price lowers his voice. “You think Petrov didn’t figure it out? He did. And he told someone and they told someone else.” His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. “Revenge is a slow game sometimes. You cost someone weapons and money. That’s not forgotten easily.”

The bread and butter in your belly threaten to upend themselves.

Revenge is a slow game sometimes.

The names and faces from before come flashing fast and blinding. Dimitri’s cold stare. Nikola’s blank malevolence. Damien’s unhinged, gnashing teeth as he screamed at everyone to stop talking.

“Why would you say that?” you whisper, nearly inaudible. “Alex—”

“Alex doesn’t love you. He’s helping someone else get rid of their loose ends. And you’re someone’s loose end.”

Ivan appears with the food. You don’t even look at it. You’re too focused on Price. When he disappears again, you stare down it. It’s your favorite thing and yet it’s so unappealing you want to cry.

Glancing up, you turn your heart to steel. “I don’t believe you.”

How can you believe Price? Alex has been nothing but kind, patient, and sincere. He’s never shown any signs of wanting to harm you let along kill you. Alex’s actions don’t match Price’s words, and it is cruel of him to even suggest such a thing.

“I’m not the only one after him,” continues Price. “There are others poking around. Police mostly, but they have no idea they’re poking a monster that will eat them alive. His father’s client list is long. Celebrities. Finance gurus. Cartel. Arms dealers.”

“Stop.”

Price cuts into his steak, scoops up some perfectly fluffy potato. “Alex and his father help people hide things. Laundered money. Ballistic missiles. That’s the consulting.” Price shrugs. “But Alex doesn’t talk about his job. Of course you wouldn’t know.”

“And you think I have information?”

Price swallows another bite of food. “This steak is excellent. Understand the ridiculous price.”

“I want you to leave.”

Price’s gaze flicks to your face and his expression is unreadable. “Maybe Alex does like you. Maybe he’s been kind. Loving.” He sits up slightly and sets his knife and fork down. “But Alex’s duty is to his family and to his country. And you don’t fit, love. He will have to strike you down, and if he doesn’t, someone else will.”

This is a nightmare. A twisted horror only Poe could pull off.

Is everything a lie? You have no reason to completely dismiss Price’s accusation. Truly, Price has only ever been honest with you. At least, in the past. His motivations are unclear here. Maybe he does wish to protect you. Maybe he desires to warn you.

But from Alex? No.

All of it is mangled. Like a wounded animal trapped in barbed wire. You are clinging but it is painful.

“Enjoy your meal, John,” you say softly, almost defeated in your delivery.

You glance away, find Ivan. He is standing nearby near a server station. Maybe it’s the stricken look on your face, or perhaps it’s the eye contact, because Ivan is over in an instant.

“Would you like me to box this up?” he asks, reading your mind.

“Yes,” you nearly choke out. “Please.”

Ivan removes the plate from your sight and promptly disappears. Price looks sad but not surprised. When Ivan returns, he places the to-go back to the right of you at the edge of the table.

“Concerning the bill,” begins Ivan, his gaze starting to pivot from you to Price.

“It’s on me,” replies Price instantly, reaching into the inside of his jacket. Removing his wallet, he removes cash, a solid, thick stack of it, handing it off to Ivan. “Should cover everything plus tip.”

Ivan hesitates before taking it, glancing at you for confirmation. You’re too shocked to respond, and Ivan takes that as acceptance. The cash disappears and Ivan inclines his head before making himself scarce.

“You didn’t—”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” says Price.

He meaning Alex.

The words sit like rocks in your stomach. This is agony. A blade slowly sliding across skin.

“Goodbye, John,” you murmur, standing up from your chair on wobbly legs.

You don’t wait for his farewell. You turn away and march straight to the front door, not looking back, knowing that you might go back to him if you do.

When you make it out of the restaurant, a black SUV with tinted windows idles at the curb. Eric, one of Alex’s bodyguards stands next to the vehicle, hands clasped in front of him. As your gaze locks with his, Eric turns and opens the back passenger door of the sedan.

“Mr. Obolensky asked us to see you home.”

“Thank you, Eric,” you reply, sliding into the back.

Someone from the restaurant must have contacted Alex and told him that you were having lunch with an unexpected guest. A small swirl of anxiety mixes with the heaviness, but you also know yourself. If you’re proactive about this, you and Alex won’t have a disagreement or even an argument about this. There is no reason for you to hide anything.

Alex’s other bodyguard, Rick, is in the driver seat. Rick and Eric are always together. They’re a pair. Alex has an entire team of personal security, which has always seemed odd to you. But someone like him who deals with high-profile clients needs protection.

Right?

Or is it because of what Price said? Does Alex work with and for people who make it a lifelong ambition to harm others? Is that who you’re dating?

Eric opens the front passenger door and hops inside, his massive frame shaking the SUV slightly as he does so. Once the door is shut, Rick is pulling the car into traffic. Twitching nervously, you decide to take control of the situation.

Fishing out your phone, you type out a text to Alex.

A man stopped by after you left. Starting asking me questions about you. I didn’t say anything but he said things that upset me. Can we talk? Call me.

The text is a half-truth and a half-lie. You know Price. You’ve had sex with Price. But Alex doesn’t need to know all those details. You can step around it, push how uncomfortable you were, mention what Price said, and leave it at that. Move it all into Alex’s corner.

Rick and Eric deliver you to your apartment as promised. Eric even escorts you, not leaving until you’re inside and locked the door behind you. That only unnerves your further. Makes you question everything.

Maybe Price is right. Maybe you’re dating a monster.

In the kitchen, you empty the bag and almost cry. Ivan packaged your food, but he also added a massive slice of their house chocolate cake and more of their bread and flavored butters. It’s like he knew, and you’re eternally grateful.

The next few hours, you pace, eventually finding the stomach to consume your food minus the cake. Belly full, you lounge on the couch, promptly falling asleep. Not realizing you have, it’s a pounding at the door that wakes you.

Slowly, you sit up, watching the front door. Waiting.

The pounding comes again, and this time you go on silent feet. Through the peephole, you see two officers loitering the hall. Price said there were lots of people looking into Alex and the police were just one group.

But you don’t answer. You watch until they give up and leave. In moments you’re checking your phone, finding no texts or calls from Alex.

“Fuck,” you murmur.

Typing out another message, you tell him the police came knocking. You ask him what the fuck is going on and that he needs to call you immediately.

Sighing, you take your phone to the kitchen, plugging it in. A shower is what you need. A hot, steamy shower that you simply stand under and enjoy.

The shower does ease the tension in your muscles but it doesn’t remove the rocks in your belly or the heat in your chest. It all stays. Lingers like garlic on your fingers after you’ve cut it and washed your hands.

After shower, you try the chocolate cake. With fork in hand, you head back to the bedroom, and come to a complete stop in front of the doorway.

The light is off.

Funny. It was just on when you left to grab the cake. You know it was on because you intended to come right back and lay in bed. Eat chocolate cake and watch trashy reality television. Caution keeps you alert. Holding the cake in one hand, you reach into the dark with the other, seeking out the light switch on the wall.

Finding it, you flip it.

Nothing.

You flip it again. Still nothing.

You try a few more times, and still, nothing.

Backing away, you retreat down the hall and into your living room. The darkness of the bedroom doorway lengthens, becomes ominous. This is not a horror movie. There are no creatures waiting in the dark, hungry and vicious and cruel.

Clutching the sides of the plate with both hands, you take a calming breath. But there is no returning quietness. You sense eyes on you. You sense a hunter.

You glance to the left and immediately freeze, coldness creeping in.

A shadow of a man looms on the other side of your couch. He stands between it and the coffee table. He is hulking. Huge. Wearing all black. The balaclava he wears covers everything but his eyes and mouth.

The sharp click of a lock engaging snaps your attention to the right. At your front door is another hulking shadow. Nearly identical to the first.

The only point of escape is the front door. But it’s blocked. Your balcony won’t help you. Your apartment is far too high to survive a jump. Fighting is all you have. Fighting and surviving and evading.

That is all you have.

Slowly, you pivot the metal fork, working it within your hand until you wield it like a weapon. The masked men crouch slightly, each of them poised for the moment everything snaps, for everything to slow and then suddenly quicken.

You need to draw the one near the door out. He needs to move enough for you to try and get into the hall. From there, you go stairs, not elevator. And you run.

But you are not trained for this sort of thing.

Whatever confidence that suddenly blooms within your chest diminishes instantly the moment the two men begin to move. Instead of running, your limbs freeze, betraying you completely. It is a slap in the face. A gut-punch to the stomach.

When your body does catch up—when it realizes danger is right there in front of it—that is when it finally fucking moves. But you propel yourself forward, running toward the bedroom, intending to barricade behind the door.

The masked man in the living room leaps over the sofa and you bolt. He dives, and you step out of his path, bringing the plate down on his face. It shatters, and the gorgeous cake you were so eager to enjoy squishes over the eye holes of the balaclava.

His companion is unharmed and persistent. Snagging your hair, he yanks you back, but you still have one tool.

Slashing out, the tips of the fork slice at him. He flinches, perhaps believing it’s something much worse, but quickly recovers, bashing against the walls of the hallway as he tries to get to you.

The darkness of the bedroom is right there. It is so close.

And then it all flattens. Becomes a pit. An endless abyss of intruders.

Another shadow appears.

Another large man stepping out from the dark.

Your feet slide against the carpet. Tipping. You’re tipping. Falling. The floor coming up fast.

Going down hard, all the air is punched from your lungs. The fork goes flying.

This is it. This is the end.

Your reach for the silverware just as the second intruder grabs hold of your arms, twisting them back sharply.

You cry out, and then warm liquid sprays over your face.

Hands go limp. Go loose. Fall away.

There is red on the wall. Red on the floor. Red pooling beneath your bent elbows.

The man holding you tips back, and his companion, the one in the living room is suddenly backtracking, pulling his weapon.

Too late. Too late too late too late.

There is a muffled pop followed by another.

His body jerks. Goes down. Crumples.

Time hangs. Your ears are ringing and everything is funneling into a narrow tunnel. But there are hands. Warm ones. Rough ones. Ones that slide around your body and pull you from the floor.

With all your weight, you throw yourself against them, fists clenched. Teeth bared.

But you find eyes that you know. A face you recognize.

“John.”

He smiles sadly, one hand brushing your hair out of your face. His gaze roams, seeking and searching, looking for wounds.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice raspy.

You shake your head. “No.”

He releases a shaky sigh, then pulls you closer. Price’s gaze moves to a spot above your head and down the hall. You follow it and immediately press yourself closer into his chest, fingers digging into the front of his zipped jacket.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, slowly untangling himself.

On instinct, you reach for him, whimpering with the lose his protection. Price kneels next to the first body. He yanks off the man’s balaclava. Frowning, Price grabs the back of the man’s black jacket, hauling him up enough for you to see his face.

“Know him?”

Eric’s limp stare greets you. Turning abruptly, you gag, nearly unleash your stomach contents onto the carpeted floor. Distantly, you hear Price’s voice, but you hardly care. Sweat runs down the back of your neck and your limbs are seizing up.

“Stay with me.” Price’s hands return to you, bringing you back into his arms. “Look at me.”

There is wetness on your cheeks, but you don’t know if what you feel are tears or Eric’s blood.

“You came,” you whisper.

“Always. I’ll always come for you.”

His thumbs rub the wetness from your cheeks and you’re not brave enough to check Price’s hand for red. Leaving you on the floor, Price returns to Eric, digging around in the man’s pockets. Finding his phone, Price holds it up and lifts Eric up again.

He watches the screen and then nods, dropping Eric to stare at the now open phone’s screen. Tapping away at it, Price returns to your place on the floor, kneeling next to you. He hesitates, gaze flicking from the screen to your face to the screen again.

“Show me,” you beg, voice hoarse.

“Sure, love?”

All you do is nod, because doing more might be too much.

Price turns the screen around to face you.

It’s Eric’s messages. The one currently opened and staring back at you is from Alexi.

Finish the order. Return when done.

Your gaze draws upward, locks on Price.

“We should go,” he says, but your limbs are noodles. You’re not getting up from this floor on your own.

As if knowing this, Price wraps his arms around your waist, and you slide yours around his neck. He lifts you effortlessly, taking you into the bathroom, turning on the shower and depositing you inside. It doesn’t matter that some of the water hits Price. He helps you out of your clothes anyway.

He stays in the bathroom until you’re standing without your knees shaking. Only then does he leave, returning with a change of clothes from your closet. Price is tender and careful in the way he helps you.

There is nothing sexual about it. It’s just trust and a genuine need to take care of you that drives him. You see it in every action and glance. His gaze does not linger on the intimate parts of you. His only concern is your health and safety.

Alex would never.

Fingers intertwined, Price guides you out into the hall and past Eric’s limp corpse. You don’t look down, and you don’t dare glance at the second body, choosing to stare at Price’s back as he escorts you to the front door.

His hand in on the lock. Then the handle. Then it’s opening, the outside light pouring in.

You don’t look back.

You don’t dare.

Ahead is Price, and that is all you cling to.

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[alexfromjersey]

ℂ𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕 | 𝕁𝕖𝕟𝕟𝕒 𝕆𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕘𝕒

Jenna Ortega x Black!Reader

summary: you and jenna have been in a relationship for the past eight years when suddenly everything starts to get rocky.

warnings: mature language, angst, violence, jenna doing some dirty shit

a/n: idk why but I wanted to write some angsty 😬? God forbid this ever happened to me cause I’ll be in jail…

“Who is she Y/n?”

That was the first thing you heard when you walked into your home after a long day at work. You just got off an agonizing 12-hour shift at the warehouse and all you wanted to do was shower, eat, and then sleep.

“Who is who Jenna?” You tiredly questioned as you pulled off your boots and work jacket.

First of all let me say, you can’t accuse me of all the things, you know you’re guilty of

“The woman you’ve been sneaking around with” Jenna answered and sipped her wine. Her eyes never leaving your figure.

You sighed, “Please don’t start this shit again tonight please I’m exhausted.”

That it is easy for you to blame everything on me

“I wonder why. Too exhausted from all the lying, the sneaking around, fucking her, and giving her all the attention that’s supposed to be for me” Jenna snapped.

“How many times do I have to say that I’m not fucking anyone, Jenna! What’s your problem? For the past two weeks, you’ve been accusing me of seeing some imaginary woman when all I do is work and come home to you. I don’t even go out with my friends anymore when will I have time to cheat on you” You questioned her loudly.

“How do I know you’re going to work? You could easily say it and go somewhere else” Jenna said.

“Jesus Christ you have my location on your phone!” You shouted.

“You could have left it at your job and left to go sleep with her” Jenna shrugged.

If that’s the case I should go have my fun and do all the things you say I do

You scoffed and just let out a laugh, “How fucked up in the head are you? Maybe I should do all this shit since you think that’s my grandmaster scheme. Drive almost an hour away to go to work, leave my phone at my job, miss out on a shift that makes me lose money, and go fuck a girl.”

You laughed and walked straight past the woman. You walked up the stairs and into your bedroom. Your patience was wearing thin and if you didn’t step away from her, you were going to say something to really hurt her feelings.

Girl, I can’t continue to take this from you

“I can’t fucking win with this girl man. Ever since she came back from filming that new movie, she’s been on a thousand. Accusing me of cheating and lying shit. I don’t do anything but go to work and go home” You ranted to your best friend Donny.

It was your day off, you sitting on your front porch watching the cars pass by when you felt the need to vent to someone. You haven’t seen Jenna since last night, you slept on the couch and when you woke up she was nowhere to be seen. She only left a note telling you that she was going to be hanging with Emma. You invited Donny over to hang out for a little.

“Maybe she just needs some of that groundbreaking pipe” Donny chuckled.

“I would if she let me touch her. She won’t let me go near her to initiate anything. Haven’t had sex since she left and I haven’t stepped out once” You stated.

“Oof you better than me. I would have cheated as soon as she left” Donny admitted unashamed.

“Yeah that’s why your ass is single” You chuckled.

Donny chuckled also and shrugged, “I’m just keeping it real.”

Suddenly, a message notification came from the top of your phone. It was from one of your co-workers that you used to go get a drink with.

When you say I was out with somebody else when my girl told me she saw you with some girl

Kai:

yo I just seen your girl

Your eyes furrowed at the message.

You:

seen her where?

Kai:

the shopping center a town over. I’m out with my daughter and she pointed her out. she walked away from some tall-looking man but I’m pretty sure it was her

At the mention of a man, you furrowed your eyebrows. She told you she was hanging with Emma today. You needed to get to the bottom of this. You found Jenna’s number and just as you were about to click it. A FaceTime call from her came.

You answered it and all you saw was the roof of a car. You go to say something but you hear the sound of a soft moan in the background. You put yourself on mute and turn your volume up.

“Oh my…you feel so good baby” You heard Jenna moan.

Donny’s eyes widen at the sound coming from your phone. He was in disbelief that this was happening to you.

Your heart starts beating faster and faster. Your hand kept clenching and unclenching in anger. You wanted to say something or do something but you were frozen.

Jenna’s moans continued to increase in volume and you saw the phone bounce from the movement of the car.

“I love you Luis” You heard Jenna shriek and the slapping sound increased. You then saw the phone move to a position that’ll forever be engraved in your mind. You quickly took a screenshot and hung up the phone.

It was silence for a few moments. Neither you nor Donny making a move or uttering a word. But your hands kept clenching and unclenching into fists and Donny noticed. He looks at you in concern but you pay him no mind.

You abruptly stood up from the chair and stormed into the house. Donny was hot on your heels concerned and slightly scared.

“Y/n?” Donny asked you but you ignored him. You practically run up the steps and burst into your shared room. You start to throw open all the drawers and throw out everything. You didn’t know what you were doing, just angry. You started throwing anything breakable into the wall.

The once organized and clean room was now in disarray. Clothes, shoes, and personal items were thrown and broken everywhere. Next, you moved to the walk-in closet. You threw every piece of clothing on the floor, moved the boxes from the top shelves, and threw shoes everywhere. But then you noticed a small LV purse, you got her for her birthday last year. It was tucked in a deep dark corner, you would have missed it if it wasn’t for one of her other bags falling out of place. You grabbed it, opened it, and dumped everything onto the bed.

What you saw officially confirmed your fears. It was Polaroid pictures of her and a guy you’ve met numerous times. It was one of her co-stars, Luis Gutierrez. Pictures of them kissing, at the state fair, and one in a bed.

The same bed you and her sleep in.

“Y/n…” Donny cautiously stepped towards it before his eyes landed on something on the bed. You look to where his eyes are and landed on a half of heart necklace with the initial “L” engraved into it.

After seeing that, you grabbed your jacket and left the disarrayed house with Donny following.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dude I think you should slow down on the drinking,” Donny said to you in concern.

“I think you should shut the fuck up and let me drink in peace” You snapped at the male and downed two more shots. That marks it as your fourth and fifth shot.

Donny didn’t take your words to heart either. He knew you were hurting badly. The only way you knew how to deal with that pain was by drinking until you passed out…a trait you learned from your mother.

You still didn’t feel drunk enough so you ordered another round of shots. Donny just watch you take them back like water.

“Eight years Donny…eight fucking years I gave her. All those years down the drain. She was accusing me of cheating when SHE was the fucking one sleeping with someone else!” Your voice raised in the building.

Thankfully, there weren’t many people in the bar but the ones who were turned to look at the commotion.

“I understand but calm down-”

“Man don’t tell me to fucking calm down. How the fuck am I supposed to be calm about this? My girlfriend accidentally FaceTimed me and practically showed me her fucking someone.” You laughed.

“Hey take that shit somewhere else” An angry customer demanded.

“Who the fuck is talking to you Mr. Clean” You insulted the man. He didn’t like that and he pushed you. You stumbled back into the counter but quickly recovered and pushed the man as hard as you could.

“Hey! Enough!” Donny shouted and pulled you away from the man.

“Get the fuck off me” You pushed Donny’s hands off you and walked out of the bar into the autumn weather.

You didn’t live far from the bar you were just at. You take some shortcuts and you’ll be home in 10 minutes but you wanted to take the scenic route which added an extra 8 minutes to the walk.

While you walked, you had to figure out your next move. You and Jenna share a house, a car, and a dog together. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t just up and leave. It wasn’t as easy for you as it was for her.

On your walk home, you stopped by a liquor store. You bought yourself a bottle of Tequila and started drinking it on your walk. You were well aware that you could potentially get arrested for public intoxication but you didn’t care.

Just when it seemed like you were calming down, God decided to hate you even more than he already did.

A honk of a horn and a shout of your name made you turn around to the source. A familiar red Audi pulled up next to you and parked. The man responsible for your current rage hopped out of the car with the woman you used to love.

“Y/n? What are you doing walking like this?” Jenna questioned.

“Yeah, and why you got a bottle of Tequila” Luis innocently questioned.

You stared at the male with a blank expression, “I’m clearing my head.”

Jenna scoffed, “Clearing your head for what? Got something you want to tell me.”

Your eyes cut to her and she didn’t make it noticeable but she jumped at the sight of your dark emotionless eyes.

“Nah I get it, sometimes you just need a few minutes to yourself. I get like that all the time especially when I’m home. I’m so used to…”

Your eyes stared into his before wandering down to his neck where you see a faint bruise there. Your eyes then land on a silver necklace, similar to the one you found around his neck. The necklace had a “J” initial engraved on it. Your hand tightens around the neck of the bottle.

Your eyes then glance at Jenna who was staring at Luis with a look she used to give you.

“Y/n?” Luis called.

His voice goes distorted and starts to fade away as a blinding rage starts to take over. Before you know it or stop yourself, you swing the bottle and it connects with Luis’ head.

“OH MY GOD!” Jenna screamed.

Luis fell against his car, blood dripping down the side of his head. You didn’t waste any time and hopped on top of him and landed punches to his face.

You were blinded by your anger, by the betrayal, and by the emptiness you had inside of you.

“Y/N STOP!” Jenna yelled and tried to pull off Luis but you wouldn’t budge. You kept landing punch after punch after punch to his face. Your hand went numb and blood coated it. You were finally tackled off the unconscious male by two police officers.

“Put your hands behind your back!” One of the officers yelled and forcefully pulled your arm back. They slap handcuffs on your wrists and harshly stand you up.

As you walk past, you see Jenna and a couple of bystanders standing over Luis. She then looked at you but you averted your eyes. You kept your face expressionless as you were loaded into the back of the cruiser.

Or maybe I, I should have done it, should have given away all my love or maybe I, I should have played you, 'cause you don't appreciate me, no

The loud sound of a jail buzzer wakes you up from your slumber. You open your eyes to realize that you’re still in a jail cell with three other people. You look down at your aching hands to see them bruise up and dried blood on them.

Blood that wasn’t yours. You’ve been in this cell sobering up for the past nine hours.

“Y/n! You’ve been bailed out” A guard shouted. You stood up from the seat and walked to the door. Another buzz was heard and the door swung open. You stepped out and followed the guard to the front.

Once you got to the front, you saw Jenna standing there with an angry and frustrated expression on her face. You sighed and you grabbed your things before signing some paperwork with much difficulty. But once you were finished, you didn’t say a word to Jenna, you just left the police station.

“Y/n? Hello? Are you going to fucking explain yourself? What the hell is wrong with you?” Jenna snapped at you.

You ignored her and continued walking. But Jenna wasn’t having that, she jogged in front of you and stepped in your path. You tried to walk around her but she just followed her.

“You almost fucking killed Luis, Y/n. Do you not realize that?” Jenna seethed.

“Leave me alone Jenna” You mumbled and finally went around her but she was at your side in a second.

“No, I won’t leave you! You beat Luis so badly that he had to go to the hospital for stitches and a concussion. You’re not explaining to me why!” Jenna yelled.

You let out an angry breath and your eyes glare at her. This makes Jenna jump a bit because she’s never seen you this angry before.

“You wanna know why? You wanna fucking know why I should have killed that fucking bastard! Here!” You shouted and you pulled out your phone and showed her a screenshot you took. You then pulled the pictures you took from her bag and threw them at her chest.

“You are a fucking hypocrite Jenna. You accused me of fucking cheating on you when in actual reality, you were the one sleeping with another man. I gave you eight years…eight fucking years of unconditional love. Eight years of being by your side. Eight years of being loyal. Not once did I ever give you a reason to question my loyalty to you!” You shouted at the girl.

Jenna’s eyes widen as the biggest secret of hers has finally been discovered.

“You made me feel like I was the bad guy. I stopped hanging out with my friends. I stopped going out to places. I did anything and everything I could to try to fix what was broken between us” You fumed as your voice cracked. Tears were threatening to spill down your cheeks as you finally let your emotions out.

“Y/n…I-”

“You had him in our bed. You fucking FaceTimed me in the middle of you sleeping with him in his car. How much more disrespect do you think I can tolerate?” You cried. The tears now falling freely down your face. But you wiped them aggressively from your face.

“I should have fucking cheated,” You said and left her standing in front of the police station.

a/n: so…I’m watching the vmas right now and SZA should have won song of the year but we ain’t gon get into that 🙂…

[hobies-princealbert]

"you worry too much cariño" | boxer! miles 42 x reader

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◇ you were with miles from the start. you saw his love for boxing from the first day yall met. you remember how he would rave about rocky and how his room was littered with cut out pictures of sugar ray, mayweather, muhammad and all the greats.

◇ you remember how he begged his uncle for years to become his trainer. how upset he got when he couldn't perfect his right hook. how sore his muscles got after an eight hour training day. how happy he was when he won his first match that he ran out the ring before the ref announced his victory, and grappled you into a bear hug. you both shed a couple of tears that night.

◇ you were his no.1 cheerleader. always by the ring with mrs. morales and uncle aaron cheering miles on. even if you don't know jackshit about boxing, one thing was certain miles was good. so good that by the time he was 18, he had been invited to compete in that national tournaments.

◇ but no matter how good he was, he would still get nervous. especially if the event drew in a big crowd. you were always there to give him a pep talk or smack the sense back into him, and tell him to get back in there and kick some ass.

"si señorita" he gave you quick kiss (and a pat on the ass for good luck ofc), and headed back into the arena.

◇ he loves when you practically nurse him back to health. whether he got a busted lip or a bruised cheek. best believe after every match, he would make his way back stage where he knew you would be waiting on him with a first aid kit handy.

"miles, you need to be more careful. look at you. your lips, god and your cheek, it's do swollen. don't gimme that look i'm serious look what that asshole did to you"

"cálmate mami, the guy's suppose to beat me up. es parte del trabajo bebe" he took the hand that you had resting on his shoulder and kissed the palm to further his assurance.

"hey if you don't want me to nag you, you can always go to med staff. you know the people who's job it is to do this," you pressed an alcohol pad on his lips which made him hiss a bit.

"you worry too much cariño. plus how am i suppose to get mi besos to me feel better huh?"

◇ miles is more than grateful for all the support you give him, so best believe he's gonna make sure your well taken care of. it's the least he could do for you after so many years of being his nurse, cheerleader and emotional support coach.

◇ the money he's makes from tournaments and sponsorships, he can surely afford to give you anything your heart desires. "just say the word and it's yours mi corazon". plushies, shoes, jewelleries, clothes, nice vacations and dinners. borderline spoiling you rotten.

◇ and if your not one for extravagant things, he'll make sure that you never have to struggle to afford basic necessities. definitely a "don't worry i'll cover most of the bills for you baby" typa man (aaah a girl can dream)

◇ shouts you out in interviews. whether they ask about his love life or his biggest inspiration, he always makes sure that everyone knows he's had a great girl by his side every step of the way, and he hopes to keep it that way for as long as your down.

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎◇▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎◇▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎◇▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎◇▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎◇▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎◇▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

@fezcossidepiece (*≧ω≦) enjoyyyy!!!

[disneyprincemuke]

i want to be the one that makes your day * ls2

[part two out of eight]

they're now stuck between a rock and a hard place trying to figure out how they feel for one another

pairings: logan sargeant x fem!driver

notes: hi lol i'm sorry i pulled a disappearing act on yall... i hope u still like rocky and logan because hehe

wc: 3.9k

(series masterlist) | (through the years)

2021

“hey, do you wanna– are you going somewhere?” logan tilts his head with furrowed eyebrows as he takes a step into her room.

the girl, standing by her vanity, turns to him as she pauses putting her lipgloss on. “i’m heading out with lily and a couple of uni friends,” she frowns slightly. “is there something you wanna do?”

he takes a step back and scans her. she’s dressed pretty casually, just a pair of jeans and a cropped shirt with one of his jackets on.

so that’s where his damned jacket went.

truth be told, logan could have asked for it back. he should have asked for it back because that is in fact his favourite jacket on her and he has been looking everywhere for it.

he can practically see visions of himself accusing oscar for taking the jacket and refusing to admit his wrongdoings. all along, it’s been with her.

now he dreads the apology that he owes oscar.

if you asked him, she looked kinda better in it than he does.

he feels his knees buckle at the sight of her in one of his clothes. it’s a regular occurrence, yet there’s still something about knowing that it belongs to him. and if you asked him, she definitely looks better in it than he does.

but he supposes he only feels this way because he has feelings for her.

“i was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner with oscar and i tonight,” logan sighs, rolling his eyes jokingly with a teasing grin. “but you look like you’d be out until late.”

she hums and purses her lips together. “i could make it for dinner.” she puts her lipgloss down on her table and grabs her purse from her chair. “text me the details and i’ll meet you guys there?”

“you don’t have to,” he hums. “we could just get dinner tomorrow.”

“we weren’t planning to stay out late. just finishing a couple of assignments together,” she shrugs. she spreads her arms and twirls. “how do i look?”

he chuckles, nodding. “you look great.”

“good!” she starts walking over to him with a scrunched nose. “i’ll give you back the jacket tonight, i promise. i had to keep it for myself for a couple of days because i,” she pauses and momentarily looks away with a teasing smile, “well, i just like this jacket.”

so there’s the confession. now he knows where his jacket’s gone. he sighs internally, noting the apology he’d have to give oscar for accusing him of taking his jacket.

“seriously?” logan snorts with a soft laugh.

“yeah! it looks better on me anyway, don’t you think?”

he simply grins at her, pretending to be annoyed. but if he had the choice, he’d have told her to keep the jacket for herself for the rest of time.

logan scoffs and rolls his eyes, ignoring the thumping of his heart in his chest. “sure, whatever you say.”

logan picking her up from school is suddenly a normal occurrence. every single time she finds herself having to travel to campus, she finds herself in the passenger seat of a car.

specifically, logan’s car.

even though she has a perfectly running vehicle for herself that she can drive just fine.

he claims her driving habits scare everyone so he’s technically doing everyone a favour, which she is inclined to believe. because everyone makes it a point to tell her to drive safely every single time.

it’s getting tiring, really.

but there’s a glimmer of hope in the deepest part of her gut that’s trying to convince her that it means something else. a small part of her begging for it to mean something deeper. she doesn’t want to get her hopes up too much.

“i don’t wanna be the one to say it,” she starts softly, reaching forward to lower down the volume of the radio, “but you missed our exit.”

logan raises his eyebrows with a soft hum and a simple nod. his eyes remain on the road, “did i?”

she raises an eyebrow and turns to face him slightly. he has been driving this route to and fro for a couple of months now.

she doesn’t buy his facade.

she was on campus from before the sun had risen and left after it was set — logan would normally be apologising for not bringing her home as soon as possible.

“where are you taking me?” she sighs, dropping her back into the seat and sinking into it. “you’re not whisking me away to kill me secretly, are you?”

she gasps before logan can answer, throwing her head back with the back of her hand pressed against her forehead dramatically. “i’m too young!”

he scoffs, glancing at her momentarily with a scowl. “you are so annoying. can’t i bring you to get some dinner without you ruining my plans? it was supposed to be a surprise.”

her knitted expression slowly softens. she turns away and presses her back against the seat, a small grin making its way to her face.

just when she thinks she can’t like him any more than she has, he goes ahead and does things like these for her.

it’s very endearing and she finds herself needing to catch her breath.

with her silence, logan looks over and laughs. “that shut you right up, didn’t it?”

“shut up,” she mutters, folding her arms over her chest. “what did you get for dinner anyway?”

“i placed an order from your favourite restaurant downtown,” he explains. “i noticed you haven’t been eating dinner all week when we got home. i figured i’d have to force you into eating dinner.”

come to think of it, she realises the number of times she’s skipped dinner this past week. she didn’t think anyone would notice.

she sighs and throws her arms into the air. “i’m trying to be ahead of my deadlines for the upcoming race weekends.”

“it’s just one dinner.” logan stops at an intersection and turns to her. “come on, i already planned everything out for us tonight. i’ll even have you home by 9 so i don’t take up too much of your time.”

she shakes her head and keeps her gaze out the window.

he taps her gently on the shoulder with a teasing hum, leaning in towards her. “i’ll even help you out with your research.”

“i’m a computer sciences major.”

“with your coding,” logan corrects himself. he taps her on the shoulder one more time, prompting her to whirl around to face him. “please? i don’t want you to starve and i ordered all your favourite dishes.”

it’s infuriating that she’s never truly gotten over her crush on him.

all she can think of is how close he is to her — she can feel his breath fanning down on the tip of her nose. she tries to contain the way her heart pounds and the urge to lean in and crash their lips together.

“okay,” she whispers, barely heard above the music that he’s put on. “but you help me with my coding.”

“absolutely,” he nods, tapping her on the cheek, “anything for you.”

she should just do it; she should kiss him. what’s the worst that could happen?

it’s just a kiss. okay, she’ll do it. she sucks in a deep breath and just about starts to lean forward.

it’s now or never.

they jump away from one another at the booming sound of someone’s car horn. logan turns and finally faces the road.

“it’s a green light!” logan clears his throat as he shifts in his seat. he looks into the rearview mirror as another loud horn is sent his way. he starts to move slightly. “oops.”

another sleepless night trying to meet another deadline. every weekend makes it harder to try and finish her education with the life she’s been trying to live.

with a race weekend coming up soon and her deadlines adding to the mix, she feels her body slowly giving up.

she’s barely been home and spent time with anything else than the gym and her laptop screen.

she lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back as she rubs her eye. “i’m going to die here at this table,” she mutters to herself.

the entirety of the first floor of the house is empty and silent. if she isn’t so consumed by the sheer pressure of scoring good grades, she would be slightly frightened by the eeriness that is the barely lit home.

she sits cross-legged on the floor of the living room. she has textbooks sprawled on the coffee table with her laptop shining into her face.

“you’re still up?” she follows the trail of the voice, meeting logan’s barely awoken stature at the top of the stairs. he has his blanket over his shoulders as he starts to walk down towards her. “what time is it?”

“two-thirty,” she shrugs with a small smile, trying to match his concern for her well-being. “i can’t figure my code out.”

he purses his lips as he makes a turn for the couch she’s sat in front on. “you’ve been glued to your laptop since we had dinner at 8. take a break, dude.”

she shakes her head and promptly returns her attention to her screen. “i can’t. with the race coming up, i want this out of my hair before then.”

“okay.” he drops the blanket on the arm of the couch and turns. “coffee or tea?”

“tea, please. thank you.”

she must have been so consumed by her work because she didn’t notice the cup of tea set up with a coaster right by the textbook. neither does she notice the second cup sitting next to it and the man that’s now sat next to her, wrapped in his blanket once more.

“what are you doing?” she laughs, turning to logan. “go back to bed. don’t you have to be at the gym early tomorrow?”

“i can always come in a little later and end later,” he mutters with a simple shrug. “i’ll keep you company.”

she grins and shakes her head. “don’t bother. at this rate, i’ll be up until i have to be back on campus at 3.”

logan smiles back, patting her gently on the top of her head. “don’t worry about me. i'll keep you company until you’re done for the night.”

she tries to ignore the bigger smile that stretches her lips. a huff passes her lips, feigning annoyance, as she starts to scroll away on her laptop. “sounds like i'm not getting rid of you any time soon,” she jokes, “tell me a story.”

she walks into the kitchen, jumping back at her best friends already eating breakfast. she blinks and tilts her head, “oh. you’re up.”

oscar is hunched over, solemnly eating cereal. he turns to her with furrowed eyebrows. “yes, it’s noon. why wouldn’t we be?”

“i expected you to sleep in later,” she mumbles with a shrug. “i was going to make you guys lunch and a hangover cure.”

logan nods slowly from the other side of the kitchen island. he’s donned in one of oscar’s hoodies, a cold glass of water in his hands. “don’t bother. we puked in the lawn at 4 when we got out of the uber.”

she grins, “wild night?”

“pretty much,” oscar sighs, holding his head in his hands. he should have known better than to listen to arthur while they were in the club. “you know how it goes.”

“arthur and mick were unstoppable,” logan scoffs, dropping his forehead down to meet the marbled table. “thank god you weren’t there, else i would have passed out on the lawn.”

oscar peeks through his side and grins. “do you think you could make me a hangover shake, mate?”

truthfully, he wasn’t expecting the girl to say yes. he had been waiting for a sour expression and a loud ‘no’.

yet she hops off the bar seat with a soft giggle. “so what else did you guys do?” she turns, her gaze landing on logan. “did logan pick up any girls?”

oscar perks up at the question. he glances across him where logan also lifts his head, furrowing his eyes. he then looks at her, now turned back towards the fridge as she pulls out fruits and vegetables.

“no,” oscar mutters.

at the same time, logan says a noticeable “yeah” with a soft laugh.

she stops in her tracks and looks between them. “one of you is saying yes, and the other says no,” she snorts teasingly, “what’s the truth?”

oscar’s stare lingers on logan. for two people completely and hopelessly in love with one another, he is curious as to what the hell is going on.

is it still acceptable to be this open about your affairs though there are feelings involved, despite it not being said aloud?

has he been in a stable relationship for too long that he no longer knows the procedures of having requited feelings nowadays?

“i tried,” logan shrugs with a small grin. “but arthur dragged me away before i could even get back to the dance floor with her.”

is this some kind of twisted game they’re playing? or maybe he’s reading too much into their stares and they’re really over one another?

“you know arthur,” she giggles. “well, you know him.”

maybe they’re really just best friends now.

you would think that after an entire year, oscar would finally believe his best friend regarding his feelings. he wants to believe logan, really, but he is really not helping his case.

oscar leans back on the kitchen island and raises an eyebrow, arms folded over his chest. “she could just get her own orange juice if she really wanted some, mate.”

“you know her,” logan mutters with a soft sigh. “she neglects herself this time of the year with her deadlines and school. it’s the least we could do.”

“you,” oscar corrects him, “the least you could do for her.”

she’d admitted to logan in a trance the other night that sometimes she thinks that this isn’t the life for her — racing and trying to finish her education. she was mumbling something about being too ambitious to want to have both things when clearly, she’s only destined to have one or the other.

she’s not cut out for both, she’d said.

“she’s having a hard time. you’ve seen it; i don’t have to point it out to you.”

logan turns to the kitchen island where he has an entire breakfast set up for the younger girl. there’s scrambled eggs and a few slices of bread on a plate. he sets the cup of orange juice down on the tray and sighs. “am i forgetting something?”

“yes,” oscar sighs, “the fact that you’re just her best friend.”

the american turns his head with a mean glare. he knows there’s a chance that all this will never amount to anything more than what it is.

but right now, while she’s still struggling, he feels like this is the least he could do for her. just making sure that she is well taken care of when she’s not doing it herself.

isn’t that what best friends are for?

“you’re in way over your head,” oscar continues softly, following logan towards the stairs up to her room. “i just watched you strain pulped orange juice for 10 minutes.”

“they didn’t have any pulpless orange juice at the store!” logan scolds back softly, trying not to let the irritation get to him. “she won’t drink it if it has pulp. you know that.”

“that’s barely our problem to solve.” oscar runs ahead a couple of steps and holds his arms out. logan halts his steps and looks up with wide eyes and a sigh, already knowing where the conversation is going. “you’re digging yourself a grave by doing all this. you’re in love with her, mate.”

logan scoffs. “i am not in love with her.”

that’s what he says, but it’s not exactly what he feels. more so the fact that he is still in denial having feelings like this towards his best friend.

even a child could sense the lie.

oscar shrugs and steps aside. he gestures for logan to continue up the stairs. “okay.”

logan continues to give him a skeptical stare as he slowly climbs up the last few steps of the stairs. “i’m not, i swear,” he repeats, eyes pleading for oscar to believe him just this once.

the australian nods and raises his hands in the air. “hey, whatever you say, mate.”

oscar knocks on her bedroom door for logan.

they share a knowing look with one another. oscar’s stare silently sending him waves of uncertainty, but what scares him is the same feeling that logan’s is throwing at him.

as if he doesn't entirely understand what’s going on either and why he is acting this way.

“come in.”

“i made you breakfast before i send you off to campus,” logan beams as oscar pushes the door open. “i know how you roll around for like 20 minutes until you’re late.”

the girl sits up from her bed, hair in a dishevelled ponytail and eyes barely open. “i had a late night.”

“we know,” oscar mumbles, closing the door behind him. “we heard you wailing at 4.”

she giggles sheepishly, retracting in her bed to make some space. she taps on the empty space and drops her gaze to her sheets. “my code wasn’t working.”

“figured,” logan shrugs with a soft snort. “well, eat up.”

oscar lingers by the door, hands by his side as he watches them.

she slouches slightly with an almost unnoticeable smile as logan prepares an egg sandwich for her, shyly watching him with her head dropped. it was a scene you would only appreciate as a bystander.

it unfolds like a movie scene right before his eyes: stray strands of her hair falling on her face as she giggles. logan pulls his arm back and starts to wave the sandwich in the air, making a beeline for her and hovering it by her lips.

it’s really not even that funny, oscar admits to himself. he doesn’t know why she’s laughing so hard.

oh, god.

his best friends are in love with one another.

“oscar,” she calls out firmly as her giggle dies down. “aren’t you joining us to eat breakfast?”

oscar lifts his gaze from the ground and meets her curious stare. he takes a deep breath and smiles before he nods. “of course.”

he slowly heads for her bed and nervously laughs.

this simply cannot be good. friends never look at each other that way and remain just friends.

she jolts up, the blanket strewn over her falling down her torso. she looks down at herself and realises she’s been moved over to the couch from her dreadful position on the floor by the coffee table.

she whirls around to the clock and her eyes widen at the time: it’s way past the deadline for her assignment.

she starts to feel the panic coursing through her veins, her chest tightening and her breathing starting to get rigid. she scrambles down the couch and hurls the blanket off of her.

how did she even get on the couch?

she could have sworn that she had set a timer for 5 minutes to immediately lock herself back into double-checking her work. had she dozed off and somehow, at some point through the night, climbed onto the couch to sleep?

she grabs her laptop and hurriedly opens it, trying to list out possible explanations as to how it’s come to this.

“what are you doing?” logan’s raspy voice catches her attention.

he lifts his head from his pillow with his eyes barely being able to open from the sun seeping through the curtains. he has a blanket wrapped around him loosely as he props himself up on an elbow.

she’s heaving, starting to get lightheaded from her situation. because how could she be so careless?

“hey,” logan sits up, “are you okay? what’s going on?”

“my assignment,” she cries.

she can’t help it but tears start to fall out of her eyes. she fans herself with a hand as she frantically clicks around on her screen.

shaking her head hopelessly, she’s barely even able to navigate her laptop through the tears. “i missed my deadline. oh, god, i missed it.”

she wipes her face aggressively with her palms and returns her attention to her laptop. “i don’t even know how i ended up on the couch. how could i be so stupid?”

“okay, breathe.” her body jerks slightly as logan gets a firm grip on her shoulders. he sits on the couch behind her and slowly reaches forward to tear her hands away from the laptop. “relax.”

she resists him. “i missed my deadline! i know you’re not going to school anymore, but this is kind of important! now is not the time, logan.”

he grabs her shoulders again. “i submitted it for you when i found you sleeping at like 3. i moved you to the couch.”

“why would you do that?” she huffs, turning her head to frown at him. “did you even check it?”

logan nods, with a slightly proud smile on his face. “i know a friend who codes, so i asked him to check it for me,” he admits. “then i sent it in.”

he waits for a response, but the girl continues her bewildered stare at him. if you asked him, it kind of scared him.

“i’m sorry. i couldn’t bear to wake you up so i thought i’d just send it in for you if all was okay,” logan explains with a shrug. “and it was!”

she opens her mouth, debating if she should say something. but realistically, what he did is very sweet. and even through her tears and frantic mindset at the moment, even she couldn’t ignore the gesture.

she sucks in a deep breath and lets out a heavy breath. “and you’re sure you submitted it?”

“i triple-checked it, i promise,” he nods with a small smile. logan slides down the couch to join her on the floor. “you just looked so peaceful sleeping. i’m really sorry if i overstepped.”

“thank you.” she pats him on the knee with a soft laugh. “it’s okay but next time–”

“i will wake you up next time,” he finishes her sentence for her. he reaches up to cup her cheeks, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. “i’ll make you breakfast to show you how sorry i am, okay?”

she nods, giggling when logan squishes her cheeks. “i want porridge.”

gen taglist: @33-81 @darleneslane @namgification @localwhoore @happy-nico @nikfigueiredo

[bbunisre]

EPISODE 1

PAIRING ☆ jean kirschtein x fem!oc! ( you can just imagine it as yourself!!! i tried to describe physical features for this purpose x )

WARNINGS ☆ no smut in this one, dirty, slowburn, lots of teasing, a little niccolo x oc, voyeurism (???), vulgar and dirty jokes lol, baddie main character

SUMMARY ☆ In which Mirabelle enters Paradis Island years before the Liberio Attack and finds herself instantly interested in Jean Kirschtein, an innocent man who is soon tied mercilessly to her womanly wiles. Jean attempts to escape her but can only run so far before he starts running back to her.

WORD COUNT ☆ 12k

TAGLIST ☆ @lakeiskewl @greenie-c @alt--er--love @kcch-ns @nobodybutnnoorr @biggityboppingboob @sssmokesignalsss lmk if u want to be added <3

MASTERLIST

MIRABELLE WINDRIDER POV

Living in the storage section of a Marleyan warship for several days comes with having my limbs squished between a box of deactivated bombs and ration packs. It’s one of the several cons of being stuck here, besides the seasickness, having to freeze up when soldiers come in to look for things and multiple hours of being bored, plotting my arrival.

Voices atop tell me there’s a disturbance up ahead the boat. Well, they aren’t telling me. The Marleyan soldiers don’t actually know I’m here at all. It should be kept that way until it’s time is what Yelena strictly instructed.

It’s been forever-and-a-half since we left Marley! We certainly must've arrived on the coast of Paradis by now. I’ve been sharpening the blade all this while like a good girl. Can something happen already?

I stretch my body after eight hours of sitting in a cramped position. The commotion above doesn’t surprise me as I feel the familiar pull in my limbs and torso. An assassin’s flexibility is unmatched, a small breeze in the air, seductive and chilling as we kill our victims.

An explosion and a loud horn cause yells on the warship but a smile on my face.

Thank you, Yelena. 

I flip the dagger into my belt as I make my way up the stairs I snuck down merely a few days ago.

I have to be quick but soft. 

They can’t know I’m here. 

Not yet, at least.

The cool air makes contact with my skin, clearing my lungs and any mustiness that has accumulated instantly. But there wasn’t any time to relish in this moment. I’m here to get the job done—the Beast is counting on me.

The soldiers are stunned at what’s in front of them. I try to get a look at the situation from where I am, right behind, in the corner of the door where no moonlight can reveal me. 

Outside is dark, but lighter than inside the storage bunker where I couldn’t figure out who was coming unless I really tried to listen through the water. The first thing I notice about Paradis Island is that the stars here are explicit, little trinkets hung on the blanket they sit on. That, and the many lights by the tents that illuminate where they must be living. Yelena did tell me when she snuck into Marley in between to pick up a couple of the supplies that the stars here shine way brighter.

It’s beautiful.

I shake my head. I can look at the stars later. I have to assess the situation we’re in first.

Beyond the vessel is rocky land and what looks like many rifles being pointed towards the warfare ship. I attempt to look for Yelena through the hunter green capes but the lanky woman is nowhere to be seen. 

I roll my eyes. 

Looks like I’ll have to get to work.

Cracking my neck, I slide behind the soldier closest to me. 

I slink my arms around him, one coming up to cover his mouth and one around his torso and arms. I whisper in his ear, “Make this easy for me.”

He whimpers against the palm of my hand, making me smile. 

That’s cute. He’s scared of me.

The power thrills me, sending goosebumps through my skin. It’s been a while since I’ve been back in action.

I snake up his chest, up his neck. before he can move or do anything, I twist his neck. He falls onto my lifted foot like I wanted, noiseless and efficient.

The rest of the soldiers are paying attention to the rifles pointed at them and a Paradis person screaming through a megaphone at how excited they are to see Marleyans on their grounds and how they want to invite all of us onto their island.

Is that supposed to be welcoming?

I snatch the pistol off of the soldier I just injured, popping a few bullets into the barrel. The soldier opens his mouth, heaving in to scream but I smash my foot onto his face, glaring right down at him. 

That was a close one. 

They’re all blindly focused on the Paradis soldiers so I make the decision to move.

Now or never, baby.

I cock back the pistol, gaining the attention of the Marleyans.

Their eyes widen.

I clear my throat, “Hi!”

“Who are you?!” the captain of the ship hollers at me.

I kick back the face of the soldier underneath me and walk towards the Captain. The soldiers pull out their guns rapidly, only to cause me to laugh.

“Don’t shoot, men.” he orders them in his husky tone. 

“Doesn’t matter if they only got dummy bullets in them.”

The Captain hesitates, puzzled by my response, “Excuse me—” 

“You’re too slow, Captain.”

I launch the dagger into his neck. Blood splatters out of his throat and mouth as he lands with a thud. He’ll be dead soon. I stabbed the artery after all! 

Slipping my dagger right back out, five men charge towards me, hostility swimming through them.

I kick the first one on the side of the face, sending him towards the side. The next two with simple dagger slices in their necks like their damned Captain. The next one is a dodge—I let that one fall over the boat and into the water. 

The last soldier grabs me by the shoulders while I’m cackling at the soldier who fell overboard. He shoves me against the boat’s railing. My head hits the metal, a weird vibration making the world spin in a way seasickness could never.

Said soldier grabs his pistol and shoves it into my mouth.

I cry aloud. He yanks my hair back so I can properly taste the coarseness of the instrument almost hitting the back of my throat.

I’m going to pass out from suffocation or a dummy bullet. 

It’s going to be the end of me.

“I’m going to choke you out, whore.” he says. 

It’s then that a lightbulb goes off in my head. 

He gets off on the fact that he’s in power right now, that at any moment now he can push me off the boat, shoot a bullet down my throat and touch me however he pleases. The sinisterness in his eyes illustrates his devotion to his job, the real grotesque that comes with it.

I’m dealing with someone much like me—a sadistic fuck. 

With all my strength, I discreetly pull out my own pistol that I stole earlier, tears slipping out of my eyes.

Just one push, just one push— 

I heave my knee into his manhood and shoot him in his abdomen.

He flies back, along with his pistol. 

Coughing, I grab my dagger and kick his chest to send the man flying down onto the wooden board. He yells in pain, a cry that is my favourite sound a human’s ever made. It’s washed out and terrible, sending a chill down my spine.

I swear I hear cheers from the island but it could just be my near passing out from the pistol down my throat. 

I straddle the crying soldier and raise the dagger above my head.

“Please,” he blurts out, “Please spare me, ma’am.”

I throw my head back, laughing, “Oh God…no!”

The dagger sinks into his face. Right in between his eyes, at the beginning of the slope of his nose. 

One stab renders him deceased.

However, one stab doesn’t satisfy the assassin in me. 

Two, three, four, five, six—blood splatters onto my face and clothes, a forced strength coming out of my arms and the target’s face absolutely unrecognisable.

Finally, when I’m about to take the seventh, someone pulls me away from the body forcefully. I launch the dagger backwards but it’s caught for the first time by a hand right above their head.

Instead of trying to pull it out, I yelp in surprise.

“Yelena!” I huff out.

“About to kill me too?” she jokes, nothing in her eyes. As usual.

“Yelena~!” I repeat and wrap my arms around her torso.

“Gross.” she sighs at all the blood of two Marleyans rubbing onto her ironed, white shirt.

Yelena kindly puts a towel around my shoulders.

That’s right. I didn’t even think to check on myself. 

I’m breathing so hard, there’s blood all over my hands and clothes and I’m super excited that I completed my mission to perfection again.

“Oops.” I chuckle, pulling out, “I can’t believe you guys left me!”

“Not my fault someone slept through their alarm on the day we left.”

I punch her playfully, glad I finally see someone I’m familiar with after so long.

“Let’s go.” she says.

“Oh, the sailor! I haven’t killed him yet!” I tell her, pointing at the back of the ship,

Yelena shakes her head, pulling my bloody arm towards the dock, “That’s enough killing for you today. We’ll handle it from here. Let’s go get cleaned up first.”

As I walk down the wooden dock, impressed, blank faces stare back at me. My breathing slows down to a steadier pace as I stare right back, unsure on how to react to this weird attention. What I just did is equivalent to a murderous performance.

I don’t think they’ve seen a massacre happen so quickly in front of them. I don’t blame them. I set a record in Marley. Especially working for the Tybur clan, I was trained to be the assassin I am today. However, I’m not particularly used to doing it in front of people. 

That’s the thing about assassins, we’re supposed to take one’s life in private.

“Get to work!” one of the Paradis soldiers yell, “Stop staring, brats!”

A few soldiers walk down the dock, presumably to get the sailor’s head. One of them stands out—extremely tall, brown hair and a sparkle of innocence as he watches me intently. There’s curiosity within that innocence I discern easily, a little mouse coming out of its hole, respectfully.

A smile forms on my lips.

He blinks at me, blank, yet he knows I’m looking exactly at him.

He walks right past me, avoiding eye contact once he’s close.

JEAN KIRSTEIN POV

The image of gooey blood splattered on her face paired with a bewitching smile from the newcomer has Jean Kirstein confused on one side and intrigued on another. Confused because when the Marleyans said that one of their people was delayed back at Marley, he was expecting another male soldier who’s higher ranked, which is why they wanted him here to help out. Intrigued, because now that he knows it’s a woman, he wonders what kind of situation she was put in to create a flawless combat style.

As the moonlight flashes on her face, reflecting the glossy blood and the glimmer of her teeth. She looks incredibly insane and proud of herself for what she’s done.

Taking down six men in five minutes? Jean has never seen that happen before. The most impressive stunt he’s seen pulled off was Captain Levi taking down five Titans in under a minute—a whole other thing if he was to compare the two. It’s not comparable. By far, Captain Levi is the best he’s seen before.

But, still. 

The woman lingers in Jean’s mind.

As he walked back to the tent him and Conny were sleeping in, he couldn’t help but wonder about her. The way she made eye contact with him as if she could read his thoughts then and there was sufficient to know that she’s seductively dangerous. Almost as if her sole purpose was to lure Jean in—

“Sorry,” he mumbles incoherently as he bumps into someone. 

“Are you okay?” Mikasa asks him.

Jean blinks up at her, escaping his trance. He’s never been the distracted type before.

It’s rare for Mikasa to ask her comrades, it’s often she presses that question towards Eren Yeager. Deep down, Jean wishes Mikasa would be concerned with him the way she was with Eren. He really likes her and wanted to sought out for her ever since he came to know her. Eren took all her time, energy and love, now, Jean remains in the immovable comrade-zone.

He forgets the mesmerising aura Mikasa has that made him fall for her in the first place, “Fine.” 

She walks off without another word. All she needed was that little ‘fine’ to let her keep going about her day. 

After all, she had to go tend to Eren like she was some servant.

Jean sighs as he enters the tent, lamenting about Mikasa and knowing there’s nothing he can do about her or her so-called duty to Eren. He can’t help his attachment. 

He gets ready for bed and the moment him and Conny turn off the lanterns to sleep and darkness fills his sight, the Marleyan soldier comes to mind again. It’s like she cast a spell on him the moment they locked eyes on the dock. 

Her smile, he thinks.

It was beautiful amongst the slaughter on her face.

How can one make the wretched so beautiful?

☆

Conny and Jean are in charge of putting away the deliveries the camp receives from the Walls. The cart is full of food, weaponry and other things that would make living here easier. 

They’d discussed that the Marleyans should be doing the labour here but Hange countered, arguing that it wouldn’t be right for the cause they were fighting for. Jean agreed—they had a point. They were trying to do good for the world. What would be the point of making Marleyans do all the work when they were fighting for equality?

As time goes on, Conny and Jean become exhausted and settle into the carts themselves.

“I need a drink.” Conny groans, leaning his head back on the cart.

Jean hums in response. The sun was burning their backs as they slaved the day away, barely breaking in between to keep this damn camp going. 

“Conny! Jean!”

They lift their heads to see who’s calling their name.

It’s none other than Onyankopon, walking towards them with a great, big smile on him, a wave and a guest in tow. Jean wishes he was as positive as Onyankopon looked right now. He’d be getting through these deliveries in no time.

He looks over at the guest Onyankopon brought along. 

Right then and there, chills run down his spine. 

There’s no way.

He straightens up effective immediately. 

“Wanted to introduce you to someone new!” Onyankopon says as he arrives at their cart, “She arrived last night.”

Jean’s eyes are plastered at the Marleyan soldier, eyes wide, consuming her presence. She’s piercing with caramel tones and charcoal hair, illustrating her humanity. Nonetheless, her eyes tell him something else. There’s a certain depth in them, a void that can suck you in if you look too long.

She steps up.

“Mirabelle.” she states, ample confidence, “Mirabelle Windrider.”

Sultry voice that coats strawberries with chocolate. The woman stares straight into him, taking words right out of his mouth and stomping them on the ground before her. The corners of her lips quirk upwards into a minute smile as if she knows exactly what she just did to him. 

“Conny Springer.” Conny responds, “Weren’t you the chick that killed all those soldiers last night?!”

She laughs, “May have been.”

“You were so cool!” Conny continues and Jean would’ve looked at him but he’s currently too occupied with the newcomer, “The way you knocked them all down. Jean and I were talking about you last night! Everyone was.”

“Were you?” Mirabelle’s eyes easily wander to Jean. “Who’s this?”

He has nothing to say. He can’t say anything.

“Cat got your tongue, Jeanie-boy?” Conny calls. “You know staring at a lady is rude!”

Jean will deal with Conny later. Right now, her slightest provocation forces Jean to give her his name. “Jean Kirstein, ma’am.”

“Jean…” she utters and his eyes widen with fear? Anxiety?...desire?

Onyakopon comes into frame and she leans against his arm which she somehow can despite the man’s height. “Ma’am? She look that old to you, boy?”

“N-No! Of course not, just didn’t wanna disrespect her.” Jean blurts out as Mirabelle laughs. 

There she goes again with that smile like she likes watching him twitch under her glance.

Onyakopon sighs, looking down at Mirabelle, “At it again?”

“What’s wrong with a little fun, Onya~”

Before he could think about what she meant by that, Onyankopon says to them, “We’ve got to attend some meetings. Hope you gentlemen do well.”

“Bye!” Mirabelle waves at them.

“Bye!” Conny replies.

“...bye.”

When they leave, a sigh leaves Jean. A couple seconds of silence passes them until Conny finally speaks up, “Hot stuff, huh?”

“What?”

“Ma’am.” he mocks.

Jean furrow my brows, “Shut up, Conny.”

MIRABELLE WINDRIDER POV

Paradis Island is a blast. 

Besides sleeping inside a tent, I’ve had fun the last couple of days, getting to know the nation’s people and growing the bonds I already have. What Marleyans say about Paradis Island is nowhere near true but honestly, you’d have to have a brain to know that. They’re anything but devils, they’re humans trapped in walls and know nothing of the outside world. 

Hange Zoe, Commander of the Scouts, has created a timetable for me this week so it’d make it easier for me to settle in. 

How kind of them. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten close to this treatment back in Marley, even as a respected assassin.

The next thing on my schedule is a team building session with none other than Hange Zoe leading it. I’ve done a couple the past few days and it’s my favourite so far—something lighthearted amongst all the tedious soldier work. 

As someone who’s not a soldier, the training style is different from what I’m used to. I mean, it is still combat training but it’s coarse, explosive training rather than the elusive, cunning style I’m used to.

When I pull up to the grassy patch a hundred feet from the camp, Hange is waiting with a group of Marleyans and Eldians, animatedly chatting with the group.

That’s one thing I love about Hange so far. They see no difference in our races unlike other members in the camp.

“There she is!” they exclaim as I join the circle, “Our final member.”

“Hello.” I greet everyone, looking around the circle.

I stop almost immediately. Two people over is none other than the starer.

Jean Kirstein’s eyes widens at seeing me join the circle.

There he goes again. 

“Now that everyone’s present, today we’ll be playing a fun, little game I’ve conjured up when working with Cadets! Heard you Marleyan soldiers had no fun when in military, so this will be a little refresher.” Hange explains, “Now, sit down, sit down.”

We all do as they say, plopping onto the grassy land.

“This game,” they start, “Is called, ‘two truths, one lie’. It’s just as stated. We will go around the circle, telling two truths and one lie. The point of this game is to decipher the lie through the three statements told. It’s going to help us understand tidbit information about each other and hopefully, bring us closer as a team. Sounds easy enough?”

The group agrees. We take some time to think about our statements before Hange goes first, telling us that they are the example round, “Okay, so I’m the Fourteenth Commander of the Survey Corps, Captain Levi Ackerman is my best friend and I hate Titans.”

“I am not your best friend.” Levi responds indifferently, “That’s the lie.”

Hange chuckles, “Yes, you are, silly.”

Aw.

Levi rolls his eyes, “You’re so obsessed.”

They hit his shoulder, “You’re mean and short, so you’re just as bad.”

He glares right back at them.

“You’re the Fourteenth Commander, that’s the lie!” a Marleyan speaks up.

“No,” I interrupt before they can give away the answer, “It’s that they hate Titans.”

All eyes are on me.

Over the last couple of days, I’ve stayed quiet during team building sessions, only participating when absolutely necessary. No matter how lively I am around the Marleyans, being thrown into a completely new circumstance can make anyone nervous. So, staying quiet and observing is the best way to be until I’m comfortable enough.

Now I’m comfortable enough.

“Yes!” Hange answers, “How did you know, Mirabelle? I don’t remember telling you.”

I purse my lips and look down on my lap, a little embarrassed, “Not directly, but I overheard you telling other Marleyans that you had two Titans called Sawney and Bean. You said you adored them like they were your children. Plus, you don’t seem the type to hate Titans.”

Hange’s eyes light up.

“Sawney and Bean!” they gasp, “Bless them. Can we have a moment of silence for Sawney and Bean—”

“Those asswipe Titans? No.” Levi interrupts, raising an eyebrow, “Get on with the stupid game. I don’t know why you insist on these timewasters.”

“Ugh,” they groan, “This is not a waste of time! Having team building sessions helps people get along and build bonds. Like you care about any of that stuff, grumps!”

“Exactly. I don’t.” 

“Okay, so shut your mouth. Don’t listen to this party pooper, guys.” Hange sighs, causing us to laugh, “It’s your turn, Mirabelle. Give us your statements.”

I nod, having my statements ready to go, “I’m left-handed, I’m an assassin back in Marley and—”

“You’re not left-handed.”

It seems as if Jean is confused as to why he spoke so quickly before I finished my statements. I’m confused, too. How did he know that was the lie?

“I’m not?” I ask, trying to throw him off.

He shakes his head, right on the money, “You’re right-handed. I remember the way you held the gun at the Captain on the boat that night. You were in a right-handed stance.”

It takes me a second to digest that. 

It was dark that night, how could he have seen my stance?

“Did I get it?” he asks.

I smile at him, genuinely, “Yeah…you did.”

He must’ve really focussed on me on that boat. My heart races a little. To have someone enraptured by me is a feeling I haven’t had in a while.

“Well done, Jean!” Hange compliments, clapping, “Great attention to detail! See, guys. This is the point of the game. It’s to understand each other better, so we can have trusting bonds when in combat.”

Levi clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“You better get your lies ready, Levi,” Hange warns, “You’re after Jean.”

For some reason, Levi looks scared. He is slipped into a trance, probably trying to think of his three statements to tell everyone.

“Go on, Jean,” Hange prompts

I watch Jean think about his statements, scanning the grass below him until he lifts his head, “Alright.”

He looks right at me.

He blocks the eight others around us, part of the game and shoots his statements at me.

It’s a challenge.

“I was forced to become a part of the Survey Corps, my mom makes the best omelettes and my friends call me ‘Horseface’.”

“The first one.” I tell him before anyone can say anything. I don’t think anyone was going to anyways. It was aimed at me. He wants me to get it right, there’s a desperation screaming at me to do so.

He blinks at me, “What? How?”

“I don’t think you’re the type of guy to be forced into the Survey Corps. You probably joined it because it matched your ideals and were willing to go far enough to obtain a goal. In that sense, I think most Scouts are like that anyways…did I get it?”

Jean nods, ever so slowly.

“Yay!” I reply.

An invisible line threads between the two of us, connecting us in the moment. Jean seems lost in thought as if it was the first time he was acknowledged for his decisions.

I’m glad I was able to give him that.

The Scouts in this island deserve that more than anything. The recognition and the pride that comes with it. It’s not an easy job, after all.

We’re looking at each other until Levi speaks up at last, “Get a room, the two of you.”

☆

“Mirabelle, Mirabelle! Wait up!”

I turn around, a running bald boy coming my way.

“Hi. Conny, was it?”

He slams his hands on his knees, catching his breath, “Y-Yes.”

“How can I help you?”

“Are you busy?’ Conny asks.

“Huh?”

“Are you busy at the moment?” he repeats.

What is this about?

“Not particularly, no. Sorry, what’s this about?”

Conny straightens up and grins at me. I try to return it with a boxy grin of my own but all this seems a little suspicious to me.

“Would you like to eat with us?”

“Sorry?”

“Would you like to have lunch with me and a few other Scouts?” Conny invites.

Oh.

“Oh my God. Yes!. I would love to.” I nod enthusiastically,

“Right this way, ma’am.”

“Stop that.” I chuckle.

“I’ve never seen Kirstein act like that in front of a woman,” he says, as I follow him.

So we’re having this conversation?

“Uh-huh.” I reply, trying to stay uninterested. 

Giving Conny the wrong impression is the last thing I want to do. Yes, it may be true that Jean caused my heart flutter earlier but that was for a mere moment. I’m not interested in anything except keeping things cool and casual. Imagine if he thinks I’m interested romantically.

That would send the wrong message.

“He’s really a good guy,” Conny continues, “Don’t tell him I said that but he’d take good care of his missus, if he had one.”

“I see.”

“What do you think of him, Mirabelle?”

Did Jean set him up to this?

No, it can’t be. Jean seems like he barely knows that he’s interested in me. Conny, on other hand, as someone who’s on the outside of this situation probably read in between the lines and got a grip on the situation.

“He’s nice.” I reply.

“Nice~” Conny sings, “Anyways, we’re here!”

He’s brought me to behind a tent where a bunch of Scouts are sitting on upside down crates and eating from paper plates.

“Hi!” all of them greet me.

There’s four of them, including Jean, who is just as shocked to see me there as I am him. Oh, what did I expect coming with Conny?

I look at Conny, raising an eyebrow. He just shrugs, nonchalantly. Is he playing wingman right now? There’s nothing to play wingman for!

This is ridiculous.

“Hello.” I wave at them.

“The food’s over there, by the way.” a girl with a high ponytail and a stuffed face says, “You can help yourself!”

“Alright, thanks.”

I grab my lunch at the stand and come back. Jean quickly stands from his crate and gestures for me to sit down.

“Oh, you didn’t have to, I—”

“I already finished eating.” he interrupts, clearing his throat.

It’d be rude to decline so I take the crate, muttering a small word of gratitude. 

The crates are assembled in a circle so I can see the new people I’m sitting with. Conny and Jean stand nearby, joining the conversation.

“I’m Mirabelle, by the way—”

“You’re the girl that knocked down those Marleyans a couple days ago, right?” the girl with the ponytails says, “Sasha, nice to meet you.”

“You’re right! It is her.” a blonde boy exclaims.

“I’ll introduce you to everyone.” Sasha answers, “This is Armin and Mikasa. You’ve met Conny and Jean?”

I look up at Jean and smile a little, “I have…it’s nice to meet you all.”

And the questions come instantly.

“How did you kill them all?”

“Are you a soldier? You’re not wearing a uniform.”

“How do you get your hair like that?”

“How come you came in later compared to other Marleyans?”

“Hey.” Jean interrupts the eager Scouts, “Let her eat before you talk her ears off.”

“That’s okay, Jean.” I laugh, “Let’s see,” deep breath “I’ve been trained to kill multiple people simultaneously. I’m not a soldier, I’m an assassin. My hair? Well, it’s this product I got from Marley. Totally cannot live without. I can share it with you if you like. I came late because I accidentally slept in when Onyankopon was leaving so I ended up having to find my own way here.”

They stare at me in awe.

“Any more questions?” I ask.

Shaking their heads, they go back to their food. 

☆

“That’s the thing, Onyankopon. I don’t want to be trained like a soldier!” I whine behind him, “My combat style is already flawless and the way the soldiers train is so rough and not adequate for a nimble girl like me.”

“That’s a conversation for you to have with Hange, not me.” he replies.

It seems that Onyankopon doesn’t grasp my joke like he usually does. His lightheartedness and otherwise bubbly attitude has gone out of trace and is replaced with someone serious and, well, not so Onyankopon.

I slide off the horse we arrived on together as it stops before the Walls.

“Mhm, right and you know I’ll convince them anyway.” I say, attempting to bring my best friend out. 

It’s not about the training anymore, it’s about making Onyankopon smile again. I miss that cheesy grin of his already and it’s been, what? Twenty-hours of this gloominess that has gone by?

“I doubt that but you can try. No one’s stopping you.” he shrugs, “Now that I’ve dropped you here, may I please go attend to my business in Wall Sina?”

“If I say ‘no’—”

“Goodbye.” he says and I think he’s about to go before he make a face and looks back at me, “Also, don’t play too much around the Kirstein boy.”

Ah.

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask him innocently, patting the horse’s mane. She has lovely hair indeed, the embrace of rich earth.

Unfortunately, Onyankopon has turned to ultimately-serious-bossman mode. He sighs, “You know what I mean.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having fun, Onyankopon. You should have some fun these days.”

“It’s not fun to be put in that position, Mirabelle. They actually have a word for that.” he says, whipping the reins on the horse.

It moves forward, forcing me to jump back with a gasp.

I cup my hands over my mouth and yell, “What’s that?!”

“Torture!”

“Who’s got his panties in a twist?” I ask myself, watching Mr Grim Reaper himself head off into the gates of Shiganshina.

My stomach twists with unease. He makes it sound like I’m going to cause pain to Jean when that’s nowhere near what I want to do. It doesn’t hurt anyone to flirt and play around a little without any strings attached. At least that’s what it’s like back in Marley.

I could do it as much as I want, until—

“I-I’m not sure.” a voice comes from behind me.

Jean.

“Oh, hi!” I greet him and point in the direction of the gone man, “Did you hear that conversation by any chance?”

He shakes his head, “Just what you said at the end. Onyankopon seems a little grim.”

“Yeah, I think the meetings are getting to his head.” I answer, admiring Jean from below.

Up close, the guy’s big, tall and broad simultaneously. He has slender eyes paired with long, thin eyebrows which exudes a feminine aura amongst the straight nose and frowned mouth. Additional to that, there are those pretty, long lashes that cave his eyes; every fluttering blink is one alike to a lovely maiden. He’s quite handsome though, a gentlemanly handsome that is difficult to find within this field of work.

“I can imagine.” he says.

It appears he's curious about why I'm staring at him. He doesn’t back down or look away from me, he stares back this time.

So he’s not the nervous wreck I thought he was? 

“I thought Hange was training me…” I say, peering behind his shoulder to see no zealous Hange running around, ready to train me.

“About that.” he sighs, “Commander’s gone to a meeting so she told me to train you instead and she sends her regards. I’m gonna be showing you how to use the ODM Gear, hoping that’s okay.”

“Huh…” I respond inquisitively and before I can stop myself, my hands are touching the cool rectangles on his hips. The technology here is definitely a lot more advanced than what I was expecting. It’s so…wait, “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

I can see the alarms going off in his head.

“I don’t know.”

Has a woman never touched him before?

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, “I—”

“Jean.” I utter, holding his shoulders in my hands. He tenses up immediately, answering my question right away, “You’re gonna train me just fine. Don’t be scared. Is this your first time?”

Both of us know the real reason why he’s shaking in his boots; however, neither of us can say the reason aloud.

“My-my first time?”

“First time training someone?” I clarify with a small giggle.

“No, it’s not.”

“Then, let’s go! Where’s the equipment?” 

Jean brings me closer to the Walls. A green crate is loaded with ODM Gear equipment, including the gas cylinders, blades and harnesses. After putting on the various different equipment and being safely strapped up, Jean demonstrates how to use it.

“Your turn.” he prompts me.

“Okay.”

“So, you have to—”

I press the triggers, aiming high enough on the Wall and the gear yanks me up forcefully. I gasp, thinking I’m going to smash my face on the wall but I manage to plant my feet on the Wall, keeping my stance light on the surface.

“Like that?” I ask Jean, looking down at him.

He’s about twenty feet away from me, eyes widened to the brim, “T-That’s perfect! Can you get down?”

I do the same thing backwards and climb down the wall to meet him again.

“How?” Jean asks, his eyes glistening with admiration.

I pull back the strings and they snap into the contraption they come from. I laugh, “I don’t know! But that was really fun! Kinda like rock climbing.”

“Rock climbing…?” he questions, tilting his head to the side.

I forget how underdeveloped it is compared to Marley.

“It’s like a…sport, I think? People climb up rocks or walls using their hands and feet and there are these things that stick out that you use to push yourself up and climb up.” I explain, “I used to have to do rock climbing for training. It’s fun!”

He nods slowly, understanding the concept of it, “That does sounds fun.”

“When we go to Marley together, I can show you!” I tell him.

“Together?”

I want to bite my tongue.

“Not just the two of us! With everyone!” I declare, “Sasha, Conny, Armin, Mikasa, damn, even Captain Levi could climb.”

For the first time in my presence, Jean Kirstein slips out a genuine chuckle. Like he means it. There’s no nervousness exuding from him, rather the enjoyment of my presence.

“For sure, but I can’t get over how quick you grasped that. It’s not easy.” Jean replies, raising an eyebrow, “You’re good.”

I lean in slightly, dropping my voice a little, “I’m good at a lot of things, Jean…”

Just like that, the friendly air vanishes into the ether and is replaced with a drop of suggestion. 

Jean freezes, dissecting my words before his cheeks turn red. 

“Aw, look at you!” I point right in his face, “You’re blushing like crazy!”

“Am not!” he argues, quite defensively, “I don’t even know what you mean by that.”

“You are!” I laugh, finding his coyness amusing.

What’s the point of not admitting it when I watched him come to an understanding on what I just said?

“Whatever,” he huffs and points back at the Wall, “Let’s keep training.”

I can’t stop laughing at him.

“It’s not that funny.”

☆

“Wanna go to the Marleyan restaurant in Wall Rose?” Sasha asks the group.

“Of course you wanna go there.” Conny remarks, suggestion glinting in his eyes.

She hits him on the shoulder, red creeping onto the apple of her cheeks.

I furrow my eyebrows, wondering what’s going on with that comment. I don’t question it too much, fatigued from the combat training we just came from. 

To no avail, Hange highly suggested that I join combat training on the island, despite me being a combat virtuoso. They said, although my combat is adequate, there’s always room for improvement and practising on different targets would do me more good than worse.

I couldn’t argue with them there.

However, I thought I had it in the bag and could convince them otherwise, that’s what put me down, not the training itself. I always thought of myself as a finesser but I guess Hange is just way too smart to finesse. 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

Jean appears beside me, peering down with a cautious look on his face.

I nod, “Just a little tired.”

“I see.” he answers, “Combat training can be tiring around here.”

“Mhm.”

“Stop flirting with Mirabelle and tell us what you wanna do, Jean!” Eren exclaims, playfully punching Jean on the shoulder, “Do you wanna go to Wall Rose?”

Jean shoves him out the way, “Get out of my face, asshole…and as for the restaurant, I don’t think we should go. Everyone’s tired. We gotta go all the way to Wall Rose to eat?”

“Yeah!” Sasha exclaims.

“You just wanna see—”

Sasha slaps her hand to Conny’s mouth instantly, “Shut your ass up. Wanna come, Mimi?”

“For sure. I don’t have anything for the rest of the day either.” I tell her.

“Are you sure?” Jean asks me, “I thought you’re tired.”

“She just said she wants to go!” Conny argues, gesturing both his hands at me flamboyantly

“I’m not asking you.” Jean replies and looks back at me, waiting for an answer.

I break into laughter, “I’m fine with it, really, but a Marleyan restaurant? Didn’t know you guys would have those ‘round here.”

“Best food I’ve ever had.” Mikasa speaks up indifferently.

Everyone hums in agreement at her statement.

The last time I’ve seen people react like that towards food was when—

“Let’s catch the carriage before it leaves for the Walls!” 

We run towards the carriages stationed at the exit of the camp, climbing into whichever ones were accessible to us first. I end up in the last carriages, not wanting to get in between Conny and Eren fighting to see which one would go into the first carriage. Jean follows me into the third and final carriage, presumably for the same reason.

“Have they all gone in the other carriages?” Jean questions, peeking his head out of the carriage.

“Seems like it.” 

After a subtle neigh at the front, the velvety carriage starts moving. It renders me silent for a second as I try to comprehend what’s happening. 

No one else is in the carriage with us. I’m going to be going to the Walls with Jean alone. I’ll have forty-five minutes of him to myself.

“I have to say,” Jean begins, five minutes into the ride, “The way you killed those soldiers when you first came…it was amazing.”

I cross my leg over the other, slinking them back to me as I lean back, “You think so?”

Jean nods vigorously, “I haven’t seen anything like that before.”

“I could tell.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

I take a trip down memory lane to the night before, re-imagining the look plastered on his face—the innocent intrigue and the shimmer of moonlight that swam in his light eyes. I can’t forget how he couldn’t take his eyes off of me, either. I felt so formidable in the moment.

“You seemed really curious,” I answer mildly. Offering a wry smile, I add, “It was cute.”

“Cute?!”

“Cute.” I repeat.

“Cute is not the word to describe me.” Jean retorts.

“Oh, yeah? Then, what are you?”

He rubs his chin, actually thinking about it. 

I don’t know what starts it. 

It must be the way his damn hair. 

It falls in a way that looks incredible, it looks styled with a vehemence of boyishness. A

A sheen layer of sweat on his face, more visible when he looks to the side and the sun hits his face and rolled up sleeves to the elbow because of how hot it is out there. I've been trying to ignore it during combat but now, it’s making me squirm in my seat. 

I think back to how he flung Eren to the ground as if he was just nothing to him, barely a sack of potatoes.

He’s so strong…I wonder if he can read my thoughts or I wonder if he can see how a pool of heat travels down to my womanhood and settles there like it’s its new home. 

If he knew, would he let me take him right there?

“More like…handsome?”

Jean’s eyes sparkle again as he looks back at me—the same look in his face.

He has no fucking idea what he does to me.

I lean forward, arousal sticking to my clit as I mouth, “I’ll tell you what you are, Jean…”

“What’s that?” he asks, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

He must think I’m joking around.

“I think you’re sexy.”

The tension in his jaw slacks, “W-What? I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain it to you.” I reply and reach out to touch a finger to his knee, drawing erratic patterns on it. He tenses up as expected and it goes quiet for a second. All I can hear is the wheels of the carriage pulling us forward and the slight breeze that enters the carriage, sending a chill down my spine.

“There’s a drive in you that I’m attracted to. Your provider mindset, for one, tells me that you bring what is important to the table and you think about others before yourself. But you do it in a way that’s not showy, it’s just who you are. And, when you like someone, you really dedicate yourself to them. The way you think about those you like is only out of love. And, my favourite,” I ease back onto my cushioned seat, the silence from him being the loudest thing in this carriage, “How you lose all power when you look at me.”

The Big Jean makes himself small in his seat.

“I’m sorry.” he almost whispers.

“Sorry? Shouldn’t you be saying ‘thank you’? I just complimented you!”

“Thank you.” he breathes out as if there’s no oxygen in here. He peers at his lap before he looks up, brow furrowed and uncertain, “I think you’re incredible too, by the way. Ever since I saw you defeat those soldiers, I—”

The carriage comes to a halt.

“Huh?” 

We exchange a confused glance. 

I peer outside the carriage. The carriage in front of us opens their door and out comes Sasha and Connny. They come into our carriage and get settled in here.

“What’s going on?” Jean asks disappointedly.

I nearly chortle at the tone in his voice.

“Sorry, Eren started blabbering about freedom.” Sasha replies, getting comfortable next to me, “I couldn’t stand another second of it.”

“He doesn’t get it. No one wants to listen to the same speech again and again.” Conny sighs, sitting next to Jean. He looks between Jean and me, “Bro, you’re like proper sweating. Maybe we shouldn’t have left you here alone with Mirabelle. What have you done with him?”

I laugh at his accusatory tone, “We were just talking.”

“Talking? Jean’s cooking in his clothes.”

“Shut up!” Jean says, pushing him away from him.

Jean casually throws one leg on top of the other. 

It’s only when I look closer I see something peek up at me. 

He catches me looking and changes the way he sits so it’s less obvious. 

Little did he know, I’ve seen those countless times and it only takes time before one explodes.

☆

“Where’s Jeanie-boy gone?” Conny pipes up when we’re seated in the restaurant. 

There are massive fans all around the dining area, cooling us down.

“I think he’s in the bathroom.” I answer casually as I look at the menu in front of me.

The restaurant is by far the most luxurious thing I’ve seen on this island. That’s saying a lot as someone who takes frequent strolls in Sina to attend meetings here and there. It looks somewhat familiar too, in the sense of the vibes.

“He takin’ a shit or something?” Conny remarks, causing the others to laugh.

Conny doesn’t know why he’s in the bathroom. I do. I just keep it quiet.

“What’s the best thing they do here?” I ask Mikasa who happens to be sitting next to me.

“I heard they do the lobsters best—”

It clicks right there and then.

“Hello, everyone. What are you…Mirabelle?!”

I dread it.

I dread it so bad, a morbid anguish blossoming inside me as I blink up. 

In front of me is none other than Niccolo.

My ex.

JEAN KIRSTEIN POV

Jean doesn’t like how eloquent Mirabelle is. 

Her lips move so languidly yet, manages to say everything it needs to within a short time. The way she talked to him in the carriage somehow undid him and his pants. Being stuck in a restaurant bathroom where the walls are paper thin and trying to release the pent up was more than a mere struggle.

He’s like a putty in her hands, moulded and crafted for her to use.

“You make me feel powerful” she had told him.

He hates how, for once, he cannot control what’s happening in his body. It’s like she’s found his weak spot and is stepping into it. It makes him feel powerless—nothing but prey in her eyes.

After the Marleyan restaurant and the ride home, his friends wondered what was wrong with Jean, why their constant teasing wouldn’t rile him up like it usually would. 

Even when Jean slips under his covers at night, he thinks about how Mirabelle spoke to him. Her voice had an effect, she had an effect on him that he couldn’t recover from. 

But he couldn’t let himself fall for her. 

No way. 

That was a death wish. 

He would put a lock on his cock before he imagined how her hands would feel tugging on his hair. Or, maybe how she would sound when he pushes into her. How about how she’d feel clenched around him, all wet and tight for him?

“Fuck!” Jean shouts, sitting up in his bed.

“What the hell, man?!” Conny yells back, equally as frustrated. He sits up, flicking on his lantern, “What’s wrong with your ass?”

“Nothing,” Jean grumbles, getting out of bed, “I’m going out.”

“Where are you going, baby?” Conny asks, softening his voice, “Come on here now. Don’t leave a damsel like me in bed all alone!”

Conny makes what is a horrible attempt of a woman moaning. However, it didn’t matter if it was horrible. Jean had had it. Anything remotely sexual was going to have a horrible impact on him. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, he just knows it’s going to be bad.

He has to get out.

Outside the tent is a new world. He switches on his flashlight to guide him through the darkness to a place where he can unwind. Hopefully, a serene place where he can collect himself for a second and review what’s happening right now; somewhere with no commotion, just the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Like the rocky pools a few hundred metres from here. 

He’d accidentally discovered it on a walk a while back. Whenever Jean needed to run away for a while, he’d go there. It's been his designated spot.

He walks around the tents, strictly divided between the males, females and the leaders of the place. 

Some lanterns still shone despite it being past two am. 

There were soldiers still planning how to defeat the enemy, coming up with constructive plans and discussing them until dawn. Hange, Levi and Yelena are likely to be awake to be a part of these discussions. They’re saving humanity, meanwhile, Jean had his head wrapped around some woman like a little boy.

Speaking of the devil, Yelena walks right up to him.

“Kirstein, is it?” she asks, getting a good look at his face in the dark, “What are you doing awake?”

Yelena’s comrade has shaken up his mind and he had to go on a fucking walk to clear his head. Obviously, Jean couldn’t tell her that.

“Just walking around.” he grumbles.

“Strange,” she notes with a subtle nod that Jean’s not sure the meaning of. Yelena is a woman of little words and sometimes those words don’t make sense, “Anyways, could you do me a favour?”

“Sure.” he accepts before thinking over it. 

Jean would do anything right now to rid his mind off anything from Mirabelle. He could go to the rocky pools after completing the delegated task.

“I have tons of things to do right now and need someone to assist me. Could you fetch Mirabelle from her tent?” she asks, “I doubt she’s asleep at this hour and I could really use a hand…Kirstein?”

He cannot escape her.

She’s everywhere, at all times, consuming his every thought and circumstance and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Jean sighs in defeat.

“Is there a problem?” Yelena probes.

He will die if he’s asked another question.

Shaking his head, he replies, “I’ll go get her. Where’s her tent?”

“It should be the one that’s the top left corner.” she relays, “Tell her to come to the meeting tent.”

“Okay.”

Yelena walks off the other way.

It takes everything in Jean not to explode right there and then. 

He takes as much of his frustration out on a nearby pebble, kicking it away, simultaneously being aware that there are people sleeping in the tents surrounding him. 

What did he do to deserve this? This is torture, absolutely torture and he wouldn’t wish this on his biggest enemy. As if there weren't already enough problems with planning an attack on Marley, Mirabelle had to make his life miserable.

What should he do?

Oh, but she is so pretty.

Where should he run to and scream?

I want to get to know her more.

He can’t have a full mental breakdown even if he wanted to.

He’s not one for mental breakdown but this…this was a different cause.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

It’s all wrong.

He refuses to back down. 

In fact, he refuses to submit to her womanly wiles.

Jean is a strong guy, scratch that! 

Jean is a strong man with a strong will and numerous strongly built morals. No woman can control him like he’s her personal toy just like that. He is not easily swooned or influenced by anyone. As it happens, he is guarded.

Who is she to him? 

No one.

Exactly.

He will go to Mirabelle right this moment and act as if she had no effect on him!

Yes, there we go.

That’s the Jean he knew. Arrogant, reckless and the daredevil. 

Off he goes, towards the ladies side of the camp. 

As he makes his way, he can’t lie, his heart is clutched in a fist.

It’s the remaining effects of Mirabelle scouring his tainted mind. It’ll take time for her to be removed from his brain but time was all that was needed. 

If not, a lobotomy will do and who better than Hange to perform it? It’s a joke, that’s a joke, right? Jean forces his thoughts to still. He had to do a task first and he needed his full concentration to complete it. He doesn’t have time to waste.

As he inches to the tent Yelena described, he notices that Mirabelle’s lantern is one of the only ones that are turned on this late into the night.

She’s one of the campers that got lucky enough to have a tent to themselves. There could be a specific reason why. He softens a little, wondering what she could be doing up so late. 

Maybe she had trauma-induced insomnia and she couldn’t sleep? What if she needed someone to be by her side right now?

No, stop.

He’s going to march in there, deliver a message, leave and assert the dominance that she took from him.

That is until he sees something strange.

Two pairs of shoes scattered outside the tent, thrown as if they’d been discarded in a hurry. The tent entrance itself is slightly open. Warm light peeks through like a tease. 

It beckons him to get a look at what he can through the tear of the tent…and halts in place.

“F-Fuck, yes~! Right there, right there…” she breathes out, “Nngh~”

Jean’s mouth runs dry.

“You’re doing so good.” a man says, his voice low and muffled. 

Jean is about to pass out.

It could be a mistake.

Maybe he’s seeing something wrong?

Upon closer inspection tells him otherwise.

A man kneels between Mirabelle’s parted legs. He hooks his arms under her thighs and pulls her closer to his mouth, humming against her. Piercing his nails into the fat of her skin, demonstrating for anyone watching (Jean) that she is his.

The soft amber lanterns catch her breasts in the perfect angle, sitting beautifully on her chest. Of course he’s seen the anatomical body of a woman but like this? Never in a million years would Jean think he would see it tonight.

Mirabelle grabs his unruly blonde hair, pursing her lips. Her eyes flutter shut as she tilts her head back, the curve of her body arching, abdomen meeting the man’s forehead as she pushes him in harder. A desperate cry leaves her. It’s so velvety that Jean couldn’t believe it was her making those noises.

He shouldn’t be looking.

This is wrong of him.

Very wrong.

Jean is not a man, he is not moral, not strong-willed, not anything he wanted to be tonight. 

As he’s about to turn away from the scene, seconds after accidentally looking in, Mirabelle’s head comes forward and her eyes lock with his. 

It’s fueled with intensity. The golden flicker of the light takes a dip in her deliberate gaze. Instead of shock, all he sees is dark, wicked amusement plastered on her face like she’s won an award. She lets him watch, lets him bear witness to her, body moving with slow, languid precision, as though the very act of being observed excites her more. She doesn’t flinch or hesitate, she. Gets. Bolder.

She smirks before tipping her head back and putting on the performance of her life, “Yes, Niccolo! I’m close, I’m so fucking close, baby—I’m gonna, ah~!”

Jean runs.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just knows that he has to get the fuck out of here. 

Dashing through the dirty paths of the camp, it’s like his lungs want to jump out of his body. He’s in flight mode

“Jean?! Where are you going?!” Yelena shouts at him.

“Don’t go to Mirabelle’s tent!” he warns her

She cackles as he sprints away.

Had she known? If she had, why the hell would she make him go? He should’ve stayed in his room with damsel Conny!

After a couple minutes of running, he arrives at the rocky pools.

Far enough.

Far enough, physically.

Mentally? Never.

He leans against a rock, much taller and sturdier than he is. It’s been a while since he had to break into a full sprint like that. He never imagined catching people fucking would be the cause of it. 

He places his head on the rock, sweat dripping down his face and a situation to handle.

A rock hard cock under his pyjama pants.

Jean’s heart is racing like crazy and he grabs his clamouring chest, gulping nothing but dryness down his throat. On the other hand, his cock throbs with unease. He needs to get off. His morals tell him no. 

Fact of the matter, he doesn’t really have a choice in this.

Mirabelle’s face floats into his mind, her moans, her breasts…

Jean groans, sliding down the rock and hitting the hard ground with a thump.

He is so verily screwed.

He is screwed in a way that he’s never been screwed before and will probably never be screwed the way he is screwed now.

He has to do what he has to do.

Jean brings out his cock from his pants. Why wouldn’t his mind just match with his dick? What is the pain in that? He wonders, is there some part of him…a truly, screwed up, primal side of him that likes the way he’s being treated?

Does he like her having him in control?

Is he a…cuck for watching them like that?!

No, no, I can’t be. Not that.

It’s her.

It’s her long, black hair cascading in waves down her back. She tucks it behind her ear mid-conversation, focused on what the other person says. She nods, smiles and a little physical contact; usually, it’s a pat on the back or a playful hit on the shoulder. 

Her skin is a soft radiance, captured by the core of the sun's embrace and light of the moon’s spirit. 

Her laugh is a high-pitched melody and sounds like she’s being possessed by a banshee half the time. Nevertheless, seeing the corners of her lips perk up at something he said makes Jean swelter.

And, her body.

God, her body. 

A divine sculpture—the ridges of her collarbone, the angle of her rounded shoulders and the curve of her waist; he thumbs the tip of his cock.

He can’t hold back anymore, he can’t stop himself from wanting her.

He wants to kiss her everywhere, appreciate her for existing as she is. She’s like nothing he’s seen before in a woman and there’s nothing more he’d want than to be a part of her world.

A low moan escapes his lips. 

Jean’s hand travels down the shaft of his cock, pumping it slowly. Precum slips through the crack of his palm, lubricating him. 

The throbbing takes a second to ease into his hand. As uneasiness turns into pleasure, the breeze waves into his face, washing over him.

Jean needs more.

He imagines her here. 

He imagines her warmth.

He imagines her asking him how he got into this mess and asking him if he’d like her to take care of him. She looks up at him, sinister eyes and a grin he cannot fully comprehend. It’s in the middle of adorably charming and shit-eating. He tells her ‘yes’ with a shaky breath. 

She takes his cock in her hand.

She spits on his tip, expertly bringing it down. Because Jean knows she knows how to treat his cock.

Her lips meet his in an embrace, traces of the strawberry jam she always buys from the market, a saccharine overload in his mouth. That woman has a knack for sweet things, it’s a bad habit at this point.

So is this.

“Shit—” Jean moans, biting his bottom lip. 

He closes his eyes, a black screen providing a blank canvas for painting the horrid things he desires. No one’s going to be roaming here at this time. He’s free to do whatever he wants.

Then, Mirabelle climbs on top of him, her hands holding onto the blades of his shoulder like they did when he was teaching her how to use the ODM Gear. That slight squeeze and stability that she gave him was enough to send shivers down his spine.

She sinks down onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She grabs his hair, tugs it back just enough for Jean to let out another moan. He puts his face into her chest, hugging his arms around her whole body. There would be no sign of letting go anytime soon. He’d keep her to his body. He would want to stay inside her as long as possible, to keep that connection as long as possible. Because if it ended, Jean would have a missing heart and a half.

Mirabelle would ride him. She bucks her hips and mewl in his ear, making it tingle. She tantalises him, softens him and bullies him. She knows how bad he wants her.

Jean would feel so fucking full inside of her and she’d be so tight around him. Her walls surround his cock so tightly, he’s lucky he doesn’t have to breathe from down there.

He pumps his cock harder, his hips coming up to meet his fist’s demand and finally, he releases.

Strings of white fly out as Jean lets go of himself, falling back on the trusty rock that was able to support him through all this. 

His sight blurs as he peers at the cloudless sky. A billion stars just watched him pathetically imagine a girl and masturbate to it.

It’s okay if he was pathetic.

He can be fucking pathetic for her.

What mattered more was that he wishes she was actually here doing all that to him.

☆

Jean hasn’t recovered.

When he’s seated at the Marleyan restaurant the next afternoon alone, there’s an air of gloom. He has no idea what to do now.

He hasn’t had much to do today, but his friends were piled with heaps to do. There wasn’t room for distraction.

According to Hange, they like to give soldiers rest days so they could reset and have an actual break. They said that it’s better for them to be different from his friends. The reason being that people need breaks from people too.

Levi full disagreed with the whole concept but Hange said it was especially for Levi since his tolerance for people was at a negative. He couldn’t argue with that.

It just so happens that today is Jean’s break day and he was stuck in the Marleyan restaurant before opening (soldier benefits), eating a meal alone.

Was it bad to come to the place where Niccolo works? Maybe. But he’s sure Mirabelle won’t turn up here. She has a hundred MP meetings to attend to.

She simply has no business here.

He had successfully avoided her the whole day. He will continue to do so as a means to escape thinking about whatever the fuck happened last night. 

The Devil herself had slithered into his dreams last night. This was after he caught Mirabelle and went to fist his cock by the pools. He woke up rock hard—no pun intended. 

You can imagine how scrambled his mind, heart and dick are right now.

Jean was extremely lucky that Conny sleeps like a log or else he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of that. What if it got to Mirabelle?

Double kill.

Anyways, he had avoided her the whole day and treating himself during the restaurant’s close before dinner openings was the best way to go about his day. If he stayed in his tent the whole day, he would’ve gone crazy.

He may have done something he wasn’t supposed to.

Although there aren’t any chefs running around (they gotta take breaks too!), he’s able to control himself in a public space. There was that to applaud amongst this mess.

“Well, well, well,” someone says from behind him, lightly stroking his back, “If it isn’t Peeping Tom.”

Jean freezes against the touch. Time itself stops.

She swivels around to meet his face, fingers still on his back. 

He isn’t imagining her here, this isn’t a dream, she’s really here.

Jean chokes on his lobster. So hard that he doubles over his plate.

“Oh no, you poor thing.” she utters.

Mirabelle grabs the jug of water, pours it into Jean’s empty glass. He reaches out to take it from her. She doesn’t meet him halfway. Instead, she drinks the water.

Jean gulps down the cough and stares at her.

She laughs, “Here. Drink it.”

Mirabelle presses the glass against his lips. 

Jean’s on autopilot, he tilts his head back and lets her feed him the drink. 

Then, she sets the drink down and stares at him a second too long. 

He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to process this and he can feel himself slowly getting hard again.

She’s done nothing, absolutely nothing and he’s wordlessly done for.

She reaches out and cups one side of his face, wiping a stray water drop from his face. 

She punctures into his gaze and every wall he tries to set up for himself. It turns into paper and finds his real self, putting it up for display.

“Such a pretty face.” she mumbles.

And then, before you know it, she drops his face and leaves the restaurant.

MIRABELLE WINDRIDER POV

“That’s absolutely outrageous!” Onyankopon cries, shooting up from his seat. He slams his hands on the table for effect. 

I roll my eyes for what must be the hundredth time and yank him from the back of his blazer. He falls flatly on his armchair. The stress lines on his forehead aged him by twenty years.

The meeting room is silent but the faces of the MPs are tumultuous with worry. It’s not every day the Onyankopon breaks out in a frenzy. He’s easygoing for the most part.

I wish I could tell you why he burst out. Unfortunately, I’ve lost track of what the meeting was about. It’s some minute detail in the overarching plan.

When I agreed to go to all these boring meetings, what I’d been doing was dragging his ass back down and mediating the arguments that were happening. I’m only here for his comfort and support of these meetings.

I’m a perfect middleman.

I have to say, Paradis Island makes compelling insights. Yelena and Onyankopon do too. However, being the middleman, I have to take in consideration what is the best and causes the least harm and sometimes, both sides don’t seem to consider this as an option.

I appreciate my comrades for their work ethics. They’re more than comrades, they’re friends and if this makes their lives easier here in the meeting rooms, I’ll do it.

“Let’s take a break and resume later.” Pyxis instructs at last, “We need it.”

There’s no arguing there.

Everyone scours from the room, leaving Onyankopon and I alone.

“Can I bring you some water?” I ask gently.

The man is looking at his lap blankly.

Finally, he sighs, “No thank you. I would like to be left alone though. If that’s okay.”

“Sure.” I reply, standing up, “Collect your thoughts and we can talk again before the meeting. I’ll go take a breather too.”

“Okay.” he responds dryly.

I start heading towards the door.

“Mirabelle.” Onyankopon calls.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you, ” he tells me, “I appreciate that.”

I smile, “Love you.”

“...love you too.”

Leaving the room, I head down many flights of stairs of the Mitras’ parliament building. I bid my respects to Queen Historia, who is visiting for a council meeting of her own and step out into the chilly night air. 

There’s something about today’s air that makes it so special. The wind flirts with my hair, winding its way through the seams of my clothing.

To think this meeting was going to take my whole day? I was not expecting that. 

I do hope Onyankopon is alright though. This is a lot of stress for one person to take. I want to help my friends. The only way I can do that is take on more, study more and morph into a soldier. There’s only so much the Marleyans can do here with our restrictions and such.

At least Paradis has a whole army, we’re on our own out here. I don’t know what’s going on half the time. I’m here because I hate Marley and this was a chance to go against them. 

I’ve seen enough to prove that it is not an adequate place to live in. Especially as someone who worked close to politicians. Greed, hatred and sin, committed again and again with no remorse entailing their actions.

That’s not what I want to be a part of.

Assassination used to be a way to make money as someone coming from a low-income family and had to survive. I had to kill to survive—isn’t that ironic?

It’s time for me to put that behind me and turn a new leaf.

There is real happiness rooted in this island.

Coming here, I’ve realised the difference.

I’ve met it through my new friends, new life and…Jean.

“Mirabelle.”

I swivel around.

It is no one but him. 

He’s standing under a streetlight like a full force manifestation of my thoughts. Slightly perplexed, a little untidy from the day’s labour but all in all, Jean.

“I was just thinking about you.”

The way we meet these days is starting to not come off as surprises anymore. It’s almost as if there’s this small part of myself that expects him there.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. What are you doing here?”

“I…” he begins and drops his head, deeming the stoned ground more interesting than me, “I was just finishing up here, I was about to head back, actually.”

“Hm, must be fate,” I say, linking my arm around his. He flinches, “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” he answers, a little more confidently than I know he’s feeling right now. 

A simple touch must break his insides indefinitely. So I innocently smile, squeezing his arm closer to my face. His arm is tough and plush at the same time, telling me that there’s a good amount of muscle but soft enough for a lady to lay her cheek on.

“Shall we?” I ask, nodding towards the empty street, “I don’t have much time.”

“Okay.” 

We walk down the moonlit street in Wall Sina. 

I can feel tension in Jean’s strides. Every step that hits the ground is rough and not fully taken before he takes the other one. He’s not walking fast but there’s an impatience to the way he does this time around. 

He doesn’t walk like this—he usually takes confident, full steps. It’s enough to tell me he’s still awkward from that.

It’s been a few days since Jean walked in on me and Niccolo. 

Jean’s presence was nothing out of the ordinary. It was right for him to be there, to watch me and wish it was him that was between my legs like that. 

I, for one, do wish that. 

Since he zeroed in on me like that, I’ve never wanted anything more. 

I’d take it so slow, nice and slow, fuck into him until he eases into my body and can take over. There’s nothing hotter than a man who lets me take the lead in the bedroom.

Niccolo doesn’t do that. 

He’s controlling, demanding and can barely make me cum.

I have to clear this up with Jean first. 

I don’t want this to get in between us.

It could start something new though…

“About that night.” I say as we stop under a streetlight, “Niccolo and I aren’t together. Like, at all. He’s an ex.”

It flickers, a constant struggle to seize the light, only for it to evade at every attempt.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to walk into you and him. Yelena wanted me to get you—”

“No.” I interrupt firmly, “I know you like me and you liked what you saw.”

He unwinds his arm from mine, looking anywhere but at my face.

“I—”

He slowly backs up.

“You’ve felt that way from the start.” I continue, walking towards him, “It’s written all over your face. On the first night, in the carriage, when you walked in on me and, look, even now. Why can’t you just admit it?”

He hits the pillar of some desolate luxury motel, broad shoulders taking up the entire distance of it. Despite that, there’s this deniance furrowing in his eyebrows that I’m slowly starting to dislike. It was cute at the start but I need him to own up to it, own up to it like a man.

“...Mirabelle.” 

What bullshit.

“Jean.” I state, looking up at him, “I want to fuck you so bad that it hurts.”

Like magic, the streetlight turns on. A gentle buzz maintains as I search his face. Red blossoms on his cheekbones but no words draw from his mouth.

“There you are, Mirabelle!” someone calls me.

Pyxis is in the distance, waving at me, “We oughta get going. The meeting is resuming soon.”

Talk about horrible timing.

“Right behind ya, baldie.” I reciprocate his wave.

Pyxis walks back towards the building and I turn back at Jean one last time. 

One last chance…and…nothing.

I give up.

“Coming, Mirabelle:?” Pyxis calls.

“Yes!”

I walk away from what could have been.

[sunlightmurdock]

AETERNA | Four

Three | Masterlist

chapter synopsis: rooster gets a glimpse of what he’s been waiting for.

warnings: bradley bradshaw x reader x jake seresin. supernatural circus au. smoking; the fic takes place in the 70s and so 70s era things will happen; this fic has mature themes and is intended for adults, minors pls dni. spooky stuff. word count: 8.8k

There is a river on the O’Malley land that comes from way up in the mountains, spilling down into the valley that Atwood was built upon. Across some pastures and some trees, there’s a quiet spot where nobody ever comes — not even the seasoned pros who got their fishing licenses direct from Mr. O’Malley himself.

In the early mornings, Rooster gets antsy. He tosses and turns in the swelter of his camper for a while, counting the rays of gold that pass across the weathered ceiling. He can hear everyone else tossing and turning too. 

He hears Paulie and the guys still up talking from the night before. Waylon snoring wildly from a few rows away. Erin and Tomas feeling each other up in their tents.

It has become his common routine to now give up sleeping once the morning sun crests the roof of the farmhouse up on the hill. On those mornings, he goes walking. 

He came across the spot where the horses are buried. Where the blackberries grow and brambles have started to consume an old chicken coop. Then, he came across the spot by the river.

As he plucks at the strings of his beat-up, old guitar on Monday at noon and tries to pretend that he’s all alone, Rooster regrets ever telling his chosen few about this place.

It had been fun, at first, when the eight of them had taken the walk out there and spent a couple of hours cooling off. But now, he’s stuck with the sound of Jake’s voice while the others play in the water in front of him.  He should be grateful that the rest of camp hadn’t bothered to invite themselves, too.

The next place he finds, he won’t be as quick to share.

Jake basks in the sun, his skin shining gold. He’s laying in his boxer shorts on the smooth rocks that verge the O’Malley’s access to the river, his arms crossed under his face and his eyes closed.

Rooster sits at the edge of the rocky riverbank with sunburnt shoulders and a guitar in his hands, strumming absently at something old. He’s watching his friends swim; Natasha sits on Bob’s shoulders and Callie sits on Rueben’s as they chicken fight in the clear, moving water around them.

The conversation between himself and Jake fell stagnant a few moments ago. His brown eyes track the blue dragonfly as it plays around the reeds that stand tall, out of the water, thinking of what Jake had last said. He can’t let it go.

There isn’t a lot left for them to argue about, these days. Something shiny and new comes along and the habit strikes back up. 

“If she’s got any sense, she’ll stay away.” Rooster sounds much older than he is sometimes, and that’s why all those lonely older ladies love him so much. Jake doesn’t bother to lift his head, but Rooster can hear his smile through his words.

“She’s got a sense of adventure, old man,” Rooster is only a year and a half older, technically. Jake teases him anyway. Rooster plucks at the strings like it doesn’t bother him. “And the sweetest tits. She’ll be seein’ me again.”

Rooster misplucks. 

Jake grins against his arm, a beaming smile from under his sunglasses, content with the idea that he has gotten under Rooster’s skin. 

The sun scorches above them, one of the first days in early May where the sun dares to be this hot. There’s still a light breeze, one that makes the heat just about bearable outdoors, but one that makes the river a straight godsend.

Callie shrieks as she topples off of Rueben’s shoulders and crashes into the cool water, sending droplets of water flying over Rooster’s thighs.

It’s a very unassuming scene, these town newcomers playing at such normality, right as the Redbrook River fishing season picks up. It’s far from secluded, just not frequently stumbled upon this far out.

Jake lays undisturbed, grinning against his arm, as Rooster tries not to picture your tits — more specifically, Jake’s hands on them. It’s bad enough he had to listen to it all. It’s a conflicting thing to have enjoyed so much about what he was hearing, and to have known it was all for Jake’s benefit.

“Keep dreamin’, bud,” Rooster answers right back. Their group of friends continue to splash in the water, long past the days of being fazed by Jake and Rooster’s competitive streak. “She thinks you’re a freak.”

Jake’s lips quirk and he twists his hips and rolls onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes. The sun covers his chest gladly, bathing him in mid-morning light. “I can work with freak. She thinks you’re a stick in the mud with an attitude problem.”

Maybe I am, Rooster acknowledges bitterly.

“If she likes you so much, why’s she chasing me?” Rooster counters.

Jake takes his arm away from his eyes and props his elbows against the flat, warm surface of the rock under him. As he lifts his sunglasses, the light catches on the green of his eyes, twinkling daringly as he looks across at Rooster. His grin stretches wide across his lips, dimpling at just one cheek — practically the only thing not symmetrical about his face.

Rooster stops plucking at the guitar. He fucking hates when Jake smiles at him like that. Smug and daring— and Jake knows how much he hates it. 

He sets the guitar down swiftly and stands up, shaking his head. “Fuck you.” 

They’re joking, but Rooster knows you won’t come chasing after Jake as easily as he would let on. He scared you last night; really scared you. Gave Rooster the impression that you’re smarter than he gave you credit for when you had first come poking around out here, all by yourself.

From the second things felt wrong, you had hauled yourself out of that truck like your hair was on fire. And, you hadn’t left your friend behind.

You had gone home last night, and you had checked that the latch on your bedroom window was locked. He had heard it click from across the fields, but only because he had been listening out for it. 

In theory, he likes you. He’s sure that the two of you would get along just great. But, way out here is no place for a lady.

“You act like it’s my fault your balls haven’t seen action since Roosevelt died.” It’s a slight exaggeration. Rooster’s moral compass sometimes loses its true north, and he winds up rolling out of someone’s bed before sunrise once again. It’s easier when he knows he’ll never see them again. 

Jake tends to be a little more… sentimental, about things. 

Rooster opens his mouth to speak. He’s standing there with water droplets drying like flecks of gold on his freckled shoulders, his curls wet at the nape of his neck and his blue boxer shorts clinging to his thighs and what hangs between them. Jake looks him over, pushing up onto his elbows, venom on his tongue.

The words die in Rooster’s throat as he looks up the riverbank and finds where the faint ringing in his ears is coming from. 

Upstream, nestled in the shade of the pines, Amelia watches them all. He wouldn’t notice her if he wasn’t specifically looking for her, tucked halfway back into the treeline and sitting down, her sketchbook open wide in front of her.

Her hair is wild and messy, like it always is. She must know that Rooster is watching her, but her eyes are on the ones in the water, cold and blue. Too calculated for a girl her age. 

“I’m going into town,” Rooster decides, not speaking to any one of them in particular, but loudly enough for them all to hear. Amelia looks at him. Her pale skin and sharp eyes remind him of a porcelain doll sometimes, and not in a good way. “Don’t need me.”

They will, undoubtedly, need him for something around camp. Everyone around here earns their keep, despite frequently having no place in the world to be but right here. Given that Rooster no longer performs, his duties around camp look a little bit different to everyone else’s.

He breaks up the fights, and man there are plenty. He’s the one who heads into town; he can keep his head down and get what he needs, a polite face and someone not interested in finding new friends. He keeps the customers where they’re supposed to be on show nights. 

Rooster pulls on his jeans and he takes his guitar.

On his walk back to their settlement, through the trees and across the fields, he gets to thinking about how much this sprawling land reminds him of fuzzy childhood memories.

He remembers his parents in shades of blue. The broken porch swing at the front of their house that his mother wasted away in. His parents’ bed with the slight dip in the middle. The car rusting away in the back, while he was still too young to drive it. He remembers everything about his mother and her sickness.

His feet brush across the grass and he thinks about his existence back then. Growing like a weed, always feeling hungry and always being too tall for his jeans. Playing with the neighboring boys in the street out front. Looking at that picture of his father in his service wear on the mantle, wondering what he would look like at that age.

Far beyond it now, Bradley hasn’t much considered his similarities to his parents. In some ways, his life is better than theirs ever was. Hell, he’s seen more of the continental United States than they ever could have dreamed of from their West Virginia trailer. He has time, which they never seemed to have enough of.

That being said, he’s glad they never got to see who he would become.

“Mornin’.” The voice startles him, which is a surprising feat in itself. Jeans unbuttoned and his shirt fisted in the same hand as his guitar, Rooster spins on his heel to look, finding Gus O’Malley himself sitting on the front porch of the Big House that Rooster had been passing by.

“Oh. Good mornin’.” Rooster tries to find it in himself to be polite, like he doesn’t know the kind of man who sits in front of him. He saw the fist-shaped hole in the house’s back door. “Sir.”

Gus is an average-looking man, with thinning hair and sun-reddened skin all over. Sun damage across the tip of his nose and his forehead, wrinkling him beyond his years. “Where are you headed?”

He looks Rooster over with an especially spiteful kind of envy.

“Just back from the river, I cut through the field.” Rooster explains with a quick gesture back over his shoulder.

Gus, red-headed and sitting with his hands on his rounded stomach, gives Rooster a look over.

“Yeah, I saw y’all out that way,” Rooster tips his head slightly, studying the amused shift in Gus’s tone. “That one with the dark hair, she your girlfriend or something?”

A pang of protectiveness strikes him. It’s not just about the fact that Natasha, who had been sunbathing on the large, flat rock that protrudes from the middle of the river, is like a sister to him. It’s that Rooster hadn’t once spotted Gus.

He hadn’t heard the heavy rattle of his strained breathing, or the lazy thudding of his heartbeat. It prickles at him like heat. 

As much as Natasha can care for herself, and take care of men like Gus, Rooster doesn’t want his bulbous nose poking anywhere around their digs. His mouth tips toward an aloof smile, disarming.

“Or somethin’.” He tells Gus with a soft nod, despite having never touched Natasha in his life. Gus smiles back at him approvingly.

“How are you finding it here? — I heard Maggie was putting you to work.” Rooster knows that Gus considers this question to be a test, and that he’s gauging exactly how close Rooster has been getting to his wife.

“Quiet. Nice to have somethin’ to do sometimes.” Is all that he offers up.

Gus’s mind ticks over the answer. He leans back in his rocking chair and nods his head. “Well, you kids stay outta trouble.”

The saying is that trouble tends to follow — and that isn’t quite the case for Rooster and his crew. They usually just happen to be where the trouble is already occurring. Well, that isn’t quite the case either. There’s nothing incidental about those two things.

You too, Rooster dreams of saying aloud. Instead, his eyes spark with a calm and polite smile as he nods his head and takes that as his dismissal. “Yes, sir.”

It plays on his mind as he pads his way back to his camper, images of Gus leering at them from his truck, probably drooling something fierce. Had it been while Rooster was teaching himself that Ray Charles track, or was it while he had been bickering with Jake? — What had he been so distracted about that he hadn’t noticed?

Gus hasn’t been around much since their tenancy began, and Rooster hopes that things will be that way for the majority of the summer.

His trip into town requires more clothes than are generally needed around camp. Shoes, for one, are a must, and shirts that are actually buttoned and paired with a tidy undershirt are appreciated too. He combs some tacky, woodsy-smelling pomade through the sides of his hair to tame the air dried, river-mussed mop of curls.

Perfectly presentable to go into town and hang fliers all afternoon. He could have taken Jake and Javy with him, maybe some of the others, cut his task load in half. But the alone time is worth the hundred or so extra papers.

As some kind of sick testament to the joke that Rooster will never really be rid of Jake, Elvis on the radio accompanies him into town. 

He hears you before he sees you. Smelling of daisies and cheap cigarettes and a fresh pack of gum, he twists his neck around at the stop sign and starts to wonder if he’s losing it. It’s not until the truck comes around the bend that he finds you.

Perched on the back steps of a large, brown-stoned building with a cigarette in your hand and a worried little frown plastering your face. Your hair is scraped all the way back, tucked into a neat updo, and you’re wearing a candy-striped tunic with white knee socks and Keds. Perfectly presentable.

It makes him think of the first day that he saw you, on the seats of that truck on all fours and waving at him in those little shorts.

“Maybe not branded,” You muse, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you while Olive studies the new baby blue colour on her nails. “Is there another word for when someone burns a shape into your skin?”

You don’t notice the green pickup truck pull past and head for town as you fret to Olive. It’s been a while since you had a man to complain about, but this isn’t your usual kind of conundrum. 

She smirks. “Maybe it’s something freaky-deaky.”

The back-and-forth repertoire thing that brought the two of you together fails today. The witty remark dies on your tongue with a wistful sigh. You wish you could laugh with her. He laughed it off pretty easily, waved you goodnight like nothing had happened. 

It just doesn’t… feel right. There’s an unsettled feeling in the pit of your stomach that you just can’t shake. “D’you think it’s like a cult thing?”

That’s no joke. You hear the stories about the hippies still hanging out in the countrysides, girls going missing across the country. Mansonites that didn’t wind up on death row. 

Your folks let you get away with a lot, but joining a cult might push the boat out a little.

Olive doesn’t seem half as fazed. The miserable guy who named himself after the least impressive animal on the farm hadn’t seemed too worrying to her, beyond his attitude. “His hair was short. Guys with crew cuts aren’t in cults.”

She’s still kidding. The comment wasn’t meant to reassure, and it doesn’t.

“Yeah.” You guess, knees tucked up to your chest as you mull over the idea. He looked tidy. Smelled good. His hair was certainly a little longer than a crew cut. Rooster’s hair was longer again. Neither of them looked particularly unkempt — Jake had smelled like a piney, masculine cologne. 

Cultists surely didn’t take such a pride in their hygiene.

Now, Olive knows not to joke with you too much. She had seen the dazed way you had stumbled back into the bar, colorless and rendered silent. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out that whatever went down in the cab of that truck wasn’t a joking matter.

She just hadn’t expected it to be so strange.

You hadn’t been expecting him to let you go. Surely if he was so dangerous, he wouldn’t have helped you back into your shirt. Maybe you’d had too much to drink, but you don’t remember the last thing he said to you.

Something along the lines of taking care of yourself, making sure you got home alright. Entirely unthreatening, as he had remained in the cab to buckle his belt and wait out his boner, you guess.

“Why didn’t you just ask him what it was?” She frowns at you, plucking her cigarette from her lips and stubbing it out on the wall. Break time is over and soon Conrad will come looking, 

You don’t remember that either. 

You must have made such a fool of yourself scrambling out from under him and offering no explanation as to why his tattoo gave you the jeebies so bad. But then, he hadn’t exactly offered to settle you about it.

Your nose wrinkles as you straighten out your dress and follow your best friend back inside. 

The Pines has this perpetual kind of dust smell. Olive joked once that it was something to do with all the time running out around here. It’s a joke that sticks with you sometimes when those years of dust are making your sinuses itch.

Faded yellow walls and deep blue carpet. Stock-image paintings on the walls. It’s an okay place to send your parents, in the grand scheme of things.

Your mind is far, far from the Pines today. Out past Airport Road, following that narrow winding road up the O’Malley driveway. You think of the two strange, strange men who live out there now.

“It could’ve been really traumatic.” There can’t be a lot of ways that someone winds up with a cross branded into their skin that aren’t traumatic. Olive doesn’t think that way. She gets her answers when she wants them. She would have asked him then and there. She’s braver than you, like that.

“Yeah. You wouldn’t want him asking about Wes.” Olive sometimes speaks without thinking. His name hits like a ricochet, which is a strange thing. You spent your first seventeen years hearing it every day. It’s a shame that now his name is tainted— it will always bring sorrow.

You’ll never scream it when he’s taunting you again, never again write a gift tag addressed to him. You swallow. You almost have to shake your head to bring you back to what the original conversation had been about— not your big brother.

“No.” You agree. Atwood knows what happened to Wesley. The story spread like wildfire that late July. In a way, you’re glad that it had — you hadn’t ever had to explain a thing for yourself because everyone already knew.

She’s back on the topic of Jake quickly. “So, you think you’ll see him again?” 

You linger in the hallway as she knocks on to Mrs. Palmer’s bedroom door. “Didn’t give him my number.” 

“But you know where he is.”

“Yeah,” You mull over the idea. Seems a little pathetic to drag yourself all the way out to the O’Malley farm for the third time this week. Not very ‘California’ of you to spend your time stressing over some Carnies. “I dunno.”

“Maybe it’s just a war thing.” She considers, closing the door behind her and leaving Mrs. Palmer with her morning meds. You watch Mrs. Palmer’s blue rinse disappear behind the wood, her head turned toward the window. “He was over there, probably.”

“Probably.” You agree. It’s hard to find a guy born before ‘55 that doesn’t have a thigh full of shrapnel or a jagged scar somewhere he can’t hide. But you’ve never seen anyone with a wound like Jake’s.

Teetering on the verge of hidden and displayed. He covered it up, technically, with the ink and the necklace — but he wears both on top like a badge of honour. You just can’t shake the grin on his face when he noticed that you had noticed.

Like he was excited by it.

Rooster, three blocks away, feels eyes on him from before the heel of his boot first hits the sidewalk. It’s nothing too new for him. These small towns are always filled with people who like to stare, and people who like to ask questions. 

Jake’s the entertainer of the bunch, not him. 

He’s got his to-do list crumpled up in the pocket of his Lee’s and that’s all he’s here for.

Hanging fliers always comes last. He has found that townsfolk don’t generally take too well to strangers coming and sticking up what they consider to be trash all over their streets. First, comes the library to get those books that’ll keep Amelia from getting bored. 

The door opens with a jingle, the bell above it swinging wildly to alert the aging, half-deaf librarian of the stranger in his midst. Rooster’s boots are silent across the worn carpet, heading for the fiction section. 

“Afternoon.” He nods towards the staring librarian as he passes him by, earning himself a sound of acknowledgement at least.

Amelia reads a lot, and she passes her books around camp once she’s done. She must have library fees all across the Continental US by now, but they keep her put— out of trouble. 

She’s the youngest of their settlement. Maverick’s daughter when the cops come asking, just the kid he had found on the side of the road when they don’t. She’s not like the rest of them. Rooster knows that she likes him, she finds him funny and he doesn’t treat her like a baby — but he steers clear of her when he can.

She’s too curious for her own good. That’s landed them in trouble before. Trespassing seems to be in her nature, and Maverick usually has better things to do than to keep the twelve-year-old occupied. Their crew doesn’t exactly roll with too many babysitters, either.

In spite of all of that, she’s a good contortionist. Rooster watches every weekend as people in the audience gasp and lurch away from the way her joints bend and pop at will. They don’t even notice, half the time, that she’s the same grinning kid who does the aerial tricks in the first quarter.

She’s been good at making people squirm for as long as he’s known her.

“Could I check out these three, please?” He sets down the three dust-covered novels, broken spines and peeling covers included, and looks the gentleman in the eye. 

“You’re into thrillers.” The man comments, picking up the top book from the small pile and inspecting it. Rooster doesn’t care to make conversation, or to correct him. He smiles and nods like that’s the case. “I’m not going to ask if you’ve got a library card with us, because I know you don’t. Are you new to town?”

Rooster bites back a sigh.

He smiles something polite, albeit tight-lipped. “Yeah. Working just outside of town, got a lotta downtime during the day. You need my name first?”

Bradley taps on the counter as the man takes down some vague details, asking his small-talk questions each step of the way. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Atwood’s desolate Main Street, where the afternoon heat has driven people back inside.

The whirring fan behind the librarian's head kicks out more dust and lint than it does cool air, growling in complaint with each circle of the fan blades. 

Perspiration beads at his weathered, wrinkled skin. The long arm on his smudged watch face tells Rooster that the seconds are ticking on as normal, even though everything here feels so much slower.

He’s grateful for the heat because at least it means fresh air; leaving the librarian behind with another abrupt jingle of the bell above the door. 

With barely enough time to walk back to his truck, Rooster realizes that you’re heading his way. Thoughts are buzzing around your head like radio chatter, almost enough to make him wince. He doesn’t even realize you aren’t alone until he catches the scent of Old Spice walking next to you.

He lifts the tailgate and swings it shut with a bang. You notice him as he turns his head. Walking in your cute candy-striper uniform with your bag on your shoulder and a guy at your side.

He almost smiles. This wouldn’t be the first time that Jake’s kissed a girl with a boyfriend and suffered the consequences. But, he knows better than to assume. Plus, the step that you take away from the boy at your side is instinctual.

Barely even a conscious decision, but Rooster sees it and understands what you’re telling him. The blond in the coveralls at your side is not your boyfriend. 

In no mood for a conversation, or to upset the poor kid who probably thinks he’s got a chance with you, Rooster opts to give you the same polite nod he had wanted to offer everyone else that has crossed his path today, and turns his back. He walks around to the cab and flings open the glovebox, grabbing the red fliers. 

Shoes tapping delicately across the pavement. Perspiration and Old Spice beading along the back of your friend’s neck. The thoughts whirring around that pretty little head as you sneak closer. You’re leaning against the truck when he straightens back up, one elbow popped against the side and your brows furrowed through the glaring sunlight. 

Rooster gives you the benefit of pretending that you got the jump on him.

“Hi.” It’s a greeting by nature, but there’s something accusatory to your tone that tells him, yet again, he seems to be being held responsible for something Jake did. 

“Afternoon.” Rooster answers you, lifting his head to check on the sulking guy about a foot behind you, watching this exchange with his hands in his pockets. His train of thought isn’t half as pissed off as it could be.

“Are you by yourself?” You ask him, subconsciously reaching back to feel for your updo, smoothing back some humidity-stoked stray hairs.

“Jake’s a big boy, I figured he could watch himself for one day.” He replies, not sounding exactly kind in the way he refers to his buddy. 

Convenient for you at least, to be able to corner an inside source. The thought does cross your mind that maybe Jake is being punished in some way for his behavior last night, kept at their camp like a grounded kid.

“So, who’s watching you?” You poke at him, trying to get a feel for the type of mood he might be in today.

He turns his head and looks at you, his expression serious. Maybe it’s the look on your face, or maybe it’s that he likes you, but his hardened expression cracks and he breaks a smile.

“Looks like that would be you, doesn’t it?” He replies, tilting his head to the side, flashing you his stack of papers. “It’s gonna get pretty lame, just warnin’ ya.”

You turn your head and shoot a glance back at where Billy stands a couple of feet back. His hands are balled into the pockets of his overalls and he might as well be tapping his damn foot at you, but he just sulks instead. 

Rooster had this look on his face when you’d left last night, just this knowing expression— a real ‘I told you so’ kind of thing. He’s more of a straight shooter than his buddy is, maybe you would get some real answers out of him.

“Well, you need some help?” 

She thinks you’re a stick in the mud with an attitude problem, and yet, here you are offering to traipse all over town with him sticking these things up. Rooster looks over the top of your head, glancing back at your friend.

As much as he would get a kick out of watching you hop into the truck and stick with him, Rooster knows better. He’s already shaking his head before he speaks, certain. There’s a place for you, and it’s not with a guy like him — or a guy like Jake, for that matter.

“No, you two look like you have plans and I’m starting way out by the Shop’N’Save. I’ve got this.” He shakes the papers once and leans back against the door of the truck. He isn’t expecting you to give up easy, but he isn’t expecting you to step around him and grab the handle either.

You’ve already made your mind up. “Well, I actually wanted to talk to you, so y’know— two birds, one stone and stuff.” 

Rooster stands up and watches with furrowed brows as you pull the door open and step up into the cab. Then, he looks toward your friend. Your forearm grazes at Bradley’s, your skin against his as he stares ahead. 

Billy. Closer to a family member to you than a boyfriend with the tepid attitude you’ve got towards him. There’s a loyalty and affection there that Rooster would be grateful for if the roles were reversed.

Rooster looks between you, settling down onto the tan leather seat, and Billy, blue eyes are narrowed and he looking just about ready to rush him. Rooster catches the handle of the door. He considers telling you to get out. He should.

You hit him with an expectant raise of your eyebrows, and crane your neck back to look at Billy. “I’ll call you later. Take Lori out on that date!”

Billy’s mouth opens and closes. Rooster presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, his decision made for him. Even if he’s your excuse, he’s not going to make you get back out and walk home with the kid when you’re so clearly trying to ditch him. It’s just not gentlemanly.

Your mouth twitches, equally surprised at his compliance as Rooster swings the door to the truck shut with a resigned smile, walking around to his side without much acknowledging your friend at all. You’re watching Billy through the side mirror as Rooster starts the grumbling ignition. 

“He’d follow me around forever if I let him.” You mumble quietly. Then, it’s like you remember yourself. You shake your head and sigh. “That sounds conceited, and I don’t mean it like that, but girls ask him out, y’know and — he just— he’d rather pick me up from work and sit in the same diner we’ve always sat in.”

There’s quiet on the other side of the cab, Billy is already walking away in the rearview mirror. You turn your head and he’s watching you, one hand on the wheel and the other out of the window. 

“This is what you wanted to talk to me about?” He prompts you, knees spread and his thighs straining against the blue denim, fingers drumming against the exterior of the door. He cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting for your response.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, you’re sitting in the cab of this truck and your mouth is watering. But, you’ve got better sense this time.

“Okay, fine. Look, I want you to give me a straight answer,” You turn in the seat, tucking one knee under you and creasing your features sternly. “About what’s up with you guys. Did Jake say anything after last night?”

He considers relaying the comment about your tits, just to further ruin Jake’s chances, but he plays dumb.

“No, but I figured you didn’t have the best time when you came running back in like that.” Rooster shrugs.

“He just gave me the jeebies,” You admit, fiddling with the hem of your uniform. Your tone is light but your skin is prickled like you’ve somehow found a chill on this warm summer afternoon.  “Like that tattoo on his neck, it’s like a scar, right?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” You’re studying him from your side of the bench, and you’re good at it, looking for the smallest little tell. Eyes on the road, he gives you nothing but a shrug. “The scar’s what freaked you out?”

“No, like — it’s weird. How’d you end up in a circus? — Are you on the run or something?”

His mouth twitches. He turns his face toward the window, smiling at the scenery rather than at your face, shaking his head all the while. 

“Maybe some folks just get their kicks juggling,” He taunts you with a shrug of his broad shoulders, craning his neck as he turns off of Main and toward Third. “You don’t hear me questioning your career choices.”

“Okay, fine,” You’ve seen Jake drop an entire marquee into stunned silence with his act, he’s undeniably good at what he does. You swipe through the fliers absently. “I just— I got this weird feeling from Jake last night.”

Clearly today, he’s in the mood to play. He quirks one eyebrow and smiles out at the road ahead. “Yeah, they usually tell you all about that feeling in Health Class, I think.”

You swing out a hand and smack at his arm, scoffing out a distinctly unimpressed and unladylike sound. “Shut up! I’m not talking about that, I’m talking… like that tattoo on his neck? — Was that— Was it a burn? — What was that?”

He pulls over to the side of the road coolly, killing the engine and looking across at you like you’re asking him to explain the intricacies of geometry. The Shop’N’Save is dead empty this time of day, feels like you’re the only thing around for miles. He reaches for the door handle and leans back, itching for some space, needing some fresh air.

“Means that Jake’s an idiot who’ll do just about anything on a bet.” He answers as bluntly as one can, taking the fliers from the middle of the seat and the shiny new staple gun from beside them. “He wasn’t gonna hurt you.”

You’re hot on his heels as he steps out of the truck and heads for the telephone pole, taking the fliers as you duck around him.

“I figured that much.” There’s a bite to your tone as you take the page and hold it up against the wooden pole, narrowing your eyes at him. He lifts his brows, unimpressed but amused. “I mean, I’m standing here, aren’t I?” 

Standing on a stretch of road that you’ve driven by a thousand times but never once walked down, the breeze catches your skin and makes your white and pink striped skirt blow around your thighs. His gaze flickers between your face and your hand on the pole with a beat. 

His boot tucks itself between your tidy white sneakers, his shoulders seeming to stretch wider as he steps up close. 

He places his hand over yours and tugs it upwards, readjusting the flier to a height that he deems appropriate. Pinning your hand with his palm, he lifts his other hand and strikes a staple into the wood.

“Call it baggage. Things with us tend to get complicated,” He nails another staple into the other side of the flier, and turns to look at your face, a grin ghosting at his lips. “Hell, why don’t you put that kid you were with out of his misery and go out with him?”

As you open your mouth to argue back, he drops your hand back down to your side with a squeeze and takes a look towards the two buildings to his left. Anything to cut this conversation short.

He jerks his head toward the stores behind him. “Feel like helping a guy out and asking to stick these in their windows?”

“Fine.” You thought he was a lot cuter when you couldn’t hear what he was saying that day out on Airport Road. He leans back against the door and watches you walk inside in your uniform, thinking to himself that you’re plenty cute right now.

Just like he had expected, both the gas station and the liquor store allow you to hang the fliers without so much as a question about why. Rooster wouldn’t have gotten the same treatment. 

He lifts his fingers and waves them at you as you cross the small parking lot back towards him.

“Let’s go, unless you want to be out here all day.” You hear him laugh to himself as you walk around the truck and pull yourself into the passenger side. He fixes his smile, knowing that it’s just likely to provoke you. 

As much as he’d rather not have you in his passenger seat, you’re useful when it comes to navigation. He wouldn’t have even tried half of the side streets that you point him down. He humors your questions for two hours, giving you barely there answers as the beat-up, old truck rattles down oak-lined streets. 

The afternoon sun fades from golden to gray somewhere between Sixth and Elm. The sky hangs low, darkening, a covering of dark clouds threatening a downpour. 

By the park, Bradley pulls over and hops out with a stack of fliers, offering you little more than the instruction to, “Stay there.”

He slaps the red papers up where he can, smoothing the papers out with his palm and working them into wooden surfaces with the staple gun. You are left with the rather cushy job of sitting pretty in the cab, while he does the hard work.

A couple of kids whizz past on their bikes, calling out loudly as they cycle home. Atwood is the kind of place where mothers are more than fine with saying goodbye to their children after breakfast and not seeing them again until sundown in the summers.

While following them by, you catch sight of a glinting metal at your feet. Just to check, you feel at your earlobe. Sure enough, your earring sits in the footwell.

As the driver’s side door creaks open, Rooster stands on the sidewalk and frowns at the way you have folded yourself downwards and are reaching for something under the seat. His brows knit together as you strain uncomfortably.

“You okay down there?” He prompts.

You huff, still struggling. “My earring. I hit it all the way under the seat when I was trying to grab it— I must’ve left it last-“

Last night. When you were sprawled across the bench with Jake’s tongue in your mouth. Rooster smiles at the way you stop mid-sentence, like that’s going to save his feelings. Like he hadn’t stood inside and listened to every last part of it. 

“Got it!” You pop back up, holding the dainty thing between your fingers and smiling at him. It stretches across your cheeks and your eyes glint with delight. The afternoon sun seems to brighten with you, despite the clouds rolling in from the east. 

His eyes widen with a dramatism that tells you you’re being mocked. “Thank god.” 

Caught somewhere between shooting him a glare and laughing, your face settles into a reticent smile as you fold your arms over your chest. “You’re a jackass, you know that?”

“So I’m told.” He agrees, settling back into the driver’s seat as the rain clouds decide to make good on their promise. Clicking his tongue, he sits back in his seat and glances across at the very much paper fliers he had just hung. “You hungry?”

“Hungry? Mm, a bit,” You shrug your shoulders, he nods, the answer spurring him into action as he heads back towards town. “Does that make this a date?”

He huffs out a small chuckle, which wounds your ego more than you would like to admit, reaching across your body to tug open the glovebox. “Depends if you’re as scared of me as you are of Jake, doesn’t it?”

Now, that’s the type of comment that doesn’t deserve an answer. You’re not afraid of him. He’s too honest to be frightening. Raw and witty, maybe a little grumpy, but man — that smile is one worth working for. You like him, a lot.

Your lovey-dovey thoughts come to a sudden stop as you track his hand. More aptly, you track what his hand nudges out of the way.

Unfazed, Rooster reaches past the box of Trojans and fishes, instead, for cigarettes. He plucks one from the pack and sets it between his teeth, then looks across at you. Watching him with an unimpressed expression that’s halfway to being a full-blown scowl. 

He smiles around the cigarette.

“What? — Did you forget how that earring wound up on the floor?” He taunts you, reaching back across with little regard for your personal space, in search of a lighter. 

You knock his hand out of the way and hand him the silver flint-wheel lighter from your own pocket. “It’s a big box, is all.” 

He steadies the wheel with his knee, cupping his hands around the flame to ignite his cigarette, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not my truck.” 

“Hm.” 

He looks across at you, one brow quirked, and a smile of disbelief toying around the cigarette.

“I’m not saying anything,” You answer, defending yourself with little conviction, arms still folded over your chest. “Just didn’t realize this passenger seat was such a tourist spot.”

He coughs out a laugh around his cigarette, his cheeks warm and crinkling around his endlessly deep brown eyes. His freckles are darker under the gray clouds, dotting his nose. He reaches across the cab and swats at your arm as you had gone for his.

You press your tongue into your cheek; keeping yourself from beaming as his hand comes up and covers your mouth, smelling of the cologne on his wrist and the cigarette he had held. 

“Cool it, kid — that spot’s all yours,” He’s still laughing as he talks to you, glancing across at you. Blinking at him with his hand settled across your jaw, the gold ring on his pinkie finger sitting against your chin. He pulls it back to hold his cig, his touch leaving you longing. “Now, what do you want to eat? — I’m buying.”

You crane your neck to look at the brown leather watch on his wrist, already knowing that you’re going to be in the weeds for missing dinner back home. Damage already done, you decide to introduce him to Atwood’s finest— the shitty little diner owned by Billy’s uncle that has had the same shitty menu for thirty years. 

It’s the perfect spot, in a hometown kind of way.

You hold your head a little higher than usual as you stroll through the place.

There are a couple of girls who work at Louie’s that will just die when they see you with the tall stranger, and you enjoy that just a little. Rooster enjoys it a little, too.

He’s busy looking around at the decor as he slides into the wooden booth, not exactly critical of it but not impressed either. He shucks a hand through his dampened curls and settles down into the seat, spreading his knees and kicking one of his feet between yours under the table.

“That’s the bridge out by us, right?” He asks, pointing to one of the paintings on the wall. Just another oil canvas in a dusty frame that you’ve never taken much time to critique. You purse your lips as you study it.

“Yeah, you’re right,” You come to realize, glancing back at him. “You’ve been exploring out there?”

He sits back a bit, as a tall brunette comes to fill your water glasses, brown eyes on you and a small smile on his mouth. “Yeah, a little. It’s quiet out there.”

“Lonely?” You prompt, lips stretching into an amused grin. Man, it almost gets him again. He bites at the inside of his cheek to keep from matching your look, rolling his eyes as he looks back towards the painting.

“Get real.” He mutters.

He watches you resting your chin on your palm and batting your eyelashes and simply shakes his head.

“This isn’t a date, by the way,” He’s cool as can be, staring back at you like you hadn’t seen the look in his eyes when you had him laughing. “You did me a favor, so this is me bein’ nice.”

“Well,” You hum, tapping your fingers along the edge of your glass, “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

Louie’s isn’t exactly a busy spot at the best of times, but especially not on a Monday night. It’s just the two of you, the waitress who was rude to you in the playground all those years ago, and maybe a couple of line cooks in the back. 

The entire place is wood-paneled three quarters of the way up the wall, with green paint covering the rest. There are family photos and mass-produced paintings on the walls, and dust on the lampshades. Roy Orbison playing on the jukebox. A candle in a glass jar lit on the table between you.

He pays attention as you recite your usual order, finding the items on the menu as you go. Then, probably to make this thing easy and over sooner, he decides he’ll just take the same. 

Begrudgingly, he has to admit that your choice and your order is better than he had been expecting. Good, even. It feels good, being out and sitting across from a pretty girl, picking at fries that are a little too salty, like nothing had ever happened. Trying not to laugh too hard at her jokes, even when his lips keep twitching around the straw of his ice-cold Coke. It has been a long time. 

It’s almost disappointing to settle the check, and to have to see you walking ahead of him back to the truck. The rain has stopped and the air is grassy and piney, the sky a fading lilac, casting shades of blue across your skin. 

Cooler breeze passes you by, bristling at your skin just enough to make you appreciate the fading heat of earlier that day.

He starts by turning up the radio, tires rolling through a deep, mud-splattered puddle as he pulls out of the parking lot. You should feel exhausted after being at the Pines from the crack of dawn, but he’s got your stomach alight. Tapping his foot to the drum beat absently, one hand on the wheel, his jaw set and his shoulders straight. 

“Which way?” Like he couldn’t piece it together. You were walking home today, you’d hightailed it to the right after leaving Dutch’s last night. It would take him minutes to find his way to your front door.

Stretching your arms above your head, you sigh and settle back against the door. “Next left and then right at the lights.”

He was right. The guesses in his head would have led him to the Post Office near the park, and then he spots that station wagon in the driveway. He lets you direct him to the right house anyway.

Sturdy car in the driveway, flower boxes on every window, and the greenest lawn on the street. It looks like a nice place to have grown up. If he had grown up in a place like this, he wouldn’t be itching to leave half as badly as you are.

He looks back to you, watching him and trying to figure out how to route the conversation back to what had happened in that dark parking lot last night.

“Thanks for helping me out today.” The plain white fabric of his t-shirt stretches around his arm as he cards his fingers through his curls. 

You bite at the inside of your cheek. Fingers skimming over the stitching in the seats as you try to figure out your next move. Late already, he’s in no hurry. 

“I guess I’ll see you Friday.” You decide.

His brows draw together. “Friday?”

You smile, pointing down at the significantly smaller stack of red papers now between the two of you. “Uh-huh. Friday at eight.”

Friday at eight. You’ll stroll through those lit arches, looking for him. His brows knit a bit, but he doesn’t tell you to stay away, that’s not in the rules. 

He flattens his mouth a little, almost a smile but not the same kind where his eyes had lit up so bright.

“Right,” He nods. “Friday.”

You smile at him, reaching across and giving his arm a quick squeeze before you turn and hop down from the truck.

If this was a date, he would walk you to your door and sneak a kiss before your overprotective mother found an excuse to come to the door and introduce herself to him, which is when he would be charming enough to impress her but cool enough not to embarrass you. 

Your heartbeat ticks steadily in your chest. You’re already thinking about what you’ll wear on Friday night— whether you’ll bring Olive, or Georgie— absolutely not Billy. He watches you climb the porch steps and let yourself in through the creaking, blue door with the glass pane in the middle, not stopping to look back at him because you’re worried that your parents will notice it was a stranger who brought you home. Your mother greets you from the kitchen.

His mouth dries as he pulls away from the curb.

He could be like Jake, and let himself enjoy the feeling. Pretend that he hasn’t done the things he has, pretend that he hasn’t sat and listened to all the thoughts you have about him. 

He could pretend that he really doesn’t want to see you at the show this weekend.

But, the sun has already set on his day of normalcy. He turns the sound dial, tapping his foot to the only radio frequency that doesn’t drop out on the backroads out of town, windows down and the scent of fresh-cut, wet grass and new deliveries of hay carried by the evening breeze.

Fingers draped loosely around the cracked leather of the wheel, shooting the occasional glance over to the empty passenger seat. 

Lilac skies casting shadows across the rolling fields all the way out of town. 

It’s forty minutes before the truck pulls onto that gravel driveway with a growingly familiar crunch. He stops it in his spot by Jake’s trailer and steps out onto the mulchy, wet grass, following the sounds of conversation until he gets to the yellow RV. 

The yellow RV houses Natasha, Bob and more recently Mickey — but that’s just until he apologizes to Reueben. Most nights, that’s where you can find the guys. It’s the furthest vehicle on the row, and Natasha always lays out rugs and the camping furniture that’ll fit in the storage space.

Like he knew he would, he finds his friends busied with a game of poker, settled into the chairs they could scrounge up, illuminated by a couple of camping torches.

Jake’s tall tale about one of their times back on the West Coast falls flat, trailing off until it stops all together. He watches Rooster cross the lot, headed right for them.

Wordless, Rooster greets his friends with a cool smile as he steps right by them and plants himself into a wooden chair at the far side of the circle.

“You were gone a while.” It’s Javy that comments first, meaning well, not doing the best job at hiding his cards as Natasha studies them shamelessly from his side.

“Yeah.” Rooster agrees, sitting forwards as Callie kicks her legs up and stretches them across his. “Deal me in.” 

Jake’s brows draw together, their round seemingly dead in the water as Bob starts to collect the cards back in. He studies Rooster through the warm light of the lantern, narrowing his eyes just a bit.

“You want to play?” Jake scoffs.

Rooster rarely plays with them. He usually makes a point of keeping to himself, when they’re all together. He likes Natasha, and he’ll keep her company, when he’s not with Maverick. Everyone knows that he likes to pretend that he’s stuck with Jake, rather than accompanying him by choice.

Rooster’s mouth twitches, reaching out and letting Bob set the cards in his hand, meeting Jake’s gaze for the first time since he sauntered past him and sat down.

“Scared you’ll lose?”

…

NEXT CHAPTER

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[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.04 ~ ♆

“ You’re done, it’s okay. “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, almost drowning, etc

{{ word count }} 2.7 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} The end of a grueling game leaves blood on your hands, the crimson stain is sticky, metallic, and permanent.

{{ a/n }} *evil laughter*

The 67th annual Hunger Games lasted twenty-one days.

Eight Tributes were killed in the bloodbath by the time night fell over the arena.

By the end of the first week, half of the reaped Distract’s children were gone.

For three days afterward, the arena was still in anticipation. Every twig cracking or howl of wind caused skittish responses from those left alive.

On the eleventh day, the trees sparked flames and pushed the remaining Tributes into the deadly maw of the ravine. Two more children died at the hands of the Game Makers.

Ten Tributes remain alive.

Finnick Odair hated attending the viewing parties of the Capital Elites. Loathing the sticky, manicured fingers of Capital elitists clutching at his burning skin or tugging at the disturbingly revealing tunic he’d been forced to wear. Each touch started to feel like a singe of flame licking up to eat away his sense of self. Sea-green eyes trained in a foggy haze toward the silver projections of the arena. The film moved, but he wasn’t absorbing any of the content, too occupied in attempting to drown out the awful commentary concerning the Games not being “nearly as entertaining as previous years.” and other ludicrous filth.

A flicker of something ghosted its fingers in a lingering touch over the boy’s heart when your crumpled form appeared on the silver screen. The Game Makers didn’t feature your whereabouts often due to a lack of activity. You had managed to huddle inside a rocky alcove near the bottom of the ravine but had fallen about eight feet down to get there. Not to mention the surely infected wound on your lower left leg. A thick swallow forced itself down his constricted throat, brows flickering into a creased position for only a second, the only tell of his reaction as his gaze fixated on you.

Finnick Odair wanted to hate you.

The potent sting of venom from your verbal altercation on the train weeks ago still rang true in the victor's thoughts. The two of you had barely met, yet you made assumptions in only two days and three conversations, spitting bitterness toward his ruthless "methods" in the Arena for his own survival. You hated him, and there wasn't anything he could do about that simmering hatred in your core.

But the irony of it all was that he agreed with you. He should be dead instead of here, living in such comfort paid for in the innocent blood of children he’d never known, but there was no way to take back the moral damage he’d done to survive. As much as nightmares plagued his slumber, he couldn’t change what he did. He’d committed atrocities all in the name of his own survival.

Finnick started to ponder whether this new position in the Capital city after President Snow proclaimed him “desirable” was worth “surviving” - but he had to protect Mags. He’d rather endure the torture or light himself aflame before allowing any harm to come to the older woman who loved him as her own son.

But watching you cower on that screen and panic without any hope you’d survive tugged a painful string in his chest.

Finnick Odair wanted to hate you.

As golden light filled the cavernous Arena on the sixteenth day, what remained of the two career packs destroyed one another. It had been three against two, and no one had left the battlefield alive.

Five Tributes remained.

By nightfall on the eighteenth day, mutts were set loose through the rocky cliffs. The mutations resembled bats but were five times the size with razor-sharp talons and excellent night vision. The wretched creatures spit a green mucus that amplified feelings of pain without physical damage needing to be done. The mutts targeted the shadowy alcoves, pushing Tributes further down while narrowly avoiding being pulled into the sky and dropped to their deaths. Two of the grotesque mutants discovered your alcove, spitting mucus that retched a shrill scream from your throat as white-hot pain shot like fire through your right side and across your drenched arm.

The pain was paralyzing. More screams were smothered outside your hideaway with a sickening ripping sound as a bat tore apart and dropped someone to the bottom. The knife in your hands trembled as the creatures corned you, their prowl slow and intense. Adrenaline flooded every fiber of your system as you used every ounce of fear and bitter determination to swing your blade at the sharp-toothed maws of the bats. Another pained scream tore from your lungs as the weapon made contact, and black blood splattered your cheek. The unharmed bat lunged, its talons sinking into your shoulder, and the pain was immeasurable as your screaming didn’t falter. With your good leg, you immediately force your knee up, and a cry emits from the mutt, stalling it for just enough time to plunge your blade through its skull. The feeling caused bile to rise up in your throat as you willed yourself to throw the creature off onto the other mutt. The second bat went down quickly.

The twenty-first and final day of the Games was the shortest.

Two days prior, a rock slide initiated by the Game Makers finally pushed the remaining three tributes, including yourself, to the bottom of the ravine. Rubble had added to your growing list of injuries in the form of scrapes and bruises. Your entire body felt lethargic on labored breaths. You couldn’t help wondering if you’d die as a result of the pain shooting through you or the infection in your leg taking over before another tribute found you. The other pair of Tributes must have also taken substantial injuries in the rockslide since things had been eerily still the past two days.

It was the wee hours of morning when the 67th Hunger Games finally ended.

You had spent the last few days hiding under a pile of rocks near the river, nursing your wounds with a near-empty tin of salve no larger than the palm of your hand. Thatcher had sent it. A small note simply saying “for your leg.” with their name at the bottom in fine print. The only downside to the sponsored gift was that you had to move from your previous hiding place after receiving it. If either of the remaining Tributes figured out where you were, you’d be dead. A seething hiss left your gritted teeth while applying the salve to the wound. The ointment stung with a strange cooling effect that shot like ice down your aching muscles.

You had to survive. You could try to continue to outlast the remaining tributes and allow them to destroy themselves like the careers did. Your chances were slim to none at this point. It was a feat in itself that you had lasted this long, to begin with. Currant Bush had been your only form of nutrition. The small berries had a tart flavor, but it was enough to keep you going, albeit barely. You hadn’t slept much, either. The abyss behind your eyelids held only reflections of the horrors the past month had inflicted upon you. Another hiss escapes as you shift your sitting position. Everything felt raw and grimy on your hands. The metallic scent of copper filled your nostrils, and crimson that wasn't yours caked your fingertips. A shaky exhale has your eyes fluttering closed. You couldn’t stay in this position for much longer. Being a sitting duck wouldn’t help you. It’d only kill you.

Crack

The sound shocks your senses into focus, jolting you awake as your eyes snap open. The small blade you carry is in your hand in an instant, protectively placed in front of you as your eyes dart around the hollowed space. The sound of crunching gravel and debris underfoot continues somewhere above you. Your chances of running have vanished, and assuming by the chorus of sounds above, the two remaining Tributes were working together. Your breath hitched as the steps drew near.

Swallowing thickly, you do your best to move into a crouched position. You were cornered, but there was no way in hell you would go down without a fight. Shadows pass overhead through cracks in your hideaway, blocking out the small streams of silver moonlight. Your eyes fell to the small opening leading to your location. Slowly, you crept forward as quietly as possible in your current position. The crunching of rocks above you came to a sudden halt, as did your movements. A beat of silence passed before your prowl continued above and below.

The mouth of your makeshift cave pours dim light, elongated shadows further heightening the fear gripping your chest. After a deep inhale through your nose, you spring from your hiding place and attack. The least you could do was surprise your attackers in hopes of getting an advantage. Your move works. Scrambling across the rocks and swiping your blade, you manage to make contact with someone’s ankle, and a sharp cry rips from their throat. The other Tribute, a boy from District 2, launches his spear right for your skull. He thankfully misses as you duck down, the metal clattering somewhere beyond. Snapping your head back up, you look just in time for a knife to come swinging down. You move fast, but not fast enough, and the blade slices into your already wounded shoulder. A pained grunt leaves through gritted teeth, and you reach up and yank your attacker’s feet from beneath them. The Tribute goes down, her head smacking on the rocks, and an awful crunch comes from her nose as contact is made. You’re panting heavily, any air reaching your lungs coming at an expensive effort. Pure fear and adrenaline fuel your motives.

A knife whizzes past, slicing your cheek and in return, hurling your own blade at the male Tribute, landing square in the chest. Bile threatens to rise in your throat as he goes down, but you don’t get the chance to mourn or even think as you're thrown back. The last remaining Tribute has tackled you, the wind being forced from your lungs as ice-cold water rushes over your skin.

The River - you’re underwater.

Forceful pressure latches onto your throat, and your limbs aimlessly thrash in an attempt to release the constricting chokehold of your assailant. Water forces itself down your throat in a silent scream as your legs are pinned beneath you by the Female Tribute straddling your waist. Pure terror rips through your chest as death creeps closer. You were going to drown at the hands of a scared teenager and water. You couldn’t die.

You will not die.

One of your hands remains clawing at the fists around your throat while the other fumbles for a slick stone above your shoulder. It takes a few attempts to get enough grip, but as quick as your fingers wrap around the stone, it flies just as quickly into the skull of the Tribute above you. Instantly, you’re released, jolting upright and hurling water and bile in sputtering coughs over yourself while struggling to scramble away from your attacker. Blood dribbles down the stone in your hand. Your vision is hazy in the chaos, air barely reaching your lungs as you’re pounced on again and thrown back into the frigid water. The stone in your hand holds fast, whipping once more into the face of your assailant with a grotesque crunch of bone as warm blood splatters against your hand.

You thrust yourself out of the water, pouncing on the other Tribute. She goes down, head below the water, and blood seeps from both of your wounds, staining the water crimson. She thrashes under your grip, and with a shaking hand, you bring the stone in your hand down once more, another crunch sounding under the impact, and you’re sobbing. Not from fear, not from anger, but from pain. Pain and a harrowing sorrow at what you’re doing. You have to kill this girl to survive. You’re taking a soul from this world all in the name of saving your own skin. Bile roses in your throat as she stops moving.

The last canon of the 67th Hunger games fires.

It’s over.

Water splashes as you force yourself up, knees trembling, and away from the still body. You don’t make it far before crashing down to your knees on the riverbank. A raw, anguish-filled scream leaves your throat as tears pour and bile soon exits your mouth. Your whole body is shaking in shock at what you’ve just done. The disgust and shame at your actions weigh heavy on your shoulders, and tinnitus blocks the commencement of the Games from reaching your ears. Blood soaks into what feels like every pore of your being. Maybe it was more water than blood, but it all felt the same. Copper fills your nostrils, and you’re throwing up again.

You’re shot with a sedative when the hovercraft comes to retrieve you from the arena.

Finnick was frozen as the feed of the Games went out. You’d won. With your hands stained crimson and the sheer remorse and terror expelled from your system before the screen went blank, you’d won. He’d been lucky enough to be alone. His client of the evening had left an hour prior, and he’d been too hollow to try and attempt sleeping yet. The boy had figured you’d be one of the last surviving Tributes, but he hadn’t allowed himself to believe you’d become the lone victor. But now you were, and the Capital’s emblem stood static on the silver screen in idle motion. A sigh looses from the victor’s chest, and that familiar tug of something he can’t quite place squeezes his heart. He should go find Mags. If Peacekeepers hadn’t awoken her already with the news, they would soon. Shrugging his tunic back on, he left the small, too-luxurious hotel and went off.

Heated murmurs slowly drew your consciousness back into your body. Everything ached. There was a beeping to your left that made your head want to explode from the high-pitched tone, and you could feel something like a needle in your arm and a few other sticky monitors attached to your skin to monitor your vitals. Your eyes took some adjusting to the sterile white of the medical bay, making your irises burn. Blinking fiercely, you tried to sit up with a pained groan, but a firm hand on your shoulder pushed you back down. Your jaw set as your eyes finally started to focus and scan around the small room.

However, just as your senses snapped back, so did the chokehold of adrenaline, fear, and survival instinct. Kicking out hard, you connect with someone who emits an “oof”, and instantly you’re scrambling up and away from whoever was in the room with you. Everything was white and sterile, setting your skin crawling as panic and terror ripped through you. Heated whispers become distressed shouts and running feet from outside only add to your spiked instincts. Grappling for anything to remotely defend yourself with, you manage to latch onto a device meant to check your hearing and eyesight and grip the cool metal so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Hey! Hey! Stop, don’t touch them!”

A boy’s voice pierces above the chaos, and your eyes snap to the sliding door as a bronze-haired boy enters. Instinctively, you whip the metallic device at the intruder, eyes wide in fear, with your heart drumming in your chest so fierce you feel it might burst. The boy narrowly dodged your attack, the device cracking the pane of glass behind him. Your breaths come in ragged wheezes as your muscles howl in pain from the sudden movements and your injuries. The boy is swift, quickly maneuvering to grip your biceps so tightly you can’t pull away, and your eyes snap to meet oceans of sea-green.

“F-Finnick ?”

“Yea, it’s me, you’re out. You’re done, it’s okay. You survived.”

Survived.

{{ taglist}}

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