#like he CAN fight but not for very long. because his lungs hate him

[gecskeleton]

this doesn’t necessarily have to happen within the context of arcade being forced into servitude but i keep thinking about a situation where arcade is talking about several health issues that he’s noticed are semi-prevalent among legion soldiers. he mentions episodes of shortness of breath. this catches vulpes’ attention. as it turns out, he’s had a mild form of asthma since childhood. it’s because of this that he barely survived the rigorous training expected of a worthy legionnaire. but he doesn’t know that it has a name, let alone some form of management. of course, vulpes isn’t someone who would readily admit to not being a Perfect Specimen and Able Extension of Caesar’s Will or whatever the fuck they tell themselves. anyway vulpes is like, So… am i to assume you know how to treat these so called ailments and arcade pulls out an inhaler and deposits it into vulpes’ hand. which vulpes proceeds to throw over his shoulder because he will NOT be fooled into becoming chem dependent. arcade is like, die then.

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

Hi! I don’t know if your requests are open but if they are, could you please write headcanons about how Iruka, Itachi and Kakashi would react to seeing a dream about the S/O dying? Thank you!

thank you for the ask, i'm totally game!!

How they would react to a dream about their S/O dying

They being Iruka (🥹), Kakashi (😩), and Itachi (🥴) - with wildcard picks of Shikamaru (😋) and Sai (🤭) (GN!Reader)

Warnings: talk of death, swearing, lil drinky-poo mention for Kakashi n cigaroot mention for Shikamaru, tell me if this sucks💋

Masterlist💿

Iruka

Iruka dreams about you, on a mission far too dangerous, getting locked into a skirmish and then meeting a gorey demise right in front of him

Wakes up covered in sweat, chilled to the bone, to your concerned voice and gentle hand

He pulls you close in a huff, breathing heavily and quickly - Iruka just can't seem to get enough air until he's got you, on his lap, with his arms wrapped around you and his face buried in your collarbone

You laugh lightly, and scratch his back in slow circles until he's regained enough composure to tell you about the dream

Iruka would be mortified to find out he had been yelling out for you in his sleep, and that being what initially woke you, but he'd be very comforted by your presence and consciousness

He would have some issue getting back to sleep, so one of you would suggest a tea and an early start if the hour was great enough

But, if it was still around midnight, you would flip him to his stomach and perch on his butt, then scratch/rub his back while whispering sweet assurances in his ear for however long he needed to relax again

Terrified of having to live without you, hasn't got a clue how he would be able to see through that kind of fog - he's just grateful for it to have been a figment of his imagination

Kakashi

Kakashi's dream isn't only of you dying, it's of you dying by his own hand

He wakes up with a jolt, turning to find you're safely in bed next to him - still, he holds a finger under your nose to check your breathing

Feeling a burning tingle coursing through him, Kakashi has to get out of bed, he can't just forget about the dream so easily

Without disturbing you, Kakashi gets out of the bedroom entirely and goes to the living room, pours a stiff drink and sits at your bay window while watching the dark sky move

You come out to the living room soon, before he's even done his drink, and you ask if he's coming back to bed

He finishes his drink and tucks you under his arm, steering you both back to the bedroom, feeling poorly about waking you up but feeling quite cared about

Kakashi can't bring himself to tell you about the dream, even if you ask - he didn't want to deal with it the first time, let alone rehash it

Eventually falls back asleep, holding you as closely as humanly possible, drifting off while pressing a million small kisses to your face and head

Itachi

A recurring theme in all of Itachi's dreams is death - familial, friend, himself, but he hates the ones where you die the most

Sometimes, you're killed by another, bested in a fight and demolished in front of Itachi - he can hardly take those seriously, you're far too powerful in the waking world

Other times, it's Itachi, himself, who takes your life - another impossibility, he would never, not even if you had something he coveted

It's the dreams of you and he, sitting together, wasting away with decay and disease - he can't stand those, because they're all too possible and real

He'd wake up with a start, and turn to you, running his fingers through your hair, and over the rosy apples of your cheeks, scouring your body for signs of vitality

You'd wake with a laugh, his fingers tickling your ribs, and Itachi would just hum for you to go back to sleep

Just as you curl up to his chest, he starts having a coughing fit (his lungs sound like sparkling cardboard with your ear right up to his chest) and has to sit up while you rub his back and hit him between the shoulder blades with the heel of your hand

He has to get up to spit out the phlegm and blood he coughed up, but comes right back with a heavy sigh

You promise him you'll stay by his side, through sickness and in health

Though riddled with anguish, Itachi just tells you he loves you, and thanks you for putting up with him, before crawling back into the bed

You two cozy up nicely and you listen as his soft, controlled breathing turns into a light, stuttered wheeze before falling back asleep yourself

Shikamaru

This poor motherfucker can't sleep a full night without at least one sour dream and it's such a drag

He wakes up swearing and shouting when the sour dreams are about you - his dreams never go on long enough for you to die, just for Shikamaru to see you in the grasp of the enemy, scared out of your mind, knowing what's to come

If you're not woken up by his ruckus, he'll surely wake you up to get a good look at you, to get your fearful expression out of his head

You're cranky, having been woken up from a deep slumber, and Shikamaru apologises insincerely before recounting his dream in vivid detail

Of course, this causes a change of tune, but Shikamaru teases you, telling you to apologise for being such a hater after he had such a concerning dream about you

You do, begrudgingly, then ask him to cuddle you again

Shikamaru lights a cigarette and tells you he might not go back to sleep, but leans back into his pillow and puts his arm around you, allowing you to rest on his chest

Despite his claim, Shikamaru almost immediatly falls back asleep, leaving you to slip his cigarette from his fingers, steal a drag, then ash it for him in the tray on his bedside table

He's gripping you so tight, you think he might think you'll disappear if he doesn't

You just sink into his being, taking comfort in his warmth and the rhythm of his heartbeat

Sai

His dreams are quite strange - they never make sense out of the context of Sai's unconscious mind, and even then

They're all very metaphorical and symbolic, and Sai could spend his whole life trying to decipher some of them, instead he just fills a notebook with whatever he can remember

All he can particularly remember from any of his dreams about your death is just a heartwrenching feeling that took over his soul

It would suffocate him, deafen him, blind him

When he wakes up next to you, peaceful and alive, he curses his mind and wishes he could remember the context of the feeling

Sai's just glad it was only a dream, only a manufactured feeling from his subconscious to torture him

He curls up to you, letting that disgusting feeling melt away as you press into him

All Sai can think about as he drifts off to face another vivid, otherworldly dream is how lucky he is to have someone who causes such visceral emotion within him

[nemesyaaa]

do revenge // mean!rafe cameron x camdoll!reader

summary ; you were tired and sick of the hell life the well-known kook prince give you. so after being for so long his favorite victim, you decided to fight back.

warnings : dark content. insecurities. revenge plot. bully!rafe. poker face!rafe. sick behavior and toxic attitude. smut. oral(m. receiving). dollification. blackmailing. dubcon. shitty kooks behavior. bad thoughts. quickly mentions of some kinks. self-justice. pogue/kook hate/unfair dynamic. free hate. masked reader. threatening. power imbalance. baddie attitude. minors dni. please, be careful with the warnings.

author's note : the girl on the gifs is not a faceclaim, it's only to show what kinda mask she wear. it's the first time i think i do something like that so......and it's a one-shot, so it's maybe a little too long 💀

you worked as a waitress in a small restaurant. you hated this job but you had to make money and today the place was a little empty so you thought you could relax but that was before Rafe showed up with his gang of kooks. you had started shaking as soon as you saw them. you felt so small and trapped, your breath sped up. there was like a lack of air in your lungs because you knew how rafe was with you, how much he hated you but above all, how much he loved to humiliate you. it was his favorite pleasure: being cruel to you. and damn, he knew how to hurt you better than anyone. he must have broken so many things in you, your ego, your heart, your self-esteem, your confidence, your joy of living that you wondered how you were still standing in his presence.

with a tense smile, you approached them because you also couldn't escape the group. you hugged your notepad to your chest, pressing tightly the page against your breasts. you were about to open your mouth when rafe cut you off.

“i understand better why this restaurant is so empty…” he commented, looking you up and down. “ but what i don’t get is why you haven’t been fired yet when you’re scaring customers away.”

“apparently not everyone since you're here...." that was what you wanted to answer but you preferred to kill yourself rather than make a remark to rafe that was going to cost you your life. and you wouldn't want to give him this pleasure.

“have you chosen what you want? ” you said, addressing everyone, preferring to ignore the leader of the kooks group.

“it’s so cheap here. ” he had commented. “ very cheap. ” from his insistent look, you understood that he was including you in his criticism. he was very childish.

you nervously tighten your grip on your pen. of all rafe's friends, topper seemed the most sensitive to what you were going through but he always stayed quiet. this idiot finally ordered cocktails. the words had to be ripped out of his mouth.

when you came back with the drinks, you delicately placed them on the table. you were embarrassed by the way rafe stared at you like you had something on your face, like he was planning another nasty remark. and it didn't take long, because the next minute, he had managed to make you cry and made everyone laugh.

when you handed him his glass, he purposely knocked it to the ground.

“what are you waiting for, pogue? clean it. it's not like it's new to you, you're used to cleaning up other people's shit. "

burning tears started to come out of your eyes, you bit your trembling lip. your throat was tight, and you hated everything you were feeling right now. the shame, the humiliation, the fear, it destroyed you.

you brought something to clean before bending down. he hadn't apologized. he never did it anyway. you kept all this grudge inside of you, even if it killed you.

he picked up your rag with a smirk. “you don't need that when you can use your tongue. ”

you looked at him with wide eyes, as if you had heard wrong. topper had intervened before you did. “hey dude, no need to go that far.”

“shut up, topper. i really need to show you that all women are fucking dirty and disgusting sluts. so stop protecting them, and watch the show i put on for you. and for free. ”

"rafe...listen..." you said softly.

“you better listen to me if you don't want to be fired. you know how good i am at making your life hell.” you started to kneel down, bringing your face closer to the ground. “yes, you understand very easily, maybe you can show your ass to the camera too. record it, kelce. lick it well, sweetheart. don't want to see your ugly face on the screen. “

this day was the last straw. it was worse than anything. it was completely degrading and nasty.

and it was surely at that precise moment, that night to be exact, that everything had changed in you. that you had decided that this couldn't last, that you had to play into the enemy's game to defeat him, that sometimes you had to be unfair when he cheated, that when someone was bad, you had to be tougher and stronger.

it had been several years that you had endured criticism from rafe and kooks about your physique, your pogue condition, that your face was the center of mockery and the worst jokes, that it lasted to the point that you had surely become the funniest joke or meme in the island.

but you had grown up. you had prepared your revenge over several months. because you couldn't pretend it didn't affect you. but all the hatred you had felt for yourself had started to turn towards rafe, to give you a reason to live, a purpose because he had given you a furious and crazy idea.

he had humiliated you. and he was going to taste his own medicine.

deep down, you weren't just doing this for yourself but for all the pogue girls who had suffered harassment from kook boys, for all the girls who had received bad treatment because they didn't look like princesses, for all the girls who were made to believe that they deserved nothing because they did not meet the physical standards. you had to put an end to this nonsense.

so after five months, you had become what rafe loved the most. you had become a very popular online camdoll for kooks. you wore a mask that hid your facial identity enough to not be recognized. you had a completely different style. you were surely prettier, more magnificent in his eyes. because he had fallen into the trap. he had this slightly superficial side. you knew you had succeeded from the moment you felt the difference. not only did he want you, but he wanted to possess you.

he was one of your loyal viewers. he didn't have his first name as a username but you knew it was him. his messages had the same tone as when he spoke to you.

he was pathetic, because he paid to see your content, to talk to you, to hear you touch yourself, to do dirty things to you. no matter how much you charged.

he even sent you a video of him jerking off on one of your lives. you couldn't lie, you had watched the entire video. his fist was wrapped around his painfully cock, moving up and down, the leaking tip disappearing and appearing with the speed of his thrusts, the way his boner grew bigger the more he thought of you. he was going so fast that his bulge was literally slapping against his hand with a loud, obscene noise, his sagging balls moving in rhythm. his hair was messy, there was a quiver in his lips every time he made a grunt. “ fuck...fuck...fuc'...gonna fuck that dollface one day...gonna get this dick all in your dumb pussy. ” his length was very feverish and at the same time hard, shaken with spasms. the veins pumped by his strokes. he had come in such a short time, loads of cum exploding all over his sweating chest. he had wiped everything with a pack of tissues. and just when you thought the video had come, he started again.

you never responded. only downloaded the video and stored in a confidential folder.

but one day, he spoiled you a little too much. however, you weren't doing anything really crazy. you fulfilled clients' requests — which involved masturbating with a vibrator, playing with your breasts while riding a dildo, putting as many fingers as your viewers wanted in your pussy, letting them dress you however they wanted, letting them make you crazy stupid and vulnerable, doing little shows and hauls until you end up naked, playing with the food on your body, recording your orgasms, filming you when you slept naked or took a shower.

you had decided to thank rafe for his expensive gifts by asking him to come to your house. you had a studio that you had decorated, enough to make him believe that you lived well, and that you could be a kook. obviously, he had accepted and of course, he was hoping for sex when you told him you had a surprise for him.

it was, he was going to have sex. and you a revenge.

rafe had always assumed that he hated you, the shitty, ugly pogue, that he would never sleep with you. and to quote his own words “even for a million, i could never fuck such a disgusting thing. ” and it was always in public, in front of people. then you were going to do the exact same thing. you were going to fuck with him, and if he loved show that much, he was not going to be disappointed.

on the day, you had prepared yourself for the occasion. while you were getting ready, there were tons of flashbacks in your head, scenes, words that kept coming back. all this cruelty that could make you vomit.

“i really thought alcohol would help me find you attractive but no, you're still just as ugly. i thought it was a pogue thing baby but actually it's just you. ” it was rafe.

“ i felt like i had hit you in the face ten thousand times with my golf ball. ” it was still rafe.

“the difference between you and the other pogues? is that you angel, you will never be able to hide the fact that you are one. all the misery shows on your face. ” always rafe.

and it was each time heavier, more hardcore. he reminded you of your condition, but also of how much he couldn't see you. you were too horrible. you never told anyone about this treatment, about all this hatred. but you had now learned, from the best, how to make noise.

you wiped away your tears, and brought the mask to your face. “i can do it. ” you muttered to yourself as you began to get slightly anxious. you were afraid of breaking down in the middle of the act, of finally not being sure you wanted all of this. you felt mixed feelings. was it really good to do that, was it really right? but on the one hand, what had justice done for you until now? absolutely nothing. like everyone else, she had watched you get humiliated. so it was just common sense?

the door to your studio rang. you opened it. you couldn’t lie that rafe was really handsome and smell good. but the first thing you noticed was his smile.

he was completely different. you could see in his eyes for the first time, something positive towards you.

" welcome. ” you said with a smile, inviting him inside.

oh he resisted the urge to kiss you, his hands were in his pockets but they were nervous and unsteady. they wanted to be on you.

“do you want to drink something? ” you added the name of the cocktail he always had at your restaurant. you had done it on purpose but he hadn't noticed. he nodded.

“are you going to take off your mask one day? ”

“without it, i am no longer what i am. so it's better that i keep it. isn’t that all you want me to be? a doll. ”

“no, you’re right. then at least i know you're not a fucking pogue. ”

“it would be bad for your reputation too. i already see the headlines and the taunts "rafe cameron fucks a pogue" and people will laugh at you, and you hate it being humiliated. no one likes it. ”

“you look really nice, doll. i mean, kind.” he replied.

“i am but i believe that some people. ” you pressed the word, and gave him an honest look. “have abused a lot of this part of me. that's why i'm a doll, i don't have to feel anything, just do what people want me for. you can fulfill your every desire with me. do you want to see me in a certain dress? let me change. do you want to release your anger in me? let me help you. do you just want to fuck me? i am literally made for this. ”

“you are made for me. ” you smiled through the mask because in a way, he was right. he had created your character.

“do you mind if i film? i really want to record this. you are the first customer I have met. it's special for me. ”

" no. at least people will know to who you belong. ”

“that’s exactly it. ” you lied when starting the live. “let’s get started. ”

you had removed his pants and his boxers, placing yourself between his thick tighs, he was so much bigger than you that you looked like a small caged thing.

you placed your outrageously manicured hands on his open legs, your mouth sinking and wrapping around his hard cock. your tongue had started rolling around the girth, you could feel the small drop of precum going down your throat. this part that he was soon going to get fucked strongly and hard.

you wanted to drive him crazy, see him sweat like a pig because you were so good, because you did it all too well. he had wrapped your hair in a grip to make it easier to pull on it. “yes...suck that cock...just like that...let me ruin that mouth...fuck…”

your dripping lips were stretched by the size of his length, and the way it was getting completely hard inside of you. you could feel the drool running down the sides of your mouth. you felt every inch of his penis fucking your throat. and through your mask, you saw his smirks. he pulled your hair, and you took all of him, until your face came into contact with his pelvis, every bit of him was in you. you almost gagged.

he had barely pulled out of you before he entered you again. his cock worked against your tongue, brushing it harshly, the tip tapping the back of your throat. your cheeks were sunken, and your lips drowned between spittles and saliva. “you're perfect, doll...you really know how to suck...i could really take advantage of the situation if you keep this up...” at his words, you sucked him faster, pumping efficiently while his hand stroked your hair. his fingers moved along with your head.

he was completely using you, doing whatever he wanted with you. and you let him do it, because you wanted him to be proud of himself and to be seen on camera. he had pushed his cock onto your mask, decorating it with saliva, your own currently drooling. “so pretty. ” he had commented. he pushed his cock back into your mouth without warning, taking it ever deeper. you felt fizzy. your lips were open and used for several minutes non-stop, your throat puckered and pummeled. your jaw was starting to hurt, but you didn’t show it. you had to be perfect, packaged the way he wanted. your tongue flickered around him, teasing his girth.

“ need to be inside you...so bad...you make me feel so good. it's your face, doll. you're divine.”

maybe he had a mask kink to say that, to also be turned on by a fucking plastic object. or maybe it was the face he imagined behind it all? you didn't know.

he had thrown you on the bed, opened your legs in two and pushed your body against his hips, pulling you by the waist. his cock had twitching, purring some pre-cum, at the contact with your soaked cunt.

“ i could never sleep with a pogue. but especially with you, just thinking about it makes me vomit. “ it was perfect that you remembered that in the moment, as he thrust into you, his hips moving slowly.

your pussy clenched around his cock, barely letting him move without hurting you. “ fuck, you're so fucking tight, doll....need me to stretch this pretty little cunt. i'm gonna make you so dumb. “

you couldn’t hide that you still got wet, and damn, he knew how to fuck and you couldn’t be his first time. he had started pounding into you once your pussy had started to ease around him.

it was really intense, his body slamming violently against yours, the strike echoing through the room. your weak moans but which he heard very clearly, and which encouraged him to go even further within your walls. he pushed himself even more to hear you scream. he had a goal and he wanted to make you so stupid that in the end you wouldn't be able to do anything.

he buried himself inside you, his powerful thrusts stretching your pussy, your body twitching beneath him. he was on top of you, staring into your eyes. you were a little fascinated. his shoulders were broad and muscular, his arms heavy and toned, and his abs were perfect arranged into six packs. his hair fell on his forehead.

he couldn’t see the emotions on your face, nor clearly define what you were feeling. he only had your voice and the reactions of your body.

your pussy hugged him with each strokes, he filled you completely, making his way to your spot. your puffy slit was spread, capturing his bulge. you squeezed him harder, he startly getting down, the wet and dirty sounds of his hips rocking your body. you could see the vein on his neck, his contracted muscles covered in sweat.

he had placed his lips on yours, his mouth kissing yours. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you, gently guiding the kiss with your tongue.

he continued to fuck you, while playing with his tongue in your mouth, kissing you without limits, until your lips and jaws were covered in drool. you waited for him to cum inside you. but he hadn't pulled out while you were flooded, loaded with his cum, and some orgasms you'd had. it dripped from your slit onto the sheets. he had placed the tip of his cock back in front of your entrance, picking up where his enjoyment had left you off.

this time it was a little gentler. it was like you had established a little intimacy even though you knew it wasn't true. after a few minutes, he stopped.

" are you always being that kind ?…”

“ you think i'm a mean person ? ”

“ you never hurt people ? never in your life ? ” you asked him, with a friendly tone.

“ what if ? ”

“ don't freak out. everyone has a mean side. now, you got me curious. can you tell me the worst thing you have done to someone ? ”

“ maybe it was to one of that trashy pogue…” it started, and you forced yourself to not react when you saw the smile on his face. even after years, it didn't regret anything. because obviously, he talked about you.

“ thank you for confessing this story to me. now, i have a gift for you…” you said with a fakely soft voice. “ it was not the sex part. i'm willing to let you see me without my mask. i really want you to see me because i trust you. ” was obviously a lie.

“are you sure? ” he was so surprised by your proposal. “ don't you want to tell me something worse you did to someone too ? ”

“ oh, it's part of the gift, rafe . ”

at this moment, he knew. he fucking knew.

he had removed your mask.

because of the shock, he took a step back.

his face was indescribable.

“oh no, you can't pretend to be disgusted, not after fucking me like you've wanted this your whole life. ” you smiled. “what did you say before? that you could throw up? liar. you came so hard in me. and, it is still dripping. come on, don't run away, give a closer look. maybe i should make you clean the mess you made with your tongue. like you did to me. maybe, this time you will vomit. but i'm not sure, you're such a pathetic hater. and i'm just not afraid of you anymore. ”

“what the fuck is wrong with you, pogue ?! did you have fun?”

“ pogue ? ” you mocked. “ was babydoll, sweetheart, a few minutes ago. now, it's pogue ? how it feels, rafe ? how does it feel to be humiliated ? i think, it's better for you to apologize for all these years. but not only for me, for every pogue. ”

a crazy laugh escaped his lips, as he came closer to you. “ really ? what make you feel that i will apologize ? especially to you. ”

“ because now, the game is over. it's a war and i'm gonna fight back. it means, i will drag you down. every secret, every weakness, every move that you want to hide from me will be from now my first concern. i'm glad that you hate me because it's only the beginning. ”

“ you really think that you have some power over me ? be serious. ”

“ it's not about power at all. it's about justice. ”

i also wanted to thanks @bunnyrafe @rafecameroninterlude and @bimbotrashcan who helped me a lot, and trusted me for this !! tysm, i'm very grateful <333

[bones4thecats]

Goku's Child! Reader w/ Three Admirers

Characters: Zamasu, Goku Black, and Trunks Requester/Idea-Starter: @lelewright1234 A/N: You can tell which was my favorite to write for, lol. But, I do hope you guys like this! Credit to the linked above for coming up with this prompt! ⚠️ Spoilers/Trigger Warnings for: Mentions of death, fighting, obsessive behavior - borderline yandere, unwanted physical touch, and war(??) ⚠️

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Zamasu ═══════════════════════════════╝

🍵 When you first met Zamasu with your father, the Supreme Kai was surprised to see how polite you were. Unlike your father, you were more of a quiet and reserved being, but that didn't mean you were weak

🍵 You watched with Gowasu as the two fought, and Zamasu was surprised when you jumped in after your father and began to spar against him. Much like Goku, you had a very powerful aura, and this guy was having a difficult time keeping up without using almost his whole power

🍵 It was only when your match ended that you laughed and helped him up that Zamasu realized that you were Goku's middle-child, specifically his only daughter. You looked a lot like him, your matching hair (despite it being in a different style - like your uncle Raditz's), your build - though you were smaller because you inherited your mother's shortness, and your eyes. But, you were different by how you acted

🍵 Zamasu began to question mortals and their values not that long ago, but seeing how delicate you acted around the other deities, he began to ask himself one question; why were you so different from the others in his eyes?

🍵 But more importantly... why did he seem to feel his stomach and heart flutter whenever you would look at him and smile?

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Goku Black ═════════════════════════════╝

🔥 You hated this guy with a burning passion. Not only did he wreck your entire home, but he literally killed so many of the people you cared for! If someone asked for you view on him, you would snap in rage before yelling your hatred for him

🔥 But, despite the fact that you so obviously despised him, Goku Black was head-over-heels for you. The way you fought against him just made his cold-heart beat run faster than any amount of adrenaline could make it

🔥 Black enjoys fighting against you, but he does hold his punches, as he, as the 'other mortals' say, "tangled in the gaze of your beautiful eyes on him". And I mean that. He'll see you look into his eyes and he'll grab your hand, attempting to get you in a waltz-like dance in the sky

🔥 Every time he touched you, he would feel his skin tingle in joy. You were so soft despite the long time of fighting, while his own hands were rough and slightly calloused from using so many attacks and tearing the surrounding world apart

🔥 The others were shocked when he would pick you up and hold you by the waist in the air, telling you how much he adored you and tried kissing you. You were stuck in horror, his guy looked exactly like your father! Hell, your Aunt Bulma called him 'Goku Black' for a reason! You just screamed and the past Goku had come up and kicked him away, carrying you down to the others gently, meanwhile Black glare at you and the others in rage. You were going to regret refusing a divine being...

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╚═════ Trunks ═══════════════════════════════╝

⚔️ You two grew up together, and your fathers trained with one another. It only took this connection to bring you guys together in a lovely relationship as you grew up

⚔️ That happy life was unfortunately interrupted with Goku Black came down to attack, and it only made it worse that your father died from the Heart Virus while your own adversary looked exactly like your now-deceased father

⚔️ Trunks was pissed whenever Black tried touching you, and you knew this. The half-Saiyan would lung and cause the other male to fly back, crashing into a nearby building while he checked you over for any wounds possibly delivered by the enemy

⚔️ When you both went into the past, you held your sword in shock. You never expected to see your father in so long, and honestly? It was amazing to hear his voice and get to hug the same man that you lost to such a painful illness

⚔️ Trunks liked seeing you actually happy and comfortable, ever since Black came around, you had hardened and became more like a warrior than anyone else. So, just watching you let that go made his love for you grow larger and larger

⚔️ As you two fought for the final time against Goku Black, Trunks merged his attack with you, which made Merged-Zamasu scream and begin melting even more in agony. And when it finally ended with Future Zeno erasing your home away, you finally got to put your weapons down and live a happy life with your beloved

⚔️ Before you left, you looked back at the young you and Trunks. They asked what you guys were in the future - like asking if you were still friends -, and you just smiled before your Trunks wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed your cheek, making the young two of you gag with a hint of flush on their faces. You just chuckled and kneeled down to look at the two of them, leaving everyone with one final message from the future you

"Don't ever take one another for granted. You never know when another danger could come through and tear you guys apart. And don't ever, and I mean ever, allow Dad to use his Spirit Bomb on the garden. He did that when I was young and it almost blew up the entire yard..."

[ponderingmoonlight]

Sukuna coming for Megumi's little sister at Shibuya pt. lll

Part l here Part ll here

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader

Word Count: 2k

Synopsis: After promising Sukuna to do everything he wants in exchange for him sparing your friends, you find yourself in a bitter fight with Jogo. While you feel like dying, Sukuna enjoys teasing the hell out of you...

Warnings: this is basically Sukuna flirting with (y/n) through the newest episode so it has no real plot, not proofread bc I'm having a nasty headache, forgive me

Tags: @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @dazaisdick @sanicsmut @arehzhera @mynahx3 @wifenanami @ploylulla

You know how reckless it was, making a deal with the devil himself. But you just had to do it. For your friends, for Megumi, for Yuji. Maybe he will be able to regain the control over his own body before Sukuna is even able to harm another soul, maybe everything will turn out alright.

God, how much you beg for your mantra to be true.

“First things first. You.”

His finger darts towards the volcano curse whose forehead is soaking wet in sweat.

“If you land a hit on her or me once, I will fight on your side.”

You can’t believe your ears, whole body screaming at you to run away. Even though Gojo-sensei made it look so easy, you are very aware of the fact that this cursed spirit standing in front of your very own eyes is not to be messed with. How on earth are you supposed to keep up with him on your own, how are you supposed to survive all of this?

“A human?”, he cursed spirit questions, eyes darting towards you in disbelief.

“I hate waiting. Make your decision or die”, Sukuna replies dryly, rolling his eyes while all you can do is stare at him in pure horror.

He can’t be serious about that, right?

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”, you hiss at him, his eyes darting towards you in nothing but amusement.

“Nothing easier than that”, the cursed spirit replies.

You aren’t even able to comprehend that the cursed spirit lifted its arm when you get yanked into the air, followed by a wave of scorching fire.

Fuck fuck fuck. You know you are good, you know you are well-trained. But this? The whole ground underneath catches fire, gets eaten up by countless flames.

What the hell are you supposed to do?

“If you want to survive, you will have to stand close to me”, Sukuna purrs, his arms wrapped tightly around your ribcage from behind while jerking through the air with you.

How disgusting. The thought of feeling your boyfriend’s tight muscles against your back but knowing fully well that the man pressing his frame against yours is nothing but a psychopath makes your guts turn. Your hands fight desperately for your escape, to get out of his iron grip around your body. But instead of letting go, he chuckles into your ear, his body rubbing against yours.

“Pathetic. You might have a strong will, but your body is still as weak as that of any other human.”

“Why not letting me go then? Why did you safe me when I am a weakling in your eyes?”, you scream on top of your lungs.

“Because you’re fun to mess with.”

You stare at him through wet lashes, mind going completely blank. He can’t be serious about his senseless words, why on earth is he doing all of this? Is it because he knows that Yuji loves you? Is it because you are a decent hostage?

“Oh, there he comes again. Duck your head.”

Your usual cool composure is gone in the wind when another ball of fire is yanked towards you, reflecting in your wide-open eyes. A toe-curling scream escapes your lips, hands instinctively holding onto Sukuna for dear life-

Hot tears start to sting in your eyes. The bitter truth is that you don’t want to die. Not through the hands of a cursed spirit, not because of Sukuna, not even through your own force. You want a happy and long life, you want to grow old with Yuji and your brother by your side.

But the way this cursed spirits yanks towards you, eye narrowed when your gazes meet tells you more than urgently that your life is in serious danger.

You close your eyes, breathe in and out. Is there anything you can do to escape this situation? No, your faith lies in the cruel hands of Sukuna – the hands of the king of curses, the hands that are responsible of countless deaths. When he’s done playing with you…

You’ll be next.

“Balling your eyes out? How unusual, (y/n). Do you need a shoulder to cry on?”

This is the time. You have to choose between staying alive for a little longer or risking it all and telling yourself fall into the scorching hell underneath. Your eyes scan the area around you, mind pondering about a way to escape him. If you’re fast enough, you might be able to make it…

“Don’t get stupid ideas. Remember our deal, (y/n). If you break it, I’ll kill everyone you love without even blinking.”

The oh so sweet tone in his voice is replaced by so much taciturnity than your blood freezes in your veins. Your orbs stare at him boldly with your head up high. No, you have to keep on fighting. You have to stand up to him. For your friends, for your brother.

For Yuji.

“I won’t break it”, you assure him, earning a maniac grin instantly.

Oh, what a beautiful sight you are with tears streaming down your face and your eyes of determination.

“So, what now? You said you wanted me to let you go, right? Nothing easier than that.”

His grip around your body loosens. Before you are able to get a hold of him, your body flies towards the ground, cutting through the hot air.

“Sukuna!” you cry out desperately, arms flying around without an aim.

What are you supposed to do? Is there a way your technique might help you? If Megumi’s shikigami were here to catch you…

But it isn’t. And you’ll crash into the ground with full force within the next seconds if you don’t come up with a plan.

“I want you to beg for it, (y/n).”

You let out your breath, eyes piercing through the man flying above you. That fucking asshole. Nothing is further from you than to worship a creature like Sukuna.

“Go to hell!” you shout over the noise of the rapid air around both of you.

Do you really have a choice, though? If you want to live, if you want to survive Shibuya, you have no other choice than to do what that man wants.

“Fuck”, you curse under your breath, closing your eyes.

You have to do this.

“Please safe me, Sukuna”, you press out.

“Not enough.”

The heat of the ground becomes almost unbearable, with every breath your lungs feel like bursting from the hot air. Time runs out.

“I beg you with all that I have, please safe me Sukuna!”

His hands grab your body tightly before he catapults both of you into the air again.

“See? Wasn’t hard, was it sweetheart?”

Your fast and shaky breaths ring in your ears. That was close, way too close for your liking. What is all of this about?

He comes to a stand on a nearby building, still holding onto you while his eyes roam around the area in amusement. You really are a handful, the mix of emotions reflecting in your eyes making it so enjoyable for him to toy with you. And that oh so sweet scent of yours. You feel just like he imagined it, your heartbeat hammering against his very own chest.

“Out of breath, sweetheart?”

That fucker. He seems so unbothered by all of this, the whole city underneath your feet going up in flames. What about the people? Please, hopefully Maki was able to escort all of them out.

“Shut up and get moving, aren’t you able to see that he attacked us again?” you bark at him.

The dark night sky is discoloured in crimson, deafening noise keeps moving towards you. Without saying another word, Sukuna grabs you firmly by your waist and pushes your body up in the air along with himself.

“Let’s play a little.”

Your eyes aren’t even able to comprehend the movement around you. Fire blasts around your frame, just inches away from burning your skin. Without saying a single word Sukuna lifts you off the ground and holds onto your back and knees. You want to scream at him to let you go, you want nothing more than to free yourself out of his grasp.

But you are powerless. This fight that lays itself out in front of your very own eyes would have killed you in the matter of seconds if it wasn’t for Sukuna. These targeted attacks, the sheer force of his cursed power. All you can do is stare at the scenery with your glossy eyes wide open and your hands holding onto Yuji’s uniform for dear life.

The untouched part of Shibuya comes nearer and nearer. You squint your eyes, observing what looks like people on the ground. Wait…Your heart sinks immediately, the feeling of throwing up becomes almost unbearable. That there is Panda. Panda from Jujutsu High, panda your comrade.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your hysteric voice doesn’t seem to interest him the slightest, bodies still aiming for the humans to your feet. No, you can’t let that happen, you can’t allow him to hurt your friends. Even though he swore he won’t hurt them if you do what he wishes…Sukuna is no one to trust.

“Panda, hurry up and run!” you scream on top of your lungs.

His soul almost leaves his body when realizing that it is Sukuna who holds you in his arms, thick fear clouding your sight. How did you end up here? He wants to turn around, to free you out of his grasp. But instead his feet are about to start moving, on their way to get him out of this mess-

“You won’t”

Everyone around you stops in their tracks, completely crushed by the sheer presence of Sukuna. Gently he lets go of you, letting you stand on your own wobbly legs.

“I hereby forbid every person in a 100-meter radius from here to move until I say ‘now’. And of course, I will kill anyone who violates that rule.”

“Sukuna…”, you mumble, eyes wide open by the sheer sensation of a fucking fireball shooting your way.

He chuckles to himself.

“Not yet.”

“Sukuna!” you bark at him, the sky completely on fire by now.

“Still not yet.”

“Sukuna, you promised!”

You fist the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer to you while staring at him intensely. If he won’t let them go immediately, all of them will burn to death. When his eyes meet yours, they are filled with nothing but amusement, lifting his arms painfully slow.

“Now”, he announces along with clapping his hands.

But he himself has no intention to leave this place, let alone letting you flee along with your friends. No, instead he holds onto your body tightly when a wave of fire, magma, rumble and death washes over you. Fuck, this will definitely burn you to the ground. Out of instinct you hide your face against his chest, squinting your eyes shut.

Is this how you die? Because you’ve got hit by a random fireball at Shibuya? What would Megumi say if he knew about all of this, would he be proud?

Your heart skips a beat. Definitely not. You acted like a coward, pressing yourself against the king of curses in order not do die. What about Yuji? What about your plan to free him?

“Now you’re in the mood to cuddle, huh?”

He moves fast. In the blink of an eye your body gets pressed against the ruin of a nearby building, his hands wrapped around your nape and wrist while all you can do is stare at the man in front of you in silence.

“What do you want from me?”, you breathe out.

“Oh, sweet little (y/n). You are my favourite toy since we’ve first met. Let’s just have a good time together, shall we?”, he hums in satisfaction.

[theonotti]

MIO | OS | t.n.

Pairing: Theodore Nott x fem!Hufflepuff!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Voldemort won. Harry Potter is dead. But the Order of the Phoenix is still fighting, with two surprising allies who have very different reasons for aiding their cause.

Warnings: Pretty angsty. AU where Voldemort did not die at the end of DH.

Notes: This is heavily inspired by Secrets & Masks and Manacled. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

That Final Night One Shot

Late.

They’re fucking late.

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Theo looks down at his watch. 

Twenty minutes late, to be exact.

“How long are we expected to wait here?” Mattheo growls, pacing across the wood of the decrepit bar. The floorboards creak with every step. Theo is sitting at one of the tables, a sigh forcing its way out of his lungs as he watches his friend. In one hand is a cigarette, the other hand mindlessly tracing the vandalism that had been scratched into the top of the table. 

“Another ten minutes and then we’re fucking off.”

The bar has been long abandoned, making it their top choice for discreet meetings. They had cycled through a few different locations before they finally found the bar. The walls are a sloppy black color, which is mostly covered in 80’s posters, both movies and musical talents alike. Theo’s eyes drift from poster to poster. He’s seen them what feels like a thousand times, and yet he still finds it hard to tear his eyes away when he stares at them. 

An hour has already passed since their arrival, but that was due to the ungodly amount of wards and disillusionment charms that they needed to cast before the meeting, a ritual that has become quite routine. Once everything is set, they’ll briefly discuss what they’ll say, and then they wait. Theo finds the extra waiting time peaceful, usually. It gives him a chance to mentally prepare for the carnage that comes to his psyche afterwards. The guilt. The fear. But this time, the stakes are higher, increasing the tension in his muscles much too soon. He can feel the pain already in his lower back, and he doesn’t want to imagine the aches he’ll be feeling once he returns home. 

“Can’t we just kill them?” 

Theo considers this question as he lets his eyes jump back to Mattheo.

“That would probably defeat the purpose of why we’re here.”

“Sure, but I still hate Weasley and his stupid face. Just one Cruciatus curse at his ugly face would be okay, surely. I won’t even make it a long one. Four minutes tops.”

Theo boredly watches the smoke from his cigarette float up towards the ceiling as he ignores Mattheo. Every moment that passes increases his irritation. He finds himself wondering if it’s a power move on their part. They hold all the cards, so they can keep him waiting. 

Something in the air triggers, both men looking towards the door. Theo’s fingers tense around the cigarette as he brings it to his mouth to take another drag, his other hand dropping down from the table to clench around his wand as it rests on his lap. The dimly lit room has a smoky haze, all thanks to Mattheo and Theo disregarding the “No Smoking Allowed” sign that is appropriately starting to fall off the wall.

The door opens, Ron Weasley followed by Hermione Granger walking in. Theo has long lost count of how many times they’ve met with Granger and Weasley, yet it still feels jarring every time he sees them. Maybe it’s because their appearance catches him off guard each time.

Despite them all being in their mid twenties, they all look tired and worn. The rosey cheeks that Granger sported while they were in school are now gaunt and hollow. Dark circles are painted under her eyes, along with Weasley’s, and she keeps her bushy hair contained in two french braids going down her back. Weasley keeps his hair short now, and his body is more built than it had ever been when they were at Hogwarts. His boy-like features are long gone, with gray already peppering his ginger hair, and if Theo didn’t know any better, he would’ve guessed that Weasley was in his late thirties at the least. The life in their eyes had long drained out, replaced with a coldness that chilled anyone who happened to be stuck in their gaze.

War hadn’t been kind to Theo or Mattheo either.

Mattheo has more scars on his face than he did back in school, and he grew his hair long in a feeble attempt to hide them. There was a time that he wore them like a badge of honor, but since the start of the war and his PTSD becoming worse than ever, they no longer were something he pretended to be proud of. He’s since developed an anxiety twitch, his whole face seeming to spasm whenever there’s a loud noise not caused by him, or tense moment. Though they don’t live together anymore, now that Theo has full ownership of Nott Manor, when they had, Theo could remember all the nights of hearing his best friend scream and cry in his sleep from across the mansion. It was more often than not, and it was unbearably hard to get Mattheo to calm down from the vivacious nightmares.

The opposite could be said for Theo. Instead of nights filled with intense dreams of death and melancholy, Theo simply doesn’t sleep. He couldn’t, for the life of him, shut his brain off. And while that had always been an issue for him to some degree, it had become exacerbated since his transition from student to soldier. Theo doesn’t know what being tired feels like anymore. It’s so ingrained in his psyche that it would be more abnormal for him to not be tired. All he can do is adjust, living off coffee and the occasional upper to keep him moving.

Weasley leans on the wall beside the door. His demeanor is much more unpleasant than normal as his eyes flit between Theo and Mattheo. Theo pretends not to notice as he looks at Granger, who’s standing in the middle of the room. She always did all the talking. Theo assumes it’s because of the way she carries herself, and they certainly take her more seriously than they could any Weasley. Besides being a fighter for the Order of the Phoenix, Granger is a war negotiator. She deals with prisoner exchanges and, eventually, peace talks. Although, considering it’s been seven years since the Battle of Hogwarts, Theo is less confident of the possibility of any sort of peace treaty happening any time soon. For the entire duration of the war, it was her that Theo dealt with when it came to these sorts of things, before and after their betrayal. 

She clears her throat.

“What information do you have for us?”

The strain in her voice is lost on no one. The tension in the air is so thick, Theo is convinced he could grab it if he tried.

Mattheo stops his pacing, turning to face her full on. His anger is palpable.

“Stop with the bullshit,” He snaps. “Let’s talk about why we’re really here today.”

Weasley’s hand tightens around his wand, but he doesn’t move. Theo keeps his eyes on him to ensure it stays that way before turning back to Granger. 

“You have Malfoy.” Theo’s voice is quiet, tone neutral.

The corners of her mouth twitch upward.

“We have Malfoy.”

Mattheo lets out a frustrated sigh.

“We can’t continue to cooperate with you until you hand him back.”

Granger’s expression doesn’t change, making it clear that this reaction was expected. 

“He’s quite the bargaining tool. What are you willing to give for him?” A beat passes. “Or I guess I should say, who?”

Mattheo turns to look at Theo, who can tell just by that exchange of a glance that his friend’s patience is wearing horrifically thin.

“We can ensure the release of Luna Lovegood and Seamus Finnegan. And we’re prepared to give you the maps of the hidden prisons in Sussex.” Theo conveniently forgets to mention that they were already planning to give them the maps, regardless of the way things went at this meeting.

Granger turns to look at Weasley, who merely raises his eyebrows, before turning back to Theo.

“He’s Draco Malfoy.” 

Theo’s hand curls tighter around his wand.

Mattheo huffs loudly, throwing his hand down and smacking it on the bar top. The sound is so loud that Granger flinches, and Weasley pushes off the wall suddenly, but doesn’t move forward.

“You know bloody well that our heads will be on a fucking spike if we don’t get him back,” He hisses at them. “Then who will aid your bloody Order? You think there’s anyone else who will risk their necks like we have? Honestly?”

“Regardless of your help to the Order, do you really think we can just hand Voldemort back one of his best fighters?” Granger's voice raises just a touch. Mattheo takes a step towards her.

“You’ll be singing a different fucking tune when we’re dead and you realize the next on the list is you. You’re losing the goddamn war. Biblically. You need us. Alive.”

Theo waits for Mattheo to finish his outburst before he turns his attention back to Granger. He knows where this is going.

Fuck, he knows where this is going. 

“What else do you want, then?”

Theo’s hands tremble slightly. He clenches his right fist around his wand even more, the left bringing the cigarette back to his mouth quickly. 

Mattheo shakes his head, turning away as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it with his want.

Granger tilts her head as she looks at Theo, her expression shifting to a tired one, as if the answer is obvious. When she speaks again, her voice is just above a whisper.

“You know who we want, Nott. It’s been almost a year.”

Theo’s nostrils flare.

“Not on the table.”

~

Suffice to say, the raid couldn’t have possibly gone worse.

How the Order could’ve been so prepared for them was beyond Theo.

One minute, everything seemed to be going to plan as Theo, Mattheo, Malfoy, Blaise and a few others sauntered into the safe house. Quick in and out. Nothing too complicated. The next, it was like the floor fell out from under their feet.

How did things get so royally fucked up?

Theo woke with a start, sitting up abruptly, covered in a layer of sweat as his eyes darted around the room. It took him a minute to get reoriented, and only then did he realize that he was in his own living room, laid on the couch with a blanket draped over him. Ripping the blanket off, his hands flew towards his abdomen. When he looked down, he found he was shirtless, but his skin was unharmed, save for some minor scarring. New editions to the collection. He then reached up and touched the top of his head. Nothing. Not even a scrape.

What?

Slowly, he kicked his feet over the side of the couch and stood up. The room spun for a moment, and his joints ached, but otherwise, he was completely normal. 

The manor was silent. So silent that it made the hairs on the back of Theo’s neck stand up. Almost automatically, he walked across the floor, his bare feet cold against the hardwood. He tried to keep his footfall soft as he continued listening for any sort of sound. There, in the faint distance, he could hear… something. Grabbing a hoodie off the back of a chair, he slipped it over his bare torso and zipped it up halfway before making his way towards the sound. 

Theo stepped into the kitchen. A flash of movement came from the other slide of the sliding door that leads to the courtyard. His hand instinctively went to grab his wand from his pocket, only for him to realize it wasn’t there. At the same moment, he also realized the person outside was Mattheo, having a smoke. His tense fingers relaxed, his arm falling back to his side.

Mattheo looked over as Theo slid the door open and walked out. 

“Look who’s awake. How’re you feeling, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Who healed me?”

Mattheo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense.

“You wound me, Nott. You don’t think I’m capable?”

Theo shook his head almost immediately.

“It’s not as… clean when you do it. And I have the scars to prove it.” He pointed to his back, which was covered in scars thanks to a nasty run in with a car, a Bombarda cast, and Mattheo’s lack of concern to learn basic field emergency spell casting.

Mattheo sighed in resignation before saying, “You’re right. It wasn’t me.”

Theo waited for Mattheo to give elaboration, and when one wasn't given, he could feel his fingers curl into fists. Though Mattheo’s face was neutral, the tension radiating off his body could be felt a kilometer away.

“What did you do?”

Mattheo took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils before turning back to Theo.

“Theo…”

“What did you do, Riddle?”

Swallowing hard, Mattheo looked away from Theo.

“We got their best healer.” 

Theo blinked. A hostage?

“You took someone?” He asked, voice low. “That… that wasn’t part of the plan.”

Not that things ever went to plan. And not that they hadn’t ever deviated so far left and forced them to take hostages before. But there was something about the way Mattheo couldn’t look at him that made Theo’s fingers run cold. 

Mattheo shook his head as he took a seat on one of the lounge chairs. He let his head fall to his chest, as if it were too heavy to hold up anymore. “That wall fell on you. You were going to die, Theo. We needed…” He inhaled sharply before looking up again. “It was beyond us. We needed the help. We needed her.” 

Theo wracked his brain. The Order’s best healer? The Order’s best healer. Why does this mean something to him?

“Who is it?”

Mattheo leaned backwards in the seat so his back laid against the chair before he pointed at Theo, as if he was preemptively defending himself.

“You’re going to thank me. You’ll be pissed. But you’re going to thank me, ultimately.”

Theo’s nose twitched.

“Mattheo… who is it?”

Mattheo nodded back towards the house before vaguely replying, “She’s upstairs, in the North wing.”

Theo’s feet didn’t move, stuck to the floor like ice. His mind was running, a plethora of questions all begging to be answered. But his mouth forgot how to work as well. For a moment, all he was able to do was stare at Mattheo, who stared back briefly before nodding towards the house again.

“Go on.” His voice was soft.

Theo’s feet kicked on again, taking him back into the house as if they were on autopilot. 

Why the hell are you so nervous? You don’t even know who it is.

His wand was laying on the end table next to the staircase, which he grabbed and shoved in his pocket. His knees buckled as he walked up the stairs. Distantly, he could hear the sound of yelling and objects being thrown around. It didn’t take him long to figure out which closed door the sounds were coming from the other side of. He stood outside the black wooden door, listening. Trying to maybe discern who it was before he went in. 

He could just make out the wards that had been placed on the door. Laying a hand on the knob, he was relieved to find that he was able to touch the brass of the handle. Mattheo had been known to incorrectly cast the spell so no one could get through, which had more than once sent Theo or Malfoy through a wall. 

A shaky sigh pushing its way from Theo’s lungs and out of his mouth, he turned the knob and let himself inside the room. 

The color drained from Theo’s face.

Standing in the middle of the room, chest heaving and anger radiating off of like a stove top, was you. 

Suddenly, Theo was back at Hogwarts, standing in the Astronomy Tower. You were no longer in your casual shirt and jeans, but instead, in your Hufflepuff robes as you looked at him and told him you were leaving to join the Order.

“This war is above us, Theo. Dumbledore is dead. Harry Potter is dead. I can’t stand idly by and watch people die. I need to do something.” 

“Yeah? And what about me?”

“You could come with me.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“And you know I can’t stay.”

The memory hit Theo like a train. His breath hitched in his throat.

You turned to face him, freezing in the headlights of his gaze. The way your fury faltered at the sight of him made it clear that you were having the same out of body experience that he was. 

You certainly had been busy. All of the furniture in the room was broken. The night stand had been thrown against the pewter colored wall, leaving a dent in the dry wall and the wooden pieces scattered across the floor. A picture frame that Theo hung and forgot about was in ruins, the brunette girl in the picture cowering in the corner of the shredded pieces of photo paper. Feathers from the pillows littered the carpet. The mattress had been thrown off the bed frame, which was also now broken. 

Though he couldn’t focus on the damage that had been done to his guest room. He was too busy staring at you with the same confounded look he’d had when he first entered the room. 

Your hair was longer than he remembered it, pulled back so it was out of your face. Your features had grown with you, your cheekbones more prominent, your eyes with more bags, your cheeks with less color. There wasn’t a corner of Theo’s world that wasn’t burdened by war, and, unfortunately, that included you. His heart raced in his chest as he looked at you. He had locked the memory of you deep into the catacombs of his brain, not allowing himself to bring them out for any occasion. There wasn’t the time or need for it. This is war. When is there a moment for reminiscing on the worst day of his life?

But now there you were, standing in front of him, with a dumbfoundedly angry look on your face, casual clothes and longer hair. The flood gates were now opened, and he was overwhelmed with memories of you, running through his mind so quickly that he felt like he was spinning. 

Your eyes still twinkled in the light that streamed in through the curtains.

“You tell Mattheo Riddle that he can give me back my wand and we’ll see then if he’s able to force me into this room again.”

Theo flinched.

The sound of your voice alone made him feel the need to have a complete mental breakdown. You could’ve been cursing him out or singing in German and he would still feel the overwhelming urge to curl into a ball on the floor. Even with your anger, it still felt like a sweet symphony to Theo’s ears. 

He never thought he’d hear the sound again. 

Hell, he never thought he’d see you again.

Realizing you had spoken and he was just staring at you like an imbecile, he cleared his throat.

“You healed me.”

Your expression shifted, an emotion crossing your face that Theo couldn’t read. Standing a little straighter, you nodded.

“I’m a healer,” You said slowly, distantly. “It’s what I do.”

He snorted. That bleeding Hufflepuff heart.

“You could’ve let me die,” He pointed out, cocking his head to the side. 

You seemed to consider this briefly before saying, “In theory, yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Silence hung in the air between the two of you, coupled with the unmitigated tension. Theo’s hands were curled at his sides, not from anger, but to stop himself from giving into the inordinate compulsion to reach out and touch you. To prove to himself that he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. That you were actually in front of him. You shifted your weight to your other foot.

“I don’t think I really could’ve, even if I wanted to.”

The words unsaid in this moment would keep Theo up at night for weeks.

Your eyes trailed down his body, studying him, taking in his bare chest underneath the hoodie. He swallowed hard, his body seeming to freeze under your gaze. Maybe he should’ve changed before coming into the room. At least maybe thrown on a proper shirt. He’d never had a hostage in his home before. There was no protocol book on the proper etiquette. 

Especially not when the hostage was his ex-girlfriend who’s now working on the opposite side of the war. 

You let out a strangled sigh.

“You have to let me go back, Theo. They need me. No one is trained on some of the things I am.” 

The shake of his head was immediate.

“You can’t even begin to comprehend what he would do if he found out Mattheo and I had you and then just let you go back,” He said in a strained yet soft voice. “I can’t. We can’t.”

Your nose twitched as you closed your eyes.

“I won’t fucking heal for him,” You declared in a low tone. “I’d rather be strung up in Godric’s Hollow to rot like all the other people he’s executed than heal for him.”

Theo tried to be rational as he considered what to do. There was a tug of war in his mind, his loyalties competing to decide the best course of action. The obvious answer was to turn you over to The Dark Lord, where you would be put on trial for the crimes he deemed you guilty of, and then punished accordingly. With the skills you hold, Theo knew that you would more than likely be put under the Imperius curse and forced to act as a healer for the Death Eaters. 

Though the answer was obvious, that didn’t make it correct. Not to him or to anyone else.

Theo knew. He knew you’d rather die than breathe the same air as the Death Eaters, let alone fix their wounds and send them back out to kill your people. His head throbbed as he tried to think of the best direction to go in. 

Because, in his head, letting you go was simply out of the question. 

~

“This is a negotiation, is it not?” Granger asks. “We have something you want, you have something we want. We exchange.”

Theo shakes his head as he smashes the end of his half smoked cigarette on the top of the table.

“She’s not for trade.”

“Well, she’s what we want.”

A bead of sweat trails down the side of his face. He ignores it.

“She’s nowhere close to being worth the same as Draco Malfoy. This isn’t a fair trade.” He means it, but not in the way that he presented it to them. Nothing they could offer would make it a fair trade in Theo’s eyes. They could offer the end of the war. They could offer his freedom from the Death Eaters. They could offer endless riches, or immortality, or anything else he could possibly dream up. None of it would equate.

“Then we’ll gladly take Luna and Seamus back as well,” Granger says through clenched teeth, expression reading that her patience is wearing thin. “To make up the difference.”

Theo opens his mouth to respond, but Mattheo cuts in before he gets the chance.

“You’ll take what we fucking give you.”

Granger shoots him a dagger filled glare. 

“We can no longer afford to play these games with you. You have our best healer. And we need her back.” She rolls her head before her eyes fall back on Theo. “We have been patient. We have accepted that we had nothing worth trading for her. Now we do. Malfoy’s importance to the Death Eaters is well known. Don’t patronize us by pretending we don’t have the upper hand here.”

A chill runs through Theo’s spine.

She’s right.

God dammit, she’s right.

Theo runs a hand through his messy hair, the most he’s moved since he sat down. His brain scrambles to come up with something, anything, that he can offer to remedy this. There has to be something of equal value. There has to be something he can give that would make them decide to let you stay. 

“Before you try to come up with some feeble offer, know that we won’t be backing down from this,” Granger says as if she’s reading Theo’s mind. “You won’t be getting Draco Malfoy back unless we get her, regardless of what else you give. She’s the only card you have that could get him back.”

Theo’s eyes snap back to Granger, the anger boiling in his chest.

“This is a negotiation, is it not?” He repeats her words back to her. She smiles at him, but the gesture does not reach her eyes.

“Maybe negotiation is the wrong word for it.” She hums thoughtfully. “It’s more like a plea deal. Take it or leave it.”

~

“You’re up late.”

Theo jumped at the sound of your voice as he quickly flicked the light on.

He didn’t expect to find you in his kitchen, sitting cross legged on the island counter with the lights off. A bowl of what he could only assume was cereal was in your hands.

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It’s four in the morning.”

You glanced up at the clock as well, before shrugging. 

“Fine, you’re up early.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Theo’s mouth. 

He could feel you studying him as you brought the spoon to your mouth. A flush of warmth filled his cheeks as he made his way to the fridge, making it a point to turn away from you. Still, he knew your eyes never left him. 

“You still don’t sleep much, huh?” You asked, mouth full of cereal.

He sighed as he pulled the carton of orange juice off the shelf.

“I’d say I don’t sleep at all these days.”

He popped the top of the carton before bringing it to his mouth and throwing his head back. You watched him carefully, seeming to pause your eating.

“You’re a feral one now, aren’t you?” You asked in a playful tone. “Drinking right from the carton? Who have you become, Theodore Nott?”

He laughed, the sound being so foreign to him these days, before saying, “I generally live alone, and I never host other people. No need to waste a glass, as far as I’m concerned.”

Him ignoring the last comment of yours was intentional. Despite the playfulness behind it, Theo doesn’t know how you would feel about the man he’s become, and he doesn’t want to dwell on that fact. 

You continue to laugh as you shake your head.

“Mad behaviour.”

Theo eyed you. 

“Says the girl sitting on the counter, in the dark, eating cereal.”

You smiled as you take another bite.

“Got me there.”

It had been almost two months since Mattheo had taken you hostage and made you Theo’s problem. In an attempt to keep peace, Theo gave you free reign of the entire manor and all of the land around it. After repairing the furniture in the guest room (multiple times, as you had to get your frustration out somehow), Theo allowed you to stay there. Before his death, Nott Sr. had created a dungeon-esque holding below the house, with cage like cells and torture weapons, but Theo had the area of the house completely closed off upon his arrival as head of estate, and he wasn’t planning to reopen it anytime soon. Besides, the thought of locking you in an actual cell made Theo physically ill. 

“How’s the escape plot going?” Theo asked as he leaned against the counter adjacent from you, juice carton still in hand.

“Considering I can’t apparate because you already had anti apparation wards in place, the wards Mattheo placed that are linked to my DNA so I can’t leave the estate at all, and that bed being the most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept on…” You listed, raising a finger with every reason. “ … I’d say it’s going quite terribly.”

Theo’s eyebrows hit his hairline as he let out a surprised huff.

“Mattheo has always been quite meticulous.”

“Well, he said he was afraid you’d let me go.”

Theo’s smile faded quite quickly. 

The first couple of weeks following your capture, you had made yourself scarce around the manor, mostly spending time in the North wing. Theo made it a point to stay out of your way. Not only for the sake of your anger, but because he needed to work out his own emotions about you being there. Even in this moment, looking at you in the kitchen, he still hadn’t quite worked out how the whole thing made him him.

After the first couple of weeks, you had slowly started making your way through the manor, exploring every crevice. Every nook and cranny. Theo knew it was to look for a weakness to exploit that could lead to your escape, but he didn’t comment that to you. Just let it sit in the back of his head.

With your emergence from your room also came your increased interactions with the dark haired lad. It was painful at first, just a curt nod here and there, but it slowly built up to exchanging jokes and sarcastic comments, and even as far as the two of you reading books in silence together in the library.

It was almost as if there was never a moment between the days you and him spent together at Hogwarts and now. Just cut the time apart out and sew the rest together like the war never happened.

Theo often found himself wondering if he was one of the weaknesses you were attempting to exploit. 

Your comment about Mattheo believing Theo would let you go did nothing to snuff out that thought.

He tried not to think about it too much.

You watched him carefully as he took another long sip of juice from the carton.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with me yet?” 

Theo rolled his eyes, setting the juice on the black countertop next to him. 

“Nope.”

He didn’t bother to ask how you knew it was even up for debate. You’d always had a knack for just knowing things. And he couldn’t imagine that his debates with Malfoy and Mattheo were as quiet as he would’ve liked them to be.

“What are you leaning towards?” You asked innocently, your eyes studying him. He bit the inside of his cheek as he considered how to answer.

“Let’s see,” He mumbled. “Malfoy thinks I should turn you in. He doesn’t see why you’re useful here, and says you’d be better suited as a healer for… them.” He decided not to say Death Eaters, but you flinched at the idea anyway. “Mattheo thinks I should keep you here.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him as you took another bite of your cereal. Theo mirrored you with the orange juice. 

“But what are you leaning towards?”

“Not turning you in, that’s for damn sure.”

Your gaze pinned him, as your eyes narrow only slightly.

“So I’m stuck here then.” It was more of a statement than a question, and something about it made an ache burst through Theo’s chest. He had no idea how to respond, so he opted to say nothing, instead bringing the juice carton back to his lips. Your eyes followed him. “Theo, you’re a rational person. You know that I don’t want to be here. Why can’t you just let me go back to the Order?”

His eyes fluttered shut.

“It’s complicated.”

You set the bowl down on the counter before looking back up at him.

“Then simplify it for me.” 

All he could say in a breathy whisper was your name.

He didn’t know how. He couldn’t even simplify it for himself. 

~

It all happens at once.

Theo quickly stands, pushing the chair out from under him so quickly that it glides across the floor and into the wall. 

Weasley rushes forward, his wand pointed at Theo.

Mattheo grabs Weasley by the scruff of his shirt, roughly shoving him into the wall with the tip of his wand jabbing into the ginger’s jugular. The impact of his back against the hard surface causes Weasley to drop his wand, which Mattheo swiftly kicks across the floor. 

Granger puts her wand only inches from Mattheo’s head, though he doesn’t appear to notice. 

Theo directs his wand to Granger.

“The difference between you and I, Weasley,” Mattheo hisses in his face. “Is that I don’t have any pathetic qualms about making a person suffer. So please. Point your wand at one of us again. We’ll see who comes out the bigger man.”

“That’s enough, Riddle!” Granger shouts, pressing her wand into Mattheo’s temple. Theo steps forward and jams his wand through her hair and into her occipital scalp.

“Drop it.”

A beat passes.

Mattheo’s face twitches.

Granger slowly lowers her hand, her jaw clenched so tight that Theo is convinced her teeth will crack.

“We all want the same outcome,” She says in a quiet voice, still glaring daggers at Mattheo.

“It’s how we get there that we can’t seem to see eye to eye on,” Theo growls. 

Letting his hand drop back to his side, Theo takes a step back towards the table he had previously been occupying. 

“Let him go, Mattheo.”

The curly haired man glares into Weasley’s face for a moment longer, letting his deep breath smack against the ginger’s face before he shoves him away. Theo’s eyes follow Mattheo as he walks back to his pacing area, and then they flick back to Granger. She looks incensed over what just occurred, as Weasley adjusts his shirt, embarrassment painting his cheeks pink.

Theo opts to stay standing this time. 

“She’s not a part of the equation,” He says in a low tone. “We can give you the maps, Finnegan and Lovegood for Malfoy. Or we can give nothing at all.” 

A draft fills the room as the wind can be heard whipping outside over the silence. 

“And again, we are well aware of Draco’s importance to the Death Eater army,” Granger says in a tone that matches Theo’s. “There is no option. It’s her or nothing.”

Theo fights the urge to curse her.

“Then it’s nothing.”

~

The door hit the wall so hard, Theo could almost feel the drywall dent. In the moment, however, he couldn’t give less of a shit.

You whipped around to face him. The anger on your face couldn’t be missed, but neither could his. For a while, the two of you just stared at each other, speaking through daggered glares and heaving chests, as if words weren’t necessary. 

It was a moment of deja vu, calling back to the first time the two of you met in what became your assigned bedroom of the house. Both times equally as tense, but for radically different reasons. And this time, all of the pieces of furniture were entirely intact. 

Finally, Theo broke the silence.

“What business do you have, entering the field?”

Your nostrils flared.

“What business do you have, almost getting yourself killed?”

A breeze came in through the window, chilling the room further. As if it needed the help. 

“I was handling myself fine,” He said in a low voice. “Injuries are bound to happen-“

“A pelvic fracture and an open head wound are both severe injuries,” You countered in a raised voice. “You may have felt fine in the moment but you wouldn’t have after you lost two liters of blood just from the fractured pelvis alone. You needed care.” 

Theo felt like throwing things as the anger flared heavily in his chest.

“I could’ve apparated back to the manor after-“

“You would’ve splinched yourself with that severe of injuries, Theo,” You snarled, looking exasperated. “Mattheo came and got me.”

Theo made a mental note to kick the absolute shit out of Mattheo the next time he saw him.

“You could’ve said no!” He shouted. “You’re not my bloody on-call healer who gets to risk her life whenever I almost die.” The image of you in the middle of the fight, dodging multiple green casts in your wake, was burned into his retinas. Despite being safe in the Manor now, his chest was still reeling from the panic that flooded his heart and lungs when he fought to get to you.

You took a rushed step forward.

“Don’t fucking do that,” You said in a strained voice. “You don’t get to drag my arse back into your life-“

“You think I wanted this for you?” He shouted, cutting you off. “I didn’t drag you anywhere. I didn’t bring you here. I didn’t ask for this.”

You took another step towards him, more controlled this time. Theo almost took a step backwards to keep the distance.

Almost.

“But you kept me here. Why am I still fucking here, Theo?”

The words left his mouth before his brain had a chance to even consider them.

“Because you fucking left me before I was fucking done with you!”

Theo’s chest heaved, as he stared down at you. The room became painfully silent, the only sound being Theo’s breathing. You were holding your breath. 

“What does that mean?”

Theo didn’t hesitate for a moment.

“You left me to join the Order. You left me behind and I went bloody maniacal. I didn’t know a person could be touch starved for a specific set of hands, but your fingers burned their prints into my skin and I can’t get them to goddamn heal. And then Mattheo dropped you on my fucking door step and it was like I was an imprisoned man who just felt the warmth of the sun for the first time in years.”

You were frozen, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“Theo…” A breathy whisper.

Theo shook his head, feeling a mix of anger and desperation in his head and heart. When he spoke, his voice was more calm this time, taking a low tone. 

“If love were a language then the only one I know how to speak is the one we wrote together. I couldn’t lose you again. I can’t lose you again.”

It was unclear who moved first. Maybe Theo. Maybe you. Maybe both. But somehow, the distance between the two of you closed, and Theo’s mouth was crashing against yours.

His left hand was on the small of your back, the other on the back of your head. His fingers weaved through your hair with a firm grip, as if to keep you from pulling away. Your hands were on his cheeks, lightly cradling his head between your palms as your fingertips teased the beginnings of his hairline. 

“I love you,” He said in a silent voice, his lips still pressed against yours in the desperate kiss. “I never stopped.”

“I love you too.” Your words came without a sliver of hesitation.

His tongue parted your lips, as your fingers moved to the back of his head. A groan forced its way up his throat. Your nails against his scalp drove him insane. It always had. Theo knew you knew that well. 

And with that, he pushed you onto the bed. 

~ 

“So…”

Theo closes his eyes at the sound of Mattheo’s voice. His steps are slow as they walk up the pathway of Nott Manor. In an effort to prolong the inevitable, Theo pulls a cigarette from his pocket, setting it between his lips before lighting it with his wand. 

“We don’t have a choice, do we?”

Theo looks up at the sky as he blows a plume of smoke upwards to join the clouds. He can’t look at Mattheo.

“No,” He finally says. “We don’t.”

Mattheo pulls a smoke of his own out, lighting it before taking a deep inhale. The only sounds in the air are the wind and his exhale.

“What if we just stopped aiding them?” He suggested after a beat too long of silence. “They’re losing. They need the information we’re feeding them. A few weeks without it would have them feeding out of our palms.”

Theo considers this as he plops down on the top step leading onto the porch. The cold from the wood seeps through his trousers.

Not that his body held any warmth to begin with. Not since he walked out of that bar.

“We don’t have a few weeks.”

Another cloud fills the air.

“The Dark Lord wants Malfoy back now.”

Theo’s heart already feels hollow as he thinks about what he is getting ready to do. 

Mattheo paces the cobblestone pathway, running his fingers through his curls as he takes another long drag of his cigarette.

“There has to be a way.”

Theo studies his friend. There’s very few people Mattheo holds loyalty to. The Order wasn’t on the list, despite the way they were risking everything to help them. The other Death Eaters didn’t have it. Hell, even his own father only held enough of Mattheo’s loyalty to keep him alive. Not enough for it to matter.

But Mattheo, from the moment they met until this moment in front of Nott Manor, was always fiercely loyal to Theo. And the way he desperately tries to come up with a solution to fix this for Theo pulls at his heart.

Because his loyalty to Theo also extends to you. When Theo told Mattheo that he was planning to betray Voldemort’s army in an effort to end the war and keep you with him, Mattheo wasted no time in joining him. No questions asked.

Mattheo was willing to risk his head to keep you safe if that was what Theo needed. And in this moment, Theo knew he didn’t thank his friend enough. 

His hands shake slightly as he brings the cigarette back to his mouth.

“I don’t think there is.”

He doesn’t want to sound as defeated as he does. But as his mind runs a million kilometers a second, it still comes up short on a way of getting out of this. 

Mattheo shakes his head angrily.

“This is bullshit.”

And Theo says nothing, his gaze fixed on the ground as he finishes his cigarette, and plans what he’s going to say once he goes inside. 

~

Oh Merlin, do I really have to leave?

Theo sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at your sleeping form. Your back was facing him, the blanket low enough to show the bare skin of your upper torso. 

He swallowed hard.

Five minutes. Just another five minutes.

But he knew he wouldn’t stop at five.

He was in his Death Eater robes, dressed to leave. This meeting wasn’t one he could afford to miss, and yet, watching you sleep in his bed was enough to make him at least consider it. 

Reaching over, he traced the lines of your right scapula, moving down to the left, feeling your smooth skin and shoulder blades beneath his fingertips. Your body rose and fell with every breath you took, but you did not stir at his touch. He brushed your hair down to the side so it all fell concurrently onto the sheets. 

Every time he tried to stand, his legs would defy him. 

Bloody hell, this is impossible, he thought to himself.

The temptation to kiss you was strong, but he resisted. He didn’t want to wake you, because then you would know he was leaving, and then you’d ask questions. One’s he didn’t yet want to offer up the answers to.

You didn’t know what he was about to do.

The door creaked open, making Theo jump. Mattheo stood at the threshold, also in his robes. His eyes flitted between his friend and you, before they settled on Theo again. All he did was nod, a gesture that Theo returned, before turning and leaving once again.

A sigh forcing its way out of his lungs, Theo stood up from the bed. Before walking out the door, he threw one last fleeting glance your way.

This better fucking work.

Once the door to his bedroom was shut, Theo walked through the manor in a flash, before finding Mattheo standing in the front garden. His friend gave him a look, and it was not lost on Theo the anxiety in his expression.

“Are you sure about this?”

Mattheo’s words hung in the air, swirling around above them with the wind. Theo slowly let his head fall backwards as he stared at the sky. For once in his life, his thoughts weren’t racing. He was confident in this decision. He had never been more confident about anything. 

“I’m sure.”

No more words were said. 

Grabbing Mattheo’s forearm, the two men apparated. When they reappeared, it was in an empty warehouse in Sussex. Windows lined the walls just a meter or so below the ceiling. The walls themselves were painted an off white colour that left them looking dirty, with hand prints and muck dusting the paint. It felt too big, in Theo’s opinion. If this were to become a regular thing, they’d need something smaller. With seats, preferably.

The two got to work, placing wards and disillusionment charms everywhere they could. Before they knew it, a whole hour had passed, and they were just finishing up. 

“You know I hate this right?” Mattheo asked as they regrouped in the center of the giant room. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Not what we’re doing necessarily but this meeting?”

Theo had to fight the urge to laugh.

“You think I like this any more than you do?”

Mattheo shook his head as he looked around the warehouse, taking in the metal beams that lined the ceiling. 

Theo took the moment of quiet to get his thoughts in order. Ever since he sent that damn letter, he had dreaded this moment. And now it was here, and though he had spent countless hours stewing and preparing, right now, he felt completely naked and defenseless. 

A sensation filled the air. Theo looked over at the same time that Mattheo did. The door creaked open, the sound echoing off the walls and around the air, before Hermione Granger, followed by Ron Weasley, the Weasley twins, Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, another Weasley they couldn’t place, and the blonde Triwizard Tournament champion from fourth year who Theo, for the life of him, could not remember the name of.

“All Gryffindors, mostly Weasels,” Mattheo mumbled under his breath. “Too much bloody red around here.” 

Theo fought the impulse to laugh.

The crowd of Order members approached them, all looking apprehensive. Granger stepped forward, her eyes jumping between the two of them.

“Nott.” When her eyes bounced back to Mattheo, the disdain became more apparent. When she spoke again, she spat the word out. “Riddle.”

Mattheo gritted his teeth as Theo took a step forward, saving them the risk of what would happen if Mattheo were the next to speak.

“Granger.”

He debated on greeting the others, but decided against it. There simply wasn’t time for pleasantries. Besides, Theo didn’t particularly want to be polite to them. And he knew that Mattheo wanted nothing more than to raze the whole warehouse just because he saw that familiar flash of ginger hair one time, let alone several. So it was probably best to get right to the point.

“What’s this about?” The unfamiliar Weasley called out. 

It was hard for Theo not to grow annoyed. The amount of people in the building had him feeling overwhelmed, though he couldn’t exactly blame him. How else should they have responded? It could’ve been a trap, for all they knew. 

The moment Theo reached into his back pocket, a swarm of wands were pointing in his direction. In his periphery, he could see Mattheo’s fists clench. though he was grateful that his friend didn’t immediately start spitting off hexes and Unforgivables. Theo froze more out of politeness than fear, then slowed his movements down. With the same speed as a snail, he pulled out a couple of scrolls, tossing it on the floor halfway between where he stood and where she stood. The wands all moved to point at the scroll in the same way they would point at a bomb. 

“Those are plans for upcoming raids on your safe houses,” Theo explained. “Now you can be better prepared.”

The reaction was comical. At least, to Theo, it was.

Granger stared at the scrolls, her mouth agape. Ron and Ginny kept their wands pointed at it in a way that suggested they were convinced it was anything but a scroll. The twins backed away from it entirely. Dean Thomas stared not at the scroll, but at Mattheo specifically, confusion painting his expression. The unfamiliar Weasley with the scars on his face jumped away when Theo threw the scroll, and had not moved since. And the blonde looked like she wanted to approach it, but was too afraid to let her feet move. 

Granger was the first to speak.

“Why should we trust you?”

A draft filled the room.

“Trust us or don’t,” Mattheo quipped. “You’re losing. You’ve been losing. Pathetically. We’re guaranteeing you a win right now. Whether you decide to take that chance is up to you.”

The silence was deafening as the members of the Order all exchanged looks, looking absolutely flabbergasted by this turn of events. It was clear they were trying to have a conversation through their facial expressions. Every muscle in Theo’s body tensed as he waited for their reaction. 

This has to work, He thought to himself. 

This will work.

“What do you get out of this?”

Granger’s words hung in the hair, and though the question was for the both of them, her eyes were pointedly trained on Mattheo. When the two Death Eaters remained silent, she continued. 

“You’re betraying your families. Your fathers. What could you possibly have to gain, besides maybe a pardon from execution if we win?” She sneers. “And even that isn’t guaranteed.”

Visions of you lying in his bed, only covered by the duvet cover, overtook Theo’s head. He found himself wondering if you’d woken up yet. If you’d eaten. If you’d slept well. If you’d realised he’d left. The lump in his throat felt like a bolder when he swallowed it down. His fingertips burned with the feeling of your bare skin underneath them. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Theo sees Mattheo glance over at him. 

This is, after all, Theo’s doing. So it’s his question to answer. 

“Family isn’t everything,” Theo said in a low tone. “And some people are worth yielding for.”

~

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Fall.

It takes Theo a full half hour before he finally finds you in the manor. Here you are, curled up on the couch in the library with one of his robes covering you like a blanket. Your back faces him as your face is nuzzled against the fabric of the back of the couch. 

Deja vu hits him hard.

Instead of waking you, Theo sits on the ottoman beside you and counts the amount of breaths you take. At the moment, he’s up to about sixty since he started. It’s easier on his heart to sit in the silence, only filled with your quiet snores.

It’s easier for his heart to handle than what it knows he has to do. 

But he knows that he’s only prolonging the inevitable.

Letting out a deep sigh, Theo reaches over and places his hand on your shoulder, gently shaking you awake. 

“Hey,” He says in a low voice in an attempt to not startle you. “It’s me. Wake up.”

Your head springs upward, looking around at the back of the couch before you roll over to face Theo. The way your eyes light up at the sight of him makes his heart ache in a way he’ll never be able to describe. It’s like he misses you before you’ve even left. 

A soft yawn takes over your face for just a brief moment, and is quickly replaced with a tired smile.

“How’d it go?”

Theo bites down on the inside of his cheek so hard that he can taste blood.

I can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

You have to do this.

“Not great.”

The smile fades from your face. As quickly as your still waking up body allows, you sit up, rolling over to face him entirely. Theo sits up straight as you pause, watching as the wheels turn in your head to process what he had said.

“What happened?” Your voice is so small, and something about it gives Theo the impression that you already know where this conversation is about to go. He sighs heavily. The pain in his upper back makes it feel like he has the entire world on his shoulders.

“They wouldn’t return Malfoy to us,” He explains. In an effort to hide the shake in his voice, he speaks slowly. “They… they had specific conditions for his release.” 

The hush blanketing the room is only pacified by the pounding in Theo’s ears. 

If there is one thing about you that Theo knows deeply, it’s that you can’t keep your emotions off your face. So it’s to his great dismay that he watches your expression shift from confusion, to thoughtful, to realisation.

“They want me, don’t they?”

The words feel like a bullet each, piercing through Theo’s chest and implanting straight into his heart. 

I can’t bloody do this.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, the quiet that overtakes the room is less welcome as that one single word hangs over the two of you like a storm cloud threatening a downpour. The way Theo’s mind runs a million kilometers a second makes it so deafening. He can see the conflict on your face as you consider what needs to be done. The downward cast of your sleep stained eyes and the way you curl your lip in thought makes him want to burn the entire Order to the ground so he doesn’t have to even consider losing you.

He sucks in through his nose as the hand on his knee clenches tightly into a fist.

When your eyes drift back up to meet his, matching resolve in your expression, Theo has to swallow down the urge to cry. 

“When?”

His nails dig into his palm.

“Mattheo’s going to take you once you’re ready.”

A frown crosses over your face. 

“You're not going?” 

Theo can’t recall another time in his life where he’s felt as broken as he does now, looking into your sad stricken and confused eyes.

He’s losing you again.

He’s losing you again. 

“I can’t.” He swallows the lump in his throat that makes his words come out choked. “I… I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

He lets the rest of his thoughts remain left unsaid. That he would kill them before they could even leave the area with you. That he’d kill every last one of them for taking the only good thing he’d had during this god forsaken war. The entire reason he had broken his loyalties to the Dark Lord in an attempt to put it to an end. 

And now, he has to watch you leave him.

Again.

Anguish and surprise conflict your face, making him take your hand in his and hold it tightly.

“I’ll figure it out, okay?” The desperation in his voice is so palpable that you can feel it bleeding onto the skin of your fingertips. Theo’s eyes never leave yours. “I’ll finish this. For you. For us.”

You fill the spaces between his fingers with your own.

You haven’t even left yet, but Theo begins to dread the ghost of your touch that will be left behind once you are. It’s a feeling he knows too intimately.

“What if we lose?” You ask him in a soft whisper. “Or what if one of us doesn’t make it?”

The air leaves Theo’s lungs, evaporating from the heat of your words.

He wants to dig a bunker and hide you in it, keeping you far away from the sins of the war and the pain of ever leaving his side. He wants to blow up the world and watch from space with you on his arm. He wants to do anything, literally anything that would take away the hurt in your eyes. 

Images of the many ways he wishes to kill the Dark Lord and end this devastation flash through his mind.

“I need you to hear me when I say this,” Theo says in a slow tone. “I will do whatever it takes to ensure my return to you. Even if that means I have to blow through the gates of hell myself and crawl out of my grave. Make no bloody mistake. I will come back for you.”

[bitchjerk78]

USE YOUR WORDS

SUMMARY: y/n helps Dean after he got injured during a fight with a demon

WORDS COUNT: 2600

PAIRING: reader x Dean Winchester

WARNINGS: smut, unprotected sex, dirty talking

You sigh while you walk towards Dean, his face dark and angry. He has his big hand on his shoulder pressing the wound he got while he was fighting that demon, the same one you could kill thanks to Sam help

<<Dean>> you whisper his name softly as you are almost scared to talk to him. His green eyes move fast in your direction and you stop breathing

<<What the hell do you want, y/n?>> his voice is harsh, deep. Full of pain and rage. You close your eyes for a second, remembering that the two of you don't really get along

<<Let me check that wound>> you reply with a firm voice. Yes, maybe you can't stand each other, but now it's different. You're not fighting for some stupid shit, he's hurt and you have to help him, even if you want to slap him most of the time

<<It's fine>> you roll your eyes bothered by his stubbornness

<<I said>> you took a step closer <<let me check the wound>> he stands properly and he looks up and down your body

<<Sam will do it when he's back>> you bite your lip even more close to losing your cool

<<Sam is covering our tracks, we don't know for how long he's going to be away and that wound needs to be suited, so you either go to a hospital or you let me check it>> your voice is confident and you look at him while you notice you can't breathe properly, the air in your lungs disappeared and you just can't inhale more. It's like everything stops while he lowers his eyes, and he nods slowly

<<Fine>> that's the only word that comes out of his mouth, but it's enough for you to get even closer and check it. When you see the blood, the skin torn apart, and the suffering expression on his face, you just can't hate him like you always used to do. You see it for what he is, just a boy. An asshole, sometimes that's for sure, but just a boy who needs help

<<Okay, why don't you sit down so I can stitch you up>> oddly, he does what you said and you can't help but notice his eyes looking at you in a way they have never done before. It's like they are looking at you for real, like they just noticed you <<Come here>> you whisper as you pour some alcohol on a tissue to disinfect the shoulder <<That bastard really got you>> you hear him chuckle and that makes you feel strange, Dean is chuckling, with you... <<Am I making you laugh?>> you ask while you put a needle in his skin to close the wound

<<No>> he growls due to the pain but he doesn't say anything about it, of course he's too proud to admit he's in pain <<I just think it's funny hearing you say bad words>> he says biting his bottom lip when you put some pressure on the wound

<<Shut up, Dean>> you roll your eyes and shake your head in disapproval

<<Shut up, Dean>> he says back, mocking you.You open your mouth slightly when you turn towards him <<Close your mouth, little girl. You never know what might slip into it>> as soon as you realise the joke, you pull away

<<Gross>> you shake your head again but you keep cleaning the wound

<<Oh come on>> he smirks <<Don't tell me you get embarrassed for something like that>> his deep voice makes you shiver in pleasure

<<No, of course not>> but you know you're lying, you know that you get embarrassed and you know why. Because even if you don't like him very much, you couldn't help but think about what would be like to feel him close. His hands on your trembling body. His lips between your shaking legs. His voice in your ear, whispering some secret desire

<<You are blushing, y/n>> he tilts his head <<Stop pretending>> you frown at his words, and you get up from the chair, hoping you can get away with this <<You think I don't know? You think I'm so naive I didn't notice the way you look at me?>> you stay still, too surprised to even move a single muscle

<<I have no idea what you're talking about>> you mumble but you can feel your heart beating way too fast and your panties getting way too wet just after some of his words

<<Liar>> he whispers in your ear, and you can feel his nose brushing against your jaw <<Bet you're hoping I'll touch you>> you find the strength to pull back and you look at him in disbelief

<<The hell is wrong with you?>> you raise your voice a little. his eyes looks at you and he opens his mouth

<<I...I'm sorry>> he says lowering his eyes <<I don't know, I just thought...>> you take a deep breath

<<Don't you ever do something like that again, don't you dare to treat me like one of your girls, Dean!>> you point a finger at him <<Because I'll fucking kick your ass>> you were hoping to see him a little scared, but his lips curls in a smile

<<I've always liked your determination>> your heart stops for a second <<The way you're independent, you don't need someone to defend you. You can do that yourself>> he takes a step closer and you raise your eyes to meet his <<Always ready to fight>> his hand gets closer to your face and he puts some of your hair behind your ear <<You have no idea how much you turn me on when you look at me all mad>> your mouth gets dry and your hands start sweating

<<What are you saying?>> you manage to ask because your voice is so low, too full of desire

<<I'm saying that I crave you>> everything stops <<I crave your touch, your body, your voice>> another small step towards you and your lips are just inches apart <<I want you, everything of you, every single part. Even the ones you hate>> two of his fingers trapped your chin so you're obliged to look at him <<Since the first day you walked through that door, I wanted you, I needed you>> you are speechless, all this is too surreale. It's like your dreams are coming true and you don't know how much you can resist the urge to grab him and finally kiss him

<<Dean, please>> you whisper out of breath

<<Please, what? Use your words, princess>> you bite your lip, and you feel his thumb touching your mouth <<Come on, I know you can do that. You like to talk so much, do it now too>> he smirks and he reaches your ear <<You're not nervous, right?>> he teases you <<Am I making you nervous, y/n?>>

<<N-no>> your voice is so full of pleasure that you almost moan as you talk

<<You really like to lie, little girl>> he says and his hands end up on your waist <<Why don't you stop pretending and you show me how much you want it?>> and without even notice it, your face gets so close to his

<<If we do this, there's no going back>> you whisper inches from his mouth

<<Oh baby, going back it's the last thing I want>> you gasp when you feel his lips on yours and, even if the feeling of it it's amazing, the only thing you're thinking is finally. He kisses you so passionately that you're almost out of breath, his tongue licks your lips slowly as you feel your knees getting weaker and you panties getting wet, you almost sure you are dripping on your thighs

<<What if Sam- >> Dean stops you, grabbing from your legs and putting you on the table

<<Honestly, y/n>> his lips end up on your neck making you shiver and moan softly as his hands keep grabbing your waist in a possessive way, his fingers pressing into your skin <<I don't give a fuck about Sam right now. I'm dying to feel your tight pussy around my cock, if Sam comes back I will gladly show him the way I can make you squirm and scream my name>> he wraps his big hand around your throat squeezing it softly <<So why you don't shut up and show me how much you want it>> the only thing you can do is nodding and you find yourself biting your lip as his mouth kiss your chest from above the t-shirt <<Bet you're so wet right now, am I right little girl?>> you shake your head but his smirk tells you he knows you're lying. So you stop breathing when his hand touches the throbbing part between your legs

<<Oh God>> you moan softly rolling your eyes back trying to keep your voice low

<<Lift your hips, baby>> now your pants are now on the floor, and you know he can see your panties all wet <<Look at the mess you made>> he shakes his head. You start shaking when his fingers rub your inner thigh <<Your dripping, y/n>> his breathing is low, full of passion and desire. The lust in his eyes is so noticeable that you almost lose control <<So you want me to lick it?>> you nod and look at him as he reach your mouth <<It's not so simple, princess>> he brushes his lips against yours <<You have to beg for what you want>> with a finger he starts touch you from above your wet panties <<So beg for it, y/n>> his movements are slow and light. So soft you almost can't feel it, but you know it's there touching you, making you go crazy <<Use your pretty mouth and beg me, come on. I know you can do it>> and while he keeps looking at you with a teasing smile, he kisses your inner thigh in the same soft way he was touching you. You feel your entire body on fire, and the desire of feeling it is so unbearable that you start moaning and shaking

<<Please>> you whisper out of breath, hoping he'll finally do it, but his soft laugh catches you off guard

<<Louder, baby>> he says biting the warm skin close to your soaked panties <<Be a good girl and say what you want me to do>>

<<Kiss me>> you say with your face on fire but he shakes his head

<<Be more specific, kiss you where?>> you close your eyes for a second, but you manage to whisper a couple more words

<<Kiss me there>> you can see his proud smile all across his face while his hands push your hips down

<<Good girl>> and with that, you finally feel his lips between your shaking legs

<<God!>> you lay on the table as your hand ends up in his soft hair <<Fuck>> you arch your back pushing your hips closer to his mouth. You can hear him moaning as his tongue licks the right spot over and over

<<God, y/n>> you almost scream when he bite your skin and suck it soon after <<You're so fucking delicious>> his hand reaches your throat while the other keep pushing your hip down the table

<<Dean!>> your head falls back on the table when two of his fingers start pushing inside you

<<Yes, good girl. Come for me>> you can feel it in your chest you're close, the fire is spreading all over your body and the shaking is unstoppable <<Come on my tongue, princess>> you arch your back one more time before the orgasm leaves your mouth while you moan his name over and over <<Such a good girl>> he smirks as he kisses your lips making you taste yourself <<I should have knew that behind that cute and innocent act of yours it was hiding this beautiful submissive girl>> he grab your legs and he push you close to his body

<<Shut up>> you say rolling your eyes trying to not be effected by his low voice and teasing words

<<Shut up? I'm pretty sure you like when I talk to you>> you hear his jeans opening and you look at his big and throbbing cock in his hand <<Oh, I know you'd like that>> he smirks while his hand moves slowly all around it, you can see some precum dripping from it and you open your mouth slowly <<All the time you were looking at it, you thought I wouldn't notice it?>> he put the tip on your pussy <<I could see the lust in your eyes, and you have no fucking idea how much I wanted to grab you and bend you over. Fucking you till the only thing you were able to do was screaming my name and begging me to let you come>> you feel the tip inside you and you squeeze your eyes

<<Dean...>> you shake your head. It's too big, you know you can't take it

<<Don't worry, princess>> he puts some of your hair behind your ear <<You can take it, I know you can. This cock was made for you>> you almost scream when you feel it all inside you, pushing you to the edge

<<Please>> you whisper as he starts to move way too slowly, making you feel like you're going to break

<<Please, what?>> you arch your back and roll your eyes as his hands grab you to make you stay still under his body

<<F-faster>> you beg out of breath, and his smile makes you understand you just said something right

<<My good girl>> he praise you as he moves faster, deeper. In an eager way, like this is what he always wanted, what he always needed. Your moans are louder than before, and his name leaves your mouth in a begging way <<You belong to me, y/n>> he wraps his hand around your neck <<From now on, your mine. Do you understand me?>> his pushes are more possessive, more dominant. So rough you feel like losing your senses. Tears of pleasure start running down your face and the only thing you can think about is how much you like this <<I've killed for way less>> his face close to yours so that you can hear his words inside your soul <<Because I'll kill anyone who tries to touch you>> another deep push makes you shaking and you wrap your legs around his waist so you can feel him all inside you <<Anyone who looks at you in the wrong way he'll find himself with a bullet in his head before he even realizes it>> your nails are grabbing his back so tightly as everything around you stop existing and you feel like you two are the only people left in this world <<If someone tries to take you away from me I'll make sure he's going to suffer>> his voice is so low, so full of things never said before <<I'd burn the world down for you, y/n. I don't care about the consequences>> another push takes you almost at the edge <<And now, come for me, little girl. Show me you feel the same>> hearing him saying all this makes you lose control of your body, and you let yourself scream his name as he whispers yours close to your ear.

You both look at each other, your faces covered in sweat and your breathing deep and shaky. You touch his cheek as you try to calm yourself down

<<I do feel the same>> you whisper and your heart stops in your chest when he puts his forehead against yours

<<I know, princess>> he whispers kissing your forehead <<I know>>.

[peachesofteal]

oh the image of Simon holding Darling while Johnny holds Bee in the latest baby trap installment 🥹 I just want so much more of them just being there trying to support Darling while repenting for their mistakes, even when she fights them the whole way

🍄

Beautiful mushroom anon is referencing this.

The guys are so... annoying. Concerned. Loving. Doting. I hate them. I love them. I could write an entire fic of this angst/pining/let us help you mess. I want them showing up at every beck and call, every whim. Groveling. Crying. I want it all. (I will also probably write it all for disco baby because that's the one that's going to be a full fic.)

18+ MDNI / baby trap au / dark and mature themes

"I'm here, I've got ya." You murmur, patting Bee's back while you hold her over your shoulder, trying to bounce her just a bit, enough to get her to burp. The movements work fairly quickly, and then you're leaning back again, foot rest coming rising under your feet and tucking your giant fleece blanket up around your waist with one hand.

"Need help?" Johnny asks, and you shake your head.

"No." Be nicer, they're being super helpful. You can't help but eye him with suspicion while he smiles shyly at you, perched on the opposite end of the other couch in your living room, fingers tapping together with nervous energy.

"Do you want to try to eat some lunch?" Simon sits a tray down on the cushion beside you, a plate with a sandwich and your favorite fruits already sliced up, along with a peanut butter smoothie. He's deposited your water bottle, refilled, on the side table next to you, within arm's reach if you need it.

Bee coos with a sleepy smile, pressing her face to your chest and you blow out a breath. She's going to fall asleep on you, again.

You could give her to one of the guys...

No. Just because they come over here, and take care of you, and wait on you hand and foot, doesn't mean you forgive them.

You do not forgive them.

The peanut butter smoothie calls to you, it's perfect consistency, perfect taste something you haven't had in so long, since before you left them. You want a sip, or to just down the whole thing, you want-

A cough scrapes across the bottom of your lungs.

You turn your face away from Bee instinctively, but you're not strong enough right now to really hold her from your body, and your shoulders tense as you try to draw a breath. Fucking pneumonia. Fuck.

"Take-" you croak, and Simon reads it, scooping the baby from your arms before you start to shake with the effort of your wheezing. It makes you lightheaded, and dizzy, and your eyes blink slowly after the fit is over, trying to get your equilibrium right.

Suddenly, you're exhausted. All over again. It's frustrating, increasingly so, and your patience has run thin. It's overwhelming, and frightening, how you could have gotten this ill, and now- now you're crying.

"Oh, darling." Johnny whispers, and you shake your head.

"'m fine." you sob out a protest. Jesus Christ. You are pathetic. This is so embarrassing.

"I know ye are, I know." Neither of them move, waiting, holding their breath. They don't want to push you, don't want to encroach on your very established boundaries, so they'll wait, which is even more frustrating at times, because it feels like they're trying to draw you out, push you to your limit even if that's not what's happening. "Please, can... can I help? Do ye want to go lay down?" Johnny's inched closer now, close enough you can see the sparkling blue of his eyes, his sweet and concerned face that watches every movement you make.

The dark of your room sounds so nice, so much easier, and you nod miserably.

"Alright, come on. I've got ye." He coos, and then wraps an arm around you, plucking you from the couch like Simon plucked the baby from your arms. "Bee's right behind us." He assures, because he knows you'll flip out, and sure enough, you hear her sleepy babbles over his shoulder. "We're all just gon' have a bit of a rest, yeah?" Simon situates her in the bassinet in your room, while Johnny places you slowly onto your bed. He hovers, watching while you peel back the covers and snuggle yourself down into them, turning on your side until you can't see either of them.

The baby monitor is deposited on the pillow next to you, while Simon murmurs something about being just outside if you need them.

Whatever. You roll your eyes but something, something very small, very far away in your heart, echoes with a ping of gratitude, and you and Bee drift off for an afternoon nap.

[brittscafe]

Can you do Unohana, Aizen, and Ichigo fall in love with a female reader who has Mitsuri Kanroji's personality?

Awww, this is such a cute idea! <3

Unohana:

Loves your willingness to fight for what you believe in.

I think she falls in love with you pretty easily bc she's just so in awe with you.

She loves how kind you are and how you're always willing to help with squad 4.

She notices you sometimes watching her working or healing one of the members of her squad.

Unohana knows that she can count on you for literally everything.

If she's having a bad day, she comes to you because you can comfort her like no one else can.

She knows what kind of struggles you've gone through in life and she honestly looks up to you because you've gotten through them without complaining.

Unohana never goes anywhere without you by her side, you make her feel safe and at peace.

She thinks you are adorable and has no trouble at all expressing her love with you.

You reciprocate it obviously and Unohana has never been happier, always wearing a delicate smile on her face.

Aizen:

I definitely think that it takes him a really long time to fall in love with you.

At first, he finds you really annoying and cannot stand to be around you.

He hates how perky you are and how much energy you have.

Aizen says that you care too much or that you're too happy for someone working underneath him.

You usually just shrug your shoulders at his remarks, not really caring for them.

He slowly starts to tolerate you when you come to his aide in battle or always defend him.

He hates how much you compliment him because it makes his stomach twists into knots.

Like he knows his attractive, but hearing you say it makes him really confident.

Aizen tries to defy all of his feelings for you and scoffs at himself for being so damn ridiculous over you.

Lingering touches between the two of you and staring at each other for wayyy longer than you should be.

Hates himself for falling in love with you, but he takes a while to admit it.

Ichigo:

I think that since Mitsuri and Orihime has very similar personalities, falling in love with you is pretty damn easy.

Ichigo loves how caring and kind you are to everyone.

You could be super kind to your enemy who's trying to kill you, but you'll still compliment them.

He finds it adorable how excited you get, so excited that you'll run up to him and throw your arms around him, colliding his chest and knocking the air out of his lungs.

Ichigo doesn't flinch though, he just chuckles and holds you close.

I think that he's super protective over you, but he knows that you can hold your own in battle.

He's afraid to express his feelings bc he doesn't really know if you like him that since you act the same with him as you do with everyone else.

I mean you're nice to everyone, but you've really only gotten close with Ichigo.

Eventually comes clean about how he feels and you're overcome with joy, you end up jumping in his arms.

[superblysubpar]

masterlist | the music

19.7k words | Sorry freaks, no smut this chapter - but the series is 18+ and so is my blog so skedaddle on out of here if you're not!

A/N: I have a really long one here - so I'll just say thank you once again and that I love you. Also, another special thank you to @sweetsweetjellybean and @loveshotzz💛💛

chapter warnings: very brief mention of religion (but not reader participating or believing in one in particular) | small mention/description of reader's maternal death and cancer symptoms | teeny tiny spoiler for the ending to the movie 'when harry met sally' | use of dialogue from the movie 'My Best Friends Wedding'

Why do we want to believe in things like fate or destiny - divine intervention? Why do some put their faith in religions with blind following? Why do we look to the stars in moments of despair, when we’re desperate for hope, when we’re lost? 

We seek out answers from something we can’t see but we want to believe in. Whether it’s a fortune cookie in your take out, a penny head’s up on the sidewalk, a community of like minded souls coming together for prayer or worship, or a horoscope you read on your morning Instagram scroll - the reasons have to be the same for choosing to believe, for the hope that starts to rise in you for the promise these things try to offer. 

We look for solutions to problems. We need reason. We need purpose. We need to feel like we’re not alone. We need confirmation that it’s all gonna work out even though nothing can really guarantee that. 

When you look up at the stars that work hard to shine through clouds and a full moon, your chest rises with air trying to fill your lungs and you wonder if they’re up there. Your eyes blink up at that indigo sky, searching. Steve sits next to you and Leigh waves, whispering their hellos. His hand rests next to yours on the plaid blanket, he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. It’s all too stiff, too on edge, and you hate it. That attempted deep breath is unsuccessful, lungs deflating as it catches in your throat, and your thoughts wander back to the stars again. They wander to him, and them, and seek answers. 

What if they are up there, watching, like it’s one of those movies your mom was always putting on and your dad and you boo’d at from your spot playing cards. When he walked in with her with that on her finger, your mom would have gasped, she would have paused the movie, she would have yelled at you and your dad about the plot. She would have thrown popcorn at the TV and declared there’s something going on, he couldn’t, no way - there was no way. She’d have calmed herself down, rationalized there was still time left, gone to the pantry for more chocolate, kissed the top of your head and your dad’s cheek as she passed. By the end of the film, her prediction would have been right, she’d be crying and sighing at the couple who got their happy ending.

So could Steve declare his feelings for you here in a dramatic scene? Tell you it was all a big misunderstanding - that he’s sorry, that it was a rocky road but being together is worth fighting for? Could you leave here, hand in hand, as a top forty song plays and the credits roll? 

Of course not. 

Because this isn’t a rom com your mom would have loved. Life is not a movie full of soul-mates and cosmic connections. People like your parents are the exception to the rule. The couples who make it work - the ones who don’t let the trials of life take their love away like Allie and Noah, Kate and Sam, or Westley and Buttercup, are fictional characters. They’re stories to escape into when the despairing reality of yours is too much to read or write anymore. It’s exactly why you don’t like most movies or stories like theirs. Because eventually, the movies end, the credits do roll, and you have to face real life once again. Love like that doesn’t exist off the big screen, and you’re just kidding yourself when you fall into their traps. 

Knowing this simple fact of reality doesn’t stop the hope though. 

That painful, aching hope that clings to your skin like honey when you can feel the heat from his arm even through the sleeve of your sweater - like your bodies burn hotter when closer together - too close to the sun. It feeds the hope that your brain tries to squash away but your heart thuds harder for. The what if, what if, what if replacing each beat of it. Hope that makes you want to cry out ‘please let this just be a bad dream’ to the universe. Hope that tries, but can’t escape the gnawing pit in your stomach that’s growing wider, threatening to swallow you whole. Hope that makes you wonder why this can’t be a story - why can’t you just be the grandson, yelling at his grandfather that he can’t be telling it properly? Someone is getting the story wrong. He can’t be marrying her, you’re just sure of it. Screaming at him, at someone, to please, just get it right. 

You wonder if someone were watching, would they be feeling the despair you are? Is this the moment? That scene in the movies is always the gut punch - for the audience and the character. It’s meant to hurt, make you hold your breath. Made to be dramatic - yell at the screen, break your heart, make the character in the action get back up and fight. They’re moments made to ignite that hope - but really, it’s the double tap - coming right after the feeling catches flame, that’s made to shatter you completely. 

The moment that extinguishes the what if for all it’s worth. When the audience’s heart's already breaking for the grandson, only for the grandfather to ask who says life is fair? Where is that written? When the knife is entering your chest, but the mask falls and the killer turns out to be someone you thought you could trust. When you’re untethered in space only for your last moment of consciousness to be watching a friend cut the cord. The person who sucker punched you is now kicking you when you’re weak, taking it one step too far, leaving you crumpled on the mat. It’s all enough to make that fight, that urge to be angry instead of scared or hurt, disappear. It’s enough to knock you down so hard, you can’t possibly get back up - the hope is extinguished, and the story seemingly over. 

Robin squeals quietly, pulling Leigh’s hand across you to admire the ring, knocking Steve on the shoulder and saying something about the Dingus doing good. Your gaze flits down to the brown sugar and apple donuts in your lap, convinced you’re about to get sick right on top of them. Not because he’s marrying her, but because instead of being angry with him, you feel like you’ve been squashed, you’re hurt, you’re betrayed. Despite your better judgment, despite the past several years, you’ve let a man make you some pathetic, sad, heartbroken, and weak version of yourself. 

When Leigh’s hand retreats from Robin’s, lifting and curling a piece of hair behind her ear, diamond sparkling in the moonlight as she smiles over at Steve, your story’s end is written, and you need to accept it if you ever want some semblance of normalcy to return. You can’t lose him and them. But when Steve’s pinky brushes yours and you look over, his eyes resemble the broken beer bottle from the football game all those weeks ago. Shattered emerald and amber, cutting you to shreds with each shard of glass as he murmurs, “Can I tal-“

“I’ll be right back!” You whisper-shout, cutting him off and squeezing Robin’s shoulder as you get up. 

She yanks on your wrist, halting your attempt at an exit. Her eyes narrow as she interrogates, “Where are you going?”

Swallowing harshly as her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She can probably smell the desire to run on you. Remembering your vow that Steve won’t take them away from you, a not quite a lie falls from your lips as you gesture to the concession food trucks, “You don’t have those cinnamon roasted almonds. They were my mom’s favorite and the smell is driving me crazy. Promise that’s all.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t come back, I will literally come stand outside your window on the sidewalk and scream-sing Monster Mash until someone calls the cops and I’ll drag you down with me.”

Her eyes blink, features incredibly serious despite the amusing threat. Your laugh mixes with Leigh’s and you ignore the shared moment, tugging your wrist free. “Would expect nothing less Robin.”

She motions she’s watching you, fingers to her eyes then yours, lips twitching in the corners before she turns back to the screen. 

Your feet feel heavy as they drag through the damp grass, and come to a stop to wait in line. It shouldn’t be a surprise after ordering when you hear his voice behind you. It floats through the air, soft, barely audible over the popping kettle corn, “I really didn’t know you’d be here. I wouldn’t have…” he sighs, settling on restating, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your shoulders fall and your eyes stay focused on the truck. You’ve had time, since that night on the sidewalk, but your hurt still sits fresh under your layer of armor - tender like an open wound you need to keep protected. Your palms slide further under the sleeves of your sweater, clinging to the garment like the shield you’re willing it to be - you don’t want to fight with him anymore, no matter how hurt and angry you are. 

So the tone you respond with aches to sound indifferent, if not a tad harsh, reminding him you’re mad and pretending there isn’t any spark of hope within you still. It’s over, it has to be over, and all it ever was to him was something to kill time - fun and no strings exactly what you wanted. So your words are really just a reminder to yourself, another layer of the wall you need to keep up around him, “It’s fine Steve. Would have been nice to get a head’s up,” your shoulders shrug, “But, well, that’s probably too generous for the girl you were just fucking while waiting for the one, right?”

The people next to you clear their throats and you can’t find it in yourself to care, to be embarrassed. 

Steve moves in front of you, his face filling your vision. He shaved - no more scruff you like. His jeans are dark again, with fresh, new creases, and a light blue sweater pulls across his chest and shoulders. He’s picture perfect, his polished uniform in place.

He shakes his head, eyes bouncing between yours as he asks, “Is that really all it was?”

Your shoulders shrug again, because it’s easier. It’s easier to try to deny, to ignore the flutter the question causes in your stomach. Easier to bite back the words that try to form on your tongue. Because of course that’s not all it was, at least not to you. You wouldn’t feel the way you do right now if that were true. But what’s the point in telling him that though? What happens? Can you forgive each other for the words said, that, no matter how true, can’t be taken back? Things like this only end in heartbreak - because what happens if you tell him how you were starting to feel - does that change anything for him? And even if it did, that means a broken engagement, it means complicated truths coming out, it means attempts at forgiveness. And even after all of that, life won’t give you a guarantee. There is no promise of zero fights, of nothing bad ever happening. There is no happily ever after where the possibility of a break up, of losing everyone you’ve grown to care for deeply, doesn’t exist. 

So yes, it’s easier to not say any of that, because you know. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t a movie. No one is immune to life’s misfortunes. These sorts of open-ended questions and complicated emotions that come from his simple ask are unmeasurable and unreliable. Wondering and giving into those feelings only open you up to be used as a target for someone else’s shooting practice. You’ve known this, but you allowed yourself to forget, hating it was Steve who had to remind you. 

Which is why you look away from his eyes as you say, “I believe that is what was established a few weeks ago at that party Steve. You were there, remember? You were dressed as a pirate.” 

His head drops, hands running through his perfectly styled hair as he laughs, breath shaky, like the laugh is covering up any feeling in his voice. “So, that’s it? We’re just gonna act like none of it happened? You don’t wanna talk. You run away every time we get a chance to do so, a beer in my face and-“

Your hand rising in the air cuts him off, his mouth clamps shut as you make eye contact with him. “You deserved that and I’m not apologizing for it.”

He takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching towards you, then back into his hair, second guessing himself. “I’m not asking you to, and I’m not apologizing for what I said either.” Steve swallows, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground then back up at you, “What I said wasn’t a lie.” 

He breathes out the next words, both of you staring at each other with the weight of what he says hanging in the air between you.

“You couldn’t tell me.”

Your hands shake from the confrontation, from his request you left unanswered that night. The emotions that still want to bubble over, the time apart did nothing to cool either of you down. That what if, what if, what if that replaced your heartbeat grows louder, but your brain only shuts it down harder. If you hurt now, how will it feel if you keep feeding the flame only for him to extinguish it again?

The beat of your heart and those hopeful words thud in your ears as your head shakes and your voice tries not to, barely audible as the words leave your lips, “I don’t want to do this anymore Steve. We’re just going in circles. You’re getting married. You didn’t tell me. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you were really my friend while you were clearly getting engaged this whole time?”

Blue light flashes from the screen, catching the corner of your eye and illuminating his, their gaze bouncing over your face. Your bodies move closer like they can’t help it, like they know they won’t be this way again. Steve’s tongue darts over his bottom lip before his breath blows out, your name a whisper on it. The way he says your name with that look in his eyes, chests almost touching, it’s easy for your head to tilt with familiarity. Your breath out is his breath in, and it’s even easier to forget the last time you were this close. Sounds other than his harsh swallow and your heartbeat fade away. Time freezes, just a little, and the air pulses with a tangible possibility of hope. 

A shrill classic horror movie scream shatters the bubble. Your name is called, you blink, and take a step away. Guilt washes over you as you see your friends staring intently at the movie you’d practically forgotten you were there for. Leigh and Robin talk quietly and your eyelids flutter as you will whatever wants to escape down your cheeks away.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore Steve. I just want to go hang out with my friends. I need this to be over. Can it please be over?” You stare intently at the ground, one single tear slipping past your lashes. It feels like it rolls down your cheek for an hour before Steve finally answers. 

“Okay,” he quietly agrees. 

Your head nods once and you brush past him, barely choking out a whispered ‘by the way congratulations’ as you grab your snack. Hand swiping at the stray tear as you make your way back to the blanket slowly. 

When you sit back down, Leigh’s typing on her phone. She squeezes Robin’s hand before whispering a goodbye to everyone. She jogs over to Steve, cocking her head at him. He pushes his hands through his hair again, giving her a short smile. He runs his thumb and forefinger down the bridge of his nose, swiping under it with the back of his hand. His other extends towards her as she reaches him, fingers lacing together as they walk out. 

Robin’s shoulder nudges yours and your head turns to find her with eyebrows pinched together. She leans in and quietly asks, “Is he okay? Did he say something about leaving to you?”

Your head shakes, and you extend the bag to her with a tight smile. You will just keep lying to her. Steve and you will move on, and maybe, one day in the distant future, you’ll be able to tell her. It’ll all work out.

She mirrors your sad smile, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she takes a small handful and turns her attention back to the movie. Or she tries, but you watch as her eyes glance down to her phone every few minutes, until it lights up with his name and she quickly starts typing a response. 

It’ll all be fine. 

“Said ‘I’m fine’ but it wasn’t true. I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you…”

The pop song playing overhead makes your teeth grind, your skin itch, it pries at your armor. It clangs its melody like fists on the metal plates around your heart, screaming to let it in. 

Fuck Taylor Swift and her poetically relevant lyrics. 

You’re fine. 

“Mommy, why is that lady wearing pajamas?”

“Well, sometimes people, um, well maybe they’re sad or-“

“Not sad,” you call over your shoulder, but spin as you decide to face the stranger. The poor, unsuspecting stranger who is unprepared for the wrath of a person wearing blue, fuzzy pajama bottoms with ducks all over them, yellow smiley slippers, and holding several pints of Cherry Garcia in her arms. “Could just be sick. Or lazy. Could be a lot of different things, but sad is not one of them, and it’s rude to assume there’s any reason at all. I could just have wanted to stay comfy today, you don’t know!”

It’s almost laughable, if it wasn’t so humiliating or awkward. A practically audible record scratch kind of moment. Conversations of several other customers quiet then stop altogether. Eyes blink at you in concern and pity under too harsh of fluorescent lights, surrounded by neon advertisements and packaging trying to convince you the world isn’t shit as long as there’s junk food. The poppy beat overhead seems to play even louder, yet a pin could drop and people from another state would hear it. 

The mother’s hand runs through the small child’s hair next to them as she stammers an apology, “I really…I’m sorry, I just-“

“No, no, I’m so sorry. It’s fine…I…” You close your eyes and turn back around, mortified beyond a depth you ever thought possible. The pints of ice cream tumble onto the sticky counter-top, lottery tickets beneath it staring up at you and mocking ‘hey wanna test your luck even more?’. Your hand flies up into the face of the cashier as you grumble, “Not a word, Keith.”

The employee you’ve come to know on your late night and early morning snack runs snorts. His mouth closes, slurping his Mountain Dew through a straw as he rings up the ice cream. His lips leave the red plastic, squeaking it against the lid harshly, about to tell you the price you already know, when a bottle of wine is placed on the counter with a low thunk. A leather clad arm extends across your vision, a second bottle landing beside it. A deep and familiar voice from behind your shoulder calls out, “These too. But definitely not because she’s sad.”

Turning, you find Eddie just as you knew you would, his brown eyes the same as they have been since you met. Full of warmth that’s contagious, except now something darkens them, they’re colder. Reminiscent of how they looked in a bathroom that feels like you were in it ten years ago instead of a month. They’re kind, but they’re hurt, confused, and most importantly - disappointed. 

“Right,” you clear your throat and look away from them. Embarrassed, but adamant in your denial of the purchase and your appearance having any connotation with the emotion they all think you’re feeling. “These are not sad items.”

Despite the look in his eyes, Eddie’s lips twitch in a fight of a smile. He looks over your outfit and the hint of amusement disappears. His mouth turns down in a grimace. He faces Keith, hand waving across your form, “Right. Sad people don’t wear duckie pj’s to the store to buy ice cream and wine, they just don’t. People who ignore their friends though, they might…”

Honestly, the call out is nicer than what you deserve. You hadn’t dared to miss a text or call from Robin again, but all other group contact had gone unreciprocated for two weeks - convincing yourself it was easier for everyone that way. Biting the inside of your cheek, your eyes blink up at him apologetically, hopeful you can fix a small part of the mess you’ve made still. “Yeah. But if a person,” your hands wave as you speak, “Who isn’t sad,” you quickly tack on before continuing, “Did ignore their friends, it was probably for a good reason and she probably feels really bad about it and-“

“Jesus Christ, pay for your sad shit and get out,” Keith groans, snapping his fingers and then waggling them for payment. 

Eddie mashes his lips together, a genuine smile threatening to break as he hands over a bill. He salutes as he grabs the bag of items. “Keep the change, dude.”

“See you tomorrow, new shipment of Ben and Jerry’s at nine A.M!” Keith calls to your retreating forms. Eddie and you turn in tandem, flipping him off. 

“Mommy, what did that mean?”

Eddie snorts, his laugh finally bubbling out of him as you hide your eyes under one of your hands. The door swings closed behind you as the brisk November air does little to cool off your embarrassment.

His laughter trails off in a sigh and yours in a groan. When you peek at him from behind your fingers, you hold your breath as they fall to your side. Eddie’s eyes seem to poke and prod at you with their gaze, like you’re a frog laying open on a table for dissection. Like he already knows what he’s about to find, but he’s giving you an opportunity to just say it before he makes the first cut. 

Gesturing towards the bag in his hand, your eyes drop to the ground as you clear your throat. “Thank you, you didn’t have to pay. And I really am sorry for going radio silent. I’ll get better at that.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you risk a glance up. His brows are furrowed, meeting under parted bangs, brown eyes glued to your pajama pants. Eddie nods slowly, tucking his tongue into his cheek before clicking it against the roof of his mouth. Rocking back on his heels, the plastic bag swings at his side. “Sure. What are friends for?”

His eyes meet yours again finally, and as your lips part, he keeps going, his voice a little crisper than it’s been to you before. “Cause, we are friends. Right?”

Head nodding as your brows bunch together from the tone delivering the question. That and his gaze makes something under your skin itch, your feet restless against the pavement like a horse before a race. 

Hesitation heavy in your words as you respond, “Yeah, of course…listen, I have to get back but-“

“Great,” he spins on his heel, heading down the sidewalk like he was waiting for those exact words to leave your mouth, “I’ll walk with you, sad girl.”

Blinking at his abrupt interruption, hand still raised to take the bag from him, it takes you several seconds for his words to register. He’s already halfway to the corner, your apartment just around it and you have to take a quick few jogs to catch up with his long strides as you call out, “I’m not sad.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nods, flicking a zippo in his hand, converse scuffing against the sidewalk as he kicks a pebble, “And I’m the King of England.”

Tired of his tone and demeanor you didn’t invite or ask for - you don’t need this. Eyes rolling as you huff past him, your shoulder bumping his harshly as you do. Eddie scoffs, but falls back into step close behind you, not letting you get away. “Quite the attitude to have with the friend who just bought your sad girl treat, even threw in the wine.”

Your shoulders hunch at his words, eyebrows pulling together and face growing hot as you fiddle with the first key to the apartment building. “Well, I didn’t ask you to buy it and if you only did to just rub it in my face you’re not really my friend. And I didn’t ask you to come here.”

Eddie’s hand lands on the door above your shoulder as you push it open, arm blocking you from entering. “Quit the tough girl act, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Your skin burns at his accusation, hands balling into fists at your sides. “I’m not trying to fool anyone, Eddie, or do anything. I literally don’t know what you’re talk-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can keep trying to sell this shit to everyone else, but I’m not buying.” He points inside, “Let’s go.”

Face feeling hotter than when you were six and scolded in public, you stomp through the entryway, each step echoing across the old tile. As you turn to head up the stairs, if only to get away from his all seeing eyes, the realization of what your apartment looks like and how extremely not ready it is for guests has you pausing mid stride. 

When your gaze makes contact with his again, Eddie simply makes a statement. Flat, disappointed, and no question in his tone, “It’s worse than I think isn’t it.”

Before you can argue, before you can tell him to leave, the keys in your hand are snatched by swift fingers, and Eddie’s long legs are jumping up the stairs, skipping over several steps and disappearing around the landing. Chasing after him, the thundering of both of your feet is dulled by the faded and dingy carpet and the shriek of his name leaving your lips. 

Watching as he pushes the key into the lock, turning the knob, you sprint down the hallway. Your body barrels into his, but it’s too late. Eddie falters from your weight crashing into him, but he remains upright, although slightly hunched, as your body clings to his, trying to drag him down. The door swings open and he winces, and you drop to the ground, defeated. 

For the first time in a few days, you take in the state of your living space from an outside perspective. You watch as Eddie reviews it all for the first time - the take out on your counter, the empty beer bottles pushing the lid of the recycling up. The stack of Double O Seven DVDs on the coffee table. The couch covered in blankets because you’ve been sleeping there, your bed still sitting free of sheets in the other room. The bag of chips and the tub of frosting. It’s not a pretty picture. 

Eddie suddenly crouches, hands grabbing at you and you push him away shrieking, crawling into your apartment and away from him. Both of you swat at each other, hair flying in faces and grunting like you’re siblings fighting over the remote. 

 “Go-get off! What the hell is your problem! Eddie!”

He manages to grab your phone out of your sweatshirt pocket and you leap towards him, arms over his shoulders, you reach for the phone, and he holds himself up on his knees, arm extending it away from you. He manages to tilt it just right to get your face to unlock it and you growl, thumping on his bicep as he shoves you off. He presses the familiar green icon on your home screen while you accuse, “What is your deal? What the fuck are you-“

Eddie groans, holding up the screen displaying the last song you’d been listening to and getting to his feet. He points towards your bedroom. “Go put on some jeans. No more sad girl music. No more cheese out of the can. Field trip. Let’s go.”

Your hand holding a slipper that had fallen off in the scuffle points towards the open door, any neighbors paying attention getting a hell of a show. Your scowl meets his frown. “Um, you can go. Don’t basically break into my home and insult Britney and Easy Cheese in the same sentence asshole. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, they disappear under his bangs and he looks at you as if you’re the child you’re determined to act like. He sighs, voice dripping in drama as he heads into your kitchen, “I really didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me with no other choice.” He spins the cheap metal cap off of one of the bottles of wine theatrically, flicking the cap onto the counter before turning the bottle upside down as he stares at you. “I’d get going. The ice cream is next.”

Your eyes roll as you scoff, “You’re not gonna do shit to the Ben and Jerry’s, you and I both know it.”

He starts on the second bottle, both ringed hands holding tight to each, red liquid splashing the sides of the sink. “I will literally drag you back out of here in your sad girl jammies to a very public place. I’m generously giving you the opportunity to avoid that embarrassment, but if you insist…”

Eddie sets the bottles down in the sink, stepping over to you in two strides, hands on your waist as he moves like he could toss you over his shoulder.

Your hands push at his chest. “Fucking fine! Give me a few minutes.” You start towards your room but spin sharply on your socked heel, one foot still in a slipper that skids as your finger points in his face. “Touch my ice cream and see what happens.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Big, tough words coming from a girl with chocolate frosting on her chest and ducks on her ass.”

You turn away from him, slamming the door on his call of, “If you ever want to see your precious Ben and Jerry’s again, you’ll be back out here in five minutes!”

When you make eye contact with the chocolate stain in the mirror, you have to suppress your groan. 

Eddie’s Jeep tires crunch over gravel before coming to a stop in a homemade parking lot. Tan dust kicked up and floating through the air partially obscures where he’s taken you. 

The entire twenty minute drive had been enveloped in stilted silence. He had managed to dump one of the pints while you changed, claiming to have thought you weren’t coming back out, and now he was on the receiving end of one of your finest silent treatments. His hand flexes on the gear, moving the car into park. As his jaw clenches while yanking the keys out of the ignition, you start to rethink your silence. There’s a part of you that wants, maybe needs, to run back to your apartment, lock the door, and never speak to him again. But there’s another part, far larger, and riddled with guilt, that made you follow him. 

Staring out the window at the dilapidated bar, your voice feels scratchy from the lack of talking as you push out, “What are we doing-” Eddie’s driver’s door slams, and the end of your question falls into the empty car, flat, as you blink at his back walking away from you, “Here.” 

As Eddie makes his way to the building, you hoist yourself out of the Jeep and begin to follow despite the cold shoulder. You’re willing to appease him and participate in whatever this field trip is if it means you can somehow get the apology you definitely owe him out - try to make things right for the mess you’ve pulled him into. 

A faint and familiar sound echoes in the quiet and practically empty parking lot. The distinct whip of a ball and the ting and harsh smack of metal meeting it, mix with the crunch of rocks under your rubber soles. Behind the tired and washed out brick building, chain link fencing rises, hinting further to what the sounds are and where they’re coming from. The large red letters above the doorway spell out “Murray’s” in distinct vintage lettering, hollowed out with unlit bulbs reminiscent of an old theater’s marquee lights. You pause beneath the sign, stealing a deep breath because something tells you Eddie has officially pinned you to the table, and the first inevitable cut of the dissection is imminent. Your fingers curl around the gray, metal door’s industrial handle and pull, and you step inside. 

Billie Holiday’s voice croons from somewhere deeper in the building. Voice and music crackling and staticky, like it’s playing off a real vinyl. The urge to find out why Eddie’s brought you to a place seemingly stuck in the past draws you deeper down the dimly lit hallway. Rich, red paint on the walls partially covered by framed photographs line the entire space. Black and white film prints of American icons, with individual golden lamps lighting up each from their spots attached to the frames. Your feet carry you past Elvis, Jackie Robinson, then Marilyn, and Michael Jackson before you enter a spacious and circular room. 

Red vinyl booths line the curve on one side, small round tables meant for two lit by glowing lamps scattered across the floor. A stage and space for what appears to be a dancefloor sit opposite of you, nestled between the booths and a bar running across the opposite curve. Speckled and worn mirrors behind the bar reflect the wide range of liquor bottles and the different glassware in a variety of shapes and colors, clearly thrifted antiques, hanging above them. Eddie leans against the bar talking to an older man, neither of whom spare a glance in your direction. 

This room’s photographs on the walls are covers of Life and Time, clippings from other renowned news outlets - all famous headlines like when man went to the moon and the JFK assassination, the Cubs winning the world series, spanning all the way to current events. As you spin, you see the vintage photo booth, much older than the one you and Steve took photographs in at Replay, and you push the memory away, focusing on the bulletin board next to it instead.

The flier for Corroded Coffin has your attention as the song crackles on it’s end notes, the next from the album playing softly. Billie’s voice sings the familiar lyrics of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and your heart drops into your stomach, palms sweating profusely. Why the hell are you here? Why this song? Why, why, why.

“Ouch. Who broke your heart?”

The unfamiliar voice asks the same question Eddie had asked you back in September, and this time you’re even more unprepared for it. Your head whips to the side, gaze looking over your shoulders that hunch. Your body turns to face them head on, but your arms cross in defense. The man Eddie had been chatting with now has his focus solely on you. Wire rimmed glasses frame eyes that stare intently at you as he wipes down a glass. His balding head of hair and the confidence he carries, along with the way he tosses the rag over his shoulder before leaning on the bar, has you feeling like you’ve suddenly entered a sitcom. 

Eddie continues to ignore you, one foot resting on the metal of stool as his ringed fingers crack peanuts. He avoids your gaze as you turn your frown on the man who seemed to have read your mind. You keep your voice as neutral as you can when you ask, “Excuse me?”

“Written all over your face, kid.” The nameless man, but you have a hunch the name of the establishment and him are one in the same, winces with his words. He pulls down three amber colored, short glasses, then a bottle of vodka. Before you can argue, he keeps going as he pours, “Well, maybe you’re not in love. Not yet anyway,” he muses to himself, “Or maybe he is and you don’t know how to let the poor sap down?”

His eyes lift from the glasses of alcohol to yours and he squints. Pausing before pouring the third glass, humming, “Wait, no, well…maybe.” Keeping his eyes on you as he tips back one of the generous shots before he breathes out with finality, “No.”

Eddie smirks into his own shot, as the man snaps in his face, but technically commands, “Name.”

Your mouth opens to stop this nonsense and analysis you absolutely didn’t ask for, but Eddie beats you to it. Eyebrows raised, mouth pursed as he offers up, “Steve.”

The man behind the bar hovers the liquor bottle above the now empty glass, blinking wide behind his frames. He sets the bottle down, pressing his palms to the bar top. Scoffing with an incredulous tone, “You’re kidding.”

“Excuse me!” You try to interrupt, but the man shakes his hands, ignoring your objection. 

“We’ll deal with that little slip in the simulation some other time,” pushing the third glass down the bar towards you as he continues, “So, Steve,” he laughs a little, licking his bottom lip, “Right. So he loves us, maybe, but perhaps it is us who loves Steve? Mm, tragic, because he doesn’t reciprocate? Or are we too scared to tell him how we feel?”

Your shoulders are up to your ears now, arms wrapping around yourself even tighter, trying to make whatever see-through, vulnerable shield this man can penetrate more resilient. Your gaze is harsh on the side of Eddie’s face, death stare glaring and attempting to burn his cheek with only your eyes as you ask again, “What are we doing here?”

“The cosmic question, isn’t it?” The bartender muses, pouring another glass for himself. He raises his eyebrows at Eddie in a silent question who shakes his head no. 

“I’m leaving.” You start to turn towards the door, but Eddie’s call behind you makes you freeze.

“Have fun walking back then!”

Your hands go to your pockets, searching, even though you know they’re empty. When you look at him, you see your phone in his fingers and his brown eyes that have turned to stone. “Yeah, I still have this. So either you can participate in the field trip, or you can walk all the way back home to your sad girl cave.”

“I’ll just have him call me a cab.” Gesturing to the nameless man with your solution. 

“Murray,” he offers with a toothy grin and head nod, confirming your assumption. 

Eddie laughs, cold, tossing a peanut shell on the bar, “Yeah? And pay for it how?”

You’ve been very, very, dumb, because it’s only now you realize the empty pockets would also mean you don’t have your wallet. Your eyes close in defeat. 

When you open them, Eddie is staring at you and it feels an awful lot like that scalpel is resting just over your heart, waiting for any final words. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he says, “I’ll take those quarters now.”

Murray rolls a tube across the bar to him, eyes darting back and forth between you two like he is watching a ping pong match. 

Eddie grabs the roll, storming past you and down a different hallway, out the back door of the bar. The chipping black paint flutters as the door swings closed, a slam as it meets the frame making you flinch. The final notes of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ finish and you release a shaky breath. 

“And I suppose I’m to follow him and his mysterious quarters?”

Murray’s lips twitch and he raises his hands in surrender. Your sigh and step towards the door has him dropping his hands though, nudging the still full glass of vodka towards you. Figuring it’s his way of telling you to clean and sterilize the wound before the prodding at it begins, you take a step closer. Hesitating slightly, your finger wraps around the amber glass, a deep breath leaves you as you tip it to your lips. 

He nods his head towards you and raises his own glass, and as the liquid flows into your mouth, he toasts, “To Steve.”

The liquor sits on your tongue longer than you’d like it to as you glare at him. Swallowing it down, you blame the harsh burn in your throat for the prickle that’s forming behind your eyes.

Spinning on your heel to follow Eddie, Murray’s voice calls out quietly, making you pause.

“I’d tell him sooner, rather than later.”

Looking over your shoulder, he puts the glasses in a bin underneath the bar, not looking back at you as he quietly adds, “In my experience, there’s always space to dive deeper into the story. Things are often not what they appear to be. And well,” he chuckles to himself, “Harrington’s got a lot more going on under all that hair than meets the eye I think.” Your brows furrow as Murray looks up at you, patting his hand over his heart with a smirk on his lips, “And I’m not talking about the stuff on top of his head.”

Normally, the joke about Steve’s chest hair would have your lips twitch into a smile, a roll of your eyes, but instead, his words float through the air until they arrive in your gut, sitting heavy and dragging you down. They try to ignite that hope again, but you know it’s no use in letting it light anymore. 

Your feet push forward, stomping down the hallway without a word back. As the door swings closed behind you, your eyes blink, adjusting to the harsh sunlight you’d forgotten was shining outside. The sounds from earlier now connecting to what’s before you. Several enclosed batting cages sit just beyond a wooden and covered back patio of the bar. There’s two older men with their bags of gear sitting at their feet. Each drinking a beer at a small wooden table, rubbing their shoulders. Eddie is inside one of the cages. His leather jacket hung on the fence, a blue helmet squishing down his curls. The white cotton of his baseball tee stretches over his flexing back muscles as he swings at a ball released by the machine. 

As your feet scuff against the deck and then the gravel, you take another deep breath, mouth opening to just blurt out some sort of apology to him. Eddie stops the machine with a harsh smack to a button on the side of the cage. He comes out the door, holding the helmet and bat out to you, chest moving up and down with each ragged breath. He offers a closed lip smile as he says, “Your turn.”

“Eddie, I really don’t…” you trail off until you settle on just asking, “Why?”

“Would you just do it?” He frowns, tone annoyed as he extends his arms towards you further. 

Eyebrows raised in anticipation he nods once as you take the items with a huff and stomp into the cage. As you place the helmet onto your head, and stare down the machine, you exhale and press the button. It whirs back to life as your hands wrap around the bat and you step up to the metaphorical plate, Eddie’s voice calling from over your shoulder as you do. 

“So, wanna tell me why you’re sad? Talk about anything Murray said?”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grip, shoulders going up in defense again. Your jaw clenches before you grit out, “For the last time Eddie, I’m not sad. I’m fine.”

Eddie snorts behind you as you swing at the first ball released, missing.

Strike one. 

“Sure, figured that’d be your answer. So,” he sighs heavily and you hear the fence rattle like he’s kicking it, “Why’re you avoiding us again then?”

You knew this topic couldn’t be dodged forever. It’s true, you’d been pulling away again since Halloween, and getting the save the date was the nail in your friendship’s coffin. As the wedding looms in the not so distant future, it’s easier to pull away from him, from all of them, because you know that they were and always will be Steve’s friends first. Intentions of not letting Steve keep them from you seem futile now, when you know the history and depth of friendship you’re up against. You’re not gonna say that to Eddie though, so as the next pitch is released, you swing and stammer out a pathetic lie. 

“I-I’m not.” The ball makes contact, causing your forearms to vibrate from the bad swing. Your grip tightens so the bat doesn’t fall from your fingers as the ball pops up and behind you, rattling the fence. 

“Well that’s a load of crap. Wanna know what I think?” Eddie yells, not pausing for you to refute and sarcastically continuing, “Great, I’m overjoyed to tell you.”

Your heel digs into the gravel and your eyes narrow on the whirring machine, waiting for him to sink the scalpel into you, defenseless - trapped from running away from him, stuck in this cage with nowhere to go to avoid what he’s about to tell you. 

“I think you are sad. I think Murray was right and you don’t wanna admit it to him, to anyone, and especially not yourself. Instead of an easy fix of talking about it, you wanna sit in your pity and throw a party.” Eddie’s voice takes on a dramatic, high pitched imitation of you as the next ball is released and you swing, “I’m Y/N! Woe is me! I’m all alone! Nobody loves me!”

You miss the ball again, shoulders hunching in, desperate to make yourself smaller with each of the words that he shouts at your back. Turning to look over your shoulder, you glare at him. 

Strike two. 

Eddie leans against the fence, glaring right back at you with his eyebrows raised as you hiss, “You’re being an asshole.”

“Yeah? At least I’m an asshole who’s got friends,” he gestures towards you, “You clearly think you don’t.” You twist your toe in the gravel deeper, returning your focus to the machine and taking a deep breath as he keeps going. “I’ll have Murray pour you some more vodka and you can sit here and think about how your life is horrible. Truly tragic.”

Your eyes narrow from his bored tone, lifting your chin and elbow, adamant to ignore him. 

“You have nothing and no one.”

Another exhale, your chest rises and falls with a deep inhale and your shoulders relax. Straining to hear the hint of the ball being released instead of Eddie yelling at you. 

“Maybe you’ll get a cat one day, but ultimately you’re gonna die alone!”

SMACK.

Your bat meets the ball and it soars to the end of the cage and you spin on him. Face hot, your emotions bubbling and ready to explode. Anger mingling with adrenaline coursing through your veins from the hit, amping up how the words fall out of you in an angry cry. 

“Yeah! I am Eddie! And that’s what I want! So fucking lay off!”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s easier!” 

When he yells right back, without pausing, asking you for a reason, the excuse falls out of you easily. Your mouth closes immediately after the words tumble out in your scream, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as Eddie’s narrow. He shakes his head, volume lowering only slightly. 

“Nah, that’s just fucking running. And take it from someone who ran for a long time, it feels easy, but it’s the furthest thing from. Eventually, you are going to get tired, and your problems will be right on your heels. 

Facing the machine again so you don’t have to look into his eyes any longer, you shake your head no at him, letting a ball hit the end of your bat, popping forward limply as you try to speak with confidence. 

“I’m not running from problems Eddie, I’m just…it’s easier to be the one who does the leaving than to be the one who’s left, okay?”

The words float through the air, unable to be taken back, and their weight makes something in your chest squeeze and constrict. 

“That’s some next-level, glass half empty, pessimistic, depressing shit. And who the hell said anyone was going anywhere? You’re refusing to see that if you looked back for one second from the door you’ve been half out since you got here, that nobody else even has their shoes on.”

The squeezing in your chest only intensifies, his cut getting deeper as he searches for answers, and your bat hesitates halfway through your swing, sending a ball straight up into the air above you. You breathlessly ask, “What?”

Eddie waits until you look over your shoulder at him, emphasizing each word. “Nobody’s leaving you.”

His words hit you harder than your bat has hit any of the balls. It feels like one was pitched right into your gut, expelling all the air from your lungs and causing the tears that have been right behind your eyes to well up hard and fast. You spin to avoid his gaze again and square up for another pitch. 

Eddie doesn’t know that it’s not a promise anyone can make - life doesn’t care. 

Your head shakes, tears brimming on your lash line as you argue, “You can’t know that Eddie, not really. It’s better this way.”

SMACK.

A tear slips over your bottom lashes, trailing down your cheek as the bat makes good contact again and Eddie digs the scalpel in for his final cut. “Fine. Believe that. But you need to admit that you’re slamming the door on our faces and pretending like no one is still standing on the other side, knocking and asking to be let back in.”

The machine whirls, it wooshes with the release of a ball as another tear, and then another falls. Your vision progressively grows fuzzy, the world around you blurring as you swing again and his voice washes over you. 

“Did you know that Nancy is a freak just like you, and I’m sure she’d be happy to split some Cherry Garcia any time? God help you both for liking such a disgusting flavor.”

You let the tears fall openly, but silently, as you swing harder this time. The weight in your stomach - the knots that have been forming since the very first lie was told - twist and tug harder. 

“I know you’re not stupid enough to think I wouldn’t come have a beer with you, or take you to Target to get some new sheets or food that doesn’t have the Frito-Lay logo plastered on it.”

Another ball pops up and behind you as you clear your throat. Refusing to believe what he’s saying, you wonder if he can see the tears hitting the tan gravel beneath you and darkening it like drops of rain.

“And Robin! She’d love to watch Double O Seven with you. You should hear her Sean Connery impression. It’s terrible.” Eddie laughs a little and you twist the toe of your converse into the gravel, covering up a dark spot. 

“But no. Instead of any of that, you just gave up. You didn’t give any of us a chance. Steve Harrinngton’s dumb ass is the only thing to blame for all your loneliness, sadness, and problems. So keep ignoring the footsteps running behind you and the knocking, or open the fucking door.”

You want to believe Eddie, you really do. But what happens when you come to rely on someone, need the support to lean on, and they’re gone?

Your head shakes harder, a sob stuck in your throat as you barely murmur, “Eddie, I can’t.”

His voice is softer than it has been all day as he asks, “Can’t or won’t?”

More tears fall past your lashes. The last ball is pitched and you choke out, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t attempt to swing at this one and it hits the fence behind you. The machine whirs one final time then stops. 

“Yeah, me too.”

Heavy, suffocating, disappointment lingers in the air around you. 

It takes several minutes, even more tears falling quietly, for you to remove the helmet from your head and drop both it and the bat on the ground with a clang. When you turn around, swiping at your cheeks, Eddie isn’t there. 

Each drag of your feet inside is an active fight. Limbs heavy, heart even more so, because you know what awaits you inside before it’s confirmed. 

Murray looks up from a keg he’s tapping and simply nods to the end of the bar. Your phone and wallet sit there and you know the Jeep and Eddie will be gone when you push out the door crying. 

You’ve somehow done the leaving and were left this time. 

Strike three. 

It’s literally a symptom, or as some like to claim - stage - of grief. 

Denial. 

We lie all the time. We tell lies to spare or protect feelings, and more importantly, we lie to ourselves, instead of facing truths head on. 

Because it’s easier to lie - to avoid, to shut something down, or deny its existence when it’s too hard to look at directly. Which is interesting. Why has there not been some sort of evolutionary transformation from this reaction? And really, the longer you wait to face something, the harder the truth is going to hit you. The time you give a truth to sit untold, unacknowledged, it only grows larger. That truth takes hearty roots, and your avoidance in the form of lies, whether to yourself or others, or both, only allows it to spread more rapidly. 

Eventually, you will have to stop lying, to stop running, and that truth will have grown in strength. It has sprouted new truths or problems because your lies only fed it the fertilizer it needed to do so, and now it’s suddenly not the one thing you have to face anymore, but the multiple harder truths. 

Which may be why you’re still outside, staring up at Nancy’s brownstone, where all of your friends, or well, the people you hope are still your friends are-

“Out of the bike lane!”

You jump forward onto the sidewalk just in time for a man in bright yellow spandex to zoom past you shouting some sort of curse as you clutch the dessert in your hands tighter. 

Grateful you had a firm handle on it to begin with, it's one of the few family heirlooms you held onto along with the recipe it’s holding. Hoping to gain some sort of courage from deep within it, like your mom can offer you some through the dish, you make your way up the brick steps. 

The only reason you're here, the only reason you’re facing this day the way you’re feeling just so happens to be the one to open the door before you can even ring the bell. 

The door is flung open and her bright blue eyes fight to sparkle behind squinted eyelids that are almost shut she’s smiling so wide at you.

“Happy Friendsgiving!” Robin shouts louder than she needs to and holds her arms out in a dramatic greeting. She’s covered from fingertips to elbows in thick, orange goo, her clearly thrifted oversize old man sweater sleeves pushed up to her shoulders. You smile your first genuine smile in weeks as she goes to hug you and you both pause, rethinking it. 

“Fall in a pumpkin?” You quip as you balance the dessert in your hand to shrug off one arm of your coat. 

Robin wiggles her fingers and hands spirit and jazz style with a beam that shows off her dimple as she corrects, “Sweet potato casserole.”

“You fell in a sweet potato casserole?” Following her deeper into Nancy’s, you take in a long breath, the tight chest you’ve had since Eddie left you at Murray’s loosening with each word exchanged between you and her. But knowing you have to face him, Nancy, Steve and her, and continue to pretend nothing is wrong while around Robin, has the constricting pressure around your heart returning quickly. 

Robin rolls her eyes, turning and walking backwards and making a face at you. She huffs as she turns back around, “No. Steve is making his famous mac and cheese and apparently I was annoying him, can you believe it? So him and Nance put me on mashing duty to keep me busy like a toddler.”

“You said it, not me!” Steve calls, his wine glass stopping before his lips when he makes eye contact with you. 

Weeks of not seeing each other after the way you left things was going to be hard, you knew that. But you really weren’t prepared for how he looks today, or how it would affect you. 

He’s got a burnt orange, almost brown, thick sweater on with light wash jeans. You’re sure both are from the section of his closet you stumbled upon months ago. That part holding his clothes he doesn’t wear often for whatever reason. He looks comfortable, casual, content. Down to the tube socks on his feet and the worn brown leather of the band of his watch. Your chest aches a little as you wonder if it’s Leigh that’s gotten him to relax into this version of himself. Even his hair, longer than a few weeks ago, is different than you’ve seen from him. Far messier than usual - like it hasn’t seen products or been styled lately, and several days of facial hair evident on his jaw. He looks like a version of Steve designed to torture you - a Steve who you’ve only gotten glimpses of and you miss before you’ve even really met. 

“Hi,” he says quietly, smiling closed-lipped at you.

“Hi,” you offer with your own hesitant smile. Your fingers fiddle with the tinfoil over the edge of the dessert from your spot where you linger in the doorway.

“How are you? Do you…wine?” Steve stammers over his questions, cheeks turning pink. He spins and starts pouring you some without waiting for your answer. It gives you a small bit of relief that he’s as anxious as you are, neither of you knowing what comes next. Do you ever return to normal? And what is normal for you and Steve?

“Sure, yeah, good. You?”

Steve nods his head too quickly, spinning to face you again with the wine. “Good, yeah, thanks.”

“Good.” 

“Yeah.”

Steve blinks at you, hazel eyes bright under the soft glow of Nancy’s pendant lighting hanging above her island. As you stare at each other, unsaid words float in the air, it was silly to think it could ever just be over with him. You miss entering a room and not sharing this awkward, palpable, tension - when it was a smile or joke exchanged instead of forced greetings, a warmth and joy felt instead of dread. 

You hate that you don’t hate him. 

You hate that there’s this horrible ache in your chest, like words want to tumble out but you physically can’t say them - why can’t you both just apologize? Why can’t that save the date be ripped to shreds? Why can’t it all work out? 

“You two are acting weird.”

Robin’s voice bursts whatever bubble you were both in, and you clear your throat, looking down. Steve’s fingers adjust on the wine glass and he shakes his head. 

Steve stammers, “N-no, we’re g-”

“Good?” Robin questions, eyebrows raised, “Yeah I gathered that.”

Before either of you can say anything in response, Nancy’s voice calls from the front door, “Crisis averted! I found a bag!”

Her brown curls bounce against her cheeks as she jogs into the kitchen. Dressed up in black suede boots and flared jeans, her tan peacoat left open showing off a silky black blouse. She pauses, mid stride, bag of marshmallows held aloft and her smile faltering as her gaze darts around the room.

Feeling warm under Robin’s sudden perceptiveness, you’re grateful when Nancy springs into action, relieving the awkward tension. 

“Geez Robin, did any sweet potato end up in the dish? I left you alone with them for twenty minutes.”

Robin’s lips twitch slightly, eyes finally leaving Steve’s as she looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers, the orange goo becoming stiff and hard on her skin.  

Nancy gives you a look, her eyes narrowed in a question but smiles when Robin looks back up. She places the marshmallows on the counter and grabs her hand. “Well, Y/N, can finish up.” She directs her next words to you, head nodding to a pan on the counter, “Put those marshmallows on top and stick it in the oven. Steve, your cheese isn’t gonna grate itself. And you,” Nancy tugs Robin out of the kitchen, smiling sweetly at her, “Are gonna come get cleaned up with me.”

Robin’s entire face turns pink, freckles standing out on her skin, from the way Nancy stares at her intently, like no one else exists. You look down, hiding your smile when Robin coughs, sputtering out something that you’re sure is supposed to be a yes. She eagerly nods and Steve huffs loudly, which makes her turn to glare over her shoulder at him, but it quickly turns into a smile as you call out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” to their retreating forms. 

Their footsteps fade and Steve reaches out with one hand, looking at the dessert as he asks, “I can grab that from you?”

As the door to her bedroom clicks closed, you breathe out an exhale, unsure of how much longer you can keep it all up. His eyes are warm as his fingers brush the dish and you pull it back from his reach a bit, whispering, “It’s really fragile.”

Steve’s eyes bounce over your face, setting the wine down, both hands reaching for the dessert as he promises, quiet and sure, “I got it.”

Your fingertips graze each other as he takes it, and the electricity of just one more touch from him is enough kindling for the hope to spark. The heat from his stare has your cheeks warming and his turning pink. Steve’s lips twitch slightly in the corners as he glances down at the dish, then back up at you. 

“So, this just from Mariano’s then?” 

Your eyes roll hard at his assumption, scoffing as you turn to rip open the bag of marshmallows and keep your back to him. “You would ask if it was from there instead of Jewel.”

Steve knocks the faucet off from washing his hands, shaking them into the sink and flinging water across the stainless steel before drying them. He sucks his teeth with a wince as he turns to the counter, his shoulder next to yours. “Yeah, okay that’s fair.”

You laugh quietly, popping a marshmallow in your mouth in between placing them haphazardly across the orange mixture. Steve sighs next to you and gestures to the dish. “See, this is why I asked. No way you baked something. Didn’t think you could do anything in the kitchen except keep your take out menus impeccably organized.”

“Impeccably huh? That your word of the day on the calendar Robin got you?” You toss another marshmallow in your mouth with a smirk. 

“Actually, no today’s word was assiduous.” 

The veins in his hands flex as he grates the cheese, and he gives you a look as he says the word with confidence and emphasis, eyebrows raised.

You stall, taking a sip of your wine and hiding your smile in the glass before asking, “What, am I supposed to be impressed or something?” 

He dumps the cheese into the pot and turns to you, cocking his head, tongue in his cheek before he frowns. “You’re not?”

Steve’s lips twitch, his facade breaking easily and you both laugh. Your shoulders relax further and so do his. Why does it have to be so easy with him, yet so hard?

“Actually, I think it will be you who’s impressed,” you start, making the marshmallows a little more purposeful and pretty for his sake. 

“Oh yeah?” 

You hum, nodding, “I made that pie from scratch.”

“No you didn’t.”

Looking up, you see him shaking his head. He makes eye contact with you and he shrugs, adamant, “Nope. No way.”

Your hands land on your hips as your tone turns indignant. “Yes I did! I made the crust from scratch, cold butter into flour and everything. Rolled it out, doctored up the filling in a pan on the stove. Brown sugar, the works.”

His hand stops on the second block of cheese, eyes narrowing at you as he questions, “Really?”

A laugh leaves you from the tone of his suspicion as you slide the pan holding Robin’s dish into the oven. “You sound like my dad when my mom made it the first time.”

Steve doesn’t say anything and your lip tugs between your teeth as you remember the moment between your parents. Maybe it’s the holiday, maybe you’re just tired, maybe it’s the few sips of alcohol that let the story fall out of you so easily. 

“She was really awful at cooking,” you laugh, taking a sip of wine and waving your hand in the air, “I mean like, awful. She could serve you a grilled cheese that was somehow burnt but the cheese was cold? She got better, but anyways, I really don’t know why she thought she’d be any better at baking…”

Steve’s eyes meet yours briefly as he takes his own sip of wine and you look away, grabbing some of the cheese and deciding to help as you keep talking. 

“I don’t remember how she decided to do this, but my dad was out of town for work, and she wanted to make him something special, and to her that was a pie, I guess? But she was adamant that it be from scratch. Made and baked with love. And so we did. We went and got all of the ingredients, and we destroyed the kitchen, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had with her. We listened to Dolly Parton and drank wine all day, totally got flour and butter everywhere, I told her about classes, and the guy I was seeing…”

Your eyes drift off the counter, remembering it was right before you knew she was sick and your chin trembles as a watery laugh leaves you, “And then my dad got home. Oh my god, his face. He, he…” you blink away tears as you start laughing harder, “He just dropped his duffle bag on the ground and shook his head looking around in shock and my mom yelled ‘We made you a pie!’ and my dad just raised his eyebrows and said ‘Sure looks like you made somethin’.”

The last words come out shaky and it isn’t until you feel a pressure on top of one of your hands that you realize you had been grating the cheese down to almost nothing, stealing it from him. Glancing up through blurry vision, tears continue to fall down your cheeks as Steve quietly asks, “But it was good?”

You snort, more tears leaving you as you shake your head no. “It was inedible,” you laugh harder, “Like raw, but somehow dry and clumpy, so bad.”

Steve squeezes your hand, eyebrows furrowing together as his confusion settles deeper in his face and he starts cautiously, “So…you…made an inedible pie for us tonight?”

Your head shakes more and you take a deep breath, laughter and tears slowing. “No, after that, she, um…” closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and push out, “She needed to keep her hands working…” 

When you open your eyes again, Steve’s staring intently at you, waiting. You wonder why he can wait patiently for this story, look at you like he’d wait an eternity for you to tell him the ending, but he couldn’t wait for you. But, would you have wanted him to? When you’re certain that the potential of losing him, all of them, completely, isn’t worth the risk. Would he have waited forever for you to change your mind?

Your voice breaks as you finish, “Her chemo…she started to get neuropathy, and making the crust and keeping her hands and brain busy helped. So she kept practicing until it was perfect. And now it’s one of the last things I have from her. The dish too, we went and searched for the right one…” Fingers of your free hand form quotation marks as you roll your eyes with a laugh, remembering her ridiculous insistence on it and the day of estate sales and thrift stores.  

It’s silent as the unsaid ending washes over you both, the importance - the weight - of the dessert and the story. The immediate need to take it all back rises up in you hard, wishing you could put the entire thing back inside yourself and rewind the last few minutes. The vulnerability leaves you cracked open and exposed to him and you’re not sure you can handle his reaction. 

“I’m sorry,” your brows furrow, “I don’t know why I just…”

Steve’s fingers wrap around yours tighter and he squeezes. Your eyes meet the moss and honey you want to avoid because you’re sure they’re looking at you with that look. The pitying one, the one that everyone gets before they tell you a sorry that doesn’t help. 

But Steve’s eyes shine with something stronger - admiration and amusement as he winces, “So, see, that story tells me that your mom practiced and practiced to make a perfect pie not you and-”

Your hand smacks at his chest lightheartedly, laughing around a protest. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, “Hey, hey, okay!” 

Both of your laughter subsides and he smiles, a genuine smile, one side of his lips twisted up as he looks at the pie then you. “I’m sure it’s great. I’m excited to try it. Thank you for telling me that…I wish I could have met…”

As he trails off, your fingers brush against his on the counter, your bodies shift closer, letting the story and laughter pull you into each other’s gravity once more. Maybe it doesn’t have to be hard - there’s a reason you can fall so easily back into each other. A reason you can offer up a story you normally keep close if he’s the one listening, a reason you can forgive. There has to be a reason your body wants to be closer to his, a reason you want to feel his lips on yours again. Maybe there are cosmic connections, unexplainable phenomena of the universe, fate and destiny and invisible strings. 

Hope flourishes inside of you, it catches on every bounce of his eyes over your face, the way his finger nudges against yours just like they did in that car ride to a lake so many weeks ago. It sparks and drifts into the air, it floats around you like embers from an actual fire as he breathes your name out and your body takes one step closer, making you chest to chest. One easy tilt of your head, one bend from his and maybe it’d all be okay again.  

The doorbell rings, making both of you jump apart. The reality of the situation hits you, like someone dumped an entire bucket of water over the hope as Steve looks toward the door and frowns. You keep letting yourself end up in this position and eventually it’s going to hurt so much you’ll never be able to come back from it. 

You’re not his, he’s not yours, and it’s too late. Another girl calls him baby, he calls her honey, and they go on and have the life you were certain you never wanted - all because you can’t let him in the way he wanted you to. This isn’t a movie, there is no rewind, there is no pause, and it’s time to move on. 

“I’ll go get that, you have cheese to…uh…” 

“Y/N, wait-”

You’re already out of the kitchen, speed walking to the front door. Dreading the girl you’re certain is on the other side, you start to pull your shoes back on. Maybe you could slip out with an excuse and leave. Your destiny isn’t Steve, it’s to always run, to always be alone. 

The door swings open and you look up from your crouched position, one shoe on. Eddie is standing in the doorway, holding a bag of Hawaiian Rolls and looking at you, eyebrows raised in wait.  

He holds open the door and gestures outside as he asks, “Should I leave this open?”

Your stomach swoops, thinking of the chance he’s giving you, the opportunity to do what you want, no questions asked. But your heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears at the opposite side of the coin - the other chance he’s giving you. 

A deep breath is exhaled as you shakily ask, “That depends…are you still knocking?”

Eddie shrugs. “Maybe. Only one way to really find out right?”

Nodding once, you stand. A limped step over to the door with one shoe on, and you close it. Your palm rests flat against the wood as you take another calming breath. The sounds of the others in the kitchen are muffled as you turn around and look up at Eddie. You kick off the shoe, take a step forward, and mime opening a door.

Letting a tear slip past your lash line, you shrug, standing in the metaphorical open doorway and hold your breath. 

He smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Thank god, my arm was getting really tired.”

Another watery laugh starts to escape you and you wrap your arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry. For everything, for dragging you into all of this and for leading you on and…and…”

He extends his fingers, counting his points as he sighs, “You forgot for being stubborn, for not asking me to be the Inigo to your Buttercup, for-”

“I’m sorry.” You force every ounce of meaning behind the words as you squeeze his waist tighter and he finally meets your hug, long arms wrapping around you. 

“We’re all good sweetheart, don’t sweat it.” He pats your shoulder and takes a step back, cocking his head, “But that’s not all…” he taps his finger to your forehead, “What else is going on up there? Why were you leaving?”

“Y/N, please don’t…” Steve trails off as he comes into the entryway. You duck your head and sniff quietly, hoping there’s no evidence of your tears that escaped and break away as Steve clears his throat. “So-sorry. I thought you were…nevermind.”

Steve turns quickly on his heel, back towards the kitchen where the sounds of Robin and Nancy arguing about something echo louder down the hall. Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes at Steve’s back, and gestures for you to go before him, quietly whispering, “We’ll chat later about that.”

“Why does it smell like that? What did you put in it?” Nancy is bent down, looking at the dish you placed in the oven. Her hair is damp, curls weighed down against her cheeks, but her sleek outfit is back on, sans coat, sleeves rolled up. 

Robin’s hair has a towel twirled on top of it, though she’s otherwise back in her jeans and sweater, her hands on her hips. “I don’t know! I did exactly what you said!”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, tossing the bread onto the counter. 

“You don’t smell that?” Nancy shakes her head, hand held out to the air in exasperation. 

Steve’s back is to you as he dumps cooked noodles into his pot of melted cheese and Eddie shakes his head no. Your nose starts to wrinkle though the longer you sit in the space. 

Your hands raise, “I swear I just put the marshmallows on.”

It takes Nancy gagging on a bite she tries to eat of the casserole and Steve going through his spices next to his pot to realize Robin used paprika instead of cinnamon. A lot of paprika. 

She throws her hands up in the air as she storms out to the deck, where you’ve all decided it’d be better to eat, bundled up from the cold, than inside trapped with the smell. “You know what, I never asked to cook anything so eat you’ll eat your paprika sweet potatoes and like it!”

As everyone sits at the table, Eddie looks around and asks, “Shouldn’t we wait for one more?”

“What?” Steve asks him, tone a little sharp, sitting down in the seat across from you.

“Your fiance? Isn’t she coming?” Eddie prods, meeting Steve’s cold attitude with an equal sting and rolled back shoulders. 

“I’m sure she was earlier,” Robin mumbles into her wine glass, “Ow.” She glares at Steve who kicks her under the table. 

Nancy rolls her eyes as Steve shakes his head no, clearing his throat, “She’s…we haven’t…she’s with her family already.”

Robin sighs from her spot next to you and your eyes meet Steve’s before jumping down to your plate. The pressure around your heart squeezes even tighter - maybe it was only easy with him because she’s not here, and that is not always going to be the case. Your fingers itch, neck rolling from the tension. You want to get up and walk away, but Eddie’s knee nudges yours and your shoulders relax slightly. 

Nancy raises her glass, changing the subject, “Okay, before we dig in, I want to say that I’m very grateful for you all, and here’s to many more years of Friendsgiving.” She smiles at Robin when she uses the name. 

Robin beams, holding her glass up too, “Here, here! Now everyone take two scoops of the potatoes.”

Glasses clink and laughter shared, it's easy for you to believe Nancy. Easy with Steve smiling across from you and Eddie and Robin bickering about the food next to you, with her not there, to believe that you’ll be a part of their stories. Maybe - 

“So, Dingus, it’s time to spill all the details about Leigh.” Robin leans forward on the table, her eyebrows raised as Steve’s glass pauses halfway to his mouth. “We don’t know anything and you’re getting married in like five months.”

Nancy and Eddie’s bites and glasses also freeze, not so discreet looks at you from both of them. Nancy finishes swallowing and shakes her head, “Robin, we know enough! Let Steve-”

“No we don’t! I don’t know how you met, or if she’s moved in, and how he proposed and why on earth he didn’t tell his best friend! I have him cornered finally and you’re all gonna help me. Don’t act like you guys don’t want to know either!”

“Robin,” Steve starts licking his lips as he looks at her then you, “Can we not do this right now?”

“Time’s up bub,” Robin frowns, shaking her head, “I promise we like her, she’s cool. But you’ve been dodging the questions and me for weeks now. Start with the easy one, how’d you meet?”

Steve looks at you like he’s in physical pain and you look down at the liquid in your wine glass, swirling the red wine around as you wait for the story that is sure to kill you. You wish he’d just rip the band-aid off, get it over with.  

“We, uh, met through my parents.” Steve swallows a large gulp of wine. 

Your head whips up at the comment and Steve stares at you, frowning before he looks up at the sky. 

Robin’s brows furrow as she asks, “Your parents?” Equally shocked as you are. It isn’t a secret that Steve and his parents aren’t always on the same page. 

Steve rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes before he sets the wine glass down. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back, “Okay, it’s all going to come out anyways so…our parents set us up. It’s been arranged for awhile, we didn’t really date or anything, we’re getting married because that’s what we do. She’s from a good family and I’m from a good family, it makes sense. For business and life and…that’s it.”

The table is silent as Steve’s lips twist, waiting for someone to say something.

Your heartbeat isn’t loud in your ears, your stomach doesn’t swoop - it’s like all noise has left the planet. It’s like someone actually hit pause as his explanation and the last few months catch up with each other in your brain until they meet in a loud explosion. It’s an actual glass shattering sound effect. Heartbreak and hope and disbelief and anger swell inside of you like a wave ready to devour anyone who was stupid enough to enter the unpredictable ocean. 

It’s surprising to everyone, including yourself, when you’re the one to break the silence. The question leaves you so quietly, you weren’t even certain you asked it out loud until he looked at you. 

“So you’re not in love with her?”

As Steve stares at you, the table floats away, it’s just you and him. His mouth parts, but no response falls from it. You stand abruptly, chair scraping against the wood deck harshly as you push back, muttering something about needing to put the dessert into the oven. Your stomach that’s been twisted into knots for months feels like someone pulled one loose thread and it’s unraveling inside of you. A box of bouncy balls released, an unpredictable canon of confetti, trapeze artists, butterflies, boulders, and a deep ocean swallowing you. All of it, finally coming together and creating catastrophe. 

It’s like every single moment you’ve been angry with him is turned up to eleven, but so is every look and touch. Every single one feels like a lie, a slap to your face - he was just using you because he was indecisive, scared, afraid to give up his single life. Steve Harrington was just like every other man. Your entire last few months swirl around inside your brain, replaying every moment, every emotion like a favorite movie. But it’s like someone took that film and told you every single thing wrong with it. Like they pointed out how everything you loved was just covering up the real and horrible plot - bright lights and pretty sets to convince everyone they had a good time, when in reality it was cheaply made and not worth it. 

Your hands shake as you start to rip at the foil covering the pie, and his voice calls out behind you, “Please let me answer that question. Please let me explain.”

A scoff leaves you, eyes closing as you bite back, “It’s fine Steve. Clearly I was just some placeholder for you the whole time.”

“Placeholder?”

You spin, hands in the air as you search for words to make him see how much this hurts you. “Yeah, yes. Some, I don’t know. Last hurrah!”

“What?” The word comes out sharp, like he truly doesn’t understand what you’re saying. His cheeks are pink, his hair blown from the wind outside, eyes wide and blinking at you like you’re crazy.

“You heard me! I was just some fun fuck before you sealed the deal on your spoiled brat fate.”

Steve’s mouth falls open, then quickly closes, taking a step closer, hands clenched into fists as his brows furrow. His jaw tightens with each word, “I’m not a spoiled brat!”

Another scoff, a cold laugh as you wave your hand again. “Oh please Steve! You used me to bide your time and prolong the inevitable! You were just avoiding looking at the contract you signed!”

Steve stands over you, both of your chests rising and falling in time, the air inside the kitchen warmer from the oven being on all day and your words shouted at each other - the sparks leaping from your bodies and engulfing each other. 

“I didn’t use you! You offered! It was all your idea! I’m so sick of this-”

You shove at his chest and he grabs your wrists, as you mock him, voice dripping with fake pity, “Oh, poor Steve Harrington. I have to get married and say goodbye to my single life, but let me use this girl-”

“This isn’t about me, I have to make decisions that affect my whole family, I can’t just say no! And what was I supposed to do? The person I want doesn’t want me!” HIs voice cracks as he drops your hands, fire cracking and sizzling between you both. His admission, the chance to tell him he’s wrong, that you do want him, makes your heart beat turn rapid, like it’s actually trying to punch its way out of your body. 

You shake your head, pushing down the flames of hope threatening to burn you alive, pushing him away. “You saw an opportunity to postpone but not fully deny. It’s fine Steve, I get it. It was the safe option.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Grabbing the pie, you sob, “Security. Money. You couldn’t say no to them. And then when I offered to fuck you no strings attached? Man,” you scoff out another laugh around your tears, “You probably thought you won the lottery, huh?”

Steve grabs for the pie, his eyes wet as he shakes his head. Voice hoarse as he argues, “You’re so unbelievably wrong. I couldn’t fucking wait for you to maybe, hopefully, open up one day! I have to move on! And it’s not like she’s a bad person, and I don’t know why we’re arguing about this again, because clearly you’re with Eddie.”

You tug harder on the dish but Steve doesn’t release as you cry out, “Oh! No! Don’t even try that! Eddie and I aren’t together and we never were! You’re using that as an excuse! Tell me Steve. Tell me you love her, that you want to marry her.”

“I-”

“Is that what your future looks like? Huh? Ten years down the road, it’s her? That’s what you imagined and not your parents?”

“Y/N, it’s not that simple!”

“It is! What do you want, Steve?”

You need him to tell you and he needs you to tell him and neither of you will - because you’re scared, stubborn. Two suns burning too hot and close together, and it was inevitable for it to end this way. You both stood on the edge of that cliff and saw the end you’d meet and you jumped anyway. Was it worth it? 

“I can’t believe you two.” 

This is the moment. 

It wasn’t when he showed up at the football game with her. It wasn’t the party. It wasn’t the engagement.

It’s the look Robin is giving you both from her spot in the doorway. It’s the pie and the glass dish hitting the floor in shards of sapphire blue and orange peaches. It’s Steve and you both turning to her, shaking your heads no, saying her name in the same pleading way.

Her bright blue eyes turn to glass as she chokes around a tearful laugh, “I knew, I knew you both were hiding something, I just…why? Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Nancy reaches for Robin’s wrist, “Robin, they didn’t mean to…”

Robin recoils, swiping at her cheeks. She looks at Nancy, then at Steve whose head falls, his hands in his hair. Eddie looks down too when Robin turns to him and she steps back again. “Everyone knew, huh? You all have been lying to me this entire time? Why? I don’t…” She shakes her head again and runs past you both, down the hall and slams the door. 

Steve starts to go after her when a small frame stands in front of him like she’s twice his size, hand pressing to his chest. Fury burns in Nancy’s eyes as she blocks the hallway. Her voice low and far more angry than you’ve heard it be before. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“Nance, come on, that’s not fair,” Steve steps forward again and when she stops him with two hands now, his voice turns sharper, “Don’t act like you’re the only one who cares about her.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a funny way of showing it Steve.” Nancy looks at you, “I think you should leave. All of you.”

Eddie grabs your elbow, speaking quietly, “I can drive you home.”

Steve laughs, “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

“Steve,” you start and he interrupts you, hands running down his face. 

“No. It’s fine. It’s all my fault right? I’m the only one in the wrong?” He pushes past you, shoulder hitting Eddie’s hard and the door slamming even more so behind him. Pictures rattle against the wall, Nancy and her family's smiling faces tilted in their frame. The world turned off its axis. 

It’s Nancy’s quiet knock from down the hall, Robin’s shouted ‘leave her alone’ and Eddie’s sigh of ‘fucking, christ’. It’s that there you stand, the door closed behind him, the mess you made, literally, surrounding you. 

This, the consequences of all of your actions - is the double tap. 

You let the mess build, you let the avoided truths take deeper roots and spread lies to cover them up. All because you wanted the hope to stay - you wanted it both ways - despite telling yourself different, despite lying to yourself for months.

Now, it’s too late. You’re just a girl who isn’t in a rom com with a happy ending. You’re alone, and the hope that maybe you wouldn’t be for once isn’t just gone, it’s ripped from your fingers. 

The book is closed. The knife drips in the killer’s hand as the victim’s chest stops heaving. The spacesuit floats through a noiseless and lifeless galaxy. The body doesn’t get up from the mats and a silence falls over the crowd. 

“Fuck!”

Your hands smack the steering wheel, a sob leaving you as your forehead falls against it. 

You’ve been driving around for hours, hopeless. Your heart hasn’t stopped its erratic and hard beats since you ran out of Nancy’s. Somehow your body still courses with adrenaline, fight or flight still at war inside of yourself. Every time you think about the look Robin had on her face, every time you think about how much you hurt her, or how you may not see her again, you feel real, visceral, pain and panic. Your hands start shaking, the crying starts its cycle over from scratch, and you have to pull over until the snot sobbing stage settles into a calm, sort of silent cry. 

This is a mess, and it’s your mess. Despite wanting to put all of the blame on Steve, you simply can’t run from this truth anymore. It was you who came up with the plan. Steve was hesitant immediately, bringing Robin’s thoughts up right away. It was you who came up with the Red Hot Ranch code, who kept going. It was you who called it off and started it up again despite knowing how it would all inevitably end. It feels like you pushed Steve off the cliff and thought it was okay because you were diving after him. 

As you stare out the windshield, you know you have to stop running. Eddie’s words ring through the air.

Open the fucking door. Nobody’s leaving you.

You have to at least try, right? You have to apologize to her, to tell her it was all your fault so if she at least doesn’t forgive you, maybe you can offer a crack in the door to her forgiveness for the others. The others who simply got caught up in your lies, tripping over the tangled knot of roots they took.  

You’re certain Robin and you met how and when you did not by chance, the universe gave you each other for a reason. You’re certain that there are soul mates, they’re just not in the form you always suspect. And you’re certain that if you don’t try to make things right, you’ll be miserable and truly alone for the rest of your life.

Robin once told you that she was there, and that she would be there when you were ready and you hope the offer still stands. Maybe you can’t make everything right, you can’t rewind, but you have to at least try to make the ending bearable. 

When you turn the key in the ignition though, your car sputters. Your face twists into an expression of disbelief, only deepening when it does it again and your mouth falls open in shock when it suddenly starts to rain, mixing with snow that melts immediately on the ground. You laugh, looking out the windshield at the bleak and miserable sky, washing out the city in a dull gray. 

“Of fucking course,” you mumble under your breath. Getting out of the car, you sigh as you lock it. You shield your eyes as you stare up at the sky and laugh, “You’re real funny. Great joke.”

Maybe it was a sign from the universe that you needed to really work for it, maybe it was bad karma, maybe you really deserved it, maybe it was even supposed to be a blessing - washing away the past to clear the slate for the future. 

Regardless of reason, you don’t take the train, and you make the slow and wet walk back to where you came from. 

The buzzer for her place rings with no answer. You know that she’s home because the light is on, and you intercepted her take out. 

“Buckley I’ll keep buzzing, your egg rolls are getting cold!”

When she doesn’t answer again, you sigh, pressing your wet forehead to the cold brick and hold it down again, pulling out the big guns. “Okay, Robin, I, listen. I am so sorry. And if you want to hate me and never see me again, that’s totally fine, I understand. Because honestly, I am…I am scum for lying to you. I am pond scum. I’m lower than pond scum. I am the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

You release the buzzer and when there still isn’t a click of her responding your chin trembles. Maybe you really did fuck it up that badly and there is no coming back from this. It was silly of you to think she’d ever forgive you, especially when she has Steve. You’re about to set the food down and buzz again to tell her you’ll leave when the front door opens. 

“You’re lower actually.” 

A sob leaves you as Robin stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her favorite Hawkins Band sweatshirt. The fuzzy lime green socks with banjos on them that you got her for her birthday on her feet.  

You nod, swiping at your tears with a free hand. “You’re right. Lower than the fungus. I’m the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

Robin’s lips twitch, but she rolls her eyes before they look at the ground. “Quoting Julia Roberts is really unfair. You know how much of a sucker I am for her. Cheap shot.”

A crack in the tightness in your chest starts to pry open as you whisper, “I almost bought roses and had this plan to blare classical music from my car but it broke down and…well, here I am anyways, asking for forgiveness and a chance to explain.”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting, and your chin trembles as your voice shakes, “Robin I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to lie to you about it all for so long. And there were so many times I wanted to tell you. I was selfish and wrong and scared I would lose you - that you’d pick his side and shut me out - but I’m here trying now…please don’t hate me forever. And don’t hate Steve. He did nothing wrong. Or Nancy, or Eddie. It was all me and I’m so, so, so, sorry, please let me explain everything and give me another chance to be even half the amazing friend that you are.”

It’s silent, for what feels like forever, until her eyes meet yours. Shining from tears and her nose wiggles as she sniffles, “You were going to Pretty Woman me?”

You nod, tears roll down your cheeks and mingle with the rain that coats them. 

Robin sighs, choking on her own tears as she laughs, “You just get me.”

She engulfs you in a hug and both of you cry into each other’s shoulders as she says, “I’m still mad you all lied. You’re not off the hook. I think giving me limitless veto power for movie nights is extremely fair and nonnegotiable.” 

Your body feels lighter than it has in months as your arm tightens around her as you agree with a teary laugh, whispering another apology while silently vowing to never let her go. It doesn’t matter what happens next, because at least you have her, and you know you always will. 

Robin trips on a heel as she emerges from her closet. Tilting your head at the dress she holds up, your nose scrunches as you shake your head no. 

She sighs, throwing it on the no pile and groans, “Ugh! This is hopeless!”

As she flops onto her bed with a huff, you laugh and swap places with her, “No, no, come on. Tell me again.”

Robin sits up, staring at her dresser with a furrow forming under her bangs. “I want to look professional, put together, but not like it’s an interview, you know? I want them to take me seriously, but I want to look like me. Ergo, I am doomed.”

Your fingers trail over her clothes, eyes searching again after they roll. “Ergo, you’ve been facetiming Dustin too much.”

A black dress catches your eyes, velvet and cinched at the waist. Pulling it from her closet you hold it up. “What about this? I’ve never seen you wear it. Is it new?”

Her head tilts, “Huh. I forgot I bought that for…” she trails off and looks at you with a sad smile. “Right. Yeah, you don’t think it’s too low cut?”

You shake your head no, taking a deep breath at her change of subject, thoughts drifting to if she bought it for the wedding or something related to it. Maybe you could ask, but you’ve sort of had a non-verbal agreement to not discuss Steve the last month and it’s been working. After explaining everything to her, including how you felt about him getting married, your complicated feelings, it just felt easier to not discuss anything relating to him. 

“Throw a nice necklace on, you’ll be perfect babe,” you make an a-okay symbol with your fingers, “The Wheeler’s aren’t gonna know what hit em.” You smile and look at the clock on her nightstand, handing the dress out to her, “Get to it though, or you’ll be late.”

Robin makes no move to get up, holding the dress in her hands and staring at it. 

She shakes her head no. “I can’t do this.”

Sitting next to her, the bed bounces lightly and you grab her hand. “You absolutely can do this. It’s just meeting the parents and siblings, all of whom you’ve met already.”

“But not as her girlfriend. When I met them she wasn’t even out. What if they hate me? What if I spill something? What if I order the wrong wine?”

Laughing, you hold her panicking face in your hands, taking a deep breath to encourage her to do so too. “Robin. Breathe.”

She does, her exhale shaky and you smile, head tilting as you let her face go, fixing a curl you smooshed. “You really love her don’t you.”

It’s not a question, but Robin answers anyway. She nods vehemently, words tumbling out of her like she can’t help it. “God so much it’s scary. But also not? I want to spend every second with her. I want to tell her about every dumb little thought that pops into my head and I want to hear what she ate for lunch every day. I want to wake up and fall asleep next to her and that’s insane! How can you love a person like that so quickly? Like everything in your body is screaming for it? It’s…it’s that kind of love I’ve only heard about before? That kind of love…” she trails off, maroon polished fingers covering her smile before she keeps going, “It’s easier than breathing. It is breathing, you know?”

As she says the words that prick at something inside of you, prodding on thoughts you’d locked away, her skin pales, looking like she’s going to be sick. “Oh my god I really can’t do this. I can’t-”

“Robin. One step at a time. Change your outfit, you can do that right?”

She laughs, head falling to your shoulder, a sing-song lilt to her voice, “We’ve been here before.”

“Yeah and look at what happened.”

Robin sits up, biting her lip, nodding once and standing. “Right.”

As she changes, you assess her jewelry box. Your eyes roam over the mirror of her vanity, smiling at the pictures. You pause at the one of her and Steve that’s new to you. He has his tongue out, her arm around him and your fingers touch the corner, an ache in your chest wondering what they were doing and what stories they’ll have from the day. 

“Have you talked to him?”

Her question startles you and your shoulders lift. Clearing your throat, you hold the necklace out to her. “No, um, I haven’t. He’s good?”

Robin starts to hook the necklace as she hums, “I think so. It’s hard to tell some days.” She hesitates, her face pinched into a familiar look to you, the one that looks like she’s physically holding words in, a true test for her. She bends down to buckle her heels as she asks, “Is it always going to be this way? Avoiding talking about each other? Seeing each other?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just need some time. I’ll be okay.” Shrugging with a smile, you grab your purse and coat. 

Robin’s blue eyes sparkle under shimmering gold eyeshadow and she tilts her head, a smile forming on her lips as she nods, confident in her words, “You will be. One step at a time.”

“Cute,” you muse, and take a step back. You twirl your fingers for her to spin and she rolls her eyes but obliges. The black velvet dress cuts off at her calves, hugging her curves in a sexy but modest way and the gold pendant on her necklace matches the blocky old-fashioned heels. You yell out, “Ow-ow!” 

Robin laughs, waving you off and grabs her phone. “Okay picture!”

“Ew, Robin no! You look so good and I am literally in my sweatshirt with the mustard stain on it.” 

She shushes you, “Tough tater tots toots.”

She pulls you in as you laugh, both of you easily falling into a goofy pose as she snaps a selfie. She nods her approval and grabs her coat, “Oh yeah, that one’s definitely going on the board.” She clicks her phone closed and you both head towards the stairwell. 

As you step out of her apartment building, Nancy is getting out of an Uber, an emerald peacoat wrapped around her and she stops, eyes only on Robin. 

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling, “Wow. You’re so beautiful.”

Robin’s face turns as red as her nails and you duck your head. “Well, I think that’s my cue to leave. Have a good night,” you squeeze Nancy’s hand, “Tell your brother and El hey from me?”

She squeezes it back, confirming she will, and holds the door open for Robin, then jogs around to the other side and you have to smile at her lack of wanting to scoot across the seat or maybe it’s just her old fashioned, secret romantic side coming out. 

As you start to walk away, you hear your name and spin back around, Robin is leaning out of the window, smiling wide as she asks, “Benny’s tomorrow? 10?”

“I expect a full report!” You cross your arms over your chest, fore and middle fingers crossed in a good luck to her that she mirrors as the car drives away. 

The walk to the train from there is short, your car still out of commission, and you pop your airpods in, debating how your evening will go. Eddie is already home for Christmas with his uncle in Indiana, Robin and Nancy together tonight, and Steve…

Before them, an evening alone like this never would have bothered you. Eating what you wanted to eat, watching what you wanted to watch - you got good at being alone, enjoying it actually. Now, there’s a funny little feeling that pulls at a thread inside of you, trying to unravel the work you’ve done. 

As you wait for the train, pulling your winter hat tighter over your ears, you watch a couple come up the stairs. They have shopping bags in their hands, dressed in warm, wool coats. Giggly, pink cheeks, gloved hands clinging to each other. They sit just down from where you stand against the railing when you get on, huddled together as they look at a map on his phone, and you wonder what their story is - where they were, where they’re going, and if they love each other. It seems like they do, and you wonder if it’s the kind of love Robin explained.

How can anyone love like that aside from fictional people in the movies? How can you love someone so deeply and intensely, without fear of it being ripped away?

But maybe people do fear it being ripped away, and they love regardless. Fear doesn’t make love disappear, it makes it stronger. Because what if that person is gone one day? What if you never told them how you felt? What if you never even got the chance to see if you could love like that? Isn’t it better to try than never know?

As you look out the train doors, the sky is turning a soft pink and purple. The sun is setting over the city in one of those perfect nights, slow, like each color being revealed is a purposeful brushstroke, hand painted. A sign. 

Sunsets. Steve. A good song. Steve. Your friends. Steve. Your family. Steve. 

Easier than breathing. 

An undeniable, unavoidable, unforgiving wave of heartbreak rolls over you. But it’s not alone, it’s hope, it’s questions and answers, it’s relief and clarity and you know what you have to do. 

You unlock your phone, a desperation and need to get all of it out now, fueling each press of your thumbs to the screen. Maybe the story is wrong, but you’re the main character, narrator, and author and you can change it if you just put in the work to do so. Tears begin to fall down your cheeks, and you let them, unashamed, finally free of the place you’ve kept them locked away. Pressing send on the message, you hold your breath, hoping she’s not already too preoccupied with Nancy. 

The train doors open and you rush down the stairs. Each step slams against the sidewalk, sending shocks up your spine, cold air filling your lungs as each stride brings you closer to him, but not fast enough. You have to try to change the story, you have to tell him.  

But when his location is just out of your reach, when you see him, you slow down. 

Steve stands beneath the gold twinkling lightbulbs of the old brick theater, the white marquee sign displaying the title ‘When Harry Met Sally’. He has a black beanie on, hair sticking out and curling slightly. A dark gray peacoat flutters against the back of his thighs in the wind, open to reveal the yellow sweater he has on and your feet come to a skidding stop. His phone is pressed to his ear as he looks up from where he was scuffing his Nike against the sidewalk and makes eye contact with you. 

Your heart beat has thoroughly been replaced again as your hands start to shake, each slow step to him stretched out and lingering, lasting for what feels like minutes instead of seconds. 

What if. What if. What if.

The phone slips, hand falling to his side. His brows furrow just under his hat and you want to reach forward and brush the worry away with your thumb. His greeting leaves him quietly, a puff of his breath and the word floating in the air just a few feet from you.

 “Hi.”

Gesturing with a trembling hand to the sign above that you can no longer see, fully under the gold lights, you blurt out, “Did you know that it came out in 89’? So technically it’s a bad 80s rom com. I was wrong.”

Steve shakes his head, the twinkle of the lights highlighting the brown in his eyes, warm and sweet and deeply confused as he starts, “What are you-”

“I was wrong about a lot of things, Steve. And I know I’m late in saying that. I know I’m late for a lot more, but I think it’s better to say it late, to say it now, than to never tell you and wonder for the rest of my life.”

Steve’s lips part, your name a whisper on them, but you take a deep inhale and prepare to get it all out fast and without fear of needing a breath akin to the way Robin speaks, just so you can leave yourself open and vulnerable despite knowing that it could, and most likely will, hurt. 

“I’m sorry if Leigh is inside or she’s gonna be here soon, but I have to tell you. I…Steve I’m sorry. I wanted to be friends with benefits because I was selfish. You were right. I wanted it both ways. At first, you were just this guy who was hot and funny and knew what he was doing and I didn’t want to lose that. But then, then I got to know you and that’s when it got complicated, because I really didn’t want to lose you then.” You swallow as Steve freezes in front of you, no longer stepping towards you and his shoulders hunch like he’s holding his breath as you keep going.

“I wanted you, but I was scared to commit, scared that if I did commit, I’d lose you all anyways. And I still am scared. Terrified,” you laugh a little as tears start to roll down your cheeks, “But I think being scared is worth it if I’m doing it with you. Because…” Inhaling, you take a step closer as Steve blinks at you, willing the words to keep coming.

“Because I think we could be something special if we gave it a real chance. And I think that we can’t know what’s going to happen, maybe it all blows up in our faces, but at least we tried and we’ll know and we won’t spend our lives wondering what if.” Tears blur your vision as you leave it all out there, words that feel like they’ve wanted to tumble out of you forever just keep coming, faster and faster, your hands gesturing wildly with each one, stepping closer and closer to him.

“And I want to try so badly Steve. I want to hold your hand in public and go on dates and tease you and make memories with you and I think we could fall in love, I think I was already starting to. Like real love. Like that undeniable, scary, kind of love, and I’m sorry you’ll have to wait for me to get there to say it, but if you give it a chance…I think we’re worth the wait. I don’t care that I’m saying all of this too late, I don’t care that you’re getting married because at least I said it and if you wanna stand up there and say I do to her in May then that’s fine, I can move on, maybe, I think, because at least I’ll know I tried and-”

“Woah, woah, woah.” 

Steve grabs your shaking hands, interrupting you. Cedar and mint hit your nose as you inhale, his cologne lingering on his scarf. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. One hand leaves yours, fingers curling under your chin as he murmurs, “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re…” you hiccup a laugh through your tears, “What?”

He tilts his head and clears his throat, repeating it as his thumb brushes a tear from your cheek, fingers squeezing your hand. “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re not getting married,” you repeat it again, quieter, letting the words sink in. 

Steve shakes his head no, the back of his knuckles brushing more tears from your cheek as he lets out a shaky breath. “I called it off the day after…after everything.”

“Oh,” you swallow, eyes blinking up at him under wet lashes as the reality of the extremely vulnerable words you practically just shouted at him sit unreciprocated still, unable to be taken back. 

Steve’s lips twitch on the right, like he’s fighting a smile, eyebrows furrowed deeper as he sighs, “Yeah. Quit my job too.”

“What? Steve, why, what-”

His fingers trace your jaw as he shakes his head again, rolling his eyes but the smile fighting on his lips wins. “This girl that drives me crazy basically quoted The Notebook scene at me and I decided I’d rather have the life I wanted, have her, or have nothing at all. But I didn’t think she felt the same way, and I wasn’t going to push her again.”

You smile, a laugh bubbling out of you as you shake your head, “You’re crazy about me?”

Steve laughs, his hat bumping yours as your foreheads touch. You drop his hand, both of yours pressing to the soft yellow material against his chest. His breath warm against your cheek as you ask, “So what happens now?”

He pulls away, forehead leaving yours and creating a small space between the two of you, you already want closed again. The lights make the green almost disappear from his eyes, golden, sunshine pulling you in and making you beg for more of it to light you up, a tether, your gravity, just like they’ve always been. 

Steve clears his throat, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the apples of them as he declares, “Well, rule number one, we tell Robin.”

“Deal,” you tilt your head, playing his game. Your hands slowly crawl up his chest, wrapping around his neck, playing with the collar of the coat as you throw out, “Pet names?”

Steve nods dramatically, pinching his eyes closed, “Oh yeah. So many.” He leans in, nose tracing up the line of yours slowly, foreheads knocking together as the tips of your shoes meet. “I’m gonna call you babe and honey loudly at the grocery store for no reason other than I can.”

“Yeah?” Your top lip hits his with the lift of your smile and question.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Steve’s hands cup the back of your head, tilting you open for him as he ducks down, mouth hovering above yours as he speaks like you’re the only two people in the world. 

“But right now? Right now I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Which bad 90s rom com you steal that one out of, Harrington?” You whisper against his lips. 

Steve smiles, gaze tracing the curve of your lips then meeting yours as he takes a deep breath. 

“You liked it.” 

And maybe the marquee lights twinkle above you a little brighter as you finally meet in a kiss. Maybe snowflakes start drifting down from the clouds lazily, covering everything in a fresh start right at the moment his hands wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your back arching from the passion of his kiss. Maybe a terrible top forty song blares out of someone’s car as it drives past, your foot popping off the pavement a little when he pulls away for a breath only to lean and kiss you deeper and slower. 

The universe can’t guarantee anything for you and Steve, but it is giving you a chance. There is nothing, not even love, that can keep away the inevitable struggle, heartbreak, or loss life will be sure to throw at you. Which is scary, but doing it together, his hand in yours, makes it less so. Yes, it won’t always be easy, but the hard work you’ll both put in when it isn’t, means it’s real. There is no one other than yourselves who can decide if your relationship could be like the movies. The two of you are the only ones that can calculate if there’s still time for a happy ending in your story. Only Steve and you can be certain that the fear of heartbreak or pain is worth taking the risk, because if you don’t, if you let the chance slip away, you’ll never know if one day you could have called it love. 

WCIL Taglist: @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life @eddiesguitarskills @mannstarkey @keepingitlokiii @silkholland @redbarn1995

[dariaslookalike]

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 7: Fever Dreams and Baths

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 8

-----------------------

You walk home. You don’t know how, hell you don’t really remember it, but you stand at the stoop of your apartment and slot your keys into your door.

You lock it behind yourself and step out of your dress gently. You want to tear it off, rip it to shreds, and gnash it up with your teeth like a rabid animal. But you force your hands to work meticulously, patiently. They’re shaking and red, and you tug at clasps and hooks even when you can’t feel them. The dress makes you want to sob and scream. It clings to you wetly from melted snow and almost suffocates you by the time it drops to the floor.

You kick your heels off, and let yourself sit down beside them. You pick them up and your feet throb. Really, your feet should be killing you. But the snow and ice dulls the pain. You vaguely register that blood is dribbling from somewhere on your sole, yet you make no move to bandage them.

The heels are black. Glittery. Perfectly sized. They had sat aside your shoe rack since Chase had given them to you, and each time you saw them you became so excited to be able to wear them. Chase. Chase gave them to you. Chase who knew. Chase who kept quiet with the rest of them until it was too late. Chase who told you while Cameron stared at you like a wounded animal and Foreman couldn’t even at you. You throw the shoe as hard as you can, and it thuds against your coffee tables. You pelt the other and don’t see where it lands.

You should probably take a shower. Wipe the makeup off your face. Warm up. Why aren’t you warming up?

Instead, you scratch your nails down your face, not hard enough to draw blood. You can’t feel the contact through your fingers or your cheeks and you do it again and again and again and again until stinging sensations begin to break through the numbness.

You don’t know how long you sit there, in the middle of your entryway, next to your crumpled dress. You stare into nothing. The floorboards warp and merge with each other and eventually you don’t see them.

Hours feel as if they’ve passed but in all actuality it could only be a few minutes. You don’t know. You don’t care. You walk on heavy feet towards your bedroom, leaving behind a fleckered trail of blood and water, still dripping from you.

You collapse onto your bed, surrounded by complete darkness. Even your neighbours are silent; you hate them nonetheless. You should reach around in the darkness, grab a blanket and warm up. You just lay there, your skin rippling with goose bumps and your lungs drawing in shallow breaths.

You expect the tears to come. You expect them to burst from your eyeballs and flood your room and drown you in a terrible end. They don’t. Not even one.

It’s worse this way. You would have been spared if you cried. You were an ugly crier, and by that you meant that you heaved and sniffed and sobbed and wobbled and dribbled; you were loud and messy and distracting. Now, in the silence of your room and the dryness of your eyes, you were left alone with your thoughts.

You slapped him. Your lips almost tilt up at that, at the incredulous look on his face and the stinging in your hand. You don’t smile though when you remember that you quit. You had to though. You either slap your boss and quit or slap your boss, get fired and arrested.

You should have done it harder. You should’ve taken that silver key and jammed it up his nostril; twisted it too. Or maybe kicked his cane out from under him and dragged him down the hallway by the handle. All that shit he said.

Is that what he thought? Is that what he saw? Were you really the same girl that you had left behind in the town you grew up in? Were you the same girl who sobbed into her pillow at night and screamed at her father and hated him and still wished he had been different? Were you the same girl who in spite of her nervous stutter and shaky hands would lap up any attention given to her by a coach, a teacher, a stranger?

You run your blue fingers down your face and shake your head. The movement makes you keenly aware of your soaked hair resting against your neck. No. You weren’t that girl anymore. You wouldn’t let yourself entertain the idea of it. House wasn’t right about jack shit. You knew the experience of liking men when you were still that girl; the giddy smiles, the breath caught in your throat, the butterflies caged in your stomach. Liking House, if that was truly what you did before he threw it in your face, was nothing like that; it was shameful and annoying and pathetic. Because that’s what House was. That’s what House wanted everyone to see him as.

He got what he wanted. The rose tinted glasses were now off and the harsh reality was seeping in. If House didn’t want to be loved, he never could be.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. He doesn’t matter. Yes, you were vulnerable and exposed for once. You didn’t know what it was; lust, attraction, boredom? You would have to wrestle through feelings and dumpster dive through emotions just to grab that little, fading kernel of attraction and label it, and that wasn’t worth it. Once again, you had proven to yourself that it, lust, attraction, boredom or something else, was pointless. You were better off alone.

You don’t register when the dark ceiling becomes the dark of your eyelids, and you fall asleep naked atop your bed sheets.

———————

Hours pass by feverishly, and you wrestle atop your thin cotton bed sheets. You soak through them with sweat but shiver the whole night. Everything aches. The bleeding blisters on your feet now feel like stab wounds that are being pinched and your joints grind and grate against each other with each movement. You don’t lay long on one side because your muscles begin to scream out and you’re awoken in fits of pain before you restlessly slip back to sleep.

You don’t remember getting out of bed but suddenly you’re lurched over the toilet bowl and retching. You vomit until you reach bile and even then, your body is wracked with shivers and your stomach curdles until you vomit again.

You fall asleep against the toilet bowl until you’re awoken again and tip your head forward as acid burns your throat. You don’t know how you make it back to your bed, but the next time you awake from thrashing and kicking out at your wall, you’re atop your mattress again. You must have grabbed at clothes in your freezing mind because you have a stained, inside out pyjama shirt on now. You soak through that too, and the wet material makes you colder.

Hallucinations visit you vividly in the night. Some are fleeting and you can only grasp at vague recollections of them in your mind. Others are as real as day. You see your grandmother’s cat lying at the foot of your bed, but no matter how much you beg her to come and sleep by your side while you shiver uncontrollably, she doesn’t move. Later you see your childhood best friend; you had stopped speaking over something so trivial, so pointless, but it feels as if you’re back to being sisters again. She smiles at you and shakes her head. Her voice sounds melodic when she speaks, “What are you doing, goof? I thought we agreed that only Prince Charming and Daniel-from-school’s older brother are the only ones we’ll be with.” You want to tell her that Daniel’s older brother wasn’t actually that hot, he just knew guitar, but she’s gone by the time you creak open your dry mouth.

You’re slick with sweat and yet somehow in your fever you knew House would show up, and he does. He says nothing for a while. He just stands, leaning against his cane. You try to focus on his face but it warps and becomes twisted the harder you try. Your lips are cracked and you rasp out unintelligible words. He just rolls his eyes. “You shouldn’t be upset. It was more Cuddy’s fault then mine.” You garble angrily at him and he huffs. “Fine, it was kind of mine. But you slapped me. We’re even.”

You don’t know if you are. You want to tell him all the reasons you hate him and all the reasons you like him, and how you might need to slap him a few more times to be even, but instead you mumble out, “Prick.”

The night feels endless and torturous. You’re met with more pain and visions and only when you manage to crawl to the kitchen and dry swallow medicine and panadol do you pass out fully on your lounge room rug.

———————

You’re going to throw up. Again.

You thought you had made it past the worst of this sickness, albeit aided with medicine and drugs. But instead your head is pounding, pounding, pounding, like a harsh knock at a door, and with each knock, butcher’s knives split your brain. You can practically see the knives, feel their sharp tips and dull handles slamming against your skull. You groan and lay there, clutching at your head until you realise it is a knocking at your door.

You stagger in near delirium across your house, and whip open your front door. “Will you be quiet!?”

Your head is reeling. Hallucinations are back, you decide promptly, because Gregory House is standing at your door. You groan.

“Huh.” He says, looking downwards.

Your head is a dumbbell against your neck but to the best of your ability, you tilt it up and squint at the hallucination. He’s got the same silver stubble, the same long face, the same blue eyes. It makes you dizzy but you repeat his words to him. “Huh?”

He suddenly bends at the waist, leaning his weight onto his cane. Near theatrically, he whips his head up to look at you. “You have painted toenails. I thought that was only for 16 year old girls and the fitness bloggers who spend more time on pedicures than teaching their kids the difference between left and right.”

Its weak, and scratchy, but you still bite back. “Aw, someone sounds upset that Mummy likes her nail polish collection more than her neurotic son.” Your words lose their weight when you drawl and garble out a few of them.

Hallucination-House understands you perfectly. “'Sounds like you're projecting, Mummy.”

The snarkiness. The rudeness. The downright cockiness. You reach out a hand and swing at him for pure shits and giggles. It kills your muscles to move, but you image the contact of a professional boxer and force your body to follow through with the movement. Instead, you make a pathetic fist against his shoulder and he stares down at your hand like a bug.

“Oh, you’re real?”

He raises back to his full height and splays his hands out in front of himself. “Last time I checked, yes. But if you like, I’ll let you do a full body search and you can come to your own conclusion.”

Its the fever. Definitely the fever. You flush more than you like at his words, and the sensible voice in your head is quick to remind you that this is House. You hate him right now. But, after spending hours or days- what day was?- in agony, the charity event seems an eternity away. The fever however, doesn’t seem to care about that.

House pauses, awaiting your reply. He cocks an eyebrow and you can almost see the exact words lined up, ready to spill, so you rush to speak. “I’m. Sick.” The words make your head pound. “I couldn’t call out of work.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve haven’t shown up to work for three days. Like an idiot, I'm sure you got sick from walking home in fucking snow.”

Ah. Shit. Three days had past in your delirium?

Not that it mattered. You quit, right? He’s looking at you like you’ve just grown a second head but you continue to ramble on. “If you’re here to rip me a new one about hospital policy and ‘letting my team down’,” You do mocking air quotes with your shaking fingers, “Then I’m sorry to disappoint but I’ll probably end up throwing up on your sneakers more than anything else.”

He looks almost bewildered, which is an odd expression to see on House. “What?”

You blink back at him as he continues speaking, almost incredulously. “For one thing, I know I’m a cripple but god,” He pops out the last syllable, “I’m still able to dodge vomit as well as the next doctor. And in what world do I show up to your house just to berate you?”

“This world. You would show up to my house just to berate me, in this world.”

He chews his cheek for a second, seeming to debate the best line of insult and mockery he can reply. But in the gap he leaves, you deflate. His sudden appearance was rejuvenating, momentarily, but now you feel just as weak and tired as you did before, if not more. You sigh, “Why are you here, House? Fire me if you’re going to fire me.”

Now it's his turn to tilt his head, and he huffs out your last name “You're sick. You might not register that under all the cough medicine you’ve been huffing during your fever, but you are. And you’re alone.”

You shift to lean on the doorway. “Yes. Don’t tell me you’ve come to warn me of the dangers of living a miserable, lonely, ‘stick in the mud’ life.” His jaw clenches when you throw his words back at him from the other night, and you wheeze out a laugh. “You should go. You hate me, right?”

There’s a beat of silence and he looks angry, his jaw still clenched and a vein bouncing on his temple.

And then he says something you wish that you had CIA recording technology prepared for.

“I’m sorry.”

There was no bells and whistles or shiny strings attached to House’s apology. No explanation. No reasoning. Simply sorry.

You lurch to the side and vomit; House stays true to his gloating and steps back immediately. You lean back up and wipe at your mouth with a shaking hand. There’s a moment of silence between the two of you, the same moment of peak tension before a bubble pops or the crest of a roller coaster where you’re not sure that you’re still moving.

But then he leaps past the puddle you created and through your door. You turn and see him surveying your entryway. “Bedroom?”, he calls out.

You could kick him out. Throw his sorry arse back into your vomit. But, you close your front door and in your feverish state, it almost feels as if that was an action of forgiveness. As if you accepted his apology. Not that you would tell him that.

“Take me out to dinner first, Doc, jeez. Oh but we did that already, right?” You point both of your thumbs down and make a raspberry sound.

At that, his eyebrows cinch together. He reaches forward, and you try to raise a heavy hand to bat his away, but you’re too slow. He touches your forehead and swears. “You’re burning up, jesus. How did you even get out of bed?”

“Well,” You pause, breathing deeply and trying to ignore that his hand was now cupping your cheek. “Someone was pounding on my door and wouldn’t leave til I answered it.”

You turn from him, and he hastily drops his hand from your face, as if he didn’t realise what he was doing. Without saying anything, you shuffle down the hallway.

Your ratty, old and oversized band tee was slick with sweat, you smelled like vomit, and you had deep bags under your eyes. But as you walked away from him, you could feel his eyes trailing up your calves, your thighs, your little bed shorts. Still the same, perverted House.

You’re sure that another time, when you’re feeling better and not looking like you want to murder him as you do now, he’ll tease you about this. Your wrestled-with bed, your stuffed animals in the corner (a large bear, a fat duck and a round cat, all peering at him intensely), your faded, dusty pink walls, your cluttered desk and overflowing drawers, your artworks haphazardly strewn in a corner.

At those, he pauses. “You paint?”

You sigh, crawling onto your bed. You don’t get under the covers, and you can see by the slight squint of his eyes that he notices. “I thought you knew everything about me. Don’t talk so loudly, it hurts.”

House reaches out, and begins to flip through the canvases and painted boards. There’s a pair of calloused, ageing hands. Blue and bloodshot eyes. The back of a silvery, short cropped head.

It appears that he’s not so idiotic that he can’t recognise himself across all your artworks. He turns to you, but you’re not looking at him, instead lethargically fanning yourself and panting.

“House,” A deep, shuddering breath. “It’s so hot.”

You don’t register him striding towards you, but you feel his hand against your forehead again. “Come on, Newbie, where’s your bathroom? Do you have a bath?”

You pale, and before he can even stop you, you lurch out of bed. He goes to steady you, but you run on shaky legs towards an adjoining door to your room. He follows you, just in time to see you lurched over the toilet bowl and heaving up bile again.

You feel him draw closer, and tears sting at your eyes with the acidity in your throat. You thought he would stay in your room or simply watch you from afar but he reaches forward to grab at your hair and hold it at your neck. He doesn’t rub your spine or smooth down your hair, but that gesture alone was tender for House.

There’s moments where you stop, but your body is quick to hunch back to the toilet and continue vomiting. Finally, after what feels like forever, you are able to breathe and lean against the rim. It’s gross, and unhygienic, but the porcelain is cool against your burning cheeks and you couldn’t care less.

You feel House retreat, and you wonder if that pushed him too far. The vomit down your chin, the sweat on your back, the shivers through your body. But then you hear running water and you turn to see him twisting the taps for your bathtub.

He hobbles back to you and his face swarms your vision. You don’t reply when he states “Up,” but you let him reach under your armpits and pull you up to stand on wobbly knees.

He frowns when you don’t fight him or make a snarky comment or try to slap at his hands. “Can you undress yourself?”

You blink at him, and you try not to gag again. Instead your shaky hands reach for your top, and you pull it over your head. You can’t find it in yourself to care. He had seen far better and far worse bodies, you were sure of it. And what you were even more certain of, was that he would have no reason to care. His apology didn’t change the fact that he was insistent that there was nothing between you, that he didn’t like you or even remotely think of you that way. Maybe he would make a joke about you acting like a hooker. Whatever.

When your shorts and underwear pool at your feet, you don’t hesitate to reach forward and lean against House. His hand rests against the small of your back, and if you were more cognitive at the moment you would have been almost shocked it didn’t dip further down. But he’s respectful and leads you to the bathtub, which is now full with cool water.

He winces when you put more weight on him, and raise yourself over the lip of the tub. But then you detach yourself from him, and you ease yourself down, laying in the water and placing your head at the end as your eyes droop. Behind you, there is a variety of soapy formulas, conditioners, shampoos, body washes, all tucked into the corner.

He clears his throat and tsks. “Don’t fall asleep. I won’t be able to carry you back to bed, and wouldn’t that be a mediocre death? Drowning in your own bathtub? You deserve something better. Serial killer patient on the loose or Foreman’s pisspoor attempt at cooking.”

You rattle out a tired laugh but find you don’t have anything to reply. For a moment, you sit in silence. Almost comfortable.

But then there’s the clink of his belt hitting the floor and despite your easing fever and tired self, your eyes snap open. “Wow House. Despite all the comments and stares, I never took you as a predator.”

He snorts and you see he’s already kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. His hands are still at his jeans and you track his movement. His eyes flick up to yours. You feel like prey being observed and you still yourself. Whatever he finds there is confirmation enough, and he peels his pants down. Your eyes trail down and you keep yourself still as you take in the silvery and mangled scar tissue of his thigh. When it’s apparent he’s not reaching to take off his boxers, you gently close your eyes and it seems to break the silence by spurring House to speak again. “I don’t stare at you.”.

“Mmhm. Do you hate me so much that you don’t realise it? Everytime I speak in the conference room or hell, even when I’m not speaking, you look at me with so much…Contempt.”

You feel him now, sliding against the tub and coming to sit behind you. His feet sit beside you, the water going up to his lean calves. You decide you want to see his reply and what he’s doing, so you stare up at him, resting your face against his thigh.

He peers down at you, and the line in his brow, that appears when people are being stupid, appears. You’ve seen it when parents deny a certain medicine, or when patients omit part of their history in embarrassment, but oddly enough, you haven’t seen it directed at you. Until now.

“It’s not contempt.”

“Then what is it?” Your eyes bore into him.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, and you can feel your heartbeat against your ribs. You’re not sure what you’re anticipating. You had wanted this at the charity event, wanted him to tell you the truth. And he did. So why were you wanting him to tell you a different truth?

But the moment slips away and he simply says, “You have vomit in your hair. Lean forward.”

A deep, almost shameful blush settles against your cheeks, and you’re happy to oblige in order to hide it. You hear him uncap one of the bottles to your side, and pour the solution into his hands. He gathers your long hair into his hands and lathers the shampoo across your scalp. It’s almost clinical, his actions. As if you were another patient.

You go to speak, but as if he senses that, he places a hand on your bare shoulder and leans forward. He cups at the water by his feet, and pours it onto your head. He repeats the process at least another three times, and you decide to just settle against his thigh again. Your skin doesn’t feel so clammy anymore, but you feel you must still be delirious because you get the insane urge to turn, and bite him. Bite a bruise into his skin and kiss it better.

He stills behind you, and his deep voice fills the room. “I’m going to wash you. Or I can hose you down, but seem too clingy for that.”

You’re too tired to think about it as he moves your hair over your shoulder. There’s a damp cloth over your back, scrubbing gently in circles. Your breath hitches as House leans forward, and the cloth is wiped across your front. For such a sexually inappropriate man, he attempts to avoid your breasts, and is quick to retreat.

“Thank you,” You mumble against his leg, closing your eyes.

“Don’t worry. You can make it up to me. How does taking my clinic hours for a week sound?”

Prick. At that, you really do turn and bite his thigh. He sucks air through his teeth and tenses, but doesn’t push you off as you place a soft, almost mocking, kiss where you nipped at.

“That’s a no, then?” he clears his throat before you can reply or bite him again. “Well, you can make it up to me by not quitting then. I’ll be back.”

He leaves you swiftly, dripping water across your bathroom and quickly dragging his jeans back up his lean legs. The door clicks shut behind him. You’re left in silence, only interrupted by the dripping of a faucet and your own groans of embarrassment.

He was asking you not to quit? After you had slapped him and now bit him? Really?

God you could see it now. Strolling into work in a few days, and the second you’re in the conference room, House proudly produces a rabies shot and tells everyone how vicious you were.

You drag your wet hands down your face and you’re almost tempted to do exactly as you spoke of earlier and drown yourself in your own bathtub. Instead you settle for leaning your face into the water and screaming out bubbles.

You’re only stopped when a hand pulls your shoulder back. House peers down at you. “Clearly, you need to go back to sleep. C’mon.”

It’s almost in a haze that you step out the tub. Both you stand on your fluffy white bath mat, but while he’s dressed now, you’re strikingly naked.

The fever, which has now receeded to a manageable level, has instead left embarrassment in its wake. First biting him and now flashing him again? What will be next?

You gratefully take the towel he offers you, and wrap yourself in it quickly. You see his staring at the growing patch of mold on your roof and you groan. “Don’t judge me. I couldn’t reach it to clean it.”

House rolls his eyes. “We’ll talk about that when you’re more lucid.”

He grabs his cane from where it is propped up by your sink, and together you walk back to your bedroom. You stop however, and turn to him. “You…changed my sheets?”

Was that why he had left earlier? He’s no nonsense and blunt in his response. “They were filthy.”

“How do you even know where my linen is kept? Or my washing machine?”

He dipped his hand into his pocket and produced a thin box of panadol and a vial of cough syrup. “Next you’re going to be asking me how I know where your medicine cupboard is.”

You stare at him, and debate asking him that very thing. But you’re tired and sore, and instead grasp at the medicine, dry swallowing two pills again and using the syrup’s cap to take a shot of it. He stares at you, almost admirably in a sense. For once, you didn’t argue about the treatment.

You settle against your bed and watch as raps his cane against your drawers. “Pajamas are where?” He draws out the last syllables almost in a whine, looking at you quizzically.

“Top drawer.”

He opens it, and whistles, holding up the sheer piece of lingerie that had never seen the light of day.

Shit.

It’s almost comforting when House’s improved bedside manner slips away and he turns to you with his signature smirk in place. If he’s being rude and unbearable, it’s not so embarrassing or difficult to fight back. “Doctor, what are the odds you can give me some treatment wearing this? You see, I’ve got this horrible swelling down below, and I think this would be the perfect remedy.”

You roll your eyes. “God, you act like a thirteen year old boy who has never seen boobs before, let alone had someone else to take care of his boner.”

House theatrically slaps a hand against his chest. “Excuse you, as of today, I’ve seen one pair of boobs. Try not to generalise us thirteen year old boys.”

You flush, and decide to not bite back at him, afraid he might remark more on your chest. It’s not bad, really, but you don’t like how your core clenches at the thought of House seeing you naked.

He stares at you for a moment, but then he’s digging in your drawers and pulls out a pair of cotton bottoms and a t shirt (in considerably better condition than your last one). He hands them to you, and he turns away, beginning to thumb through your paintings again as you weakly get changed.

You climb into bed, ready to turn to him and admit defeat by thanking him. Annoying as he is, you’re grateful for his help. Holding your hair. Washing you. Changing your sheets. Bringing you medicine. If you thought about it hard enough, you would almost think that for once, he did care about his patient.

But under the duvet covers, warm and recovering, your eyelids are heavy and you quickly slip off to sleep; the last thing you can see is House sitting down at your desk, like a guard ready to begin his shift. You stare at him for a moment. He’s wrinkled and his hair is greying, and it seems like he hasn’t shaved in the past few days, but he’s oddly…Beautiful.

And then you’re soundly asleep for the first time in days.

[pillow-anime-talk]

Hii, congrats on 4K followers! May I request 54 nsfw + Louis from Moriarty the Patriot with she/her pronouns? It can be enemies with benefits/or to lovers type of thing. Thank you :)

# tags: scenario; enemies with benefits; kinda pwp; little bit of romance; mostly drama; nsfw

warnings: mention of sex and sexual activities, quickie, no condom, no kisses, no after care, cigarettes after sex

includes: female reader ft. louis james moriarty {mtp}

author’s note: thank you too! sorry for waiting so long :(

54. “I’ll kill you next time.”

You and the Moriarty brothers had been fighting anonymously for a very long time. You were an elusive woman with a cunning gaze, a passion for firearms, and the only creature you loved more than life was your cat – Lucius, a black and white stray soul that you found three years ago outside a brothel. You lived modestly, although from robberies, frauds and thefts you had quite a large sum of money saved up; however, for years you had dreamed of moving to another country, hence your frugal and organized approach to spending money. However, you did not spare pounds on your cat, that was an exception to the rule.

Although you and the three brothers had had a quiet war between them and you for years, and although they saw you as an enemy, they never had enough evidence that you were responsible for the aforementioned robberies or bankruptcies of high-ranking people or their businesses. And even if the youngest of the three brothers was incredibly close to you, so close that he was fucking you on your couch, he still couldn’t get confirmation from you that you were responsible for these situations.

Louis was a handsome, calm and composed man, and he was also a great cook and had high personal culture and respect for women or the elderly. Nevertheless, your nature didn’t allow itself even an ounce of feeling towards him, much less confirmation of his and his two brothers’ thoughts. You were like two opposite poles that, if combined, could cause a disaster. At this moment, however, thoughts about your differences were muffled by the sound of bodies bouncing against each other, your moans and the sighs of the man with light blond hair.

“You’re really beautiful when you’re not robbing banks.” He murmured in your ear, and you only rolled your eyes, squeezing his bare shoulder.

“I’ve never robbed a bank, idiot.” You answered falsely, with a hint of irony in your voice, to which Louis only laughed. “What? I’m telling the truth.”

“Sure.” His movements were quick, a bit sloppy, although you wouldn’t argue saying that he was the best lover you’ve ever had. Although he gave you indescribable pleasure, deep down you hated him as much as he hated the other side of you, which was evil incarnate, a cheater and manipulator. That’s why your sex was based only on a quickie, a few exchanges of words, sometimes a cigarette lit together, but nothing more. No kisses, no hugs, no questions if it hurt and if it was good.

When you changed positions and you were on top, Louis only suck your nipples and bite them with his white teeth. Your body went through a dozen shivers per minute. The couch under you was wet, and your bodies were sweaty. Heavy breathing interspersed with orgasm ended this meeting. Tired and with cum leaking from your pussy, you reached for a cigarette and a black lighter. Louis put his clothes on without a word, then turned to you in the doorway.

“I’ll catch you next time, Y/N.” He smiled and leave after a moment.

“I’ll kill you next time.” You replied, blowing out the choking smoke from your lungs.

The truth was, he would never catch you red-handed, nor did you ever intend to kill him. After all, you wouldn’t last longer than three days without each other, because that was your limit when it came to sexual abstinence.

[justasimpleton-26]

Jason and Ballet

(MDNI)

You were nervous. And okay, at the same time scared shitless. Because what type of person would move to Gotham, New Jersey of all places?

But your long-distance friend, Dick Grayson, promised you that he could keep you safe if you decided to start the Gotham University Performance Arts program. (Which weirdly had a high rate of individuals becoming pros in their respected fields.)

So, after having an intense conversation with your parents and siblings about it...you decided to take the risk and move 4 states over from the home you always knew...to the place that people used as cautionary tales.

At first, you hated it. Smog made everything look gray, and the sky never looked blue. You were even worried that if you breathed the air of Gotham, you'd have lung problems and there goes your career as a ballerina.

But somehow, you adjusted.

And then your very handsome long-distance friend became your best friend as he helped you practice for your audition, which was looming closer and closer to you more than you cared to admit.

But sometimes, Dick would disappear for days at a time, and send his younger brother Jason to help you.

At first, it was awkward. Jason had the stillness that came from years of fighting professionally, and he couldn't quite grasp the stretches and exercises you needed to do to keep your body in shape. Sometimes, if you weren't paying attention, you could see him admire you as all your weight was pressed onto one toe, and you held it like that for long periods of time, until it was time to move again. And yes, he did double takes when he saw how limber you were ("Because no way can you just casually lift your leg that high up, and keep it there"), trying to see if he can do it himself.

Eventually, Jason takes over as your practice partner, coming in instead of Dick, even when Dick is available, insisting he go back to spending time with Kori his girlfriend, and you're flattered, thinking nothing of it as you and Jason fall into a steady rhythm of practicing with one another.

But then you feel the pressure of your audition coming up, and dances that you could do in your sleep, you fumble. Your balance messes up, and doubts start to fill in your mind.

"I don't know Jason, I'm just...really messing up for some reason." You tell him one day that you ended practice early, and decided to get coffee early.

"You think you might be overthinking it because auditions are in less than a month?" he asks, as he takes a sip from his Americano with two creams and one sugar.

Stressed, you nod, and the both of you are silent for a moment.

Then, Jason pulls out a pen as he scribbles something on a napkin.

"Look, before practice tomorrow, I want you to come over my place and we can discuss a plan to help with your doubts, okay?" he says, as he slides the napkin towards you.

You think about it, and then nod. You need all the tips you can get.

After that, the conversation turns less serious, and soon after you part ways, Jason heading to his apartment, and you heading to the studio you rented.

You weren't sure what you imagined Jason's apartment complex to look like, but this wasn't it. It looks less ostentatious and more cozy, closer to those small-town motels you'd seen in movies. You walk through the maze of hallways until you find his apartment door, knocking on it.

"It's open!" Jason calls out, sounding rushed as he drops something, and swears, another thud sounding out.

You walk in, and see the interior of his home, shelves upon shelves of books lining up on his walls, faded superhero posters crammed on almost every wall surface, and a faded plush red couch, a coffee table with family pictures lined up on it.

You don't see Jason yet, so you hold up some of the picture frames, smiling at the group photos on there. Dick had told you about his extensive adopted siblings, and though you hadn't met them yet, it was nice to see faces to names you've always heard about.

"You made it." Jason said behind her, breathless. He was leaning down, hands on his knees as he wore shirt with the sleeves torn off.

You never noticed how...muscled he was though.

You take a deep breath, and try to calm the thoughts bouncing through your head.

After all, what kind of trouble could the two of you get into?

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 3

Astarion x gn!reader (Upcoming NSFW)

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: In which everything goes to the hells.

Warnings: Mentions of blood and minor injuries, as well as graphic descriptions of a corpse, killing, and death.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Apologies for the delay in the update! I've been working on multiple other Astarion fics (which shall soon see the light of day!) and I so, so appreciate the love for this fic! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter ❤️

The golden sunlight of the outdoors meets you like an old friend, and gods, is it sweet. You’ve longed for the warmth of it on your skin for days now. You’ve ached for the soothing comfort of its glow the way one aches for a lover. The fresh morning air is crisp and clear in your lungs - it’s like you can finally breathe again.

Granted, you’re only allowed about ten seconds of these luxuries before you’re being stuffed back into the carriage, but, as you’ve come to learn: ten seconds is much better than nothing at all.

From one prison to the next, you think. You’re too restless to be Erelin’s pawn. It should have been someone else. All of this. Being royalty, being imprisoned, dressed up and paraded around like a doll. You’d trade for someone else’s life in a heartbeat - anything to get away from this hellish role you’re forced into - but circumstances dictate that it can only be you. 

You.

And you aren’t meek. You aren’t used to mindless obedience. Maybe you were born for the crown, but you’ve been raised to be nothing more than a tavern worker with a flaming-hot temper. It’s not something which fades easily. 

All this being escorted around is making you want to tear your skin off and melt into a nameless, non-important mass of muscle and bone. 

Still… you doubt that anyone would handle this well. Astarion has long-since adapted to this lifestyle, but you still see his brief longing, the quiet flash of loss on his face when he enters the carriage. He hates being carted around as much as you do. 

For a long moment, you stare out the window and watch the sights of the city turn into a blur of trees.

Honestly? You hope this fucking carriage runs off the road.

But it won’t. You know it won’t, because nothing has gone your way lately. It’s only a matter of time before you snap. Your patience wears thinner by the hour. The last few days have been nothing but biting your tongue, subduing the urge to pick a fight with anyone unlucky enough to be sharing a room with you.

Anyone but Astarion, that is. In a rather surprising turn of events, he seems to be the only one you can stand lately. Maybe it’s because he’s well-fed, for once. Maybe it’s because you can’t stop thinking about the feeling of his teeth in your neck. Or maybe, he was simply never as intolerable as you thought he was.

Whatever it is, it’s the only thing that keeps you sane throughout the ride. He reads (again) and you think (again). If your life is going to consist of this, over and over, then maybe you should jump out. If you die on the journey, so be it. They won’t take you back alive; you’ll make sure of that.

But despite the lighter clothes you’re wearing, and despite the knife and other supplies you’ve tucked away - and the fact that you really should leave now if you’re ever going to - you can’t find it in yourself to run.

Maybe it’s the fear, but more likely, it’s Astarion. The thought of leaving him behind, knowing he’s suffering just as much as you but either can’t or won’t follow? You can’t do that. You just can’t.

So you sit, feeling like you’re going to claw your eyes out. 

“Should I be concerned about the… twitching?” Astarion asks, sounding more bored than anything else. “It’s very distracting, darling.”

Gods. Is your anxiety really so obvious? 

You paste on a saccharine smile, curling your nails into your palms. “I’m always like this,” you lie through your teeth. “You never noticed?”

“Funny,” he remarks, scowling. You can always see the most of Erelin in him when he does that - the same sharpened eyes, the dark circles underneath, the nose scrunched up in distaste. “You know, you really should-” 

But you never find out what he thinks you should do. His words cut off mid-sentence as his gaze flicks away from you, focusing instead on the front of the carriage. “Shit,” he says.

You don’t get the chance to ask him what’s wrong. 

There’s a sudden, searing flash of heat, the gut-churning sensation of falling, and the world goes dark. 

For just a moment, you think you might be dead. 

It’s nothing. Weightlessness. The feeling of being cleaved from your body. No pain, not even a little - and that’s what scares you the most. You’re left scrambling for something, anything, any feeling or sensation, but you find… nothing.

Is this death?

Not like this, you think, not even fully able to feel your own panic. I won’t go like this!

And, like a jolt back into reality, you suddenly inhabit yourself again. 

Your nails are digging into your palms. The smell of smoke is pungent in your throat, dark and hazy in the air. Your leg is throbbing and you can taste blood in your mouth, but there’s no fire in here. Not yet, at least. 

You’re in a strange, crumpled position, weighed down by gravity. Your bag of stolen supplies is still looped around your wrist. Astarion’s ribs are digging into your side from where you’re draped over him, and he’s swearing something fierce.

“Hells,” you find yourself saying, dazed. “What in the hells was that!”

“I don’t know, dearest,” he snaps. “Would you kindly remove yourself from my ribs?”

You have to push off of him, contorting yourself into a strange position as your eyes adjust to the smoky air. The carriage must have flipped on its side, because the two of you are sitting on top of the window - which has thankfully held without breaking. The door is above your heads, splayed open, and you have to pull yourself up through the opening and crawl out, collapsing into the grass. Astarion follows right after you.

He’s a little worse for wear, as you suspect you are, but doesn’t seem seriously injured. You test out your leg and find that, after a mild twinge of pain, it holds your weight. The cut in your mouth has stopped bleeding.

You two are incredibly, incredibly lucky.

Before moving any further, you dig through your belongings until you’ve found the sharper of the two knives. Whatever is out here - whatever had knocked the carriage over - you’d rather not face it unarmed. The weight of the weapon feels good, familiar. You’ve missed having one at your side. 

Now to take in the scenery.

The carriage is demolished. The wheels have been completely broken off, the horses are nowhere to be seen, and the edges of the door are still smoldering. In the distance, there’s yelling and more smoke, accompanied by the sound of swords clashing and agonizing screams.

One of Erelin’s guards lies dead a few feet away from you. 

He’s long past help, blood steadily oozing from the arrow piercing through his throat. You’d barely known him, hadn’t even liked him, but something twinges in your chest all the same. 

Something has gone terribly wrong. You need to find out why.

“How incredibly reassuring,” Astarion says behind you, approaching the corpse. He bends down and rummages through the guard’s belt, searching the pockets until he finds what he’s looking for - a gleaming silver dagger and its sheath.

You’re still eyeing the arrow, trying to place where you’ve seen it. The feathers at the end… those aren’t Calthirian colors. Not Ancunín, either. Where the hells have you seen them before? The name is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t place it.

“We have to move,” you find yourself saying. “We can’t stay here.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Astarion replies. “Into the fight, darling?”

You finally rip your eyes away from the corpse, swallowing hard as you shake your head. “Until the fighting is over, we should stay hidden. We don’t know how many of them there are.”

He sighs. “You know, when that carriage flipped over, I was so hoping we were going to get something exciting,” Astarion remarks. “But here we are, I suppose.”

He follows you into the treeline without further complaint. 

The two of you perch down behind opposite trees, close enough to see what’s happening, far enough to run if you need. The lingering smoke is still thick enough to blur out any clear picture of what’s happening, but you have the growing feeling that one group is winning - and it isn’t Erelin’s.

The sounds of the battle slowly go quiet. A low hum is left in the air, raising the hair on the back of your neck. As footsteps approach, you and Astarion go tense, keenly listening in to what’s happening.

You chance a careful look around the bark and find two men, silhouetted in the smoke. They approach the carriage, peering into the empty box you’d just come from. Then, one of them kicks it, sinking his blade into the charred wood in frustration. 

“Fuck!” he screams, pacing around the mess. Blood seeps from a wound on his arm, and he favors his left leg when he walks. “All that bullshit! Tracking, hunting, camping out for days. Slinking through the mud! And what does it get us? Our men dead and fucking nothing in return!”

“Calm yourself, Barrett,” the other answers. “They couldn’t have gone far. You know how royals are - they can barely dress themselves. We’ll find them.”

He steps closer to analyze the guard’s body, and as you eye the symbol on his armor, you finally realize where you know the arrows from. The Zhentarim - a group of common mercenaries. One of them, Marvin, used to frequent your tavern, carrying a quiver of those arrows on his back. He was rowdy and loud-mouthed, but he liked to croon his favorite songs after a few pints, and his coin was always good. 

You hope he’s not one of the men that are now dead in the field. 

As Barrett and the other spread out to search the trees, you glance over at Astarion and find him already looking at you. He raises a brow: a question. You jerk your head toward the man heading your way - Barrett, wasn’t it? - and he nods in response. 

You creep forward, waiting, listening as the footsteps get closer and closer. Your fingers close tightly around the handle of the knife and your breath stills. When the sound is close enough to touch, you act. 

Your blade is in Barrett's throat before he can scream. 

His blood is warm as it spills over your fingers, the metallic smell staining into the air. Something chokes in your throat. Fuck, you think. After a long, excruciating moment, he crumples to the ground. He leaves only silence. 

You stare down at his corpse, breathless and shaking. It’s been a long time since you’ve had to kill, and you despise the way it feels in your chest, the sour taste it leaves on your tongue. Most of all, you despise the way that this scene will haunt you for the rest of your life. You can never forget a kill.

When you turn to look at the other Zhentarim, you find him in a similar condition. Dead. A knife wound through his throat. Astarion is splattered in blood, kneeling down and wiping his dagger clean on the corpse’s sleeve. 

As soon as he glances over and sees the state of Barrett, he rises to his feet and cocks his head, taking in the sight of you the way a starving man might look at a feast. “You know,” he starts, a wicked glint in his eye, “I didn’t think you had that in you. You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?” 

His tone is almost as admirational as it had been when you’d offered him your neck, which is mildly concerning. 

You fold your arms across your chest. “I could say the same for you, Your Majesty. Are you always so eager to kill?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, what’s a mercenary or two? They were going to kill us.” 

He’s right, of course. You know he’s right. But he hadn’t answered your question, and his words aren’t making you feel any better. 

Alright then, you think. You’re situationally allied with a bloodthirsty prince - and very much in both contexts of the word. He also happens to be your husband. You have absolutely no idea where you are. What else is new? 

“Maybe they had supplies,” you offer, shifting the subject. “We should look.”

“Then lead the way, dearest,” he says, sheathing his dagger.

Annoyance twinges under your skin. You’d hoped the incessant pet names would end now that you’re out of Erelin’s grip, but… well. It was too much to hope for, wasn’t it?

Barrett and the other Zhentarim have only sparse pickings on them - a few pieces of gold, dented weapons, rotten food - but the field is full of corpses, and it’s not long before you and Astarion stray over. 

The ground is wet with blood. It squishes under your boots, repulsive and sticking to your soles like the mud. You try not to think about it.

The suitcases from the carriage are still there, contents sprawled out on the grass, but there’s nothing useful inside. The heavy clothes will only weigh you down. But the dead Zhentarim on the field have left behind several supply packs, and you’re quick to grab a few, handing one over to Astarion.

In just a few minutes, you’ve picked up a shortsword, a shortbow, several quivers worth of arrows, a sparse amount of food, and a decent amount of coin. Bedrolls, too. Nothing to indicate where the group had come from, though. Nothing to show what they were looking for, or why. 

Maybe it’s pointless, but you’d like to find out why a group of mercenaries had just attempted to blow you up. Calthir would want you dead or alive - Calthir, you could understand doing all this - but the Zhentarim? Calthir would never hire someone else to do such a crucial task, so who the hells had sent them?

For a while, you skim through the field, making sure you hadn’t missed anything. You add a few potions to your pack. A pear. A bottle of grease. Just as you’re about to call it quits and head out, you see something that stops you in your tracks, gazing at the body near your feet.

Marvin. 

He’s here. Dead. You almost hadn’t recognized him with the damage done, his face swollen with blood, his expression drawn open in agony. It’s so different from the face you know, but you’re sure it’s him. 

He’d had a wife, you think. Or was she just a lover? You can’t remember exactly, but she’d been someone dear to him. Someone who will miss him now that he’s gone. His voice was rich and sweet, and the world will never hear it again. He’s gone - and for what? Whatever he’d been wanting to accomplish here, he clearly hadn’t gotten it. 

“What is it?” Astarion asks, coming up behind you. “Pitying the dead?”

You swallow hard, running your tongue along the raw cut on the inside of your cheek, but your eyes stay where they are. “I knew him.”

Astarion follows your gaze down to what’s left of Marvin, then looks back up at you. “Er - to be clear - you do mean him?” he asks, gesturing towards the corpse. “The dead mercenary sent to kill us?”

You nod. “I… I used to work at a tavern. He would come in almost every night.” Your voice breaks and you have to pause, taking in a shaky breath. “I liked him.” Suddenly self-conscious, you glance at Astarion, then clear your throat. “Besides. We don’t know for certain that they were here to hurt us.”

“Of course,” Astarion replies in mock sincerity, lifting a hand to his chest. “They only shot down our carriage because they wanted us to be safe. My mistake, darling.”

You can only shake your head in response, staring down at Marvin’s face. A tightness pulls in your chest. Would he have tried to kill you? Would it have made any difference to him that it was you? You… you aren’t sure. 

Astarion is right, after all. If they’d wanted the two of you unharmed, then there were a thousand better methods to get you out. No. They’d wanted you hurt, or dead. Perhaps Marvin hadn’t known it would be you, but now that he’s gone, you’ll never know for certain.

You kneel down, ignoring the dirt and blood underneath you, and press Marvin’s eyelids closed. A quick epitaph runs through your mind. 

Wherever you are, I hope they let you sing. 

Your throat goes tight. After a moment, you rise, dusting the dirt off of your knees and ignoring Astarion’s clear disapproval. “What now?” you ask.

He lifts a hand into the air, giving it a loose twirl. “Now we try to get back to my mother, I suppose,” he sighs, glancing at the carriage in the distance. 

“What?” Your voice is bewildered, incredulous, even, but you can’t stop it. “You can’t be serious. After all of that, you’re just - going back to her?”

His gaze snaps back to you, and his eyes narrow. “Of course I am,” he replies, straightening. “Where else would you have me go? Hiding away in the woods? Sheltering in a flea-infested village? No, my sweet, I’ll be finding myself a warm bath and a soft bed as soon as possible, thank you.” 

He pauses, sucking in a breath and tilting his head. “Besides. She’ll find us sooner or later. Trust me - it’s easier this way.”

You scoff, gesturing around at the field. “Well, then. I hope you know where we are, because I sure as hells don’t! And I will not be running back into my own personal prison with open arms!”

“Fine!” he exclaims, throwing up his arms in frustration. “By all means, run into the woods! Die out there for all I care!” 

He turns away, and you’re left staring at his back.

You stomp over to the carriage, all too aware of the fact that you’re both acting like children. Your anger doesn’t stay long. It seeps out of you, leaving you with things you’d rather not feel. Fear. Desperation. 

Astarion remains in the field, collecting things you’d missed from the bodies. You almost expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. Neither of you do. He sits down on a rock. You pace back and forth.

You won’t go back to Erelin. That’s not debatable. Not now, not when you’re free again, not when the stupid carriage is demolished at your feet just like you’d wanted. 

But… gods, you don’t want to be alone, either. You don’t want dark nights in a place you don’t know, nothing to shield you but the sword in your hands. You don’t want endless paranoia, constantly looking over your shoulder. And, well… as much as Astarion may frustrate you, you are fond of him.

So, after a long, painful moment of swallowing your pride, you go back. 

He must hear your footsteps, but he doesn’t look at you. He keeps his gaze on the blade he’s polishing, even though it’s already gleaming. You can’t think of what to say, and you certainly won’t be apologizing, so you simply watch him, keeping your arms crossed over your chest.

“Changed your mind, darling?” he finally asks. His tone is bored - a performance of indifference. He could have left without you. But he hadn’t. 

“No,” you start. “I won’t be going back to her. Not without a fight.” You suck in a breath, relaxing your hands from the fists they’ve balled into. “But for now, we should keep together. At least until we’ve found some form of civilization.”

When he doesn’t respond, you keep talking. “It’s safer for us both, Astarion. I mean… we don’t know if there are more of them out there, trying to kill us. I’m good with a sword. I can hunt.” 

I can give you blood, if you need.

The words go unspoken, but they’re thick in the air.

His head tilts, and he finally sets down the blade. “What a tempting offer,” he purrs, his voice as smooth as satin as he turns toward you. “I do love seeing you beg. I accept.” He rises to his feet, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. “Well? Where to?”

And if that isn’t the question of the year.

tags:

@amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @po0psies

[secret0codename]

Masky/Tim Headcanons

hi hi, stopping by to say that I'm inspired and writing more and more! I hope you like it, sorry for any writing errors :)

My Headcanons Masky/Tim:

Appearance:

-This man is clearly tall, he is around 1.80 or 1.90 tall, he is not small like Toby but he is not bigger than Hoodie

-He and Hoodie are a great duo, they get along well because they know each other better. He doesn't like Toby very much, but he tries to respect him because he knows the boy's condition.

-"Where are my cigarettes?" This man has a smoking habit, are you mad? Smoke, Are you busy? Smoke, Are you observing something or someone? He smoked later. (Professional smoker your lungs ask for help)

-His voice is thick, rough and, but it can vary from person to person, never too gentle, just lower his voice to speak

-He obeys his leader at any cost, he always wants to be the favorite, not that he can't, he wants everything to be perfect, don't take it the wrong way, he knows when he's REALLY perfect

-He has a medium beard, and short straight black hair that is always well combed and never messy. He takes very good care of himself, after all, he really appreciates himself!

-Brown eyes, that's all he doesn't take off his mask much, maybe only around Hoodie but nothing more

-There are moles on the face and body, it is common but they are not attractive, well hidden after all

Well-being and Unwellness

-Bom Tom is not the same person as Masky so his tastes vary between different things, like one likes music the other doesn't like it much, he has two personalities within him, he has difficulty knowing what he likes or not.

-Being alone, something he really enjoys as he tends to not be good socially (None of these guys are after all)

-He doesn't like to share, he could be talking to Hoodie and Toby bothers him and he will get stressed or leave or probably have a fight

-Women, he doesn't know how to act well, he's never liked anyone, but if it happens it won't be long before a disappearance occurs, he knows how to make plans that won't fail for anything.

-Fairly though, he hates losing in basic things like board games

Masky: "You're stealing, aren't you?"

Toby: "No, to be honest I don't even know how to play this"

Work:

-He took the missions extremely seriously so you don't want to get in the way or else something will get ugly between you and Masky

-He doesn't always have a straight face, he knows how to smile, he just doesn't do it a lot

-He likes animals, but he wouldn't have a pet because he doesn't have time to take care of it, the pet would end up dead or something like that

-Good at disguises, if he needs to become a teacher he will do it and always do it perfectly so that the mission is completed without any hesitatio

-"Damn, what did they do to my car!"-he is jealous of anything that is his, including people, cars, objects or even pens

Well guys, that's it, sorry for any serious mistakes, I'm dying of sleep, I don't know if it's written correctly! :)

[footballffbarbiex]

Always Yours

player: john stones words: 2107 warnings and request: Hey! I hope I'm not too late for requests 😊 I'm thinking some smut with Stonesy where he makes you cum for the first time and during this he figures out you love it when he talks dirty. Degradation, praise, you love whatever he says as long as he's saying it!

this one had fallen through the cracks and so this request is from someone who is no longer a patron as of last year. but it didn't feel right to not write this request just because of it.

-

“Did I say hover? I said sit.” John all but growls as you fight against the pressure of his hands trying to pull you down.

“But I’ll squa-”

“You’ll know to get off because I’ll stop moving or stop eating your pussy. Now fucking sit. On. My. Face.”

Unconvinced by his words, not thinking he genuinely means this at all, you hesitantly do as he asks. You’d normally stop by the time your pussy met his mouth, feeling the softness of his lips against yours and sinking a little lower as his mouth would begin to devour you but he said sit and so you do - even if you don’t fully weight-bear down, it’s more than you’ve given him before and in turn, he’ll take more than before too.

He flattens his tongue against you, parting your folds in one long slow lick until he reaches the spot he’d been previously played with through your panties. The pressure he applies to you, teamed with the weight you bear down with is something else. You feel him like never before. The closest you’ve come to this is when he’d pinned you against the wall and ate your pussy in ways that had ingrained within you mind and became the sole reason for your masturbation sessions.

But this? This was something else. You felt every inch of his waiting tongue against you. He seemed to reach areas that he couldn’t, or hadn’t, from the traditional lay-on-your-back-with-him-between-your-thighs position. His hands are still in the same place as though you were on your back, wrapped over the curve of your thigh and resting in the spot where it meets your hips; fingers stroking over the space there softly in comparison with the way his tongue meets and laps at your clit and cunt.

He feeds from you hungrily, tonguing at your pussy with such need it distorts your vision from the way he takes you relentlessly. When you’re able to peer down at him, he has his own eyes closed, savouring the moment of having you in a way that he’s wanted for some time. Your breathing is unsteady, coming out in pants or barely there flows and all you can do is try to keep filling your lungs with breath as you grip the bed frame and steady yourself.

He changes what he does as he begins to build you up, an edging of kinds which the moment you realise your orgasm is ebbing away, he’s already building up a new one in its place. He licks at your slit, tongue fucks your sopping hole and suckles on your clit with such intensity any words that you could say are stuck in your throat and you’re powerless to speak them.

With every roll of his tongue, it’s another wave of pleasure washing throughout you threatening to override your senses. Becoming impaired by his movements and incapable of stopping him, you know that even if you could stop, you wouldn’t; you’ll let him do whatever he wants if it means bringing you to an orgasm. You keep catching yourself sinking lower onto him or grinding your core against his greedy mouth before trying in vain to lift yourself up but John’s large hands keep you perfectly in place, eating your pussy religiously like it gives him the very air that he breathes.

You drop a hand, resting the hand to his hair and tug at the curls that are there. Your fingers tighten against his locks and the rumble of complaint that comes from him vibrates against your clit making you whimper aloud. Only then does John let you lift up and you’re able to see his glistening lips. “I miss your filthy mouth baby.” you admit, hating that his lips curve into a shit eating grin and you almost want to push his face to your core again.

“Is that so?” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down as he continues to grin. You lightly rest your weight on his chest, perching yourself as your body returns back to a resting state. “Lay down.”

His tone ditches the playfulness that he’d started with, his expression seems harder in a way but you know what’s coming. You’ve barely had time to move, to position yourself on the bed in your usual way allowing him to crawl between your thighs as you lay out before him. He moves as you’d anticipate but his fingers are back on your sensitive spots before you can stop him. The tips of his fingers are coated once more in your wetness, his first two pressing together at your core before scissoring out, parting your folds and spreading you open while fully avoiding your bead.

“Such a fucking pretty pussy.” He coos, flattening his tongue against your slit and flicking the tip of it over your clit. “You’re being such a good little slut for me.”

Swallowing hard, you try to pull yourself together again after being momentarily floored by his comments. It wasn’t too long ago that your kinks had become exposed and though you’d expected him to “use” these against you sooner than now, this is still unexpected.

“You can’t help but react, can you?” he whispers, speaking his words to your pussy. “You’re being so good for me.”

John doesn’t leave time for you to reply, his mouth is immediately back on you, enveloping your clit between his lips before his tongue lashes against it with such intent that you wish you had the capabilities to cuss at him.

All you can do is lay obediently, keeping your thighs parted and your breathing as under control as you possibly can. Your vision dips in and out of clarity with seemingly every lap of his tongue. He rakes his short nails over the soft skin of your inner thighs; they’re not long enough to leave light welts or discoloration of any kind but you feel it.

When you whimper at the almost gentle sting of it, John uses his fingers to part your folds, finding your soaked hole and entering you with ridiculous ease. The lewd sound of your wetness reaches both of your ears and though it embarrasses you slightly just how wet and needy you are for him, it spurs John on even more. “Always so fucking wet and needy for me.” He says before quickly picking up the pace once more that he’d set before he’d spoken.

His fingers thrust perfectly timed within you and while they don’t match the pace that his mouth works at, it compliments it all the same. Your chest rises and falls, nipples painfully hard and straining in a bid to be stroked and licked in the same way that your cunt is being played with.

“Fuck, yes John.” You pant, trying your hardest not to grind yourself against him but you find simply laying and taking to be too difficult. You want to give him instructions, tell him exactly where it’s feeling good and where to concentrate on but each time you begin to speak and tell him, he does something else which feels fucking amazing and you’re left speechless. He’s made you orgasm many times. Many, many, many times but today feels different.

“So fucking good for me,” he says again, and you feel your clit throb against him. He rolls the swollen bead over his tongue and gives it a gentle flick to make you emit the softest of sounds. The tenderness of his actions is short lived as he immediately goes back to tongueing at you at a pace that makes expletives roll from your tongue as waves of pleasure rolls from his.

His fingers curl, scissor and stretch you open, preparing you for the inevitable filling that he will give you, stuffing you full to the brim with his cock and no doubt stopping until you’ve left a creamy mess upon his shaft from another orgasm. No amount of preparation from his fingers can do the justice of his cock but it’s a good start. You know your inner walls are soft and puffy from the way he growls into your pussy how tight you are.

Every motion from his fingers draws you closer to falling over the edge and succumbing to the sensations he coaxes from you. The scruff at John’s cheeks and jaws rubs against your inner thigh each time he turns his head to angle his tongue a little differently. The harsh scrape of it against your soft skin makes you wince, the pain slowly bleeding into what helps to pull the orgasm closer.

Your thighs shake as it finally takes over, heat flooding your body as every nerve within you feels as though it’s singing. Your fingers and toes curl, tightening into fists until you feel yourself beginning to cramp up and finally, you’re in a state of euphoria. The noises you make are minimal, soft pants and mewls at the most as your legs tremble, finally feeling your orgasm dripping from you and dampening the bedding beneath your ass.

Unlike every other time, John doesn’t stop. He keeps going exactly as he had before, not allowing you a moment to catch your breath or come down from your high. Rather than fizzle out, you feel another orgasm building off the last, sweeping through your system with such an intensity that you hadn’t prepared for.

All coherent thoughts disappear. Any noises that you could and want to make are caught in your throat, your vision dips in and out of clarity, exploding into bursts of white noise. Your head pushes back against the fluffy pillows, body twisting into positions that you hadn’t thought possible until you’re able to relax enough to have one arm above your head, desperately clutching at the headboard while the other grips the bed sheets as your knees bend and your feet push down into the bedding, thrusting your cunt back and forth against his face while his fingers continue to fuck into you and it’s then that your second orgasm hits.

Your juices spurt up your thighs, coat over John’s chin, down his neck and over the exposed parts of his chest. If you thought the bedding was wet from your first, it’s nothing in comparison to the soaking that it’s now received. You can feel it pooling beneath your ass as he begins to slow his movements until he comes to a stop and pulls his fingers from you at an agonising pace. By the time you’ve got your vision back enough to see him, he’s finishing cleaning his fingers off from your wetness.

“That was so fucking sexy,” he says, lowering his mouth to your thighs and kisses over them before giving you a teasing bite which makes you whimper. “I’ve never seen you cum like that for me.”

“That’s because I’ve never cum like that. Ever.” your words sound as drained as you feel; an odd feeling of the dregs of euphoria which linger throughout your limbs and a tiredness from climaxing so hard. The feeling of both being weightless and yet weighed down with lead. Feeling like you don’t have a single thought in your head and yet having every thought battling to be heard which silences everything else in their squabbling.

“Wait right here,” he instructs and you almost want to laugh as he climbs from the bed. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. Your limbs can’t coordinate, let alone have your legs function in the way they’re designed to. The bedding cools rapidly, making you groan with slight annoyance at laying in your own cold wet patch.

The sound of the tap being turned on and water flowing sounds. Within minutes he’s back with a warm, damp flannel and he takes the time to press it over your damp skin and over your sensitive core to clean you up the best that he can. “I’m going to put you in the shower but I thought this would help for now,” he explains as he taps the side of your outer thigh for you to lift up. Despite doing so on shaky legs, you manage it and he slides a clean, fluffy towel beneath you so that you’re no longer laid in it.

He sits between your legs in such a way that your eyes naturally gravitate towards the large swell at his waist, making you instinctively reach out and rub the tips of your fingers over the soft covered head of his cock.

“Once I’m capable of lifting myself up and moving properly, this dick is mine.”

“Baby, it’s always yours.”