#my eyes are no longer red from crying you can have some Face

[smilesatdawnmain]

Taken Reverse Au (Wukong's Rage)

Since I’m taking my sweet time to get to this Moment in Taken- here, you can have an example for Taken Reverse~

——

There had been a split in the mountain. 

A split that had twisted the land and left it in shambles, spurred by the rage on a single individual. 

“Dad-” MK choked, struggling to keep his arm around his Father’s bicep, his feet digging into the floor below. He was dragged, leaning back a tad in hopes to give some leverage to stopping his father. “Dad, wait!” 

The King would hear no protest. Not when he knew. Not when he NOW knew. 

A confirmation with the Diyu, an admission from the man he considered his Brother, and he now knew. 

He did not have one son, but two. 

Twins. 

One of his cubs was at his side, feebly trying to stop him as he stormed into the sewers of Megopolis, his eyes a burning red. His cub. To know that there had been another this whole time, and held in the hands of- of Spiders. 

His eyes were aglow as he entered the sewers, the stench of decay and waste assaulting his nostrils. But the King paid it no mind. His focus was singular, his rage all-consuming.

"Dad, please!" MK pleaded again, his voice echoing off the damp walls. "You're not thinking straight!"

The King’s steps formed small cracks with each step. Not thinking straight? He’d never seen clearer in his life! MK’s brother—his twin—had been kept from them. From him! By those... those arachnids! By the damned Spider Queen!

Of course she knew! She must have! Nezha had-

God’s, his brother had confessed when Wukong pressed about it. In tears and on his knees he bowed before him, face against the ground. He admitted to his crimes.

“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry..!”

Wukong thought he was joking- a cruel and unfunny hole, until Nezha whimpered “There is a reason your son is always getting sick with no cause or explanation.”

It was twisted.

It was unlike Nezha.

Stealing his own child with the intent to kill, but being unable to go through with it, leaving him to the care of humans. That alone was enough to make Wukong’s legs tremble and his stomach lurch. It hurt.

Gods it hurt!

He did not kill Nezha where he stood. Somehow he stilled his hand. Somehow he stepped back, less he scream or cry, or do both.

But he couldn’t linger there another moment longer. Such feelings he would have to deal with later. He had to focus on what was infront of him.

His second child.

Nezha had lost track of the child, he explained. The glamor he had put on the cub to keep him safe in disguise had broken- and the child was lost to his senses until years later, when he emerged as the right hand of the Spider Queen.

Seeing how she was using his energies to power her army- he knew he had to take action. Knew it wouldn’t be long before Heaven realized too and would get to the cub long before Wukong could.

Spider Queen.

She had been using him. Manipulating him to steal for her. Do wrong for her. He had rushed home to let his Mate know, but Mihou was out at the time. He sent a clone to fetch his mate, but had found MK instead.

His Son was clutching the very enblem of the woman who had stolen from them.

When he demanded why MK had such a thing, he explained about his friend.

Xiaozhizhu.

That was the child’s name. Little Spider.

MK had seemed unaware, only stilling when his Father’s expression grew darker. The grounds around them shook from his unkempt rage- cracking until it spit right below their feet. Wukong had never had to reel in such rage in his life, and had ultimately failed to keep it in check before he was charging to the City, MK hot on his tail in a panicked confusion.

Terrified that somehow Xiaozhizhu had angered his Father to the point he was heading right there. “Dad-! He isn’t a bad person, I promise!” No, not at all! He was going down the wrong path, yes, but he could turn around! He was sweet and smart! Fun!

Lonely…

MK had been so close lately to convincing XiaoXiao to even join him on some heroing. To give it a try and see that there was so much good he could do with his powers! He had even been getting along better with Red Son and Mei- Who had agreed to try due to their friendship with MK.

MK also had been working on getting Xiaoxiao to visit the mountain soon- to see some Monkey heritage. Since the guy had never really even talked to other demon monkey’s before, MK had hoped this could help him reconnect with his roots- whatever those were.

The King's pace quickened, his footsteps echoing louder through the dank tunnels. MK stumbled, nearly losing his grip on his father's arm.

"Dad, please listen! Xiaoxiao isn't—" he paled as the tunnels began to change, shifting from sewers systems to a metal lined opened cave system. The Spider Queen’s domain. Spiders, small and creepy were scurrying off the walls at the sight of the two Monkeys.

MK shrieked, clinging to his Father now to keep pace with him. He hated Spiders!

The King's nostrils flared as the scent grew stronger. His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of his lost son. It stunk of the Spider Queen in here.

"Show yourselves!" he growled, his voice reverberating off the metal walls. The King pressed on, his feet leaving scorched imprints on the floor. From the shadows, alarmed at the intruder, large Spider demons were dropping to the floor, their eyes gleaming green.

Despite their barred fangs and sharpened claws, their hands trembled. Never had they expected for the Monkey King himself to wander in unannounced. His eyes flared at the sight of them, a few recoiling. One, who MK recognized aa the Huntsman, growled back.

"You dare trespass in our domain, Monkey King?" the Huntsman snarled, his eight eyes narrowing. "Leave now, or face the consequences!"

The King's response was a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the lair. Several of the spider demons scurried back, the Huntsman even stumbling. His eyes were wide, petrified.

MK's eyes darted between his father and the spiders, his heart racing. "Dad, please-“ he tried to smile, struggling, “We can talk about this.”

But the King was beyond reason. With a flick of his wrist, a gust of wind was surging through the area, his eyes golden and gleaming. The spider demons recoiled further, their bravado crumbling in the face of the Monkey King's unbridled fury.

"Where is he…?" The King's words were slow, deliberate, each syllable dripping with barely contained rage.

The Huntsman, despite his fear, stood his ground. "We don't know what you're talking about, Monkey King. Whoever you seek is not here—"

"LIAR!" The Monkey King's roar shook the cavern, causing loose rocks to rain down from above. MK ducked his head, leaning against his Father to avoid such things. The King’s tail easily lifted above his child’s skull, blocking any debris from grazing him. MK had never-

He was wheezing, staring at the chaos in quiet shock. He had read the books, heard the stories, but his Dad was- he was the Monkey King yes, but perhaps it was only know that he truly realize- He was the Monkey King.

The Huntsman was scurrying back, “I-I swear, I don’t-” he felt his life flashing before his eyes when the King stepped closer. A shadow over his expression, looking more beast then man or monkey. MK had let go of his arm then, standing limply behind him.

There was no strength in his fingers against such- such power.

As the Monkey King advanced, the air crackled with energy. The metal walls began to warp and bend under the pressure of his power. The spider demons cowered, their legs trembling beneath them.

"Dad..." MK's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the cacophony of his father's rage.

Suddenly, a new voice cut through the chaos. "What's going on here?"

All eyes turned to the source, many relieved to see their glorious Queen. Her hair was down, dressed in the comfortability of a silken robe.

“Our Queen!” the spiders chorused, rushing to hide behind her. She gave them a small frown, wishing her minions were just a tad more useful.

The Spider Queen's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene before her. The Monkey King, radiating power and fury, his son cowering behind him, and her minions trembling in fear. She straightened her posture, chin held high as she addressed the intruder.

"Well well well. Sun Wukong in the flesh," she said, her voice cool and collected. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this... unexpected visit?"

The Monkey King's eyes flashed dangerously. "You know why I'm here," he said coldly, taking a step towards her. The metal floor beneath his feet groaned.

The Spider Queen's lips curled into a smirk, her eyes gleaming with amusement. She batted her eyes lashes with the ease of someone who had nothing to fear. "I'm afraid I don't, dear Monkey King. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"

"My son," Wukong snarled, his voice reverberating through the cavern. "The child you stole from me. Where is he?"

For a moment, surprise flickered across the Spider Queen's face, quickly replaced by a mask of indifference. "Your son? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. The only monkey child I know of that is yours is the one cowering behind you right now.” she gestured a finger to him. MK flinched at her gesture, his stomach dropping. His mind was reeling.

Son?

What was his Father talking about? The Spider Queen's words hung in the air, heavy with implications. MK's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of information. His father's rage, the mention of a stolen child, and now this denial from the Spider Queen���it was all too much to process.

"Don't play games with me, Princess," Wukong growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“I am all for a good game, as you know, but this is not one of those times.” she walked around him, her steps measured, “The only child here that I could think of- is my own. MY little prince,” she touched her chest, a tad possessive in her tone.

The Monkey King's eyes flashed with a dangerous light. "Your prince?" he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "You dare claim him as your own?"

The Spider Queen's smirk only widened. "Of course I do. He IS mine. I raised him, nurtured him, named him. He is mine in every way that matters."

MK's eyes widened. Xiaoxiao-?

No… No wait wait, that didn’t make sense. What were these two talking about. Xiaozhizhu was a monkey yes but he- he wasn’t…

He was the spitting image of his Baba.

His eyes, his smile-

MK felt sick suddenly, teetering to keep upright.

Xiaoxiao was his other half. Why was that? Why did he have this connection to a Monkey he had no blood relation to? Unless… there was a relation?

The Monkey King's fury reached a fever pitch. The metal walls of the cavern began to groan and buckle under the pressure of his power. "You lie!" he roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of the lair. "He is my son, my blood! You had no right to take him!"

The Spider Queen's composure faltered for a moment, her eyes darting to the trembling walls. She took a step back, her voice losing some of its earlier confidence. "I... I didn't take anyone, Monkey King. The child came to me, lost and alone.” a fire sparked in her eyes. Of course, when the glamor had been removed from his neck to reveal his true self- it took only a single examination of his soul by a trusted Doctor to trace the power back to one “Liu’er Mihou”.

The mate of Sun Wukong, the Monkey King. It took very little to piece it together. Though, even after all these years, the Spider Queen had yet to understand why things were this way.

Why the child was abandoned.

Why the King would toss away his heir.

When she realized he had another, one far more powerful and physically capable then Xiaozhizhu, she could only assume they kept the strong and tossed away the weak. A weak link she would gladly take as her own for future profit.

Only now did she consider something else far beyond her control had occurred during this all. A third party at work. Not that it mattered.

The Monkey King's eyes flashed with a mixture of pain and rage. "Lost and alone?" he snarled, his voice cracking slightly. "Because he was taken from us!"

MK's head was spinning. The implications of what he was hearing were staggering. Xiaoxiao... his friend, the boy he'd been trying so hard to steer towards a better path... was his brother? His twin?

The Spider Queen's eyes narrowed, "Taken? I was under the impression he was... discarded." She sneered.

Wukong lunged for her. She quickly ducked to the right, grimacing as he tore the wall behind her asunder.

The Spider Queen's words held in the air, heavy and poisonous. MK felt his breath catch in his throat, his eyes darting between his father and the arachnid monarch.

"Discarded?" Wukong's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried more venom than any shout. "You dare suggest I would abandon my own child?!"

The Spider Queen's eyes narrowed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "Then explain, Monkey King, why your son was alone, lost, and without any trace of your protection when I found him." she stood, tossing her hair over her shoulder. ‘I am the one who nursed him to health when he fell ill. I am the one who he clung to when he took his first steps. That child knows nothing but these walls.” she gave a little tilt of her head. "I am his everything.” she held her arms out. “And you? You are nothing to that boy. And sugar~” she smirked, “He’s been quite useful.”

The Monkey King's fury reached a new height, his golden eyes blazing with an otherworldly light. The very air around him crackled with energy, causing the spider demons to cower further back.

"You..." Wukong's voice crackling with venom. "You took advantage of my son's vulnerability. You twisted him, used him for your own gain. You KNEW he was mine and you used that!"

The Spider Queen's smirk sharpened. "I gave him purpose, direction. Something you clearly failed to do."

“Watch your words!” he stepped closer.

“Or what?” she challenged. “You don’t seem to get it, do you? Do you?” she sneered. That child was her little Prince, her greatest thief, and her greatest assets for more than one reason.

To him, the “Monkey King’ was a stranger. Anything he even dared to do- it would not be met with understanding like one of his own kin.

And she was going to use this kid for every drop he was worth. His essence already powered so much of her machines. Even if he lacked in the power his Father had, it was more than enough.

He was so similar to his Baba after all.

Blindly loyal. And horribly naive.

A silly boy… but still her’s. And she wasn’t just hanging him over.

The Monkey King's eyes flashed dangerously, his fists clenched at his sides. "You underestimate the bond between father and son," he growled. "No matter what lies you've fed him, blood calls to blood. He will know me."

The Spider Queen laughed, a cold, mocking sound that echoed through the cavern. "Oh, you poor, deluded monkey. Do you really think he'll welcome you with open arms? No~ He’s Mine now.” she spat at his feet, “And you are never getting him back.”

The Monkey King's rage exploded. With a primal roar, he lunged at the Spider Queen, his fist connecting with the metal wall where her head had been a split second before. The impact sent shockwaves through the entire lair, causing chunks of debris to rain down from above.

She grunted, spinning to the side and zipping into the air using a web. As the area delved in chaos, MK screamed.

"Dad, stop! Please!" He cried out, his voice barely audible over the chaos. This wasn’t the way to do this!! But his father was beyond reason, consumed by a fury unlike anything MK had ever witnessed.

Wukong was right on her heels. The Spider Queen's eyes widened in alarm as she realized the true extent of the Monkey King's power. She swung frantically from web to web, barely staying ahead of his furious attacks. The lair shook violently with each missed blow, metal twisting and crumpling like paper.

"Where is he?!" Wukong roared, his voice echoing through the caverns. "Tell me where my son is!"

MK watched in horror as his father tore through the lair, leaving destruction in his wake. The spider demons scattered in panic, fleeing deeper into the tunnels.

There were sparks of gold- the King moving faster then most eyes could follow. In an eruption of sparks he and the Queen were slamming against the ground, his hand wrapped around her throat.

The Spider Queen gasped for air, her eyes wide with genuine fear as the Monkey King's grip tightened around her throat. The metal floor beneath them buckled and warped, creating a crater around their impact point.

"I'll ask you one last time," Wukong growled, his voice low and dangerous, his other hand reeled back to deliver a final blow, "Where. Is. My. Son?"

The Queen clawed at his hand, her voice barely a whisper. "I... don't... know..." That wasn’t a lie. He was out at the moment. The child had been disappearing on a whim more and more- of course at the most inopportune times.

“Not good enough!” The King- The Monster, tightened his grip, feeling bones threatening to give way below him.

He would have crushed her throat had it not been for a piercing shriek behind him. His boy, MK, was pleading, "Dad, stop!" MK screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "You're going to kill her!"

The Monkey King froze, his fist mere inches from the Spider Queen's face. For a moment, the only sound in the cavern was the Queen's ragged breathing and the distant echo of falling debris.

Slowly, Wukong turned his head to look at his son. MK stood there, tears streaming down his face, his body trembling. "Please, Dad," he whispered, "This isn't you. This isn't right." he couldn’t recognize this man in front of him. Where was his Father at? Where had his hero gone? Who was this that he was looking in the eye right now?

The Monkey King's eyes flickered, a hint of recognition breaking through the haze of rage. His grip on the Spider Queen's throat loosened slightly, but he didn't release her entirely.

"Xiaotian..." he breathed, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.

MK took a tentative step forward, his hands outstretched in a placating gesture. "Dad, I know you're hurting. I know you're angry. But this... this isn't the way." He swallowed hard, fighting back more tears. "What would Baba say if he saw you like this?"

What would Mihou say?

Would he be right here with him, ready to end this woman’s life, or would he be uncaring for such poultry demons? Would his entire focus be on just finding their lost child- while avoiding traumatizing their little star?

The Monkey King's grip loosened further, his eyes losing some of their dangerous glow. The mention of his mate seemed to pierce through the fog of rage, bringing him back to himself. He looked down at the Spider Queen, still gasping for air beneath him, then back at MK's tear-streaked face.

"Xiaotian," Wukong said again, his voice softer now, tinted with regret. Opening his mouth to say more, a strange sensation came to his hand- a sharp sucking sensation, loosening his grip to the Spider Queen.

He whipped back to her, finding her form dropping into the very ground below. His eyes were wide, knowing such a trick anywhere. How could he not?

The shadows….

Was his Moon here? Had his clone found Mihou and drawn his mate here?

It was enough questions for him to hesitate long enough for the portal to close and the Queen to be gone from his judgement.

The shadows yes… but something was different about. Frowning and confused, he heard MK

“Xiaoxiao-” he was choking.

Wukong turned sharply back to his son, but the boy was not looking at him anymore. His tear stained face was angled at the side tunnel, wide.

Wukong followed MK's gaze to the side tunnel, his heart skipping a beat. There, partially hidden in the shadows, stood a young monkey demon. His fur was a rich light golden color, his eyes a familiar shade of amber. He was thin and wiry, dressed in dark clothes that blended with the shadows. A small spider emblem glinted on his chest.

By the gods, he was beautiful. His face was Mihou’s in every way- his eyes, his eyes brows, that little dimple on his cheek- the mark on his face.

This was him.

This was his boy.

The Child’s eyes were wide, his extended hand lowering a tad to show it had been him who has summoned the shadow just now, whisking away the Queen- his Mother, to safety.As he took in the scene before him - the destroyed lair, destroyed home, the cowering spider demons, and the imposing figure of the Monkey King- he inhaled sharply.

"Xiaoxiao," MK whispered, taking a hesitant step towards his friend - his brother.

The Monkey King's breath caught in his throat. Time seemed to stand still as he gazed upon the son. Emotions warred within him - joy, sorrow, regret, and a fierce, protective love that threatened to overwhelm him.

Then the cub spoke it was a sharp hissing sound that made him jolt, “What have you done?”

The Monkey King's heart clenched at the accusation in his son's voice. He took a tentative step forward, his hands outstretched in a placating gesture. "It’s you-," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

The child’s eyes widened, a mix of fear and confusion flashing across his face. He took a step back, his tail wrapping protectively around his leg. "Stay back!" Xiaozhizhu hissed, his voice trembling. He raised his hands defensively, dark energy swirling around his fingertips. His home- everything was destroyed…

His eyes kept flickering to MK. Why was he here?? Why was he just standing there and letting this happen?

The Monkey King's face fell, pain etching deep lines around his eyes. His ears flattened, the mighty King from a moment ago falling into a small and delicate whimper. “I-It’s- it’s hard to explain but-” he looked this boy up and down. His lower lip was trembling. This was his baby.

His knees were buckling.

Gods- what was he- he doing? How did he look to his child right now?

MK was blubbering, his eyes wide with panic as he felt the sharp sensations from his other half. The pain, the fear- the accusational anger that was growing, “X-Xiaoxiao wait, please. Let me explain,” he stammered, rushing to take his hand.

Xiaozhizhu flinched away from MK's outstretched hand, his eyes narrowing. MK made a sharp whimpering sound, his quivering at how sharp that denial felt to his chest. "Explain? Explain what? Why you're here with... with him?" He gestured sharply at the Monkey King, his voice rising. "Why my home is in ruins?"

The Monkey King took another hesitant step forward, his voice soft and pleading. "Please, son. I know this must be confusing, but if you'll just listen—"

"What did you just call me?!" Xiaozhizhu snapped, dark energy crackling around his hands. “I ain’t no “SON” of yours??”

Wukong opened and closed his mouth, speechless. “I…” he choked. He didn’t know how to explain. He didn’t know where to start. He felt such fear but such- he was dazed. This boy was as beautiful as MK was. With them standing side by side he could see it- same nose. Same way they carried themselves.

"Xiaoxiao, please," MK pleaded, his voice cracking. "I know this looks bad, but you have to listen. He's... he's our father."

Xiaozhizhu's eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. "What are you talking about? I don't have a father. I have a mother, and you—" he glared at the Monkey King, "—just tried to kill her!" if he hadn’t come when he had she might have been- He couldn’t bare to think it. She wasn’t exactly Mom of the year, but she was still his Mom. He would have nothing without her.

The Monkey King flinched as if struck. "No, that's not... I didn't mean to..." he trailed off.

Xiaozhizhu's eyes flashed with anger. "You didn't mean to?! Look around you!" He gestured wildly at the destruction surrounding them. "You tore apart my home! You attacked my family!"

The Monkey King took a shaky step forward, his hands outstretched pleadingly. "Please, you have to understand. We're your-“ his voice was small, “- family. You were taken from us when you were just a baby. I am your Father,” the words came out groggy and pained. He put his hand to his chest, eyes so wide and pooling with guilt and joy.

Xiaozhizhu shook his head vehemently, backing away. What the FUCK where these people on right now? When MK tried to grab his hand again he slashed at him. “Don’t touch me!!”

MK recoiled, Xiaozhizhu flinching to realize he had almost struck him. His other half…

N-No he didn’t want that but-

This was too much. They weren’t making sense. His emotions- and then MK’s- it was jumbled. It was overflowing and making it hard to breathe. He wanted it to stop.

It was suffocating!

“Stop talking-” he wanted to cover his ears.

"Xiaoxiao, please!" MK cried out, his voice desperate. "I know this is a lot, but it's true. We're brothers - twins!"

Xiaozhizhu's eyes darted between MK and the Monkey King, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. This couldn't be happening. It had to be some kind of trick, some elaborate scheme. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, you're lying.” his hands shot up to his ears, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. This couldn't be real. It had to be some kind of nightmare.

The Monkey King took another step forward, his eyes brimming with tears. "Son, please. I know this is hard to believe, but—"

"I said STOP!" Xiaozhizhu screamed, dark energy exploding outward from his body. The force of it sent MK and the Monkey King stumbling backward, debris swirling around them.

Xiaozhizhu's eyes glowed with an eerie purple light, his fur standing on end. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I want no part of it!" His voice echoed. He hand lashed out, and the two were sent skidding a few more feet. MK clawed at the floor to keep himself rooted there.

The Monkey King's eyes widened in a mixture of awe and concern. His son's power was raw, untamed, and tinged with something dark. It reminded him painfully of his own rages from centuries past. He had Mihou’s energy, his shadows…

“I-I’m sorry-” he stammered. Gods. Centuries past? No… no he was still making those mistakes here and now.

Chunks of metal and rock lifted from the ground, orbiting him like a chaotic asteroid field. His eyes, now glowing an intense purple, fixed on the Monkey King. "You destroyed everything," he snarled, his voice distorted and echoing. “You’ll pay for this, Monkey King.” his firey gaze locked on MK. Hurt and rage swirling together. “Monkey Kid,”

He was stepping back, to the shadows behind him. MK yelped and pleaded, rushing to stop him from leaving. “No no, Xiaozhizhu-!”

The shadows swirled around Xiaozhizhu, enveloping him in darkness. MK lunged forward, his hand outstretched, but he was too late. His fingers grasped at empty air as his brother vanished into the void.

"No!" MK cried, falling to his knees. He pounded his fists against the ground, tears streaming down his face. "Xiaoxiao, come back!"

The Monkey King stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the spot where his long-lost son had disappeared. The weight of what had just transpired crashed down upon him.

MK was sobbing, grasping at the empty wall. His sobs echoed through the destroyed lair, his shoulders shaking as he pressed his forehead against the cold metal. The Monkey King stood motionless behind him, his face a mask of shock and grief. He fell to his knees, cursing himself

What had he done..?

Suddenly, the shadows on the wall began to ripple and shift. MK's head snapped up, his tear-filled eyes widening with hope. "Xiaoxiao?" he whispered.

A figure emerged from the darkness then, but it wasn't Xiaozhizhu. Instead, a tall, slender monkey demon stepped out, smelling of sweet plums and home. The Six Eared Macaque.

MK openly wailed at the sight of him, rushing to toss himself into his Baba’s arms. “Baba…!” At once Macaque was drawn to the sounds of his baby’s tears, his arms wrapping around MK. He soothed the child against him.

“I’m here, Moon Drop.” He did not know what had transpired as his Son melted against his arms and openly cried, but he was here now. It had been… quite the trip here after Wukong’s clone arrived. Speaking things that couldn’t possibly be true.

Yet here he stood, in the Spider Queen’s domain, with nothing but a sobbing child, the ruins of a lair, and his husband flat on his knees, looking like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life. No spiders in sight. No Queen snickering.

And no lost child…

“…I got here too late, it seems,” he whispered quietly. So he held MK instead, focusing on him to fix one little piece at a time.

————

BOOM

Take this! This is just- it was in my brain and I needed an outlet! I got no clue where this au is going but for those who are curious, 🧐 I gift it to you.

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[shigarosie]

Butterfly, Fly Away (part one)

Aizawa feels out of breath. Despite the fact that he drove to the daycare center, it feels like he ran the whole way. He doesn’t run inside, but he does do an awkward half jog to get in there quickly without looking like some sort of lunatic. 

The room, as expected, is a disaster. Kids are crying. Drawings have been torn up and thrown around, chairs have been overturned. Eri is at the center of it all, with an uninterrupted scream at the top of her lungs that he’s sure has lasted at least a full minute by the way her red face is slowly starting to show hints of purple. 

Eri has been kicked out of another daycare. 

She skips alongside him merrily as he walks back to the car with him, her little purple bag in one hand while the other holds her own pudgy little palm. You would think that she was a perfectly well behaved little angel if you saw her now, no traces left of her hurricane of an outburst mere minutes ago. 

There was a familiar throbbing pain forming like a tight band around his skull. 

Once they were in the car, Eri kicking her feet in her carseat and playing with the straps of her bag, Aizawa couldn’t help but spare glances at her in the rearview mirror when he stopped at all the stop signs on the way back to the high school. His daughter was the best, most important thing in his life. He loved her more than anything, no matter what. He just didn’t know what to do with her anymore. 

As he parked in his designated spot, five minutes left of his lunch break, Eri hurriedly tried to unbuckled her carseat before Aizawa could get to her. It was a game she liked to play, despite the fact that her clumsy fingers hadn’t yet grown strong enough to fully press the big red button that released the clips. But Aizawa didn’t get out of the car to come around and unbuckle her yet. 

“Hurry daddy!” she taunts, grunting as her fingers slip as they always do. “I’m gonna beat you this time!” 

“What happened, Eri?”

She paused, looking up at him with those eyes that look almost too big for her head in the sweetest way. She looked unphased. Unashamed, unapologetic. 

“I didn’t like it there,” was the simple answer she gave. “Daycare is stupid.” 

“But honey,” he sighed, “you know that you have to go. And don’t use the word stupid, please.” 

The little girl starts to shift uncomfortably in her seat, no longer trying to unbuckle her restrictive straps, but attempting to pull them down her shoulders instead. 

“Why?” she asks, an edge beginning to form where a smooth curve used to exist in her voice. “Why can’t I just come with you to big kid school?” 

“Because next year you’ll have to start going to kindergarten, so you can learn new things and make friends. I won’t be able to just drop everything and come get you. Instead you’ll be forced to either sit in your classroom or sit in the principal’s office for hours until big kid school is done.”

Eri slumps in her seat. The tears are welling in her eyes and Aizawa has to look above her head in order to keep talking with her. 

“This is the fourth daycare you’ve been kicked out of, honey. That’s not good.”

Eri turns her face away. “Guess you’ll have to maybe take me to a new one then,” she says. 

“I can’t.” At this she perks up, catching the feeling of excitement in those little hands of hers before it slips from her grasp and runs off when she sees her dad do that thing where he drags his hand down the entirety of his face and then rubs at his scruffy jaw. “This was the last daycare in our area that I can afford. No more daycares.”

“So I’ll have to come to school with you now, right?” she asks, hopeful eyes shining with a few embarrassed tears that hadn’t yet gone away. 

Aizawa doesn’t say anything. He gets out of the car, opens her door, and helps her out of her seatbelt. 

“Come on,” he says, holding her bag in one hand and her palm in the other. “Today you get to watch my students take a pop quiz.” 

Class 1-A loves Eri. They love to dote on her, like she’s their princess and they are nothing but her humble servants. They don’t bat an eye when she shows up during the second half of the day anymore, used to their visibly stressed teacher sitting her down with coloring pages and an old cd player (there’s no way in hell he would ever put an ipad in her hands) in a poor attempt at a fort under his desk. They felt bad for him, really, knowing how hard he’s had it since… 

They also like to sneak little snacks and fidget toys to her when he’s not looking. They get passed down the rows of desks like contraband, making a wide loop around the goody-goodies that rat them out. They think they’re helping, really they do. And it’s endearing. But it makes it more difficult for him, in all actuality, when he’s trying to convince Eri that his classroom is not the place for her to be and they’re doing everything to make it friendly for her. They even stopped swearing when Eri made her little visits. (At least, they tried their best.) 

“They’re like her gang of babysitters,” Aizawa explains to Mic as he pulls out a bottle of scotch from the baby proofed cupboard above the fridge and two glasses. Eri had been put to bed an hour prior, after having her bath and getting her hair braided and insisting on TWO stories tonight; one from her dad and one from her godfather. “It just makes her want to be there even more.”

“Maybe that’s what you two need,” Mic says from the sofa, helping himself to some chips and dip. 

“What?”

“You know, a babysitter,” the blond elaborates. “Or a nanny, in this case.”

Aizawa’s brow furrows. His lips turn down. Mic can already tell this is going to take a lot of selling. “What’s the difference?”

“Nannies do more,” Mic says, his mouth partially full. He gave up on manners around Aizawa sometime around… well, they met in middle school, so he probably never had them in the first place. “Babysitters are for, like, date nights and stuff.” 

“I definitely don’t need one of those,” Aizawa grumbles, handing Mic his glass before settling onto the couch himself. 

“Nannies are more long term,” Mic continues, not addressing the comment, “they would stay with her at home the whole day while you work, maybe do some tidying or run some errands for you. It’s like daycare, but more personal and actually not at all like daycare. You just have someone watching your kid all day.” 

Aizawa groans, gulping down most of his drink in one go. “I don’t want some stranger in my house alone with my kid. That sounds terrible.” 

“Man, they call them nanny cams for a reason. And when you use the websites they do background checks.” 

“How do you know so much about nannies?” Aizawa asks suspiciously. Mic had no kids. He had no nieces or nephews. All he had were a bunch of elementary school students singing the same ten annoying songs off key. 

“Remember the lady with the two kids I was hooking up with while they were with their dad? She had a nanny.” 

“And how long after you stopped seeing the mom did you start sleeping with the nanny?” Aizawa asked, an eyebrow raised. 

“Hey, it’s completely a coincidence that I met her nanny out at a bar one night, okay? Swear on my life. Not like I ever met her before then, I never met the kids!” 

“Whatever,” Aizawa says, downing the last of his drink before pouring another. “I’m not getting a nanny.” 

“You at least gotta think about it,” Mic says, “you don’t have many other choices here. Unless you want to call your mom and have her-” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Then I recommend you take the weekend to research nanny websites,” Mic says. “You can’t bring your kid to work with you every day. It’s not good for her. It’s not good for you.” Mic leaves his unfinished drink on the coffee table, knowing Aizawa will just drink the rest himself after he leaves. “I should tuck in for the night. Think about it, alright? And I’m right down the street if you ever need anything. And-” 

“Good night, Mic.” 

“Later.” 

Aizawa stays on the couch, sitting in the same spot, staring at the wall in front of him for an hour before he finally sighs to himself. 

“Don’t have many other choices,” he grumbles as he pulls his laptop out of his work bag and starts his google search, Mic’s unfinished glass of scotch in hand. 

‘best nanny websites’

[bueckersstuff]

REMEMBER

Click here for chapter: 1 & 2

Chapter 3: Forgotten Faces, Remembered Pain

Paige's POV

I grew up here in Minnesota, living what seemed like a perfect life until I left for college in Connecticut three years ago. Good family, solid school, a career I was proud of, the best friends anyone could ask for. I had everything I could have dreamed of. Or at least, I thought I did. But then, a certain someone walked back into my life, and now I realized—time doesn’t heal anything. You just get used to carrying the weight of what hurts for a lot longer than you should.

It all started when I was twelve, discovering my love for basketball. My dad used to bring me to this basketball court just down the street to practice, sometimes for hours. We’d always end up at the local convenience store, grabbing snacks—he’d stock up on chips while I picked out ice cream. I still remember that day. I grabbed my usual chocolate ice cream, lined up to pay, and that’s when I heard it.

"No! What you gave me is a dollar short! I can count!" A girl’s voice, sharp with frustration, cutting through the air. I turned, half expecting some kind of mistake, but she was standing there, arguing with the cashier, insisting on the right change.

I couldn’t help it—my eyes met hers, and she shoved the receipt into my face, her little face demanding validation.

"You know math? Tell me I’m right, and she’s wrong."

I had to laugh. I looked at the cashier, then back at her. "Yeah, you’re right." Though I was laughing, I actually glanced at the receipt and she was, indeed, right.

She flashed that cocky grin of hers, so smug. "See? Told you I’m right."

That was just the beginning.

She started following me around, asking questions, poking into my life, telling me she had no friends, she was bored all the time. I didn’t even know why I let her in, but I did. So, I told her, "If you want to waste time, you can come watch me practice. You live around here, right?" She had mentioned earlier that she lives nearby.

"Yeah, that works," she replied, smirking. "I can waste time and practice my math by counting your scores. That is, if you can score."

That was her way of challenging me.

Five years. Five years we spent inseparable, like we couldn’t exist without each other. And then, the world broke apart.

One day, she came to practice with bloodshot eyes, her face red and blotchy from crying. Before I could even ask, she blurted out, her voice cracking:

"I’m leaving Minnesota. Mom says it’s for work, and we’ll be back sooner than I think."

She started sobbing uncontrollably. "I don’t want to leave. I can’t leave you here alone."

I was speechless. My world was spinning, and I didn’t know how to respond. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

"If that’s what the adults want, there’s nothing we can do about it, right?" I muttered, trying to ease the tension. "We can still talk on video calls, and you’ll be back before you know it."

But what about what I wanted?

"No!" she screamed. "If I leave, you’ll forget about me. You’ll find new friends!"

I could hear the panic in her voice, and it drove a sharp pain into my chest. "I won’t. I promise. It’s just us two, forever and ever."

And then she was gone.

For two years, we kept in touch, but as soon as I moved to Connecticut for college, things started to unravel. The calls grew less frequent, the arguments more intense. Silence followed, suffocating silence. No texts, no calls. Just emptiness.

I thought she was living her best life—at least, that’s what her social media told me. She seemed happy, thriving. But where did that leave me? Did "forever and ever" mean nothing? Was I just another part of her past, fading away?

I moved on, or so I told myself. I threw myself into my studies, my career. But still, there were nights when I found myself searching for her name, staring at her photos, wondering what had happened. Longing. Disappointment. Anger. Then confusion. Why was I still so obsessed? She left me all alone, even when I needed her the most. When I suffered an injury while playing my sport, I thought she’d be there for me, but I was wrong. I admit, I reached out to her, sending messages here and there—but maybe that was just my vulnerability talking. In the end, it didn’t matter. The lowest point of my life wasn’t even worth her time.

And then, there she was. Standing in front of me. But she was... different. Not in a good way. Something about her seemed so out of place. Her whole aura had changed. What happened to her?

It’s been a week since that first encounter, and I’m running errands for Drew. I roll my eyes—he’s got the audacity to ask me to get ice cream for him. As I’m perusing the different flavors, out of the corner of my eye, I see him.

Steve.

The shock is immediate, but the look on his face is worse. He’s more stunned than I am. But why is that? Am I not supposed to see him anymore?

"Paige? Long time no see! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Connecticut?"

My heart skips a beat. He keeps tabs on me?

"I’m on a break. Gonna head back tomorrow though, classes start soon. It’s good to see you again, Steve." I try to sound calm, but it’s hard when my mind is still reeling. "How’s Emma?"

His face contorts, and I see a flicker of pain—something I haven’t seen before, and it sends a sharp pang through me.

"Emma’s gone. Just three months ago."

The words crash into me like a wrecking ball. What? Emma’s dead?

I don’t know what to say. My mouth goes dry. "Oh my god. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?"

"We’re fine now, I guess. But the last three months have been hell. Losing Emma... and then having my daughter almost..." He trails off, his voice cracking. "I’m just thankful my daughter got lucky."

My stomach drops. "What do you mean?"

"I came here with my daughter. You haven’t seen her yet?" he asks, and the words send a shiver through me.

Oh, I've seen her, but then she disappears again for the rest of the week.

"But maybe even if you did, she won’t remember you," he adds, his voice tinged with sadness.

I freeze. What?

"She’s suffering from a temporary memory loss from the accident, Paige."

She forgot me? She forgot about us?

The ice cream Steve is holding shakes slightly in his hands, and I suddenly realize I’m staring at it. "Is that for her? That’s her favorite."

"Yeah. I’m hoping it’ll help her remember, you know?" Steve’s voice breaks, and it feels like the weight of everything is pressing in on me.

I don’t know why I say it, but it spills out before I can stop myself.

"I want to help. Make her remember."

I must be crazy.

He looks at me, surprised but grateful. "You would? That means a lot to me, Paige."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes a little distant, before continuing. "I’ve been thinking about it for a while now—about sending her back to school. The doctors think getting back into a routine could help her. They said it might spark something, help her remember what she loved." He exhales, his voice wavering slightly. "I’ve been struggling with whether or not it's the right time, but... I think it might be the only way."

I barely hear him as my mind races. "She can attend to mine. Transfer her. She can join the swimming team. She still swims, right?"

Or maybe I'm just out of my fucking mind.

"Yes!" Steve’s face lights up. "That’s actually a great idea. I’ll start processing her papers next week."

She needs to remember. Because when she finally looks me in the eye and says sorry, it won’t be some empty apology. It’ll be real.

She’ll remember me. She has to.

Chapter 4 setting's gonna be at Uconn. More interactions and stuff!! <3

Taglist: @authentic-girl03 @unadulteratedcyclepaper @0phantom0 @sjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

[bunabi]

ok this is the last you'll see of me because my body hurts after sewing this godforsaken dress 😩

[mayb4nk]

jj fingering you faster when you say you’re not about to cum :((

(uhmm i got carried away…oops!)

idea inspired by this (that is a p!link don’t open in public lmao)

warnings; NSFW MDNI 18+, p in v, unprotected sex (NOOO), pussy slapping, thigh and ass slapping but only like once, squirting, creampie, praise kink if you squint, this is filthy, jj says mama multiple times, thats abt it i think bbys :)

pink: jj

purple: reader

red/other: my thoughts and apologies (only happens once lmao)

he has you laid on your back, on his bed. your legs are spread and his fingers are so deep inside of you. you can hear the wet sounds of your cunt fill the room, along with your moans and whimpers. he smirks as he sees the pathetic look on your face, he leans down to speak to you, “you gonna cum, mama?” he says with a smirk as his fingers fingers continue their slow, agonizing pace in and out of your cunt, with his thumb circling your puffy clit.

upon hearing these words, you shake your head, voice trembling. “no…” you say, wanting to last longer but you know you’re about to cum. jjs smirk widens as he speeds up his fingers, them plunging in and out of you with ease due to you being so, fucking, wet.

“no, baby? you’re not?” he says, with a condescendingly sweet tone of voice as he hears your shaky voice. his fingers increase speed as they scissor through your aching cunt.

you cry out as you feel him speed up. "jj! fuck, baby!" you whine as he speeds up. your core throbs as you look down at him and see a shit eating grin on his face.

at the sensation, you involuntarily close your legs around his hands. we can’t have that, now can we? he tsks before pulling out of you completely, spreading your legs and pinning them to the bed. he pulls off of your legs and sends a sharp slap against your sensitive clit, causing you to scream.

“don’t hide from me, baby. you know better than that.” he says sternly before sliding down the bed and pressing his hot tongue against your pussy. the sensation of his tongue, spit, and your throbbing, aching clit colliding causes you to arch your back and send your hand down to grip his long, blonde hair.

the taste of your arousal and the feel of your hands in his hair causes him to moan, sending millions of little vibrations to your pussy. you shriek at the feeling and begin rocking and grinding your hips against his tongue, taking what you want.

you swear you can feel him smile against you as his right hand comes up to rub on your inner thigh before pressing a sharp, mean slap to it. you yell and your legs twitch at the pain, he then brings his hand back to softly rub over the red mark now forming on your thigh, soothing the pain.

he takes his fingers back down to your pussy to press into your entrance, causing you to let out a pornographic moan as you feel the familiar intrusion. he begins moving his tongue faster against you, licking, sucking, and nipping at your clit as his fingers fuck you at a ruthless pace.

“fuck, jj! im close, baby.. m’so close..” you whine as your pussy clenches around his fingers, causing him to groan against your pussy. he smirks against your pussy as he keeps the same fast, orgasmic pace. the pace that he knows you love, the pace that causes you to clench around his fingers and moan louder than ever.

he mumbles some words into your pussy that cause you to tremble and whimper at the vibrations. “c’mon, pretty mama. give it to me.” he coos as his hips begin rutting into the mattress, trying to find his own relief.

“i’m cumming, jj~!” you moan as your eyes roll back into your head and your legs shake. he pulls away from you completely, letting you come down on your own. and thank god he does, or else he would’ve missed the absolute fucking show you’re putting on for him right now.

he watches you moan, writhe, and squirm against the mattress as clear liquid spurts from your pussy. he looks at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes along with a smirk before speaking up,

“look at you, baby!” he teases as he sees the embarrassment on your face.

you lay there, spent, and sweaty. he looks at your form on the bed before slowly undoing his belt. you hear this and groan sleepily as you look at him and start to protest, but he stops you.

“shh, baby. let me do all the work. let me take care of you.” he says softly as he takes his shirt off, his body completely bare as he looks at you with a soft look, silently asking for permission.

once he sees you nod softly, he moves next to you, putting you in a spooning position as he holds your leg up, providing enough space to slip his fat cock in between your folds.

you moan as you feel his cock run between your folds, teasing you. you gasp out as you let out a breathy plea. “please, jj..”

he kisses the back of your neck before slipping his cock into you slowly, whimpering in your ear as he feels your wet, warm, and soft pussy clench around him. he stills his hips giving you a minute to adjust. but once you give him that signal that he can move, he’s not stopping. he slowly pulls himself from you before snapping his hips into yours, causing you to scream.

he moans as he speeds his hips, the sound of skin slapping against itself fills the room, along with both of you guys’ moans and whimpers. he brings his hand to wrap around your front, rubbing your clit in circles that are perfectly timed with his thrusts.

“you’re so fucking perfect, you know that, baby?” he praises in your ear as his hips slam into yours. you can’t answer due to your brain completely shutting down because jjs just fucking you so good you just go cock dumb :(. slobber dribbles down your chin as you begin incoherently babbling. (gross!)

“oh, my poor girl, huh?” he purrs as he feels your pussy clench around him, signaling that you were close. he kisses your shoulder before turning you on your tummy, his knees resting beside your legs as he pushes your head into the pillow.

“can’t even speak because this cock is so good, huh?” he chuckles darkly as his other hand comes to grip your hips, almost leaving bruises.

you manage to let out a strangled “m-mhm..!” as his long, thick cock slides in and out of you. you feel his hand slap your ass as his other hand that was pressed on your head, comes to press onto your back, forcing your chest into the bed.

“i- jj..! so good…” you mumble as you manage to turn your head to look at him. he coos as he looks at you.

“i know, baby.. i know.” he coos before starting again, “but you can take it, yeah?” he groans as his thrusts get sloppier and he notices your moans getting louder, letting him know you were close.

“cum on my cock, baby.” he moans as he brings both hands to grip your hips, thrusting faster into you as you feel his heavy balls hitting your clit.

you moan loudly into the pillow as your pussy spasms around his cock. he moans when he sees the white ring around the base of his cock as he thrusts into you.

“i’m gonna cum, baby..” he says before letting his cum fill you, his moans shaky and his hips stuttering inside of you, causing you to whimper.

he pulls out of you and flip you to your back, forcing you to look at him. “you did so good, baby.. m’so proud of you.” he says as he presses a chaste kiss to your lips before laying his head on your chest.

“i love you.”

sorry this would’ve been better if i didn’t have to rewrite it THREE TIMES. FUCK U TUMBLR GRRR.

tags: @maybanksprincess (wrote a special part in here for u mama 😼)

[affableramen]

them apologising for calling you bad names

hurt/comfort, established relationships

(Pantalone, Wriothesley, Neuvillette, Tartaglia, Capitano, Alhaitham, Dottore, Dainsleif, Baizhu)

Pantalone

You avoid him for the rest of the day but eventually in the bed time Pantalone meets you. He enters the bedroom with a grave expression in his eyes, eyeing you sit there on the bed with a book in your hands. Distracting, he thinks, she is distracting herself. 

“You know I didn't utter those words seriously”, Pantalone says, omitting the usual ‘darling’ on his lips. You roll your eyes and shake your head dismissively, showing him apparent unwillingness to chat over the issue any longer.

“Say”, Pantalone leans to the door, his fingers, at this moment of time, bare, scratching the roof edges of his antiquated mansion wall, “Are you deeply offended by my comment? It is but something… trivial.” Seeing no reaction from you Pantalone slowly makes his way to the bed and sits down, his body making an impact to the mattress, that being gently pressed on.

“I should have held my tongue.”

“Your tongue is poisonous”, you say abruptly. Upon hearing this, Pantalone reaches his hand to your hand and takes it in his. 

“Hear me out… Please, darling, I would never honestly speak so ill-mannered of you. It was out of stress. You are not… pathetic. Never have been.”

“Mhm. How about ‘brat’? How about ‘loving me only because I provide for the family?’” 

Pantalone closes his eyes and shakes his head. You can see how his own words inflicted upon you sting. 

“Nonsense! Not a single word I spoke then was truthful.”

“Pantalone, if I ever made you doubt my affections, please do let me know.”

You abruptly put your book on the bedside table and switch the lights off. 

Wriothesley

“Why do you keep insisting on these things? You think I don’t know them?”

“I think you’re simply less educated than me. You should understand, Y/N that in some aspects you may be less intelligent. Stupid even.”

“Less intelligent! Stupid!” 

Wriothesley covers his face and bites his own lip when he realises what unruly language he just used. 

“I didn't mean that-”

“That I’m stupid?” Your patience blows up and you decisively start strutting to the exit door of his office.

“I didn't mean to sound that harshly!” Desperately Wriothesley follows; but to no avail. You already shut your door before his nose.

A few hours after Wriothesley finds you in your two’s favourite café, of course it would be the place where you’d go to reflect on your irritation. 

“Here, your favourites”, he puts the bouquet of vivid red flowers on top of the coffee table, next to your hand, and does it with such carefulness of behaviour you would least expect from him.

You look at him, facing Wriothesley’s eyes at last and as if having your thoughts read the duke says with regret:

“And sorry.”

You take a look at the flowers, your fingers caressing the petals.

“Okay”, you respond quietly. Wriothesley receives approval from you and takes a seat, his attitude nothing but amiable, a far cry from his roughness in the morning.

Neuvillette

“I told you that some matters I unfortunately, willing or not, have to solve on my own. There is no place for you in some of my business, because you’re just one weak-” Neuvillette holds his tongue, realising how personally offensive the words he said sounded. How villainous he suddenly appeared before you.

“Human? Yeah, I know. But me being human doesn't mean I can’t think and analyse, and there’s no way I’d approve the responsibility you’re about to take on yourself. I strictly dissgree.”

“Strictly disagree?” Neuvillette does not believe his ears, for you had always been a quiet amd obedient one, quite agreeable and supportive of his opinions. Yet this time you could not stay silent, seeing how your precious husband puts himself in danger for the hundredth time.

“You are to not take on that mission, are we clear, Neuvillette? And I am not weak, neither am I dumb or uninformed.”

In awe, Neuvillette stands there, looking at you. At last he takes one careful step closer, his hand in his hair, pulling it back as he’s thinking on something with raw intensity.

“If my wife is ready to convince me so much to not do something, if she finds my impulses false, then I will do my best to refrain. Knowing how worried you might be for me, perhaps it would be wise to reject the mission first and utmost.”

You nod, your face grave, uninterested as you turn away from him and walk out of his office. Only then Neuvillette stops you, his wrist tightly on yours. 

“Please, beloved, if you could forgive me for my poor choice of words and underestimating your judgment.”

“It doesn't happen first time, Neuvillette, for being a dragon sovereign makes you incredibly stiff to perceiving others’ opinions. But I’m glad if you do truly believe me now.”

“I do. Please, don't stay furious and frustrated for long.” 

You finally smile, forgiving your dragon husband as you make haste to leave the court, otherwise dramatic Fontainian society that loves gossiping and tragedy so much, will turn your little banter into a lavish scandal.

Tartaglia

“Peanut, I just said that you can’t fight as hard as I do, I didn't mean it in a bad way.”

“Of course, Ajax. You meant it in the way ‘I’m the coolest, and you are inferior’.”

“No, no, no. It’s a misunderstanding! Hear me out, babygirl…” Tartaglia gently grips the both of your shoulders and stares intimately into your eyes.

“I just wanted… You know, I just meant…” he blushes crazily and his expression radiates sheer embarrassment as he tries to seek excuse to explain himself. “I, uhh… Consider myself a great fighter, and you are exceptionally good, too…”

“Exceptionally good?” 

“Absolutely exceptionally good, babygirl. But I am simply worried, okay? I’m scared”, he rubs your shoulders up and down, as if trying to comfort you, but in honesty it rather comforts himself. “I don’t want you hurt. So you better stay home. Training.”

“Training only, nice. I will never fight real enemies if I am constantly kept hostage in Fatui training camp.”

“You’re just… so fragile. You know what I mean?”

“Uhuh. The Eleventh considers me a weakling. Nice discovery, if you weren't my boyfriend”, you free yourself from his grasp and go about the narrow long corridor of headquarters. “I thought you would trust in me and my power a tiny bit more.”

Ajax follows you immediately, his steps agile and steady as his hand gently takes yours.

“You may come with me next time. But tomorrow, I want you safe. Okay? And please… I’d never call you weak… Never.”

“Mm…” you gently caress his gloved hand with your thumb, almost failing to see him in the dim light, but feeling his erratic breath caused by quick talking.

Capitano

“I can’t let you do this, woman. You are acting immature. You have always been a bit naïve, but this is where you should start obeying me”, Capitano says with a harsh, yet genteel aura around him.

“And my love for you, Capitano, is also naïve?”

At that moment Capitano drops his expressionless, emotionless act and looks at you with horrified glint in his eyes. He wants to comfort you, to apologise for his words but realises that was once said cannot be taken back. Oh how he wishes he would hold his tongue for a little while longer!

“I didn't mean that, woman. You know that I would never-”

He shuts his eyes for a second, a storm of overwhelming thoughts crosses his mind over and over while you are standing before him, patiently waiting for an answer and expecting your husband to provide you with a proper one.

“You are weak… no not weak; you are frail. You need protection. And I want to protect you, but I may not be able to do it in Natlan. Not when I am wounded myself.”

“Oh, believe me, Capitano, I can and will protect myself. And you know what, big guy? I don't even need your permission to come with you anymore. You will accept me, because I am your wife, and I will be by your side. Especially, when you are wounded.”

Capitano raises his hand to caress your cheek with his knuckles, light-weight.

“You are going to get yourself in trouble, love.”

“I know my limits, and I can clearly see that my husband needs me, even though he won't ever admit it.”

The raven-haired tall gracious man with impeccably sharp aura around him speaks with emotion:

“But if you get hurt, I won’t ever be able to forgive myself.”

You stand on your tiptoes and cup his cheeks.

“Oh, Capitano, I will take care of myself just to spare you the trouble.”

Dottore

“You’re a dork, I don’t even have pity for your stupidity. You got this chemical burn deserved.”

“Said who? You’re the one treating it right now, Doctor”, you respond with a tiny smug smirk, watching how carefully and gently Dottore is working on your palm. The burn is not too big, but painful enough to prevent you from completing your tasks for today.

Dottore reveals his teeth, groaning at you, his self highly dissatisfied and frustrated. He smoothly applies a herbal-smelling ointment and covers your hand with tight bandages.

“I insist you staying home tomorrow. I will speak with Pierro and describe him the accident.”

“Surely you don't have to go to such lengths for me only, Dottore. You know, I could speak with the Jester myself.”

Dottore stabs the knife with which he had been cutting the bandages, into the desk.

“NO, he won’t even speak to you. He is very uneasy to find”, he lets out a long held sigh. “Besides, brat, I think I made it clear you need to rest at home.” He glares at you with his poisonous ruby eyes. “Primarily, in your bed.”

“If the doctor says so”, you shrug, too exhausted to argue and too grateful for his help to deny him of this small favour. “I do not mind staying in my bed for a little while.”

Once the treatment has come to an end, Dottore once again checks your hand; quickly, lightly, without a single unnecessary touch or glance. 

“Sorry for calling you a dork. I didn't mean it wholeheartedly”, he clears throat. “Though I still think your ass is highly careless.”

“I will work on it, hopefully my curiosity doesn't lead me to any other injuries”, you wave to him upon leaving the lab. “Can’t have my doctor worry too much.”

“Remember to look closer what you touch in my lab next time, silly creature.”

Dainsleif

“I think you’re forgetting how difficult it is to fight Abyss alone. I can’t believe you disobeyed me again and went seeking for abyssal hounds. This is infuriating, Y/N. I have never seen a woman act so stupidly and rashly before”, Dainsleif says roughly, through gritted teeth. His expression is grave and ominous.

“I feel strong desire to take your Vision away and lock you home until you learn to respect my rules.”

“Your ‘rules’?” You raise your eyebrow, looking at Dainsleif no less infuriated and frustrated than he is currently. “You think if you’re older than me, I have to act like your little puppet on strings who does everything that is ordered? Hell no, Dainsleif. We won’t have it this way.”

“FOOL!” He yells, his arm grabbing you tightly and pressing you against a wall. “You could have gotten yourself killed! You could have been hurt! You don’t know the thoughts running through my mind when I imagine you hurt; I want to burn the whole world for you.”

“Let me go, Dain. Please, this is uncalled for, you know that, right?” As you gently ask him Dainsleif slowly, but hesitantly releases your arm and takes a step back, closing his hands behind his back.

“I ask you once again to refrain from getting yourself harmed by the hand of Abyss.”

“Did you just call me a fool? I thought you were better than that.”

“For that ruthless language, I apologise. However I need your obedience when it comes to survival matters.”

Slowly, you walk over to look into Dainsleif’s eyes.

“I understand your tragedy wholeheartedly and I sincerely respect your wish to protect me, but you need to understand that my fighting skills are not low anymore, I can be efficient and agile.”

Dainsleif’s head hangs down, you see that he is contemplating something in the depth of his heart.

“I see”, his hand reaches out to you, even though he is not looking in your direction. Dainself intertwines his fingers with yours and speaks, much quieter and softer words:

“I’m sorry for calling you a fool. That was uncalled for”, his hand gives you a light but worried squeeze. “Just… be careful, Y/N.”

Alhaitham 

“You’re acting like a child. Your opinions are too dreamy, irrational and irrelevant”, Alhaitham speaks briefly as he opens his book and hides his sharp gaze somewhere in the middle of the paragraphs.

Having acknowledged his disregard to you with pain in your heart you throw your arms around and ask him with bright feeling which is contradicting his own manner of speaking.

“Speak about irrelevance! You are the embodiment of irrationality yourself, for guilting me into thinking that you actually care for me.”

Alhaitham stays still for a moment but a tense squeeze he gives the book in his fingers raises even more contradictory emotions between you. 

“I knew you are a difficult person to get intimately acquainted with, but your actions proved that you had at least a bit of attraction towards me. If not, then your choice of words and manner of speaking to personally me was too extreme. If not, and you are dreaded by the mere thought of me being intimately honest with you, spit it out. I don’t want you to play the romance where it no really belongs. I don’t want you to like me out of pity.”

“But I don’t”, Alhaitham finally closes the book and removes from his seat. “Your opinions and decisions make me question whether or not we are compatible enough.”

“That is because you are thinking too rationally.”

“And you are thinking too irrationally.”

“You were the one to touch my hand and hug me in a very personal way. And if I am not mistaken, you are the man who never touches anyone and is dreaded by a mere thought of being pulled out from your serenity.”

Alhaitham then shivers slightly, his body mannerisms betraying distress and frustration that is not by a long shot defined in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry for calling you these words. These are bad words, I should not be disrespecting you so”, he looks away, giving his lip a strong bite whereas finally giving you a relief: “I always thought and I still think that you are a perfect companion for me, but our opinions are very unlike.”

“So you think two people cannot get accustomed to living with each other if they have different choice of words or thinking! Alhaitham, this is laughable.”

“The only laughable thing right now is that I desperately want to hug you”, without further hesitation he pulls you into his arms, an embrace filled with warmth and dedication, while his fingers gently stroke your back. “I apologise, my love.”

Baizhu

“You are being too nosy and impatient, sweetheart. I asked you to not ask me specifics of my contracts and yet here you are - interrogating me like some sort of criminal. I am feeling pressured and most frustrated!” He throws his arms around. “Darling, if you could give me some space, I would finish what I started with no further delay.”

“Am I violating your space by simply caring for your well-being? Baizhu, your contract has gone way too far; your help to people robs you of your own happiness, can you not see it?”

“I will be most contented if you simply leave me to finish my work. I would be happy if you simply encouraged me, but I’d be even more grateful if you stopped asking me so many questions.”

You know perfectly well what it’s like to sacrifice yourself for other people’s sake however you could not any longer bear seeing your love life being disrupted by Baizhu constantly feeling sick and suffering. You want nothing more than him to feel safe, secure and well, but instead this curious pharmacist only risks more and more his life in exchange of knowledge and improvement.

Though, Baizhu did recognise your words as a simple statement of care, he only admitted it in a few days. While you were helping him sort his things out in the pharmacy, Baizhu dropped his formal act and gently touched your hand.

“Darling?”

You stopped sorting at once when you heard what he declared:

“I’m sorry, I was so rude to you speaking about my health.”

You turn to face him and notice the sincerest apology in his snake eyes.

“I just wish you’d understand that my worry for you is not intended to make you uncomfortable or distressed.”

“I do understand it now. I will try my best to not bring you suffering from seeing me suffer. I cannot reject what I had started, but I will seek ways to heal both me and you from this torture.”

The gentle confession ends with Baizhu rubbing his thumb against the top of your hand. 

[thinkinonsense]

ok so i had a thought😏😏 dbf!logan takes ur virginity and from then on u guys hook up whenever u get a chance (all the time). one night he gets done dicking u DOWN and u say u love him and he’s all like “we can’t do this anymore kid” very ANGSTYYY

i love you, i'm sorry- dbf!logan howlett x fem!reader

part two *mdni

"i love you, logan."

four little words that would send your world crumbling before your feet. the older man lifts himself from in between your chest, both of you panting post orgasm. nights like this had become a bad habit for the both of you.

from the moment logan first slipped off your panties in this exact spot a year ago, you had been wanting to tell him how you really felt. you wanted to tell him how you craved his touch when he wasn't around, how you adored the way he took care of you and most importantly, how this didn't feel 'casual' to you anymore.

seconds turned into minutes of silence, desperately waiting for logan to say something; anything.

"lo, are you going to say some-"

"we can't see each other anymore, kid." he says, avoiding eye contact with you as he pulls out.

"what?"

this wasn't real. that's the only sentence that your brain could form as you watch him put his boxers back on. you laid there on his bed, naked, vulnerable, with his cum dripping out of you and he can't even look you in your fucking eyes.

"ya' heard me." logan says, putting a cigar in his mouth and tossing your dress on the bed next to you.

"what happened?" your voice was trembling on the verge of rage and heartbreak.

"i told you a year ago not to bring that 'love shit' in here."

a year ago when he took your virginity. he promised to be gentle and to care for you. guess that didn't extend past sex for him.

you scoff, pulling your sundress over your head. "you didn't say that when you said you love how tight i fit around you or when you said you love how well i know you. was any of that even true?"

logan ignored you as he lit his cigar and waited for you to leave. you stand up and walk over to him, touching his chin and turning to so he's facing you.

"look me in the eyes when you kick me out of your bed." you spit angrily at the man you adored endlessly.

all logan could see was your eyes full of tears and your red puffy lips, trying to keep yourself together. deep down, he knew he deserved all the shit in the world thrown at him for him for breaking your heart. you would never understand why he had to be so cruel but his intentions were never to hurt you like this. it killed him.

"find someone your own age to love, kid." logan says, twisting the knife.

"don't call me kid, logan!" you yell at him. "i'm not a fucking child!"

"then stop acting like one!" his voice boomed back at you, spurring on more tears.

who had he turned into? you couldn't recognize the man in front of you. this wasn't your logan.

"so, you're just going to let me leave like this?" you cry, glaring at him. "give up everything we have all because you're afraid of me loving you?"

you didn't expect an answer, he already shoved your hand away from his face, no longer wanting the image of your broken heart haunting him.

logan wanted to tell you everything, explain why he can't accept your love because it will put you at a greater risks, but logically, logan knows he has to let you go.

"in ten years, when your ass is still sitting drunk on one of my fathers bar stools and he shows you photos of me and a man who can appreciate me for more than sex, a man who can admit he loves me back, you'll remember this moment because this will be the last time you ever fucking see me." you tell him rather calmly as you collect your shoes and purse.

logan watches you do as he asks and leave. if he was a better man, he would have done it differently; but then again, if he was a better man, he never would've fooled around with a twenty-something year old.

the front door slams with a broken sob escaping your lips. from the bedroom, logan could hear your car engine starting and that's when he could allow himself to grieve the life he would've had.

[hypnagogics]

Okay.. but like, loser ellie but she’s also a stoner and explains the entire lore of spider man to you while you’re trying to have seggs and she’s like stoned out of her mind and yapping about literally spider man 😭

before you read!!

☆: THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY IM CRYING LMFAO had me dying for like 10 mins straight. this is longer than intended bc im a yapper as we know, and i kinda don't know much of the spiderman lore (and you can def tell oops)…BUT I LOVE THE WAY YOUR MIND WORKS NONNIE.

◇: sfw but suggestive themes. warning: FAR from my best work, just wanted to keep momentum going ig. basically just fluff, lots of buildup as usual SORRY i have to establish a plot before we get to the good stuff…they're of age obviously, their relationship is left vague/up for interpretation so fill in the blanks w/ your own thoughts! “babe” pet name usage, consumption of weed, duh. ok i suppose that's all. OH AND SBWM REFERENCE HAHAHA (shameless self plug :3) + 1.0k wc.

One nice, regular night, chilling at Ellie’s humble abode, getting high, the usual Friday evening activities. You both were laying down in her bed, wrapped up in her dinosaur bedsheets of course, you were resting your head on her chest, occasionally coughing and swatting away the residual smoke that lingered in the air.

The weed had made your head fuzzy and your mouth drier than the Sahara desert, but despite all the not-so-great things, you loved to get high with Ellie.

Sometimes you'd fuck, sometimes you'd talk about life and reminisce about the good, the bad, and the ugly, and sometimes you'd just lay there to enjoy each other's company.

She was so warm and comfortable, you simply wished to merge bodies and become one with her, to make a home inside her ribcage even. You'd be perfectly fine just napping there on her cushiony chest, listening to her steady heartbeat and slow intakes of breath, if it wasn't for the familiar ache of need between your legs.

Shifting to look up at her, she was so incredibly zooted out of her mind, you found it hilarious. Chunky glasses covered in fingerprint smudges and sitting crooked atop her nose, eyes blood-red and so heavy lidded, you'd have thought she was asleep had you not taken a closer look.

You lifted yourself up and pressed your lips to the side of her pink cheek, repeatedly kissing her soft, smooth skin. She let out a husky giggle, her voice all hoarse and crackly from the substance. “Hiiii.”

She dragged out the vowel, grinning widely at you. Her smile was infectious, and you laughed at her state. Burying your face again in the crook of her neck, you mumbled, “Hi Ellie…you're so cute.”

Tangled up together, you kissed her some more on her neck, wanting to be as close as possible to her. She sighed, and angled her head to give you better access to more surface area. “That feels nice.” She'd slur, and you were pretty turned on at this point, to say the least.

It was worth asking. “Ellie…do you wanna fuckkk?” You whisper against her ear, and watch in delight as the bright-red blush spreads across her entire face like a wildfire, even reaching her collar, and spreading underneathyour shirt. “Um, yeah, duh. C’mere.”

You pressed a sloppy kiss to her lips, tangling your hands in her auburn locks and parting your puffy lips to invite her tongue in, not noticing the spit dribble down your chin where your faces met. Her breathing quickened immediately, and she whined into your mouth, the kisses getting even messier to the point where your teeth were clinking together, so you backed away for a breather.

The two of you shifted positions so she was now on top of you, resting her hand on your hip, thumb rubbing small circles. She moved in to initiate more lip-locking, but pulled away abruptly.

“Babe I forgot to tell you, so y’know Peter Parker, right?” And there she goes.

“Yeah, yeah I know him, can you just-” You try to rush past the beginnings of her rambling, because you knew once she got started, there was no end in sight. At least for a while.

You tried pulling her in to meet your lips again by the back of her head, but were met with lots of resistance. She seemed to look more alert now, a miracle. The power of superheroes!

She shuffled off of you and sat upright, assuming a cross-legged position, clearly not noticing your exasperated huffs and purposely obnoxious eye rolling, and the fact that there was a whole-ass human, half undressed, horny girl on her bed right there in front of her, who was slowly losing patience.

Ellie just went to her own world. Her eyes sparkled with passionate wonder as she thought about the series so dear to her heart. “Okay I rewatched all the movies a few days ago and I noticed something new…”

You were ready to give up what you originally had in mind, she was too far gone. She talked and talked endlessly, and you had to feign interest, nodding along and murmuring, “Mhm, yeah Els. Wow that's cool. Huh, never knew.” As enthusiastically as you could, so she didn't feel like she wasn't being listened to.

It was worth noting too though, when she started info-dumping about her interests she really was adorable, an excitement in her grassy eyes you never see otherwise, gesturing wildly with her hands and mapping out ideas to make it easy for someone who's never seen any of it to digest all this new information.

“...And then, in the movies Into the Spiderverse and Across the Spiderverse, there's this character called Gwen Stacy.”

She stops to cough and clear her throat, now seemingly appearing to completely forget that you were even there.

“And- oh yeah! She's also in the comics and ugh she's awesome, I really love her suit. It's got a hood on it…if I were to have a spider suit, it would be her style. Hm, it would also be mostly like, green…with red accents, ah I'm gonna show you all the sketches I made of it. But anyway…”

To be completely honest, you've been out of the mood for enough time now, and you've come to the realization that it actually didn't bother you.

This was Ellie, and you loved her for her! There was always next time you two met for a smoke session, you just loved spending time with someone so treasured such as her, and you'd be lying to say the Spiderman world wasn't a little interesting.

"That's so cool, wait. Okay can you explain the timeline of it all, oh and also how do all these different movies interact, is it the same universe, or something like the multiverse I think you mentioned?”

[smut-anarchy]

Crybaby

Soft!Mattheo Riddle x Hufflepuff!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some mild swears, nothing spicy... for now.

Summary: Every time Mattheo sees you cry and falls in love with you for it.

A/N: This is my first fic EVER! I was too excited to get it proof read by my bestie so all mistakes are my own. Check the tags at the end for a funny surprise.

Word Count: 7,300+ (Sorry, I went crazy)

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Mattheo had never been one of those who could be influenced by tears. With who his father was he learned very quickly as a child that tears equated to weakness, and weakness was never allowed. 

Even at times where previous flings had sobbed after being tossed aside or cried for cuddles after sex, it didn’t move him. After all, he’d always made it clear that he wasn’t a romantic. He’d have his fun and move on, he never gave any indication that it would be more meaningful than that. Because of this he’d been called a “cold hearted bastard” more times than he could count. 

Which is why the first time he saw you cry he swore something was wrong with him. Seeing your puffy, red cheeks, your quivering, plump bottom limp and wide, watery eyes he felt like someone sent a stinging hex right to his gut. Your eyes were trained right on a laughing Enzo. 

Now it wasn’t completely uncommon for Enzo to make a girl cry. After all, he too would flirt his way into one of their classmates beds from time to time. Though Enzo prided himself on having a kind, prince-like persona publicly, so he kept all of his trysts and crying ex-lovers deeply hidden from public view. So it was unusual for Enzo to be seen with a crying girl in public, right in the middle of the hallway near the potions classroom. 

The closer Mattheo got the clearer he could see that you had not actually cried yet. Your eyes were full of unshed tears, and by the look of your puffed up cheeks and bitten bottom lip you were clearly attempting not to cry. Oddly to him, this didn’t lessen the weird sensation in his stomach. It only made him slightly angry at his friend for a reason he couldn’t even name. 

Your eyes flickered to him for a brief moment before settling back on a smiling Enzo. 

“Fine,” you said in a defeated tone, “You win. You can borrow my notes for Transfiguration. But this is the last time Enzo!”

Enzo’s smile widened as he picked you up in an embrace and spun you around. Immediately your face brightened and your giggles echoed in the empty hallway.

“That’s my favorite Hufflepuff!” Enzo teased, ruffling your hair, “Next time just agree before you lose another bet and turn into a little crybaby.” 

Your giggles turned into a playful pout, “Hey! You cheated! You have longer legs than I do! And the staircase moved on my way down! You’d cry too if you ran as much as I did and still lost.” 

Enzo let out a chuckle and shook his head, “Well maybe don’t propose a race next time. It was your idea after all. I play quidditch love, there isn’t a world in which you win against me.”  

“Whatever, I’ll win the next bet, you’ll see!” 

You stuck your tongue out at Enzo and turned around, walking away from Enzo much more cheerfully than Mattheo expected for a girl whose eyes were bursting with tears when he walked into this hallway. 

“In your dreams love!” Enzo called after you, earning a swift middle finger from behind your back. Mattheo stopped behind Enzo, pure confusion over witnessing the entire interaction between you two. The assumption that you were one of Enzo’s fangirls or jilted ex-lovers was clearly off the table, but he still couldn’t make sense of the welled up tears in your eyes.

“Girl trouble Enz?” Mattheo hummed, curiosity thoroughly peaked by you and the strange feelings you brought on. 

Enzo, now aware that Mattheo had witnessed the entire exchange smirked, “Nah, nothing like that. She’s just fun to tease, is all.” And with that Enzo ducked into the Potions classroom, leaving Mattheo not entirely satisfied with the answer. Nonetheless, he brushed off his gut feelings and whatever thoughts swirled in his head. He likely wouldn’t have an opportunity to interact with you again, he and his friends never kept one girl around too long, even if she was entertaining. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he followed after Enzo to their table in class. 

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When Mattheo entered the Slytherin common room after smoking in the Astronomy Tower he was not prepared to find you on the couch with Enzo, this time actually crying. Though you were also laughing hysterically because Enzo happened to be tickling your feet. 

“How dare you! How dare you say I’m not your favorite Slytherin!” Enzo chided, gleeful smile on his face as he tickled the sock covered soles of your feet. He slowed to a stop, holding your ankles in his lap to keep you from escaping. 

“I didn’t say you weren’t!” You giggled, voice breathless because of your laughter, “I said I don’t know the other Slytherins so I can’t pick a favorite!” 

Enzo smirked, “Not good enough!”, and with that he resumed tickling your feet. Your laughter and squeals bouncing around the common room. 

Mattheo couldn’t help but stare, he and the guys never brought girls to the dorms, and certainly never sat together in the common room. Your yellow skirt and robe were a beacon in the dark and cold that was the Slytherin common room, Salazar Slytherin himself would have a conniption if he saw a giggling Hufflepuff on the couch. And yet, there you were with Enzo, both laughing as if this was not peculiar at all. 

“Say it! Say I’m your favorite!” Enzo demanded, his fingers still torturing the pads of your feet. 

“Okay!” You laughed, “Enzo is my favorite Slytherin!” You were attempting to wiggle your ankles free from Enzo’s grasp and escape the tickling torture but Enzo kept an iron grip, not satisfied with your answer. 

“And?” 

“And I’ll always share my notes with him!” You squealed, completely out of breath from all the laughter. Enzo, seemingly satisfied with your answer finally released your feet, which you immediately tucked under your lap, still wheezing from laughter. 

“Enzo,” you huffed, “You’re a spoiled brat, you know that?” 

“You love it, crybaby.” Enzo winked. His head turned and noticed Mattheo staring at them, still trying to make sense of the scene before him. “Mattheo! Come here, meet my little Hufflepuff!” 

Mattheo strode over and sat on the chair opposite to them, eyes flickering between the two of them. The addition of his presence made you seem more shy now, as if you were embarrassed to be caught with Enzo like this, you refused to make eye contact with him and your cheeks were a little blushed. 

“Y/N this is Mattheo, Mattheo this is Y/N. She’s my transfiguration partner and the cutest girl in Hogwarts.” 

Your blush seemed to bloom even redder from the compliment. But your eyes shyly made contact with him and a soft smile graced your face. 

“Hi, ignore Enzo, he’s just trying to get into my good graces after tickle torturing me and making me tutor him for two hours.” 

Mattheo muttered a low ‘hello’ and quietly trudged to his room, door slamming with much more force than he intended. His heart was pounding and he felt surge of envy towards Enzo. 

Enzo was right, you were cute, and even though your face was streaked with laughter induced tears and wild hair from wiggling on the couch, Mattheo thought you looked adorable. He’d never thought that tears could be cute before, but there you were with a soft smile and bubbling laughter. These thoughts and feelings were all new to him, it made him feel suffocated and embarrassed, but he was Mattheo Riddle for Salazar’s Sake! Mattheo Riddle doesn’t run from anything, let alone cute girls. Yet he knew he couldn’t just sit there under your pretty gaze and risk making a fool of himself. Enzo would never let him live it down.

Outside in the common room he could hear you ask Enzo if you said something wrong. Now he felt like an asshole, of course you were too sweet to think he was the problem. Mattheo closed his eyes and flopped onto his bed. He could hear Enzo comfort you, saying ‘Mattheo’s just an ass’ and offering to walk you back to your dorm. 

For whatever reason, hearing that made him sort of agitated. He wanted to walk you to your dorm, and he’d be his usual charming self and make you laugh and blush, then you’d direct your smile at him and maybe that’d make him feel better. Maybe he’d even kiss you, and that thought warmed him in a different way. Mattheo groaned, just thinking of kissing you burned his mind with other ideas, less innocent things with you, where your sweet, shy smile turned into something sultry and pleading, he could feel his dick harden and more thoughts bloomed, each one more tantalizing than the last. 

Mattheo’s door opened and Enzo walked in with Theo following behind. Theo just looked at him, nodding casually before turning to his side of the room, but Enzo’s eyes were dancing with mischief, a Cheshire grin already etched into his face. 

“Very smooth, Matty-boy.” Enzo teased. 

Mattheo fixed him with a glare, he hated when anyone called him Matty. “Don’t call me that, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Enzo’s smile widened, eyes alight, “Oh no? You don’t want to talk about how cute, little Y/N said one sentence to you and you ran off?” 

Theo’s head shot up at that, looking between his two dorm mates with mild interest. Theo always had an uncanny way of reading Mattheo, which right now really irked him since Enzo was stirring the pot. 

“I didn’t run off, I’m tired.” Mattheo grumbled, “Why did you even bring her here? We don’t bring flings here.” He had a feeling there was no such relationship between you and Enzo, but he couldn’t help but try and fish for more information.

“You brought a girl here?” Theo asked incredulously, his interest now fully invested.

Enzo rolled his eyes, “She’s not a fling, we’re friends. We were doing homework together after we got kicked out of the library.” 

“Didn’t seem like homework when you were tickling her.” Mattheo grumbled, the memory flashing in his mind with a new wave of annoyance. 

“You were tickling a girl here?” Theo echoed. 

“Jealous?” Enzo directed at Mattheo before he turned to Theo, “Theo, she’s a Hufflepuff and so much fun to mess with. It’s not like that.”

“So, you wouldn’t mind if I flirted with her?” Theo drawled. Mattheo’s head snapped to Theo, he could feel acid in his throat thinking of Theo flirting with you. Theo’s eyes were already on him, eyebrow quirked, his expression knowing. Mattheo glared back at him and turned away, he knew he shouldn’t care what Theo or Enzo did with you, but he did, and that pissed him off more.

Enzo laughed wholeheartedly, “Sure, but if you’re not serious she’ll sniff out your bullshit. When I first met her I flirted with her for her notes and she stepped on my foot so hard I had to go to Madam Pomfrey!” 

Theo chuckled, “Alright, so she’s off limits then.”  

“You’re fucking right she is. I actually do want to be friends with her, I don’t need you assholes scarring her for life with your flirting. It’s already going to be an uphill battle with how hellish Draco and Pansy can be.”

“So we’ll be seeing more of her?” Theo questioned, and for once Mattheo was glad for Theo’s inquisitive nature, the same question burning in his mind. He wanted to see more of Y/N, his mind flickering back to those not so innocent thoughts. 

“Yeah, probably.” And with that, the conversation seemed to be over, Mattheo’s lack of talking not going unnoticed by his two friends. They shared a look, coming to the exact same seemingly impossible conclusion: Mattheo had a crush. 

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Enzo’s casual affirmation was an understatement, as the next day he invited his Hufflepuff to sit with them in the Great Hall at breakfast. She was smiling up at Enzo when he brought her over, then turning her smile to all of them at the table. She shot Mattheo a shy smile and wave before settling between Enzo and Blaise. 

Pansy and Draco both offering indifferent greetings before turning to each other and continuing their conversation. Theo, Blaise and you began an intense discussion about potions, Enzo offering a comment here and there while he ate breakfast. Mattheo could only look around at his friends in confusion, his group not known to be friendly with people outside of Slytherin, or even with others in Slytherin for that matter. Draco and Pansy being the worst of two but they barely even acknowledged you and continued what they were doing. Blaise and Theo were known to be standoffish and yet here they were joking with you about potions. 

“They know her, dumbass.” 

Mattheo’s eyes shot to Enzo across from him, his face looking smug. Everyone else was so wrapped up in their conversations they didn’t hear what Enzo had whispered. 

“What?” Mattheo asked.

“You look confused,” Enzo clarified, stopping to take a bite of his Apple, “They all know her, she’s been in all of our classes since second year.”

Mattheo nodded in understanding, eyes flickering back to the sweet Hufflepuff, who had now drawn Pansy and Draco into the conversation, the five of them debating whether or not Professor Snape used shampoo. Her face was glowing with happiness, every time she laughed he could see the flutter of her full lashes. His mind echoed the strange desire to count each lash. 

He liked her laughing. The two times he’d seen her teary he thought she’d been cute, the frustration tears from chasing Enzo and the tears from laughing too hard, it was easy to find her adorable, but seeing her carefree and laughing filled his chest with yearning, he wanted her light to shine on him, even just for a moment. Yes, he much preferred her like this, hopefully he wouldn’t have to see her cry for a long while. 

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Mattheo didn’t know how many different ways someone could cry until he met you. 

Now fully adopted into his friend group he’s seen you cry over something with each of his friends and it confused him. He always assumed crying meant a person felt sad, that there were no other reasons to cry. The first time he saw tears in your eyes he added exhaustion as an acceptable reason to cry. Then he added laughter after the common room tickle incident. He figured that’d be it.

Until he found you and Pansy swaddled in blankets in her room listening to a muggle artist named Olivia Rodrigo and eating ice cream. He’d only stopped by to return a book he borrowed from Pansy the week before, he knocked and the door cracked open and he saw your tear streaked face and Pansy huddled on the floor, her face was turned away from him but he heard her sniffles. 

He fumbled out an explanation about the book and you accepted it from him with a small smile. After the door had closed he heard the music blast to full volume. 

He’d never thought Pansy would ever cry, she’d always felt like such expressions were beneath her. He was also very much confused on why you were crying, which made him worried something had happened to both of you. It wasn’t until later that Theo and Enzo told him that Pansy and Luna had broken up and you had decided some girl time was much needed to “feel your feelings” and listen to sad songs.

He’d never considered sympathy crying, but there you were with Pansy, sharing her pain. He admired you for it, your kindness knowing no limits.

The next day Pansy threatened to cut off his dick if he ever told anyone he’d seen her cry, though he was honest and said he actually hadn’t seen anything, and she seemed comforted by that fact. After Pansy seemed to be lighter almost, and she became as protective of you as Enzo, which became clear after Adrian Pucey cornered you in the hallway to harass you for a date. Enzo broke his nose and Pansy sent a hex that had Adrian vomiting hair clumps for a week. Mattheo would deny it but he also paid Adrian a visit after the hex had worn off and threatened a whole lot worse than a broken nose and a gross hex if Adrian so much as breathed in your direction.

The lust Mattheo felt for you still burned but there was something else, something new to him. Something that made him want to comfort you and protect you, to have you look for him for safety. Now, he didn’t just want your body, he wanted your undivided attention. 

Mattheo tried to brush off these thoughts. He was no romantic, you were too sweet and nice to get wrapped up in something with him. As soon as it ended, you’d be crushed and Pansy and Enzo would likely make him suffer for hurting you. He told himself he just felt this way because you were friends, and friends is what you’d have to stay to be safe from him. 

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Quidditch hardly interested you, Mattheo found out. Occasionally you volunteered with Madam Pomfrey and you’d seen enough quidditch injures to give you too much anxiety to watch the game. So whenever he and the boys played you’d skip up to them with boxes of baked goods to wish them luck and left on your merry way to watch the infirmary so Madam Pomfrey could supervise the game.

Surprisingly, Draco had been won over through his stomach. His indifference morphed into a kind of bland acknowledgement until he’d gotten the first good luck treats of the season, then he became outright friendly towards you. But when he’d caught the snitch the first time that year you’d made the whole team a whole fleet of chocolate lava cakes and candied fruit. Draco had sworn all of it was for him but after that he had taken on a kind of pseudo-brother relationship with you.

Conversely, you and Blaise bonded over your distinguished and varied adoration of books, often times swapping between yourselves. Blaise alleged that you were the only one he could read around because you weren’t “a distracting idiot” like Enzo and Draco or “an eternal gossip” like Pansy, but Mattheo could see that Blaise just had a soft spot for you like everyone in the group. Every time they went to Hogsmeade together you and Blaise would peel off to Flourish and Blotts, always coming back with more books. Of course, Blaise being chivalrous meant you never carried your own books despite your protests. The more time they spent in Hogsmeade the longer your books would get passed around to be carried until they always landed in Mattheo’s hands. Though he didn’t mind because you would smile sweetly at him when they returned to Hogwarts and thanked him for carrying your books. 

Yes, Draco and Blaise had become like brothers to you. So when Madam Pomfrey rushed them to the infirmary both bruised with multiple broken bones Mattheo had seen all the color drain from your face.

None of the team was allowed to be in the infirmary so the last thing he could see was your crushed expression and tears welling up in your eyes. Theo, Pansy, Enzo and him had paced outside the hallway until Madam Pomfrey had shooed them away to go rest, telling them they could visit in the morning. 

Mattheo had hardly slept the entire night. His two friends unconscious and battered and your crestfallen face had haunted him. As soon as he could reasonably leave the dorm he rushed to the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips upon seeing him, knowing he had not rested but allowed him to visit anyway, despite it still being too early. 

Draco and Blaise laid in their beds, looking much better than when they’d arrived. Whatever Madam Pomfrey had given them was slowly repairing the bones and easing the bruising on their bodies, their sleeping faces looked peaceful so it was clear they weren’t in pain. In between the two of their beds was you, huddled into yourself on a chair. 

Hearing Mattheo approach had made you lift your head from the floor. Your eyes were puffy from exhaustion, your usual bright smile gone and replaced by a mournful frown. You were wearing the same clothes from yesterday so he knew you’d stayed by their side all night and likely not slept. 

He stood in front of you, not sure what to say and as he looked at you he saw fresh tears gather in your eyes and your lip was trembling. Before he could say anything you’d lept from the chair and wrapped your arms around him, holding him tightly as silent sobs wracked your body. 

Mattheo had never been hugged like this. He was fairly certain he’d never been hugged ever. But here you were, clinging to him and crying into his chest. His heart ached feeling your tears soak into his shirt, you couldn’t keep your sobs silent anymore, now fully weeping on him. He wrapped his arms around you and rested his head on top of yours. 

He just held you as you bawled. Though this situation was less than ideal it felt good that he could be here for you, comforting you. Your body was enveloped in his and he was reminded how small you were, so fragile but so strong at the same time. He wondered how long you’d held yourself together before he got here. That thought made him embrace you tighter, at least he could be here for you now. He told himself he’d keep holding you until you were ready to let go.

Your sobs had turned into little whimpers and sniffles, but you didn’t let go of him. Your head stirred underneath him and he looked down at you, seeing you staring up at him. Your wide eyes glassy and cheeks red, dried tear tracks on your face. The word beautiful flashed through his mind, somehow no matter what you did you always managed to look perfect to him. 

“T-thanks Matty,” you voice quivered, “Er, I mean Mattheo.” Your cheeks were already red from crying, though Mattheo desperately wanted to believe they got a little bit pinker.

“You can call me Matty.” His voice was somewhat hoarse and raspy from fatigue. Her lips quirked up slightly and then she sighed and closed her eyes. 

She slowly unwrapped her arms from him and dropped them to her side, looking back at Draco and Blaise. His body felt empty and cold after you let go, he felt the urge to pull you back but stifled it, as exhaustion was currently winning over his body.

Mattheo looked around and saw a spare blanket and two pillows. He quickly grabbed them, dropping them on the floor between the two beds with his friends. He sat on the floor, with one pillow behind his head against the wall. He pat the spot next to him and down you came, sitting next to him with the other pillow behind your head. He spread the blanket over the two of you and your head came to rest against his shoulder. His eyes closed and then sleep claimed the both of you.

He woke up to a flick on his forehead. He was still propped up against the wall with you ully leaned against his body, still dozing. Draco stood in front of him, the obvious perpetrator of the flick against his head, he was changed out of the hospital clothing but had various bandages and wraps on his body. Blaise was next to him leaning against the hospital bed he’d been spent the night in in, displaying a similar number of bandages. Both of them wearing smirks on their faces aimed at Mattheo and the Hufflepuff curled against him.

“Cozy?” Draco teased. 

Mattheo rolled his eyes with a smile, clearly his friends were alright if they were feeling up to making fun of him. 

“She stayed here all night for you dopes and we were tired,” Mattheo grunted, “Clearly you’re both feeling better though.” 

His friend’s teasing smirks fell and they looked guiltily at the sleeping girl. 

“Y’know she’s going to fuss over us when she wakes up.” Blaise admitted, Draco nodded with a sigh.

“She’ll probably cry.” Draco sighed. Not one of the three boys were looking forward to seeing their friend cry.

“I’ve gotta start carrying around some tissues for her,” Mattheo blurted. Blaise and Draco laughed at that, nodding in agreement and joking the whole group should start carrying some.  

The boys’ laughter stirred the Hufflepuff and she blinked her tired eyes open. At seeing Blaise and Draco awake and standing in front of her she shot right up, discarding the blanket on the floor.

“Blaise! Draco! Oh thank Merlin! How are you feeling? Are you supposed to be standing up? Do you need water? I’ll go get Madam Pomfrey to clean your bandages!” You rattled off, mind clearly spinning off with things to help the two injured Quidditch players. Luckily Blaise grabbed your hand, pulling you from your thoughts.

“We’re fine. Madam Pomfrey is letting us go today. We’re coming back everyday for the next week for the medicine and check ups.” Blaise seemed to sooth you with this, you nodded absentmindedly. Without your brain taking over you really looked at Draco and Blaise and, just as the boys predicted, you started shedding tears. You grabbed both boys and pulled them towards you, both giving you a half hug as you cried. Through your sobs you started babbling your relief about how they were both okay and making them promise to never have to come here half comatose they way they did. 

In the span of a couple of hours your waterworks had turned from fear to relief and Mattheo was glad to see his friends being fussed over by someone so sweet and caring. Your tears were short lived, as Blaise and Draco did their best to make you smile. Your sniffling turned to giggles when Draco’s stomach made a loud gurgle and he moaned about being starving, in typical dramatic Malfoy fashion. 

You had stepped away to thank Madam Pomfrey for allowing you to stay and taking care of your friends. Though the older woman swore it was her job to care for all students and softly chided you for sleeping on the floor even she seemed to fall victim to your charm, hurrying you out the infirmary and promising to see you next time you volunteered. 

“Mr. Riddle, a word please.” Madam Pomfrey said before he could follow you, Draco and Blaise out the door. He nodded to his friends that he’d catch up with them, trying not to think too hard about your worried look.

“I do try not to meddle in my student’s affairs,” Madam Pomfrey started, “But my dear apprentice has been here since midday yesterday and hasn’t eaten anything or slept, aside from your two hour nap on the floor,” the older woman gave a quick glare, “so if you’d please make sure your girlfriend eats and goes straight to bed, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Mattheo nodded dumbstruck, a satisfied Madam Pomfrey led him out the door. 

Girlfriend. Madam Pomfrey thought you and Mattheo were dating. Mattheo once found dating any one repulsive, but he thought about your sweet smiles and angelic laughter and suddenly the idea of dating was inviting, so long as he was dating you. And that was terrifying thought, Mattheo didn’t think himself boyfriend material, but the idea of seeing you date anyone else, or Merlin forbid one of his friends, made him nauseous. He conceded that maybe these feelings would fade after some time, after all, you didn’t give him any indication that you wanted to be more.

Taking Madam Pomfrey’s words seriously he met up with you, Blaise and Draco. After all four of you were fed he suggested they all get rest, Draco and Blaise didn’t argue, their exhaustion kicking in from their injuries, but you pouted, not wanting to go back to your own dorm alone. Mattheo wasn’t immune to your puppy dog eyes so he offered his own bed so you could be with everyone. Draco and Blaise shared a knowing look, but you beamed up at him and happily trotted along with them to their dorms. 

Enzo and Theo were still sleeping, likely to be out until afternoon so as quietly as they could Blaise and Draco went to their own beds, passing out shortly after pulling their blankets around their bodies. 

You shed your large yellow knit sweater and yawned, smiling sleepily at Mattheo. He smiled and tilted his head to his bed, offering it to the kindly Hufflepuff. After removing her shoes she slipped under the covers, he could tell she was struggling to stay awake. 

“Are you coming to bed too?”

Her question made his neck feel hot, she looked at his innocently, eyes fluttering. If he got in that bed with her, he knew he’d never let go of whatever feelings were developing for her. He slowly shook his head, ready to lie to her and say he wasn’t tired, that he was going to go shower or study or literally anything other than get into his bed with her.

“Please Matty?” You pouted. Merlin, he was a goner. He sighed softly and slipped under the covers with you, trying to keep a respectful distance. This whole situation had his body burning and mind in overdrive. You smiled happily and let out a small giggle, wishing him goodnight and then allowing sleep to take you.

Truthfully, he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. His mind and body kicked into chaos at the proximity of the beautiful Hufflepuff. But he was actually tired, and your soft snores helped him relax and he was able to fall asleep as well. 

That sleep was short-lived, as he only slept for about two hours. When he woke up you were completely tucked into his body, still snoring, with his arms wrapped around you. Luckily, everyone else was still completely knocked out. Against his urges he detached himself from your cuddling, thanking whatever higher power that no one witnessed the intimate moment, and slipped into the bathroom for a cold shower to cool his fevered skin. 

The next day, he went to Hogsmeade and picked up a single green handkerchief with a snake and his initials embroidered into the fabric. He’d never tell anyone but he always kept it in his pocket, just in case.

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Mattheo knew Theo didn’t care for his birthday, after his mother had passed his father became cruel and he never had another birthday. When Enzo had mentioned it in passing at dinner, Theo had told you himself he didn’t celebrate it. 

Mattheo, now attuned to your expressions, saw a glimmer of sadness flickering behind your eyes, followed by a flash of determination. You hadn’t said much after that, but he saw the gears in your head turning. 

A week later on Theo’s birthday Enzo had dashed into the common room, asking all of them to follow him to the Room of Requirement. The whole walk there was tense, Mattheo could tell by Theo’s expression that if it was a big party he was going to be pissed. You were mysteriously missing most of the week, or dashing away quickly so he assumed you had planned something, with Enzo’s help of course.

When they pushed into the room there was no party. Instead there were soft string lights hanging from the ceiling, a fire going in an intricate stone fireplace and a swirling emerald green carpet guiding them further into the room. Just a few steps further and there you were, covered in flour and wearing an apron with splashes of food stains. In front of you was a table with only seven seats set, a cacophony of steaming food on top.

Mattheo and his friends had their mouths agape, trying to take in the extravagance around them. They knew you loved to cook, having been on the receiving end of endless, delicious desserts. But never before had you cooked an actual feast for them. He looked to Theo, who was not looking at the lights or the fireplace or even the food, his deep gaze on you. 

Mattheo saw a nervous smile take hold of your face and watched your hands tug on each other, clearly nervous about Theo’s reaction.

“Um… I made it,” you pushed out, “I remembered you said once you missed your Mom’s cooking so I made a bunch of Italian dishes. Y-your Mom probably made them better but I did my best. I even made Mostaccioli! I remember you said it was your favorite…” Your nervousness getting the better of you. No one said anything, all looking at Theo for his reaction. 

Theo strode up to you, his face not showing anything, and he pulled you into a hug. Theo, who hated unnecessary touching, was hugging you. Mattheo even swore he heard Theo mumble “I love it.”

When your arms came around Theo’s broad back Mattheo got a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were closed, tears leaking out of the corners and a soft, peaceful smile on your face. 

Mattheo didn’t know what to call these types of tears. It felt bigger than the other ones he’d seen. These tears felt sweet and sad at the same time, like you and Theo had a secret understanding. Looking at you and Theo embrace felt like a private, raw moment, but he couldn’t look away. He decided to deem these: bittersweet tears. 

Theo let you go and you chuckled and wiped the sides of your eyes. You beamed at everyone and invited them to sit down and eat. 

And as Mattheo sat down next to you, with a messy apron, covered in flour and a cheery grin on your face, Mattheo couldn’t help but think you more radiant than he’s ever seen you. 

And even though Theo refused to share the Mostaccioli with any of them, it was easily the best meal of Mattheo’s life, love and attention baked into everything you made. His friends more carefree and happy than he’d ever seen them, laughing and joking. 

When you left to get the cake you made that was cooling by the room’s kitchen area Theo leaned over to him and whispered, “If you don’t make a move soon, I’m going to marry that girl.” Mattheo froze like a deer in headlights, but Theo just grinned at him and sipped his champagne. 

Mattheo tried to ignore Theo’s words but they sat heavy in his mind. Ever since he started carrying around a handkerchief for you, he barely even noticed other girls. He can’t even remember the last time he accepted a girl’s invite to her dorm. He only ever thought about you, and instead of fear and uncertainty now he only felt warmth and longing when he imagined you and him together. It surprised him how much he wanted all of it. He wanted to kiss you, to hold you, to have you laugh at his jokes, to smile at him, to worship you in any and every way you’d let him. The realization that he was completely smitten with you pierced through his whole body. Theo was right, you had to be his.

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Finding you alone was damn near impossible, Mattheo found out. If it wasn’t his own friends it was literally everyone else in the entire castle. Apparently your light touched everyone at Hogwarts, as every time he tried to get a moment to ask you on a date someone would appear and ruined the moment. 

At first he didn’t mind. When the Weasley twins approached you with a new invention, something they called the Zinger Wing Giggle Ball you had been too excited to test it for them. Even Mattheo would admit a ball that flies around making teasing, sarcastic remarks and giggling was funny. Even more so when it scared the daylights out of Mrs. Norris and chased her all through the halls calling her “a dirty flobberworm with legs and a tail”. You, of course, had felt bad for Filch and his tattle-cat but even so, you couldn’t help but laugh along too.

Then there were the professors, Mattheo didn’t realize how much volunteering you did for everyone. Professor Sprout requesting your assistance with the odd plant in the greenhouse or Hagrid wanting you to come witness whatever mysterious beast he’d found that week and log their abilities. Even Snape, who never seemed to like any of his students, would approach you for helping him stock his precious ingredients closet. How you made time for anyone was beyond Mattheo, but he was determined still.

His friends seemed to be the worst of all, they seemed almost determined to not let him have a moment alone with you. No matter where he was with you at least one of them would appear. When he’d finally gotten tired of it he gathered them all and told them he was trying to ask you on a date, a real ’not Mattheo being a fuckboi’ date, by Pansy’s words, not his. Of course with who his friends were and how fiercely protective they were over you, they grilled him for over an hour about his intentions. When they were finally satisfied galleons passed around into Theo and Enzo’s hands. Those fuckers had placed bets amongst themselves on whether or not Mattheo would ever figure out his feelings and ask you out. If Mattheo wasn’t so annoyed he’d be a little touched that his two best friends had faith in him. 

And now, here he was. There were no classes today, and almost everyone in the castle was at Hogsmeade. He knew you were somewhere, his friends confirming you weren’t coming that day and had chosen to stay behind. He’d looked for you everywhere, he had even bribed a younger year Hufflepuff with chocolate frogs to check if you were in your room. It felt like another day of failure for him. It was two hours before everyone would come back, he knew that it would be impossible to get you alone after that. He dragged his feet up to the astronomy tower, hoping to take a quick smoke to clear his head. 

But he heard a familiar sniffle from the stairs. As quietly as he could he peaked out from the staircase and there he spotted your familiar tuft of hair and bright yellow knit sweater. He approached you, nerves bursting in his body until he felt his stomach drop. You were crying.

“What happened?” Mattheo questioned. His voice made you jump and when you looked at him, he saw your familiar puffy, red cheeks and watery wide eyes. 

“Hi Matty,” you said softly, “Its nothing. Just something stupid.” You sniffled, trying to wipe your tears with the sleeve of your sweater. He pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to you. You looked at him gratefully and accepted it, wiping your face with the soft, expensive fabric.

“You’d never cry for something stupid.” He corrected. He could remember every instance he’d seen you cry, nothing had ever been stupid about them. He sat next to you on the floor. You sighed, twisting your fingers nervously.

“Someone called me a Slytherin whore.” 

Mattheo could have gotten whiplash with how fast his head snapped to you. Mattheo tried not to let his fury show. He really tried, knowing that his anger could potentially scare you. 

“Who?”

“…Does it matter?”

“Who?”

“It’s not worth it.”

“Who?”

He didn’t mean to take a tone with you, but he was trying to figure out what asshole he was going to beat the shit out of. Then he’d let his friends have their turn.

“Adrian Pucey.”

That son of a bitch. That idiot couldn’t learn the first time. Screw the quidditch team, they’d find another chaser. When Mattheo was finished with him Pucey wouldn’t be able to go near a broom for at least six months. 

“Is that what people think of me?” 

Mattheo was so focused on his rage he didn’t even see you deflating at his side. As he looked at you he realized you weren’t just hurt by Pucey’s words, you believed them.

“No, no one believes that. No one with a brain anyway.” Mattheo assured you. He would cast his anger aside for now, you needed him more.

“I just-“ you groaned, holding your face in your hands, “I know I can be… clingy and a crybaby and maybe I do spend too much time with you guys, but I feel like you guys are my best friends and I like being around you guys and I feel like you guys like me around or maybe you just tolerate me but I feel like that shouldn’t make me a whore and I-“ Mattheo had let you babble long enough. He held your face in his hands and turned your head so you could look at him head on. 

“Listen to me,” He demanded, “You are not a whore. Nothing you do or say could make you that. Understand?”

You nodded in his hands. 

“We do like you being around because we like you. You aren’t clingy or a crybaby. Do you cry? Yes. Is it a perfectly normal reaction? Yes. You’ve made all of our lives better. Pansy has someone she actually likes to do girl stuff with. Draco knows someone outside of our fucked up group and his Mom cares about him. Theo had one of the best fucking birthdays of his life since his Mom died. All because of you! Don’t let some asshole that I’m going to punch in the teeth make you feel like you’re anything less than a ray of sunshine of every single life you touch.”

Mattheo hadn’t realized your hands were cupping his own. You were smiling at him, eyes watery, he wiped a stray tear off your cheek. Your glassy orbs flashed with vulnerability.

“What about you, Matty? Have I made your life better?”

“Better doesn’t even begin to describe what you’ve done to my life.”

More tears were flowing from your eyes but before Mattheo could wipe them away with his hands you threw yourself into his arms, toppling him over and kissed him. 

Any thoughts in Mattheo’s head flew out the window as soon as your lips touched his. Your delicate fingers holding his face lovingly and your soft lips pressed against his own. He brought his hands up to your waist, lightly caressing the skin there that was exposed by your shirt and sweater riding up. The a flurry of peace flooded Mattheo’s body, it was as if his entire being was releasing a sigh of relief, a single thought echoed throughout his body: finally.

Unfortunately, youpulled away, your cheeks flushed. Mattheo was laying on the floor underneath you so you ended up right in his lap, which, looking from his point of view, was so fucking tempting. 

“I’m going to marry the fuck out of you.”

Mattheo meant it but blurting it out had not been his intention, his brain still reeling from the kiss. Nonetheless, you giggled, airy and light like a tinkling bell.

“How about a date first, Matty?” You teased. 

“It’s a start.” Mattheo sat up, pulling your legs tighter around his waist so he could pull you even closer to him. Your fingers started to entangle in his hair and he looked up at you, pure adoration in your eyes, “Do I get to call you mine now?”

“I’ve been yours Matty.”

He hummed happily, pulling your face down to kiss you again. 

[ssahotchnerr]

girl!dad aaron reading to his daughter over the phone while on a case! 🥹 just like that one episode of jj and henry 😭🥰

nightmares

i will sob. 🥺 i'm also setting this in ellie's bad dreams era :( cw; fem!reader, girl dad!aaron, slight angst, fluff <3

"It looks like this is his comfort zone." Using a red marker, Spencer circled an area on the map. "If we pinpoint-"

As he was continuing his thought, Aaron's phone rang. He fully expected to see Penelope's name, anticipating her call as she was working her magic to narrow down a pool of potential unsubs. However, his eyebrows furrowed in worry as he saw it was from you instead.

"Excuse me." He spoke lowly yet urgently, keeping his eyes on his screen and hurrying away with no hesitation, missing the team's concerned glances.

"Hey," he answered, closing the door to the empty conference room behind him. There was knowing feeling deep in his chest - and a grim one at that. "Everything alright?"

"Kinda... no." You switched up quickly with a sigh, slight distress in your voice. "I'm sorry, I know you're busy. But can you spare a minute or two?"

"Another nightmare?" Aaron's eyes shot to the clock perched on the wall. While it was somewhat early for him, it was getting late back home, timezones to thank. And doing the math quickly, bedtime for the kids had been about two hours ago. So sadly this - right on schedule.

You hummed in confirmation, beginning with the positive first. "She fell asleep in her bed tonight, actually. Went down easy, not much protest. But then woke up crying, and was nearly inconsolable for a while. She's with me now." Your eyes shifted down to your frightened daughter besides you, who was inching closer and closer to seemingly making herself smaller. "And keeps asking for you."

Aaron glanced out; the team was still preoccupied, discussing the geographical profile amongst themselves, and could definitely manage without him for a while longer. "Yeah, I have some time."

There was a quick rustle as you set your phone down, placing it on speaker. Your voice was farther now, not by much, but it felt treacherously distant, as if more miles had been added. "It's Daddy, honey."

"Hey Ellie Bellie." Aaron's tone quieted, his face softening as he spoke. "What's the matter?"

A light sniffle came from the other end. "I had a scary dream."

"A scary dream, huh?" He repeated, an achy pang producing in his chest. Ellie's nightmares have been occurring for a while now, and indubitably becoming a problem. You both expected the dreams to run their course, eventually pass, and things would return to normal. But as time moved forward, it was becoming clear it was well beyond that as they worsened. "It's okay, you're safe with Mom now, right?"

Ellie nodded, unknowingly to him. Her small voice cracked, laced with tears. "I want you."

"I know, and I'll be home when work lets me, I promise. You can even use my pillow tonight too, if you want." He bit down onto his lip as Ellie mumbled a small 'okay' in response. Hard. "Or how about a story? Would that help you feel better?"

Her head rose up and down again, prompting you to speak up as Aaron was met with only her silence.

"We have a few right here." You reached across her, grabbing the few storybooks that frequented Aaron's nightstand and settling back against your own pillow.

"Your pick sweetheart." Aaron pulled a chair from the table, sitting down and making himself comfortable momentarily.

"Goodnight Moon?"

Goodnight Moon, also one of Jack's favorites when he was younger. Between him and Ellie, Aaron's read it so many times, he had the entirety of the book memorized. In addition, Ellie's other, more lengthy favorites - he had gone through and cleverly taken a picture of each page, all stored safely in his camera roll for instances such as tonight. No matter where he happened to be, he could read the text, while also drawing attention to and discussing the images with her.

"Sure. Get all comfy and cozy up to Mom, yeah?"

Ellie nestled herself more into your side, her head resting on your arm as she death-gripped onto her plush bunny. You adjusted the duvet to adequately cover the two of you, scooting down and propping the book up for the two of you to see.

"We're ready when you are." You told Aaron, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from Ellie's face.

As your brief sentence concluded, a harsh pinch formed behind Aaron's eyes, the guilt creeping in as he pictured the two of you laid together, where he also should've been. His little girl was beside herself in fear, wanted him, and yet here he was. Far away on the other side of the country. He felt as if he were failing her; letting her down.

Aaron swallowed to even out his voice, to sound as cheery as he possibly could, and to refrain any agony from being heard. He took a deep, yet small guttural breath.

"In the great green room..."

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for Dick, and Jason reacting to his gn crush asking him as they're so worried (as his hero persona) if he has seen him & described him while not knowing his secret identity?

Jason wanted nothing more than to tell you to go home, that it was not safe for you to be out this late at night and worried half out of your mind.

He just wanted you somewhere he’d knew you would be safe or could get to in quick timing should something ever happen, which was why when you tried calling his -red hood’s- name, he tried to ignore you but found himself unable to hear you cry out in desperation any longer and looked at you silently as you got closer to him.

‘I’m sorry to bother you but Have- have you seen my friend Jason?’ You ask with tears in your eyes.

‘There’s a lot of Jason’s in Gotham sweetheart, you’re going to be more specific.’ He replied and curses himself for how harsh he might’ve came across. He’ll punch himself later for being a dick to you later.

You dig a hand into your pocket and drew out a picture of yourself and him the night before -unknown to you- he was told about tonight’s patrol. Jason has no clue why you had that moment photographed, nothing special happened other then you two hanging out like you usually did, but knew he was one to talk when he had photos of you and him saved on his phone when he was feeling the need to see your face.

‘He’s six two, male, dark hair with a patch of white in the front, beautiful eyes that have specks of a mystical looking green, almost like their glowing half the time- I’m getting off track sorry. It’s- It’s just I’m worried about him as he promised to text me when he got home, but he never did and I’m scared that something has happened to him.’ You reply to the intimidating vigilante who looked as still as a statue.

‘I can’t loose him.’ You continue as tears streak down your face as your mind poisoned itself into thinking that Jason was dead or slowly dying in an alleyway or an abandoned warehouse and you couldn’t get to him and it killed your in ways you couldn’t describe. ‘Please, I know you’ve probably got better things then to search for a mission person but-‘ you pause to catch your breath when you felt as though your chest was being crushed slowly- ‘I don’t know who else to go to for help.’ You finished, biting down on your wobbling lower lip to prevent another sob from escaping as your eyes blur with tears.

Jason, feeling his heart break the second he saw tears, remembered where he was and who he was in that moment and brought a hand out towards you to place awkwardly on your shoulder, giving it a tight reassuring squeeze as he struggled to not admit to everything then and there if it meant soothing your heart. ‘I shall try my best to help you find your friend, until then you should get off the streets and head home, the nightlife of Gotham isn’t for everyone.’

‘What about you?’ You asked him, wiping away your tears with the sleeves of your shirt.

‘I do it so no one else has to.’ Jason or Red Hood replies softly and to wasn’t until now that you felt a sense of familiarity from the vigilante, but waves it off as some sort of projection you were putting on him in place of Jason. Why? Maybe you’d were in need of reassurance from your friend but couldn’t get that when you were unsure as to where he was without feeeing the worse.

So you look for the next best thing who happened to be a vigilante strapped to the nines with artillery, built like a brick shit house, wears a ruby red helmet and most likely six two, pushing six three with his boots.

‘That’s…’

‘Sad? Pathetic? I’ve heard it all-‘

‘Brave.’ You said interrupting him as Jason felt his heart pick up at your appraisal. Your kind words often took him off guard more often than not but it was something he loved about you more than anything. ‘Admirable even but you should look after yourself.’ You added, struggling to form a smile and Jason wanted nothing more then to hold you in his arms and tell you he was okay, but knew that he’d be putting you in more trouble than not if he did such a thing.

‘Can’t promise anything in this line of work I’m afraid,’ Jason said, ‘but I promise to try and find your friend, no matter what.’ He adds and finds himself smiling behind his mask when you gave him the first genuine smile of the night.

‘Thank you red hood, thank you.’ You cried as you lunged towards him and hugged him tightly, a sense of relief flooding your system almost immediately when you were in his arms. Jason on the other hand just wanted the night to end so that he could get out of his attire and sneak over to your apartment, just to show you that he was okay.

‘Don’t sweat it.’ He mutters under his breath, sometimes hating the life he lives if it meant worrying you half to death.

Dick:

‘Nightwing!’

Dick’s head moved fast at the sound of your voice, something he has just noticed himself doing recently, and felt the need to drop everything just to make sure you were okay.

‘That’s my name, hey are you okay? You know you shouldn’t be out here at night. It’s not safe.’ He tells you as he crosses his arms over his chest.

‘I know that but I was looking for my friend.’ You said to him.

‘And who’s your friend, maybe I can help.’ Dick replies, wanting to do anything he could in his power to keep you out of danger however he could. He didn’t want you to do something reckless and end up getting yourself hurt or even killed over it and he wasn’t anywhere near to prevent it from happening.

‘Dick. Dick Grayson.’ You told him and Dick felt his stomach drop. Him, you were looking for him? Why? ‘He hasn’t answered my calls or texts recently and I’ve gotten worried that something might’ve happened.’ You added as you showed him -nightwing- a picture of himself and Hayley from a couple of days ago. He didn’t know you had taken the photo but the way you did made it look like something taken by a professional photographer.

‘And so your best course of action was to take to the streets of a dangerous city filled with criminals and gangs alike in hopes of finding him?’ Dick asked rhetorically.

You shrugged, never having gave your plan any deeper thought since making it to realise how dangerous it might’ve been to wander Gotham at the dead of night, where crime was most likeliest to be committed. ‘That was the idea.’

Dick sighs. ‘No. What you’re going to do now is go home and leave to finding your devilishly handsome friend to me.’

‘But thi-‘ dick placed his hands on your shoulders and flashed you a reassuring smile. ‘I promise to give your friend a right good scolding for ignoring your texts and calls and to not worry you so often…just let me take it from here, okay?’

You look at nightwing and found yourself trusting this man more than you’d ever have trusted anyone else in your life and sighing. ‘Okay…I just didn’t want to bother you-‘

‘And you’re not bothering me, not at all.’ Dick reassured as he rubs your shoulders in a way that felt weirdly intimate between strangers whom have never met before. ‘I know Gotham like the back of my hand. So I’ll be able to narrow down the places where your friend might be and have him at your doorstep by morning. I promise.’ He finishes lowly as he stares you deeply in your eyes.

‘Okay. I shall leave it to you.’ You told him and dick felt relief in knowing that you were going to be safe and away from all harm. He hated that he was the reason you’d risk doing something such as searching Gotham for him at the dead of night, but he’d rather have you safe then do something risky.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 15)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Broken glass

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: slight mentions of panic attacks; crying; slight injury and blood; Bucky being a sweetheart because I love him so much

Author’s note: This got unnecessarily long somehow. Again, this was meant to be a shorty. Also, I was in my feels when I wrote this. Anyway, thank you for reading!

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

The final box of Christmas decorations thuds to the ground as you let it down with a heavy huff. You straighten up your back with a grimace, rolling your shoulders.

You might think as an Avenger, carrying a few boxes, would be an easy task. After all, you are trained to thrive under the most punishing conditions, with sharp skills and boundless stamina. But after hauling all those cartons stuffed with tinsel, garlands, and ornaments up from the storage room to the towering Christmas tree in the compound’s common area, you are left panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

It’s almost laughable. Thankfully, you are alone for now. Sam would have a field day, smug grin plastered across his face at the state you’re in.

Wanda, Natasha, and Clint meant to help you with this but they were all still glued to the desk, writing reports, but Bucky is supposed to be back from his latest mission any minute now and you wanted to do this nice thing for him at least. He did sound a little worn out on the phone earlier when he called you to tell you they were on their way back.

So perhaps decorating the Christmas tree would lift his spirit a tiny bit. It’s the first step in what you hope will be a cozy and inviting scene - something Bucky might walk into and, for once, not feel like a soldier returning from a war zone but a man coming home.

The tree is a statement, of course. Tony insisted on it. It’s so tall, it might even brush the high ceiling of the room and there is no way you’ll get some ornaments all the way up without risking your life. And Bucky would definitely not brighten up if you tried it out.

So you’ll absolutely be needing Wanda’s help sooner or later. With a flick of her wrist, she could make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier but you don’t have the time to wait until she is done writing her report.

You let your eyes roam over the many ornaments lying neatly in the box before you and one of them immediately sparks your attention. Your fingers brush against the delicate surface of the red ornament placed almost carefully beside the others.

Its glass is smooth and cool, the color a deep crimson so much more in depth than all the others. You hold it up to the light, turning it slowly, marveling at how the glow from the tree’s string lights catches on its curves and the unique and detailed pattern all across.

It’s heavier than expected, the weight surprising for something so fragile. The gold clasp at the top gleams faintly, tarnished just a little with age. A thin ribbon dangles from it, curling at the end like it has been tied and untied countless times.

There is something about it, some intangible quality that draws you in - a sense of history, of significance.

And then it happens.

The ribbon slips from your grasp, too quick for your fingers to snatch it back. If you weren’t so enamored with the beautiful piece, you would have gotten access to your reflexes a little earlier.

It’s too late now though, and you can only watch in stunned silence as the ornament tumbles to the ground, the crimson surface catching flashes of light as it falls.

It hits the hardwood floor with a sound that is both sharp and final - a crack, then a splintering.

Disappointed in yourself, you crouch down to the shattered remains. Tiny shards of glass fan out like a constellation, glinting under the glow of the tree. The ornament is no longer whole, splintered into different-sized fragments.

Annoyed that you were so stupid and careless to let this special ornament fall to its devastation, you begin to pick up the many red pieces into your palm.

It really was unique. It would have looked great on the tree-

Your movements freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat. A rush of panic claws at your chest and rises up to your ears where it floods and pounds tremendously.

Rebecca B.

It’s a name ingrained into the largest surviving piece of the glass - a faint, looping scrawl. Clearly written by hand.

Rebecca Barnes. The realization makes you weak in the knees and you fall back onto your heels, your ass hitting the floor with a thump.

This isn’t just some random ornament. This isn’t another piece of holiday cheer to hang on a tree and forget about for the rest of the year after packing it back into boxes to store it in a corner of the storage room.

This ornament belonged to Rebecca Barnes. Bucky’s sister. Something Bucky kept all these years, hidden among the other decorations like a relic of a life he’d lost long before his own had been ripped apart.

The air around you feels heavy. The smell of pine from the tree now stings in your nose. Your heart might actually have fallen along with the ornament because it too is shattered in pieces.

The shards tremble in your palm and you stare at them along with the rest still lying helplessly on the ground, as if there is actually something you can do right now to go back in time and not pick it up ever again, just to make sure.

But there is nothing you can do.

Your heart breaks even further at the thought that Bucky might have put it here deliberately. Maybe it was an attempt to move forward, to share the memory of his sister. Maybe he thought the ornament didn’t belong in some dusty package hidden away, but out in the open, a part of the holiday warmth he’s been so hesitant to feel. Maybe it was his thought of remembering her with someone else this time, instead of alone.

This would be such a huge step for him. And you would feel so proud if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack.

Because it’s broken, divided into so many pieces. You just dropped something so carelessly that probably meant the world to Bucky. And, god, did he deserve the world. But you took it. You contorted the precious memories of his little sister. Unwillingly, of course. But that doesn’t make you feel any better right now.

You have known Bucky for a few years now. Though knowing him feels like a word too shallow for what you share. You never labeled it, both of you walking the fine line, and never crossing it.

But you see that Bucky trusts you - the kind of trust he doesn’t hand out freely. And for good reason, after all. In fact, you’re not even sure he’s ever given it to anyone else in quite the same way, not even Steve. And that’s saying something.

You see it in the small things, in the way his guarded demeanor softens when it’s just the two of you, the soft smiles that seem to be reserved for you. It’s the kind of friendship where silence doesn’t have to be filled, and words don’t have to be spoken to be understood.

He lets you sit with him on the couch in the living room on nights when his past pulls him under and doesn’t allow for him to get some shut-eye. You are usually awake yourself, sometimes just running on adrenaline after coming home from a mission and accompanying him silently. He always seems to linger out here when you are away on a mission anyway, so you usually meet him here after getting home, watching his shoulders slowly droop and his back rest more comfortably against the back of the couch.

You are the first at his bedside when his nightmares claw at his mind. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable - shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, hair plastered to his face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps as you help him fight to pull himself out of his memories.

Those nights, you never push him to talk. You don’t ask him to explain or tell you what he saw. Without a word, you would hand him a glass of water and wait while he drinks, his hands trembling so slightly it makes your stomach feel heavy every time. Sometimes you tell him to breathe with you, in and out, until the panic subsided and his shoulders stopped shaking.

You were never sure how much touch he needs in those moments so you usually stay at a small distance from him, but it seems your presence alone does wonders.

When he would be ready, he always searched your face so long and intensely, before croaking out a heavy but meaningful “Thank you.”

And his small acts of kindness always fill you with a jittery feeling that makes your knees weak and unfortunately doesn’t help at all when fighting against Natasha in the ring.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky spent an entire Saturday afternoon fixing the squeaky hinge on your bedroom door because he heard you muttering to Wanda about how annoying it was.

He never even told you he was going to do it. You just came back to your room later that evening to find the door silent as a ghost. It took a whole week for you to find out how this happened. And it wasn’t him, who told you. It was Clint, who saw him walk around with a toolbox and a satisfied smile on his face that Clint, as he told you found a little terrifying.

Additionally, he always seems to know when you need a break during training sessions, tossing you a water bottle before you even realize how tired you are. Or he would plant himself wordlessly between you and your opponent for the day, with his arms crossed and a chastising glance at you when you’ve been fighting for hours without acknowledging the way your movements already grew sluggish and wobbly.

You are always aware when his hands linger on your shoulder a second longer after a sparring match, his metal fingers cold but careful, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you there. Or the way your stomach twists when he catches your eye across the room, and for just a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. And the way he talks to you, even when people are around, his voice lower, softer, words chosen with an almost uncharacteristic care, makes you feel like you’re the only person he truly is interested in talking to. You also love the nights he shows up at your door with takeout, wordlessly handing you your favorite meal, and striding into your room to settle at the foot of your bed with a contented sigh.

Through it all, however, was always this persistent question you had. The one that molded into an ache inside your chest. Because what if? What if you took one step closer and stopped holding back? What if you risk everything you have with him now for something more?

But right now you feel like those questions don’t hold the same energy anymore. The same weight. No, they just got weightless. Pointless. Because you just ruined everything without even risking it.

You just destroyed something that can’t be fixed with glue and an apology. It can’t be fixed with you sitting with him and comforting him in the dark while his mind goes to the same cruel place like many times before.

This feels like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

The wrong line.

Shaking hands pick up the largest fragment, the soft loops of her name still visible through the fractures. The sharp ends bite into your palm like the memory of something sacred that’s been lost. You don’t feel the sting. You don’t feel the sensation of the few droplets of blood sliding over your palm where the ends nicked your skin.

The only thing you register is that this foolish mistake might actually unravel everything you’ve built with him.

He let you in, further than anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t push you back out if you give him a reason. And this definitely feels like a reason.

Your mind presents you with his reaction when he comes walking in here and sees what happened.

At first, there’d be nothing - just the stoic silence he uses to sink into, the kind that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. But you’d see it in the smallest of things - the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable, the flicker in his eyes that he’ll try to hide but won’t be able to, the stiffening of his shoulders. And then the desolation, like a tide pulling back just before it crashes. You wonder if he would say anything at all, or if the silence would hang heavy.

You swallow hard, begin to feel the sting behind your eyes, and try to force the lump in your throat down.

You’ve worked so hard to be someone he could rely on, someone he could trust in ways he hasn’t trusted anyone else in decades. You’ve sat with him, listened to him, stayed silent with him. Learned to know him so well, you even memorized the subtle shifts in his expressions, the things he won’t say but still lets you feel.

And now, here you are with broken glass in your hands and a painful feeling in your chest, terrified that this could be the moment that shatters the thing between you.

He might pull away, retreat behind those walls he’s spent years building. What if he doesn’t let you sit with him anymore. Or what if he does, but his shoulder would only grow more tense. What if he starts holding back, measuring his words, locking the parts of himself away that he once entrusted to you?

The idea of losing him - not just losing him, but losing this connection, this unspoken, almost-more-than-friendship thing that you’ve both been too afraid to name - makes your breath catch and something rise in your chest that might be bile.

A sob comes out instead.

It comes out like a wound ripped open before it could begin to heal. You press a quivering hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound, but it’s no use. More broken sobs come anyway.

You try to pull yourself together, to force the tears back, but your body feels so weak under the guilt and shame.

More parts of the broken ornament bite into your skin, red droplets welling up and sliding down your skin, pooling at the curve of your wrist, before falling soundlessly to the floor.

Pain should ground you. It should pull you out of this spiral, force you to snap back to some semblance of control. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything at all.

Instinctively, your hand gives way, the pieces tumbling from your fingers and scattering across the hardwood once more.

You only sit there, frozen, your breath hitching and catching in your throat as tears streak down your face, warm and unwelcome. You can’t stop them.

You’re not supposed to be this weak. You’re not supposed to break down like this, over something so small. And yet that makes the sobs only harder to contain. Because this isn’t small - not to Bucky. And that’s the part that leaves you as shattered as the crimson glass. Perhaps as shattered as your relationship with the person you fell for as hard as the ornament fell to the ground.

It’s Rebecca. His sister. His past. His grief. It’s a tiny piece of his life that he trusted enough to bring out of hiding, to put here with the rest of the world, in the open where it could be seen. Where it could be touched. And you touched it, only to let it fall. Only to ruin it.

Shame knocks down on you so hard, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as though you could make yourself smaller, invisible, anything but this.

You don’t even know what to do with your blood-streaked palm, only letting it hover in the air, the shallow cuts glistening under the still-glowing lights of the tree. It’s a mess. You are a mess. Curling your fingers into a fist, you wince in pain at the stinging of the cuts but you leave it like that.

Perhaps you are overreacting, sitting here on the floor in the common area of the compound with a bleeding hand and the shattered remains of Rebecca Barnes's memory, but you feel so helpless and remorseful, you can’t really think straight at the moment.

The sound of the elevator is faint, but it’s enough to reach your ears. You freeze. You just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, blood smeared across your palm, the shattered glass of the ornament glittering like broken stars on the floor.

You are tear-streaked, trembling, your chest still hitching with uneven breaths and Bucky just got home.

Those approaching footsteps are so familiar to you, you would always recognize his gate. Usually, it’s comforting, grounding to know he got home and would leave you with relief in your chest.

But there is no place for relief in your chest right now.

His footsteps sound normal, steady, perhaps a little hurried but he hasn’t reached this room yet.

You don’t look up. Instead, you bite your lip to stop the sob that threatens to escape. The shame is too sharp, cutting deeper than any piece of the ornament and making your heart bleed as well.

Maybe if you stay still, if you stay quiet, he’ll miss you somehow.

But then his steps come to an abrupt halt and you know you are screwed.

Burning tears spike once more and the sob breaks free.

“Woah, hey-” he calls out, so urgent, so worried.

Bucky is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you with a speed that catches you off guard.

“Sweetheart, hey.” It falls from his lips so softly, so worried, it nearly breaks you all over again.

Tears fall more freely at the kind of tenderness in his tone and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, thumb, and knuckles brushing the streaks of wetness from your cheeks.

But they keep coming.

“Look at me, please! Doll, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly gentle, but dripping with so much concern. His metal hand is on your face as well and he tilts it upward, guiding your gaze toward his.

His brows are drawn so deeply, lips parting slightly as he studies your face - the tear tracks, the desolation in your eyes, the shame and guilt, the trembling of your shoulders.

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’ll ever be able to forget that look on his face. Not when you know what’s coming. Not when you know what you have caused.

Just wait until he sees it, you think. That look will change.

“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft again, but there is a firmness in it. The pad of his flesh thumb smooths gently across your cheek again, while his metal fingers move to your hair. “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Y/n, it’s okay!”

You shake your head quickly and try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sound, half-sob, half-breath. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is about.

You want to stay hidden behind the veil of your closed eyes, safe from not seeing what you know will be there in perhaps seconds when he figures it out - disappointment, maybe anger, the grief of what you’ve broken.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, please.”

There is something in his voice you can’t ignore. It sounds unshakable and steady, yet fragile and thick.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes flutter open to meet his, but when you do, you freeze.

Because he already knows.

He looks at you. Just looks, but you see he already put the pieces together. He saw the shards scattering around your knees. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it but he looks at you with an intensity that is new to you. There is that understanding in his eyes. But it’s so soft. So gentle.

There is no anger, no frustration, no disappointment.

There is nothing of the reaction you had feared for.

Yes, there is pain in his eyes as well. It’s unmistakable, flickering in the soft blue of his irises. But it’s not the pain you expected.

It’s not for the ornament. It’s not for what it meant.

It’s for you.

You can see it in the way his brows crease, the frown that tugs at his mouth. And the way he never once lets his gaze stray to the shards on the floor. All he looks at is you.

Bucky keeps his hands on your face, continuing to swipe over your cheeks like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Then, his thumbs still, resting against your cheekbones, his touch so achingly gentle that it only makes more tears fall.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and the word cracks, quiet and uneven. He still doesn’t look angry. He still doesn’t look disappointed. He looks devastated - not for what you’ve done, but for what it’s done to you.

Your lips tremble, barely able to form words.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Come here.”

Baby definitely is a new one. It’s something he’s never called you before. But there is no time to linger on it, no chance to unpack the flutter it sparks in your stomach because he’s already pulling you toward him.

His flesh arm wraps around your body, tugging you against his chest, while his metal hand finds its place at the back of your head, cold but reassuring fingers threading through your hair.

He lets you cry against his chest. Cradles you so tightly to him, you might actually get worried about your ribs, but it feels so good. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heart is pounding. The fabric of his tactical suit presses against your skin, rough and worn from the mission he just came back from, but it grounds you to some extent.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Breathe,” he keeps whispering, exaggerating his breaths against your body to invite you to follow his lead. You try.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words spilling out in a choked, broken rush as you bury your face in his chest. The tears won’t stop, soaking into the dark fabric of his suit.

“Shh,” he keeps on with his soft voice. His arm around you tightens, holding you closer, while his metal hand stays solidly at the back of your head. His fingers brush through your hair in slow, soothing motions. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be.”

He continues murmuring to you when you try to apologize again, his voice low and warm. He talks so calmly and sure, you feel something inside of you churn.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he talks to you.

And yet, biting guilt gnaws its way through your ribs. You feel terrible - worse than terrible - because it should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

It’s him who lost something precious, something you had broken. And here he is, holding you, brushing tears from your face, whispering words meant to stitch you back together.

But somehow, he doesn’t even seem to care. He holds you like you are the only thing that matters right now.

Remorse burrows deep, heavy, and shaming, until it pulls you back to yourself - slowly, shakily, but enough to loosen the sobs caught in your throat.

You sniff and take a breath, a real one this time, ragged but yours.

Then, you shift in his arms, gently pressing against his chest to put space between you. His hold loosens, slowly, with a hesitation that tugs at something in you. As if he is reluctant to let you go. Still, he relents.

His flesh hand slides away first, but his metal one lingers, brushing through your hair one last time before settling on your shoulder. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing absentminded sweeps across your sweater.

His gaze never strays and it’s heavy. You can’t meet his eyes for long. They’re too full of that care you don’t deserve, the care he shows you in so many small gestures all the time.

So your gaze falls to the floor, but then you freeze again.

The broken shards that had glinted so mockingly against the floor just moments ago are gone. Instead, settled carefully on the coffee table as though it had never fallen at all, is the ornament.

Whole.

It takes you a moment to process it, to trust what you’re seeing. The cracks are gone, smoothed over seamlessly. The gleaming red glass catches the light of the Christmas tree, its golden little details shining like something out of a memory, timeless and unbroken. As beautiful and aesthetic as before.

For a moment, you even wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then you notice Wanda standing at the far side of the room. Her hands lower slowly, the telltale red glow of her magic fading from her fingertips.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step closer - just tilts her head slightly, offering you the faintest, knowing smile. Her eyes are warm.

God, of course. You should have thought of that. It even makes you feel a little ridiculous. You live together with people who possess supernatural abilities, powers beyond comprehension. You should have thought of Wanda. How her hands could have mended it back together in seconds.

A choked breath stumbles out of you, somewhere between relief and disbelief. Bucky follows your gaze, his brows furrowing, only to soften when he sees the ornament resting perfectly intact on the table. He stares at it for a moment.

But then he looks back at you and his sweet smile could melt any ice this winter has to offer.

His flesh hand moves a few strands of hair out of your face and tugs them tenderly behind your ear. His hand stays on your cheek. “Told you it’s okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I still broke it,” you say, words slipping out quietly, somberly. Your gaze remains fixed on it. Wanda seems to have slipped out again.

“Stop,” Bucky cuts in, his voice more firm than before but still gentle as always. He shakes his head, moving closer to you again, gaze fixed on you.

You feel his hand brush against yours, but then his shoulders stiffen up. He stops. His eyes catch on something and his expression shifts in an instant.

“Jesus-” His frown deepens, something like a shadow crosses his eyes. Sharp eyes lock onto the red streaks lining your palm, the cuts where the shattered glass had broken your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto the pain - too caught up in everything else to notice the dull throb of your hand or the sting of the scratches.

“You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” The words are a quiet exhale, soft but weighted. There is no reprimand in his voice, no anger - only concern coloring every syllable.

His thumb ghosts over your wrist, careful not to brush against the cuts. His intense gaze flickers from your injured hand to your face, searching your expression.

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. His jaw tightens and he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not frustration - not with you, anyway. It’s something deeper, something that seems to pain him in his chest as he studies the scratches like they’re a personal failing.

“Bucky,” you say while trying to pull your hand back from his grasp when he tilts it more toward the light to get a better look. As if he hasn’t the eyesight of a super soldier.

“Doll. Let me see.” His lips press into a thin line, the faintest hint of exasperation ghosting across his face.

The sigh you let out drags down your chest and you don’t resist when Bucky keeps cradling your bleeding hand and studies the scratches. His brow is furrowed in concentration that feels too much for something so small.

You want to tell him it’s fine, that this is nothing, but the words die before they reach your tongue.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he says tightly, the tone of his voice all business and leaving no room for argument.

But you shake your head. It’s your fault the ornament broke in the first place. You’re aware it’s whole again, but it was in shambles just moments earlier and you cut yourself thanks to your own stupidity.

“Bucky, you just got back from a mission-” you protest, your voice quieter than you’d like.

“Not too worried about myself right now, doll,” he interrupts, his voice insistent but warm. The hint of steel beneath his words not directed at you but at the way your guilt is still in control, trying to downplay yourself.

“Come on.” He says it softer now, but before you can argue any further, he’s already moving.

Without so much as a pause, Bucky stands and scoops you up into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely have a second to process the shift, before you’re pressed securely against his chest.

“Bucky!” you exclaim, startled, your uninjured hand reaching for his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Relax, doll. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused, though his expression remains calm, focused.

You sigh again, but there is a laugh on your breath. “Buck, I can walk. You don’t have to-”

“Not hearing it,” he says simply, almost flatly. He just continues striding along the halls with you in his arms. His steps are heavier, but you know it’s not because of your weight. He holds you like you weigh nothing at all. “You’re hurt.”

That doesn’t sound like a plausible explanation to you, since you’ve come home with way worse injuries from missions over the last months alone. But the gruffness of his voice, the one that always accompanies him when you’re injured, no matter how small - the seriousness, the concern - it shuts you up for the time being.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He smells a little like gunpowder and dust, but you only latch onto the parts that are him and breathe them in.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Bucky,” to whisper, gaze dropping to the tightly pressed ball that is your bloody fist. “I’m so sorry.”

You feel the intake of Bucky’s breath against your body and his eyes warmly falling down on you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t break anything, sweetheart.” His voice is like velvet, brushing so softly against your skin. So reassuringly. So profoundly gentle. “You’re okay, doll. We’re okay. I promise.” His hands curl tighter around you.

You blink, your head tilting to glance up at him, and your breath catches when you meet his gaze.

It is intense. His brows are pulled together - not with anger, but with concern. Like the only things he cares about right now are the tears that linger in your eyes and the way you’re still trying to curl in on yourself, still letting your body slightly shake with the guilt that he refuses to let you carry.

Something stirs in your belly. Something flutters, as if thousands of tiny wings brush against the walls of you, demanding to be seen. To be felt.

Because you let your mind spiral so much earlier, bracing yourself for a reaction of disappointment, frustration - that flicker of something unnameable that might pull the two of you apart.

But it still isn’t there.

Not even close.

It’s the opposite, really.

[a-simple-imagine]

Don’t They Know a Rabbit Can’t Cry pt.2

Synopsis: the road is long and winding. You've been through so much. but the hardest thing to deal with is the newest revelation from Lilia.

Pairing: rio vidal x fem!reader, agatha harkness x fem!reader x rio vidal

words: 3.3k+

A/N - gave up on trying to make this something i couldn’t. It ended up focusing on the readers relationship with Rio sort of separate from Agatha. Sorry if that's not what you' expected

WARNINGS- swearing, descriptions of blood and injuries/pain

PREV //

The vibrant orangey-red sky and comforting embrace do little to distract from the stinging bubbling across your palm. It hurts something fierce. Red hot and wet. You keep your hand in a tight fist; blood bubbling beneath. It tickles a little as droplets spill down your wrist and onto the fabric of your clothes. Agatha sits behind you with her legs on either side, cradling you like one would an injured child. Soft voice in your ear an attempt to encourage you to show your injury. You stay curled into yourself. Shunning her pleas. It was just a scratch. It would heal in time. The other woman didn't need to fret about you any more than she already did. You hear another voice before you notice them. Rio must have returned from her trip. A few words were shared with Agatha before her attention was diverted to you.

"show me,"a temperate request.

"no," you urge. Twisting more into Agatha's embrace. Her grasp tightens slightly. Rio merely sighs before snatching your wrist and tugging your arm out. Your brow furrows.A tiny grunt of discomfort. She pries your fingers apart with ease, revealing the gash across your palm.

"How?" she catches your gaze but you don't answer so her eyes flicker to Agatha an instant later.

"accident in the woods."

"Can you not speak?" rio questions, fingers a smidge tighter around your arm.

"Can you let go?" you shoot back, attempting to pull away but she holds on tight.

"you must be more careful," Rio leans down, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your palm "My love."

"you needn't worry," you express as she eventually releases your hand. A faint red scar that would go away in time. "I am fine."

"for now," Rio shows a smile. Tiny and gentle. Easy to miss. She cups your face and you instinctively lean into her touch; thumb brushing over your cheek. "does it feel better?" said warmly. You nod. "I am glad."

"This is why you should listen," Agatha scolds

"you know, should you need you can just call for me?"

"I do not wish to bother you." you express, a touch warmer. Softened by the soothed hand.

"it matters not when it is you," Rio murmurs. A brighter smile.

"and it is me who is too soft?" Agatha scoffs. "hardly,"

"This is different," a hand held out as she stood. "it's getting late. We should go inside before you catch your death."

"a little cold never hurt me." you accept her hand allowing the help up. "Agatha and I finished making jam earlier, you should try some."

"you made jam just for me?"

"it was not made for you," Agatha comments following behind the two of you. "you just happened to return."

The end was so close you could almost taste it. The bitter taste of death. It's not that your wish was to die right at the end but to rid yourself of the burden of immortality; and live a life that would one day end for that was what made it worth living in the first place. Hundreds of years of a life that should have ceased years ago. You would also be rid of Agatha and Rio. No longer a spare moment interrupted by their presence. Agatha Harkness who grew more unbearable to be around the further you travelled the road. And Rio Vidal… a green witch you used to know. Maybe Lilia had been lying. There was no way to fact-check now. There are but three others left. Agatha, Jen and Billy. You have no idea where they are. Agatha had basically charged out of the last trial. Jen and Billy were a mystery. You had wandered in search of respite. Searing pain encases your arm; a trail of blood droplets leading towards a tree. You tumble against it. Breathing through the overwhelming sensation.

"whatcha doin'?" such a playful tone could only belong to one witch. Rio. Too focused on yourself you hadn't even noticed her presence but now the slight chill in the air was beginning to shiver up your spine. Her magic always felt a little overwhelming. She possessed a great deal.

"where have you been?" words harsh as your eyes search for her. A shadowy figure across the way leaning against a tree. A pit begins to form in your stomach "Rio?"

"working," eventually answered. Working. Even back then it was always her reason for taking days away. You never really challenged it. You had no reason to. And Rio never seemed interested in explaining what she got up to. "where are the others?"

You dare a shrug. The fire spreads in response. You swallow a groan as best you can but it is much harder to hide your face. You had never been exceptionally good at that. "somewhere up ahead. Listen closely and you'll probably hear Agatha yelling," An attempt at a joke but your heart is hardly in it. You takea resounding breath and let your head tumble back against the bark. Seems like you spend a lot of time amongst the trees. Rio used to say it was important to foster a good relationship with nature. It's what sustains all living things. She was a green witch though so her connection in particular probably made her biased. You always enjoyed exploring with Rio. Many hours spent in grassy fields or harvesting fruit for sweet treats and whatnot. "I just…"

"you're hurt," a knife between fingers twinkles in the moonlight. "and Agatha just left you?"

You never wish to defend Agatha Harkness of all people but in her defence, she wasn't aware of your injury. None of them were. A rogue sword managed to catch you before you could jump out of the way. You would be fine. It wasn't a devastating blow. Just grazed the skin all the way down your arm. Probably looked worse than it was. "nothing new then."

A bark of laughter that quickly settles from the green witch. "she was practically sobbing when that boy got hurt," pushing herself up, she starts stalking towards you. "guess we know where her priorities lie," you swallow hard. Guess we do. While you had made it rather clear you wanted nothing to do with her. Rio bringing up her reaction to Billy did pull at your stomach a little. Once cared so much. Now cared so little. It wasn't like you were hiding your injury well if Rio's quick evaluation was anything to go by. One momentary glance away from the other witch and she was suddenly towering over you. "shame," she crouches down to your level, hooking her index finger under your chin and lifting ever so slightly. "to leave such a pretty thing behind," heat floods your cheeks, making you feel a different kind of warmth. She was playing to your softer side. The vulnerability of being injured. A cunning fox playing with her food. You wait for the enviable moment she switches. Often her treats were paired with tricks. A hand around your throat. A knife in your back. Disappearing one night without a trace. But she doesn't. "let me kiss it better."

Rio was an extraordinarily healer. No need for spells or chants she preferred physical contact. In the past, it was often a kiss; much like the famous saying. You'd witnessed her lick Agatha a few times to dispel her injuries.

"no, it's fine," your free arm shoves her away. "get off me."

Entirely unfazed.A slight chuckle. "still mad?"

"fuck you."

"guess so," the corner of her lips quirk up into an almost missable smirk. "it'll only take a second," a furrowed brow is met with a viper fast root vine that slithers around your wrist and yanks your arm out on display. An audible groan dragged from your lips. Eyes scrunch up as tears begin to swell.

"what the hell?" typical Rio. "don't lick me."

A threat rather than a statement. You know her games. The attempts to rile you up. A roll of her eyes. She crosses her legs as she sits down opposite you. The tip of her thumb swipes over her tongue before cold fingers wrap around your arm. You watch her gradual movements, applying pressure around the edge. "does that hurt?"

"you know it does." you grit your teeth. Willing yourself not to cry. She didn't deserve it. She presses even harder. Pain pricking around her fingertips. You squirm but it only makes your arm burn and her grip tighten. "Rio," voice low. A little whiny. Begging for something; her to let go or heal it, you're not sure. "please," her thumb drifts slowly. Collecting blood and leaving a faint scar in its path as the stinging sensation begins to fade. A few stray tears manage to fall your cheeks. The green witch pops her blood-soaked thumb into her mouth. Holding your gaze a satisfied smirk grew. A low hum. the delicious taste of your suffering.

"just like old times," muttered quietly. She sounds almost timid. Perhaps a response to reminiscing on the past or she knew the reaction she would get bringing it up. If you didn't know her well enough, you'd think she was fond of your time together.

"Can you… let me go now?" the vine tightens before slipping away. You run your fingers over the scar, stretching your wrist out. It was feeling a lot better. Rio watches you carefully. No attempt to get up. You make no attempt to push her away. Softened by a soothed arm. She reaches out once more. Hesitating as if giving you a chance to stop her before she wipes away the remnants of your tears.

"better?"

You nod a little and her hand lowers. "thanks."

"this game you're playing ends soon. Do you think you'll get what you want?"

"why wouldn't I?" you query.

Rio's hands maneuver across the dirt around her in smooth steady motions. "nothing feels…" a handful of dirt brought up between the two of you before pouring to the ground. "off to you?"

Your eyes narrow in contemplation. Does anything feel off? Nothing felt normal. You were on a magical road. The Witches Road. The stuff of legends. "should it?" a soft sigh falls past Rio's lips.

"you may think you've changed- almost convinced me with that whole tough girl act" She shakes her head. Almost like she's disappointed. "but you're still that same girl." she expresses. No venom in her words. Hardly an emotion at all. "naïve. Trusting. I could say the world was ending and you'd probably believe me."

"I'm not," you try to sound as firm as possible. Fingertips going back to your arm. "I wouldn't believe a word that comes out of your mouth."

A chuckle. "and yet you believe this road is the answer to all your problems."

"Agatha is the one who asked me to come,"

"and you just believed her?"

"She is the only known survivor," many witches attempt the road. That much you knew. Nobody ever comes back. It wasn't that you believed Agatha. She was on some misguided trip for power. It was more an act of desperation.

"notorious liar and serial killer Agatha Harkness."

"you need a coven for the road and I-" you continue but she's not listening.

"hid behind dark magic."

"Rio,"

"the woman who abandoned you-"

"Rio. stop it," you state loudly.

"I'm not doing anything," she shrugs. "just speaking the truth."

"I know what she did- what you did," you huff. Your eyes flicker down to the small pile of dirt Rio made. You reach for it. Rolling pieces of the road between your fingers. It felt rough. Sharp. Real. that sword that sliced your arm. The blood that spilled. It was real. "I need this- I need the road to be something." you drop it back down. smoothing it around the ground with your hand. It had been a long road. It was hard being here. Seeing them again. Sharon. Alice. Lilia. You hardly knew them but they didn't deserve to die. This couldn't have been for nothing. You needed to get to the end. To prove you weren't that stupid girl they thought you were. You needed the suffering to end. It had to be real. It just had to be. "I can't keep searching forever." your words hang heavy in the air.A despairing confession to the road.

"Why do you see immortality as a curse?" the other witch asks. Your eyes flicker up to find her staring at you. You feel hot under her gaze and quickly look away. "and not a blessing?"

A blessing? That was ludicrous. It brought you nothing but suffering. Endless life was no gift. How could it be? How could Rio of all people believe that after what Lilia said? Unless it wasn't true. "Rio."

"yeah?"

"why didn't you tell me?" or more so how could she not tell you? You had known her for centuries. And yet it was Lilia who revealed her true identity.

"tell you what?"

"Lilia said you're…"

"I'm…?"

"death," a whisper on the breeze. Death. Rio was death. Is death. Some living embodiment of a concept. It wasn't easy to comprehend. Your brain still didn't quite understand how it worked or if it was even true.

"What happened back there?"

"you'd know if you'd been there," a bitter tone. You don't know why. It just felt like one minute she was there and the next she vanished. Back then and even now on the road.

"do you think you would have handled it well if I had?"

You shrug. Who knows. Back then you navigated the world with an unchecked sense of naivety. You would never deny the girl you once were. You would have followed Agatha and Rio to the end of the world had they asked. They were everything. You truly used to believe they had your best interest at heart. It was stupid thinking back. To trust two predators so easily. there were plenty of red flags that you chose to ignore. You don't know how you would have reacted to the news. There was no way of knowing. You're not that girl anymore. "maybe."

"not even a little."

"you don't know that,"

"I do," her voice is forceful. No room for misinterpretation. "I really do."

"I don't get it," she reaches for your hand. Slow and cautious. You don't pull away. You let her have the moment. The original Green Witch was something you were familiar with. You had originally thought that just meant she was a really powerful witch which is still true but different. a cosmic entity. It's hard to understand a concept such as death having a physical form. Never mind one that looked so ordinary. Well, not ordinary but humanoid.

"you do get it, trust me" as she squeezes your hand. Presumably an attempt at reassurance. You pull away. Perhaps she was right. Maybe you just refused to accept that Rio was death. Maybe it was just too hard to understand. As you stare into captivating eyes you see a world that once was. Silk black hair spilling out from a spring green hood. Kissing wounds so minuscule just to save you some discomfort. The prettiest of flowers just so happened to appear on your strolls. Delicate locks embellished with perfect petals. Sure, she had never been the gentlest of souls. Not like Agatha who was always there to catch you when you fall. But Rio Vidal had her way of showing affection. How could someone like that possibly be death? "you're trying to apply human morality to death. But death is neither right nor wrong. Good nor bad. It simply is." it simply is. Death didn't discriminate. It wasn't fair or just. It simply is. Hated by so many. Sought after by others. Death wasn't good nor bad but Rio? Could her actions really be excused? If all the bad she did wasn't her doing then neither were those little moments of goodness. Was something like death even capable of feeling? "I am the natural order of all things."

"not me though," you say quietly. "does immortality not go against your natural order?" Rio's eyes flicker away but you reach for her face. Firm hands cupping cold skin. She always ran a little cold. Guess that made more sense now. You can tell she's surprised as you push her to face you. Force her attention to remain on the unnatural. "did Agatha know even back then?" rio nods against your hands. Of course, she did. Maybe that's why they ran off together. A serial killer and the embodiment of death. Quite the pair. "oh,"

"it's how we met actually- before you," that small pocket of anxiety sinks deeper at the mention of a time before you. To a relationship only they shared. You had your moments with each of them. But they had many more without you and that would always mean something. "death doesn't wait for you at the end of this stupid road. I've always been right behind you."

Anger settles but never gone. Your jaw tense. Nails digging into the back of her neck. She doesn't even flinch. There is some truth behind her words. You've been chasing death for as long as you care to remember. Searching for her in textbooks and scrolls. Bitter potions and fruitless spells. But in actual reality, you have known her all along. It was funny in its own way. Ridiculous. Even now as you hold them in your hand, it's still hard to understand. Your mind races with questions. So you merely sink into death. Wrapping your arms around her as you bury your face in the crook of her neck. Inhaling the familiar earthy scent and dewy undertones. It's a second or two before her arms wrap around you and her body relaxes. Her grip is fierce; bruising even like she's been waiting for this instant. Fearful you'll slip away again if she lets go. It's a comfort in a way. Terrifying in another.

"you're not mad anymore?" you very much still were. There had been no apology. Barely an explanation. That flame still burned inside. This wasn't forgiveness by any means. You were just overcome. Tears threatening to spill as you cling to her. Allowing your emotions to wash over yourself. It's strange. It's confusing. It's Rio. She's never held you with so much urgency. So much sentiment.

"te he extrañado," a painfully tight squeeze that gives you a point of hesitation. An admission you never predicted. Not now. There's a twist in your stomach. A tug at your heart. A deep inhale of death. It makes no sense and yet so much. Possibly a joke. Some sick game she was playing. How was the embodiment of death was somehow capable of missing you and yet…

"I miss you too," confessed against the skin of her neck. Her grip falters and you take the opportunity to pull back. You come face to face with her once more. Offering a small almost sad smile. Rio looks to the ground and you follow. a single white daisy. She plucks it. Rolling the stem between her fingers as she looks to you once more. flower so lovingly placed behind your ear before rising to her feet.

"you should head back to the others," she insists, brushing herself off. "wouldn't want you to get lost out here," a sharp turn on her heel. You scramble to your feet as she begins walking away. Brow furrowing.

"Rio," you call out. She halts but doesn't turn your way. You know there's no point in chasing after her. "did you… do this to me?"

"do what?"

"curse me," she lets your query linger in the air for an uncomfortably long time.

"Maybe," she answers back. "run along now rabbit."

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Hi!! requests based on the new episode you say? please let reader, I prefer gn but also fem is fine, give Aegon a big hug, he broke my heart this ep, especially when Alicent didn’t wasn’t there for him. I need to comfort that boy he looked so devastated <33

Request: Maid/servant reader coming in instead of Alicent when he’s crying and hugging him. Maybe they had something before he was king? Him and Helaena still marry and have children

Warnings: mention of a child's death, mention of past cheating

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You usually assisted Otto Hightower in the Tower of the Hand, but there had been a change among personnel who had access to the royal quarters following the tragedy of the young prince Jaehaerys. Many maids and servants were no longer allowed there. Having been working for the Keep since you were five and ten, you were trusted by the crown and had been relocated to the royal quarters. 

With towels in hand, you made your way to the King’s chambers. It felt strange to be back in the royal quarters. You still knew your way around perfectly, though. The dowager Queen’s chambers were at the end of the corridor, next was Princess Helaena, Prince Aegon — now King Aegon, who had relocated to the King’s chambers —, Prince Aemond and lastly the children's chambers. 

As you approached the door, a member of the Kingsguard stood before the wooden door. 

‘’These are for the King’s bath,’’ you informed him, holding up the towels. 

The guard nodded and stepped aside.

You stepped into the King’s chambers, the door closing behind you. The room was dimly lit, with only a few candles casting flickering shadows on the walls. You were about to head toward the bathing room to prepare the bath when you heard a sound that made you pause. It was faint at first, but unmistakable — the sound of someone crying. You turned your head towards the source of the noise, and your heart sank as you saw King Aegon, standing by his desk with his face buried in his hands. He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. 

How could his half-sister do something so barbarous? 

In front of people, Aegon always kept his emotions tightly suppressed. He had to hide his vulnerability from his court. They could not see him as weak — he would never allow it. But here, in the privacy of his chambers, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He let out choked, gasping sobs that he had been holding back for hours. 

It wasn’t the first time you saw him cry, but this time the sight was heart-wrenching. Two years ago, you had been Aegon’s personal maid, and you had, on regular occurrences, walked in on the prince in tears, curled up in his bed after arguments with his mother. He had sought solace in your presence, and even took you in his bed. 

You knew it was wrong to have an affair with the prince. He was a husband, a father. But you couldn’t stop. Everytime you would push him away, he would find a way to take you back into his bed. 

At some point, rumors of infidelity inside the castle began to circulate, accompanied by whispers of your relationship with Prince Aegon. You thought you would get fired, but instead, the Queen relocated you to the Tower of the Hand, a discreet way to quell the gossip while keeping you in service to the crown.

You hesitated, unsure if you should approach or leave him in his sorrow. But something compelled you to take a step closer.

‘’Your Grace,’’ you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aegon’s head snapped up at the sound of your voice. He looked at you through red-rimmed eyes, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘’What are you doing here?’’ 

You flinched slightly at the harshness in his voice, but you stood your ground. ‘’I’m here to prepare your bath, your Grace…’’ 

His hands were trembling, and he was anxiously twisting the ring on his pinky finger. ‘’I don’t want a bath! I want…I want my little son back,’’ Aegon whispered. ‘’He was so small, so innocent. What kind of cruel monster does this to a child?’’ He looked up at you, his eyes filled with pain and anger. 

Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. It was far from appropriate, but your feet moved before your brain stopped them. At first, Aegon stiffened, but then he sank into your embrace, his sobs growing louder as he clung to you. You held him tightly, your hand gently stroking his back in an attempt to soothe him, providing him the comfort no one gave him.

—

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[mermaidgirl30]

✨Saving What Was Lost Part 1: You’re Safe With Me✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: The first chapter is finally here, and I’m so excited to bring this to all the healing girlies that need a protective, soft Joel in their life 🥺 Thank you to @alltheirdamn and @mountainsandmayhem for screaming about them with me. This is raw, heavy, and very emotional. I hope you love it as much as I do 🥹 Screaming because I need a hug from this man 😭

Chapter Summary: The night of the auction, the night you’ll have to face your fate of being bought. But an unexpected man dips his money in and fights for you. His eyes are soft, kind, unlike all the other men. And maybe he’ll just be your saving grace.

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 13.9k

Chapter Tags: Mentions of being trafficked, flashbacks of being abused, non-consensual touching, a lot of angst, soft and protective Joel, emotional reader, trust issues, PTSD, no use y/n, age gap (reader is late 20’s, Joel is late 40’s), pre-outbreak au, switching POVs

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

  Red. That’s all you see, all you know. The dark crimson lipstick that stains your tainted lips, the cardinal curtains that drape across the buyer’s room, your bloodshot eyes that reflect in mirrors that you can barely stand to look into. It’s all just… red.

   You hate your reflection, hate the mascara that runs down your eyes night after night like the blood that covers your once white sheets, hate the way your voice is silenced even when you so desperately want to scream your lungs out. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters because you’re about to be sold to the highest bidder who deems you worthy enough to claim. 

   You scoff, biting your tongue until you taste copper run down the back of your throat, the tears pooling to the surface against your lash line. 

   “Stop fucking crying and suck it up,” Angela spits out sharply. “You’re going to make me a lot of money today, sunshine. So put on a big smile for me and stop smudging your makeup. You want to go back with the girls who didn’t get chosen to go on to the next rounds?”

   “No,” you mewl, your eyes wide and rounded, your heart lodged in your throat. You know what their poor fates will be, and you’ve had enough abuse and horror to last more than a lifetime. 

   “Then get out there and stop fucking around. You’re driving my patience, girl. The men are waiting.” She narrows her beady blue eyes and curls her thin red lips into a scowl, pushing you forward and nearly making you trip over your strappy high heels, your ankles barely able to hold your fatigued legs up any longer. 

   Your heart thunders loudly in your chest, blood rushing through your ears, anxiety threatening to take you down at any minute. Angela would be at your back, digging her spiky heels into your spine, barking at you to move, but what does it matter anymore? You’re already dead. What’s one more scratch to your fragile body that has been violated in ways you’d never speak about aloud. 

   You’re just a vacant body that’s hollow and worn inside. A mere ghost that’s left this earth long ago, imprisoned to this life to bring pleasure to men who only inflict pain and torture on innocent souls. But there’s nothing you can do. Not a damn thing. You’re stuck like glue unless you find a way to just end everything. Then they’d never be able to touch you again because you’d be buried six feet under the dirt. But at least then you’d be at peace.

   You’ll never know peace again. Not in this lifetime. Not ever. 

   As you turn the sharp corner, the vibrant red curtains separate into a stage-like theater room. Draped material clings to the velvety walls, the color reminding you of death and destruction. You can almost see the imprinted blood stains of the girls who got dragged away by the strands of their fragile hair, leaving claw marks in the walls. 

   You can still hear the blood curdling screams from some of them left behind, a plea for anyone who was listening, begging for just one person to help. But no one did. Their desperate calls weren’t enough to even stir up a care in the world from any of the men, including your awful handler, Angela. They were just a number, a dollar sign to every single one of these insufferable men, and the only thing they cared about was power, control, and sex.

   You weren’t any different in this scenario. And tonight, your soul would be auctioned off. And then you’d be enslaved till your master either killed you, or you found a gun and pulled the trigger yourself to just silence it all.

   Your high heels click audibly against the polished stage, your feet dragging as you keep your eyes peeled to the floor like a good submissive. “Keep your head down, don’t ever look them in the eyes. Be the good slut they want you to be and maybe they won’t punish you as much.” That’s what Angela always said for all those unbearable months you lived under her roof, and it was engraved like stone in your mind, imprinted words that might as well be tattooed on your wrist. 

   You were taken at twenty-six, now a twenty-seven-year-old fucked up girl who doesn’t even know what state she’s in. It’s been a year, maybe two. You don’t fucking know anymore. All you know is that you want to die. 

   You learned to be submissive, small-minded, belittled, pliant. And the worst part, she taught you to say thank you to your abusers after they were finished having their filthy ways with you night after night…

   You were nothing but a collared bitch who forgot how to say the word no. You were their prized possession now, and your body wasn’t your own anymore.

   “Ahhh. There she is. There’s my favorite slut of them all.” The word slut cuts you like a sharp knife penetrating deep through your skin, sinking down to stab you right where it hurts worst. “Why don’t you give us a spin, princess? Show these gentlemen what you’ve got to offer. Give them a show.” Garrett’s cackled voice booms through the large room, sending goosebumps down the base of your spine. You never liked him, especially when he cornered you in the bathroom, pushing you against the tile until he forced you down on your knees and told you to suck or he’d wring your neck.

   Your eyes press closed at the traumatic memory, teardrops threatening to spill at any moment. You just do what you're told and keep your quivering lips together, your long nails brushing against your bare thighs. The midnight blue dress barely covers your ass, the diamond earrings and pearl necklace weighing you down like a heavy anchor, tethering you to the ocean floor. Your cleavage spills out from the low-cut v shape of the top, breasts almost on full display because Angela said the men would just love it. You hate it, hate her but there’s not a damn thing you can do about any of it. You’re a slave and nothing more than a fuck toy and a quick money maker for the sex traffickers. 

   You wish you felt more human, but you’re just… not. Most days you can’t even remember your full name, nevertheless your favorite time of year. Being holed up in a horror house for over a year will do that to a girl. Make them forget their entire identity. And that’s exactly what happened to you. 

   Now you’re just… dust. 

   “Alright, boys. Shall we start this off with let’s say, ten thousand dollars?” Garrett’s sharp voice zaps like lightning through your nerves, and your whole body is visibly shaking now. His cold emerald eyes look like a viper about to strike its prey, and his smug smirk makes you want to curl in on yourself, hide yourself so he’ll never be able to torture you again. 

   You hear sounds of squeaking chairs, men cursing under their breath, whistles being thrown around like they’re catcalling you. They are catcalling you. But instead of harmless whistles, they’re poisonous fangs reaching for your skin, trying to seep their venom deep in your veins, claim you as their own. You fucking hate it.

   Taking a deep breath, you focus on the plush of the black carpet around the stage, try to pretend it’s lush green grass instead, like you’re running through the woods, escaping far far away from these bad men.

   “Come on, love. Don’t be shy. Show me those pretty eyes, so I can see just how gorgeous you’ll be down on your knees, pleasuring me with that pretty mouth of yours.” A man vulgarly shouts at you, the other men’s loud laughter echoing around the room, making you want to curl into a ball and die right on the spot so none of these men can lay a finger on you.

   Breathe. Focus. Don’t lose hope. Keep fighting. The words echo through your mind, but you’re so lost that it’s hard to keep going. You’re going to die under one of their hands anyway, so what does it matter? 

   “Did you hear him, princess? Chin up and look at him.” Garrett’s tone is stern and demanding, and you don’t flinch a second because you know what will happen if you do.

   When your eyes snap up, you come face to face with an older man who has cold blue eyes, spiky bleached blonde hair, and a jawline that could cut a man’s body in half. He has an evil glint in his eye, and it’s so revolting that it makes you want to puke. “Ten thousand you say? I’ll take her.” A devilish smirk marks his mouth, and fear strikes through your insides as fast as a lightning bolt. 

   No. Not him. Anyone but him. He looks like he’s murdered people, and you have no doubt that he’s killed women he’s bought before. 

   Fear slices through you, but you can’t run, can’t even move. Your feet are nailed to the wooden floor of the stage, and you know he sees how scared you are in your swirling irises filled with fright.

   “And shall we go up to fifteen thousand? Any takers?” Garrett looks around the room and two hands go up, but you’re too tired to look to see who they are.

   The bets continue, slowly climbing all the way to forty-five thousand dollars. An amount that is insane for a broken body who doesn’t even want to be breathing anymore. 

   Men scream and fight, shouting different prices, trying to win you over, making Garrett slam his fist down and sell you to the highest bidder. You don’t want to listen, don’t want to hear their rambling nonsense anymore. You just want to go to sleep and never wake up again. Maybe then you won’t feel any pain anymore. Maybe then you’ll find peace.

   More chants and vulgar noises come from the men’s mouths, their hungry eyes glued to you, their lips smacking and fingers digging into the velvet of their seats. Some men adjust themselves in their fancy suits, tongues darting out, wetting their salivating lips. And it’s so disgusting that it makes you nearly vomit on the floor, but Angela would have your head for that. So you just stand there helplessly and wait because that’s all you can do. 

   You’re their ragdoll, and they can do whatever the fuck they want with you. You have no say and trying to fight would just make everything that much worse. 

   Minutes go by, ridiculous numbers flying around the room, the air stifling and sticky, your body fizzing with anxiety, a panic attack creeping up against the surface, threatening to take you down in mere seconds.

   Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak…

   “Sixty thousand dollars.” Your eyes dart up, panic flashing across your irises. You find a man you hadn’t seen in the very back, and you have to squint to make him out in the shadows of the corner of the room.

   Your mouth nearly drops open at the amount he just said but apparently, these men are dripping with copious amounts of money. 

   You take a few seconds to assess him, your eyes glued to his large form against the velvet recliner he sits in, palms pressed firmly into the sunken arms of the chair. His body is broad, tensed, thick veins spidering down his tanned forearms, a black Rolex watch clasped to his left wrist. He’s clad in a white button-up shirt, black dress pants pressed against sculpted thighs. He’s dressed like all the other filthy rich men, but this one stands out amongst the rest. There’s just something about him that’s different. 

   He drags a heavy hand down his patchy scruff, greying threads shining under the dim light. His tousled sandy hair is slicked back, silver streaks giving away his older age. He looks to be in maybe his late forties, if that. A thick mustache hangs over his plush mouth, but what draws you in the most isn’t anything about his physical appearance but the way he’s looking at you. Soft, gentle brown eyes that have no violence swirling in them like the rest of the men. While the others look at you like a raw piece of meat, he doesn’t follow their lead. In fact, his gaze never hovers, never draws down your body. They just stay locked entirely on your eyes.

   His eyes are soft, dark brown pools with honey flecks glittering in the darkness that surrounds you. They aren’t cold, unfeeling like the rest of the men’s are. They’re… soft. And that alone almost brings you to your knees in relief.

   “Sixty-one thousand,” the spiky blonde hair challenges, piercing his icy blue eyes on you, making you want to hurl at the thought of that one winning you over. 

   “Sixty-two,” the mysterious man in the corner barters. Your eyes snap up to his until you hear Angela’s venomous words spew in your mind. Eyes on the ground unless you’re getting spoken to. Your gaze involuntarily falls to the polished wood, and you hear her click her tongue behind the fancy curtains. You’re nothing but a disappointment to her most days. Never perfect, always pathetic. 

   You bite your lower lip in panic, digging your heel as far into the floor as it’ll go, your nails biting into the palms of your hand, almost to the point of blood being drawn. 

   “Sixty-three!” The blonde pushes out of his chair angrily, his fists balled at his sides, getting frustrated with the man that challenges him. 

   Please, please, please. Don’t let him take me. 

   Praying was something you gave up on long ago but at this moment, you really have nothing left to hold on to. You can only silently beg for the man with brown eyes to win the bid. 

   “Sixty-five,” the brown-eyed man growls, his voice clipped and harsh, letting the blonde know he isn’t going to lose this fight. The blonde glares at him, anger fuming in his icy eyes, a deep snarl embedded in his mouth. You’re almost positive that’s how he’d look night after night hovering over your bed if he were the one to win, but you can’t think about that now. All you can do is wait. 

   “Do I hear sixty-six?” Garrett smiles, his eyes flicking between the two men who look like they’re about to duel in an old western shootout. You already know the brown-eyed man would win. 

   The blonde’s jaw ticks, and he holds back violence in his flexed fingers. After a few unbearable seconds of waiting, he slowly shakes his head and sits back down in defeat. “No. Guess he gets to take home and fuck the whore however he likes.”

   Anger flashes over the broad man’s brown irises, and a murderous stare penetrates his gaze. He clenches a fist tightly, and a part of you thinks he may jump out of his seat and beat him to a bloody pulp, but he doesn’t. And for some reason, your breath is completely knocked from your lungs.

   The deep boom of Garrett’s tone makes you jump from surprise, stirring you from your deep thoughts. “And sold, to the man at the back of the house! Congratulations. You got our rarest gem tonight. Aren’t you so lucky.” 

   The brown-eyed man’s jaw clenches for just a second, but he relaxes it instantly. Walking up to the front of the room, he throws on his pressed black jacket, straightening it as he walks past the deranged men, following Garrett as he leads him to the side where he’ll transfer the money and make it official. You’re his now, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

   Angela grabs your elbow harshly, pinching skin and drags you off the stage. She should be happy you just got sold, but she’s still acting like you belong to her. “Look at you getting fought over. You just earned me a shiny paycheck. But don’t forget your place, brat. You’re just a body to these men, and you’re here to please them. Sex is what they want, and your new master will surely punish you even more than all the other men at the house did to you.”

   A sick feeling twists up your stomach, threatening to empty your lunch remains from yesterday on the floor, right on top of her shiny stilettos, but you wouldn’t dare. She’d probably kill you herself before your new buyer even got you in the car.

   Suddenly, you realize you won’t have to deal with her backhanded remarks or abusive commands anymore. No more late nights of being held down on the ground and no more non consensual touching from strangers. 

   A feeling like freedom washes over your senses, relieving you of some tension, but you won't be truly free. Not really because you just got sold, and you know nothing about this man. Even if his eyes were kind doesn’t mean that’s who he really is. Men pretend with you all the time.

   When she pushes you up the stairs that lead to the back of the room, the blonde stands and blocks your way, an angry leer in his eyes while he skims his gaze down your exposed body. Something like panic and sickness stir inside you, an unwelcome hand brushing over your bare thigh, his hand sliding higher under your short skirt. Angela just stands back and lets him take advantage, and you have nowhere to run.

   “Well, looks like I won’t be taking you home after all, but I’m sure your new master won’t mind sharing you before you leave, right?” A sly smirk curls against his thin lips, his eyes smoldering with ice and mischief, making you feel extremely small in the moment.

   “I don’t think..”

   “Shut up, whore,” he silences you, wrapping a tight arm around your waist, snaking his hand higher and higher, brushing his fingertips over the thin material of your lacy thong. Anxiety floods your senses, panic taking over. You try to pull away, but he just presses you tighter against his body.

   Where the fuck is he? Where is your master? You’re not supposed to be touched after being bought, at least not by another man. Unless it’s agreed upon by him explicitly. 

   He skims across the outer edge of your lace, his slimy fingers feeling like hot lava boiling you alive. You want to run, hide, scream into his twisted face, but you have no more fight in you. You’re paralyzed by fright and right now,  Angela doesn’t give a single fuck if one of these sick freaks pins you against the floor and takes advantage of you.

   Right when you feel a warm teardrop leak from your eyes and a long finger pull against the thin fabric, a loud smack echoes around the room, and his body is thrown to the ground, blonde hair flitting across your peripheral vision. Your eyes blow wide when you realize what just happened. Your new master just punched the blonde man’s nose and tackled him to the floor, and you can’t stop staring in complete shock.

   “What the fuck man! What was that for?” The blonde tenses up and pinches his broken nose where blood is spewing on the floor in a thick pool, staining the black cuffs of his suit.

   “Mine,” he growls protectively, shoving him once more for good measure. He pulls himself up from the floor and straightens his button-up, ticking his jaw and scowling at the coward lying in pain on the floor. 

   Your jaw goes slack, and your heart thunders impossibly fast in your chest at what just happened. He saved you from getting taken advantage of. Why would he do that? You should thank him, but you’re stunned in silence. 

   He gives you a once over to make sure you’re unharmed and when he’s content, he tips his head toward the open door, signaling for you to follow. “C’mon.” It’s all he says, but you follow nonetheless, desperate to get out of this cesspool. 

   You take one more glance back at the carnage of the room, collecting the memory of the blood red curtains and taking the fancy velvet seats to your grave. The reflective mirrors make you gag, and the wooden stage makes your legs shake at the implication of what it means to be up on that high platform. It makes you sick to your stomach.

   You were just auctioned off and hopefully, you’d never have to step foot into this room ever again. 

   Trailing after him, you stay close. Close enough to inhale the woodsy cologne that drips off his body. You don’t know why, but there’s an odd comfort in the scent. Like fresh pines and a brisk fall day. Something you haven’t got to experience since… you can’t even remember now.

   The guards at the front let you pass, and it’s almost like it’s a trick. Just one more step and they’d be dragging you back by the crown of your head, not even sorry for ripping strands from your skull. You tense up and wait, but nothing happens. They just let you go. And suddenly, tears are pooling in your vision. 

   You wipe away the evidence, afraid your new master will scold you for shedding a tear. Maybe he wouldn’t, but you have so much trauma embedded in you that it’s like it’s an automatic response. 

   Back at the house, Angela would smack you across the cheek if she caught you crying for any reason. She always said tears were a weakness, and she wouldn’t have one of her girls going into a man’s room looking like a train wreck. So even crying brings out the trauma responses. You fucking hate that you can’t show emotion without getting a whiplash of her snide demands.

   You’re broken, and you don’t think you’ll ever be repairable.

   The air is chilly, a full moon hanging high in the night sky, bright stars blinking every couple of seconds behind grey clouds. The trees are mixed with a swirl of colors: yellows, oranges, deep reds that remind you of the shed blood back at the house.

   You shake your head out of the fog and focus on the smell of fresh air and a hint of spice. It has to be the end of September or October. Maybe November? God, you don’t even know what month it is or where the hell you are. This isn’t home. Not anywhere close at all. You know because there’s no deep green mountains or endless forests in sight. Home is nowhere to be found…

   The tall man walks you to a dark black Chevy, unlocking the passenger door and opening it wide for you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even offer you a hand. He just stares at you with a slight tick to his jaw, tilting his head to signal you forward. Your body responds in an instant. 

   You climb in, feeling the cool leather on your exposed skin, pulling on the bottom of your dress to cover yourself more, but it barely even moves an inch. It’s no use trying. He’ll probably have your dress ripped off in less than an hour. You’re surprised you even made it this far without him pinning you down to your hands and knees. 

   Shaking the sick images from your mind, you let the invading thoughts float far away as he closes the passenger door. He wouldn’t do that to you. He’s not like those other men. He couldn’t be. He attacked a man for you, but maybe it’s just because he doesn’t like other men touching his property. 

   That’s what you are. Property. That’s all you’ll ever be.

   It doesn’t take him long to appear in the driver’s seat, clicking his seatbelt into place and turning the key in the ignition, letting the rumble of the engine rev to life. You sit back in the passenger seat and try to breathe, letting air pool into your tight lungs. 

   The inside of the truck may be warm, but your body is freezing just thinking of what that blue-eyed demon was going to do to you back there. Panic consumes your insides, making you violently shake in your seat. Your eyes gloss over and then you feel as if you drown in a frozen lake, frostbite making its way across your flushed skin.

   “Whoa, easy there. S’alright now. You’re alright,” he coos, quickly throwing off his jacket and wrapping you in the warmth, draping your arms through the long sleeves and bundling up inside the blanket-like material. 

   Warm. It’s so warm and for the moment, your body relaxes just enough to relieve yourself of the onslaught panic attack. Your erratic breathing shortens, and then you can finally think clearly again, breaking away from the thick fog.

   Your eyes flick over to his, and there’s nothing but pure concern laced in his golden-brown irises. “You alright?” The question confuses you, and you stare blankly his way. There’s nothing hostile or violent in his eyes. They’re just… soft. Like they were back in the auction room. The first time you stared into anything remotely warm since you were taken.

   He lifts an eyebrow in question, and you finally register that he wants you to answer. “Mhm,” is all you can muster out, your words lodged deep in the back of your throat. Men don’t ask you how you’re feeling, so why is he?

   He looks at you for another beat, nodding his head once before you drop your gaze back to your lap like the submissive you should be. Don’t make eye contact. That’s showing control, and you’re not in control. Angela’s taunting words will follow you to the grave, you just know it. 

   He looks like he wants to say something else, but he holds his tongue and lets the truck roll to the long gravel road ahead.

   A sudden realization hits you like a car crash. No more Angela, no more Garrett, no more assaulters crowding your broken body. You’re free. Of them, at least. But your new master? Not so much. 

   The ride is silent apart from the soft rumble of the truck, tires spinning along the quiet road, moonlight shining through the tinted window, reflecting shiny stars in the side mirrors. You haven’t been outside in months, and the sight of a clear night sky makes you want to burst into tears. 

   “What’s your name, sweetheart?” His deep, soothing voice lilts into your ears, and you gulp at the sweet nickname he uses.

   Sweetheart. The men back at the house only called you crude, filthy names. Slut, whore, and bitch were their favorites. But no one ever called you sweetheart. Not ever.

   You take a deep breath in before you speak, afraid your vocal cords will shred apart the moment you tell him what it is. But when he looks over at you all soft again, you break. You tell him your name quietly and avert your gaze back down to your pale thighs. 

   Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, and you can’t help but fight the tug of a smile curling over your lips. He said your name and for once in your life, a little part of you clicked back together. 

   Bravery seeps into your body, and you cautiously peek up and ask something you’ve wondered since you saw his dark brown eyes in the corner of the room. “And your name?”

   His gaze flicks over to you, and for a moment you think his hand might fly out and smack you across the face. You flinch, remembering the sting of every hit your abusers marked you with. Your palm mechanically brushes over your cheek, and you swear you can feel the bright red welts they’d leave on your tainted skin.

   The muscles in his jaw tick as he watches you, assessing your shaky movements. It’s like he can see the pain deep down in your soul, and you don’t understand why he’d care about that. 

   He clears his throat and answers, his eyes attentive to the dark road ahead. “Joel Miller.” 

   You don’t know what to answer to that, so you stay quiet and lean against the window, looking out into the thick fog of darkness. 

   After he sees you trying to decipher your surroundings, his thick Southern drawl fills the quiet. “Do you know what month it is?”

   “No,” you answer solemnly, eyes still focused on the blurring background as the truck drives on.

   “Do you know what state you’re in?”

   “No,” you shake your head, eyes closing for less than two seconds. 

   He sighs, and you see him drag a hand slowly through his scruff. “It’s the middle of October. You’re in Texas. Jus’ a little north of Austin. That’s where we’re headed now. Jus’ about forty minutes away.”

   Texas? Well, that’s a very very long way from home. But you don’t have a home anymore, so what does it matter?

   “Oh.” 

   “Home,” he says hesitantly. “Is it anywhere close to here for you?” 

   You swallow back a lump in your throat and shake your head no, curling in on the warm jacket that envelopes your tired body.

   When you don’t speak again, Joel flicks his eyes slowly to you, his thumb tapping quietly against the leather steering wheel. “Where’s home at, sweetheart?”

   You flinch at the endearing name. It sounds like a knife dragging down a dirty chalkboard if you’re being honest with yourself. You’re nothing but a dirty slut. And that’s exactly what he should be calling you. Not sweetheart, not baby, just… slut.

   When the truck comes to a halt at a dimly lit stop sign, he looks over once more at you, his eyes a dark shade of chocolate. “Washington,” is all you can muster up, thinking you owe him an answer. You can’t even say Seattle without the word getting stuck in your throat. 

   His eyes widen and something like softness resides deep in his warm irises. “You’re an awfully long way from home, aint ya?”

   Quiet. His voice is too quiet, too… sad. And you don’t know what to take that as.

   Tears swim up to the surface, pooling in the corners of your eyes, but you hold them back. Don’t show him you’re weak. “I don't have a home anymore…” 

   His mouth turns down in a tight-lipped frown, and he looks so defeated that you can’t quite understand why he would be. He doesn’t care about you. He never will. He’ll bleed you dry until you have nothing left. That’s what Angela said. And it’s ingrained like a sickness that won’t leave your body. Permanent damage that’ll leave scars like the ones that etch the back of your raised skin. 

   You’re nothing but a vacant body to use. 

   “What about your family? They must be lookin’ for you.”

   Your fingers dig into the silk of your dress, and you almost let them tear right through. “I don’t have a family,” you whisper quietly.

   You feel his careful stare waver over you, but you don’t have the energy to look up. “No? Surely someone’s lookin’ for you. They have to be. A girl like you—”

   “A girl like me what?” you snap, quick to pull back your reins. The last thing you want to do is get backhanded from talking too loudly.

   “Take it easy now,” he presses, his voice gentle and soothing. Almost enough to consume some of your sadness. “All I’m sayin’ is someone has got to be searchin’ for you. Your parents?”

   You bite your bottom lip hard, chewing the glossy skin that’s marked with invisible bruises. “My parents are dead.”

   Silence carves through the inside of the moving vehicle, but you hear the faint whisk of shock leave his mouth. “Oh. I’m… fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

   “How could you have? You don’t know me,” you shrug, leaning closer against the smooth interior of the door, your head resting against the cool window that’s doused in fog and sorrow.

   “Well, I’m tryin’, sweetheart. I really am. Do you have anyone else? Maybe an uncle or cousin or—”

   “No,” you interrupt. “They’re all gone… I have nothing.”

   His hands clench tight over the steering wheel, his knuckles turning ghost white, and his jaw ticks like something just deeply upset him. Your eyes fall back to your thighs, but you can feel the weight of his body tightening up against the back of the seat. 

   He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask you any more questions. There’s just a thick silence that encompasses the cool air. And the only thing that keeps you warm now is the comfortable jacket that envelops you like a tight hug. A hug you desperately need. But you don’t want to be touched. 

   Not now, not ever again… 

   You’re almost fading off to sleep, the minutes ticking down painfully slow, but the rustle of gravel stirs you enough to where your eyes snap open in surprise. You gulp at the view in front of you. A large, lavish house with floor to ceiling windows and expensive wood panelling.         

   Your eyes peel to the thick brush of trees that expand into darkness behind the giant house. And for just a second, you feel like running far far away into the expanse of darkness. Maybe it’d swallow you whole till you were nothing but a ghost beneath the ground.

   The truck finally comes to a halt and then the engine cuts off. Your body hums with electricity. The kind that threatens to strike you dead. Joel unlocks the truck with a click, and he tilts his head toward the house. “C’mon. Follow me.”

   Your body hesitates, but the anxiety of lagging behind and getting punished sends you nearly jumping from your seat and out the door of the truck. Your feet hit gravel and you follow silently behind him, eyes fixed to the grass as your high heels click after him. 

   You feel like a puppet he’s strung behind him, your limbs moving without your permission. But he hasn’t done anything to you, so why are you panicking? And then your shoulders hunch with knowing. It’s the trauma that’s engraved like permanent ink from a tattoo deep inside your skin.

   You’ll never be able to escape it. Not even when you’re dead and gone.

   When you get to the front double doors, he slips a key in and turns, pushing it open with the flick of his wrist. Your eyes blow wide when you enter the massive house. A sparkling chandelier hangs high above the entryway. A marble staircase sits to the right side of what looks to be the living room. Polished wood covers every inch of the flooring. Exposed beams fill the ceiling, and the white painted walls don’t seem to have a speck of dirt on any of the surfaces. 

   It’s only a two story house, but it seems much bigger than that. Well over three thousand square feet. But the earthy textures and wooden trimmings of the house make it seem less like a prison and more like a, dare you say, home. 

   Home. This is your home now. And whether you’re happy about it or not, there’s not much you can do. Your body tells you to run, but there’s a tiny slither of a voice inside you that says you’re safe. 

   Safe. A word that means nothing anymore. You haven’t been safe in over a year, and a part of you thinks you’ll never be again…

   “C’mon. I’ll show you where your room is.”

   You stop in the middle of the entryway, your brow furrowed at his sentence. “My room?” 

   He nods. “Yes, your room.” He reiterates the word your, saying it like it’s spelled out in capital letters. You think he does it for your sake, to let you know again that this is a safe place.

   “You mean I don’t have to sleep in your room…” Your voice betrays you. Fear and panic flooding your eyes at the thought of having to be forced into another man’s bed. You quickly shake the awful memories from your thoughts, afraid to slip into another panic attack.

   His jaw clenches up, but his eyes soften into warm pools of brown when he sees the distress in your wide eyes. “No, darlin’. Not gonna make you do that.”

   “Oh,” is all you can muster out. That’s… new.

   He nods his head to the staircase, and you take that as your cue to follow. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t put his hand on the small of your back, doesn’t make you go first so he can stare up your dress. And you can’t decipher why he bought you in the first place. 

   Maybe he’s waiting till later to snatch you away into his room, maybe drag you to the floor and climb on top of you. The flashbacks make you sick to your stomach, and you’re having a hell of a time keeping it all inside. 

   You distract yourself with the rustic art that hangs on the pristine walls, reflecting off the marble staircase you climb. Pictures of deer, horses, shiny lakes, deep green forests, like the ones in Washington, scatter around the walls in various shapes. And it calms the anxiety that’s rolling like a violent storm through your mind. 

   A long, dimly lit hallway stands at the top of the steps, another sits on the opposite side of the long archway that overlooks a grand living room, leather couches, and a grand piano sitting in the left corner, right next to a picturesque window that overlooks a sea of trees. It’s just as lavish as other men’s homes, the ones where they’d throw parties for all their friends to indulge in the trafficked girls, but this one doesn’t feel like that at all, strangely. 

   His low timbre pulls you out of the fog, and you find him standing by an open door, the first one on the left. “This is where you’ll be stayin’ at.”

   You follow him into the room and gasp at what lies ahead of you. A queen-sized bed with clean white sheets and a light purple comforter sits in the middle of the room, some new clothes folded neatly on the edge of the bed. A walk-in closet sits to the left side of the room, and it looks to be fully stocked with a colorful array of shoes and clothes that still have their tags connected to the material. To the right is a large bathroom that smells like fresh roses and fragrant perfume, but you’re too stunned to walk in and see. The walls are painted in soft muted colors, and the lilac curtains drape loosely over the expansive back window. You almost cry when you see a sea of dark trees in the distance. They remind you of home. 

   You miss Washington, you miss when you had a home, you miss having a family…

   “I bought you some clothes. Hopefully they fit alright. If not then I can get you more, but I’m hopin’ you feel comfortable in them.”

   Your fingertips trace over the soft material of the various shades of t-shirts, hoodies, sweatpants, and shorts, your brain muted and fuzzy because there’s not a gown or short dress in sight anywhere in the room. That’s all you wore back at the house, all you know how to wear. And the sight of comfortable, unrevealing clothes makes your eyes glossy with tears. 

   You feel his weight shift behind you, but yet he still stands more than a foot back, not daring to touch you. You should thank him, get down on your knees and show him just how much you appreciate this, but you can’t. Because the thought of that makes you want to throw yourself over the lavish wood railing of the staircase. Angela would be so disappointed in you.

   When you say nothing, he clears his throat and then you turn to face him. “You must be starvin’. Let me go fix you something. You like chicken?”

   Your jaw drops, and you’re stunned silent from the ask. He’s asking if you like chicken? 

   He gives you a minute to respond, but all you can squeak out is, “What?”

   “Do you like chicken?” His voice comes out softer, more tender. Why isn’t he raising his voice? Why isn’t he smacking you across the cheek for taking too long to answer him? 

   “I—I… yes,” you finally whisper out, your eyes glued to the shine of his polished boots. 

   “Okay then. It’s settled. I’ll get something fixed up real quick. You can come down when you’re ready. Jus’ please, feel free to wear what you want. Find something comfortable, whatever it may be. All these clothes are yours now. I imagine you wanna get out of that dress you’re in.” His eyes flick down to your midnight blue dress for just a second, but he doesn’t lock his eyes on your body. No. There’s a flash of something like hurt in his deep brown eyes. 

   You tug his fancy black jacket further around you, letting its warmth wrap you tight to keep away the flashbacks of grabbing hands and torn shreds of material on the floor while your body was torn apart…

   “Hey.” His mellow voice breaks you away from the nightmarish thoughts. “You okay?” A deep wrinkle furrows against his tanned forehead, and something like concern washes down his soft brown eyes.

   “Mhm,” you hum, suddenly realizing you’re still wearing his jacket. You quickly shed it and try to hand it off to him, afraid he’d rip it from your body if you kept it on for too long.

   He presses a palm out to stop you and just shakes his head, a tousled curl escaping the gel in his slicked back sandy hair. “Keep it.” 

   Your outstretched arm falls to the side and so does the jacket to the floor. He pays no mind to it falling to the ground, not even flinching when it hits the plush carpet. Why didn’t he scold you for dirtying up his things?

   “I’ll be downstairs. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll let you have some space. And please, take your time.” He turns and walks out the door, letting it shut softly. And then you’re all alone, in a strange place that’s now yours. 

   Your eyes don’t lift till he’s gone, a bad habit that’s been ingrained into your very core. You’re not supposed to look them in the eye, not unless they say. But Joel? He doesn’t tell you to keep your eyes on the ground. 

   Slowly casting your eyes away from the cream carpet, you find yourself at the edge of the bed again, your fingertips hovering over a pair of grey sweats and a navy t-shirt. Turning around to make sure the door is still closed, you quickly peel off the midnight blue dress that’s tainted from dirty hands and prying eyes. You let it fall to the floor in a messy heap and throw on the large t-shirt and comfy sweatpants. 

   Looking at your bare arms, you decide it’s not enough, so you find a dark grey jacket deep in the closet and zip it up to the very top, so no exposed skin or scars are left to be seen by his dark eyes. You still feel completely bare, even with a pair of long pants and a long sleeved jacket. But that’s because in the last year, even if you did have actual clothes on, they were just torn away and ripped apart, and you have the scars to prove it.

   Carefully bending down and picking up the wadded up dress, you smooth it out and run your fingers over the sheer material, almost tempted to put it back on because that’s what you should be wearing. Not some oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. You don’t look presentable, not in these clothes. You should always dress to entertain the men, always have your hair perfect and your makeup just right, always have a smile on your face and say thank you for every single thing they do to you…

   Your body starts to shake violently as you look up to find yourself standing in the reflection of the closest mirror, the mini dress held up to your body, fingers curling over the muddled memories of dinner parties that ended with you and other innocent girls faces down on the table with your legs spread.

   Your bottom lip trembles as you look at the twenty-seven-year-old girl staring back in the mirror. You don’t recognize her anymore. Stained blood red lips and long wavy curls, your eyeliner smudging, and the dark creases beneath your eyes telling you just how exhausted and battered your body is. You’re wrecked. Completely and utterly shattered, torn to shreds. And you just don’t know how you’ll ever find yourself again. Because the girl you knew before is long gone. And now? Now you just feel… lost. 

   The tears that pool in your eyes fall like raindrops that pelt the outside window, your body humming with anxious thoughts and a blur of emotions. And the dress burns like fire beneath your palms; every second you hold it brands another forgotten memory into your brain, and then you just crack like shattered glass.

   You tear the dress to shreds, taking out all your anger and resentment on the sheer material, pulling it apart till it’s only unrecognizable scraps on the floor. And you let your tears soak them, stain them just like every single one of those men did to your body. Even Angela. 

   You hate them, you hate yourself, you hate the way they made you feel. Useless and disgusting, a piece of meat they could chew on whenever they pleased. 

   You spend the next half hour crying over what you did, regretting ruining the dress, the one thing you could’ve kept with you, a fragile memory that you should’ve held on to. But that wouldn’t be healing to you. But at this rate, you don’t think you ever will heal.

   You forget about dinner, forget where you even are. Joel had to come get you and lead you down to the kitchen. And yet, he still didn’t touch you. Not even once. And you just don’t understand why he won’t touch you. Not that you want to be touched. You don’t. You just expect it now. 

   When you finally make it to the kitchen, you decide on a black barstool and take your place there at the sleek kitchen island that’s swirled in shiny white quartz. And when he sets a warm plate of chicken Alfredo noodles and a glass of cold water in front of you, you just stare with wide-eyes at the hot meal before you. 

   The savory Alfredo dinner taunts you as it sits right in front of you, screaming at you to just take one bite. Your stomach churns and rumbles with the scent of a put together homemade meal. When was the last time you had one of those? Maybe two years ago. 

   You keep your eyes peeled to the polished wooden floor, your fingers twisted tight against the sweatpants that hang loosely around your thighs. Your body is yelling at you to eat, but you can’t make yourself move, can’t do anything. You were never allowed carbs back at the house, wasn’t even allowed to eat until the men were done. Angela once pulled your hair and pushed your face into the floor when you dared to take a bite before they were finished. And now you can’t even get yourself to chance that again. Even if Joel never would, you feel as if Angela will come charging around the corner just waiting for you to make one wrong move. 

   You’re so very broken…

   “What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I can make you something else.” Joel’s voice is etched in concern, but you only have the strength to shake your head. 

   “No. It’s fine. It’s—it’s great. It’s just…” Your breath is shaky, just like your hands. And you can’t seem to look up from the floor. 

   Don’t ever look them in the eyes. You’re not in control. You have no power. You flinch at Angela’s spiteful words. You wish you could just drown them out, forget everything she ever taught you. 

   “You haven’t even touched your food, sweetheart.” A tear licks at the corner of your eye, but you don’t dare let it fall. 

   “I—uhh. I…” You’re pathetic. You can’t even look him in the eye at the table. Not even when he’s standing across from you, staring at you with those soft brown eyes you know are boring into yours. 

   “Can you look up for me, sweetheart?” The pain in his deep timbre cracks something inside you, and your eyes snap up to meet his. “There ya go. Attagirl.” You wince at the word because it sounds like praise, and you don’t deserve that at all. You deserve to be scolded. 

   “Wanna tell me why you’re not eating?” You choke on your voice when you see those soft brown honey eyes. You’ve never been looked at quite like that. Not with kindness or concern or anything genuine before. And it makes you want to cry.

   You take a deep, steady breath and pray you can muddle some coherent words out because you’re about to spill something very personal that you’re not quite ready to share. “Back at the house… they wouldn’t let us eat until the men were done. We—we’d get punished if we disobeyed.” You flinch at the painful memories but press on. “We weren’t allowed to eat carbs. And some days they’d just starve us to teach us a lesson. I can’t even remember the last time I had a decent meal…”

   Joel’s fingers flex against the sink, his nails digging into the metal, his jaw clenched and something like pain and understanding lit up in his honey-colored eyes. He looks like he actually feels your pain, and you can’t comprehend how he’d possibly know what that pain is like. 

   He nods his head and darts his tongue along his bottom lip in response. “I uhh—Jesus. I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s fuckin’ awful. I can’t imagine how that must’ve been. But please, eat. You’re allowed to eat anything you want now. You want sweets, sugar, greasy pizza? Then it’s yours. You’re allowed to eat in peace here. There’s no rules in this house. I want you to be able to eat. So please, don’t ever wait for me. You jus’ go on and enjoy.” 

   It takes you a couple of minutes to find enough courage to pick up the silver fork, but you do it. And that right there is a step in the right direction. 

   The first bite slides down your throat slowly and when you swallow, it’s like a slice of heaven to your insides. You quickly take another, devouring the delicious noodles, letting the savory taste melt against your tastebuds, groaning silently at what a real meal should taste like. It’s not cold soup or oatmeal or dry lettuce. It’s actual food. 

   You somehow forget Joel is watching, and it takes you two whole seconds until your cheeks are burning with embarrassment. He’s looking straight at you, watching you enjoy from a safe distance, and you swear you see a small smile curled against his lips. He hasn’t even touched his food. All he seems to care about is that you’re eating. And that makes you feel extremely guilty.

   You take a paper napkin and wipe the Alfredo sauce from your lips, letting the red lipstick smear across the napkin, suddenly fully aware you just ruined your makeup. 

   Flashbacks of getting slapped across the face course through your body, making you sick to your stomach. Don’t smear your makeup, filthy little slut. Go back to your room and make yourself presentable before our guests arrive. Another sharp smack stings your cheek, and you find yourself cradling your cheek like it just now happened to you.

   Panic blindly traces every inch of your body, anxiety creeping in as your heart palpitates at an alarming pace. You ate without Joel, you didn’t wait, you ruined your makeup. Oh God, you’re in so much trouble. Safe. You’re not safe. You need to run, you need to…

   “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Joel’s concerned voice whips through your mind, and that’s enough for you to drop your fork in alarm on the floor, your eyes wild with fright. 

   You’re not safe, you’re not safe, you’re not safe. He’ll hurt you. Run.

  You pull back the barstool and stand, your back tense and fingernails digging into the kitchen island. “W—Why are you being nice to me? Why did you cook for me? Why aren’t you starving me?!”

   His body tenses, just like yours, and his eyes swim with concern. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s all gonna be jus’—”

   “Why aren’t you using me? Use me! Tell me to spread my legs, tell me to get on my knees, tell me I’m worthless!” You scream, letting your voice echo around the clean kitchen, feeling as if your panic attack might take you out this time around. 

   “No.” His voice is careful, quiet, not at all stern.

   “No?” you mewl, feeling the tears prick the back of your eyes.

   “No,” he repeats, softer than before.

   Your hands shake, and you need to find something to hold to soothe your whirring anxiety. So you grab the glass that’s half full of water. “Use me! Tell me I’m nothing! Tell me I don’t matter!”    

   He shakes his head slowly, his eyebrows knit together in rapt attention, eyes crinkling. “You do matter. Don’t for a second think that you’re—”

   “Just fucking use me!” You slam the glass to the floor, letting it shatter into tiny pieces just like your heart looks like. Broken and fractured. You fall to the floor, crying out when a piece slices through your palm, letting the pain serenade your insides, reminding you of all the times you saw red back at the house. 

   The tears splash against your cheeks, falling to the floor like droplets from a waterfall. But you can’t find the strength to let them stop. You’ve held them in for so long; there’s no more room to keep them tucked away inside.  

   Your eyes widen when you realize the mess you made. You broke his belonging, completely shattered it in pieces. He should have your fucking neck for this, and you cower just thinking of the beating he might give you. “Oh my God. The glass. Fuck, the glass. I’m so… s—sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t…” You frantically try to pick the pieces up, but all you do is tear another cut open in the same palm. And now blood stains the dark wood. Fuck. 

   Joel’s at your side in a second, kneeling beside you, trying to calm you down the best he can without alarming you. “Shhh. S’alright. It’s fine. I don’t care about the broken glass.”

   ��But I made a mess. I broke your belongings. And I should be punished. I should…” Your voice fades off as the tears blur your vision, completely breaking you just like the scattered shards of glass that surround you. 

   He shakes his head slowly and places his palm flat on the ground, so close but yet so far from brushing against you. “No. Don’t think for one minute you deserve that, sweet girl. Don’t for one fuckin’ minute believe any of that. S’not true. None of it is.”

   “But—but I… No, I—I can fix this. I can clean this up, I can…” Your words come out jumbled and muddled, and the panic still writhes high throughout your body, making you want to crawl out of your scarred skin.

   “Sweetheart, shhh. S’alright. I promise I’m not here to harm you. Jus’ let me clean you up. Your hand. Jus’—let me help you. Please.” His voice is calm, collected, and you have a hard time looking up because you know those deep brown eyes will only make you cry harder.

   You feel his fingertips brush against your wrist, and you jolt back in panic, eyes wide with retaliation. “Don’t—don’t touch me,” you choke, whining as another piece of glass digs into your hand like a knife carving its way deep into your bones. It fucking hurts, but you’ve taken worse. You can manage the pain. 

   He lifts his arms in the air like he’s surrendering, showing you he means no harm. But your body doesn’t know the difference anymore. All you’ll ever know is how to continue to take the pain. 

   “Please. I promise I ain’t gonna hurt you. Let me take care of your hand. Let me help you.” He draws out the last word, the syllables dragging like sweet honey across his tongue. And he sounds genuine like he really does want to help you.

   You have no more fight left in you, no energy to give. So all you do is nod your head and whisper out a defeated, “Okay.”

   “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you up off the floor.” He scoops you up in his arms, cradling your head in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t even care that you’re staining his white button-up red. If he does, he doesn’t say anything about it.

   Your body revolts against his touch, but he’s so warm that you don’t fight it. He smells like firewood and scented pine trees, and that’s enough to keep you calm in his arms. You just nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and let your tears stain the dark stubble of his patchy beard. 

   “There ya go. Easy now. You’re alright,” he coos gently, lulling you into a calm state.

   You’re freezing cold, even underneath the layers of clothes that wrap like thick vines around your body. But somehow, the warmest thing right now is being in his arms... 

   You’re completely and utterly vulnerable but just for a second, you relax into his strong arms and breathe in the mahogany scent of him. The man that got you out before you completely shattered. For just this moment, you give in to what you really need. Warmth and safety. 

   He feels safe.

   And for the next couple of minutes that it takes for him to get you across the house and up the stairs, you fade into his warmth, blocking out every single panicked and anxious thought. For just those few seconds, you breathe, letting the unruly voices in your mind die out. 

   For just that minute, you’re safe. 

   You come back to yourself the moment he sets you down on a white step stool, warily telling you to hold still, your palm open over the bathtub, blood running down the porcelain material, staining the walls with the crimson of your stupid mistakes. 

   You did this. Your fault, all your fault. You should have never broken the glass, should’ve never lashed out, but you did. And you guess this is how you’ll always be now. A hollow body that just doesn’t know how to live a normal life anymore. 

   You wince as Joel drags the washcloth slowly over your open wound, tears swimming in your eyes the more he tries to assess it, searching for any pieces of glass that may be stuck deep in your hand. And you don’t know why he’s doing this after you had a meltdown because he wouldn’t make you pleasure him. What the fuck is wrong with you? Is this how your brain just operates now? After being stuck in that god awful house, this is what it does to you? 

   You don’t want to be used anymore. You don’t even want to be fucking touched by a man ever again. So why did it hit a nerve after he refused to tell you that you were nothing? 

   “Ouch,” you whine, tensing as he washes the open wound with soap and water, apologizing each time he goes over the sore area. 

   “M’sorry. Jus’ hold on, I’m almost done. Good news is I don’t see any glass in your cut. S’good. Means I can jus’ clean you up and wrap it for tonight. Might be sore for a couple days, but you’ll be fine,” he assures you, working meticulously to fix you up. 

   You flinch each time his calloused fingers brush against your hand, struggling to not push him away. You don’t want to be touched by anyone, especially not by a man. But you can’t shake how warm he felt when he was carrying you to your room. He wasn’t mean, wasn’t rough, wasn’t even hostile. He was just… gentle. Just like he’s being now with each careful graze of his fingertips to your fragile skin. 

   And even though ninety percent of you can’t stand the thought of him being this close to you, you don’t seem to hate him. Not even a little bit. Because whether you want to admit it or not, he saved you. 

   You don’t trust him, you don’t trust anyone. He could turn on you in a second, show you his true colors. But again, he would’ve already done that. Wouldn’t he?

   “How old are you, sweetheart?” he asks, carefully drying your cut with a clean towel.

   “Twenty-seven,” you whisper out, wincing once more from the pressure on your palm.

   “And your birthday? When’s that?”

   You watch his brown eyes flick up to yours, and your gaze drops immediately back to your lap. “January 22nd.”

   He takes a minute before the next question comes, diligently wrapping your hand in a gauze padding. “How long you been gone now? Do you know?”

   You chew on your bottom lip and hold back a tear, trying your best not to fall apart all over again. “A little over a year and a half…” you respond in a muffled tone. “I wouldn’t have even known my birthday passed. But they—they were sure to remind me. Because I was—I was…” you can’t even finish your sentence without a tear slipping down your cheek, holding on for that sliver of sanity you have buried deep inside you.

   His brown eyes gloss over into a deeper shade of brown, and his eyebrows furrow in concern as he stops what he’s doing so he can put his full attention on you. You decide to finish your sentence, needing to get it out of your system. Hoping it’d be a way to forget as soon as the words left your tongue. “They—they had me bent over a table the entire day while a vanilla cake with the numbers twenty-seven taunted me while they ate it in front of me. And then they—-they…” a sob chokes you up, and tears trail like rain down your face, landing on top of Joel’s hand that sits atop his knee.

   “Hey, hey, hey. S’alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to talk ‘bout it if you don’t want to. I’m—fuck. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I jus’ can’t imagine what sick fuck would do that to you or any girl at that. I’m so sorry.” His deep voice is full of pity and heartache, and his chocolate eyes make you want to cry even more.

   You dip your head in anguish and sigh. “Yeah, me either. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I…”

   He interrupts you, hovering his hand over yours like he wants to comfort you, but you flinch away at the notion. “Shh. No, sweetheart. You never ever deserved any of that. Not in the least bit.”

   You scuff your bare feet against the tile floor, reaching for anything that might keep you from tipping past the breaking point, but you’re way over the edge. You’re all the way at rock bottom. 

   The searing question bubbles up again in your stomach. The one question you’ve been dying to know ever since he called out that number. And you can’t go another minute without knowing. “Why did you do it?”

   “Do what?” he asks, an eyebrow arched in question.

   “Why did you buy me? You could’ve left me with the blonde. You could’ve walked out empty handed.” Your voice is raised, but you keep your composure from sliding again, not wanting another broken glass incident.

   “I wasn’t gonna do that,” he presses, his lips in a tight line, jaw ticking with a dark look in his eyes.

   “You paid thousands of dollars for me. Why would you do that? Why didn’t you just—”

   He stops you right there, a sad look blanketing his face. “‘Cause. My daughter, Sarah. She… she went through the same thing you did. And I couldn’t fuckin’ stand by and watch the same thing happen to you.”

   Your lips part wide, and a gasp leaves your throat. His daughter was taken? “Oh.” That’s all you can say for the moment. You’re stunned in silence.

   Holy shit.

   You try to find one sliver of pretense, a glimmer in his eye that could prove he’s lying. But the way his face falls and his eyes drop to the floor in agony, like he’s in physical pain, you find no lie. He’s telling the truth.

   “Is she still…”

   “Yes,” he nods, eyes in a far off place. “She’s alive.”

   “When did she…”

   He takes a deep breath and flexes his hand over the side of the tub, holding on to something solid while he gets into the thick of what happened to his daughter. “She was taken young. She was only fifteen, taken right under my nose at the mall. She was just walkin’ to the bathroom. It took less than five minutes. And I—fuck. If I would’ve jus’ watched her walk in and stood outside the door. She would’ve never been taken in the first place…”

   He drops his head in defeat, and you feel your eyes widen in shock. You don’t know what rushes over you, but the way his soft brown eyes tear up make yours do the same thing. “Joel?” you choke out, tears stinging against your lash line. “I’m—really sorry that happened. And as much as you might blame yourself, it wasn’t your fault.”

   He looks up with teary eyes and a deep frown, nodding. “Wish I could come to terms with that. But… she made it out. I found her and got her out. And that’s what matters.”

   “How old is she?” you ask quietly, your left hand brushing over your fresh bandage, careful not to tear the material. 

   “She’s twenty now. Livin’ down in Houston, startin’ her sophomore year of college, and workin’ as a part time vet tech at a clinic specializin’ in horses. She absolutely loves it,” he smiles, his eyes turning into a lighter brown the more he talks about how much she’s grown over the years, leaving behind her trauma.

   “That’s incredible. More than incredible. Just—wow,” you breathe out, your eyes casted down to the floor, wishing you could heal like that. But at this rate, you don’t think you’ll ever get over the immense trauma that occurred to your body and mind.

   He licks his bottom lip in thought, his eyes burning into yours. And you see it even out of the corner of your eye. He’s concerned for you. “It took her a long time to adjust back to a normal life. We had a rocky time there for ‘bout a year, but she got the help she needed. She was only gone a couple months, but that was more than enough time to give her PTSD and mentally scar her. But she’s shining now, finally at a place where normal life isn’t as scary as it used to be.”

   Another tear slips free and splashes to the floor, creating a tiny puddle of your shattered heart that’s made of tears. “I’m so happy for her. Sarah sounds amazing.”

   “Mmm, that she is. I’m gonna give you her number. Think it’d be good for you to connect with someone who’s been through something as traumatic as this.”

   Your mouth gapes open, and you tilt your chin up until you come face to face with him. And he looks… kind. He is kind. “But I don’t have a phone anymore…”

   “I’ve already got one ordered and on the way for you.”

   “What?” you ask with wide eyes. He gives you a small smile that curls against his lips. And you nearly sob from the gentle way he’s looking at you. “You didn’t have to do that.”

   “Yes, I did. And I have a therapist on speed dial. Her name’s Tess. She’s the best of the best. If there’s one therapist I trusted with Sarah then it’s her. Trust me, Sarah went through a lot of them, and Tess was the most helpful. And she’s helped so many other girls, too. Not just Sarah.”

   Other girls? Did he help get other girls out? You have so many questions. “Why are you doing all this for me?”

   “‘Cause I wanna help you,” he states simply, his thumb tapping against the side of the tub, eyes focused right on you.

   “But why? I’m… nothing,” you whisper, bottom lip quivering, afraid you’ll break down in tears once again. And you most likely will. You feel it deep in your bones.

   He shakes his head in response. “Sweetheart, no. Don’t say that ‘bout yourself. You’re not nothing. You’re somebody, and you matter. Whether you believe it or not, you matter.” His words are definitive, final, but his voice is as soft as cotton candy.

   “I… matter?” you ask, voice shaky from the kaleidoscope of emotions that pummels through you.

   He nods, eyes alight and glittering under the bright bathroom lights, a soft smile curled on his lips. “Do you know what I saw when you were standin’ in the middle of that room tonight? I saw a young woman that was worth saving. I saw a light deep inside those pretty eyes of yours that was jus’ screamin’ for someone to hear you. I heard you. And I wasn’t gonna jus’ leave you there to be preyed on by those starvin’ wolves. So I got you out.”

   You’re breathless, lips parted in awe. “But—but I…”

   “Look. You may not be fine tomorrow or next week, but someday—someday you will be. And I’ll try my damn near hardest to make sure you are. And if you’ll let me, I’ll see that you’re kept safe. Whether you choose to leave next week or next month or in a year. I promise I’ll do what I can to make sure you feel safe and that you can learn to thrive in life again. Trust me when I say you will get there. Jus’ gotta take it one step at a time. That’s all you can do. One day at a time.”

   Tears pool in your eyes, soaking them up like the promise of his words. I’ll keep you safe. He wants you to stay, to heal, to thrive. He’s trying to help you, and you just don’t know what you did to deserve his help, but you’re eternally grateful. And even though you’re scared, maybe you don’t have to be scared of him.

   After he puts away the gauze and the bathroom supplies he used to clean your hand with, he lets you get settled into bed. But before he walks out, he raps his knuckles on the doorway and clears his throat. “My room is jus’ across the hall if you need anything. I’ll be up, so don’t hesitate if you need something.”

   You nod your head, pulling the fluffy comforter up to your chin, too tired to give him a smile.

   He tilts his head and starts heading out the door, but before he can turn the doorknob all the way, you call out. “Joel?”

   “Hmm?” he hums, turning his head, directing his full attention your way.

   “Thank you,” you whisper, your eyes telling him everything that your words can’t.

   He curls his lips into a half smile and nods. “Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” And when he walks out and closes the door, you hear him say, “Sleep tight.”

   You want to know more about how he found Sarah, what he meant when he said he’s helped other girls before, how he found you in the first place. But you’re tired. You’re so fucking drained. Maybe tomorrow you’ll find the strength to pull yourself together and ask but not tonight. Tonight you just want a full night’s sleep. Something you haven’t had since you were taken. So you close your eyes, focus on the soft patter of rain on the window, put all your anxious thoughts to the side and drift into the dark depths of a sea of blackness. 

   And then you sleep.

   Hot pain shoots through your wrists like a jagged knife splitting you open, painting you scarlet. Dirty fingernails shred your skin, clawing you until you taste blood in the back of your throat. You can’t speak, can only silently scream. A muted cry for help that no one else can hear but you. Chains fasten to your ankles, pulling your legs apart, grimy men surrounding you, suffocating you until you seep into the the blackest pit of despair. 

   Trapped. You’re held captive against your will, your body on full display, eyes wide with fright every time they snake their filthy hands around your throat, hot breath fanning against your core until you scream bloody murder over and over again. 

   But no one comes; no one saves you from this pit of hell. 

   Dead. You feel dead, and they just keep bringing you back from the grave with every touch they steal. 

   You thrash against the sheets, screaming for help, tears staining the brand new comforter, but you’re still trapped in the horrific nightmare with the demons of your past torturing you way beyond the point of pain.

   “No, no, no! Get off!” you cry as you feel a body dip into the side of the bed, drastically trying to escape what’s to come. “Stop, stop!”

   A voice. Deep, intense, wrecked sounds in your fuzzy mind, trying to grasp you out of your nightmare.

   “Wake up. Wake up.” It’s muddled, almost unrecognizable. But it’s insistent, a loud gong that spirals into your racing mind.

   “No, no, let go!” you mewl, twisting violently in the sheets when you feel the mattress dip down further, spiraling your thoughts further.

   “Sweetheart, wake up. Please. You have to wake up!” He shouts, stirring you from your nightmare, but the men reach for you, dragging you back under the thrashing waves, but you extend your arm, fighting the tossing sea, battling the teeth that gnash at you. 

   “Stop, let go!” Your flesh stings as they continue to tear you apart, dragging you down down down until that sweet Southern drawl that sounds like honey resonates throughout your mind, and the fog starts to clear just a little. 

   “It’s me, I’m right here. Open your eyes, please!” Deep. That thick baritone voice crashes through your mind, pulling you away from all the insufferable noises.

   Your eyes snap open, realizing you’re pounding your fists into his broad chest, barely making a dent because he’s that strong. And then your anxiety races, building horrific hallucinations in your mind. And you just keep throwing everything you have at Joel, tears spilling down your cheeks, your t-shirt drenched in a cold sweat. 

   “The men… They—they…” You choke out a sob, continuously throwing your arms against his chest, taking everything you have bottled up inside you and spilling it all over Joel, showing just how bloodied and bruised you are from the traumatic events. 

   The stage, the men, Angela, the blood, the torture, the misery, the deaths, the excruciating pain of it all. It’s too fucking much, and you just want to die. Maybe then you’ll be at peace, away from the weight of everything you’ve kept resting on your shoulders. Like a rock weighing down on your chest, crushing you till you’re nothing but dust. You feel like dust. Faded, dirty, and useless.

   “S’alright, sweetheart. It was jus’ a nightmare. You’re safe,” he soothes, his calming voice bubbling up and taking some of the anxiety off your weighted chest. 

   “But it was real…” you choke out, your vision blurring with the salty water that forms in your eyes. 

   A tear slips free, crashing down to his hand, smothering it in cold, icy liquid. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even back away. He just stays sitting next to you, careful not to touch you or reach for you. He’s just… there. And somehow there’s comfort in that. 

   He stares at you like a lost puppy, chocolate eyes melting, tears filling his own concerned eyes. And you keep hitting him, your hands growing tired from the balled up fists punching against his chest. And he just sits there and takes it, like it doesn’t bother him one bit.

   “Let it out. Give me your pain. I can take it, sweetheart. You jus’ take it out on me. As long as you need. You want a punchin’ bag then let me be that for you. Whatever helps, you jus’ go on and let go,” he says softly, brows threaded together, big doe eyes consumed in pain. It’s like he’s as wrecked as you are, and that makes you cry even harder. 

   “Joel…” you break, dropping your tired arms to the bed, curling your fingers into the soft comforter, trying to lose yourself in the soft rain that pelts the back of the window. 

   You’re so tired and drained and ruined. They ruined you, and you hate every single one of them for taking away everything. Your dignity, your pride, your body, your life, your mind. They took everything.

   “I know, sweet girl. I know. Shhh. S’alright. I’m right here. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here,” he whispers, his woodsy scent grounding you back to earth, calming you down just enough to focus on how soft his eyes are.

   Soft. Just like velvet. He’s so soft.

   He just sits there patiently, waiting for your cries to die down, waiting to know you’re okay. But you’re not okay; you never will be okay. You’re just a tree in a sea of thousands, but your branches are withered, leaves falling, and maybe you’ll never bloom again. 

   You focus on his soft brown eyes, the light tap of raindrops, your erratic breathing slowing to a normal pace. You’re so tired. Tired of fighting the panic attacks, the flashbacks, the pain.

   You’re just… tired.

   “You gonna be alright, sweetheart? Think you can get back to sleep?” he asks thoughtfully, his voice warm like a fresh cup of coffee, his scent permeating around the room, keeping you from spiraling again. 

   You take a deep breath and nod, pulling the comforter under your chin, trying to control the chill that runs down your spine. “I think so,” you say slowly, your voice still a little shaky.

   He tilts his head and scratches the back of his neck, a tight-lipped smile forming over his lips. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to sleep then. You come knock on my door if you need me.”

   When he pushes off your bed and pads over to the open door, he calls out and says, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

   Panic consumes your mind just thinking of being alone again with your nightmares, your body trembling underneath the warm sheets. And before you know what you’re thinking, you stop Joel in his tracks. “Joel?”

   And just like before, he turns and arches a brow, questions reeling in his calm brown eyes. “Hmm?”

   “Can you… would you mind staying with me? I just… I really don’t want to be alone.” Your voice is shaky and nerves pull through your body, but for some reason his presence just gives off that impression of safety. 

   You don’t trust him yet, not really. But he’s got the softest aura swirling around him, and you just know he won’t hurt you. He’s already proved that.  

   You’re safe…

   He smiles, running a hand through his thick curls, his bicep flexing under the weight of the white t-shirt, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. You might’ve thought he was handsome under different circumstances, if your brain wasn’t ruined from trauma, but the only thing that seems to capture your attention is his soft brown eyes. The only kind ones that were in that auction room tonight. 

   “‘Course I will, sweetheart. Whatever makes you feel safe,” he says, walking over and sinking down into the champagne colored saucer chair by the open door, eyes locked on you. 

   You mold yourself to the cool mattress, the sheets wrapping loosely around your legs. You stare at him for a couple of minutes, using his woody scent to calm you down. He reminds you of Washington, of your favorite pine trees. He smells like home, when you had one. Tears line your lids, but you close your eyes and get lost in the rain, until your breathing is shallow and slow. And then you’re out like a light.

   He keeps his eyes fixed on you, watching for any signs that you may be in distress. Every whimper and strangle against the sheets makes him jump up, ready to take you from your vicious nightmares, but they don’t come. Not like the one that had you screaming bloody murder, tears staining your pretty eyes. 

   Scared. You’re so very scared, fragile. Just like the glass that ripped you open, staining his white button-up crimson. He hates that that’s how they made you feel. Afraid of men, to be broken again. They took it all from you and he fucking hates them for it. 

   They hurt you, ruined you. It makes him sick to his stomach, makes him want to hunt down every single man who put their filthy hands on your sacred body. He’d chop their hands off so they could never touch you again, take a gun and end their pathetic lives. That’s what he did with Sarah’s kidnappers, when he found out who took his precious daughter. And he’d do it for you too. In fact, he’d search the whole goddamn map to wring the necks of any man who even thought of putting their filthy paws on you.

   He’s not against violence, not when he spends half his time working to take down auctioneers and human traffickers. And the blonde man that tried to violate you tonight would be the first to go. That one he’ll take down himself. 

   He stays up the entire night, never letting his eyes close, afraid you’d start drowning again. But he won’t let you slip beneath the rocky waves; he’ll keep your head above water, pull you out, do his very best to make you feel safe.

   Safe. You’re safe here with him. And even if you don’t trust him yet, you will. He’ll make sure of it. He saw the absolute terror in your eyes on that stage, and he just couldn’t leave you with the venomous snakes in that house. You have a long road ahead of healing, but he’ll be there to help you through it. 

   A beautiful girl like you deserves a second chance at life, and he’ll give it to you. Pretty flowers don’t deserve to wilt. They deserve to thrive. 

   And you will. 

Tagging those who seemed interested 🩷 @joelsgreys @amyispxnk @whxtedreams @clawdee @jellybeanxc

@lotusbxtch @thebeldroramscal @laurrrra @sawymredfox @sanarsi

@christinamadsen @missannwinchester @aurorawritestoescape @evolnoomym @littlevenicebitch69

@milla-frenchy @magpiepills @604to647

[zeroclockk]

—⋆˙⟡ Guilty

——— ⋆˙⟡

Jungkook barely spends any time with you lately, but tonight is dinner night. I put all the effort into making his dinner, only to end up on the sofa watching TV.

Pair: jjk x fem reader, idol, absent boyfriend, fluff

Word count: 1,4k || oneshot

Nini’s library

——————————————————————₊˚⊹♡

He’s always busy, so damn busy. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother coming back to the apartment, figures it’s too late and just heads to his own place. He doesn’t want to be so busy, he doesn’t want to keep me a secret. but he has to…

Tonight, he promised me, though. Tonight we’d have dinner. So, it’s ready; his favorite pizza. The table is set, a candle lit. I put everything into this, trying my absolute best.

I made the pizza from scratch. the dough, the sauce, everything. It took me all day, but I wanted to do something special. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, and it feels like ages. All I want is a romantic night with him. I even cut the pepperonis into little hearts and set it on the table with a bottle of wine.

I dressed for the occasion, too. hair and makeup neatly done, a white fitted dress with lace and spaghetti straps. Paired with white socks, hidden beneath. Jazz music playing softly in the background, it’s all perfect.

I’d thought about baking cookies too, but that seemed like a little too much. So instead, I bought sweet corn ice cream, knowing he’d like it just as much.

He was supposed to be here by 6:30, but I figured with traffic he might be a little late. But eventually, the clock strikes 8 p.m. Can being an hour and a half late still be justified?

I take the bottle of red wine —along with a glass— and move to the couch, nearly downing the whole bottle while watching some random TV show. I don’t even notice when I drift off to sleep, half-drunken from all the wine.

I don’t notice it when he finally unlocks the front door, sighing as he stands in the doorway. He looks over, seeing me sprawled on the sofa, cheek resting on my arm. The bottle of wine sits on the coffee table, the empty glass still loosely tangled between my fingers.

The food remains untouched on the table, and the candle has burned itself out. He feels so guilty.

He walks over to the couch and crouches down in front of me, gently taking the wine glass from my fingers and placing it beside the nearly empty bottle.

“Hi, baby,” he says, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.

My eyes flutter open slowly.

“Jungkook? W-what time is it?”

He lets out another sigh. “It’s… it’s 1:20 a.m.”

I sit up, knees to his chest, head down, trying my best not to tear up.

“You’re late.” I avoid his face, not wanting to look at him and feel sadder.

“I know, I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he says, stroking my hair, his voice low and apologetic.

“You were with Jimin, weren’t you?”

“What? How’d you know?”

“C’mon, Koo… I can smell the whiskey on you.”

I stand up from the sofa and walk to the kitchen table, slowly putting the unused dishes back in the cabinets.

He follows behind me, keeping just a little distance.

“You made this?” he asks, looking at the pizza on the table.

I rest my hands on the counter and sigh. “Yeah… I, uhm, I spent all day making the dough and the sauce, and I—” My voice trails off, tears filling my eyes.

He steps behind me, gently pulling my arm and wrapping me in his. He kisses the top of my head, whispering apologies.

“I’m so sorry, baby…”

I can’t hold back my tears any longer and start sobbing softly into his chest.

“I miss you. I miss my boyfriend.”

Even though he knows it’s his fault, his heart aches with guilt. He just holds me, letting me cry out my frustrations.

“How can I make it up to you, baby?”

“I just want a boyfriend who’s here. Someone who can hold me at night, who I can have dinner with, who makes me feel loved.”

I still don’t look at his face, I know my heart would forgive him for anything if I did.

“I shouldn’t have gone with Jimin, baby. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I chose to go,” he says.

“It’s not just this, Koo. I haven’t seen you in two weeks, and on the night we planned a date, you just didn’t show up.” I pause, still not looking at him.

“I feel silly. I made you dinner, put on this silly outfit, and…” My sentence breaks into a sob, trying my best to keep it together.

“You look gorgeous, baby. It’s not silly. I’m an idiot for not showing up. I’ll never do it again. I’ll never be late again, I promise.”

“I love you…” I whisper against his chest. I’ve never said that to him before, and it hurts to admit it now.

He lifts my chin, and for the first time tonight, my eyes meet his. His big, brown, boba eyes staring back at me.

“You really mean that?”

I bury my head back into his chest, sobbing.

“I love you too, baby, so much.”

It hurts to hear, but I also feel a sense relief. How can you love someone and treat them like this?

“I want to feel like you do. I want to feel like I’m your number one.”

He cups my cheek, gently lifting my face to his.

“Baby, I’ll make that happen. I’m going to make you feel like the most spoiled girlfriend alive. There won’t be a moment in your day when you don’t know how much I’m obsessed with you. I’ll treat you the way I should’ve all along.”

I roll my eyes, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “Gosh, I hate you.”

He chuckles, giving me a soft kiss, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. I melt into the kiss. I know I’m a fool for choosing him again and again, but maybe this time he’ll really change. He’s never made such a promise and not done it, besides not showing up. My heart wouldn’t survive moving on from him, and I think he knows that, too.

“C’mon,” he says, guiding me to a chair at the table. He reheats the pizza in the microwave and lights a new candle. The wax from the first one has pooled on the table; he’ll have to clean that up for me.

He places the pizza back on the table and sits across from me, taking a slice.

“It’s delicious, baby. The best pizza I’ve ever had.”

With barely any appetite left, I take a bite. It’s good, I guess. I’m not one to compliment my own food, but he’s enjoying it, and that’s all that matters to me.

His hair is fluffy, and he’s dressed comfortably in a black shirt and jeans. My eyes are stuck on him, unable to focus on anything else, he looks so beautiful. It’s hard to believe he’s my boyfriend, sometimes it feels like he’s really not.

“I’ll talk to the agency tomorrow.” He then says.

“Huh? What?” I snap out of my thoughts.

“I’ll talk to the agency tomorrow,” he repeats. I don’t understand why, and he seems to catch onto my confusion.

“I can see it on your face… You want people to know, right?”

“You mean going public?” It’s what I’ve dreamt of, but I never thought he’d take it seriously. Some other idols date publicly, but I never thought he’d be one of those.

“Yeah. I mean, it has to happen sometime, right? I don’t think people would like it if I suddenly showed up married one day.”

“Married?!”

“What? You’re not dating me for that?”

I’m a stuttering mess, honestly. As a hopeless romantic, of course I dream of marriage. But right now, I don’t know what to say—it’s all happening too fast.

“I love you, baby, more than anything. I can’t picture my future without you. I’ll talk to the agency tomorrow about going public, slowly.”

He walks over to my side of the table, with half of the pizza left. He leans over, kissing me gently on the forehead.

“You look gorgeous, baby. I’m sorry I ruined tonight,” he whispers, pulling me for another kiss.

I don’t know what I’d do without him.