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otakuworks · 2 years ago

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❛ 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑. reborn au

feat. Zhongli x Reincarnated!GN!Reader | PART II | wc. 5.4K

Based on 'See You In My 19th Life' webtoon | overview. This Webtoon follows the story of a woman who somehow can remember all her past lives.

sum. You were running too fast in life, so fast that no one could catch up, not even Morax who left you to fend off with your curse. Just when you thought you'll slip and fall, a certain consultant came behind and caught you.

cw. mentions of extreme emotion breakdown. cttro 双niarss on Twitter for the art below.

main m.list genshin m.mlist

PART I < PART II

THEME SONG; Slump by Stray Kids (English Version)

There are five stages of grief; Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. All in order.

In your case, it was the other way around. You have long accepted Morax will lay on his deathbed one day, every living thing will eventually cease to exist, mortal and immortal alike

You, out of all people know the in-depth concept of death.

And yet, no amount of tutelage or experience can prepare you for the real thing.

Now you understood what Morax felt when you died.

Your chest feels raw like there's a sudden gash wound that has manifested in your heart. It was painful, too painful that you wouldn't wish it upon anyone, even on your worst enemy.

Scratch that. It's not just pain. It feels something more destructive, demanding and insatiable, crueler than sorrow. Not even death can appease this feeling.

It was agony.

Impale your abdomen with a spear hundred times. Sever your limbs every lifetime. Suffer for all eternity hiding behind Morax and watch him love with someone else over and over again— you'd take them all and say thank you.

You'd be grateful and endure each of them just to trade whatever horrible feeling that's tearing you apart.

Confusion, terror and fright blanketed your mind as you slumped on the floorboards, desperately gasping for breath.

The acrid smell of snarling lightning crackles in the stale midnight air, sharp enough to singe every nerve of your body, rendering you cowering in overwhelming emotions— agony, pain and grief.

Inazuma was bustling with the news of the Geo Archon passing away recently. You could only imagine how Liyue is digesting the cruel twists of events.

The news spreads fast enough for foreign people to sympathize to Liyue citizens, some even offered prayers to the Raiden Shogun, some pay their respects by wishing the late Archon to rest in peace, some never bothered to care.

But none of them mourned in the confinements of their four walls as you did, the Celestia above knows the quiet sobs that wrecked the very core of your existence. The horrors of every shitty lives you went through cannot be compared to this day.

Rex Lapis, who is— was widely known for many names, mostly as the Geo Archon, God of War, God of Contracts, Former Prime Adepti, the Stonebreaker, God of History is now reduced by dust with his people carrying the legacy he has passed on.

To you, all this time, he's still... Morax the petulant child who leans on you for comfort, who politely demands you to sing a lullaby as kids. You're already sold to the idea no one would ever believe you if you told them what embodiment of mischief he was in the ancient times, the exact opposite of the Archon they knew about.

Nostalgia hits you in particular days you can't find traces of the young Morax, but Pride would caress your heart every achievement he succeeds as you watch the people love him.

Similar to a lone planet, you desperately search for a star to orbit around, to give you a source of energy and strength. Once you find one, it'll be difficult to rearrange your position after you have settled down, you're attached until the star loses its amber glow.

And now the star is gone. Gone with the cosmos after a supernova.

Destroying the neighboring planets, including you.

You were the closest in its orbit, you're the one who had to endure the scorching flames morphing you into ashes until you're reduced into cosmos particles for no one to remember.

Morax left you to fend off with your curse and face adversities alone.

Mortals would succumb to these adversities and would choose to sever their connection to the living to escape from everything. You've seen a handful of them and can't ever get enough of it.

If there's anything you long to have other than having Morax beside you is a swift escape.

Every mortal is capable of such thing, you are too, but it's pointless if the pain will cling to you in your next life. It's fruitless to cry when you know every affliction won't be forgotten even if you tried.

Just why?! Why do I have this perpetual curse of reincarnation? I abhor you, Celestia! Not only you cursed me, you even took away Morax from this land!

You shake your head as the anger surge took over your sanity. You thought you can just go live your merry life, unbeknownst how dependent you were to Morax.

Your will to live is solely operated by the fact you have someone you want to protect. But now he's gone? What's the back up plan? Clearly you can't just follow him in his death knowing you can die, but your memories will remain with you.

Was it out of selfishness to protect him to have someone accompany your lonely soul? Because he's the only one who actually remembers the real you?

Rain began to pour from the desolute atmosphere as you heard disembodied voices theorizing Morax's death. The muffled thundering of the storm only growing louder, reminding you of today's unsavory news. How convenient, the sky is sympathizing.

No, make it stop! I don't want fo hear any of it! Morax is dead, that's how nature works. I'm griefing because it hurts, not because I have nothing to live for.

You lived in that illusion for minutes until. . .

*drip* *drip*

. . . the dam broke.

Hot tears streamed down your face, and you squeezed your eyelids shut in the hope the pain would stop, just numbing it would be fine too. Your choppy breathing and watery eyes remained for quite some time, and sat there unmoving.

There's no see you later's anymore, for Morax has left you. Today has marked your first Goodbye to him.

For an indiscernible amount of time, there was only a black void and it could have been as if you didn’t exist and you had never existed.

And then you felt each of your cells that had been ripped apart within seconds be sewed back together just as quickly, and your eyes met nothing but a blinding white light.

Have I reborn again? You're not aware which is which anymore. You lift your numb hand and reality crashed over your head, you haven't died out of grief, yet.

Your mind is in havoc, you don't know what you want, not that you have any choice.

Dying won't help you escape, forgetting is not an option, loving. . . can't heal an open wound.

No words can equate the absolute devastation you feel.

❖ ── ✦ ── 『 6000 YRS AGO 』 ── ✦ ── ❖

This is stupid. Utterly ridiculous!

What kind of mortal would go in the mines in the middle of the night where monsters lurk in the shadows to hunt for preys? Yeah, that's a question he would like for you to answer!

He flies twice the speed he usually exerts, his mind running rampant of all worst possible scenarios.

He doesn't know what compelled you to do such ridiculous act, but all he knows is he has get to you before any monsters do.

Landing unceremoniously, he gulps at the sight before him. He was never a fan of darkness, it never fails to instill fear in him, the fear of the unknown.

The only time he feels comfortable in the night is whenever you're around him. You don't fear the night, and it somehow influenced him in a way that there's nothing that should be afraid of as long as you're with him— as his human shield.

Young Morax finds himself slowly withdrawing, the fear overpowering his will to come and save you.

"Morax? What are you doing out here?" Saved by the gracious voice of yours, young Morax nearly broke his neck with how fast he looked at your direction.

Your face is contorted out of concern for him, he's sweating profusely and his breathing is ragged.

Just seeing you all in one piece with no signs of injuries made hin slumped on the ground, sighing in relief.

You were at his side seconds later, subconsciously caressing his cheeks. Celestia above! He's shaking like a leaf!

"It's alright, let's get you out of here." Your soothing voice appeased his troubled mind as you helped him get back on his feet. He clutches the fabric of your shirt and wordlessly launches himself on you, arms and tiny tail entrapping you in an embrace.

You waste no second reciprocating the gesture, you've known him for months to be comfortable with physical sentiments. Though you can't say the same to him as he would always flinch away when you initiate it, but has no problem when he does it.

And it seems like he needs your comfort to even give a damn.

"Whatever it is, it can't hurt you now okay?"

From that angle, he peered from below you as if confirming the validity of your words, amber eyes looking like someone has kicked an innocent puppy, it's no wonder you have a soft spot for him.

Both of you strayed away from the caves leading to mines, "I-I thought you l-left me." He meekly mumbled, almost incoherent.

That baffles you as he continues, "I overheard f-from your village that m-monsters are increasing in the area and you're probably..."

"Shh... I'm here now, aren't I? I'm sorry you have to hear that, I can assure you I haven't encountered any marauding monsters during my little excursion." You sighed, guilt pooling your conscience.

He sniffled, "So, you're not going to leave me?"

"Can I even go anywhere when you have a sharp sense of smell?"

"I'm a dragon, not a wolf." He whined, though you could still see the glint of dubious in his eyes, "Can I trust your word?"

Words never served him better than actions, you ought to show him you honor your word by affirming it through gestures.

Smiling, you offered your hand to him.

"How about you hold my hand on our way home? Will that help?" He stares at you and literally contemplated before he relented.

It's warm, much similar to your hug, but like a form of hug that has been reduced to a smaller fraction. It's still a paragon of comfort.

Surely enough, it did help his mind to be at ease. If you ever feel like he's cutting off your circulation, he is cutting your circulation by intertwining your fingers as if trying to tangle it so it won't loose.

"I'm sorry, you must think I'm stupid for cowering away just because of some stupid dark cave." He lowered his head in shame.

He's a Dragon who has greater strength than most beings, and yet he lets his fear consume him as if they can hurt him like how—

"Nonsense! Don't ever think like that or I will personally be the reason why you should fear humans." As stern as you sound, your eyes tell a different story.

Young Morax deduced this as concern, which resulted a flustered and heartwarming reaction from the boy. You were worried for him.

It shouldn't be something he's supposed to feel happy about, but your fretful intentions warranted warmth and security in his mind.

"I didn't know how oddly. . . pleasant it is to hold hands." He mused, and you responded with an amused giggle, "Here I thought only couples do this stuff, but it's really reassuring."

"It does, doesn't it? Sometimes the solution to your conflicts is in a form of validation."

Too wise for a kid, he inwardly complained, ". . .Meaning?"

You hold his other hand and stood to face him with a sequined smile, "No matter how minuscule or massive your fears are, you'll still find comfort when someone validates your feelings; to let you know that they care. It may not be the solution in some cases, but it's better than being alone in times of your vulnerability."

You leaned slightly closer, "Can I ask you a favor?" Your gaze pierced right through his soul and he can only nod absently which resulted for you to grin.

"If you see someone, friend and stranger even enemies, looking so vulnerable that they actually might cry. . ." You lifted your intertwined hands with his, ". . .Make them feel significant."

A cold midnight wind whisked past the both of you, your eyes shone brighter than jewels and stars alike as you spoke those words that made a huge impact in his life.

". . .Even if my enemies are about to cry because I'm about to end their miserable lives?"

What a way to ruin the moment.

"You know what I mean, Mora." You deadpan, preparing to let go of his hand, but his grip is much stronger and it only tightens once he feels you're trying to detach.

"I'm afraid you have to elaborate further, Y/N. And please, I only have two syllables in my name. What's so hard in including the X?" In contrast to his words, he quite enjoys hearing his nickname.

"The X is not even a syllable, Mora."

That time, young Morax found peace.

He's always on the hunt for something new, something glimmering, something incredible, something undiscovered and something bedazzling. That's how his childlike brain thinks and he seizes anything outwardly beautiful.

But he never knew how amazing it was to see something— or rather, to see someone's beauty on the inside.

Perhaps that's what draws him to you, because of your voice, patience and understanding. He would never admit it though

To him, you're beautiful inside and out, almost perfect, even your flaws are easy to love.

He can't deny he wasted a few immortal years just mourning your death, you'd probably scold him.

Within those years, he's only reliving the memories and wise words you have with him. He wanted to come out as a better person after your death, take it as an honour of your passing.

You made him for what he is.

If he hadn't met you he'd still be the intolerable, impatient and disrespectful person as he grows up.

He'd still fear the unknown, never having the courage to take risks and accept whatever outcomes.

Everything he does always brings him back to you, his actions always correlates to something that's relevant about you. It had always been you.

He prays the Celestia to let you know you will always be apart of his person. Yes, you died, but every lingering piece of you still remains intact in the deep recesses of his mind.

He has moved on, but you remain the person he loved the most. Not even the sands of time has the capability to change that.

"How disastrous. People can be really simple-minded." Morax rubbed both of his temples once he heard the speculation of him and Guizhong plausible relationship.

"I apologize on their behalf, it never crossed my mind they'll be quick to make assumptions." The fair Goddess bowed in shame.

"You have done nothing wrong to spark such rumors, Guizhong. If anything, it is I who should seek forgiveness for I have tied you down with such unpleasant gossips."

She meekly chuckles, "If we're going to paint ourselves as the culprit then we might as well work together to quell the rumors."

His perfectly lined eyebrows knitted, which didn't go unnoticed by Guizhong, "What seems to be troubling your mind?"

A few seconds ticked by before he let out a whisper that only Barbatos can only hear thanks to his wind. For Guizhong who has keen sense of hearing, "If Y/N was here I'll gear up for another war just to extinguish this spreading rumors." She stifled a laugh.

Oh, she knows alright. She knows you. She knows the person who captivated Morax's heart, it's all about he talks to her in their leisure time and you're not a secret between their comrades.

Most people would find it dull to listen about someone's life unless it held any merit to pass onto the other mouth, she would too. But Morax describes you like a protagonist of a fairy tale, like some mythical being, caught between two worlds, a miracle of existence that racked his existence— which makes you an interesting person

She was so eager to meet you, it was rather unfortunate that you've already passed on uncountable years ago.

"Where are you going?" She inquired as the Geo Archon whisk passed her, "Out to visit an old friend. I won't be returning until tomorrow dawn."

She sighed, a corresponding smile soon follows as she took over his job for the meantime.

Morax walked through the barren areas in Mt. Tianheng, it became part of his leisure activities during the day when his mind needs to detach itself from reality and let himself be swayed by the memories he tucked in the deep recesses of his mind.

Memories of his late comrades who perished in the horrors of war and the most painful but nostalgic one; Y/N.

He ruefully sighed at the thought of you. Even in death, you have full grasp of his heart and shroud his head with your image.

Filtered beams of light accented the spaces between the ancient trees that twisted like spires from the undergrowth. Golden leaves littered the forest floor as Morax appraised the trail of mycelium path, one leading to a particular tree.

His expression remains unchanging, at least that's what he thought, any stranger sees him they'll stop to ponder what made this godly man smile so fondly.

A single maple leaf flow with the breeze, swaying in inconsistent direction until it falls in his gloved hand. The rich color of autumn and texture brings him back in his youthful days.

[ cttro papercider on Twitter ]

"Ah! All I do is reminisce to pass time." He muttered to himself as he let the leaf get carried away by the zither winds once again.

"It certainly has been awhile, Y/N. I was but a petulant child since I've visited you. I now stand here as the Geo Archon." It has been a habit to come back to this specific tree and treats it as his home.

It's a sacred place he's closely attached to, he can perfectly picture his young self failing to spy on you. He grimaced at the memory when he was caught in the act.

"I still have no idea why you let me trail your shadows, you weren't least afraid that I'm a dragon. You told me you're fascinated, but. . . was that the only reason?"

Only the breeze answered for him with nothing, "If you hadn't allowed me to do so I do not know what kind of person I would be as of today." He steps closer and pulled off his hood.

He let the silence hang for minutes, maybe even hours. Just standing there as he appreciates what nature has to offer in the place where his story began with you.

"Are you proud of me? My comrades claimed they were more than proud to stand alongside with me, but I doubt the veracity of their words when I led them to their demise. Is it that prideful to have me as a friend when I bring nothing but misfortune?"

He finally sat down between the roots of the tree, relishing the blissful comfort as the sunlight accentuates his godly features.

"I met a boy who was being manipulated by an evil god who only desires power and selfish gains." He began.

"He was a fierce warrior, strong and capable, the manipulation only fuels him to be at his strongest form. I was thinking of eradicating him, but his eyes already looked so dead. It reminded me of. . ."

He holds his tongue and shuts his eyes as he's in pain, "It would be one of my greatest regrets if I had impaled my spear into him."

"I thought of you that time. Hadn't it been to my promise to you, I wouldn't have gained a new ally. Xiao is his name."

The wind blew stronger, ". . . I forgot you can summon him just by calling out his name." He chuckles to himself.

Green statics cracked into the air and quickly revealed a masked man with his polearm readied for any danger.

"Settle down now. I apologize, your name slipped in my mouth." The young Yaksha visibly looked confused even under the layers of his mask.

"I was narrating a story to my old friend Y/N."

Guizhong couldn't have been more right.

By the end of the day, Xiao now knows every detail there is to know about the person called Y/N. It's what Morax ever talk to him.

"Mr. Zhongli is in a very elated mood ever since you told him Archon knows what, Traveler." Hu Tao, the Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor finds the situation quite absurd to look at, but never impossible. His mood just feels out of place.

Who looks at mournful families with an eccentric smile on their face as they consult them about their loved one's death?

"Why does Paimon feel like you're pointing finger at the traveler?" She puts her tiny hands on tiny her hips like a mother hen.

The Traveler let out a nervous laugh, "I wonder what exactly brought him in such high spirit with my words."

"Ooh... Paimon thinks it's about Y/N. Isn't it obvious by now?" Hu Tao furrowed her eyebrows, "Y/N? You mean the Adventurer?" Both heads snapped at her direction, "You know them?"

She reluctantly shrugged, "Only at acquaintance level. They showed interest in business and I taught them a few things." She smiled at the epilogue of her statement.

"If they ever come back, my hunch tells me you'd find them in Wangshu Inn, they frequented there before." She added before turning her attention to a new customer.

Zhongli, who's been eavesdropping, perked up at the claims. Perhaps he should visit Xiao tonight and totally won't inquire if he ever met you before.

Midnight falls and Zhongli bid his farewell to the traveler before heading towards the Wangshu Inn.

For some unknown reason, Zhongli could sense the foreboding feeling that's nagging his instincts as he gets closer to his desired destination, yet he doesn't stop. What's worse is that he doesn't know if it's for the good or bad.

All of a sudden, a harsh breeze blew past his face as if the winds attempting to convey a message that's only for his intuition to decipher, for him to meander.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his statue glowing bright blue, but that wasn't what caught his attention. A hand reached out to touch the stone statue.

A mop of [H/C] facing him backward bowed down in respect of the late Rex Lapis, but Zhongli could feel a much more intense feeling.

Something stirs inside him, he remembers this situation— when he watched Y/N with such fascination from above the tree, not knowing what they look like, yet they never fail to express their feelings through threaded words he finds so wondrous to hear.

In contrary to that, the person appears to be. . . forlorn. He stepped closer until he's only less than five meters away from them.

All of a sudden, he feels skittish around the person. It's as if he doesn't want to leave a bad first impression, he's suddenly self-conscious of his looks, and Zhongli never cared about his outer appearance.

Then they spoke, in a solemn voice.

"See you later, Mora. I hope you found your eternal peace."

There are times when you wish you'd forget Morax, some that you don't. But still, in the birth of new beings, you will find Morax in his next life. The prospect of being alone is a phobia you can't ever overcome unless you have Morax.

What a joke. It should've been a farewell. Your final goodbye to your old friend. Not a hopeless see you later.

It took you months to come with that mindset, only to end up saying what's the exact opposite.

It was difficult to come back in Liyue, every step adds a new pile of memory that drags you further into the depths of agony. Every where you look reminds you of the late Geo Archon. Each encouraging word in your mind gets trampled on by his image.

You consider it as an achievement to stand tall in front of his statue after his death, and a failure that you didn't get to bid your final words to him before you depart from Liyue.

You're still clinging to a nonexistent hope that you'll actually get to see him even after your death. Old habits die hard they say. It couldn't have been more relatable than now.

Sighing in disappointment, you retracted your hand from the statue and briskly turn around when you felt the disturbance behind you.

A gloved hand suspended in the air seems to be trying to reach out to you. As you raise your eyes to meet the oh-so-familiar glowing amber eyes that you grew to love. . .

You offered the stranger a faux smile, seemingly naive to the person standing in front of you with an aghast expression.

You failed to realize Morax as Zhongli just as Morax failed to realize you in your different lives.

"Hello. How may I help you?"

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Time has stopped, both hands of the clock moved counterclockwise, bringing him back to the time he first laid his eyes on you— so unsuspecting from what's about to unravel after a sweet hello.

His broadened eyes are solely fixated on you, it ingnited a feeling he couldn’t immediately identify, a sense of a certain and long-forgotten familiarity fogged his memory.

From the color of your eyes, skin and hair. The subtle furrow of your eyebrows and the upturn of your lips. The gentle facade that compelled him to indulge his curiosity towards you.

Y/N. . . Are you the Y/N the traveler was talking about?

But you bare no resemblance to the Y/N he knew, yet he can tell how it is your soul residing in the mortal's body. It is you. Your eyes aren't the ones that welcomed him as new friend. It feels different.

You're smiling while your eyes are grieving.

Your eyes failed to conceal your weeping soul and could only hope the last bits of its strength will keep it standing until someone reach a hand to put back the shattered pieces.

Behind that gleeful stare was a mountain of pain and extracting it would bring instability to the person who would dare to climb. Yet come what may, you're always worth any risk.

He lowered his hand to shake yours, his lips upturned into an enigmatic smile.

Your heart went erratic and the usually dormant butterflies imploded in your stomach. You haven't felt like a teenager since. . .

You felt your breath hitch in your throat when suddenly, with a mere handful of strides, the beautiful man was standing right in front of you, his amber eyes searching your face intently, trying to find whatever it was he was seeking.

"My name is Zhongli, I'm a consultant in Wangsheng Funeral Parlor." Your [E/C] eyes blinked surreptitiously before accepting it. What a beautiful name, you thought almost immediately.

Under normal circumstances you would've strictly reprimanded the man with his incongruous advances, but you felt something else, something so powerful it overshadowed your senses.

It was a need, an unyielding need to be close to him.

Rather than pushing him away, something inside you stirs awake and begin to implore to coalesce with his existence.

"I'm Y/N L/N, an adventurer."

So it is really you.

He briefly looks down to their intwined hands.

For countless nights, the image of your bloodied hand reaching out to him as you take your last breath plagued his every dream. The tender, soft hands that will no longer bring him comfort. The hand of the person whom he loved so dearly, whom he failed to protect against the wicked ways of the world.

The intense urge to hide you away from the prying eyes that shared similarities to his kept his mind in shambles.

Which what led him to mumble to you what his thoughts are repeating like a mantra.

When he spoke the promise he'll show you what's up at the highest altitude his wings could go, he was mostly speaking out of his selfish desire to hold onto your hand and fly you away to the farthest place no living creatures have ever stumbled upon.

He had to learn it the hard way; that the greater you wish for something, the crueler fate can be. Maybe if he hadn't been so greedy you could've live your mortal life.

Now that you are standing in front of him, shaking your hand, he can amend his mistake by straying far away from you before he repeats history itself, before he could inflict pain on you again.

And yet, looking at you attempting to shoulder the boulders of life is what all it takes for all the wisdom he garnered for centuries to be thrown out the window.

He can't imagine himself distancing from you when you're suffering and have no one comfortable enough to share your burdens with, no one to validate your feelings, no one to embrace you in your vulnerable times.

You taught him to be compassionate, to not disregard emotions, and he's about to set that in motion. You were there when he needed you the most, offered your shoulder to vent out his feelings, it's about time to let him do what you always did for him.

It became abundantly clear he's not willing to let you go through anything alone just like he had gone through without you.

"You claim you're a consultant. Did you perhaps think I'm a potential customer?"

He let go of your hand as much as he loathes being away from your warmth for even just a second, he's still convinced you can be taken away from him at any given moment.

"Indeed, I couldn't stand idle and watch you grieve alone." He watches how you averted your eyes as if hiding the pain would appease your mind.

"I appreciate the thought. . . though, I highly doubt it'll be effective."

He mentally chuckled at the irony. He, too, was once amazed of what simple gestures can bring to a downhearted person.

"Hmm. An old friend once showed me how to console a person. Allow me to share their insights."

Your eye brows perched in curiosity, this man speaks like he's in his 50s or something, ". . .If you insist. I could use a company for now."

Morax experienced eons of desires to attain what he wishes to, though he refrains from being blinded by those greedy thoughts as he had witnessed how cruel fate can be when he once desired to have you. Will history repeat itself?

Zhongli chortles in response, but his expression soon turned nostalgic, "I may not know what adversities you're facing nor do I know who you are, but know that you're never alone."

His smile never left his face as he takes off his glove and held the palm face forward to you, he watches how your eyes glisten with unshed tears, "W-What is that supposed to convey?"

You didn't even notice how much gap he closed just to increase the proximity between the both of you. Archons! You can smell the lingering scent of Osmanthus Wine mingling with his breath!

Is he a drunkard like Venti?

Perhaps this man is drunk to comprehend his actions, perhaps he won't remember this the never next day, perhaps he has mistaken you for someone else, perhaps—

"Wherever you wish to go, I'll keep you company. I dare ask if I may hold your hand along the way, Y/N?"

Perhaps there's hope you can cling onto until your aching heart is at ease.

Your hand found its way to his, almost too desperate to not let this moment of comfort vanish. Just this once, you thought to yourself as the man smiled with absolute glee that it puts the sun in shame.

Out of reflex, your fingers laced with his, wanting nothing more than to relieve in the warmth of his hand. His expression soon turned into a priceless one as if he's in disbelief that you actually just did that, and that alone made the realization struck you harder than Raiden's lightning and fried your nerves with embarrassment.

"I-I'm so-sorry! I didn't mean to get too comfortable!"

You're a stranger to him, and you acted as if you've been a longtime friends. He must have been feeling uncomfortable, you nervously thought as you quickly tried reel back your hand in an attempt to salvage whatever budding acquaintanceship you have.

Keyword; tried.

Your action prompts him to retaliate by locking his fingers in place, keeping your hand sealed with his and shot you a reassuring smile.

"Do not fret. I'm delighted to know I somehow earned a little fraction of your trust. It's only fair to mirror the trust you gave me."

As if to spell out his point, he held up your intertwined hands just below your chin. His eyes blazed with a newfound emotion you couldn't decipher. He almost looks eager. He was gripping your hand, not too tight, but firm enough give emphasize of something.

His action wasn't fruitless as it gained a reaction from you. Your eyebrows twitched, there's something too familiar about it, but your memory refuses to give you that answer.

Instead, you could only mutter weak responses, "I-I understand, but if you feel uncomfortable in any way then don't hesitate to point out what I'm doing wrong."

Whether it was a satisfying answer he wants to hear, his emotions betrayed to even give you a brief answer and his face only lit up as he turns away from you, "You could never do anything wrong in my eyes."

Did he just say something? "What was that?"

"Nothing. Are you new in Liyue? I could give you a tour if you'd like to make you familiarize with the environment."

Your lips turned into a genuine smile, it didn't reach your ears but something tells you this man will lengthen it until you're the happiest person alive, "I'd love to, Zhongli."

As the wind blows to the East, a new chapter has began with a new retelling of their unfinished story. Until the last maple leaf falls and the oldest standing tree drought, two souls will always find their way to rekindle what has been lost.

>> PART III

─ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. @itsyourgirlria @shizunxie @elsoleil @cherlynono @slzarr @katsuissus @tartarsaucechi1de @spyanya @tikitsune @shoujishu @useless-potatho @chimsblogg @xiamuyi @lemonlimesocks @belletifeshyl @alexon-mars @multifandomvoyage @malt-rants-and-stuff @jameineliebe @angelkazusstuff @orginiallyann @eissaaaa @beezgobuzzbuzz @towos @kamukayakmonyet @atsukawolfcat @sunflowers1970 @yamtwt @avery-needs-more-fics @angstylittleb1tch @bigcandlesmolbrain @lxmine @imk1ra @fauxizs @islxisl @chihawari @bishishbored @yuuki4646 @sunsethw4 @princeabomination @alexiris @chocolateneapolitan @ayra2452008 @akaritenchi @sophiee-bush @ittosoneandoniwife @alatus2716 @almighty-raiden-shogunate

(it's my first time doing tags so pls inform me if it's not working, idk why the others are white, did I do something wrong??)

PS. if you want to get tagged for the next part or be removed then simply comment it TAGLIST is for the readers who want to be updated for my future genshin works.

─ 𝐀/𝐍. Can you all smell that? *sniff sniff* I smell a Xiao ver. of this 👀👀 Fr, I didn't expect the fic will be loved that much as I initially thought, I received many appreciative comments and messages which is what motivated me to write part 2, and possibly part 3 (just for the fluff) since this was supposed to be a series but I crossed that idea out until everyone broke my expectation. Thank you💜💙 and merry christmas everyone ❤💚

#zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli fic #zhongli angst #genshin crossover #genshin impact #genshin impact angst #genshin x reader #zhongli fluff #crossover #see you in my 19th life #webtoon #genshin impact crossover #reborn au #genshin zhongli #Spotify

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slowd1ving · 5 months ago

Text

II. RIDING HIGH IN APRIL ･ﾟ FRANCIS MOSSES

"Your usual, Mr Francis Mosses?” you repeat with the same inflection. It has to stay the same. A name to a star will not make it any more personal – it’ll remain the same cold distance away, stay the same burning core of amorphous light, in a fixed set of constellations. It has to. But you’ve overlooked the most salient point. Humans are not stars. There's a reason you stuck with this shitty diner job: routine. So, why the hell does that keep changing for you? warnings + general: amab!reader, nsfw, depression, smoking + unhealthy habits, diner au, trauma, military background (made up unit for doppelgangers) so canon divergence, obsession lowkey BTW this is also posted on ao3 so if there are any doubts about me being the author just comment on any of my fics and I assure you I'll reply on there! (but thank you to those who expressed concern it means a lot)

MISC. MASTERLIST

THAT'S LIFE MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ゜・NEXT PART

‘That’s life (that’s life) I tell you, I can’t deny it.’

It’s a different type of blue hour when it’s thirty minutes before dawn – cleaner than your smoke-filled evenings: filled with hope and a promise of sunlight, rather than a vow of everlasting sin.

Your lungs burn with the cold air. It seems like you’re drowning, but it’s not the same sensation as three years back. This time, all your cells are clamouring for oxygen; scrambling and twisting, unlike the freezing resignation beneath the rain and viscera.

You’re dressed casually: sweats and a shirt that’s tighter than your clinical kitchen jacket. Like a never ending hug, it tightly clasps the muscle forced upon you by the Execution programme. You should feel cold. You are cold, but the surge and flush in adrenaline is something that melts your stone heart and body. In your haste to leave at your colleague’s proclamation of an emergency, it seems you forgot your jacket.

Fatigue eludes you – your breathing is controlled as ever.

Let’s face it – if it weren’t for your shifting galaxy, you would’ve stayed in bed this morning.

This is all his fault.

You’re not sure what you’re doing here, having jogged to the diner getting heckled via landline by your coworker. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t have deigned to answer. After all, the day management of the place is left to your colleague, not you.

“He’s asked for you specifically.”

You can hear the satisfied grin through the landline. When you press her for more details, she hangs up on you, and you’re left seething with an almost broken cord clenched tight in your fist.

Who the hell is she talking about?

As far as you knew, the boss had gone and fucked off to somewhere in Scandinavia two years ago. Unless he’s hauled his geriatric ass back here, you sincerely doubt he’s the one requesting your presence.

But if you’re being honest, you don’t mind this sudden disruption to your schedule.

Like molasses, sleep would’ve pulled you under – sticky and sweet – for the rest of the day to escape your thoughts. That’s your daily routine: an endless struggle with your mind.

With this, at least the war in your brain has stilled. It’s a dangerous calm, one that threatens to flow out of control at the slightest ripple. The waters are growing agitated – it’s only a matter of time before you’re pulled under.

Make no mistake, you will be dragged to the depths eventually. That’s not something you, nor anyone, can prevent. Sleep cannot hope to fight it. You cannot hope to ever escape it.

Your head aches.

It’s freezing. You’re slowly becoming more frigid, and your hands are beginning to shake. It was a mistake, coming out here. You don’t know what’s caused the change.

No, you do know. You just can’t bear to keep acknowledging the catalyst behind it.

It’s not the run that’s winded you – your breath stops ragged as you fumble in your pockets for the Old Gold that should be there. That small, plastic-wrapped carton should be there, but your pockets are sorely empty.

Shit, shit.

Your ears are ringing. Just like the death knell ringing for your friends and subordinates, it keeps ringing and ringing and tolling and tolling. Those reverberations permeated through sinew, through flesh and vessel – only contributing to the staggering tremors attacking your palms.

That alizarin blue is fading from your vision, and there’s nothing you can do.

Numbness spreads awful quick through your extremities after all; it hurtles whip-fast through your spine, pressing you against icy, rough brick.

“Ha,” your breath comes in the form of hoarse, faint heaving.

You’re not sure what comes next. Once the star begins exploding, it’s eventually reduced to nothingness. It’s theorised that even its very atoms disintegrate eventually.

What’s going on?

Why aren’t you disappearing like those husks of particles?

You– you’re an empty shell.

What’s that infernal fire spreading through your arms?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper with the finality of resignation. You’re not falling anymore. You give up.

“Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

He was nowhere mere moments ago – there was nothing but empty void on all sides. Not a star, not even a singular atom to initiate collision and the chain of energy. He’d been nowhere, but now he’s everywhere.

That hushed cadence. Those warm palms. That tired look in his eyes, softening as you met his gaze.

“You okay there?”

Mr Francis Mosses is closer to you than he’d ever been. Each callous on his hands you can feel pressed through your thin shirt, they burn against the permafrost of your skin.

You’re too close. Those soot-black eyelashes – you can count them individually at this proximity. This distance is infinitesimal; faint traces of his cologne invade your senses, lingering beneath that milky, powdery smell. You shouldn’t notice this. You shouldn’t be like this. You shouldn’t be feeling that feeling in your stomach.

This is dangerous.

“Yeah,” you manage to form a coherent syllable. A nuclear fission chain begins in your throat. “I’m alright.”

“Mm,” he acknowledges. His hands are still supporting you, and he’s not letting go. You can distinctly hear each pulse as it sounds out in his ribcage, while simultaneously hearing each breath as it hitches and tumbles in his lungs. At your sides, curled into tight spirals are your fists.

You’re tense. Anyone can see it – the spring making up your flesh and bones is about to reach its plastic limit. You won’t be able to come back from this.

The centripetal force making up your galaxy – your routine – is dissipating.

He’s the cause of it.

His arms wobble when you go limp, and suddenly you’re in his space – face pressed right into his trapezius, breathing in the temperature of his skin and the woody scent of aftershave.

That’s new.

He wraps around you, and you clutch the back of his shirt with enough force to crush a skull. He’s alive, pulse wildly careening through his flesh and sinew like a hummingbird. Furiously, he’s alive. His touch is searing as you press impossibly closer and closer.

That gravitational pull can’t be from a mere supermassive black hole.

He’s the origin – the very centre of the universe. All matter wants to be part of it; your cells tear into his, your heart sings out its mournful song, just to be a part of him.

“Hey,” his breath is scorching across your ear. “You’re here, you’re alright.”

The murmurs are clumsy, tripping themselves up in a rush to escape his torrid lips.

I’m here.

I’m alright.

It may just be true. Where your hands connect to his latissimus dorsi through his crisp white shirt, they’ve stopped shaking.

And you don’t know it, perhaps you never will, but that small, plastic-wrapped carton of gaseous aurum has been stored neatly away in the back of your mind for the past few minutes now.

A throat clears.

Your colleague’s face sports an amused expression, while your eyes convey a well-timed fuck you, as the rest of your face is buried in his shirt.

When you pull back slightly, with her hand now on your back as well, you swear you feel Mr Francis Mosses clamp around your biceps like a vice. Resisting. An unstoppable force. His expression is worried, but when his exquisite brown eyes slide from you to your coworker, you think you can see the hint of a glare in them. You can’t be too sure.

In the ultramarine light, there might be a hint of red on his face. You can’t be too sure of that either.

“Sorry, I wouldn’t have called you in if he said he didn’t know you,” she explains sheepishly, but your ears are too full of a roaring heartbeat and your focus is entirely elsewhere. “We’ve been having issues with our milk provider, so we’ve switched to his company. It wouldn’t have been such an issue if our menu wasn’t half milkshakes.”

Her eyes are full of apology, despite her grumbling. She’s known you since your Execution Squad days, operating the calls and speaking to victims. She knows exactly how it feels – the panic, the suffocation, the lingering taste of tobacco that you can never really escape.

But you can’t focus on that either.

His thumbs are rubbing tiny, fiery circles onto your flesh – unconsciously, you think, as your eyes observe the slight anger in his face.

No, wait. You blink in surprise. Since when are you able to discern that face?

“I’ll wait inside so you can help me with the contract,” she scratches the back of her head, nonplussed when you don’t reply. “Take your time.”

She leaves, and you feel the origin of the universe relax. The molten, rigid singularity sighs – the heavens shift in response.

“Sorry for taking up so much of your time.” He’s working, yet you’ve taken that away by giving in to your weakness. Shame bubbles in your throat, and you wish you could repeat this morning all over again and do it right just so you could avoid inconveniencing him.

“Don’t apologise for that,” his voice is low, strung through with a hoarse fatigue. There’s something else clouding it, though, a sort of tightness that reminds you of anger. But he’s not angry, not anymore, you don’t think.

What is it?

He pulls you back into him, clutching at you as though you’re the lifeline instead of him being yours.

What is it?

“Mr Francis Mosses,” you breathe, but your arms wrap around him tightly once more.

What is it?

“I’d give up all my days to help you like this.”

The words are hushed, too hushed. They’re not meant to be for your ears, but your senses have been honed to a razor-sharp edge and your hearing is the sharpest blade of them all.

You’ve identified that strain of his voice, so parallel to anger.

Worry.

He’s worried.

That realisation burns you more fiercely than anything you’ve ever felt before.

You give in to the torturous exhilaration.

You lose yourself in the warmth.

Just for a bit.

‘I thought of quitting, baby, but my heart just ain’t gonna buy it.’

When he comes in those blue evenings, he brings the stardust that you can never spot in the sky. There’s no sun. There’s no moon, either. There are only the thick clouds that only let the most precocious blue through, and the power lines that cut straight through them.

Over these three years, the only stars that you’ve seen are the twinkling remnants left in high-rise office buildings in the far city. You’ve seen the glimmers in diamond-encrusted watches, seen the shine on the record-player knobs you polish, seen the glitter in the dirty cents handed over the counter. These are not real stars, however.

He brings the excruciating stardust, all bottled up in flesh and woven through in his capillaries.

Today is no different.

You don’t need the stars that are light-years away. Proxima Centauri, I don’t care about you. Tens of thousands of Kelvin – but they might as well be as freezing as the vacuum they orbit in. They’re cold points to you, dots of light that you can only see in encyclopaedias and the thick books customers bring in on occasion. These celestial bodies aren’t meant to be in a greasy diner – even mere phantoms of them are rare to spot.

He’s warmer than any star. He’s closer than any star. He’s comprised of the universe itself.

“What would you like today, Mr Francis Mosses?”

Your very own galaxy. It appears nightly, much better than those lousy light shows that never appear in the thick fog of this polluted city.

The panic of this morning has been long-forgotten. All gone, when you look in his mellow eyes. All gone.

“Your recommendation,” he requests. He’s derailed your routine once more. “And double that.”

For the first time, you’re late in lighting a smoke. That’s not your fault, of course. It’s not. It really isn’t, not when he pulls your arm to sit you opposite him, nor when you let him, nor when you miss the warmth of his hand as he retracts it.

The steaming food lies as the Rubicon between you. Who will cross it first?

You wait, tongue poised between your teeth.

His hair is as messy as ever. Briefly, you wonder how it would feel beneath your calloused fingertips.

There’s no response yet. You watch a little longer: a slight tremor as his throat bobs, lips pulled in nervousness, and eyes that dart to you, to the food, to the wall and everywhere in between.

You lied about that last bit, by the way. Those tired, glassy eyes are focused solely on you at the moment. His darting eyes are actually your own: focused on him, his tapping fingers on the black reflective table, the steam particles between the two of you.

“Are you feeling better?” It’s a simple question, devoid of any exhausted hum. It takes everything out of him, as though he’s practised a million ways of saying it and he’s still messed it up. His next breath is deep.

“Yes?” You don’t mean it as a question, but the rising of the syllable from your larynx belies your confusion. Of course you’re all right – and you don’t mean this in a patronising manner. Of course you’re alright, when the building suffocation was replaced with a suffocation of another kind.

A balmy, soothing sort. The previous drowning was a struggle; you gave into it fighting, with a snarl on your lips and a shattering spirit. But who wouldn’t ease into the other asphyxiation? In that honey-sweet warmth, you’d readily renounce your soul.

“Yes,” you quickly repeat. This is a first: considering a customer’s feelings as you attempt to avoid a misunderstanding. “Much better, Mr Mosses.”

You don’t know why you avoid his first name.

It seems he doesn’t know either; those tranquil brows furrow momentarily, before he gestures to the second portion of food.

“Will you eat with me?”

You give in too easily to the deception, especially when he adds your name onto the end of his question. It’s like a challenge, almost.

“I thought about asking you directly,” he bites into the sandwich. Chews. Swallows. You’re slightly entranced by the movement of his throat. Human windpipes are so fragile, after all, in comparison to the imitation. “Mm, then I got nervous.”

If he was nervous, what were you?

“Don’t worry,” you say blithely, but that’s not your intention at all. You don’t want to be callous, and that surprises you once more.

He always seems to coax a novel reaction from you.

“Don’t worry – I wouldn’t refuse you,” you repeat. It’s a little quieter, a little more honest about how your heart sways. You don’t think you’ve ever sounded so heartfelt.

“You mean that?”

His tone shifts; a note lower, a pitch you wouldn’t have detected if you hadn’t specifically trained for this. You didn’t think of your response as particularly special, but it seemed he’d taken it as an invitation.

You don’t mind that. Then again, you don’t mind his actions that should annoy you, had they been done by anybody else.

“Yes. I’ll eat with you anytime.”

When you take a bite of the sandwich, you finally cross the Rubicon.

You don’t know anything anymore. The routine, the precious universes you shaped – they’ve all been scattered by the two warm palms of a single man. The object of your rage is sitting in front of you, yet there’s no actual fury filling in the preconceived compartment.

There’s amiability in one neat box. In the next, curiosity overflows and spills everywhere. Weaving through them all, however, is a strange substance you can’t identify. It’s warm.

It’s warm, where there had previously only been ice.

The strawberry taste lingering on your tongue is exquisite.

It’s odd. Only after the dishes are soaking in the sink do you remember the pack in your apron pocket. Only when you turn around do you realise he’s still in the booth. Only when you spot his face do you notice you’re no longer feeling the same surge of adrenaline right before you smoke.

You light the stick on the stovetop dispassionately.

When the crisp blue air greets you, he’s in your shadow. How bizarre.

It’s even more strange when he doesn’t leave to go to his small, compact van. He… remains.

No, he does go back to his van. You watch him, sweet plumes hazing from your lips and fingertips. You can see the contraction of his tendons, each muscle moving seamlessly. No, not seamlessly. There’s a bit of a wobble – from fatigue, perhaps. No, that’s not right either.

Have you always made so many mistakes when reading someone?

There’s a lack of drag that you’d expect. He’s always tired, so the slight pause in his gait is something natural to him. Instead, his feet are hesitant, as though he’s jittery.

This time, he comes back.

Your mouth opens slightly.

He’s never done this before.

That coat from before, he wraps it snugly around you. You didn’t even know you were shivering. He’s meeting your gaze, but his brows are furrowed and he wears a weak smile with it.

“Ah,” he mumbles slightly as your cigarette falls to the gravel between the two of you. It’s fine – it’s almost been burnt to a stub regardless. You step on it – thus bridging the chasm between you two. At this distance, he’s shorter than you are. You’ve been aware of it, but this is the first time you’ve truly felt it.

He’s fastening his coat around you, but you can feel the trembling of his hands.

“You looked cold.”

He’s so considerate, you realise. Even this morning, he went out of his way to help you. Even now, when he’s uncomfortable, he’s thinking of you.

“What about you?” you breathe out. Your breath condenses in white plumes, and you think it’s a prettier sight than smoke. “Aren’t you cold, Mr Francis Mosses?”

Those warm eyes soften into liquid. There’s a slight crimson in his ears, a tiny hitch in his breath, and a shake in his shoulders.

“No,” he answers honestly. It must be honest, for though his voice is clear, he looks away bashfully. He’s bared his heart, while yours is still locked away in its box. “I don’t get cold when I’m with you.”

What a coincidence, you want to say.

Neither do I.

But you’re not him. You don’t get to run words parallel to that beating organ’s desires.

You look away.

You shouldn’t be allowed to say that either, you also want to add.

Inexplicably, your heart is beating far too fast for it to be considered healthy. In fact, it might even be arrhythmia. That’s serious.

“I–” You begin your sentence, but you hadn’t planned to actually open your mouth. This is new, too.

“You should take better care of yourself.” The words stumble clumsily from your lips. Not everyone can have that buttery smoothness like he has. This is the universal truth – you’ve always avoided prolonged conversations for that reason precisely. So, why? Why now? Why does your pulse push these syllables from your careless vocal strings?

“I will.”

The weakness in his smile is gone. It’s fond, and you can’t bear it.

“You’ll catch a cold,” you warn.

And you won’t be at the diner if that happens.

That’s strange. Why are you thinking that way?

Right. It’s him. He’s the catalyst.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His teeth are so bright. When he smiles, he’s got the jewels of the sea in his mouth. Bright pearls – and here you thought he’d only have mastery over the stars.

“I’m serious.” You let yourself indulge in the smell of him on the coat. Your eyes are closed. You don’t think you could bear seeing his face more. “Don’t get sick.”

“Don’t worry so much,” he exhales – the trip and jump in the sound turns it into suppressed laughter.

You can’t get sick. You want to say that. You’d shout it for the world to hear, but that would be too troublesome – and like you mentioned previously, you’re not like him. Your heart is small and cold and closed off in a tight box.

Please, you can’t get sick.

But for him, you’d do it.

‘And if I didn’t think it was worth one single try, I’d jump right on a big bird and then I’d fly.’

He’s tricked you.

Each time you think you’ve fit Mr Francis Mosses into a neat routine with clear expectations and a place in the galaxy, he evades that and tricks you. Then, he tricks you for a second and a third time, for good measure.

Otherwise, why would you be counting down the hours until he gets here?

When you’re ringing up Miss Mia Stone’s order at half-past twelve, you’re thinking of him and his soft hair. When you’re taking Mr Henryk Jamesons’ money at quarter to five, you’re picturing those molten brown eyes. And when you’re separating the food into two compact takeout boxes for Mr Stephen Rudboys, you’re imagining those soft lips, poised to say the most unexpected things.

That’s also new. Since when did you focus on his lips?

“Thanks, have a great day,” Mr Rudboys waves at you mechanically, and you almost unconsciously reply with ‘don’t get sick’. You feel like an idiot.

You feel swindled.

You feel tricked, and it’s all his fault. He evidently has no respect for the labours of a diner worker, if he’s entering your mind while you’re serving other clients.

Why does everything have to boil down to him?

It always comes back to Mr Francis Mosses. You think it was a wise decision to be wary of his gravitational pull. If you’re not careful, he might just cause a wormhole and shoot right through you.

With others, you’re thinking of him.

Even when you’re alone, you swear you can smell that powdery, milky smell lingering.

It’s not fair.

Does he think of you too? When he’s under blue, fog-filled skies like these, does he think of the smoke you exhale? When he’s with others, can he recall your awkward attempts at conversation? When he’s alone, does he imagine you there with him?

Do I occupy your thoughts like you occupy mine?

It’s ridiculous. Really, it’s laughable. You’re a speck on this planet, while he’s the centre of everything.

That would be your usual train of thought.

Humans are not stars.

But you don’t get to think even that, because you can hear the familiar hum of an engine and you know it could only be him that’s here.

And you’re laughing – laughing at yourself, laughing at your foolishness, laughing at just how��ludicrous you’re being. To think, he’d made himself so at home in the ordered compartments of your mind that your very capillaries are magnetised to him.

You’re attuned to him – compass pointing straight. Not north – you couldn’t care less about the ridiculous iron centre of Earth. The arrow points at him.

For the first time, you’re inside the diner when he comes through – still beaming, hand pressed to your miserable face and wretched laughter ringing flush against the mellow tones of Frank Sinatra.

He pauses in the doorway. Though you hear him – how could you not – the sounds that bubble up from your diaphragm refuse to cease.

It’s only when you notice that gaze in his eyes that you stop – warmer, more liquid than anything you’ve ever seen. Those irises are darker, too – impossibly dilated.

“Mr Francis Mosses,” you greet him. There’s a smile on your lips. You don’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that. “What will it be today?”

Dazed. You can read his face clear as day – and somehow, somehow, that makes you incredibly conscious of yourself, of him and of every minute action between the two of you.

“I’ll take anything you give me,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, and not in the fatigued way, but in the ‘I’m losing my composure’ way. Carmine bleeds into his skin – you can feel the same carmine thrumming ceaselessly through your veins.

Fuck.

This man, is he your Achilles’ heel? Your hamartia, your flaw above anything.

No, it can’t be. You’re full of flaws – he’s the only good thing about you. If anything, you’re the person who’s sure to drag him down.

“Right.”

He sits at the counter today, perched on the cerise-red stools and propped up on an exhausted elbow. Yet, his eyes are clearer – sharper – than your usual expectation. They’re honed on you: your movements, your actions, you. He’s watching you, and nobody else.

“Did someone make you laugh?”

His tone is different from his usual one; it lacks its usual enervation, and there’s a rougher burr to it that you can’t quite place. When you look up from where you’re assembling his wrap, there’s a shadow in his eyes.

“Yes.” You did. For the first time in years, you laughed. All thanks to your azure singularity – him .

There’s more he wants to say. Those lips of his part minutely, but you’ll never know what he wanted to say.

“Hm?” And for the first time, you really want to know the potential: his thoughts before they leave his lips.

“Forget it,” he exhales, looking anywhere but you. You slide his food over the counter; there’s a tinge of disappointment in your action. Disappointment, huh…

You wonder if you’ll have enough boxes to sort out these different feelings.

He doesn’t speak as he eats. It’s only when you slide onto a neighbouring stool with a milkshake for yourself that he looks up in surprise.

“You…” he murmurs – there’s an eternal question concealed in that singular word.

“You feeling alright?” you ask in mild concern.

“What would you do if I said I wasn’t?” he breathes, and you look at him. You study his expression: his wide, sleepless eyes, his tousled hair, his lips pressed together. There’s a faint trembling in his hands. That won’t do.

“I’d ask about it further, Mr Francis Mosses,” you reply seriously. “If it’s an emotional issue, I’ve been told I’m a very good sandbag. I can listen and take beatings simultaneously.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” his raised eyebrows suggest he’s mildly taken aback, but he presses on. “But there’s one thing you could do for me.”

“Which is?” you prompt.

He takes a deep breath.

“Call me Francis.”

Oh.

He always exceeds my expectations.

“Please,” he almost begs. Who are you to say no to the one who decimated your universe?

“I think I’ll go crazy if you don’t.”

You don’t think you’re meant to hear that last bit – it’s muttered so softly that you think he’s unaware that these are his words.

There’s a maddening rhythm to your heartbeat. You don’t want it to ever end.

“Francis.” Those two syllables creep out carefully. This is a first – you don’t remember the last time a name wasn’t carefully framed by honorifics and made impersonal. Francis.

“Yes?” he replies breathlessly. It’s so fucking intimate: his pupils are blown out, bottom lip wobbling with a slight sheen on them, hands shaking around a cheap napkin. All because of you. It’s his name you’re saying, but it’s your lips it’s falling from. Yours.

You want to turn his thoughts on their head – just like he’s flipped your world upside down.

“Francis.” It’s almost a whisper – not quite. There’s laughter seeping into the name; rich amusement drips from it. You’re delighted.

How can one man make you feel so much?

At the sound of your joy, his scarlet flush bleeds into his neck. Before, he’d met your gaze so boldly each time – irises honed right on you. But this – his face is exquisite right now. Those glazed-over eyes evade your stare. He’s looking anywhere but you: breathing spiralling out of control, teeth clamping desperately over those soft lips.

And you’re grinning, teeth flashing neon and that blue taste on your tongue.

Have you ever felt so light?

There’s laughter spilling over, and his eyes snap back to yours.

“Francis,” you rasp. “Don’t ever change.”

Keep surprising me.

Stay right here.

When he takes your hand and holds it in both of his, it feels like a promise. It lasts only a moment – but you swear you experience several lives within that singular gesture.

There’s that blazing flush on his face.

You hope he’s feeling as warm as you are.

“I won’t,” he says, and the heavens align themselves once more.

‘I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king.’

Anticipation makes way to expectation.

Francis.

Each muscle, every organ, all of the cells in your body – they’re all waiting. Sure, you’ve waited before. You’ve waited for the next mission, you’ve waited for your paycheck, you’ve waited for your new gun to be issued.

You’ve waited to tear down doppelgängers.

You’ve waited a long time for revenge.

But that burning feeling doesn’t feel like the balmy heat that traipses carefreely within your vessels. It’s a dancing, delicate thing.

You’ve seen the ballet, once. There was a doppelgänger amongst the dancers – movements bolder than any of the others, freer and more unrestrained. Wilder. You almost felt bad about putting a bullet through its eye, but duty called and you weren’t about to abandon the fury within your heart for something as mundane as admiration.

You don’t know why you’re thinking about it.

You don’t know why your heartbeat is behaving so intrepidly, but you suppose you’ve lost enough humanity for your body to develop such characteristics.

It’s strange. Really, it’s so strange you might end up laughing again.

Francis.

He’s got you so easily in his palm. If he asked you for it, you think you’d take the fist-sized organ from its receptacle nestled between your lungs and present it to him on a silver platter. You’d wipe away the congealed blood on his hands with a rough thumb and kiss them better with your poisonous mouth.

You aren’t a poet.

You’ve been a soldier and a pawn, so all you know and all you may ever know is the metallic, coppery stench of carmine – it follows in your shadow and stains your footsteps. Your hands are covered in it, and will be forever. It doesn’t matter – you’d give your body over and over and over and over. Parallel universes will have the same outcome for you. There’s no changing that.

You’re a soldier, so you’re not allowed to wax poetic about him – any letters you write, any flowery prose will be obscured by the heavy darkness you drag within you.

But for once, you’d like to try your hand at words. And if your hand is still too stained with that bleeding arterial red, you’ll write it with your body.

Just once, you’d like your limbs in this universe to be used for something more pretty than killing. Even though it’s an imitation, red is still red and blood is still blood.

You aren’t a poet, so the most you’ll get is this expectation. You’re a simple creature. Words elude you, but your emotions are too fleeting to be caged in by prose and logic.

It’s so ordinary.

It’s all you ever wanted.

But he doesn’t come tonight.

Tonight, you’re left with that awful blue fog as your paramour and Sinatra as your entertainment.

It was foolish, holding on to this expectation. Did you forget already?

He is one to go beyond them.

This is one of the few times you’ve ached so sharply. It’s a clean slice through your heart – not like the blunt bang of a pistol, but a masterful cut that draws out the pain better than a bullet ever could.

It hurts. It really does, and it’s all your fault for feeling hopeful.

You changed your mindset, and it only came back to pay you in tears.

But you don’t cry.

It hurts, but the plumes of smoke you exhale taste better than the salt.

If anything, you’re cherishing the white-hot pain. Maybe you haven't completely lost your humanity.

It’s long laid dormant, but this agony is sweeter than honey.

Still, you wish for everything to just disappear. If only for a moment.

It hurts. Go away, please. Go away.

You’re an idiot, and when you bury your face in your hands, you barely feel the burn from the cigarette.

‘I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing.’

You’re unusually sullen the next day. There’s the biting pressure you feel from yesterday, but that’s ridiculous. Francis has no obligation to visit you daily, and your disappointment is your own fault.

It’s alright.

You can’t bring yourself to blame him.

You feel so stupid, though.

Never have you felt so small. With revenge, the burning consumes you and you don’t feel hopeless. There’s a goal to strive for, after all. But with this, there’s nothing you can do.

“What will it be, Francis?”

Your words come out tired. They match the fatigue in his eyes; something you’d normally be noting with wonderment. Today, the excitement doesn’t come.

No, to be more precise, you tamp down on it harshly before it can come up to the surface.

“Mm.” He acknowledges your question, but he’s staring you down dazedly and you can’t help but feel slightly wobbly inside. “Something light. I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

Right. You tap the pager unconsciously – it seems him staying away yesterday wasn’t out of his own volition. You don’t know what you would’ve done if it had been otherwise; but then again, you’ve forced those feelings back into a little box, locked tight thrice. Inescapable. Impenetrable.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You give him a weak smile, and the awkward fumbling of well wishes seems to have done the trick – his soft smile back washes the insecurity away without a trace.

It’s when you’re cooking that it happens. While your hands drip red from strawberries, you hear footsteps. His footsteps – the ones you memorised. There’s that same gait, that same tired drag of his sole.

And you force down your smile.

He’s never done this either.

You’d think he was just walking around the diner to pass the time, but his footsteps get closer and closer, until–

His arms wrap around you from the back.

You freeze.

Out of all the things you thought he’d do, this isn’t one of them. His face presses into the juncture of your neck, and he’s breathing you in. He’s warm, so warm, and your heart finally begins its fervent race once more.

If he squeezed you any tighter, you would’ve thought he was going for a suplex.

His fingers trace from your hips, up your abdominal muscles, before settling on your solar plexus – each digit splayed out as though his palms were the sun and his fingers the rays. How fitting.

You should push him off. You should, but there’s something about him you can’t resist.

“Francis,” you whisper, and it’s like that final barrier in the dam finally breaks. You give in to the raging tide of emotions. Let yourself be swept up in this turbulent river. Don’t worry about a thing.

“Mm,” he hums, lips just brushing against the stiff fabric of your clinical jacket. And you can feel their reverberations echoing to your very bone marrow – you don’t think you’ve ever heard your pulse so cleanly, so clearly. “I missed you.”

The admission takes all the strength out of you.

I missed you too.

I missed you, so much I couldn’t bear it.

Perhaps that’s the reason. Perhaps that’s why you could never push him away.

Fuck.

You really are a fool.

So, why doesn’t that upset me?

‘Each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race.’

It’s a sleepless night. Just when you think those sweet molasses are going to drag you under, they slip from your fingers and leave you tossing and turning.

“I missed you.”

You can still feel his fingers on your body.

When you close your eyes, you can feel him, pressing his lips against your neck and holding you close to him.

Back then as a Captain, there were people who needed you. Of course there were – you were a pawn, a soldier, someone who had a duty and kept to it. You were a resource: easily replaceable. In fact, it was a miracle you’d lasted the year.

But him.

You bury your face in your pillow. There’s a furious beat to your pulse. You can feel it everywhere: your head, your legs and even your stomach.

There’s no doubt about it.

You like Francis.

You like him, so much so that you’re running out of boxes to put your emotions in.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when you’re haggard at work, even more so than yesterday. The day is both sluggish and hare-like, racing away from you yet constantly disturbing you with its slow crawl. It’s the adrenaline and dopamine; they’re clashing and twisting and dancing against themselves. You honestly don’t know how your hypothalamus manages to outshine itself every time.

The familiar hum of the engine comes when the fog up in the sky is still white. It’s earlier than usual, but Francis has never been one to stick within the lines you’ve put him in.

“Francis.”

The shadows under his eyes are darker than before.

“I’m not here for food today,” he exhales. “Just let me spend time with you here.”

That’s a first.

You’re a little lost. When the boss trained you on how to deal with customers, he never mentioned the tricky ones like these.

“Ah,” you mumble. “Sure.”

“I also brought you something.” He’s smiling with his eyelids lowering – it’s not an expression you’ve ever seen him make. Fuck. You can’t resist him.

He’s already taken up too much space in your universe.

There’s a small plastic bag he takes out of his coat pocket. It crackles lightly against the glass of a milk bottle. “Strawberry cookies. Made them myself.”

You don’t think you’ve ever received such a heartfelt gift.

When he places them in your outstretched palm, all you can think about is the roaring heat of his hand.

There’s a few flecks of sanguine on his crisp white shirt. When he notices you looking, he laughs awkwardly.

“I cut myself at work,” he explains, adjusting the hazy buttons. That’s a new habit; of course he’s filled with mysteries. Since he’s Francis.

Gently, you take his wrist and press your lips to the fabric concealing it.

“What–” he chokes. “–what are you doing?”

“I’m kissing it better,” you reply. There’s something different about you tonight as well. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but it seems you’ve become more bold in the time you’ve met with him. “Do you want me to stop?”

It seems you’ve been intoxicated by him.

“No,” he stammers. “Please don’t.”

Perhaps he’s been intoxicated by you too.

It’s only when you’ve placed your lips on the tips of his fingers that you finally pull back and study his face. He’s completely flushed now, with his hair messed up and eyes wide.

You take a bite out of the biscuit. There’s strawberries on your tongue: sweet, tangy, perfectly suited to the buttery crumble. It’s warm, as if it’s been held close to his heart. The thought makes you smile.

It’s perfect.

This man…

When you stand from the stool to brush the crumbs from your fingers, he stands with you.

When you head into the kitchen area, he follows you.

When you attempt to move past him after washing your hands at the sink, he stops you by holding onto your wrist. You could break free if you tried, but you won’t. Because it’s him.

“Francis…” you trail off. There’s a certain look in his eyes – it’s impossibly tender.

“Tell me you’re feeling the same as me,” he pleads, pressing your palm flat against his heart. His pulse is wild, spinning out of control like that dancer you saw all those years ago.

Your own heartbeat roars its own feral beat; it’s a careful syncopation with his.

You didn’t know his human heart could feel that way.

It’s not supposed to, not like yours does.

That heaviness – you don’t hear it with humanity.

Your thumb brushes over those soft lips; that look in his eyes speaks of immeasurable hunger.

“Please,” he whines, and you surge.

Your mouth is on his, and he tastes like the strawberries you’ve just eaten. Heady. Sweet. He may have cornered you between him and the sink, but you’re in control – the two of you know it.

Perhaps that’s why his lips part so easily.

He’s warm – so warm. You eagerly devour him, pressing a hand to his nape and another to his waist while you take his small hisses in stride. He’s forced to tilt his head up; hands scramble for purchase in the dips of your back, seeking refuge as you roughly press into him.

He’s intoxicating. Even when the metallic taste enters your mouth, he’s intoxicating.

Even when you can no longer smell that milky, powdery smell on him. There’s no woody aftershave either.

Even when you hear the sound of a familiar hum.

He stands, frozen in the doorway.

Your lips are on someone who looks like him.

And you’re looking directly at him.

Why does he look like that?

His hands are shaking, and he just looks so lost. He’s panting, as though he’s just run here – and his face is covered with small scrapes that can’t just have been from work.

And why are you feeling this bitter pain?

You knew you could never have Francis – his world was far too removed from yours, and staying with you is dangerous. You’re cursed, doomed to stay in this intransient state.

“No–” he chokes out. “Get away from that thing!”

Why does it hurt so much?

You thought you’d be alright giving up on him.

He can’t enter your blood-soaked world.

He can’t.

It hurts. It hurts so much.

Your heart’s breaking into pieces, but you’re still holding onto his doppelgänger and that creature’s lips are still on yours.

Francis…

It was nice. This little dream was nice.

It was nice, but there are tears in your eyes and a wry smile on your lips.

It’s ending. That fake, brief happiness is crumbling away.

“Get away!”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The doppelgänger’s voice finally drops to its natural pitch – low, a harsh hum reverberating through your sternum. “You caught on now?”

No. You hadn’t caught on just now.

You had a feeling from the very beginning.

‘That’s life (that’s life) that’s life and I can’t deny it.’

All the celestial bodies will go cold one day. It is simply a matter of waiting for the universe to turn into a graveyard of giants, undisturbed for the rest of eternity.

There’s a gun in the cabinet behind you. If one examines it closely, you can see distinct initials that match someone working at the diner. But, surely not, right? None of your customers have suspected a thing.

Faintly, you hear your name being called from somewhere along the periphery.

“You need to get back, he’s dangerous!”

You pull out your gun, unlocking the mechanism with a swift click. It’s a standard-issue, given to the lieutenant-class and above – a heavy thing, unauthorised to be carried by any civilian. The bullets inside are deadlier than any ammunition used in human warfare.

You didn’t think you’d ever use it again.

But today, Francis will be joining the graveyard of celestial bodies. There, he’ll eventually disintegrate – not an atom will remain.

“Francis, stay right there.” Your words are cold. Don’t you see? This is my world, Francis.

This is my danger.

This is what follows in my shadow.

Don’t come near me.

“Oh? I didn’t think you were ex-military,” the doppelgänger’s voice rumbles in its chest. “Give up. You’re no match for me. We’ve evolved past puny human capabilities.”

You didn’t think you’d ever do this again.

Not again.

Tears blur your vision, but you don’t need to rely on your eyes to kill.

You need to shoot him. You need to shoot him because you love him, because he’s still alive and this thing is trying to replace him. You need to pull the trigger.

Francis.

I love you.

This pain – it’s too much to bear.

When you squeeze the trigger, you repeat it like a mantra.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

And there’s a smile on the doppelgänger’s lips as you shoot him, like he’s won.

There’s blood everywhere. Splashed on the pans, coating the griddle, sliding and congealing on the bright neon signs that light up the diner in fluorescent red. Brain matter is cleaved in thousands of pieces, and you resist the urge to throw up.

Red is still red, and blood is still blood.

When the doppelgänger’s body begins to bubble, you move without a trace of hesitation – sliding across the counter with the agility of an athlete. You’re crying – crying as you take Francis out into the pouring rain. You’re crying, as you’re covering his body with yours – behind you, the doppelgänger’s body finally blows up and shards of the diner stick to you and maul your back. But it’s fine – he’s still alive. Your universe is living – breathing beneath you. He's warm – a human warmth, with a human pulse and a human smell.

“You–” he murmurs, drenched in rainwater and the blood covering you. His eyes are widened, but he doesn’t look scared. He’s not scared of you.

And you’re high, high on adrenaline and the sight of him.

He’s alive.

He’s not dead.

You protected him.

‘Many times I thought of cutting out, but my heart just won’t buy it.’

The D.D.D will get here eventually. That’s something you’ve come to accept as truth, which is why you don’t care about phoning them when the smoke rising from the place will alert them regardless.

You pull him into an alleyway near your apartment. There’s a howling storm and a torrential downpour, but you don’t care about any of that.

He’s warm. He’s warm, and he’s alive.

“You’re real, right?” you murmur. Your drenched palms press into his face. He’s staring at you, tears gathering on his lash line and a shake in his bottom lip. “Francis.”

“I’m real,” he breathes, and it’s like nothing else exists in the universe. Nothing but him and you in suspended animation, within all the space-time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

Has anyone said something like that to you before?

There’s no fear in his eyes.

What a foolish promise.

But maybe you’re the fool for feeling the way you do about that vow.

You’re covered in blood, but he’s looking right past that.

“Did you know–” he chokes out, looking away. “–that he was a doppelgänger?”

Yes. I knew, and I kissed him despite knowing that.

Francis, I can’t be with you.

Those words race through your head, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. You can’t bring yourself to lie, either. Instead, you nod – and you can’t meet his eyes when you do so.

“Why were you with him like that, then?” His thumb traces your jaw, mirroring the actions of your hands just moments prior. He sounds heartbroken, and you can feel tears blurring your vision once more. “Don’t tell me he’s better than me.”

“Francis,” you plead against the storm, against the deafening wind that presses against your words. “I can’t be with you.”

There’s a pause. Water soaks the two of you, but neither moves.

“Who decided that?” He steps closer, and you swallow. His arms wrap tightly around you, and his head’s buried against your chest. He’s angry, you realise. He’s angry, because he knows exactly why you decided on that dream.

He’s pressed skin-to-skin against you – fabric drenched through and ice-cold – and there’s a searing heat that threatens to envelope you whole. Let it, you think. I’ll give in for you.

“Who decided that?” he repeats, mouth moving against your collarbone. If you weren’t against a wall, you think you might’ve collapsed by now.

“Francis,” you falter. More. “Don’t you see how dangerous it is with me?” Say no. Be with me despite that.

You’ve become selfish.

“I don’t care,” he whispers against your flesh. “You like me, don’t you?”

I adore you.

Don’t leave me.

You don’t say anything, but he can hear your answer in the wild drum of your pulse.

“You’ll protect me.”

I’d give my life to serve that purpose.

“Francis,” you rasp. There’s something coiling within you, burning up hotter and brighter than anything you’ve felt before. It sets your veins and capillaries alight, altering everything within.

There’s a frigid downpour that freezes flesh and sinew, but you’re sweltering with him pressed against you.

Stardust coats your fingertips when you slide them beneath his chin. Beneath the rain, everything sluices away – the pain, the blood, the worry, and the hesitation.

“Use me to forget,” he breathes. “I’ll be yours.”

Fuck.

Gently, you slot your lips against his, and his eyes flutter closed. He’s hesitant – you can tell from how his hands curl open and closed against your chest. He’s hesitant, yet he presses himself against you like you’re going to disappear any minute.

It’s funny.

You’re thinking the exact same thing about him.

Your fingers dig into his hips – you don’t think you’ll ever let him go.

His lips are warm – humanly warm – and he tastes explosive, like neutron stars merging. He’s divine.

“More,” he whines into your mouth. “Please.”

With such soft lips parting just for you, who are you to refuse?

“Mm,” he gasps as you deepen the kiss, pressing your tongue into his spit-slicked mouth. Each pretty noise that escapes him snaps one more string of self-restraint of yours, until it’s all gone. You flip him, so his back’s pressed against the cold, drenched wall and your body moves against his front.

And his hands – they’re clawing at your back and dragging against its valleys. You can feel each nail as you go rougher – eliciting more pain for you, but you couldn’t care less about that . Not when you’ve got him melting like putty as he clumsily moves his lips against yours, not when he’s desperately trying to come closer and closer and closer.

There’s salt on your lips and copper on your tongue. Tears and blood. You can’t tell who cries.

“More,” he pulls back from your mouth panting, choking for breath. “Please, I need more.”

Fuck. It’s getting addicting.

“You sure?”

Give in. You can’t help wanting to lose yourself in that heady sensation.

“Please,” he begs.

You crumble so easily.

‘But if there’s nothing shaking, come this here July, I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die.’

#francis mosses x reader #masterlist #navigation #res ･ﾟ writing #x reader #francis mosses #that's not my neighbor #x male reader #amab reader #slowd1ving #that's not my neighbour x reader

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zhakyria · 1 year ago

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Wanted to share the edits I made to this scene cause I liked how they turned out. Read below the cut. I'd love to hear yall's thoughts!

Cody stopped next to Mr. Hux, who also sheltered under the shade of the depot overhang. He was the owner of First Order Repair, and had a pale complexion that burned easily. He was a tense man of few words, but he kept many of the more complex systems around town running for which Cody was thankful. His normally green eyes were grey and a scowl twisted his mouth.

“Something wrong Mr. Hux?” Cody leaned over the depot railing, watching the train speed along the tracks towards them. It arrived once a week right at noon, and brought supplies, mail, and the occasional passengers.

Hux’s scowl deepened. “Three more solar panels failed yesterday.”

“Isn’t that eight this month?” Cody made it a habit to keep tabs of what happened around town. Perhaps he pried into people’s affairs a little too much, but he took an oath to keep the town safe. That meant knowing all the problems that cropped up, even if they didn’t seem important.

“Annoyingly, yes.” Hux tightened his grip on the railing. “These were relatively new panels as well. Less than a month old.”

“Do you have any idea of what could be causing the failures?”

Hux’s voice grew strained. “No.”

Cody leaned in and lowered his voice. “Could it be sabotage?”

Hux looked at him sharply for a brief moment before closing his eyes and huffing out a sigh. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, taking a slow drag. “That has crossed my mind, though I cannot fathom what they are attempting to achieve.” The subtle Imperial accent Hux tried to hide grew more pronounced, it always did when he was frustrated.

When Hux’s Imperials - since they all seemed to defer to him in some manner, especially in those early days - started drifting into Cimarron, Cody had been suspicious. Though resources were hard to come by, the Lysatran frontier wouldn’t be a bad place for an Imperial Remnant to take hold. Yet, the ones following Hux appeared genuine in their desire to start new lives.

“Send Eli the failure data.”

“Are you serious about roping him in on this?”

“Kid’s good with numbers, maybe he’ll spot a pattern you’re missing.” Eight failed solar panels over the course of a month didn’t feel like coincidence anymore. His instincts were screaming at him that this was deliberate. They would need all hands on deck if this proved to be worse than it appeared.

“Sheriff!” Hux hissed.

“We can’t afford to lose any more panels, Mr. Hux. Eli will be discrete.”

Hux snorted but acquiesced. As the train pulled into the depot he let go of the railing and walked away to meet with the Conductor.

What's this? Something amiss in the sleepy frontier town of Cimarron?

“Something wrong Mr. Hux?” Cody leaned over the depot railing, watching the train approach.

Hux’s scowl deepened. “Three more solar panels failed yesterday.”

“Isn’t that eight this month?” Cody had made it a habit to keep tabs of what happened around town. Perhaps he pried into people’s affairs a little too much, but he took an oath to keep the town safe. That meant knowing all the problems that cropped up, even if they didn’t seem important.

“Annoyingly, yes.” Hux tightened his grip on the railing. “These were relatively new panels as well. Less than a month old.”

“Do you have any idea of what could be causing the failures?”

Hux’s voice grew strained. “No.”

Cody leaned in and lowered his voice. “Could it be sabotage?”

Hux looked at him sharply. “That has crossed my mind, but I have no proof.”

“Send Eli the failure data.”

“Are you serious about roping him in on this?” Hux hissed.

“Kid’s good with numbers, maybe he’ll spot a pattern you’re missing.”

“Sheriff!”

“We can’t afford to lose anymore panels, Mr. Hux. Eli will be discrete.”

Hux snorted but acquiesced and let go of the railing to meet with the Conductor as the train pulled into the station.

#cimarron au #star wars #commander cody #general hux #armitage hux #wip edits #let you in on a secret #i hated hux and ren when first introduced #read a few comics and fics #now they've been added to my pile of liked characters #love me some shitty villains

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dragonrider9905 · 8 months ago

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Celebrating You!

Hi guys! I’ve been on here for a bit now and while I never had a follower goal, I do appreciate you guys who have decided to follow me! So now I’d like to celebrate you!

In light of TBB ending, and how much we'll be missing the boys, I thought this was as good as a time as ever!

Here’s the idea! I’m opening a prompt request for the dates of April 5th through May 5th, 2024 (you may start submitting now though!) and choose from the prompts below! You can choose one from each category, or just one category. It’s ok if it is just the prompt or the prompt and a brief idea. If you have a fun idea or prompt not listed, please share!

Rules: I only write SFW. I typically write for clones; I reserve the right to refuse requests which make me uncomfortable for whatever reason. I have had a few requests in the past that really unsettled me for various reasons. Or if I don't know the character. I'd hate to try to write something then upset the person because it is so ooc that it's cringy. (But if I said I would write your request and haven't yet, I just honestly haven't gotten to it :D I like to do well on the stories you guys entrust to me so it does take me a bit :D)

This is supposed to be fun so lets keep it fun!

You may submit as many requests as you'd like! The more the merrier!

Characters: Star Wars Clone Wars or The Bad Batch (as long as I know them. I know a lot of clones but alas, not all.)

Story genre:

Classic SW! (Pick an era if they exist in more than one if you wish)

AU of choice (modern, western, pirate, mermaid, time traveling, etc if I’m unfamiliar with the genre, I may have to change it or request more details)

Dialogue Prompts:

“Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

“If we’re going to do this we’ll need—“ “A plan?” “No! Code names! Cool ones!”

“I don’t need to be anything to you. I just want my life to mean more to you than my death.”

“You are playing a dangerous game without even a glimpse of the rule book.”

“I’ve never been terrified of death, til he set his sights on you.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” “Yeah, you’re not allowed to ask that in this situation.”

“Where’s your shoe?” “The giant mud puddle in the road demanded a sacrifice.”

“Love at first sight doesn’t exist.” “Then how else do I describe the feeling I got when I first saw you?” “You…love me?” “Apparently not, according to you.”

“A fate worse than death….” “They’re burnt cupcakes.”

“White paint has more color than your face.”

“Why is there a dragon in my fridge?” “It was hot.”

“Touch **, and you’re dead.”

“I am the law.”

“Do that again and I’ll throw you out the window. Wait, what are you doing?” “Checking how high the drop is; seeing if it’s worth it.”

“I’d rather have you hate me than loose you entirely.”

“I have a mission but don’t know what it is.” “Well that sounds incredibly counterproductive.”

“I would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulties in your life.” “You are the worst at this comforting thing.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this but I’m quite petite.” “Really? I had no idea in our twelve years of friendship that you’re shorter than I am.”

“But what is power?” “Loyalty.”

“Don’t you sign to me in that tone.”

“I’m with him/her for better or worse.” “It’ll probably be worse.” “I knew that the day I met him/her.”

"I'm sorry I tried to kill you." "It's fine, but next time you should try harder."

"C'mon, like I need an excuse to spend time with you."

"You're not as bad as everyone says you are."

"The only one who gets to kill you is me."

“blood loss”? well it’s not lost. I know exactly where it went. right over there.”

“How the mighty have fallen!” “It’s a dropped chocolate bar, stop being dramatic.”

“Shit, we’re gonna die” “Now I don’t want to hear that negative attitude, look on the bright side!” “Yay! We’re gonna die! Woo!”

“How do you do it?” “How do I do what?” “Pretend you are ok.” “I’m not pretending.” “Yes, you are. Every single day and it breaks my heart.”

“Hey, so I know things are pretty f**** shitty right now but I need you to breathe for me.” “Wha-wh-wh-” “You’re having a panic attack. It’s gonna be ok. Just breathe with me.”

“Please, my arms—I can’t wipe my tears, don’t let them see!”

"Smiles are contagious!" "Don't worry, I'm vaccinated."

"I don't want to get involved, it's too risky." "Please do it for me, you're the only one I can turn to." "It's not worth it. You really want to lose everything? 'cause I don't."

"Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?" "No"---a long pause---"actually yes, at Christmas time"

"There is a reason I go through that door first, It's to make sure everyone else walks back out"

“I can’t leave you here!” “You can and you will.”

"OH! Are you alright? Are you alright?" "Apart from being trapped under here, and maybe suffering from broken bones and embarrassment beyond what I am capable of handling. . . I'm dandy, why do you ask?"

Oh no, are you alright? You're covered in blood!" "Yes, it's yours, Now will you please let me take you to the hospital?"

"What did love ever do anything for anyone anyway?"

"What the hell were you even thinking?!" "You told me not to think!"

"With love comes loss, that's part of the deal. Sometimes it hurts, but in the end, it was all worth it. There's no greater gift than love."

“'Temporary stitches' all stitches are temporary if you have a pair of scissors and aren’t a coward" "What do you....that better not mean what I think you mean......" "Am I just talking about sewing stitches or sutures too? Maaayyybe?" "NO! Absolutely not!"

"I made the calculations, and boy am I bad at math."

"It'll be over soon, I promise."

"Working together again, just like old times." "Well, not just like old times."

"I am many things but not your enemy."

Action Prompts:

Forehead kisses

Palm/hand kisses

Dramatic rain scene

Touching foreheads

Jealousy

Dancing

Last stand

Christmas/Life Day celebration

mistletoe

Accidental hand touch

First date

First kiss

Spending time with the family

Bad day cheering up scheme

Pranks

Going to a pet shop

Going to the movies

Always go after the girl

soft spoken person has loud, unnerving scream.

Lullabies

Nightmares

injury

amnesia

pretend/mistaken to be married/in a relationship

cooking

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moondal514 · 8 months ago

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A multi-fandom selection of some of my fave 2nd person pov fics cuz I’m a huge fan of 2nd person (see: all these 2nd person pov fics I’ve written lol) and I want more people to appreciate it

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

WINTERSTORY: OR HOW THE BOY KING FISHED THE SUN OUT OF THE SKY by perennials

Kageyama Tobio, re-examined.

My personal fave of my fave genre of Haikyuu fic (2nd person pov Kageyama character studies examining his relationship with volleyball and his family, with bonus KageHina)

Fandom: All For the Game

leftovers by orionauriga/ @orionauriga

They drive you home, every time, both of them. You leave the leftover scraps of their love, the intimacy loaned to you, in the backseat when you get out to kiss them goodnight.

Gorgeous fic inspired by Sue Hyon Bae’s poem “after the threesome, they both take you home”

Fandom: Star Wars

Triptych by antistar_e/ @kaikamahine

The master trains the apprentice. The apprentice kills the master and takes their place. The master takes an apprentice. It is the cycle of things, and the way all those like him do, your Supreme Leader creates his own downfall. He cultivates it, covets it, and it kills him.

It's not you. Of course it's not you.

I don’t actually care about Kylo Ren, but goddamn this fic made me care about him so much

Fandom: Six of Crows

minuet in d major by demigodbeautiies/ @jackwolfes

You wake up on a hot summer day in your tiny, shitty, childhood bedroom, and you realise that it’s here.

Your soulmate just turned twenty.

Soulmark Au

Made this face 🥺 the entire time I read this one

Fandom: Tian Guan Ci Fu

fortune tellers tell no truths by atomicmuffin

Love, like fate, ask for no man’s permission, may they be priests, princes, of gods. Guessing which path it will take cannot stop either of them from doing whatever they want.

You know this, and yet you try.

I treasure every excellent JunMei fic I find but this one is a particular special gem

Fandom: Mo Dao Zu Shi

bet Qin Su doesn't know her husband is committing infidelity by quigonejinn

Then, the carriage is stopped. Words are exchanged.

The best take on Qin Su I’ve encountered so far in this fandom

Fandom: Good Omens

empty, save you and i by ripeteeth/ @ripeteeth

“Please,” you say, and he likes it when you say it. Crowley, you wretch, you’ve known this forever. You’ve known this all your life.

Beautifully written, absolute poetry, every sentence goes so hard it’s insane

Fandom: Dungeon Meshi

A Body by murg

Laios wants to fly.

A beautiful and visceral fic that I want to eat (appropriate for Dungeon Meshi right 😂)

#fic rec #fic rec list #hq #aftg #star wars #soc #tgcf #mdzs #good omens #dunmeshi

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donnieisonfire · 13 days ago

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Dan from Law,

Phil from Media & Editing

hello ! this is my first dan & phil fic, so enjoy. sorry followers if yall dont fw this.. NO SMUT IN THIS CHAPTER, WILL BE IN CHAP 2.

AO3 LINK

this is NOT a oneshot & will be updated frequently (i actually have chapt 2 quarterly finished as i post this!), i will update this post with links to next chapters at the end as the fic continues.

update : chap 2

Tags ;

office AU, Dan & Phil are NOT YouTubers!, Dan being a coffee SLUTTTTT, Dan getting a lil crush

THE SONG I LISTENED WHILE WRITING THIS :3

Dan woke up, starting his daily rituals. He had been trying to improve himself, half because he wanted to feel less shit, half because he wanted to be appealing enough that someone else would help him feel less shit.

He hadn’t had a relationship since 2019, which was brief and uneventful.

He opened his curtains (of which were basically falling off the shitty rod his landlord wouldn’t fix), hoping to open it to some sun. He knew that was unrealistic. He peered over London from his stupid-expensive apartment’s stupidly-shit window. His view was nothing interesting, at all. It was just buildings, cars. Very corporate, very regular.

He had a brisk shower, long enough to be sanitary but not long enough to the point he has to take out a mortgage to pay his water bill in 3 days.

He got himself ready for work, ready to get in his barely-working car and drive to his barely-paying-the-bills job. And he done so.

He drove, parked and trudged into the building. He looks at the mini Costa Coffee in the lobby lovingly, but decides not to treat himself as he didnt get paid for another 6 days and was living off of off-brand pot noodles. Instead, he steps into one of the 4 elevators in the lobby.

Theres a few people in the elevator with him. He gives a small nod at them as he enters. He presses the ‘7’ button, there was many other buttons already lit up.

His eyes surveyed the small group alongside him in the elevator, trying to see if there was anyone off of his floor - but he couldn’t recognise anyone.

There was an overweight short woman with greying hair, she was 5’4 maybe, a tall blonde man who was staring down at his phone, hm, and a man in a business suit who looked like an outsider here for a meeting possibly.

After around a minute, he gets to his floor and steps out. He wasnt the last, he had been stranded alone with the suit man for a floor or two now. Dan gives him a small, straight-lined smile as he steps out.

He walks towards the kitchen that was shared between floors 6 to 9 and begins to grab for his favourite mug - a faded mug with some star-wars quote on it.

When he couldnt feel it where he put it the day previous, he furrows his eyebrows. He focuses more on finding his mug, digging through the cupboard, getting at least 3 weird stares from others.

Whatever, someone could’ve just…not known it was his…although it did have his name scribbled on the bottom in sharpie. They might not of looked, it’s whatever. He’ll get it back eventually. Even if he’d prefer to get it back now.

He grabs a napkin and a nearly ran out BIC pen from a pocket in his trousers. He scribbles ‘If star-wars mug found, please return to Dan Howell from law, office 324’ on the napkin, ripping it in multiple places, and leaves it in the mug-cupboard.

He grabs some plain one, one he knew was unclaimed (because he checks, like a normal human being…) and made his coffee.

He takes a sip, burning his lip in the process, but, hey, he was caffeinated, could he complain? Yes, he could, he wants his Star Wars mug back. Twat.

He walks to his cubicle and gets to work once his cup is secured on his desk. He was a bit ticked off about his star-wars mug, but he puts it to the back of his mind as he begins to draft up an email for his client he was helping currently.

About 2.5 hours later, theres a knock at his ajar cubicle door. He looks up, “Come in.” he says, his voice a bit too posh for his liking (it always got like that if he was surprised with the dreaded human interaction.)

He recognises the man who steps into his cubicle, and he recognises the mug he’s holding even more. It was the tall blonde man from the elevator, and it was his beloved mug.

“Hi, sorry, uhm..” The man starts, Dan’s eyes are focused up at him, locking onto the man’s own. “I didn’t know there were claimed mugs, I only started last week. Here’s your mug.” He says, putting out his hand with the mug. Dan could see his passive-aggressive napkin/note in-between the blonde’s fingers. “Ah, or would you rather I put it in the sink in the kitchen?” He interrupts himself and pulls his arm back.

Dan just looks up at him dotingly, before he extends his arm and taking his mug back into his safe confines (his hands). “It’s fine here, Yoda has had more than enough travel for today.” Dan slaps himself mentally once he says that, that seemed twat-ish. He clears his throat.

The blonde man nods softly, “I’m Phil. From Media and Editing. Sorry, uhm...” He splutters his sentence off, continuing it once he glances at the napkin again. “Sorry, Dan from Law, office 324.” Phil adds, finishing off his sentence as he begins to turn to leave Daniel’s cubicle.

“Nice to meet you, Phil from media and editing.” Dan says before Phil leaves earshot.

Phil. Simple name. Although, Dan had a feeling Phil maybe wasnt too simple.

#dan and phil #phandom #phan #blonde phil my beloved #phil lester #phillip lester #dan howell #daniel howell #dan howell x phil lester #daniel howell is a coffee hoe #office au #blonde phil #phannie #phannies #Spotify

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tennessoui · 3 months ago

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Hey Kit!! This past year when the Acolyte came out, my heart broke and I decided to step away from Star Wars. It’s fine that others liked it but personally I didn’t; actually to be frank, I REALLY didn’t like it. Star Wars and Anakin got me through a lot, so watching Disney take an actual shit on his origin and then his redemption ark by half-assing the lore, felt like a punch to the gut, and I had to step away. (This is my personal opinion, if you or others liked it that’s great! I just didn’t). However, when I saw that u published the body politics au, I decided to sit down and catch up on all your fics (btw I love the Hanahaki one!), and it got me back into the fandom. I’m glad one shitty (imo) show didn’t push me away permanently and I have you to thank for that. I’ve met so many great people thru Star Wars and made a lot friends so it had really been kind of hard to turn away from it. I just really wanted to say thank you. your writing is, as always, too beautiful and inspiring to ignore. Star Wars means so much, and I’m so thankful that your work was able to help me look past all the stuff that made me unhappy with it. I hope you have a wonderful day!!

this is very kind to send to me and a very nice morning read! i admit, i actually have not watched the acolyte, though not for any particular reason. i've definitely heard mixed reviews about the show and its take on the jedi order and the sith, which have been sorta sad to read cause i do like the jedi (though i guess i never label myself as pro-jedi cause like? they're the good guys? you're not like. pro-percy jackson or something right? pro-katniss everdeen? you just sorta read the book and you're like oh yeah these are the good guys. might find aspects of a character annoying but i'm definitely not supposed to be rooting for the Capitol or smething right)

but i've also heard from other people that as a pew-pew show, it delivers on that front! lightsaber fights are cool and everyone has a funky haircut that they pull off somehow which does feel quintessentially star wars

my general view of the disney plus star wars shows is that i'll watch the ones that strike my fancy, and if one of them doesn't then i won't. the star wars disney execs produce a lot of content (and i truly mean content, i.e. material to be consumed - not necessarily art) and a lot of it i'm probably never going to watch. it wasn't made for me, and i definitely get the lurch and disappointment you may feel if you look forward to something for ages and then it's not what you wanted in a thousand small ways or a handful of big ways. i think that's especially hard to guard against nowadays when trailers for tv shows rely more on aesthetic and punchy one-liners and brief second cameos than they do explaining the actual story of the show

but you can be a fan without loving the direction some shows go in or the choices directors make!! if that looks like only watching shows that have been peer-reviewed, or if that looks like ignoring everything but a small corner/subset of a massive fandom, or if that looks like turning from the media itself and diving further into fanart and fanfiction and interacting with people online then that's what it looks like! especially now that the world of canon star wars media isn't just 6-9 movies + 2(?) non trilogy movies, you should absolutely go about watching star wars content with a you-first mindset 100%

you know how many people were disappointed in the obi-wan kenobi series?? soooo many because he was a sad little pathetic and broken man with greasy hair. but that's exactly how i like my obi-wan kenobis, so i was thrilled every episode lol but i'm sure other people hated it and boycotted and whatever. but i found my corner of the fandom who also enjoyed that and it's been wonderful <3

so anyway thankyou so much for your very kind words i hope none of that sounded too preachy i was mostly trying to agree with you that it's really great that one (shitty) show did not keep you away from the fandom forever and that you're back!!

welcome back :)

#asks #there is a lot i could say about disney channel star wars shows #but i shant #im late for pub trivia #but im thinking them for sure

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lothcatthree · 11 months ago

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hi! my name is kt.

welcome to my blog, entry please!

here are my (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ blorbos :･ﾟ✧

chronic multi shipper, but in a loving [citation needed] monogamous relationship with star wars.

𓂃🖊 author on a good day, word mangler on a bad day, word abuser every single day. ao3 here and writing tag here

currently working on a modern uni omegaverse au with ⊹ ࣪ ˖ obikin and bodecal ⊹ ࣪ ˖

i love to talk and make shitty jokes. can and will impregnate your men. 𓂸

important stuff:

all ships are tagged. all cloneshipping is tagged. nsfw posts are not tagged... if you're uncomfortable with any of the above things, I would recommend you do not follow me and/or blacklist the tags, but I'm not a cop. just don't whine about it to me later and take care of yourself

because we're all here for a respite from the cartoonish tornado of real life:

be kind, be courteous, be respectful. it's fake and in space, so ship and let ship and have a good fucking time (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞

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pisupsala · 1 year ago

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 10 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 7.9k

Library

Chapter 10 - The Way You Look Tonight

You don’t remember how you got back home—in a flurry of tears, you stumbled down the stairs, grappling for your keys in your pocket. It's a sunny Monday morning when you wake up in your own bed. You are still fully dressed, only having kicked off your shoes. The scarf tied around your hair has nearly fallen out, pulling at the hair at the nape of your neck. You pull it out, groaning.

That’s one nasty hangover—your head is pounding, eyes are burning, and your stomach feels like it’s in knots. But that’s not the only reason you are feeling awful. You feel like your heart is broken.

Does Rooster really look down on you like that?

Fun enough to tease but not enough to actually respect.

Did he really not mean a single thing he said? A single touch? Is he truly so cruel that it was always just a means to an end, a way to pass the time?

If this is who he is, you’re better off knowing now. God forbid you spent even more time vying for his attention.

Soft footsteps pad over your floor, and weight sinks down on your mattress. Eva sits beside you on the bed, dressed in her nightgown, gently stroking your hair.

“Are you still alive?” She asks dryly.

You groan in response, burying your face into the pillow.

“I heard to come home last night, stumbling drunk.” Her voice is soft. “You puked your guts out, sobbed incoherently, and nearly fell over trying to get your shoes off.”

Embarrassed, you bury your face into your pillow.

“So I hope you don’t mind if I put you to bed in your clothes.” Eva continues, looking you over. “You are a mess, Anya. What happened?”

“I had a shitty day, and I drank too much,” You mumble. “And then my day got worse.”

“Can you talk about it?”

“Yes and no.” You sigh, turning around to face Eva. She looks concerned. “Have you… ever met anyone that didn’t turn out to be at all like who you thought they were?”

“I suppose.” She replies, waiting for you to continue.

“I just…” Your voice catches in your throat. Why are you getting so upset over this? “I just misjudged someone, you know? And I found out yesterday just how wrong I was.”

Your eyes are prickling with fresh tears.

“Is this about your mystery man?” Eva inquires carefully. You choke out a sob.

Stupid Rooster. You shouldn’t be crying over him. All this comes down to is one huge miscalculation on your part—you thought you could play along with his flirty little jokes, the teasing touches—but you bit off more than you could chew. You allowed it to become a little bit too real for yourself, hoping a little too much there was a core of truth to it all.

Eva’s hand is moving over your back in soothing patterns. You’re quietly sobbing into your pillow, more angry with yourself that you can’t seem to stop. There was nothing between you—it was all make-believe, and even then. It was innocent. He never kissed you.

You probably weren’t even worth that.

Eva slips into the bed behind you, hugging you firmly. Wrapping your hand around hers, you finally feel a bit calmer. You lay there together, in silence, while your tears finally stop. For a moment, it feels as if you’re back in school together: exams, what to wear to the dance, and boys made up the majority of your trouble—a simpler time. Then, you were so eager to grow up already and go into the world—now you wish you had savored those days a bit more.

It’s somewhat ironic you concede that Rooster is currently your biggest problem. It’s a war, you’re harboring a foreign fighter, but you’re in bed crying because he broke your heart.

“Hey, Anya?” Eva’s voice sounds muffled. You hum in reply.

“You reek of alcohol.”

“Thanks.” You chuckle.

Eva pulls away from you, pulling you with her by your arm. The sunlight is painful against your dry eyes. “Go wash.” She instructs you coolly.

Head in your hands, trying to make the world a little less loud and bright, you sit up. Eva is halfway out of the room, picking up your muddy boots from the floor, mumbling about needing to mop again.

“I’ll make us some coffee.” She says, voice unnecessarily loud. You groan. Eva just laughs.

“Ayna.” You finally look up; Eva is standing in the door opening, looking at you with a concerned look. “If there’s anything I can do for you…” She trails off.

You shake your head; eyes screwed shut. It’s like your brain is loosely banging around in your head. When you open your eyes, Eva just nods at you.

“Actually,” You start evasively. “I have a favor to ask.”

***

The way you shut down the moment you turned away from him, your voice flat—“But it’s nice to finally really meet you.”—Bradley knows he fucked up.

Now that he’s sobered up, he’s all too aware of the hypocrisy of accusing you of charging into things without thinking when he was the one that couldn’t stop himself from tearing into you just because you were there.

He would be lying to himself that he wasn’t annoyed by you at that moment and how easily brushed off the fact that you almost tipped off the roof. It happened so quickly; he hadn’t even found it in himself to yell out your name. And you just giggled.

Every toxic thought he bottled up in the last few weeks suddenly came pouring out—what tiny bits of yourself you revealed to him, he turned against you in his rage. In his terror. He’s going to die here.

Bradley doesn’t like to be alone because his thoughts consume him. And he can pretend that all it took was a bit of drinking, but really—something was going to give sooner or later.

He never told you, but being confined to the small room again was the first big blow to his morale. Every night he lays in bed, staring at the ceiling, the walls closing in on him; Bradley keeps telling himself: soon it will be over.

It was hard to disguise how annoyed he was with you struggling through training. He knows he should be grateful you never gave up despite it, but it was just another thing on top of his growing discontent.

Then the mission failed.

And he exploded, attacking the only person who had been here with him since the beginning, the person that was responsible for keeping him alive in the first place.

If he hates being alone, he now singlehandedly made damn sure he would be alone.

He staggers from the bed, feeling worse than hell. The first thing he notices is the liquor bottle on the window ledge. He left it there last night—a little less than a quarter left. You both drank too much last night.

Bradley hates himself even more now. Getting drunk around beautiful girls rarely results in an argument for him—at least not with the girl.

Why did he pick a fight with you like that?

He can’t even bring himself to think about what will happen next. Will he even ever see you again?

Sinking into despair, Bradley grabs the bottle off the ledge despite the sun barely being up. The alcohol burns its way down as he downs the bottle before collapsing back into bed.

Maybe he’ll wake up back in England.

Hopefully, he’ll wake back up in Virginia Beach.

Time is a blur. Somewhere, far away, he hears someone coming up the stairs. For a moment, hope fills him: you came back. But the closer the footsteps come, he realizes, even in his still-drunken stupor, that it cannot be you. The gait is entirely different; the footfall is too heavy, too unsure to be you.

It’s probably for the better.

Bradley doesn’t want you to see him desperately drunk like this—nearing rock bottom, locked up in a small room.

The knocks sound on his door, followed by hurried footsteps. Bradley lifts his head. What was that? Who else knows he’s staying here?

You mentioned before that you weren’t in touch with your own commander in the resistance, but that also didn’t sound like a man coming up the stairs.

Sinking back against his pillow, Bradley closes his eyes again. He’s too tired to think. His head is swimming, his brain pounding against the sides of his skull. Phasing in and out of consciousness, Bradley has no idea how long it is before he sobers up enough the parse what happened.

He didn't imagine the footsteps, the knock on the door. Did he?

Slowly dragging his heavy body up, he staggers to the door. Cracking it open a fraction, he peers into the hallway. It’s dark, the light coming from the crack in the door streaming down the looming stairwell.

Bradley can’t help but think of you again—he never paid much mind to the servant stairs leading from this small room. But the way the darkness looms at the bottom, obscuring the exit, has something foreboding to it. Like anything could rise from the darkness at any moment.

He sighs heavily. It feels like he’s imprisoned, not just in the small room but also in his head. He can’t shake the thought of you and has nothing to distract him anymore. There’s not a book that he hasn’t read front to back multiple times, there’s no more alcohol, and the last of his sanity will probably dissolve if he plays another round of solitaire.

Just as he’s about the close the door, he notices the light reflecting up from the floor. Looking down, Bradley only now notices the tray on the floor. It’s packed with enough food to last him for over a day and a half. Bending over to pick it up—oh Jesus fuck, his head is killing him—he takes it back inside with him. There is a thermos flask, hopefully, filled with still-warm coffee.

A small piece of folded paper catches his eye as he picks it up, not even bothering with the coffee cups still on the table. Then, sitting down, he scrutinizes it: The Times crossword puzzle, 19th of June, 1937.

Despite everything, Bradley smiles. It’s more than he currently deserves, probably more than he ever deserved from you. And you are likely, rightfully furious with him. But this gives him hope, at least a little bit again, that you’re not giving up.

And so he shouldn’t either.

But in the days that follow, he doesn’t see you. Instead, he hears the footsteps run up, knock quickly, and hurriedly leave each morning. Every day there is another crossword puzzle—all from different years. Bradley deduces that you had been saving these from when English newspapers were still being sold here. And now you’re sharing them with him.

It is over a week until he catches sight of another living soul. When he opens his door after the hurried footsteps have left, still drying his hair from the early morning shower, he catches a movement in the corner of his eye, at the bottom of the stairs.

Bradley stills, hand still holding the towel against his hair. The door fully open, light streams down the stairs, reaching all the way down. And there’s a face, just peeking out from behind the banister at the bottom.

Bradley’s heart jumps—is that you? Did you wait for him? It still didn’t sound like you were coming up the stairs, but maybe you were masking your gait on purpose. The color of the hair matches yours so closely he almost calls out your name. For a moment he is elated, even if he only sees you from the top of the stairs.

But the reflections of glasses stop him short. You don’t wear glasses.

“Hello?” He ventures carefully.

A small yelp and a door slamming are his only reply.

That wasn’t your voice, either. Idly, Bradley wonders if you were so unwilling to interact with him, beyond sending crossword puzzles, that you recruited someone else into the resistance. You had been operating on your own after all. Would you be so rash?

Or are you truly so angry?

His heart clenches with sorrow.

***

It’s been over two weeks since you’ve fought with Rooster. Since then, you haven’t seen him—the first few days, you just really couldn’t help yourself, and after that, it became easier to just… not do it. Not think about it. Eva wasn’t complaining about doing you the favor of leaving the tray in front of Rooster’s door every day, which she was bound to do at some point.

It’s sometime past midnight after you get back from your evening shift; it’s late March and unseasonably warm. When Eva comes waltzing in, you’re quietly eating porridge in the kitchen—starving, and you don’t have anything else.

“Your favor has run out.” She announces, without preamble, taking a seat next to you.

Shit. Oh well.

“Well, thanks for doing it,” You smile innocently before returning to eating. “It helped me a ton.” You add between bites.

Eva seems discontent, sighing frustratedly. You pull up an eyebrow as you watch her squirm in her seat. Putting down your spoon a little louder than necessary, you lean back, looking at her sharply.

“What?” You ask, impatiently.

“I want to ask…” She hesitates. “But I don’t want to know.”

“So… ask, and I won’t answer?” You offer sarcastically. You’re looking forward to bed, the porridge heavy on your stomach (what a stupid idea to eat it this late at night), so playing some sort of paradox game is not high up your list of priorities now. Eva frowns at you.

“Who have you stashed up in those old servant quarters?”

You shrug in reply. Eva did say she didn’t want to know. Her frown turns more severe.

“Anything else?” You inquire non-comically.

“I think it’s your mystery man.” She accuses.

“That’s not a question.” You cut her off quickly, getting up from the table. This conversation is not happening. You grab your plate and rinse it under the tap—you’re about to escape when Eva’s next words stop you dead in your tracks.

“I saw him, you know?”

You blanch.

“What do you mean?” You keep your voice flat, like you’re only asking for an explanation, and fear hasn’t just gripped your heart.

“I got curious,” Eva shrugs, inspecting her nails. “So I waited at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Why would you do that when I explicitly told you-” You can barely keep the panic out of your voice. The more people know, the more leaks your operation is about the spring. Lying about something you have seen is harder than lying about something unconfirmed.

“Tell me one thing Anya.” Eva’s voice is stern, and you bristle as she cuts you off. “Is he German?”

“Why the actual fuck-” You screech before catching yourself and lowering your volume. No one needs to overhear this. “Why the actual fuck would I be helping the enemy?”

“I don’t pretend to understand what is going on with you these days.” Eva bites out. “This is all I wanted to ask.”

She pauses for a moment. “Thank you for not telling me more, but please don’t ask me to help again.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

And that’s how you find yourself in front of the hidden entrance to the servant quarters, shifting on your feet uncomfortably. You knew there would be a moment you’d have to face Rooster again. It crossed your mind to message Emil and tell him you can’t complete the mission. You have no idea how you would have done that, as Emil was usually the one to contact you, but you were close to just throwing the towel in the ring with this whole thing. Offload it to someone else who actually knows what they’re doing and doesn’t have a hopeless crush.

Although whatever excitement you had been feeling about seeing Rooster before is now just mostly apprehension. But if someone else came in, you could return to your role in the shadows, clean, falsify paperwork, and not stand out.

In the end, you decide you have to see this through. You’re not even sure how you would explain that you can’t go through with the mission. Sorry, I developed a crush, got drunk; the feelings probably aren’t mutual—you’re just embarrassed thinking about it.

The matter of the fact is, Rooster might have actually said it, but he’s far from the only one who’s thinking it—a schoolgirl playing at war. It doesn’t matter that you’ve done nothing to deserve that scorn, but you are young. In comparison to Emil, Jan, most of the other men in the resistance group, hell, even Rooster—they’re all older, they’re all men—you’re barely out of high school in their eyes, despite the fact you should have been near the end of your university degree now.

Scornfully, you think they would have trusted you if you had been a man.

Well, that’s one thing you cannot change, just like you cannot change the words Rooster said to you.

That’s okay, you assure yourself. It doesn’t matter. Just do what you’ve been assigned; once you get him out—and you will get him out—chances are, you’ll never see him again, which is probably better for everyone. So trust your gut, and do what you have to.

Taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulder, you slip through the door and up the stairs.

Bradley is out of his chair, where he had been working on a crossword puzzle, and on his way to the door the moment he hears your footsteps up the stairs. He knows it you by the way his heart is suddenly beating faster. He isn’t ashamed that he dreamt about hearing you walk up the stairs again in the last two weeks.

With bated breath, he waits for you to knock. Your knuckles' soft but decisive rap against the wood spurs him into action. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he opens the door.

He knows he shouldn’t be surprised, but he still feels crestfallen when he sees your face. It’s like when you first met, devoid of emotion. Your eyes are cold and only meet his for a second.

“Can I come in?” You ask politely. The heather grey dress with white piping you are wearing is neat; the high collar with a black bow almost physically creates a distance between you and him. A small pillbox hat is pinned against your carefully coiffed hair, complimented by a pair of white gloves. That dark green coat you always wear sits loosely over your shoulders.

It’s not that it doesn’t suit you; if anything, you look prettier than a picture. But Bradley always preferred you in a more relaxed state—your hair in a cute ponytail or even with those muddy pants on. You are adventurous and mischievous,s this is just a faded impression of you designed to create distance.

“Yeah, come in.” Bradley keeps his voice neutral as he steps aside. As you walk past, he smells your soap again. He cannot believe he would ever miss a simple smell like that, but you’ve turned his head upside down. You stop and turn in the middle of the room rather than sitting down—Bradley can’t help but let his eyes roam over you.

“Why don’t you sit down, Anya?” He offers, pulling the chair you always sit in.

“No, thank you, I won’t be long.” You reply impassively. “And -”

And Anna will do just fine.

You can’t get the words out of your mouth. It’s like your throat has seized up. Rooster is looking at you expectantly.

“Nevermind.” You dismiss the thought. Taking a breath, you force yourself to look Rooster in the eye. Don’t give him even more reason to doubt you.

“The Gestapo is scaling down whatever operation they had running in the city—probably because their focus is diverted east, where relentless sabotage is disrupting the trains,” You practiced this in the mirror the whole morning, not wanting to stumble over a single word. If you trust what you’re saying, he will too. “It’ll give us another window of opportunity to refresh your memory on the escape routes. You—we have to be ready when the time comes.”

“Yeah—uhm, I’m on board with that, obviously.” Bradley chuckles almost nervously, a little taken aback by how coolly professional you sound. He had gotten used to another, sweeter side of you. “When do we start? Today?” He asks eagerly.

“No,” Your voice is clipped. “I’m doing a final trial today; if I get the all-clear, we can start tomorrow.”

“Right.” Bradley shoves his hands in his pockets. He wants to ask you if you have any information about another opportunity to send a message. But your hard stare discourages him from asking.

You want to ask how Rooster is doing. His voice is gravelly like he hasn’t spoken a word out loud in weeks. Which, you realize with a pang of guilt, he probably hasn’t. The room is pristine as ever; even yesterday’s dishes from breakfast sit neatly washed on the tray.

Rooster looks weary. He looks lonely. A part of you wants to reach out to him, talk to him again, laugh with him again—but you don’t trust yourself not to cross that line again.

“Do you want some coffee?” You ask, breaking the heavy silence between you. “I’ll bring you some before you leave.”

“That would be great, thanks.” He replies, voice soft. You just nod in reply.

“Hey, Anya?” Bradley ventures carefully before you start walking to the door. For a second, a genuinely curious look passes your face as you take a deep breath—like there’s something you’re expecting. And then the coldness returns to you.

He should apologize to you; now you’re finally here. But it feels empty in the cold light of day. So maybe you’re right, and you should keep this strictly professional. “Thank you for those crossword puzzles.”

The hurt Bradley sees in your eyes as he utters those words cuts him like a knife.

“Of course.” You reply simply as you brush past him.

He really fucked that up, didn’t he?

***

Together, you fall back into an uneasy rhythm. You hate how for a moment, your heart soared thinking Rooster would apologize or explain, at least try to smooth over what happened. You try to kill that hope in you.

It turns out to be a blessing that you can’t talk to each other when walking down the street because you’re not even sure what you would talk about. Every conversation you and Rooster do have is stale, distant, and overly polite. It’s painful and awkward.

Bradley can’t help but think of the offhand comment he made weeks ago: so, we have a bad marriage?

You were so offended at the notion. But it inevitably came true—when your hand brushes against his, you both pull away like you’ve been burned. You hold on to his arm loosely, just for appearances. There is no smile on your face as you steer him past a maze of streets lined by statues on the buildings, hundreds of spires reaching into the sky, and over cobblestone paths.

You both go through the motions. Bradley concedes that it’s probably better—it’s, after all, a terrible idea to get romantically involved with your own handler. It brings emotions into play that obscure good decision-making.

But that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He is glad to be outside again, and he is glad you’re around again—but he doesn’t exactly feel less alone. You are a facsimile of yourself, and that’s impressive, considering Bradley doesn’t believe he’s seen you be yourself completely. There were flickers of your humor, determination, and stubbornness, but it always felt veiled.

It’s only the third time you’re outside together again on an unseasonably warm evening in early April. It’s dark already, despite not being late. Bradley noticed the sun sets early here, earlier than he’s used to in England. Ornate streetlights cast an orange glow on the narrow street flanked by houses on one side and a high wall on the other. He knows now this is the medieval part of the city, where a myriad of small side streets between dark high buildings intersect.

It’s the part of the city that’s the hardest to navigate, which is why it’s on route now. This is where to do it if you need to shake a tail.

Your gloved hand hangs loosely from his arm. You still dress a lot nicer than before, in neat dresses and pristine gloves—it still feels like you’re playing dress up. A particularly hurt part of you decided you should probably dress more like an adult, like someone that would belong on Rooster’s arm. Bitterly, you had hoped he’d say something, but of course, he hasn’t, like he hasn’t apologized either.

But of course, Bradley noticed. Like most women in the city, he noticed how you don’t wear nylons. He remembered it was a more than coveted item by girls in England, but you never mentioned it—never complained about it, rain or shine. He also notices the scuff mark on your neat patent leather shoe—that small imperfection feels like a sign to him that you are still you underneath all that fancy dress.

You’re walking down the street together at a leisurely pace. Despite the growing distance between you, you’ve never hurried him back—you are sympathetic to how lonely it must be to be essentially locked up in that small room. You feel guilty knowing you deprived Rooster of all human contact for two weeks—he looked so tired. Beaten down.

You should really apologize. But are reluctant to rock the delicate balance between the two of you. Rooster seems pretty at ease now—the outside has done him a lot of good.

Tonight is a nice evening, and you might as well both enjoy it, you concede.

You feel the tightness in your sternum almost before you hear the hurried footsteps. Someone is running up to you from behind.

Should you ignore it and just keep walking?

Or do you look back?

Bradley notices you’re suddenly holding your breath.

Trust your gut.

You glance behind you, and in the split second you look, you notice the dark figure closing in on you is holding something in his hand.

It’s a gun.

Rooster’s hand suddenly tightens around your upper arm, so he also sees it. Not a moment later, still breathless, he yanks you out of the trajectory of the dark figure with such force that both your feet leave the ground for a second. You crash backward into Rooster’s chest.

The breath you’ve barely taken gets knocked out of you. Rooster is pressed flat against the high wall, tucked away in the darkest spot between two street lights. He’s holding you tightly against him, arm around your waist.

It all seems over in a flash—the dark figure, breathing heavily from exertion, runs past you, not even looking at you. Then, as he runs past a street light, you see in a flash it’s a young man, a strange mix of terror and anger etched on his face.

You can feel Rooster’s chest move against you with every breath—and by god, you don’t want to think how warm and nice it feels—but your breath falls into sync with him.

Just as you think you should pull away and edge just a millimeter forward, a shot rings out. A yell. Immediately your head whips into the direction the man was running—the direction from which the cry came. Was he shot?

Rooster’s fingers tightly grab your chin as he jerks your head in the other direction.

“Don’t look for the impact,” His voice is a low whisper in your ear. “Always look for the source.”

His fingers a pressing into your skin painfully, but you don’t dare to move.

“The next bullet could be coming your way.” His breath is so warm against the shell of your ear, but there’s nothing sweet about what he’s saying.

You can’t help but whimper softly, hating how pathetic it sounds. Then, finally, Rooster releases his grip on our face as if he just now realizes he might be hurting you. But the sounds of boots, raining down mercilessly on the old cobblestones, suddenly kicks your brain into action again.

The man was being pursued—by police, by soldiers, or the Gestapo—it doesn’t matter, but you need to get out of there. You cannot be caught.

Rooster has the same idea and is practically dragging you towards an open gate in the high wall, the closest exit from the walled-in street. He doesn’t know that that gate leads to a garden—a big open space that is empty this time of evening. You’d be sitting ducks.

Trust your gut.

Cursing under your breath, you pry yourself free from his grip before glancing back for a second—Rooster looks angry again, hesitance in his eyes, but he has to trust you now.

It’s now or never.

Lacing your hand through his, you explode into a run across the street. The momentum of your sudden move forces Rooster forward, almost stumbling after you, as you determinedly pull his much larger form behind you with surprising strength.

Diagonally across from you, between the buildings, there is a small street so narrow two people can barely pass each other. It leads into the maze of old small, poorly lit back streets.

You hear voices screaming behind you: Stop! Halt!

More shots ring out.

A bullet embeds itself in the masonry somewhere above you, debris raining down on you both. A strange, strangled sound escapes your throat. If you think you’ve ever been scared before, being pursued and shot at is like nothing you’ve ever experienced.

The terror that courses through your body forces your legs forward, lungs burning. You yank Rooster from the left to the right, weaving a pattern through the dimly lit streets. The heels of your nice shoes loudly echo against the stone, and through the blood rushing in your ears, you can’t hear if anyone is still following you.

You are too scared to stop now.

When Rooster gently tugs you back, you finally dare to stop running. He pulls you into an alcove between two high pillars at the entrance of a building. He is breathing heavily, although he’s nowhere near as out of breath as you are. It’s dark, and you can no longer hear anyone else behind you.

You bend forward, resting one hand on your knee, the other pressing into your side, desperately trying to abate the sharp pain. Gently, completely opposite from how he grabbed your face before, Rooster’s large warm hands rest on your shoulder, pulling you upright again.

“Give your lungs space, Anya,” He whispers kindly as he rolls your shoulders back, pushing your chest forward. “You’ll catch your breath sooner.”

You cannot find the words to protest. But finally, your breath is evening out, and the pain in your side subsides.

It’s hard to say how long you ran—but your pursuers were determined. If it wasn’t for your exact knowledge of the streets, always slipping into a different alley, a different direction before they could aim, Bradley is pretty sure either of you would have ended up shot.

You know little about gun fights and dangerous situations, not knowing where to look, hand trembling as you aim—but you know damn well how to disappear.

Bradley feels another pang of guilt, as he felt so many lately. You didn’t choose this. You weren’t trained for this. Your commander should have never put you in this position.

He wasn’t ready to admit why that was making him so angry, why he blamed you. But the harsh truth is that he is powerless to protect you. Just like when you took that stumble, just like now, he couldn’t do anything to save you from the situation.

You are capable of taking care of yourself—that much you’ve made clear time and time again. But Bradley can’t help but feel protective of you, not just for his own sake, but the longer he is around you, the more he realizes he is not merely attracted to you.

It feels like something deeper, something he’s not ready to name.

He lets his hand glide down your upper arms before he lets you go; your breath is pretty much evened out. You don’t look at him, quietly smoothing out the skirt of your dress. Licking your dry lips, you try to ignore how much you’re feet are burning. The shoes are cute, with an elegant heel, but they suck for running.

“We should take the long way home,” You whisper hoarsely. “Just in case someone starts tailing us when we leave the Old City.”

“Lead the way.” Rooster has a small smile on his face as he offers up his arms. You try not to grimace as you start walking again. You are close to one of the main streets connecting to the boulevard along the river. Looping around to the next bridge over will give you ample time to spot if someone is following you.

However, when you walk onto the street, something tells you to turn left rather than right towards the river. Rooster covers your hand on his arms with his own, as if he’s keenly aware you just changed plans, and something is up.

From the corner of his eye, he sees how you suddenly bit your lip. The little wrinkle between your eyebrows deepens momentarily before you suddenly turn left. Secretly, Bradley is glad he can still read those little emotions on your face like part of you isn’t completely shielded from him.

The streets are empty, emptier than usual during the day, but plenty of people are still milling about. However, it’s not enough of a crowd to get lost in.

Every shopping window you pass, you glance at the reflection, hoping to see someone following you. But no dice.

Your brain is racing—how do you shake a tail that you’re not sure you have?

Starting at your reflection in a large window a little too long, an intrusive thought flashed through your head: what a handsome couple you are, dressed up for going out. Your hair is a little messy, maybe like you’ve kissed passionately.

Blinking heavily, you look away. Why did you start thinking about that?

But it might be a solution to your predicament.

Gently you nudge Rooster, smiling up at him. He looks surprised for a second before smiling back at you. You steer him to cross the street towards a large pink building with bright white detailing. As you get closer, soft jazz music plays from the open windows on the first floor.

Pushing through the heavy door, letting Rooster go first, you take a chance to look behind you. You lock eyes with a man crossing the street where you and Rooster crossed. His gait is determined like he’s in a hurry to catch up. The man is dressed casually—a little too casually for this bar. So why would he be hurrying toward you?

Your heart jumps in your throat, and you purposefully push the large wooden door close behind you, grabbing Rooster’s hand again and quickly leading him up the wide marble stairs. The music and voices are coming closer—at the top of the stairs, under a large chandelier, people mingle and laugh as they wait to be let into the bar.

You, however, have no time to wait in line. In the mess of people and through the loud chatter, you steer Rooster in the opposite direction, slipping through a pair of white double doors at the far end of the hall.

It’s dark. The restaurant closed hours ago—all staff is long gone. Finally, you slow down a bit. The chances of being caught by anyone here are pretty slim, but it would also look pretty strange to burst into a bar through a side door and out of breath from running.

You let go of Rooster’s hand to fix your hair gently. It will probably look messy no matter what, but it’ll have to do for now. Rooster is trailing behind you, looking around in awe.

Even in the dark, the white tablecloths look pristine. The faint light from the outside reflects from the chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, refracting it through the long room. High glass cases flank the polished wooden bar at the end of the room—most likely filled with cakes and sweet confections during the day—the surrounding walls are covered in intricate stucco of plants and cherubs.

Standing by a side door, skillfully painted to match the wall, you regard Rooster patiently.

It’s the first time he’s been somewhere that is not his small room in almost two months. Even in this dark, empty restaurant, he looks happier than you’ve seen him in weeks.

With a smile, you beckon him.

You can’t stay here and still have a tail to lose. As he comes to stand by you, you carefully pry the hidden door open, peeking in carefully. Cheerful jazz music and chatter flow into the empty restaurant—a waiter passes between the tables but doesn’t see you peeking out. As he turns, you quickly slip through the door, pulling Rooster with you.

For Bradley, it’s like stepping into a dream: the music, the people, the clinking of glasses. It’s all so familiar. He cannot keep the smile off his face—yes, you are on the run. But he’s going to enjoy this.

Gently, you nudge him forward, nodding toward an empty table with just a candle on it a few meters down to your left. Gladly, he takes the lead and weaves past couples on the dance floor to the small table.

When he pulls out your chair for you, acting every bit of the couple out on the town together, he feels his eyebrows nearly rise off his face as you suddenly hold two drinks.

Gracefully sitting down, you place the drinks on the table. Completely unbothered, you start unpinning the small elegant hat from your hair and pulling off your gloves. Fishing a small mirror out of your purse, you quickly look over your face—you still look slightly flushed from the running. Angling your mirror, you glance at the entrance of the bar. The line is still long, and you can’t see the man from the street. Good.

Rooster rests his hat on his knee as he slips off his jacket. It’s warm and busy, but it’s the best he’s felt in a long time. You tuck away your mirror and smile lightly at him as you grab your glass. Stopping midway through rolling up his sleeve, he leans into you, resting his hand on your knee.

“Anya, did you steal those drinks?” He whispers, voice barely audible over the music. He can’t believe he’s asking you this, but he also cannot quite believe what possessed you to do that. You just smile mischievously at him, although you shrug off his hand from your knee.

The confused look on Rooster’s face is adorable. How is he such a goody-two-shoes?

Moving your chair closer to his, you whisper back: “Now we can pretend the waiter just forgot he already sat us.” You take a sip from your glass. “Ew, I got plain soda water. What did you get?”

Rooster chuckles as he rolls up his other sleeve. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” He sounds impressed.

You only shrug in response, leaning back into your chair. You only snuck in here once before because a friend was working as a waiter one summer and showed you and a few others the sneak route through the restaurant. You’ve never stolen a drink from another table; however, it seemed like a good idea right now.

But if Rooster wants to believe you make a habit of sneaking into bars, you’re not particularly keen on telling him otherwise. You enjoy the that he seems impressed by you. You should most likely be concerned about why you care so much about what he seems to think about you—like it’s of any real consequence.

But right now, you have one eye on the door, your feet hurt, and you could use something a little bit stronger than stupid plain soda water. So who cares that Rooster is being sweet to you? You get to enjoy that.

Rubbing the top of your foot against your calve, you try to relieve some of the burning sensations around the sole of your foot and toes. Rooster is sipping his drink, slowly, visibly enjoying being around people. He looks so relaxed, almost at home. You can’t stop your heart from fluttering lightly—sometimes, you get overcome by how handsome he is. He’s moving his head lightly to the rhythm of the music. A girl from a few tables down is eying him up.

This should not annoy you.

But it does.

Purposefully, you lean into Rooster, pressing your shoulder against his arm, softly whispering in his ear. Your knee is brushing against his under the table. You blink slowly as he turns to you with a small smile. Quickly, your eyes flash over to the girl—she’s averted her gaze, looking at the friends at her table rather than Rooster.

Good, you think arrogantly.

You only did that, of course, because had Rooster decided to make eyes at that pretty girl at the other table, it would have blown any cover you had.

Besides that, it also hardly matters that you only asked Rooster for his matches. Hardly romantic.

Turning in your seat, you can’t help but look at the door again. You still can’t be sure if that man followed you here or not—it’s hard to see through the mass of people. As the band starts a new song, a slow one this time, more people get up from the tables to flock to the dance floor between the tables. Your view of the entrance is now completely obscured. Stiffening in your seat, you wonder what you should do.

Rooster’s warm hand wraps around yours and lifts it from the table. Surprised, you look up. He’s already halfway out of his chair, that gorgeous grin on his face. He does not need to explain with words—he’s asking you to dance.

You hesitate, eyes wandering around the room. Almost every couple around you has gotten up and joined the crowded dance floor. Shit. At this point, it will look more suspicious if you don’t get up to dance.

That’s the reason you’re getting up; you lie to yourself.

That’s the reason you let Rooster pull you against him, one hand lightly resting on your waist.

That’s the reason you gingerly place your hand on his broad shoulder, your face uncomfortably close to his. His warm breath is fanning over your face.

All lies.

Rooster is gently leading you in the slow dance. For a moment, you cannot help to think again about if this is what it’s like to have his full attention on you, sweeping you off your feet. In a different life, had he taken you out dancing?

Those are dangerous thoughts. It’s all just make-believe.

And you would trust your gut if you could feel anything else but butterflies.

Rooster’s cheek brushes against yours, as he closes whatever little space there had been between you. The soft stubble that is forming after a long day tickles against your skin. He sighs so close to your ear; a shiver runs down your spine involuntarily.

“I’m sorry, Anya.” He murmurs, contrite.

You blink, fighting the urge to pull back from Rooster and look him in the face. Why is he apologizing now?

“I should have never said those things to you,” He continues. “I was angry; I was drunk—I really don’t have an excuse.”

You bite your lip nervously.

“I just…” He takes another breath. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.” It almost sounds like a confession.

You pull yourself closer to him so you can whisper back. Rooster easily lets you manipulate him, bending closer to you.

“You sure have a funny way of showing it, Rooster.” Your reply only half-joking. His words cut you deeply.

“Forgive me, Anya,” He implores you softly. You can feel every breath that he takes. “Please.”

Part of you really wants to be difficult—drag everything out of him, make him explain exactly and in detail how wrong he was. You long to hear him say how impressed he is by you; have him stroke your ego a little bit more.

But his pleading voice in your ear sounds so sweet you can hardly deny him.

“I forgive you,” You sigh, almost in defeat. His hand tightens around your waist. Your hand has snaked from his shoulder to his neck. Under your palm, you feel his muscles and tendons move with every breath.

“But, Rooster?” You start with a slight smile, not wanting him to get off that easily. “You’re still a shit drunk.”

Rooster chuckles; you feel it more than you hear it.

Almost automatically, Bradley softly nuzzles your neck just because it feels like such a natural thing. The small sighs that escape you, wrapped around him like this, is sweeter than anything he could have dreamed of. He wants to drag this moment out for eternity, long enough before you probably come to your senses and move away from you as you should. But he doesn’t want you to.

Lightly his lips land on your jaw. He waits for your reaction, but you don’t move away. Torterously slowly, his lips move across your jaw in featherlight touches. Bradley is lazily drawing circles on your lower back, the lower part of the circle just skimming above your ass. Somewhere you should feel embarrassed about how you’re melting into him, but everything about him feels so intoxicating—your breath stocks when he reaches the corner of your mouth.

Finally, you turn your face to his. You hope you do not imagine the light rosy dusting on his cheeks. You really hope you’re not imagining the fondness in his eyes.

Bradley had thought about how kissable your lips were many times. But never before had they looked so inviting. Pupils blown, pulse quickened, mouth slightly open—he could have only dreamed you would look up at him with that love-drunk look, wanting him. You hum sweetly as he boldly presses a light kiss against the corner of your mouth, pulling only back a fraction like he’s waiting for you to bolt. You have to want this. You need to come to him.

His lips are so close to yours; you wait for him to finish what he started. He apologized, but words are cheap. You prefer action. Rooster has to prove to you he means it. He needs to come to you.

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